route_1065 | The Rembrandts Wrote A Song About This Log

By the time December was over, the harshness of winter seemed unfair. The time of year when staying in with a blanket and watching the snow pile up and bare branches strain under the force of the wind yielded that special, toasty feeling was past and now it just felt like a lot of cold, miserable waiting for spring.

Especially on those days where the cold was bitter and ate through clothing like some kind of antithesis of fire.

Maybe that was the reason why Heather was in such a bad mood as she tromped down one of the many yellow-hued roads towards the outside of town. A leather coat, no matter how snazzy, wasn't exactly great at keeping out the chill. She let out a steamy huff, shoving her hands further into the pockets as she walked.

What was she doing out here? She didn't know, really. She'd sort of been thinking of heading up to the farm for a bit. Let Cujo run around like a wild thing in the backyard to burn off some energy so he wouldn't keep everybody up all night turning in circles by the door. But then a foul mood had descended as she walked, so maybe that wasn't such a good idea.

It had been weeks (eight, to be exact. Ever since the weekend that the fourth wall broke) since she'd been able to walk alone in this city without a paralyzing sense of fear stealing over her. Actually, that was what the foul mood was over, because even here and now, in broad daylight, the passing silhouettes of strangers in the corners of her eyes were still making the hairs on her neck prickle.

That was not okay.

That was fucking infuriating.

A scowl crossing her face, Heather cocked a leg back as she walked and kicked a glass bottle that had been lying discarded in the gutter at her feet as hard as she could. Because she could.

... And naturally it sailed into a nearby trashcan at the edge of an alleyway and shattered loudly, because of freakin' course she couldn't vent her spleen a little without winding up with a great big audible sign labeled WHOA LOOK OUT GUYS WE GOT A BADASS OVER HERE pointing in her direction.

Pausing only briefly (long enough to catch sight of some snotty-looking dude with a Lillipup in a stupid sweater under one arm shoot her a dirty look from across the street), Heather jutted her jaw out and carried on, pretending not to notice. Dammit. Maybe she should have just found a junkyard or something where she could wreck shit without people staring.

Of course, the sound of shattering glass drew attention. Specifically, the attention of one curious Eevee.

"Ellie! Stop--"

And then an Eevee streaked out of another alley, turning on a dime and skidding to a stop at the trashcan to see what's up... and cutting her paw on the broken glass. Cue a bewildered squeal.

And Reid then trotted out of the same alley, scowling at his Eevee and holding a collar and leash that the little girl had managed to slip out of. No matter what he did, it always felt like she found a way to get out of it. "That's what happens when you run around the streets of a city." He bent over and scooped the Eevee up, but as he did so he noticed Heather. And it didn't take a genius to see that she was upset about something.

As he straightened out again, putting the collar back on the unhappy Eevee and checking her paw, he said, "Hey there, Heather. What are you doing here?"

The familiar voice gave her pause, but it was the pained yip that got Heather to stop in her tracks and look over her shoulder in alarm.

Had that Eevee...?

... Yes. It had.

Great. Good to know that the pattern of her spleen-venting winding up getting other people and creatures hurt was a continuing trend, too. She sure could sleep nice at night knowing that nothing's changed on that front.

Biting her lip, she turned around with furrowed brows.

"Uh-- hey. Just walkin'. I, uh... jeez, is she... is she okay?"

She took a few steps towards the pair, pulling her hands from her pockets in concern.

"I'm guessing you're the one who kicked the bottle?" Reid examined the pouting Eevee's paw. "Don't worry. It's not that deep. Just a lesson that someone shouldn't run away from me without looking where she's going." Ellie scowled, or did her best Eevee equivalent.

Reid backed up until he found a bench, sitting down with the Eevee in his lap and setting his bag at his feet. He started rifling through his bag, picking out a little bandage. "Are you okay?"

Heather grimaced a little it. It was... pretty obvious, really.

"Uh... yeah... just, you know, lettin' out a little pent-up energy... Probably should've thought about curious Pokemon before I did that, huh?"

She shuffled after Reid, leaning on the back of the bench and still occasionally sending worried glances at the Eevee. He was right though, it didn't look bad. She waved a hand dismissively at his question. Because of course she was fine. A brief flare of temper was nothing she felt like telling anybody else about. It was embarrassing that anyone had seen it at all.

"You sure she doesn't need to go to the Pokemon Center or anything?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. It's nothing a little antiseptic and a bandage won't fix."

He takes out a little tube, rubbing antiseptic onto the hissing Eevee's paw, then wrapped it tightly with the bandage. "I might want to take her to the house soon so she doesn't get more dirt in it, though. You want to walk with me?"

