MINGLE | The "Everyone's Tired and Hungry" Post-Mission Pizza Party

[groupiedrifter]

CHARACTERS: Everyone! A free-for-all general chill-out time, thrown haphazardly together by a mad scientist.
LOCATION: The Mess Hall
DATE: Sometime after the mission. Y'all know.
CONTENT: The Orb Crew tries to relax for a hot goddamn minute.
WARNINGS: Likely drinking or drunkenness, the usual party antics. Very mildly image heavy, NSFW for naughty threads, properly marked.

It seems the party has been properly set up for you all! But of course, there's an exuberant amount of 'Newton*' flair added to it, and people can find all sorts of random things — markers for drawing on the pizza boxes (which he distinctly requested, super important) cover the tables, and it's clear by the one designed like a Pikachu and a dinosaur that he's already began scribbling on them. He's also made... board games literally comprised of pizza boxes as well, including Chess and Connect Four, which is lovingly set up side-by-side on a table and done with intent to annoy.

They've got one deck of cards for games, no chips; you'll have to just make some of your own out of pizza box cardboard. The most grand of all creation appears to be a normal-sized Skeeball table, made of flimsy material, with oranges for balls. It may or may not last the night, but it sure works for now!

There's a very strong bottle of liquor from their last mission open for everyone, and, well, it will get you drunk quite fast if you're not careful. But it's also a Bring Your Own Beer situation; hope you guys asked Viv for some to plan for the party!

Lastly, there's classic bar rock playing from an iPhone rigged to a speaker that looks very very cobbled together, from loose bits and bobs from the lab's many boxes. If you go fiddle with that phone's playlist, you may be able to find a small collection of songs that aren't rock, but are likely from the 90's or early 2000's.

And yes, there is a couch with a sign on it, designated specifically for people who wish to nap. If they'd like. Don't be rude, let people lay down when they're sleepy. (Maybe Newton just put that there for him, honestly.) There are 50 pizzas total, which is practically a whole-ass pizza per person, so enjoy! (And thanks, Viv!)

Feel free to bring your own flair to the party, if you'd like.

These are just a few things for a m b i e n c e.

(*If you mention him, he will appear like a terrible omen.)

Comments

Rosinante | OTA

[callada]

1. Those were supposed to go there
Most everyone else is enjoying pizza, but Rosinante is an outlier. He bypasses the boxes entirely and ducks into the kitchen to make something for himself with some of what he asked for in his own special order.

Which is why there's a loud crash as he somehow manages to knock half the pots and pans onto the floor in one go, and then another as he trips over one and falls on top of the whole mess in trying to pick them up.

Truly, he's a perfectly capable cook. Really. Promise.

2. Hold 'em
That's one round of poker down, and someone else gets to collect the winnings. Rosinante shrugs at his loss and shoves his cards over the table. "Can't win 'em all," he says as he tops off his glass from the nearest bottle of whiskey. "Where'd you learn?"

3. A few too many rounds
Rosinante is the weirdo with a bowl of steamed rice topped with a pickled plum and pan-fried fish, once he manages not to drop everything in the kitchen. He's happy to join others eating, though. And drinking.

"You have drinking games where you're from?" he asks, knowing that yes, probably everywhere does. That's not the point. He's got a tall bottle of whiskey and he's not afraid to use it as he tips some into a glass for whoever he's sat down next to. It's half an excuse to meet people here, and half an excuse to drink when he desperately needs it. The last mission went fine, but it's still never his favorite thing to have to kill someone in the process. Always bums him out for a while. Alcohol helps.

Besides, if the orbs do what they're supposed to do and actually fix what he regrets, it's worth it, right? No matter what it takes.

4. Wildcard
(Want something not mentioned above? Go right ahead. Rosi does not know any of the music here so catch him either enjoying it or maybe being puzzled by it. He will eventually end up drunk though he's trying not to, and might just pass out on the napping couch (which he is much too big for) with a still-lit cigarette and has a tendency to accidentally start a few small fires as a result.

