McCoy Apartment; MC

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Travis McCoy
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McCoy Apartment; MC

Post by Travis McCoy » Sat Jun 02, 2018 8:18 pm


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McCoy Apartment, Forestside, MC

"Maybe cooking is cheaper than take-out?"

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Home to brothers McCoy: Travis and James. Located in the mid-income residential district of Forestside, this humble bachelor's apartment is co-rented by the two siblings. Since it is situated in the white-collar housing area of Central Millennium, the neighborhood is generally very calm and accomodating - neighborly in every sense of the word. The brownstone is surrounded by delis and kocher shops along with several culture hotspots.

The apartment itself is situated in the top floor of the apartment building and it's layout is very simple: one common room (8x10ft) and a bathroom with an inconveniently installed AC unit. Most of the amenities can be found in the former room which amazingly can (and does) serve as their living room, office and dining room due to extremely measured space management. Each brother has a seperate bedroom with a closet and both share one kitchen.

On the plus side, their apartment apartment has the luxury of sporting a balcony (fire-escape with roof access)!

Lair Features
50' Flatscreen TV + PS4 + Cozy Couch.
Wi-Fi - Surprisingly good reception. Extensively protected by via VPN.
Ghost of the Former Inhabitant (Supposedly).
Roof Access.
Basic Electronic Security System.

OOC
  • Standard location rules apply.
  • Major destruction is not allowed without my consent.

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James Novak
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Re: McCoy Apartment; MC

Post by James Novak » Mon Jun 04, 2018 1:49 am

Chapter 1: Past Tenses
James put up his hoodie over his head and used his black Ray Ban™ sunglasses to cover his eyes. For the first time, he didn’t want the government or the press to see his face.

They walked together for about an hour. In that entire hour, they didn’t say much to each other. It wasn’t safe to speak in front of everyone. Every once in a while, someone took a picture of them. James covered his face every time.

Maybe he would catch on what was happening as they walked through the city. Maybe not, either way he still followed him all the way to the apartment.

Travis had some explaining to do. They stopped at an apartment complex, he took out a key out of his back pocket with a little peach emoji attached to it. James opened the door and went in first, the moment he walked in a slight smell of weed made its way into his nose.

The floor in the tenement had brown wooden boards. The walls were painted a deep purple that always bothered James. The rent wasn’t too bad because the owner was a washed up commie superhero with a drinking problem. Apparently he had fixed it himself, but James didn’t believe him.

Barking came from the other side of the hallway. A dog popped his head and ran down the stairs. The owner’s labrador, he just ran around the apartment building. He licked James’s hands and smelled the newcomer’s shoes.

They went up the stairs all the way to the top floor. With the key still in his hand, he opened up the door to his apartment. The alarm system beeped once when they walked in.
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“I'm back. I brought a guest.” He unzipped his hoodie, revealing a t-shirt with a superhero logo underneath. James threw it on the couch.

“Have a seat.”

He walked up to the kitchen and opened up a cabinet with a black label bottle of Johnnie Walker. He grabbed two glasses and poured two drinks with some ice on each glass. James handed Brock one glass. He then sat down on his black couch and took off his sunglasses.

He looked directly at Brock. His expression just as serious as before.

“I have to be honest, Contrail. I haven’t been honest with you, but this isn’t something you do in the middle of the street.” He sighed.

“I need to tell you something.”

“World War II ended in 1945. The year is 2018.”

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Re: McCoy Apartment; MC

Post by Quirbles » Mon Jun 04, 2018 2:57 am

Every minute of silence that passed between Contrail and the unknown man was exponentially worse than the last, and the entire ordeal came with a disturbing sense of self-realization to the aviator. Here he was, blindly following a guide that stated he knew Aristotle, but how could he trust anyone? He just crashed down into this city, for God's sake— and on top of it, he didn't even know where he was. What part of the United States was he in? Aristotle was... notably American, and nobody here sounded British or German. The brief thought of the entire construct being a Kraut trap passed through his mind but was ultimately dismissed, mainly due to Contrail's knowledge that Germany had become noticeably spent in resources due to the worldwide conflict.

Speaking of the War, there, eh, seemed to be... a distinct lacking of it. No posters stuck to telephone poles, no NRA plaques hung in the windows of businesses— had the public given up on showing their support? He'd expected to see his own likeness somewhere on the walk to meet up with Artistole, but there wasn't a single damn flyer to be seen. Something was up. God-dammit, random people kept looking at them with those stupid fuckin' notepads! Brock, who had put on his golden helmet at the start of the trek, stopped and looked to one of the people on the sidewalk opposite him and the man.

