TRP is a post-Great War AU RWBY RP set in Mistral City and Haven Academy with no canons, no rank claims, no maidens, and no god interference. We offer a progression system and site-wide events that change the setting based on player actions.
He brushed back the ashen brown hair that framed her forehead, making sure to avoid disturbing the stark white rabbit ears that protruded from the middle of her head. She seemed so peaceful like this. So happy. If it hadn’t been for the constant beeping of the machine that sat next to her bed, or the fact that she hadn’t been awake for almost a month now, he would’ve been glad that she finally got to rest like this. Gods knew she deserved it.
He scoffed to himself as he stood from the chair that sat next to the girl’s bed, pulling his black hoodie closer around him to ward off an invisible chill at the same time, ’...Not this. She’s done nothing wrong.’ He’d done everything in his power to make sure of that.
He threw a glance towards the door, and then another back towards the girl lying in the bed. His brow furrowed for another moment before he walked to the door and then out into the hallway. A quick scan of it showed little more than a few nurses milling about. Not a big surprise, the coma ward wasn’t very full in the first place. With a sigh, he approached a nearby vending machine and fished around in his pocket. After a few seconds, he pulled out a Lien card and moved to swipe in through the machine’s payment slot. With an obnoxious ’KER-CLUNK,’ a can of soda fell into the slot on the bottom. He retrieved it before walking over to the wall adjacent to the entrance of the waiting room. Leaning against the wall, he opened the can of soda and took a long sip, noticing that the television set in the waiting room was on as he did so.
After a moment of contemplation, he walked back over to the vending machine and purchased a bottle of water. Retrieving it, he made to walk into the waiting room where an elderly woman sat, staring off into the void as tears rolled down her eyes. There was a small photo sitting in her lap, where both she and a young boy sat on a bench together, laughing.
Without a word, he walked over to the woman, sat the still-chilled bottle of water in her lap and, before she could react, left the room and walked back over to the wall he’d been leaning on before. Assuming the same position, he stood there for the next few minutes, just drinking from the soda can in his hands as he watched the nurses do their jobs.
Post by Whitaker Pickett on Apr 14, 2020 18:35:38 GMT -5
"As fit as a fiddle, With a Broken Bow."
“…I wish I could tell you that there is any treatment that can change the course of your ‘affliction’, but we are both acutely aware that any medical institution in the world, even in Atlas, could only provide a symptomatic therapy. Asking for another second opinion would not provide you with a different answer, Mr. White. As we discussed, I could provide you with an… off the books supply of antipsychotics or antidepressants to-“
“I am certain.”
“Is there anyth-“
“There seems to be nothing else that you can do for me. Have a good day, Doctor Avorio.”
“…as you wish, Mr. White. Have a pleasant day.”
Whitaker Pickett worked seven days a week. Normally, five days were dedicated to his activities for the Asche syndicate. Your standard Monday to Friday. At these times he could be found either inside of the factory, or somewhere else to ensure that the operation kept running and kept improving. Production was never at a satisfactory level in his mind. Supply chains were never secure or effective enough. His workers never seemed to be able to meet expectation. Stagnation is the mind-killer.
During the weekend, Pickett engaged in what he would call ‘leisurely labour’. The same workers that he would push ever further could expect a knock at their door at the end of the week. The large and imposing figure of a man at least a head taller than them would stand on their doorstep with his ‘tools’ in hand. On Saturdays and Sundays, Pickett would come to their houses unannounced to do what needed to be done.
He mostly fixed faulty piping and leaking roofs.
Sometimes the lighting.
He once placed down an entire new floor in an apartment.
Most of his workers lived in the Ground District. They were in most cases unskilled labourers. A term that Pickett hated. Most young people that worked for him didn’t have a fancy piece of paper to show. They showed their efforts with the sweat they had on their brow, and the callouses on their hands. Pickett ensured that they would always be paid for their work, even if it needed to come out of his own salary, but he always showed his appreciation in a different way as well.
If the man even suspected that your housing accommodation wasn’t up to code, he would come unannounced to fix it when he was able. Sometimes he would do the work, something he would show you how to fix your house and teach you something valuable. He would be cordially all-throughout. Make a joke with the wife. Give a few stern but well-meant words to the kids. He would pet your dog.
A kindness, truly. Someone refused that kindness by closing their door in Pickett’s face once. Someone who hadn’t worked long for Pickett, and was a new hire. Someone who didn’t work for the Ache Syndicate the next week and nobody has really heard from him since. After that story was found out, at least nobody under Pickett’s employment had dared to deny the man entry. Who doesn’t want their roof to stop leaking?
