Static Pulse
Zonerunner, nomad, Drac impersonator, scavenger, part-time voice of reason.
[Info] [History] [Images]
Headcanons:
Zone Senses
Zone Sickness
Static is an OC residing in the Danger Days/Killjoys fandom. Most of his game-play will be there, but OCs/Canons/misc. are welcome to interact. Anyone is welcome!
Journal contains adult themes - both mun and character are of age.
Headcanons used for Static that are mine can be used elsewhere - just let me know what you do with them!
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Getting nearly blasted by an idiot having a damn fit over how anyone pale = Drac is not the best way to start your morning.
I get that's sort of what I do, but I think most of the natives know not to shoot if I'm coming back from Battery.
These new kids....are they coming off some worse pills than we used to get? Starting to wonder if they're not getting dosed to the point of insane and then dumped out here on purpose because they're more trigger-happy聽 than usual.
Or maybe I just need a tan to survive anymore.
Hell.
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It had gotten downright ugly the last few days out in the grit and sand; not that it was ever a picnic to be honest but it was the silence that was killing him. Static was not one for peaceful reflection - he needed noise.
Which was in short supply with only rocks and sun-bleached weeds for neighbors; even the radio waves had been quiet and that had made his skin itch in frustration.
The only solution, foolish as it might have been, was a venture into the city in search of life. Trouble was likely in no short supply but he was bound to lose his mind for lack of conversation; necessity won out and sent him trekking to the too-clean streets and ivory towers.
Even if it was a subtle weave in and out of the empty sidewalks, following the hum of lights and the metallic growl of machinery; a far cry less than what he was really after but the problem with wanting conversation was of course finding someone to listen to talk that didn't want to put a laser blast between his eyes.聽
There had to be someone out that evening, and frankly he was feeling less than picky and a bit needlessly willing to risk being spotted if it meant hearing a voice.
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Some days were easier than others.
Then some....he spent limping back to Cya's junkyard-side home feeling as if he'd had the full sum of a city tower dropped on him. The sort of tired feeling that ate into strained muscles and torn skin with vicious little barbs; sharp as a hypodermic needle without any of the numbing effects.
The saving grace was that the yard was a good midpoint between the city and his own hideaway, and Cya was usually lurking with sympathy and bandages for those bad days.
"Not such a good look for you," his teal-haired friend remarked when Static came dragging in decorated with caked sand and a few new stray laser-burned spots in his already worn clothes. There was a mutter in reply, too parched for water and choked with sand to muster up a reasonable retort.
Shortly after, a canteen in hand and most of his thin form sprawled in a chair in the back of the little shack the resident tech-spaz called home most of the year; watching listlessly while said figure darted amid the shelves to gather supplies, Static savored the chance to catch his shaky breath.
He didn't even try to keep up with Cya's motions with more than a lifted brow; while his friend had energy to spare he was planning to devote his own to recovery; in a few days time he was heading back to the routes so the longer to nurse those burns and sore spots the easier the trek.
"Food," Cya chirped in passing and somehow there was suddenly in Static's lap something in a can that he freed the spoon from and ate without awareness of taste or sense of want; just need for energy.
There were channels to check and a haul of new bits of tech odds and ends to sort out, food to count and check and plans to make; but he wasn't going to make it that far at that point.
Cya snatched the empty can when he dropped it as the lure of sleep urged his sunburned eyelids sluggishly down, metal inches from hitting the floor before it was rescued, and tossed it to a shelf; returning back to his quiet scurrying and tinkering with the new shiny pieces of this and that while silence filled the cluttered little building.
Never lasted long, the peace and quiet after the storm, but what really ever did anymore?
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I see enough bad dreams awake, I don't entertain them otherwise anymore if I can avoid it. Didn't get back around as soon as I thought I would. Back under the radar now though so if you're going to be around the outskirts near the old junkyards near the canyons? I'll be haunting around there a few days, supply run first but I'll be back around in plenty of time to check for new faces. I'll find you, if you give me a signal to search for. Stay breathing until then.
Signs of life? Stumbled over your signal last time I was hanging around a friend's little homestead.. Got back around finally, hope you're still among the breathing. What's your callsign 'runner? You radio? I watch the waves more than the net but whatever, a voice is a voice if it's talking or I'm reading it. You still alive out there in the big sands? Call back to Static if you are - starting to feel like a ghost in the middle of this nowhere.
