#verse. arc 1 - lieutenant duke

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@ru5t || unprompted idea that came to me? just sorta rattling the thought around. feel free to leave it if it doesn't vibe <3

He's thrown into the room - cell, makeshift or real, he hasn't taken stock yet - with enough force to send him stumbling forward. He hits the ground hard without his hands free to catch himself, and rolls through it to keep his face from smashing into the hard ground. The room spins some even after he stops moving, though he's expecting it. Probable concussion, after that many blows to the face.

Duke blinks slowly at the soldier stood in the door, impassive in the face of the hard look being leveled his way.

And then the look had turned Madelyn's direction. Unacceptable.

Adrenaline flooding through him, perhaps the last of his reserves, Duke manages to get his feet under him and let's his momentum carry him forward, barreling toward the enemy soldier with every intention of tearing a throat out with his teeth if that's what it takes.

Instead, he's met with a fit of startled swears and a backward scramble. Duke slams into the hastily closed door instead of the give of a body, his quary safely on the other side. Coward.

Richie barks a laugh as he turns to lean his back against the door. He spits a little blood from his mouth onto the ground near his feet. Right, then. That's that squared away for the time being.

It truly was the last of his energy to make that push up and forward. They'd worked him over solidly for a first attempt at getting any information from him. Electrocution's so bloody exhausting.

Panting and spent, Richie slides down the door to sit and get his legs out in front of him. It's only then that he finally actually looks Madelyn's direction, a loll of his head and a squint through a trickle of blood down thd side of his face that he can't easily wipe away with his wrists still bound behind his back.

"I'll do everything I can to keep them off you," he promises, a little breathless still, voice hushed despite the fact that he does sort of doubt that they're being listened in on. Despite the gravity of the words, his tone carries only a fraction of the severity someone else might have conveyed. "The boys'll have had our last position. Odds are, seventy-two hours at most. I should be able to keep them occupied that long. It'll be alright, Kit."

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Richie's eyes narrow with mischief of his own. "Only if they know you meant to." There's most of an idea formed, now. Something of a gamble, though he thinks... well, she looks rather occupied. And if she's not- He maps out a few conversational possibilities as he decides on a course of action.

"Here, hold on." Hold on, he says, but he rises from his seat with a determination suggesting he'll be more than a quick nip away from the table. He pauses before he walks away. Sort of a little preview of what's to come, with maybe a hint of seriousness, Richie instructs, "If anyone asks, double the number of drinks I've had before you answer."

And then he's off toward where Evelyn's date is sat.

It's not a long chat, but Richie lays it on thick to start, playing buzzed and interested. Flirting until said date feels the need to look for Evelyn to point her out.

He thinks he does a reasonably convincing job of looking surprised and apologetic when Evelyn's date sees her still necking with Not Him. And he lingers for a moment after the man gets up, like a drunk collecting his thoughts and figuring out what to do after striking out.

When Richie circles back to Henry, it's with two fresh flutes of champagne, and a subtler air of mischief managed. "Think that did the trick."

  Ah. Well. Words like that, maybe he ought to have had something in mind to answer with. Henry stalls with a general scan. Sea of faces, sea of fine decorations and fine wear... a million ways to incite chaos, but nothing leaps out as an immediate kick start to a dramatic unfolding of this specifically. Short of cupping his hands around his mouth and shouting it out, that is. Which... no, better not.

  “Where's Nerys when you need her?” he laments in an undertone. One whisper there and the whole country would know by the end of the next hour. He looks Richie's way with a sort of helpless and yet mischievous resignation: “If I start it, no one will think it's true.”

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@hebled || behold, trauma :)

He has nightmares like this sometimes. Struggling to get off his back, body protesting, thrashing -

Except Richie wakes up, and he's still choking. Hands around his throat, the weight of another body on his, he's managed in this pin, movement already so expertly restrained, he jabs to drive the heel of his palm up toward the outline of a jaw, to disorient, to make space, room for him to breathe but there's no contact, the head jerking away

(Beck? There's no room to process it. Not if he wants to live.)