Want to run anything by me? tinylongwing is where to find me!)

1.

[bijective]

Partaking in an abundance of cheesy pizza just isn’t in the cards for Hermann. He is more than content with his lobster bisque that he ordered from Viv. But he also doesn’t want to catch Newton’s attention or else face the wrath of a wiry, yappy man who’s had one too many mugs of caffeine.

Before he even has the chance to approach the kitchen doors, his ears are met with a thunderous clang and a thud. Hermann rolls his wheelchair inside, revealing a (very) tall man just about on his ass.

And so, Hermann does what he does best: Push his glasses up and ask—

“Everything all right here?”

[callada]

"About to be," he groans as he sits up, then takes stock of the man addressing him. It's not someone he's met, though he's seen the face around before. Small community. Voice is familiar, but he's not completely confident in placing a name to it.

Especially not while his head is still kind of ringing from the fall. "Sorry about that. Still have a bum ankle from the last fight," he explains, as if that were the real reason for his fall, and not that he's just spectacularly clumsy. At least being on the floor makes the few pans nearest him easier to reach, and he grabs them up.

Behind him on the countertop is a sack of rice, a small jar of little wrinkly bright pink plums, and a few arm-length mackerel. It seems rather than asking for something finished, he went the ingredients route.

[bijective]

“Goodness!” He exclaims, approaching closer towards Rosi’s side of the kitchen. Hermann can’t tell heads or tails if the guy is flat out lying, so he opts for cautiously concerned. “You should have someone look at that. I wouldn’t advise putting any more stress on an injured ankle.”

His head slightly towards the side.

“You’d be a prime target for further complications down the road.”

[callada]

"You could be right," he admits as he stands, and although arriving here meant the system made him appropriately sized so as not to hit his head on the ceilings, he still slouches a little as he sets the pans on the countertop. Habit. The posture he adopted as part of his role in the last several years still sticks with him. His commanding officer would tell him to straighten up, but he's not here.

"When I got here the first time, I'd just gotten out of a firefight, and they'd patched me right back up," he says. "But I haven't seen a real doctor on board. Am I missing something?"

Look, even if his ankle is mostly all right, it doesn't hurt to know more about how this place works. And maybe he shouldn't assume, but since he's faced with someone in a wheelchair, maybe the guy knows a thing or two about how future space medicine is supposed to go here.

[bijective]

“No,” he says flatly, furrowing his brows. “Nearly two bloody months away from our homes and not once have we bothered to ask if there’s a medic on board.”

Hermann is almost mad at himself for coming up with such a lukewarm revelation. It’s the bare necessity for any large-scale operation with over ten people. He was lucky to get any first aid treatment from the likes of Yzak and Clarke when he was subjected to the truth serum and broke his arm during the escape.

[callada]

"Something to think about. Maybe ought to do a field medicine briefing," he says with a sigh. "Make sure people know the basics. But - for later."

Because, you know, he's in the kitchen for food, not doctoring. He stoops to pick up a set of tongs (where did those even come from?) and then looks again at the man in the wheelchair.

"I've got extra if you want something that's not pizza. Viveca came through with that food order. Just gotta cook it first." Oh, and there's the spatula, slid across the floor. Well, that'll need a wash.

[groupiedrifter]

An admittedly drunk Newton Geiszler is adjusting his glasses for the umpteenth time as he stares down into the bowl of steamed rice and pickled plum and pan-fried fish, looking mildly unsure of what he's gazing into.

"... If you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back," he slurs. "What is that wrinkly floppy red spot on the top? R'you eating prunes with your fish, dude?"

After a moment of study, he goes right for the kindly poured glass of whiskey instead — and then makes the most puckered up, displeased face at the taste when he throws it back; whatever, man, it's still going down the hatch, that's what counts. Bittersweet Celebratory Shots for everyone! Leave no man left behind! Or something!

After he manages to gulp it down, he throws up some devil's horns so casually that it almost looks (read: is absolutely) silly.

"Oof. Victory."

