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Tycho Darsin

Some nights I wish that this all would end, because I could use some friends for a change.

0 · 759 views · located in The Bluff

a character in “The Multiverse”, as played by NotAFlyingToy

Description

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fun. wrote:Some nights, I stay up cashing in my bad luck
Some nights, I call it a draw
Some nights, I wish that my lips could build a castle
Some nights, I wish they'd just fall off.

But I still wake up.
I still see your ghost.
Oh, Lord. I'm not sure what I stand for.


You know, you just can't find a story like Tycho's. He was once an indentured servant to a powerful lord, taken in and punished because of his sticky fingers and fist-clenchingly frustrating attitude towards the general public. He was flippant, hyperactive, and boy did he love the ladies.

That all changed one day when he was sitting in the bar, minding his own beeswax, when he was suddenly and brutally killed in a bar fight that got completely out of hand. In the ensuing melee, he had his skull caved in and went to the underworld.
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Now, he's back.

To make matters worse, he was thrown into a whirlwind of activity, involving swords and spirits and a great evil - he hasn't understood a lot of it. But when thrust into the spotlight, he's discovered that he shrivels and whithers, not able to handle the position he's in. Thrown on top of that his sudden interest in talking to himself - heatedly and animatedly - and the slow realization that maybe the life he's living isn't quite his own. Maybe he's someone else entirely. Maybe his death had shaken who he is more than he could've ever imagined.

Only one real thing to do, he supposes; hit the bottle harder.

fun. wrote:This is it, boys, this is war - what are we waiting for?
Why don't we break the rules already?
I was never one to believe the hype - save that for the black and white
I try twice as hard and I'm half as liked, but here they come again to jack my style.

So begins...

Tycho Darsin's Story

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The wind howled outside as Tycho walked towards the bar, his head bent at the forcefulness of it, tousling his medium length black hair. He loved the wind, loved the way it made his long coat fan out behind him, fluttering in the heavy gusts. It was almost a shame to open the heavy oak doors of Gambit's bar, but his thirst and longing for something to take his mind of the heaviness in his heart overpowered his desire to stand in the breeze.

He took a seat at the bar, barely acknowledging the slim boy drinking the tall red glass. "Scotch, straight up." He rasped at the bartender, one bare hand reaching up to graze the scar where a swordpoint had pierced his throat. His eyes moved to the youngster, craning his neck with mild curiosity to see what he was holding. "Barkeep, you lettin' midgets in here, now?" He said, his eyes still trained on the boy.

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Tycho leaned back, his eyebrows raised. "Aye, that I am." He took a sip from his drink, smiling behind the rim of the glass. "But I'd watch yer tone with the patrons of this bar, lad. Some migh' not be so quick te agree." He took another gulp of the scotch, letting his eyes rim with the bite of the drink. "What do you got there? Homework?"

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At the mention of the boy's private tutor, Tycho let out an uncharacteristic snort. When the boy stated that he was in a play so indignantly, Tycho laughed out loud, a booming guffaw that dislodged a crow, sitting high in the rafters. He wiped an errant splash of scotch from his stubble, meeting the boy's eyes dead on. "Private teaching! You're a keener, then, eh? Tell me, wha's a Keener doin' in a place like this? Thinkin it'd be a good place ta learn yer lines?"

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Tycho's face really darkened at the sudden threat. "Now, let's not go aroun' pointin' things that migh' get us hurt, boy." He looked down at the scalpel, wondering at how quickly the boy had pulled the makeshift weapon. He had a knife on him, of course, but hadn't drawn it in several years, not since his days filching things from garbage cans and running from the police. "I'm sorry if I got ya worked up, but I am curious. Why choose this place?"

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Tycho nodded, noticing that the young man still hadn't put the scalpel away, and putting his hand closer to his belt in case the kid tried anything. "So that is blood. You're a vamp. Or you have... odd tastes in drinks." He drank the rest of the scotch and waved for another. "Knew a man once who could drink half his weight in cow blood, 'cause he claimed it helped heal colds. They say that he barfed it all up, in tha end." Pointless conversation. But it beat being lonely. "So, this play you're in. What's it about?"

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"Peter Pan..." Tycho nursed his drink and weighed the boy's words. "Hm, I think I've heard of that one. Takes place in some place called 'Netherlands', isn't it? Some Dutch play?" He put the drink down on the counter, rolling it to watch the moisture move back and forth. "Is a Lost Boy a big part?"