"BUDDY, WHY DON'T YOU TAKE A PICTURE? IT'LL LAST LONGER!"

Contrail shook his head, stepping forward a few paces in order to fall back in line with his urban sherpa to escape the ignorant eyes of gawking pedestrians. Hell, these people probably haven't seen him before. This city was so damn queer that it might as well been in a different dimension. Nothing made sense. Maybe he'd been away from the States for too long.

Eventually [more like finally, after all that walking], the two reached a building that Brock inferred to be the meeting place with Aristotle, seeing as the man who'd been leading him for all this time decided to enter it. Contrail followed after him, taking note at all the odd-looking lights and appearances of the hallways they walked through. Jesus, the place was looking more like an alternate dimension with every second. Where the hell did that machine spit him out? Was it Canada? He'd never been, but he'd definitely heard odd things about the country and its inhabitants.

Eventually, they reached a door at one of the floors. The man entered and LaVerne, ever following, took after his guide's example and stepped through the doorway. The homey vibe he got from the place gave him suspicions— suspicions that were confirmed once a couch and kitchen area came into view.

"Killer-diller flat you got here, sport." He stated aloud, noticing the man's odd taste in fashion at the sight of the shirt. Didn't recognize the logo at all, but that was neither here nor there. The aviator lifted off his helmet and set it down on the coffee table in the living room, examining the mauve walls with a fascinated eye.

"Got interesting taste, I'll give y'that." He muttered to himself. The owner of the apartment approached him with a drink— Red Label, was it?— and the pilot took it with a respectful smile.

"Thank you, but I don't drink. 5 years sober, now."

78 years, actually, but again, he didn't have a damn clue.

The man took a seat at the couch and gave him a solemn look, causing Contrail's smile to falter. Did he have something on his face? He raised up a glove hand to inspect his right cheek for a second, but stopped once his host began to speak.
“I have to be honest, Contrail. I haven’t been honest with you, but this isn’t something you do in the middle of the street.”
Not liking the sound of that one bit, LaVerne set the drink down on the table, making sure to find something to use as a coaster beforehand. His free hand subconsciously drifted to the C96 on the right side of his hip while doing so, the suspicion of a German trap now fully believable in Contrail's mind.
"I have to tell you something."
Brock kept on the friendly smirk, now a tad bit fake in the wake of the man's apparent lying.

"I'm listening."
“World War II ended in 1945. The year is 2018.”
The smile from Contrail's face drained completely. He blinked once. Twice. Then, he began to crack up.

"I— I gotta admit, you almost had me there for a second. Gotta work on the delivery. What, am I being — is this..."

The smirk was gone from his face as soon as it had reappeared as Brock stared off into the distance, contemplating the man's words. No posters. The weird-looking pedestrians, the oddly-shaped cars— hell, everything looked different.

Contrail's mouth shaped into a frown, now. He looked to the man who'd led him here and grabbed his helmet from the table, tucking it under his arm and stepping towards the exit.

"Look, slick, I didn't fall out of whatever place I came from to have my time wasted. If you think you can dupe me, you're whistlin' Dixie, friend." He warned, his tone venomous. He wasn't ready to leave just yet— the free hand clenched the broom-handle grip of his Mauser, now. He hoped that the joker on the couch could pick up what he was putting down.

"Answers. Now. Real ones."

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Mat
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Re: McCoy Apartment; MC

Post by Mat » Mon Jun 04, 2018 3:53 pm


[align=center]“I'm back. I brought a guest.”[/align]
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A loud clack suddenly emanated from the kitchen as Travis angrily slammed the blade of his prized japanese deba bōchō against the cutting board. It cut an extremely thin slice of bacon that slowly rolled and folded onto the surface. Some people liked to clean when they were emotional, the older McCoy brother was partial to cooking instead.

"Deadbeat motherfucker.", he calmly placed the cutting knife aside and walked out of the kitchen.

He approached from behind James with a collected frown on his face and immediately noticed their guest looked like a pulp fiction protagonist. This didn't really alleviate Travis' mood, if anything it made it worse. However, even so he apparently wasn't perturbed by Contrail. Instead, his eyes briefly darted towards where the aviator's hand was reaching. "Draw and I'll slap the taste out of your mouth before it can even chamber.", he threatened. Obviously not in the mood to play hot potatoes with Hugh Hefner today.

