open; hit me like a gut punch

[ordinar]

Who: Wilhelm & sundry
Where: Panorama
When: throughout February
What: catch all

Warnings: none; will update as needed

Comments

open; job hunt

[ordinar]

Wilhelm's first dinner in Panorama was a bowl of udon, for which, wanting cash, he traded his labor. At the conclusion of his contracted hour of dish washing, he rather felt that he'd earned another meal in compensation for all the times his fingers had brushed against soggy food remnants in the sink water. When the next morning rose grey and sullen as its predecessor, his grumbling stomach demanded that he repeat the trick. However, the deal he struck with the diner for a plate of toast and eggs was much less agreeable: cleaning toilets, which, to judge by the state of them, hadn't enjoyed the reprieve of bleach in at least a week.

All of this to say, it was then that his resolve to get a job hardened. And he could finally concede that Simon had been right. It wasn't the same at all, his idea of "work" and that of Simon, Rosh, or Ayub. Wilhelm, until now, had never known what it is to work in exchange for survival.

a. Much of the day's remainder is occupied by his job search. He drives across the haphazard grid of the Pavilion, dragging every street, exiting one business to try the next. His net is indiscriminate: restaurants, bars, gas stations, corner stores, hardware stores, grocery stores. If you happen to work at such an establishment, you might be the one fielding his questions about potential openings. Or if you're a customer, you might take pity on his increasing desperation and throw him a lead.

b. By the time afternoon rolls around, Wilhelm has secured at least one solid lead. Say hello to the newest candygram delivery boy for Tony's Chocolate Shoppe. The only hard part of the job is that, fresh to the city, he has no clue where anything is. In fact, once he's loaded the cardboard box of his (well, actually Tony's) wares into the back seat of his car and slid behind the wheel, he realizes he isn't even sure which direction points back to the Blocks. In consequence, his delivery route takes twice as long as good old Tony estimated.

That knock on your door means you've got a candygram coming your way. Opening the door — or peering through the fisheye — reveals a soggy, gangly kid presenting a beribboned bag of chocolates. The attached card is speckled with raindrops.

"Hi," he offers awkwardly. "Delivery for—"

The name he reads off might be yours, or it might not be at all.

[argumentiste]

While Alisaie had done her fair share of sending out little candygrams to her friends and the other Scions (yes, even her brother had been given one though her message had been more sibling ribbing than heartfelt) she had not expected to receive one herself - at least she hadn't until her shift several days before when she had been at the bakery.

Thankfully it hadn't been anything untoward. And the candygram itself had merely been a precursor to something else that had occurred that day. Perhaps it's because of that that the candygram still remains untouched on the kitchen counter in her shared motel room - not because it isn't to her tastes but because she wanted to preserve the memory of the day.

She's just returned from a shift at the cafe when she hears the knock at the door. The knock tells her that it isn't Alphinaud or G'raha which has her approaching a little cautiously at first before seeing who's on the other side. "Oh! That's for the woman two doors down," Alisaie offers before halting almost abruptly. Her expression changes as she takes in Wilhlem's appearance from the damp hair to his soggy, sad uniform and the drops of water hitting the carpet beneath his feet.

"Have you been delivering these on foot? You're drenched."

[ordinar]

It probably doesn't help that the only store-branded jacket his new boss had left on hand is a size too small for Wilhelm. Tight in the shoulders and cropped at the wrists, the jacket must be left unzipped — in consequence of which, his shirt underneath is soaked. An umbrella is somewhere farther down on the list of things he needs to buy.

"No, I've got a car," he answers, pushing a limp strand of hair back from his forehead. "It's just...I don't really know my way around yet."

Which has resulted in a trial-and-error approach to locating the correct building for each delivery, and a tremendously inefficient route. His eyes flick over the numbered plaque affixed beside the door, then over the card in his hand.

"Sorry for bothering you. The number must have been written down wrong..."

[argumentiste]

"And does the car have a gigantic hole in the top of it?" As concerned as she looks, she can't help but sound a little disbelieving at the thought. The weather in Panorama had been raining buckets for the most part which is why it's unfathomable to her that his employer hadn't given him at least an umbrella to assist with the journey from the car to the front door of the various buildings he had to go to.

Her lips thin a little bit at the thought before realizing that he's likely about to leave.

"Wait -," she starts, opening the door a little bit wider. "I know you're likely on a bit of a timeline, but at least come inside to dry your hair off before you go." Standing at a staggering 4'7" she and Alphinaud won't have any clothes will fit him. And G'raha being on the shorter side himself wouldn't have anything either. So the least she can do is this. "You'll catch a cold if you haven't already."

[ofgoldenthread]

( Empathic telepathy warning & opt-in/out if you need! )

A bold choice on Wilhelm's part to enter the blank but stained facade of a building which had only a "HELP WANTED" sign pressed against the window glass. A bell fails to jingle as Wilhelm presses the door open and peers in. It is drab inside: the walls are still ugly with construction work. Tiles have been broken down and still lay on the floor. There's a potted plant in the room that, if you look closer, is probably not real. Chalk mars the walls in some locations, as if providing some sort of blueprint for work.