The sheets only hinder, but Richie lashes out with the desperation of a man acutely aware of a narrowing window of survival. He cannot stay like this. He Cannot Stay Like This. (get the fuck off -)

He doesn't need gear to get out of this. He doesn't need a knife to kill. Just a little room. Just a little -

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@ru5t || gentle-esque Richie starter

He makes a point of being quick enough shouldering the door open that it groans on its hinges, and let's it fall shut behind him under its own momentum, rather than easing it closed. An announcement of his presence without having to say anything.

"Brisk tonight."

Richie sets the thermos of tea down beside her before plopping a folded blanket in her lap. It's still the hours of dark that are late, rather than early. He doesn't know what drove Madelyn out here, but he could hazard a few guesses. Nothing he'll make her run on in to face again.

The cold of the ground begins to seep through his layers as soon as he sits down -- within arm's reach of her, but not touching. He fishes a box of cigarettes and his lighter out of the pouch of his hoodie. "Mind if I...?" A rattle of the pack in clarification.

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@ru5t | sc.

She's too absorbed in whatever she's got in front of her, eyes not on the monitor displaying a rotating set of various security cameras. Duke catches sight of the pair of guards coming down the hall leading to them; she doesn't. Or if she does, she doesn't react appropriately.

Great.

"Kit-" Duke scruffs her like the moniker, patience running thin as he listens to the rest of the team report a narrowing window of time for their exit. "Stop whatever's not done. We have to go. Now."

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@ru5t sent “Do you have any particular vendetta against chinchillas?” for Richie.

"Rat," he corrects, word ground out as he leads them forward. Spaces like this - aqueducts, sewers, places of water and nooks and crannies - are teaming with the damn things. It makes his skin crawl if he lets the thought linger. He'd kicked aside one that had run across his path, and honestly? The damn thing's lucky it was less work to send it flying, than flat.

"You'll sing a different tune after they decide you're good enough to climb or chew."

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@lighthouseborn || the surprise flatmates vibe

  Lizzy's kid on his couch is not what Richie expects to come home to. Battered and stitched up, on mandatory medical leave to heal, still a little thrown by the time difference between where he's been and where he is, his plan is to get in, take a probably-inadvisable number of over-the-counter painkillers, and crash.

  Sure. He'd said this was acceptable, once upon a time. No reason to take that back now. Richie stiffly goes through the process of fetching a blanket to drape over Henry, then trudges off to bed, fully expecting the morning to feature questions and chatter.

  Instead, he eats breakfast alone, reluctantly foregoes any sort of trip out in favor of letting his injuries rest, and generally lazes about until lunch.

  That's when he decides that regardless of when Henry got into the flat himself, it's time to wake up.

  Richie at least has the decency to wait until lunch is ready before he shuffles over to gently shake him awake with a "You need to eat something."

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[ SEARCH ] sender barges into the hospital demanding to see receiver . / from Simon for Richie :)

Strong painkillers aren't Richie's preference, and they both know it. But relatively fresh from the operating theatre, just waking up for the first time after surgery? Richie's cotton-headed, the world fuzzy and everything somewhere between numb and tingly. He's slower to respond to the door opening. A loll of his head in the direction of it, and the heavy, lethargic blinking of a man not entirely present.

But he recognizes Simon. That much is obvious from the tired but easy smile that pulls at Richie's mouth when he lays eyes on his partner. His hand lifts only inches from the bed, but he reaches for Simon all the same. "Hi, love."

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“Give me the knife.” for richie :0

"Can't find my razor," is Richie's defense, a half-second behind what it should be. (He doesn't meet Beck's eye in the mirror.) Said like Beck's tone alone isn't a clear indicator of how long he's been standing there. Like the need for a shave is the unevenness Richie eyes every time he sees himself. (Like either of them would believe the lie.)

The right side of his face is only just beginning to truly scar, skin pink and puckered.

He's uneager to hand over the knife. (Hasn't yet. Won't, maybe.) But it's a deeper discontent now than it might have been before. Not only displeasure in handing over something of his, but hesitation. A faltering trust, not in Beck specifically but in people wielding knifes that can be pointed his way.

