deercountry | april catchall [ota + closed starters]

Entry tags:

april catchall [ota + closed starters]

Who: Clarisse + you
What: It's aaaa generic birthday mingle! + some closed starters
When: April, particularly around the 15th
Where: Earworm

Content Warnings: Drinking and potentially those Special Mushrooms that are available at Earworm

[ What do you do when you're turning twenty one in a month of perpetual darkness, but your blood type isn't making you hallucinate or want to punch yourself in the face until you fall into a coma for one of the first times since you arrived in Trench?

If you're Clarisse, you park yourself at Earworm and pretty much just stay there.

For the first half of April—particularly on the fifteenth and the days close to it—Clarisse can be found hanging out at the club—either inside already, or lingering near the entrance. If you're already on her (very short) list of friends she's probably texted you an actual invite; but the fact that she's somehow survived another year seems to have her in a good mood, and even if she doesn't know you too well, she'll give a nod when she recognizes you. (Or, potentially, even if she doesn't recognize you.) ]

Drink?

[ ... And, listen, if she's already drunk, she might offer you a mushroom, too. Because why not. ]

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[ Andy twists out of the way, and Clarisse feels her fist hit nothing but air. It's a weird emptiness, that lack of the satisfying contact she expected. It both disappoints her and pisses her off, and yet at the same time she can't help but be a little bit intrigued. Her hits don't usually miss, unless she's fighting another half-blood. Even then, rarely. Maybe it's just because she's been drinking. Still, she wonders. ]

Nobody had to, [ is all she says before she goes to hit Andy again, this time with her other fist.

A child of Ares is born knowing how to hurt people and how to be hurt back. Clarisse grew up throwing punches and figuring out that if she wore combat boots her kicks would leave bruises. She's used rocks, plastic forks, pens, one time even a carabiner. Living at camp taught her battle formations and how to hold a spear and a sword, showed her different wrestling moves and taught her the word pankration, but nobody ever had to teach her how to throw a punch. ]

[ Birthday girl's got good balance — the kind of control a person normally trains for years to make habitual — and missing doesn't seem to throw her off at all. Andy looks almost pleased to see how she quickly switches to come around with the other fist, barely missing a beat. No room between the bar and the chairs to dodge this one properly, so there's little choice but to raise both arms to keep from losing any damn teeth.

Luckily that she's fast about it too. Because she can feel it in her bones when that punch connects with her forearms. If not for her regenerative powers, she'd probably have a bruise to admire later. ]

So, what, you came from the fucking womb with that right hook?

[ Andy doesn't wait for an answer. Instead, she drops low for a sweeping kick to see if she can't take Clarisse's legs out from under her. ]

[ Clarisse is very nearly taken by surprise, and Andy's kick does drive her off balance—just not enough to fall completely. She stumbles, recovers, and reaches out for Andy's shoulders to try and bash her backwards against the bar. She should be pissed about the leg sweep, but she's grinning instead. There are worse ways to spend a birthday, for sure. ]

Sort of. [ She hisses out a breath, watching Andy, looking for weak spots or the opportunity to get a good punch or kick in— ] My dad's a war god, so you could say I come by it honestly.

[ She does practice a lot, too. But that's not as cool to admit. ]

[ It's a tight space — hard to maneuver properly — and she can't quite back out of Clarisse's reach before she's being grabbed. There's the audible rattling of glasses and bottles as her back hits the bar counter, sending sharp pain up and down her spine on impact. Still, that gleam in her eye says she's having more fun than not, and the bartender is probably more inconvenienced than she is by all the roughhousing. It won't be long before someone comes to intervene, but there's time enough to trade a few more blows. She'll take what she can get. ]

A war god? [ She's never known real gods. Cursed their names habitually, sure. Even been worshipped as one before. But met one face-to-face? Never. ] Literally or figuratively?

[ Either is possible, in this place. And a little beside the point at the moment. Andy's preoccupied with grappling this apparent demi-god, gripping two fistfuls of her shirt and bracing her feet to try and swing Clarisse into the bar. ]

[ There's a smashing of glass as Clarisse slams into the bar. She feels something cold and wet seep into the back of her shirt, and can vaguely register the sounds of other people shouting in aggravation, though she doesn't care much. She's too invested in this fight, now. She and Andy have each other by their shirts, neither willing to let go. It's exactly the kind of ridiculous fun she's been missing since she came to Trench. ]

Literally. Duh.