The setting changes from gambits-bar to The Monastery

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In truth, he didn't know why he was here. But his bootsteps continued up the staircase to the rubble, the ruined building framed by the twilight of the sky. His feet, always weary, ever tired, led the slump of his shoulders and the weight on his back. Over his shoulder sat a sack, made of linen, heavy and dirty, stained and soiled by the adventures he's been on and the places it's been. His breath came uneven and scraggly, closer to a gasp than a measured number as he finally shouldered the door open, the short climb taking its toll on his nearly dead body.

He was supposed to be alone, though, and when he noticed the other man standing in the monastery he immediately tensed, his thoughts too dull and his blade far duller when it came to confrontation. Still, the aluminium T-ball bat he 'loaned' from a house down the street was in his grip, released from his sleeve. He dropped the sack, tensing, staring at the other figure. Not speaking, shoulders set, hand white-knuckled.

He wouldn't speak first.

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Tycho didn't breathe, allowed himself to be still, inhaling through his nose and catching a whiff of his own, disgusting odor. The bat slid lower in his grip. He had known men to smile at him, before. When a man smiled at Tycho, he couldn't be trusted. It was a fact of life. Two men had smiled at Tycho; one had stolen his home, another had murdered him in cold blood.

He took three steps into the monastery, circling the other weird, smiley-man. The bat swung once, expertly in his tight grip. His eyes were still in shadow, but were locked on his target. He did not look up. He did not fall for the other man's trickery. He was locked on target until he could discern the other's motives.

There's nobody above you, Tycho. The noises were your imagination. The man is trying to trick you.

The setting changes from the-monastery to Gambit's Bar

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Like smoke on the water, Tycho appeared, slinking in the bar with his duffel bag cradled over one shoulder and a scowl set firmly on his face. He was in a good and ready rage, looking high and low for a fight. A few events throughout the past few days had got him in a deep seated, seething, salt-in-the-wound type of anger that can only really be solved by the ever-so-satisfying feeling of his knuckles pounding against someone's jaw. Split knuckles, split lips, maybe after drinks to wash down.

He was all steady muscle and twitchy limbs as he side-stepped the murderer, glancing quickly at the other man's face as he did so. It was always paying to have a few extra chips at the table, and knowing a killer's description was something that had come in handy before.

He slunk towards the bar, glowering at the barman. "Bottle of scotch." He glowered.

The setting changes from gambits-bar to Wing City

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Tycho set his jaw, looking straight forwards. Two choices, he thought, as both man and woman adressed him at the same time. Oh, the joys of being picked on.

Option one, he reversed his grip on this mostly full bottle of scotch, and broke it over the punk's head. And then he continued drinking gaily, drowning himself in liquor before the police inevitably arrived to drag his sorry ass to jail. Hey, maybe he could make a drunken advance on the hottie behind the asshole, too!

Option two, he take this all in stride, keep drinking, maybe take his bottle to go. Spend the night in a ditch somewhere.

Ditch, or cell? That was the question.

He turned towards Red, leaning around Ian to do so. "Maybe later," he growled. And, with a flip of his wrist, he was gripping the bottle like a club, scotch splashing down his arm in a river of amber. And he was swinging at the jackass' face with said bottle.

Cell it was.

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Tycho had leapt up onto the bar when he saw the success of the strike he had landed on Ian, and was suddenly forced to throw himself on his side, flat on the bar, as the table went whizzing by his ear. This resulted in a dull crack on the dark wood, one that sent pain shooting up his head and into his ear.

He rolled off the bar, landing behind it with only a minor slip and a wobbily stance. He pushed the bartender out of the way and on to the floor, grabbing up bottles of rum, vodka... glass in general.

Without warning, he started using his new projectiles on his adversaries, throwing a bottle of Tequila at Red, to start it off.

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He rewarded her 'witty' one liner with another bottle of rum hurled in her direction, with a little more force. Just to show how much he appreciated the effort.

He then gathered up two bottles; one in each fist - a square bottle of vodka, nice and long, and a shorter beer bottle that he held in his right hand for a projectile. With little to no grace, he attempted to vault over the bar.

With predictable results, he wound up face planting on the other side of it, sliding comically on his belly. Trying to stand leant him the appearance of a flopping fish out of water.