//you can call me glitch. i鈥檓 still breathing for now, static. glad i鈥檓 not the only one. it鈥檚 getting kind of lonely out here. you haven鈥檛 seen a runner by the name of katostrophy kat, have you? she used to run with me until she went missing a few months back. i used to have a station but it鈥檚 ash and dust, now. i鈥檓 alive and fighting, though.聽
//glitch
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By my count about a month, give or take, but they could show back up sooner or later; haven't heard any bad on the channels lately so I'm holding out hope for a callback. Fingers crossed and all of that luck stigma whatever. Hope you track yours down; been hearing some of the closer zones are crawling with the ivory tower minions since the last raids so I'd keep my eyes open out there. I need the sound so a trade is in order if you're out for one; got a few good connections but more homesteaders than runners so food I can get easier than tech. Might even be able to scare up something fresh instead of canned - I'll look into it.
Just don't make me regret it and turn out to be unfriendly; I'm uneasy of the bad vibes these days. If we're going to cross paths I'd prefer it one on one for my own odds if that's square with you.
Signs of life? Stumbled over your signal last time I was hanging around a friend's little homestead.. Got back around finally, hope you're still among the breathing. What's your callsign 'runner? You radio? I watch the waves more than the net but whatever, a voice is a voice if it's talking or I'm reading it. You still alive out there in the big sands? Call back to Static if you are - starting to feel like a ghost in the middle of this nowhere.
//you can call me glitch. i鈥檓 still breathing for now, static. glad i鈥檓 not the only one. it鈥檚 getting kind of lonely out here. you haven鈥檛 seen a runner by the name of katostrophy kat, have you? she used to run with me until she went missing a few months back. i used to have a station but it鈥檚 ash and dust, now. i鈥檓 alive and fighting, though.聽
//glitch
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Can鈥檛 say I have, but I don鈥檛 seen much of life out where I roam. Can keep an ear out for the name but you know how fast they disappear in the sands lately. Been missing a few myself the past few months, it鈥檚 getting ugly out there in some of the outskirts. Nice to see another voice though, hang tight out there. Wouldn鈥檛 normally ask but I鈥檓 out and on the move more than usual the last few days; you holed up or wandering? Won鈥檛 ask where you鈥檙e staying but if you鈥檙e running the routes I wouldn鈥檛 mind swapping stories, maybe supplies if you鈥檙e carrying batteries; I鈥檝e got food and info in exchange.
Signs of life? Stumbled over your signal last time I was hanging around a friend's little homestead.. Got back around finally, hope you're still among the breathing. What's your callsign 'runner? You radio? I watch the waves more than the net but whatever, a voice is a voice if it's talking or I'm reading it. You still alive out there in the big sands? Call back to Static if you are - starting to feel like a ghost in the middle of this nowhere.
//you can call me glitch. i鈥檓 still breathing for now, static. glad i鈥檓 not the only one. it鈥檚 getting kind of lonely out here. you haven鈥檛 seen a runner by the name of katostrophy kat, have you? she used to run with me until she went missing a few months back. i used to have a station but it鈥檚 ash and dust, now. i鈥檓 alive and fighting, though.聽
//glitch
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"Hell," Static spat the word into the sands and gave the shifty stuff a kick for good measure; it was not a good day and he was feeling it more than he wanted to. The sun was cutting a hot streak across the back of his neck and he had no doubt there would be sore spots there later; the big ball of light was a bitter old girl without any sense of humor after all.
But there was little he could do about it, the exhausting effort of hauling junk out of the cargo section of the truck made it a necessity to abandon his long jacket and suffer the work in a t-shirt or risk heat-stroke; and being on his own out there meant if he dropped he was likely to end up staying down.
But Static had made up his mind; he was going to take a trip back towards the ivory towers to see what the Zones between there and his own home were like now; he was hurting too badly for supplies to stay holed up for another few weeks.
First though he intended to lock everything down as much as he could; hopefully he'd have something left when he returned that the scavengers hadn't stolen away once he was set for a couple of months.
He sighed and shoved everything portable into his bag and leaned on the busted doorway to force it shut with a heavy, satisfying clang of metal, leaning back against it to catch his breath before the sand threatened to swirl up and choke him.
There were reasons he kept to his home most of the time; the most resounding of them being that getting everything in order before he left was an ordeal. But when the alternative was an empty stomach or dead batteries it was a necessary evil.
