This is the first thread (of hopefully many) in a hybrid-format RP made collaboratively between several writers. It's a story of young individuals with unique powers and talents in a large, corrupt, fictional city; sometimes working individually, maybe working together eventually, this is a shared world where solo adventures are made as Written Works, and crossover appearances written as RP Threads. If you haven't checked out the written works introducing these characters, here they are in chronological order before the start of this thread:
SEPTEMBER 3RD, 2021
Pi City, Wyoming
Up City District
Near the U-Pi English/Lit Campus
Sometimes, Pi City felt like two completely different worlds rolled up into one. On the one hand, there was the vibrant, thriving University of Wyoming campuses, booming businesses, tourist trapping shops and the like. On the other hand, though, ran Pi City's seedy underbelly, swarmed by mobs of criminals like locusts come in the summertime.
Tonight, Vassilios Vonda dipped his toes into both ends of the world. He could feel the cracked ribs and bruised flesh - fresh from only a couple hours earlier, maybe - healing in real time within his body, almost more painful than the injuries had been on their own.
He'd ended up at a house party — loud and bombastic, so much so the house felt like it was shaking from the force of the music and movement. Though the house was only two stories and a handful of rooms, it had an old west style of design to it, where those rooms were at least wide open with high-ceilings, leaving plenty of room to pack people in as sardines in a can.
A pair of "bouncers" (larger dudes who looked like they occasionally hit the gym) checked for college ID at the door, to keep the party to U Pi students alone.
The first room upon entering acted as the main bar area, with a long bar along the far wall manned by another couple students; they had kegs of beer, two bowls of jungle juice, several trays of jello shots, and a selection of liquor bottles - some cheap, some not - behind them. On the bar, a sign listing prices showed: Jungle Juice - free; Jello shots $1; Beer $2; Shot from Bottom Shelf $3; Shot from Top Shelf $5.
In the same room as the bar, the party-throwers had set up two, long tables and dozens of red cups for beer pong doubles matches. A chalkboard on the wall listed winning streak and who was next at either table, which seemed to be full for the near future.
To the left, a carpeted living room had been cleared out for the dance floor; a DJ spun from a turn table and coordinated his efforts on his Mac laptop, all set up just behind four, large subwoofers that blasted an odd mixture of house, EDM, rap and techno. A bulk of the party seemed to be congregated on the dance floor, and whenever people left in waves, other bodies replaced those leaving near simultaneously.
Further back of the dance floor and main bar, a locked bathroom (made private for the party-throwers and their close friends) and kitchen — the latter of which became the gathering space for the few, brave souls attempting to have a conversation on the first floor amid its noise. Others ran in and out, brandishing bottles of liquor, taking shots with strangers and making new friends, or drinking with old friends and eyeing anyone suspicious.
Upstairs became the main hub for bathroom breakers; the line wrapped from the end of the hall, down the other end and almost entirely down the stairs to the first floor. People in line chatted idly - some smoking pot, some cigarettes (nobody was quite sure if that was allowed but some people started and others never stopped them) - while they waited.
Three other rooms on the house's second floor became more social gathering spots: the room on the far left became home to a vociferous congregation of cocaine users. A few of them did it for the fun, hoping they'd acclimate better to the party environment. Others, well, it had started that way for them...the first time they tried it.
The middle room was similar to the coke room, though it had all the frazzled stoners looking to escape the anxious energy of the party and chill out for a little while. People came and went, but whoever did either had pot passed to them instantly, or came in ready to hand out some of their own. Unlike the coke room which had about five or six people, the pot room had a dozen or more, easily.
Vassilis tried to ignore the contents of the third and final upstairs room. Instead, he made his way to the room obstructed by marijuana smoke and raucous laughter, his head stooped a little low in a grumbling frustration. Having grown hotter over the course of his short time at the party, V carried his trenchcoat draped over one arm, his opal-colored collared shirt looking clean if wrinkled.
"Yo, what year are you from?" One of the entrenched smokers said to the newly-entered Vassilis from his position in the group circle huddled on the floor. He paused to get a closer look at the glum Vassilis, changing his tune. "You look a little lost, friend. Have you tried turning to Christ?"
Before the confused immortal could begin to ask what the dude meant, the grinning stoner held out a just-lit joint shaped like the Christian cross. The circle parted as the Red Sea had for Moses, with Vassilis taking a spot next to the apparent leader.