So, when a man with such a work ethic takes a day off in the middle of the week, unannounced, for ‘personal reasons’, it is odd. Big Momma handled everything in the factory today, and Pickett was walking through a hallway of the hospital. Not towards the exit, or towards his job. He was just walking, thinking, considering his actions. A man who always had a plan seemed to be without one at this moment.
It would be far more likely that Charcoal would notice his bald superior walking rather aimlessly through the hallways than Pickett would notice him. Well, if someone could recognize him with these clothing. Whitaker was addressed strangely. He was wearing a suit. Grey with a blue tie and a hat. Nicely fitted around his body too, maybe tailor-made. Nobody ever saw Whitaker in a suit. He attended meetings with the higher-up in the organisation wearing denim. There is a rumour that the foreman attended the funeral of his father wearing denim.
The large figure would walk almost past Charcoal, even if he was spoken to earlier. Almost. Pickett would walk almost past Kodaal. Only at the moment that someone might suspect that he was on some kind of medication, did he stop. He turned his head towards the other person, seeming to recognize the member of their organisation. Pickett would stare at Charcoal for a moment before he asked with a considerate tone for the man: “How is she today?”
Pickett had never shown interest into Charcoal’s life before, and when he did, he did so only to remind him that the only way he could actually help his sister was doing his job and doing what he was told to do. Despite not being a direct subordinate of Pickett, the foreman responsible for production was never shy to make use of idle hands who decided to hang around the factory. None of that demeanour seemed to be now apparent on Whitaker. As if a marbled titan was suddenly a man, and it was plain to see.
2066 Words - Thread Total: 867 - The Most Human you will ever meet the guy
[attr="class","hearmenand2"] When Charcoal wasn’t wearing his tell-tale red scarf around his neck and covering his mouth or the stark black ball cap to cover his hair or the old red track jacket he’d gotten at a thrift store, he wasn’t Charcoal at all. He was Kodaal Hearth. Very few people knew the face of the man called Kodaal, and very few in Mistral knew that name at all. Whitaker, being one of the few that knew there was a connection between Kodaal's face and the lonely, comatose girl at the hospital, due to his position in the organization, was someone that Kodaal knew well. He’d kept tabs on the man. Not to the extent that one might’ve done with an enemy, but Charcoal needed to know anyone and everyone that might, for any reason, have known to go for Lylah to get at him. At least he'd kept his name out of it.
So, when Kodaal saw Whitaker aimlessly walking through the halls of the hospital like a man without a purpose, a man Kodaal knew Whitaker wasn’t, his eyebrows rose questioningly, if only by a centimeter or two. Adding to that, the older man was wearing a suit of all things. In all of the times he’d seen him, Kodaal didn’t think he’d ever seen Pickett in a suit. In fact, with the suit on, Whitaker looked like a different man entirely. Certainly not like a construction worker employed by a criminal syndicate, that was certain. A million thoughts ran through Kodaal’s head, none of them offering Whitaker any reason to be here.
Unless… he was here to speak with Charcoal.
Kodaal’s brow furrowed. Without anything to go off of, he could only wait until Whitaker was near him to find out.
As Whitaker passed him, Kodaal spoke up. “Sir,” he said calmly and quietly, his voice a smooth tenor not likely to be heard by anyone other than the pair. Even if the man wasn't Kodaal's boss directly, he still felt Whitaker deserved the respect of the title. When Pickett failed to respond, though, Kodaal’s eyes widened in both confusion and a little surprise. Still leaned against the wall next to the door to Lylah’s room, he watched as Whitaker continued walking until, finally he stopped just past him.
At Whitaker’s words, Kodaal’s crimson eyes widened in shock. The expression remained for a fraction of a moment, barely betraying his usual stoicism, before his normal, solemn expression returned. “She’s…” He paused for a moment, the image of his smiling sister flashing in his mind. He couldn’t help but to smile to himself at the thought. It dropped, though, as he continued, “Her vitals are steady. They’re actually pretty good, considering. But, that’s the thing,” he glanced at the door next to him, “She should’ve woken up by now. The coma she’s in was medically induced so she couldn’t wear herself out. But they stopped that two weeks ago, and she’s still asleep.” Kodaal sighed. Despite how much he hated to admit it, talking about the situation with someone else did help him calm down. The only outlet he’d had so far were the doctors that treated her and not much else. It wasn’t something he could casually bring up with Asche personnel. The only people that knew about her at Asche were those that needed to. He wouldn’t risk letting anyone else use the information against him. He knew what kind of people called syndicates their home, after all. After a long pause, he continued, “...She’s one of the strongest people I know, though. I’m confident that she’ll pull through.”
After another moment, Kodaal looked Whitaker up and down questioningly, his brow furrowed in curiosity. “...You here on business?”