And by 'you want to walk with me', he means 'walk with me or I will badger you'. He's just polite and sweet about it.

It's the sweet, polite ones you need to look out for.

Whether or not Heather was aware of the intent to badger, his tone was just reminiscent enough of her father's that her subconscious knew that accepting the invitation was probably a better idea.

"Uh, yeah, sure! I wasn't goin' anywhere in particular..."

"That's good. But this time, let's get to the house without serenading everyone on our way, okay?"

Reid smiled, pocketing any medicine used and then cradling his Eevee as he starts down the road. "What brought you out here anyway? Just feeling kind of restless?"

At the reminder of their rowdy Christmas Eve adventure (she was amazed that Johto Santa hadn't revoked her present privileges after that one, although considering the year leading up to it, it was sort of a miracle that she'd gotten anything), she grinned despite herself. That had been a good night, in that embarrassing 'oh my god I can't believe we did that' sort of way.

"Okay, I promise... no drunken ballads."

She jogged a bit to get to his side, ducking her head a little.

"N'yeah, I guess. I get cabin fever if I stay cooped up too long, y'know? I want spring to hurry up and get its butt over here."

[There's something exceedingly odd taking place out in the back of the Justice Farm today.

Sure, it's not the cheeriest of days outside, what with the overcast sky and the occasional flurry of snow, but it's surprisingly warm for a February afternoon and there's no sense in wasting the brief stint of nice weather — especially not when Carmen's got a team that needs training, and everybody's starting to develop a little bit of cabin fever too.

And indeed, a large portion of the entourage are out today: the Three Biddies (Skye the Salamence, Donna the Aerodactyl, and Clara the Tropius) are all lounging their massive dragon selves over near the house where it's warmer, with Miles the Charmander curled up and snoozing while safely tucked between Skye's wings; meanwhile, Chief's standing sentry at the far end of the yard with Eartha the Golem, Rock the Rhydon, Iron the Steelix, and Cliff the Metagross all positioned in various places between himself and Carmen. And upon closer inspection, each of the bruisers has been paired with a smaller teammate — Ivy the Ivysaur, Dinah the Voltorb, Agent Cooper the Spinarak, and Foggy the Koffing are all in place, too, hovering about with a vaguely anticipatory air.

And there at the other end of the yard is Carmen, mounted confidently on the back of her Rapidash, grinning like a maniac at Chief and her assembled hodgepodge roster.

For anyone who takes a few minutes to stop and watch (and hopefully stay well out of the way), what they'll soon realize is that this isn't just any old training session — it's an obstacle course. And on each run, once Carmen gives the signal and starts riding, Chief proceeds to start telepathically handing out directions to his assorted defenders, trying to trip up his trainer — or at least throw her for a loop she and Tornado haven't seen before.

It's quite the flurry of commotion out there today: bolts of electricity and Pin Missiles flying, clouds of spores and smoke choking the air, the ground moving and shaking as the bruisers upset the terrain at their leader's discretion — and through it all, the gallop of hoofbeats against the ground as Carmen and her trusty steed weave their way through the crossfire.

They're putting on quite the show. Care to stop and watch?]

[Ziva is in the kitchen making tea when she notices UTTER CHAOS outside. Holy shit. There's training and then there's the shit Carmen is pulling--making Mossad training look downright sane.

She goes to the doorway to ~~make sure Carmen doesn't kill herself~~ watch from indoors and remind herself that Carmen knows what she's doing.

She thinks.

Geeze.]

[She does, in fact, know what she's doing, but more importantly she knows what Chief is doing, which is really the key. After all, this session isn't so much about training her fighters how to battle; it's about training Chief to command.

Fortunately, Tornado the Rapidash is a magnificent steed, and he's handling the barrage admirably — still taking the occasional hit, because making it through unscathed is really unavoidable at this point, but he's nimbly dodging the worst of it with majestic leaps and excellent timing.

But soon enough the chaos dies down; at some point, Carmen makes a horizontal swipe across the air in front of her neck in the universal "cut it off" motion, and the attacks cease — making it safe for her to dismount and walk around to feed Tornado a handful of Berries from out of her pocket for his troubles.]

Much better, Chief. Now you're seeing the whole board.

[SHE'S SO PROUD.]

[Ziva is duly impressed. She applauds from the doorway. WAY TO NOT CHARBROIL YOUR TRAINER, CHIEF.

Seeing that it's safe to come the rest of the way out, she does so, Jethro and Abby at her heels.]

That looked rather harrowing.