"And you.", his thick bicep quickly coiled around his younger brother's head like a constrictor snake, immediately cutting off his air intake and prompting him to grab Travis' comparatively huge forearm with both hands. Which he used to calmly remove the time-piece that his brother so rudely took. Then Travis just let go of his brother and put the time-piece onto his own wrist.

"I could get court martialed over this shit, you dickhead. And that's if I didn't outright land in the slammer.", he throughly inspected the watch for any signs of damage and exhaled only after deeming it in good shape. A heavy weight was offloaded from his shoulders for the time being.

"Good.", Travis looked over to their guest. "Now you can't shoot him.", he added with a completely straight face.

"Or you can wait 'till I finish the food and we can have a conversation over dinner about the dumb shit my brother involved you in.", his head then attentively tilted towards the kitchen. "Oh shit. The sauce.", he bolted back into the kitchen.

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Re: McCoy Apartment; MC

Post by James Novak » Tue Jun 05, 2018 1:30 am

James coughed after being let go by Travis. He rubbed his hands against his neck to deal with the pain. He opened his mouth up as if he was going to say something back, but he stopped himself. Instead, he simply responded with.

“Yeah. We’ll talk about this later, honey” He didn’t want to make a scene in front of their guest, who appeared to be somewhat confused by the whole situation to say the least.

“Let me try to prove it to you.”
His arms spread.

James pulled out his cellphone, he had a bit of trouble taking it out from his skinny jeans at first since he was sitting down. He unlocked the screen and showed it to him.
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“This is a cell phone. An iPhone to be specific. When they had this to their faces in the street, they were taking pictures of you.”

He went into his phone and opened up the camera app and took a picture of him, then he turned the phone around and showed it to him. “You can also take videos, send text messages which are kind of like telegrams but better, and do math.” James then went into the calculator app and did 10 times 10 and showed it to him again.

“You can watch movies.”

Then he went into the Roku app and pressed the Netflix logo and put on “Pinocchio.”

“You can call anyone who has a phone and a cellphone.” He called Travis’s phone and a baby started crying as the ringtone. He hung up the call.

“You can basically do almost anything with them. New applications are created everyday. If you have any questions you can just look it up. ”

Finally, he sat back and said smirking.

“Welcome to the future, Airman.”

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Re: McCoy Apartment; MC

Post by Quirbles » Tue Jun 05, 2018 3:06 am

Contrail's grip on the C96 went slack at the sudden arrival of a second flatmate, seeing as the newcomer looked noticeably more on edge and ready to clear leather, so to speak, if things got out of hand. Not one for unneeded conflict, the aviator simply shot a disarming smile the man's way and held up both hands in mock surrender.

"And a hi-de-ho to you, too. Didn't quite understand the saying, slick, but I'll keep my hand off the trigger. Surely, you can understand my complete distrust of you both." While the first sentence was genuine, the second was a mix of sarcasm and, somewhat, truth. He didn't trust the two, nor did he recognize who they were or what their motives were. Hell, this could be a fever dream, for all he knew. The place that he floated in felt like a damn-near endless expanse, and his mind went nearly insane trying to cope with the boredom that arose when stuck in an infinite void. At the thought of food, however, Brock's mind turned away from existential reminiscing and towards the feeling of his stomach growling.

"While I don't necessarily drink, I'm famished as all hell. I'd love to stay for supper." The aviator stated, his conversational side coming to light. Perhaps he'd been too harsh on the two of them; after all, if a man invites you for dinner, he usually isn't trying to murder you. Maybe that was a practice elsewhere in the world, but as far as he was concerned, this was America. He hoped. Would be a real wake-up call if it wasn't.
“Let me try to prove it to you.”
Hell, he'd almost forgot the whole "time jump" ordeal, but now his mind was back on it. He had friends back overseas; a lover, even, if sending notes back and forth counted. Brock had debated many a times if it was worth expending fuel to fly across the Atlantic, but even he doubted the Sparrow's capabilities to that extent. Better safe then sorry, he reasoned, and thus he and... ol' whats-her-face remained separated by the expanse of ocean. Never to talk again.

Oh well.

The man approached with one of those funny-lookin' notepads and showed it to Contrail, who initially took it to be a wallet due to the large picture on the face of it. That is to say, until that picture moved. Brock's smile flicked into a look of disbelief, his eyes widening as the damn thing moved on its own volition. It was like a photo album, but— hell, there wasn't a way to put it into words.

