(no subject)

[cottoncandypink]

[oom: Bad news is a little easier to deal with the second time around]

Over by the fire, Wilford Warstache is lording up the entire area like he owns it, flipping through a large stack of files.

Files full of intern applications – a hell Wilford remembers all too well. But this time, he's on the other side of it, by orders of the studio. He tried, but he couldn't weasel his way out of this particular obligation, but if it is stuck with it, he’s hiring on his own standards. For one, he only wants local kids. San Andreas only. No east coast transfers on scholarships and trust funds. And second, nobody with parents or uncles or grandfathers – or any family at all – in the media.

CBN's HR departent seems to have no such standards at all. There are more than a few names in his stack he recognises, and not because they’re common. Kids that are definitely someone’s grandson or daughter make up a good third of the pool. They’re the first to go straight into the fire. Anyone from east of the river, Wilford tosses in as well without a second thought. By the time he's done with that, he's still left with quite a few to choose from.

This is going to be a long night.

(no subject)

[imthepilot]

OOM: Bodhi finds a room and tries to rest. But his fractioned memory tears at him, ripping at his heart.

{ooc: warnings for Rogue One spoilers, mentions of loss and physiological trauma.}

[Tiny tag: Bodhi]

(no subject)

[heatherandsteel]

Quentin's found the ice hockey on the Bar TV, he doesn't know the teams but they have good names, Falcons and Aces and they both know how to play.

Beside him is a massive plate of nachos with everything he could think of on it and he's drinking a soda as he watches.

His yelling sometimes goes into French because that's the best way to yell at hockey. He's dressed for court with his disguise down, his livery is folded beside him as he doesn't want to get it dirty but he can watch some hockey as he wakes up.

(no subject)

[cute_bruiser]

Here's someone nobody's seen in a while...

Molly Hayes has a mocha-choca-gingerbread latte (extra foam, extra cocoa on top, gold glitter she didn't ask for but is very happy about) in her hand and her Security badge pinned to her pink 'FIGHT LIKE A GIRL' t-shirt.

She'd really have liked a beer, but she needed the caffeine; even so, she's more than a little slouched against the bar counter, facing outwards towards the rest of the bar.

'Sup.

(no subject)

[just_cant_lose]

 
As one door closes, another one opens. A young Jim Moriarty stands at the threshold with half a computer under one arm, and a large fistful of cash in the other. He's dressed in school uniform, tie at half-mast, with a fag hanging out of his mouth.

Well. 

He'd given up on ever finding this place again. Good timing, though. He's come from a stupid interview, he's bloody starving, and being sixteen still sucks ass. 

Meh. 


[OOC: Open until whenever, just taking advantage of his older self being out of the bar. Please no one tell him the grown up is dead!]

(no subject)

[is_the_motion]

[oom: Moving forward.]