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Something restless had worked its' way into his bones; the way the dusty sands worked tiny furrows in his jacket and little stinging trails in the sparse bits of exposed skin; restlessness.
It could have been the long walk between zones, once more a reminder of the fact that he needed to learn to steal a car when he happened across one again, or perhaps it was the improbability of being bored in such a desperate world that left him feeling strange.
But the fact was he had grown tired of the subtle safety of his home in the sands, compared to many areas it did go weeks or even longer without a hint of life other than himself around; what had felt like a true blessing had become dragging and driven him out further and further from safety.
Maybe it was time to get out and hunt for signs of life, or rather.....send out a call for it; just to stay on the cautious side.
Once his worn out little two-way was humming with the life-spark of radio waves he made himself comfortable on the hood of the truck and toyed with the receiver before he cleared his voice and lifted the microphone to his chapped lips.
"Anybody out there tonight? Or am I just talking to hear my own voice?"
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He was tired of the mailbox, of writing letters; he was sick of it being such a necessity. More than anything he was weary of the fact that the world still had desperate need of that symbol.
And anymore it was a risk since the area was such a hot spot for the ever-spreading Drac infestation.
But it wasn't a task to be taken lightly; forgetting people was one of the few things his complicated personal code would not allow. The justification was simple; he wouldn't have wanted to be forgotten so it was better to hang on too tightly than it was to let the memories go too soon.
He wasn't so sure, however, that anyone would be writing letters to him when the time came, maybe whatever was left of him when the rest was dust would just have to navigate to the next phase without the guiding words scrawled in ink and stuffed into a desert shrine.
His fingers lingered, pale against the colorfully painted metal, nails hooked under the slot and holding it there, hesitating.
Was it sacrilege to write to people who may not have been ghosts?
He didn't know, those answers didn't come in the 'How to Survive the Zones' guidebook that didn't exist.
But it didn't matter, not really; he had plenty of people to mourn without casting his eyes towards the ivory towers of the city and wondering.....uncertain; thinking of the people that still cast shadows there.
He didn't even have a picture other than the ones buried in his mind; brother, mother, father.
His ghosts, the walking dead; the memories breathing the recycled air and living in false homes he couldn't free them from. They didn't want to be free, they only wanted to exist in the fog of his mind and the sterility of white walls.
The only solace was that they likely thought him dead, if they thought of him at all, and they were free of the questions that kept him company in the deepest hours of the night.
His mother would never need to catch her breath and hold it, whisper-thin and frail, at the thought of her eldest ducking out of the cutting path from a laser. His father would not cast his eyes downward with a shake of his head in equal parts shame of him and knowing that he had also failed his son. And his brother, young and filled with vivid hope, would not be waiting with eyes turned to the outskirts of the city under the expectation of his return some day when the world was less cruel.
He was lost to them because the pills made him a ghost in their eyes as much as the tense freedom of the zones transformed them into the haunting memories burned into his scattered soul.
And now a metal box with rusty hinges was the keeper of tortures spirits and bleeding memories; it was a guide to everyone with no other faith left under the burning sun.
The mailbox stood as a filthy, wrecked sacred place for lost souls to weep and the living to only linger long enough to spare a moment to memory before they fled.
He was no different.
Only staying long enough to pay respects, he melted back into the sandy paths towards what was home now, with ivory towers at his back and ghosts still on his mind.
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The hum under his breath was a song, half forgotten so he made up the words in his head along the way while he ducked and dodged his way through the streetlight shadows and emptiness surrounded by white towering buildings.
Something about innocence and life being easier in firefly days - the sort of days only a shred of memories in a place where fireflies had long since faded out with simple things like grass and fresh air.
But the melody kept him company while he navigated the city; sometimes it was a better friend than other people could be.
It was too late for the city to be busy, curfews saw to it that only the scurry of BL/ind's loyal little minions marked the night as they went about doing the work their hive mind demanded. He slipped in and out of their radar like a shadow; keeping an ear out for the lumbering moan of their trucks or the scrape of boots on the sidewalk.
He's stayed too late and knew it; the afternoon adventure into the city had drug on into night and left him slinking his way back to the limits.
Static would have killed right then to have not been alone as he walked; the problem with taking on any endeavor in the city alone was that if it went bad there was nobody to there to mourn you or to celebrate a narrow escape.