[So there he was, derping around in Albert's lab because...well, because that was just a thing that happened a lot, really, when something interesting caught his eye. Of course, there were a lot of things in the lab that a noodleviking with curiosity the size of Everest could find interesting, but normally Hiccup did an alright job of not bugging Albert since there was Work To Do.

Today was a different story.]

Hey Albert? Can I teach one of your pokemon a move? I mean, I assume you'll be fine with it, after you went ahead and crammed every possible move into Bruce, but checking is always good.

Bruce is an experiment.

[He remarks, without looking up from his current task of sticking a turkey baster into the uncorked shell of a Shuckle.]

Which one, which move, how, and why? In that order.

[...What is it with Albert and turkey basters?]

Bruce is a rabbit that you turned into a warmachine.

[BUT THAT'S NOT THE POINT. In response, Hiccup offers his 'gear for Albert's inspection, grin inching wider. Even if it ends up that he's not allowed to, it should be worth it to see Albert's face when he reads what he's got up on the screen.]

Your Dodrio with the weird name. I think the other answers should be pretty obvious, once you read this.

[Because yeah. That thing sure says 'Fly'.]

Hey. A siege tower is a war machine. A trebuchet is a war machine. Bruce is a genetic monstrosity with a whole lot of issues and a taste for old lab reports, but he is not a war machine.

[Look, kid, PBR's been having some problems getting his juice on here and he's not about to pick the thing up and turn it over like a teapot trying to get at the stuff so he can test it. Turkey baster gets the job done.

...But when it's offered, he takes a look at the gear, and — yup, there's Hiccup's reaction, all right.]

You think you're going to teach a three-headed ostrich to fly?

[Next Snoggletog: Shuckle-themed tea set.]

Hey, it says it's possible! I, for one, would like to test that theory. Wouldn't you?

[PLEASE UNCLE ALBERT, PLEASE PLEASE PLEEEEASE.]

[...Well, he did correctly invoke the scientific method...]

You think you're gonna fly it, too? Or just see if you can make it go?

[Apparently the trick to get Albert to do anything is to say it's for science.]

If the move takes, I would love to try and fly that thing. [Because wow, how does that even work.] I mean, carrying passengers is kind of an important thing when it comes to Fly. If it can't do that, I don't think it actually passes the test.

[HEY. Science is a fundamental part of secondary education. And Hiccup is basically the most homeschooled kid in the universe, whether he realizes it or not.]

So really, you're not in here asking me if you can teach my three-headed ostrich to fly. You're in here asking if you can go fly a three-headed ostrich.

It's...a little bit of both. Can't do one without the other, after all.

[He couldn't just go and hop on Harbertale right this second and expect to shoot up into the sky, Albert. He could only do that after whacking it in the head(s?) with a CD.

Duh.]

So... Can I? [Pause.] I'll wear my helmet.

You better wear the helmet.

[And honestly, he'd complain a lot more about this except that...what grounds is there to complain about, really? He knows full well Hiccup's probably the best flier in the house, regardless of what he's flying on. Not to mention an ostrich is probably a lot easier to handle than a dragon, given what Albert's seen of dragons.]

...And take something else along with you to catch you. Those're the rules. Helmet and backup parachute. Then you can go.

[THAT SOUNDS LIKE A CONFIRMATION, omg he was going to fly a three-headed ostrich that didn't even look like it had wings to use. This was going to be perfect.]

Absolutely! I'll have Adder with me the whole time, sure. [He wasn't expecting to fall, but she would definitely catch him if he did.] So, uh, are you going to be coming with, or are you going to continue to treat Shuckle number three like Thanksgiving dinner?

This is Shuckle Number Five.

[ALBERT WHY DO YOU HAVE THEM NUMBERED. WHY DO YOU EVEN KNOW THAT.]

And I'm checking to see how his juicing process is going. Shell's not doing what it's supposed to. If you want to hang around five minutes, I can finish up and come watch you kill yourself, but if you're in a hurry, just go.

[Wait--] Albert, I was kidding--you actually numbered them?

[He'll stick around for a bit, though. Not like he knows where to find Harbertale anyway.]

[...]

Of course I have them numbered, you think I'm gonna let four identical rock bugs wander around this place without being able to tell them apart somehow? Harry's team of dogs is bad enough. Besides, they've got different organic matter in each one.

[He pokes around a little more, during which the Shuckle kind of bobs unconcernedly, and then re-corks the shell.]

[Albert, Albert, Albert...]