"What in the name of Sam Hill..." The aviator muttered to himself, rubbing the back of his head in dismay. 2018— that meant—
“This is a cell phone. An iPhone to be specific. When they had this to their faces in the street, they were taking pictures of you.”
"I phone?" Contrail repeated with an ounce of skepticism, the scene on the street from earlier now clicking into place within his mind. That's why. They weren't reporters, they were photographers! Wait, right? Why were there so many of them? Had the business of taking pictures seen some sort of boom between 1945 and 2018? The sound of that didn't seem so bad to the stunt pilot, but... every damn person he saw on the sidewalk had one. A snap of the phone and a turn later, and Brock was staring his own confused self in the face. Was that a picture of him? Jesus, he looked rough.

"They all had those damn... phones, you said... plastered against their faces. Everyone has a thing like that? Good lord."
"You can watch movies."
"Thank Christ, I mean— paying twenty-seven cents for a ticket? A little bit too exorbitant for my tastes. Least you can watch 'em on your own now, on that... thing." He responded, trying as best he could to keep up with the information being flooded into his obsolete mind. He could barely comprehend that one— a movie screen, tucked into your pocket and carried wherever, whenever—
“You can call anyone who has a phone and a cellphone.”
"Christopher Columbus." LaVerne muttered in disbelief, regretting that the 1940s never had anything close to something like this I Phone, as the man called it. Would've made calling Betsy a whole damn lot easier, that's for sure. Betsy! That was her name. Cute, smart, but a bit of a B19, for sure. And he never loved the big ladies. It was why talkin' over notes had been so appealing, he supposed.

Contrail looked back up to the man holding the damn-near God machine with a concerned expression. 2018. 73 damn years. He'd missed so much. To top it all off, the war ended just after he disappeared, it sounded like. He'd expected to be a bit of a war hero when he returned, but... well, there was nothing to look at. Where were all the statues? All the "hey, that's Contrail!" and "Keep 'em flying!" from the people he passed? They were taking pictures of him because he looked different, it wasn't that hard to find out. 73 years. Those two words kept repeating themselves in his mind like a faulty gramophone. 73 years away from the States. You're forgotten.

"Fuckin' hell." It was all the ace could say in response. A defeated tone, evidently, mixed with a melancholy sense of regret. Everyone he knew was probably dead or on their last legs, and here he was, right as rain. It didn't feel fair to him.

Masking the pain, Contrail's expression brightened into a melancholy smile. He attempted to look optimistic.

"Guess that makes me 73 years late for the mission report. Now, what's for supper?"

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Travis McCoy
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Re: McCoy Apartment; MC

Post by Travis McCoy » Tue Jun 05, 2018 6:23 pm

Inside the cooking pan, a drizzle of Extra Virgin Olive was heating up a bit too quickly. Travis put the heat on high to hasten the process and would've stopped it sooner had he not been so rudely interrupted. After frantically leaping to the stove, he added the bacon that he was just chopping and cooked it until browned. After it caught a nice caramel shade, he moved the bacon to a plate and poured the fat from the pot.

Next he tilted the pan a bit while gently working his wrist and adding more oil for heating. He had already patted sirloin beef he brought from a local butchers dry beforehand, so it was a simple process to cook it to color before crumbling the meat with a wooden spoon. At this point he wasn't paying much attention to what was going on in the other room. For flavor, Travis added the garlic, bay leaves, chile pepper, onions, cloves, a little salt and lots of pepper.
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While Contrail was brought to marvel about 'modern' technology and his brother was being oh so smug, he was at work with the sauce. Cooking on medium heat while frequently stirring the sauce for 10 minutes as to not burn it around corners and to bring out all the sweet juices. He tasted with the same wooden spoon and then deemed it the right time to add half a cup of dry red wine and deglaze the pan Then he scraped up the browned bits from the bottom before adding a cup of beef stock and tomato paste, then stirrong in crushed tomatoes and the bacon. He left the sauce simmer until it nicely thickened.

While the sauce was nearing completion, Travis took the time to cook some spaghetti until al dente. Importantly, he poured aside one cup of the salted water before draining the pasta. He then added it to the sauce as an extra touch. It would make the pasta less prone to crumbling in the thick sauce.

He prepared two deep plates. One for Contrail and one for his idiot brother and put pasta in both of them. Briefly, he mused if he should make Contrail's meal a bit bigger. Did time travel leave you hungry? Not in his experience. Anyway, there was more to serve if needed. He topped the paste with his beef and bacon sauce with a sterling spoon before grating a light film of pecorino cheese on top and adding parsley.

[align=center]What's for supper?[/align][/color]

"Spaghetti with bacon and beef sauce.", he replied while walking out of their small kitchen with two plates in one hand and cutlery folded over with two hard tissues. He handed one plate to each and then gave them cutlery. "No fancy names."