From the small room he stands in, it's difficult to see what sort of business this is. No doubt the business's larger purpose is somewhere behind one of the doors that oppose the entrance. A radio is playing behind one of the doors – Judas Priest, probably; she has no idea. You can probably just ignore it. Aglaea is trying to.

Behind the counter is a beautiful woman standing slightly stooped over, her golden hair masking her face. Her jacket is rested over the top of a small, orange Virco chair, so synonymous with the learning experience, you'd think she stole it. She did not. She has no idea how prolific these chairs are. So prolific, it's really no surprise one (or more) made it across space and time to be here today.

"Hello," she says without looking up, her voice pleasant but flat. Her outfit is simple yet attractive, and a bit dusty at the hip of her tartan pants. "If you're looking for work, I should warn you I cannot pay well."

She lays a period down on the paper at last and turns her head up toward him with unseeing eyes.

[micycle]

The person who opens the front doors of LuxFilms is clearly not the owner. In fact, it's questionable as to whether he's even an employee, since there's not a uniform in sight. He's Wilhelm's height, with overgrown curls and too-short pajama pants; there's a broom in one hand, its pan full of popcorn and straw wrappers.

"I mean." He says it with a bony shrug, as though it's a complete sentence. "Vince sort of has me doing everything. Cleaning-" A little shake of his broom. "-concessions, tickets." Two additional gestures, towards the respective counters. The list sort of explains the frankly ridiculous bags under his eyes.

"He'd probably hire someone else if I threatened to quit."

open; pickpocket

[ordinar]

All the times Wilhelm had violently wished he didn't have to be Crown Prince, all the times he had dreamed of living a normal life, the picture he coveted in his head looked nothing like what he's got now. After a week of collecting little crumbs of jobs by which to scrape together a living, of sleeping on a stiff bed and showering in lukewarm water, of having no friends and nothing fun to avail himself of, of driving around the city in a synth-heavy haze of love ballads that act as salt in the open wound of his heart — his mood is bleaker than the weather. If he could, he'd crumple it all up and throw it away.

Naturally, it's when he's already down that more trouble comes along to kick him.

He leaves the corner store swinging a plastic bag crammed with cheap provisions. Stuff that can survive outside a refrigerator and save him from eating out every meal. On the way back to his car, somebody bumps into him. He throws a glare at the offender's retreating back, continues on for three steps, then realizes his wrist is strangely naked in his jacket sleeve. His watch is gone.

Erik's watch.

"Hey!" he shouts, sneakers eating the concrete. The figure is already at the end of the block, slipping around the corner. Wilhelm's stomach clenches into a pit, his blood throbs with rage, his legs fly faster. "That guy's a fucking thief!"

[valle]

She walks this particular route a lot. Usually she does it with a fist full of leashes in one hand, an entire herd of dogs leading the way down the sidewalk, an hour twice a day as part of her part-time dog walking gig. Today, it's just her and one shaggy mutt making the stroll, peacefully unconcerned about her surroundings in the way only a girl with knives in her hands and an inability to die can really be.

She hears the rapid pounding of footsteps well before the yell. She's already made the conscious decision to ignore it — whoever's running isn't her problem, and the reason they're running is none of her business — except that the indignant shout comes from somebody that sounds young. Like, her own age.

Look, it's just — a grown ass man robbing a teenager is pathetic shit. Just because he thinks he can get away with it? Fuck that.

By the time Wilhelm rounds the corner after the guy, he'll be just on time to see it: a petite girl of eighteen dropping her dog's leash, stepping into his running path, and hauling back to straight-up punch a thirty-four year old pickpocket directly in the face. It's loud; there's a sharp snap in there that sounds like more than just skin on skin, and the guy drops to the ground with all the grace and dignity of a drunk sack of Russet potatoes.

Her dog sniffs his face. Licks his cheek happily. The man groans, eyes squeezed shut, hands coming up to cup his suddenly gushing nose.

She pulls her sunglasses down to stare at him, and then glances over to Wilhelm.

"You meant this guy, right?"

Probably something she should have established before she broke his nose, but like. Whatever.

[ordinar]

Only when the robber drops to the concrete does Wilhelm stumble to a stop. He had it in his head that the girl wedging herself into the path of danger must be very brave, very impulsive, or a little bit of both. And he was grateful that she would stick her neck out for him, but doubtful that such a slip of a person could detain the guy by herself.

He was dead wrong about that.

The girl and whatever mysteries glimmer underneath her surface are white noise at the edges of his concern, which narrows with deadly precision to his brother's watch and the man who has stolen it. The question ricochets off Wilhelm, but he answers it anyway, in a manner. Dropping a knee onto the man's stomach to pin him, he begins a frantic search of his pockets.

"What the fuck did you do with it?!"

The man, preoccupied with his bloody mess of a nose, provides no help. This only increases Wilhelm's agitation, which bleeds through in the way his fists curl in the guy's jacket front to shake him.