[ Clarisse tilts her head down and goes to slam her skull into Andy's face. She figures either she'll make contact or Andy will be forced to let go of her shirt. Either way. ]

[ Interesting. Though probably not the wildest thing she's heard since arriving in Trench. People have claimed more outlandish things than divine heritage. The birthday girl certainly has the technique to back that claim up. But even if Andy wanted to interrogate that thought further, she doesn't get much chance. Whatever she was getting ready to say gets interrupted by Clarisse's forehead smashing right into her nose.

There's an audible crunch.

Andy tastes blood in the back of her throat as she recoils. ]

Hera's hairy asshole —

[ Clarisse's lip curls upward in a nasty smile, and she pushes her hair out of her eyes. She's itching to keep the fight going, but there are Hunters making their way through the crowded club toward the bar, and she knows her time here is limited to maybe thirty seconds. She's going to get thrown out less than an hour after arriving and have to walk home in the dark, bruised and buzzed, and maybe that should piss her off, but she can't help but feel sort of proud of herself. Maybe Ares would be proud of her, too. Just a little bit.

She shifts on her feet, watching Andy, waiting for her to strike back. ]

Go ahead, hit me. You can have one for free, instead of the drink.

[ Most people would be reasonably upset to have their nose broken, but as Andy lifts an arm to wipe blood from her face with her sleeve, she actually looks somewhere between impressed and amused. Despite the fact that her efforts mostly serve to smear red across her cheek, she doesn't seem too perturbed by the mess. She only spares a glance over Clarisse's shoulder at the approaching Hunters — lads she's probably patrolled with before — and puts her hands up in an appeasing gesture towards them, as if to show that her part in the rough-housing is done with.

Oddly, her nose doesn't seem all that broken anymore. There was definitely the distinct crunch of bone, and yet, underneath the blood, her face doesn't appear too much worse for wear. ]

I'd rather have the drink. [ She answers Clarisse dryly. ] If it's all the same to you.

[ The woman's nose was broken. Clarisse knows it was, she heard it, she felt the bone. But it looks normal as Andy wipes blood across her face. Almost like it isn't even bleeding anymore. Clarisse stares at her, visibly frustrated, and then turns and looks over her shoulder at the Hunters as they stop their approach and head back to their places. ]

Fine. One free drink.

[ She flicks two fingers at the bartender, before turning back to Andy. ]

Your nose is healing.

[ The woman doesn't even miss a beat, quipping back wryly: ]

Can you even tell what my nose fucking looks like with the mess you made?

[ She huffs out a disbelieving laugh. ] You challenged me. Was I supposed to just ignore that?

[ Well, Clarisse, a lot of people might have. But moving on, she zeroes back in on the healing thing like a dog going after a rabbit. ]

It's not bleeding anymore. It was fucking broken and now it's not. What gives.

[ She's really not going to let this go, is she? And maybe that doesn't matter too much. It isn't as if this place has anything to do with the world that she came from. Back there, keeping her immortality a secret was a necessity. For their freedom, their safety. Modern science would have loved to pick their regeneration apart. Now she keeps it secret because she's a cagey bitch, prone to habitual lies when it comes to personal details and not generally willing to humor this line of questioning.

But fuck it. Clarisse did manage to break her nose. And it is her birthday. Besides, if she's really got divine blood in her, it probably won't be much of a surprise anyway. ]

Just like you said. [ Dryly, as she gives Clarisse a sidelong look: ] It was fucking broken. Now it's not.

[ Even demigods need nectar and ambrosia to heal up after getting hurt, and bones take longer than bruises or cuts do, so Clarisse is the tiniest bit jealous over this random woman and her unbroken nose. Still, she manages to sound utterly sarcastic as she says, ] Lucky you.

[ She contents herself by deciding that maybe Andy can only heal small things... broken noses, hangnails, and pulled muscles. Then she crosses her arms and leans back against the bar and waits for their drinks, looking like she's trying really hard not to give a shit. ]

[ Lucky isn't the word Andy would use herself, but there's no point in ruining the mood by making the argument. She can admit it's useful, at least. The healing. Gruesome sometimes — traumatic even — but useful, especially given how prone she is to finding a fight. ]

I should be flattered. [ With the same habitual wryness: ] Not every day a demi-god breaks your nose. Or buys you a drink.

Bet that has nothing to do with your shining personality. [ Says Clarisse, with her own very shiny personality. She shrugs and adds, ] Most of us die before we're old enough to buy anyone a drink. It's not personal.

[ Anyway, most demigods are smart enough not to go around blabbing about what they are. Clarisse just has zero impulse control and, besides, the consequences aren't the same here as they would be back home.