And walked back into the kitchen to prepare his meals for tomorrow.
Last edited by Travis McCoy on Wed Jun 06, 2018 2:40 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Re: McCoy Apartment; MC

Post by Quirbles » Wed Jun 06, 2018 2:13 pm

For Contrail, the time for reflection had always been during the process of unbinding himself from the Sparrow pack. It was a tedious process, made even worse by the redundancy and complete lack of concentration involved; so, instead of standing there like an idiot and fiddling with equipment, he usually passed the time by means of introspective review.

And hell, there was a lot to think about.

Gloved hands unclasped the brass buttons at the front of the leather flap which covered his jacket. There was a tremor to his grasp, the gravity of his situation dawning upon him as he went about his routine.

73 years, in a blink.

Halfway through the process of unbuttoning, Brock hurriedly tore the leather front off with a cacophony of metallic pops. He went to lay it gently upon the coffee table, taking care not to damage it. His grip was tight. Angered, if one was scrupulous enough to see it.

Barely anyone remembers you— the war's over. You're obsolete.

The parallel straps across Contrail's chest were methodically undone, seeing as he'd done the whole ordeal countless times in the past. The weighty jetpack was slowly lowered beside the living room table as the aviator crouched slightly in order to keep it from dropping a great deal onto the ground, taking care not to bump or knock over any of the two men's furniture or belongings due to the piece of equipment upon his back.

Gone from time, and you got that Nazi to thank for it.

Brock pulled his arms out from the straps and, without looking, unfastened the fuel lines that ran from the main jetpack to his arm and boot thrusters. Removal of the entire wireframe within his suit would take an extensive amount of time and, thus, he skipped it, seeing as he was hungry. Besides, dinner was about to be served. Contrail resolved to do a diagnostics check on the entire Sparrow pack at a later date, seeing that he was a guest and shouldn't keep his hosts waiting. The brass helm was set alongside the leather flap and jetpack and LaVerne sat in one of the chairs in the room, taking his dinner plate with a grateful smile and nod.

"Looks delicious. Last time I had Italian food was in Rome, back in '43—"

Three-quarters of a century ago. He paused, but only slightly, picking the sentence back up without missing a beat.

"— food was delicious, but you should've seen the buildings there. Beautiful."

He looked at the man who'd led him to the apartment, letting out a scoff of laughter.

"God, here I am— talking, and I haven't even asked you or your friend's name. Judging by how you found me, I'm guessing you know I'm Contrail— call me Brock, please— so, who are you two? How'd you find me, anyways?"
Last edited by Quirbles on Wed Jun 06, 2018 4:41 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Travis McCoy
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Re: McCoy Apartment; MC

Post by Travis McCoy » Wed Jun 06, 2018 2:49 pm

Oddly enough, the clacking of knife against cutting board and other noises Travis made in the kitchen were absolutely drowned out by the extensive rummaging and squirming on Brock's part. LaVerne's jetpack seemed to be a clunky contraption to say the least, but then again it's almost 80 years behind the curve. It must've been odd to both walk with it and see someone walk around with it.

However, the old timer did pose an interesting question.

"THAT'S A VERY FAIR POINT, MR LAVERNE. HOW DID YOU FIND HIM?", Travis' snarky remark emanated from beyond the half-wall connecting the kitchen and the living room. The rhetorical question was of course sent to his brother who knew damn well how this whole situation happened. It was because James took something of Travis' without his consent. He might as well use the opportunity to rub his brother's nose in it.

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Re: McCoy Apartment; MC

Post by James Novak » Wed Jun 06, 2018 4:21 pm

James sighed, his brother was being his brother. He pretended to ignore him.
Image
“I’m James. The cook is my brother Travis.” He pointed at the hardened soldier in the apron.

“Anyways, here’s the thing.” James paused for a second to think of what he was going to say .”The way it happened is that my brother is a time….keeper. He can’t really talk about it. Government business. I don’t ask, so he doesn’t have to lie.”

“What happened was, he was in the shower and I saw an alarm go off in his watch, which said there was a time “event” happening.” He wrapped the spaghetti around his fork. “So, I decided to be a good brother and do his job for him.”

He lifted the fork up and bit into the spaghetti. Then, James washed it down with a bit of whiskey.

“You see, he works so hard and also cooks for me. So I thought I would let him enjoy his time off. Then you fell out of the sky and as they say, the rest is history.”

“The sauce is a bit too salty by the way.” He raised his voice slightly so Travis could hear clearly hear him.

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