Hurts like a fucking son of a bitch, thanks for asking

Take 1: Plan For the Witch

There's something about the older ones. The dresses faded and worn from years of washing, outdated and shapeless. It's not the pull of the cougar, older but still vivid, everything still in the right place before gravity and age have taken their toll, with a knowing look that speaks of Experience, tricks not yet seen; it's more than that, beyond it. Some days it's the old witch with the gingerbread house, kindly grin to hide the sharpened teeth and bony claws, and on those days you stay away, find other streets to frequent because you don't want to wind up in a cage, poked and prodded and fattened up like a cow before slaughter, no matter how welcoming the outside. And no amount of pleading justification will pacify your brother for a broken granny, even if there was an evil witch lurking inside.

( But more often than not they're harmless... )

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Take 2: A Rabbit in a Dress at Least Has Principles

Richie wasn't picky when it came to cartoons. Not really; they were all kind of the same when you got down to it, just riffs on the same things with different talking critters to mix it up. Sure, some companies did it edgier than others, cut close to the things you weren't supposed to say on television while others steered clear and kept it to the kiddie stuff, but it was all the same when you rooted the rest out. Life lessons cut down to a few minutes with a candy coating of comedic violence where nobody ever died no matter how many times you blew up the duck or smacked the dog in the face with a hammer.

( Mickey used to be a rabbit, you know. )

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Take 3: Black and White and Red All Over

Richie dreams in black and white. In harsh edges and bottomless pits, in pretty faces with teeth lurking under the skin, in shapeless forms that linger at the edges of vision, just waiting. Watching. Sleep is as much a wild expanse of hostile uncertainty as being awake is, only the rules never apply, they're never written down and they're always changing. He can never keep up, no matter how hard he tries.

( Sometimes it's empty, blank. Pure nothing, whitewashed with the peace Seth promised but could never deliver on. )

[PUBLIC -- video]

Why can't more shit that happens around here be like that? I mean, come on. Pirates, how is that not cool. I haven't had that much fun from the Admiral's shitty driving since Vegas. Just throw in Prohibition in Chicago and that's like...the trifecta.


[PRIVATE to Claire]

So that flood we had before was You were kind of

[Nothing sent.]

[PUBLIC -- video]

Driver's Ed, that's all I'm saying. Or...the spaceship equivalent. If that's a thing. I'm tired of getting woken up because the Admiral hit something again; either drive better or don't drive at all.

Sincerely, everybody on board.


[Richie is affected! And is currently named Rochelle. And is firmly convinced she has always had boobs. Much like her male counterpart, she is given to creeptastic behavior, although she's mostly a lurker who tries to be friendly, not so much dangerous.

...Although she'll still stab you if she feels like she needs to, and has a tendency to get worryingly attached to people.]

[Hey Barge, you're currently being treated to a close-up of a hand.  Not a very helpful shot, is it.

No problem, it clears up a few minutes later, to be replaced with 15-year-old Richie, staring at the screen like it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen.  He's even got that same vacantly engrossed expression just about every girl he's come across in his older version has been fortunate enough to be treated to.

...In his defense though, it probably is; as far as he knows he went to bed at the Home and woke up...somewhere else.  With tech that's a lot more sophisticated than what he's used to.]

Silly putty?  Are you fucking kidding me?!  That shit stopped being cool when I was like...ten.

...And what's with this sweater.  It's like...two sizes too big.  And covered in penguins.

Although I guess this thing's okay.  What is this, like a phone or a computer or something?  It's tiny.

[He looks around the room, as if seeing it for the first time, and he smiles hesitantly, the smile of a kid long-used to being the butt of other people's practical jokes but still happy he's at least included, but it's clear he doesn't really find it that amusing.]

...Okay, guys; cheap motel room, I get it, ha-ha, very funny, you can come out now.  It's like twenty four hours too late to be relevant anyway.

[Nobody comes out of the door, nobody even turns the handle.  A minute or so passes, and then he turns his head, like he heard something, but it's either too quiet to be registered by the mic or he's jumping at shadows because there's nothing audible.  He waits another minute or so, and now he sounds less certain, a little quieter than his earlier bravado.]

...Seth?  You there? 

[Anyone paying attention is treated to a good thirty seconds of humming -- "Jingle Bell Rock" at first but then "Do They Know It's Christmas" -- but it stops abruptly when he actually finds his train of thought.]

..Is there a word for when you get a song stuck in your head, but every time you get to one part it turns into something else?  And it keeps looping because you can't remember any more of it?

There's probably one in German.  They're always good for that.

But seriously.  I'm getting sick of it; it ends up on that one about whether or not people know it's Christmas and it's just fucking depressing.

[He looks guilty for all of ten seconds -- he's probably not supposed to be cursing, at least not out loud because it's impolite, but whatever.]


[A/N: AU!Richie is the adoptive son of William von Graham and Hannibal.  He's a little misguided, and has a tendency towards Bad Life Choices, cursing like a sailor, submitting to peer pressure entirely too easily, and impulsive decisionmaking, but he's generally not a bad kid.

Although you might not want to leave him in charge of your pets, plants, or small children; he tends to be unintentionally neglectful of them.]

Now what do we have here.  I get what's goin' on here, don't think I don't.

This here's what we call an Indian trade; you let me think I'm gettin' you this big bad schnitzel-eatin' sonuvabitch when really you're just handin' us all back over to the Krauts.  Thought you could get one over on me, dintcha.  Well HA, 'cause the joke's on you, now ain't it?

[...Once he figures out how to get around it, anyway.]

Ain't even that bad digs.

[Accidental Visual]

[Viewers can't see much; the communicator's on the floor after he abandoned it there earlier, meaning it's mostly ceiling and the side of the bed.  There's an arm and a leg draped over the side towards the camera, fingers tapping against the fabric rhythmically as if to some song in his head while the leg just dangles.  There's a frustrated groan and a comic book comes sliding over the edge to land somewhere out of sight, and the visible limbs shift around as he tries to find a more comfortable position.

He mutters under his breath.]

...I'd give my left nut for some decent porn.

[Bored Richie is inexplicably bored.  Which he prefers over recent events, but still.  Bored.]