But blending was what he did best, thankfully, that and fitting his collection of sharp-angled joints into odd hiding spots; still....the anxiety was always in the back of his mind.
He wished he had the boldness for the bright colors his brothers in arms sported but Static was too afraid that the sort of jobs he did, the ones that kept him in the midst of the city, would mark him as an easy target more than the black and white he wrapped himself up in like a cocoon.
There was a startling moment, a flash of motion that forced him to scramble into a break between buildings, to smash his back against a wall and draw a sharp breath as people passed his safe-haven.
Stock-still, his eyes swung to the side when he heard an intake of breath that wasn't his own, brow furrowed and he only chanced a sideways glance after the shadows had grown long and moved on past.
Concern turned to humor that he hid away, wide eyes the color of dirty coffee stared back at him at a lower height than his own; the kid looked several years younger than himself and decades more startled.
He had no way of knowing why the stiff, tense version of a teenager was out past curfew; maybe nothing more than a bold thought followed. And he never would he supposed; the danger had for the moment passed and the stranger was already glancing upward towards the apartment windows of the building towering above them; one frame hanging open like a yawning mouth.
Lifting a single finger to his lips in a silent gesture he bit back an amused sound and pushed away from the wall; no doubt in his mind the kid would be back through that window before he had made it ten steps down the street himself.
He picked the song back up once he darted back out into the street and continued on his way, the tune a bit more cheerful than it had been moments before and the street lamps flickering like those long-forgotten fireflies.
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The radio was misbehaving again; spewing random moments of broken, garbled sound now and then amid the otherwise pleasant lull of humming channels. But it was an old friend, wired together from spare parts from the CBC he'd scavenged from the truck and powered by batteries and vague hope that it wouldn't give up the ghost and go silent yet.
He mashed buttons with thin fingers and prodded at the microphone; the channels had been nearly silent all evening and it felt as though the world had faded away somewhere out there beyond the horizon.
"Is there life out there, or am I just talking to ghosts?" Static murmured; rubbing his thumb over a crack in the microphone, the heels of sneakers propped on the frame of the open window.
A yawn spilled over his lips and his eyelids fluttered lower; he knew people existed because he saw them now and again when he ventured to the camps and the outskirts of the city; but they existed within two scopes. One of them was the people who were useful to him for the things they had to trade and the other was the basic desire to feel human by being in the presence of others; it was impossible to weigh which of the idea was more important to survival though.
But at night it was mostly just the voices he needed; something to keep him company and feel like family as their tones and words gave him a lullaby to usher into sleep with.
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Not every day was one of dire exhaustion and melting sunlight, as much as the men in ivory towers and masks with fangs would have the world believe otherwise; there was the occasional morning that made the sky glow.
True, it was likely because the lingering radiation from a late evening rain storm had yet to soak into the ground and the people scurrying around on it, but that hardly took much away from the skies above painted more vividly than a can of spray paint could splash across a BL/ind wall.
Reds, violets, golds and orange in a hazy mix of tones that dripped into the tawny color of the sands below like an impressionistic painting.
Somewhere out there a more poetic soul than himself was no doubt waxing words to capture the essence of colors and the warmth they offered.
But for Static the pleasure came in far less complicated ways; he perched atop the highest point he could climb to on his home and sat there with legs dangling over the side and head tilted upward to trace where colors intersected and blurred together.
With only the wind whispering some tiny secret now and then and the light still weak enough to feel good on his skin it was a rare, good sort of morning worth just a few moments of idle indulgence.
The Zones were beautiful, now and then, if they were given the chance to be.
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"What's fun about walking from Zone 2 to 3? Basically nothing.
Unless you have some sort of twisted fetish for the sun melting the skin off your bones; then it's just the shiniest thing ever.
If Cya can't fix the damn radio when I get there I may just cry, pathetically, and I'm man enough to admit it."
The stream of muttered words, if he was alone he usually was talking to himself, kept him company while his sneakers drug furrows in the sands along the side for the graying roadway; more of a risk to walk there but walking itself was a risk.
And unlike every other Zonerunner, or at least it seemed to be the case, he had no talent in taking a piece of junk car and making it into something that would actually lumber down the road.
So a nice little stroll through the sands it was; he'd been around home for weeks as it was and needed supplies, neede to get out and roam, before he became a total hermit. And most of all he needed his radio fixed, before the silence drove him insane.