[callada]

"What, you fighting a war against your liver?" Rosinante replies with a snort.

And then proceeds to do about the same, by throwing back his own glass, then thunking it down on the table with a new lipstick smudge to decorate the rim.

Look, this isn't the time for too much restraint. A little, always; he's internalized his training well enough that he prefers not getting completely wasted unless he's completely alone, where his tongue can't slip. But for today he can have more than he usually might.

"It's a plum," he then sighs, a little late. "Never had pickled plums? Great with rice. Great with booze, actually."

[groupiedrifter]

"Hey, we won the last war I was involved in! Gotta make a new one to keep me occupied."

He holds up his glass, amused at himself apparently. As evidenced by the little dumb giggle under his breath at his own joke. Shameful, really, but he's having a great time, so whatever. "Hey, I'll try anything once. Like that look you've got going on!"

He points with a finger, the others still holding his glass.

"That whole under-eye and lipstick aesthetic? Totally love it. Reminds me of glam rock a little. I had an eyeliner phase for a while, but I only ever got into make-up when I did some of those Rocky Horror parties, which is kind of a shame, but I also figured I wasn't chiseled and handsome enough to pull that off."

Tim Curry looked amazing, though. What a babe.

[callada]

"Yeah, I noticed it's not popular here. Not with guys, anyway. I never used to wear it, but I kinda..."

Had to as part of the undercover role he was stuck in for the last four years, but that's not really a topic he wants to talk about. Should've stopped himself talking sooner, but that's the alcohol's doing, and now he has to make up a reason. Not hard, just annoying that he let himself slip.

"Last crew I was sailing with all had custom looks, and I thought it'd be fun to join in. Next thing you know, I'm used to it. I'll have to come up with something new here, maybe. And hey, you know, never too late to get back into it. Eyeliner's cool."

That is a genuine opinion, there. Fact is, he did get used to it and rather likes it now, but makeup is a lot more popular with men in his world than it must be on Earth if everyone else here is anything to go by. Or maybe they all just keep it to their... horror parties, whatever that was Newt just said.

[groupiedrifter]

"It's not super popular for guys to wear make-up in my world, either. But it should be. They used to have singers wearing it all the time on stage, but... yeah. Even in 2025, not a super embraced look."

But you know, he is terribly interested in whatever Rosinante was up to back home.

"I guess in a way, we all have pretty customized looks, ourselves. Nothing really matching. I'd pay money to see everyone here try to synchronize." He laughs at the mental image; what a mess that could be. "What was your crew like? Outside of the cool glamor make-up."

[callada]

His crew, as if he was ever really one of them. As if he didn't dream daily of that bright eventual future that ended with all of them on the lowest levels of the government prison.

His crew.

He smiles, and has a sip of his drink as if reminiscing fondly.

"Ah, just a trade ship. Whatever paid to transport as cargo. Sometimes it was art, sometimes wine, sometimes guns. North Blue's a rough sea and not every crew's willing to tackle it, but home's home, I guess. Between fending off the waves and the pirates who would've robbed the ship of every scrap, we made a name for ourselves well enough. I was only with them the last few years since they needed another hand who could shoot and sail but most of them had been together over a decade."

3

[chronosynthesis]

Syrlya raises a brow, but does take the offered glass. He's decided to take already prepared food where it is, so he's got a plate with an assortment of pizza slices and, now, a glass of whiskey.

"We do, though usually with more than two people participating."

[callada]

"Yeah, same here. But sometimes all you've got is two, and I don't really want to involve a whole table right now," he says with a shrug. He's not the most social of people. Oh, sure, he likes people, he's happy to be here, but having a conversation here and there is easier than being part of a group game.

"You travel enough, you learn to be flexible. You ever travel much back home?"

[chronosynthesis]

"All the time." Syrlya considers his glass for a moment, before setting it straight on the table and reaching for a slice of pizza instead. "Confronting the Dragons takes me all over Tyria."

And once he's finished talking is when he takes a bite of his food.