The setting changes from wing-city to Gambit's Bar

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Misery often came coupled with company, in his experiences. He always tasted the depression and anxiety in a place such as the bar, where people either came to drink their nights and days away or relive those that had been lost in another bar, another life. This day, however, he wasn't having any part of the latter.

He walked into the bar with the stiff gait of a man under assault, as if marching to his own demise. He ignored the chipper atmosphere, and the quiet was something he disliked - no, loathed in a funk such as this. Plopping himself down at the bar, he ordered a shot of whiskey, straight up, surveying the bar itself with one of his damn near patented scowls.

In the corner, there sat a woman, seeming slightly timid in the empty wooden room. He raised his shot to her, deciding she was attractive enough to try for a warm bed to stay in and a warm body to accompany it.

Hell, if it didn't work, at least he'd get slapped. Which was better than nothing.

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It was enough, however, to warrant short legs swung over a barstool, bottle of whiskey now firmly clenched in his left hand, blackened by soot and pulsing slightly because of his... condition. He swayed towards her, pouring himself another shot with a surprising display of dexterity. With an unceremonious slump, he sat down in a chair facing her, appraising her slowly.

He liked the foresty type far more than the gowned babes, he decided. With his head cocked, he leered at her, the notes of the singer floating through his consciousness.

"Well? Ain't ya gonna introduce yourself?" He blurted at her, taking the second shot as quickly as possible, as soon as the words were bitten out.

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He lurched to his feet, following her. "Have I offended ya?" He asked, over the caroler's strumming and crooning. "By my mere presence? Aah, that's quite a shame, love." His own voice was roughened and chopped, gravel deep in his throat. As he trailed in her wake, his hand holding the bottle tapped the glass against his thigh, to the beat the caroler set out.

"A high-born lass like yourself has a few prettier men to look at, huh? And yet yer at a bar, on Christmas' eve, just as alone as me." He spread his hands, the whiskey sloshing noisily in the bottle. "I do 'pologize, highness. For whatever you think it is I done."

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Tycho Darsin downed another shot of his whiskey, still staring at the woman at her biting comment. "What, askin' if you were gon' introduce yourself? Shoul' I start? Fine, then. I'm Tycho. Folks call me Drunky McBoozer around these parts, if they're feelin' nice. And you!" He roared at the caroler, starting towards him, the whiskey curdling in his stomach.

"You play nice." He grumbled, standing in front of the caroler. "But you play loudly. Don' you know any fightin' christmas songs?"

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Tycho tapped his hands against his, nodding at Nova politely - well, as polite as he could muster, before stomping a booted foot aggressively. "That's the ticket, lad, get the blood pumpin', don't it? Who said that Christmas has ta' be a coward's holiday? What's wron' with a good ole' bump-an' grind, friendly lickle agressive dance on the day we all fall over with givin'?"

He waved his arms, beginning to hop about in a crazy dance in front of the caroler. "Lookit' y'all! Sittin' on yer stools. Get on up, it's fuckin' christmas!" He reached for Nova's arm, intending to pull her from her seat to join his haphazard dance.

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At the sudden threat, Tycho laughed at the girl, releasing her and stepping back. "Awe, darlin', you need to lighten up. I ain't doin' nothin but tryna' get a lickle spirit in this place, sans the killin'. But if ya want ta be all... uptight... about..." his words trailed off as his eyes rested upon the girl who just popped in.

He immediately accosted her, bounding to her side in a flash of dexterity and agility, blackened hand grabbing for her sleeve. "M'dear!" He hollared, probably all too loudly. "Yer not afraid of a lickle dance, are ye? This fine gentlemen," He said, waving towards Leo, "has provided the music, Gambit, whoever the feck he is provides the booze, and yeh've just provided the lovely body."

"What say ye?" He gave her a lopsided grin, his attempt at charm. He would not strike out twice tonight. "THE REST OF YOU; Are ye in or out!?"

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"What are we celebratin'? My dear, my dear," his fingers found their way back to her sleeve, tugging on it again, "it's Christmas! A day where we can all sit down and discuss our past mistakes and give things without thinking of recourse!" He suddenly seemed to notice what she had said. "Aha! I see now. customers, good show, good show. I have a deal for you then, m'dear. I'll share you this bottle of whiskey," he held it up to her gaze, "and you celebrate the spirit a little with me."

He waggled his eyebrows - or attempted to. The straight shots were catching up, and it turned into a slow wave, with one of his eyes twitching.