"I'm not a child." I can be trusted to know how to handle a knife. But perhaps that's the problem, isn't it?

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@voleuxe | this one again but modern verse

He hasn't been paying particularly close attention to dress colors. It's typically not a problem - he flirts around a little, but rarely enough to start getting his women mixed up - so he thinks little of it when a slinky brunette moves into his space. Severine, he's sure, so he's neither surprised nor fazed when nimble fingers curl into his tie and pull him around and down.

Richie even gets as far as curling a hand around her waist, starts, even, to kiss back, before he registers that the shape of her isn't quite right. Too tall.

.. Oh, no.

He makes an aborted sound of negation as his hand draws back from her as though burned.

What? The fuck?

No?

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just listen to me for once ! - for richie!

"While I appreciate the concern, this isn't a matter up for debate." The pinch to Richie's brow belies his frustration even as he manages to keep most of it out of his voice. It's not his favourite outing to come down the chain of command, but such is the nature of the beast. He just hadn't been anticipating any of his men having such strong opinions on it too.

Arms crossed over his chest, he huffs and sigh and hunts for something both reassuring and final on the matter. "This is a medical run as much as it is meant to be quick and quiet. Can't take you along this time."

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@ru5t sent in 'scars' for RICHIE

You know how she gets that way when her filters evaporate but not in a mean way just in a........... she-is-really-curious way? Anyway what if ‘scars’ in the spirit of that? (except we decided to go more the words direction than the touch direction)

He wouldn't give most people the time of day for a question angled in the direction of the facial scarring. Someone as green as her - were she a solider, he'd have her on shite duties for a month after a solid shaming. As it stands, Richie still doesn't give her much. An unimpressed glance up in her general direction before returning his gaze to his reading. Anyone not on the team would read it as a clear dismissal.

"Not something you need to worry about happening to yourself." There's a harder lean toward cold and posh as he speaks, creating distance without physically moving from his seat. "I imagine you're smart enough to have put something together."

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“Would you consider yourself to be generally bloodthirsty? Or maybe more like... particularly? . . . Or even just situationally?” ;djg;lkdjfg you could roulette this as well but I also think. some kind of early interaction with Richie maybe? ((sry again, richie))

They're sitting on the X, waiting for extraction, or else Duke would leave her with little more than a scoff, or maybe a small eye-roll, on the matter. They haven't interacted much, him and this new asset. She tends to be with Yves—shared skillsets, divided work, and all that—and his sergeant has no problem filling the silence and otherwise inadvertently drawing enough attention that there's no expectation for Duke to make conversation.

Yves, in fact, has opened his mouth, but doesn't get past his initial, "Aw, the LT's not so bad," because at the same time, Richie's commenting, "You seem to already have an underlying answer in mind." That he's bloodthirsty at all.

He blinks slowly, head turning to fix his gaze on her. The upward lift of one blond eyebrow is all the invitation she'll get to keep going.

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@vilestblood || continued from here

Your Lordship. Well if that's how they're going to be- "My father's not dead yet." The Baron Alvanley is still Richard Arden III. (Pointing that out is more Richie being a pest than any genuine interest in correction.)

"And here I thought the professionals were meant to have more subtlety." If the espionage expert is out here waving his gun about, maybe Richie's in the wrong profession. He wouldn't mind a few fewer hikes across deserts and arctic tundras.

Richie steps closer (trusting Antonín to watch his back, despite the shit he'd just given the other) as he peers down at the screen. "Mm, mostly industrial. Any residences are likely to be converted loft types. Won't be a lot of eyes on us, but it being a low traffic area means we'll stand out more on the approach."

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Richie catches the gist of who's on what side and where blame is being pointed just before Singh gives him a definitive answer. He's got a sergeant rearing to go (Yves, in defense of his charge for the day), and Singh pissed off on principle, and Genius (Private Lancing? Looks like.) desperately trying to backpedal out of a situation of his own making (bleeding) while Madelyn Sits.

Christ alive.