The man who'd offered the joint had long hair, so greasy it stayed straight even if it wanted to curl. Some of the dirt on his face made it seem as though he'd washed, but only in the sense that he'd splashed water on his face in a sink somewhere. His grey, 30 Rock t-shirt was covered in food and grease stains alike, though his pants were a vibrant pair of harem pants in gold and green.
"I guess we could all use a little faith." Vassilis said once he was well and comfortable sitting in the circle, taking the joint from his strange savior.
"That's the spirit, my man. You can call me Crood, by the way." In spite of his general Pig-Pen vibes, the guy had a bright, white smile that stretched nearly ear-to-ear.
"Crude?" Vassilis asked.
"Crood." Crood said, holding his hands together and stretching them apart as he repeated, "Croooooooooooood."
"Crood." V repeated, nodding. "I'm Vassilis."
"Vaseline?" Crood asked.
"Vah-seel-ee." V said after taking a puff from the cross-joint.
"Who names their kid Vaseline?" Crood shook his head in amazement and laughed. "I'm just gonna call you V, man, that cool?"
"Please do." Vassilis said, glad the well-meaning stoner had come to such a decision.
"So tell me, V," Crood said, pulling another joint from seemingly nowhere, lighting it and passing it in the opposite direction of the first. "Why you lookin' so bummed out?"
"Oh, well I came here to meet up with someone and...couldn't find them." V lied with a sighing exhale of smoke, passing the joint to the stranger to his left.
"Bummer," Crood nodded. "Ya, I'm meeting someone here too but I don't think she's here yet. Couldn't resist a good puff, either, na-mean?"
"I guess," Vassilis shrugged, pulling out his own pack of rolling papers and his remaining buds of Philly weed and North Carolina tobacco. "I assume you're the guy to find if I ever need anything here on campus?"
"Hey man, you're a pretty quick learner," The man so stoned his eyes were almost closed looked at Vassilis, impressed. "I wasn't gonna say nothin', though. People tend to...find me, when in need."
Unable to argue with that, Vassilis shrugged and went back to finishing the spliff he'd started rolling. Soon, the strangers around him turned to named acquaintances: Roscoe, a gravitationally wide, part-time mechanic and engineering student; Miranda, a meek music major; Connor, a marine wash-out, law-school hopeful; Rasheed, an economics major from Boston constantly mentioning his proud, Somalian heritage; Pakawat, an international transfer student from Thailand majoring in engineering alongside Roscoe.
After around half an hour of idle chatter, sparking lighters, exhaling breaths and hacking coughs, Crood took a quick phone call. After hanging up, he and several of his friends stood from the circle to exchange pleasant good-byes with the room. V stood to meet him, offering a hand to shake.
"I gotta go find my friend," He explained as he accepted V's outstretched hand. "I don't think she's gonna be crazy 'bout this scene by herself, dig? Might be back though, if she wants a puff of her own. If I remember, hahaha. Anyway, if you ever need me, find me."
"Sure thing," Vassilis replied, like that would be an easy task in such a populated place. "Take it easy."
"You don't seem that stoned," Miranda noted, the two now sat beside each other. Dirty-blonde hair, large dimples on her cheeks, and focused, jade eyes, Miranda was no more than five feet tall, and probably one-hundred pounds, if that. "Are you sure you've really been smoking this whole time?"
"Bill Clinton taught me not to inhale." V responded a little to quickly, even as his fingers worked at rolling away the very last of his own, measly weed into as good a joint as get could get out of it.
"Do you ever think the sky has feelings?" The incredibly-inebriated Roscoe asked, staring at the ceiling. "Like they say that trees and plants and stuff are sentient — what about the sky? Does it hurt more, the higher we build skyscrapers? Or is a plane flying from LaGuardia to LAX like a fly to it?"
"Ok, buddy," V said, reaching over to grab the half-smoked blunt from the heavy boy's hands. Before Roscoe could even notice, V handed it across the circle to Rasheed. "That's...enough for you."
"Maybe you don't seem high because I've been smoking with Roscoe for an hour now." Miranda added, shrugging.
"You're getting cut off next." V said, handing his fresh roll over to her.
"Try and fucking stop me." The little, impish girl replied, accepting the gift graciously.
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” feigning ignorance just to add insult to injury.