The bartender finishes their drinks and slides them across the bar. Clarisse takes them and holds one out in Andy's direction. ]

[ Andy shrugs a little. At her age, she knows she's set in her ways — and if that makes her an unpleasant person, well. It is what it is. Old dog and all. ]

Guess that makes this birthday extra special for you.

[ Accepting the drink, she raises it slightly in Clarisse's direction. As wryly as ever: ]

Here's to not dying.

[ Clarisse is down with not dying, to a point. (You gotta live long enough to die a heroic death.) She lifts her own glass, but says, ] Like they say, tò peprōménon phygeîn adýnaton.

[ Clarisse, nobody fucking says that. The liquor is bitter going down, and she makes a face without meaning to. ] Shit, that's nasty.

Tò peprōménon phygeîn adýnaton.

[ She answers easily as she drinks — almost like she speaks the old tongue. So maybe there's at least one other person who still says shit like that. Unlike Clarisse though, Andy doesn't flinch at the taste of the liquor. Experienced alcoholic, this one. ]

You'll get used to it eventually.

[ Perhaps surprisingly, that gets a small, genuine smile out of her. Surprised, but... pleased, too. ]

You speak ancient Greek? [ Because the way Andy repeated her was too fluid, too casual, to be simple repetition. It implies understanding.

Also—it'd been in the middle of their fight, so she wasn't strictly paying attention, but she's pretty sure the woman had invoked Hera's name, and not in a very nice way. Ballsy. ]

I've drank before. [ You know, cheap beer... cheap wine... cheap vodka... all of the cheap shit that college kids manage to scrounge up for parties. ] Just, I'm pretty sure this stuff was made out of protoplasmic ooze or some shit.

[ It's been a while since Andy had any occasion to speak the old tongue, but it comes back to her more readily than one might expect. After all, she'd spent a long, long time among the ancient Greeks. They were the ones that called her by the name she still keeps now — Andromache, the truest name she has left, now that her own people and their unwritten words have long been extinct. ]

Nobody really speaks ancient Greek anymore. [ Wryly: ] But sure. Yeah. I can get by.

[ She won't call Clarisse out on her inexperience with what Andy would consider to be real alcohol. Instead: ]

Did your dad teach you?

[ It's a valid question, something she would've asked if their positions were reversed, but it still has the smile dropping off Clarisse's face abruptly, replaced by an expression that's guarded and defensive. ]

No.

[ It's fine to brag about how your dad's a god, but less so when you have to admit that he doesn't give a shit about you, actually, and that he's never taught you anything, except maybe how to maintain eye contact with someone who's screaming in your face. Clarisse swirls the liquor around in her glass a bit, staring down at it, and then she takes another drink. ]

It's innate, [ she continues finally. ] But I'm not totally fluent. I can read and write it better than I speak it.

[ Now there's an obvious reaction if there ever was one. Daddy issues, huh? Andy can't relate — she doesn't remember a single detail of her blood father, and it's never bothered her. Her mother is a different story entirely, but that woman's been dead for six millennia by now. ]

Well. [ With a twinge of wryness: ] Guess they don't call Ares the god of paternal affection.

[ A half-beat, then she reaches out to clap Clarisse on the back once. ]

Sorry, birthday girl. We don't have to talk about it.

Don't feel sorry for me. Gross. [ Clarisse jerks away from the pat on her back like it's burning her. Eugh. Nothing more embarrassing than someone feeling bad for you. And now she's getting riled again, so she continues: ]

And yeah, no shit we don't have to talk about it. You're just some old woman in a bar, not my therapist. [ Everyone knows therapy isn't real, anyway!!! ] And my name's Clarisse, so stop calling me birthday girl. Shit, maybe I lied about today being my birthday. What do you care?

[ That actually earns an amused exhale of breath. Of all the things she's been called in recent memory, some old woman in a bar is probably the most accurate by far. ]

I don't really. [ Care, that is. Maybe a little, because she's apparently carrying a war god's bloodline, and it's cute that she tries to use the old Greek, but birthdays are a thing Andy stopped worrying about a long time ago. Mildly: ] Don't get worked up. I'm not trying to get my nose broken again.

[ Wryly then: ]

Did your mother name you, Clarisse?

[ It's the answer Clarisse wanted, but it doesn't really calm her down (not a lot does, to be fair). She drinks some more, figuring that'll help, and after several moments some of the tension seems to leak out of her shoulders. Not all of it, but better some than nothing, right? ]

Yeah, obviously. [ It's sort of muttered, sarcastic, because why would a Greek god give his kid a French name? Even if it does mean "famous." ] My mom is French. Well, sort of, we're American. But her family is French. La Rue is my last name. [ Gods. Getting drunk is making her sound idiotic. ]

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