They probably wouldn't be so identical if you got to know them instead of keeping them as jars. I mean, even with all the puppies around here lately, you can tell which one is Gmork because he's got funny teeth like this--

[And if Albert cares to look, he'll get a lovely view of Hiccup jutting his jaw out, fingers raised to mimic sharp, crooked teeth. Still, he doesn't seem too bothered by Albert's attitude towards the Shuckle Gang, just a bit thoughtful. After a few more moments, he pipes up again.]

Different colored corks. With their names on the top.

[After all, he wasn't sure if a weird, shelled noodle-monster would be able to wear a collar.]

[There seems to be a lot Ziva is doing on the weekend.

On Friday and Saturday, she can generally be found in the kitchen, singing to herself as she cooks and bakes--hamentaschen, cookies, brownies, and not junk food stuff too. Sunday, during daylight hours, baskets of festively wrapped food and drink begin showing up with little notes indicating who they're for. Or you could go by the contents of the basket--fancy wine and high quality chocolate and shortbread cookies as well as some of the things she's been baking for Albert and Carmen, similar treats and cans of prepared coffee for Cooper, Reid, and Harry, and more baked goods, crackers, and bottles of soda and lemonade for Hiccup and Astrid. Ziva is around the house, and seems to have switched her usual tea for wine. And she's wearing a Venetian style mask for some reason.

Feel free to ask her what the hell she's doing. Or join in.]

[He had been a little confused on Friday and Saturday, but Ziva making food wasn't exactly unusual. She was a good cook. It isn't until Sunday, after finding his basket, that his curiosity gets the better of him and he seeks her out, lemonade in hand.]

...Am I missing something?

[Poor confused Hiccup. Maybe she should have put notes about Purim traditions in there too, but he's here asking now and she's not too drunk to explain yet.]

It is Purim today. It is a Jewish festival celebrating the deliverance of my people from a plot to kill those of us living in the ancient Persian empire, found out and stopped by Esther and Mordechai. We traditionally give gifts of food and drink, wear masks and costumes, and drink wine and celebrate, as well as read the story in the synagogue and remember our victory. It is normally a very joyous and energetic day.

[Especially for a holiday celebrating 'congratulations a political plot involving genocide of your people didn't succeed, yay!']

Edited 2013-02-23 16:14 (UTC)

Oh. [That was, uh... Cheery. The sort of thing that Berk vikings could get behind, certainly.] Happy Purim, then, or...whatever the traditional saying for this particular celebration is. Got any other masks?

You know, one day you'll have to clue me in on all the Jewish holidays so I don't almost-miss them anymore.

That is close enough.

[Ziva smiles and produces a Dragonaire styled mask from behind her back--a masquerade mask like hers, blue, with pearlescent wings and horn.]

There are many of them, and they are not on the same day year to year--according to the standard calendar, anyway. We have our own. But I will tell you of the more celebratory ones, certainly.

[And that's perhaps the perfect mask for this kid, which is why he grins as he puts it on.]

Thanks! [Shrug.] A lot of Berk holidays and festivals follow the seasons instead of actual days. Some people there don't even really care about what the date is, actually. If you've got an actual calendar, I'd be ready to learn it.

[The hiiiiiills are aliiiiive... with the sound of copulating bugs. And it's not so much that they're alive with sound as they are with light, but it's definitely something Julie Andrews would sing about anyway, because it's beautiful. Harry's outside watching the scene some time well past dusk with fascinated interest, alone.

He's thinking of Josie.

It'd be impossible not to in this situation. It's Valentine's Day. There's romance in the air. (Literally.) But here's the thing: he's not sad. This is not to say that he isn't hurting, because he is. That hasn't stopped, and it's likely it won't for a long, long time—as much as he can place the blame on any number of people for what happened, the sad truth of it is that he still blames himself.

And he's never as hard on anyone as he is on himself.

But he's not sad. He's almost content with her memory, now, happy to reflect on those moments and take solace in the fact that they happened, and that she made him smile, and that things were okay for a little while.

Things are okay now, too.

He tilts his head back, squinting skyward. What he'd really enjoy right now would be an opportunity to see the stars again like he could when he was up at the Cerulean Cape—Saffron's too large a city to allow for that, what with all the light pollution—but there's something to be said for watching all those star-like lights dancing overhead, and that's this: wow.]

The Rembrandts Wrote A Song About This Log

[Early February, on the nearby streets of Saffron]

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Jesus, I'm so sorry, I lost this tag

It's okay! <3

<3333333

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Open; February 3 or so!

Plurk is down idk what do :C

Everything is terrible forever

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[shenanigans for Albert; February 20ish]

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Friday-Monday

Sunday!

Re: Sunday!

Re: Sunday!

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open; backdated to Valentine's Day