[callada]

Well, that sure earns a raised eyebrow. Sure, Rosinante figured some amount of travel was probably standard for anyone doing field military work, and Syrlya didn't seem like the office sort. But.

"Dragons, huh?"

That's either some kind of warband or mercenary outfit, or maybe it's actual literal fire-breathing dragons. The latter would have sounded completely outlandish a few months ago, but now it almost seems possible.

It most certainly does not have the connotations that the word has back home for him, which is to say, neither of those things. At least, he'd hope it doesn't.

"You mean... huge flying lizards?" he guesses, figuring he'll get an explanation either way.

[chronosynthesis]

Syrlya chews thoughtfully, pausing to consider. "I... suppose some of them look like that. But the Elder Dragons are more elemental. They're great, primordial forces that regulate the magical energy that sustains Tyria. However, the... previous generation did so through cycles of consuming and releasing it that destroyed life in Tyria each time. We have been fighting to prevent the same fate this cycle."

[callada]

"Sounds hard," he comments, knowing that there's no way that can be anything but an understatement. "It's still amazing to me that you and others here come from worlds powered by magic. Hard to figure out what that's like. We sure don't have dragons, for starters."

After a sip of whiskey, though, he has an idea. "Here's a two-person game. You say something you've done, or make something up. I tell you whether I think it's true or a lie. If I guess wrong, I drink. If I guess right, you drink. Then we switch. Want to give it a shot?"

It's a party, right? Might as well try to keep the conversation lighthearted. And the sips will stay small too, since he knows his own tendency to get serious, sad, and awfully quiet if he has too much.

2

[comburst]

"Some of my shitty classmates back home were always wanting to do crap together." And Katsuki's just sort of naturally talented at picking up new skills - not that he cares too much about the winnings here so much as the simple act of winning. He's always been sort of way too competitive for his own good. Really, he's not much for parties but he does enjoy games that are competitive so it's enough of a reason to stick around.

[callada]

"Pretty good for someone who doesn't sound like he enjoyed any part of that," Rosinante replies, then has a sip of his drink before he collects up a few more of his cardboard chips to buy in to the next hand. Given there's nothing really to win or lose here, he's just trying to drink in pace with the losses, figuring if he runs out of chips he'd also better be too drunk to play another hand, but not too drunk to walk away from the table.

"But I know the feeling. Join 'em, or forever be the other type of loser," he says with a shrug and a smile of commiseration. In reality, poker is one of those helpful skills for blending in with a crowd, and he likes the strategy of it well enough, so why not keep in practice? Even if he never really played with any shitty classmates who wanted him around.

[comburst]

"They whine a lot if I don't join in." He actually does deep down (very deep) sort of like being around his friends, but Katsuki would rather die than cop to it. Easier to bitch about them.

He uses some of the chips to buy in again himself, though, because what the fuck else is there to do around here?

[callada]

"They must like you a lot, whining if you don't join even if you beat them," he replies, amused. Ah, to be a teenager again... Nah, he's glad he's past that point. His teen years were nothing to reminisce about.

"What kind of school do you go to?" he asks as he reaches for the cards and begins shuffling.

[comburst]

"A Hero Academy in Japan." He's familiar with people not knowing what either thing is, but doesn't bother to explain the location; they all know they're from different worlds, after all, so it makes more sense to explain the former. "People in my world have "Quirks". Superpowers."

He flips one palm up, and sets off a small explosion. Nothing to rattle anything, just a demonstration in his hand. "Hero academies train people to use 'em."

[callada]

Oh, just casually blowing the air up at the poker table, huh? The cards, supposed to be rippling through his hands in a neat bridge, end up spraying all across the table and onto the floor when he jolts in surprise.

"Shit," he mutters, then leans over to pick some of them up. "You know, with everything people can do, that shouldn't surprise me." It's not that far outside what people he knows personally at home can do, but like, come on, give a guy a warning? He sets the handful of cards he was able to reach back on the table.

"And your quirk is what, you blow things up?"