"Stitch, get him looked at. Sit on him after. I'll tell you when to send him my way." He'll want a word, but it's not his first priority. "Rest of you-" Yves, and some others drawn in by the commotion, another lieutenant among them, but Richie doesn't give two shits, "-fuck off."

Protests die under the weight of a stare that brokers no argument.

He waits until the half-circle of boots breaks before he crouches down in front of her, hands hung in the gap between his knees. He looks at her only in passing turns of his head. While she has the majority of his attention, he keeps his eyes turned outward, scanning the hall in slow passes so as to reduce the sensation of staring.

"It's not," he agrees, voice low and even. He doesn't attempt to directly soothe her, though he'll make an effort if she asks. He doubts she will. "You're making good progress."

@hvndredbattles ( Richie + ) //> Blood, Blood

"What the hell happened?"

  She can't explain. He- she can't even look at him. Twelve steps backward. It'd been going so well! But she can't even look into his face. It doesn't look like a face it looks like –

  She swallows the sound trying to flee past the tightness in her throat, clamping her teeth down so hard they feel as though they'll all crumble. With her gaze fixed down she starts counting shoes. Trying to ignore the heartbeat pounding in her ears and her head. Instead she just finds her attention sweeping back and forth, back and forth, at the shoes. Standing in a loose, still-shuffling ring. Still arranging themselves, deciding how interesting this is. Far enough back that someone must have said something (when? who? she didn't hear, how didn't she hear-) but still, a front. A wall. Made of looks attention eyes that feel like hands. All over.

  “Genius here trapped her in the closet.” That's Singh with the absolutely lethal levels of sarcasm. She catches a snatch of breath after he says it.

  “It's-” Fine. Aimed...in Richie's general direction, if not at him, exactly. Can't even look. Not even at the shoes anymore, she squeezes her eyes shut, too afraid to keep counting. “I'll... I can-” The catch in her voice is desperate. Begging - who she's trying to bargain with entirely unclear. I can do this. I've been working - we've been working. It had to be for something. “F-fuck,” she spits, like the anger might save her. If this is the thing that ruins everything than they'll really— the twist is so sharp, so knifelike. She -aahh- yelps softly. Losing. “–It's not fair.”

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There he is. The man he's trying to have this reprimand-turned-dialogue with. Tim's words draw a scoff from Richie, despite the truth in them. Cocksure little shite.

Well alright then. If the crude phrasing is meant to make Richie flinch, he doesn't. Doesn't turn up his nose, or leer. Just a blink and a faint huff. It might be well-smothered amusement, but it could just as easily be something negative and it'd be anyone's guess. "Take it however you like, but I expect you to decide if you are taking orders or not."

He'll leave it there, then. Take stock of the rest of the team and start in on his own report. Take his own lecture, no doubt. Richie turns to go- just a quickly makes a quarter turn back after a measly two steps. "If you trust I'm not trying to get us killed, maybe trust that if I tell you to move, I am thinking of the safety of the team. Get your report in to me by 1300 tomorrow."

And that is where he intends to leave it for the time being.

"None of them as good as me and you know it." He breaks character then, the blank eyed obedience replaced by assured confidence. And the need to not be sent away, removed from the only environment where he hasn't felt alone in his life. "How's that for smoke? I'm the best you're going to get and we both know it." It's not even arrogance, there's no smirk on his face or condescension in his voice as he speaks to Richie, more emotion in those words than in anything else he's said so far.

Tim stands up straighter, hands behind his back in the perfect soldier's stance that was beaten into him early on at boot camp. It's a good stance, hides the way his nails dig into the skin of the wrist he grips. "I trust that you aren't trying to get us killed, and that you aren't asking me to kill innocent people." That's more than he can say for almost any other commanding officer he's had. But he knows that wasn't saying he trusts Richie. That's a different ask altogether.

"If you want me to roll over and take it like a good boy then yeah, you probably should find someone else to bark orders at." He feels steadier on his feet when he makes that joke, a shield he can build up between them. "But if you want the best shot around, then keep me. But I guess in the end that shit is up to you."