It was worth the risk.
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And he had never thought much about it; in the Zones the nature of the land was too harsh for even wild creatures to survive on instinct alone so the impossibility of a domestic one all alone in the sands was only an easy meal for vultures.
Or very hungry and desperate Killjoys; companionship didn't always outweigh an empty stomach.
But that image, so simple and so pleasant, buried in a time period he could only imagine; his fingers lingered on the nearly rotten paper as if he could feel soft fur if he pressed hard enough.
Where to even find one, a real and breathing version of an idea of four legs and eyes always so happy to see a person, he would have given everything he owned short of his radio to know.
To hear a bark, really hear one and know the sound, the longing ate away his peace and left him feeling weak with want. Loyalty like he assumed was the truth, joy wrapped up in fur; it was another little hopeful dream waiting to keep the darkness behind his eyelids company while he slept.
By the time the clouds had begun to darken and he was forced to retreat into the cabin of the truck, pulling his hammock around him like a blanket while the hiss of toxic rain battered the glass and metal around him the idea had fallen into the ever-growing list of 'maybe one day' wistful notions. There it joined meeting the man behind the voice on radio channel 109, seeing the ocean spread out before him instead of the sea of sand, and of course the shared 'make the world a better place' one that would make all the other fall into place.
He slid the magazine under the seat, but not before he had carefully torn out the page and then the image of the dog itself to fold and tuck into the pocket of his jacket; because 'maybe someday' had to come around sooner or later but until it did at least he had a picture to keep him company.
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It had never occurred to Static that there was something all that off about himself, he kept the opinion that he left most of the world alone and it left him alone in an uneasy truce....that way things were moderately okay.
The first time he began to doubt it though was his third encounter with a Drac in the zones.
The first two he had slunk away from before they had taken notice; crept behind a building the first time because he was still weak from fleeing the city, he darted into an empty car and gunned the screaming motor the second time he crossed paths with one of the empty-eyed monsters weeks later when he was still too afraid of to consider them only the men in white.
The third time he had fought.
The intruder was too close to his home, too curious about his safe-haven; he had drawn his newly painted gun and perched atop the cabin of the overturned truck to watch the ivory-clad form prod at his possessions left scattered in the sands.
It wasn't the electric hum of the gun or the slice of the energy through the air that made his blood suddenly heat; it was the sizzle of the soft, wet parts where the beam met flesh and the dull thud of the body hitting the sand that burrowed into his mind.
A wave of satisfaction that nearly made his mouth water; a little murmur in the back of his mind - "They deserved it".
聽 After that Static wasn't afraid to pull the trigger anymore, he was more wary of what would happen if he did it too often.
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[OOC - Danger Days/Killjoys RP]
Dropping a note to the Tumblr masses. Account is new but character has been around a while, starting his story over, so to speak.
Some alternative headcanon concepts if anyone is up for adding a little new flavor to the Dangerverse. At the moment I'm only using them in the frame of writing for Static, but I'm totally up for adding them into a game/starting a new one up if anyone is up for it.
Check this journal for the details if you're up for it.
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The radio was his best friend.
The old, dusty and rusty box of half-fried wires and single cracked speaker all held together with duct-tape and affectionate need; most days he pretended it was a person and he narrated his life to it.
He could have just as easily flipped a switch to open the channels, picked up the microphone that popped and hissed when the power flowed through the bent wires he had carefully woven back together when he'd first snatched the item from a desk in an old building he happened across.
Could have searched the channels and sought out a real human voice on the other end, spoken to them, spent his nights daydreaming about whomever the voice belonged to.
But no.
Instead he listened most nights, to the conversations on the channels, to the whine and throb of music played by a man he admired somewhere far away that he would never meet.
The Doctor was a god in his eyes; because he was the one who turned the records and played the music that soothed his ravaged soul.
His worship was devout; he would lie on the seat of the old truck cabin with his eyes shut and let the sounds and the words paint worlds behind his sluggish eyelids.
Only then, once his lust for the enchanting notes had been satisfied, would he flip the switch and murmur for hours about the day, the past, the future he wasn't sure he would even have; the words bled across his lips in a watery tone until he surrendered to sleep under the comfort of his own voice reverberating in his ears.
That radio was his lifeline, his lifeblood in the gritty sands.
The one friend that couldn't fail him, so long as he kept the batteries strong.
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