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"Fantastic, let me just - OI! Kiddo!" He called, towards the youngster with the guitar. "Can you play some Silent Night, or Oh Holy Night, or somethin' with night in it? Let's... calm it the fuck down 'nhere." He paused, staring at the carnage. "Come ta think o' it, I suppose we should go somewhere else ta sip the whiskey, eh?"

He handed Bug the bottle. "And don' worry, love. I ain' down for no cloth-shedding neither. Cold as balls out here." He briefly wondered why the two of them would be taking their clothes off at all. With a backwards glance at the combatants, he pushed her gently towards the door to the staircase of Gambit's.

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Character Portrait: Tycho Darsin Character Portrait: Ayasha Ziedins Character Portrait: Marlene Angel Character Portrait: Terran Marine Command

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Tycho let out a booming laugh, taking a swig from the liquid as he waltzed towards the staircase, expecting Bug to follow. "I love Christmas, you know? He slurred to nobody in particular. "I love that it's.. it's Christmas. It's a time when people give ya shit, and expect you to give it back. Ya know?"

He turned towards the newcomer, and the chaos in the bar, especially to Ayasha, who was just behind him in cover. "You all have a merry holiday, now!" He called, walking backwards and nearly stumbling as he did so. "Hope you get less sticks up yer ass. Go Terra." With this last jibe, he ascended the staircase, bottle still swirling madly.

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Character Portrait: Tycho Darsin Character Portrait: Ayasha Ziedins Character Portrait: Marlene Angel Character Portrait: Terran Marine Command

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#, as written by Ylanne
"You're forgetting one thing, Marlene," shouted Ayasha to be heard as she staggered to her feet, wand still in hand as she backed toward the rear exit of the bar, keeping her back to the walls. "Desertion's a military crime, and I was never a soldier." At the woman's sudden attack on the Terran Marines and Tycho's offhand remark, Ayasha seized her opportunity and moved rapidly toward the rear exit. If only she could get out, get away, maybe Marlene wouldn't corner her. The sudden flare of pain in her arm, however, nearly brought the witch to her knees as she moved, realizing that she needed immediate medical attention -- technological, magical, or otherwise. "Damn it." As the speakers in Gambit's played quiet recordings of cliched Christmas music, her eyes grew moist -- perhaps from the pain of her injury. "God damn it," she hissed, focusing her energies in an attempt to produce healing magic.

The setting changes from gambits-bar to Gambit's Hotel, 2nd Floor

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At the last clomp of his boot on the wooden steps, he turned and slid down the wall, the bottle of whiskey clinking softly against the floorboards as he settled, his legs crossed and head lolling slightly against the wall.

"Shoulda brought glasses. Heh." He murmered, taking another swig as he gestured haphazardly for her to take a seat. He made a face upon swallowing as the burn of the amber slid down his throat in a silky caress. It made his cares go away slightly. "I ken tell, just by lookin' at ya, that you got a story." He slurred, head all the way back against the wall. "I fink I'd quite like ta hear it, if'n ya don' mind givin' the gift of shared misery this Christmas."

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His feet touched hers as he shifted his longer legs, moving his body so that their legs were beside each other. With an outstretched hand, he grabbed the bottle back, nodding his thanks that she didn't touch her mouth to the bottle. Had to be careful with these types. "Just 'nother girl." He muttered, taking another swig of the liquid, repeating the face he made when he drank straight, hard liquor. "Ah, I doub' tha' very much."

Still, he played her game. "Problem with tales is, most people don' believe them. 'Specially mine. It's not a happy one, ta be sure." He whispered the last part, head hung as flashes of red struck his eyes, moving through them quickly. He waited the episodic attack out. "Not a happy one at all."

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Tycho Darsin shrugged. "'Spose so. Only happy thing I can really think of is my mom. She always had the nicest things, encouragement, and the like. Taught me how to lift wallets real well. Speaking of," he said softly, shifting away from the slumped kid, not wanting to touch him for fear of him having some form of illness, or equally as devastating. "I wond'r if he has... hm." His fingers twitched slightly, before calming themselves.

He watched her as she drank more from the bottle. "'Spose I jus' wanted company, is all. We don' even half ta talk, really. I jus' don' like drinking alone." He reached for it, snagging it's bottom and upturning it to his lips. When he finished, he slid it back, the sound of the glass scraping across the floorboards strangely pleasant to his ears. With a sigh, he looked at the youth, prone beside him. "Reckon we shoul' help him?"