MEGAPHONE TO MY CHEST | INTRODUCTION

[jayus]

His mama wasn’t usually someone he was grateful for, but right now he sure is glad he’d inherited some of her genes. Not enough, he thinks, a short and mirthless laugh escaping his maw with a huff. Maybe if something had been different, one single gene replaced, he wouldn’t be here right now. Lord. Imagine throwing away your own child ‘cause of their eye color. He thinks part of the reason why he’d been such a devout Catholic when he was younger was because it’d felt like a satisfying way to spite her, a devil child praying to her God every night. She’d gotten increasingly more aggressive each time he’d so much as use the Lord’s name in vain, talkin’ about how his very existence was blasphemy and how none of his praying would get him into heaven and whatnot. Since he’d left, Olivier still holds onto his faith, more out of bitterness than personal belief.

It’d been nice, livin’ with his papa. He took more after him, looks and all, and he hadn’t cared about no devil eyes. All of Papa’s friends had made comments, sure, but nothing worse than what he’d been used to. Besides, their jabs were more varied. Getting called a scrawny mutt was better than treated the way he’d been. They usually shut their traps after Oli’d presented them with stolen dinner and goodies anyway. Hardly a luxurious life, but it was something. It was more than this, bein’ alone and freezing his tail off in some radiationless mountains.

”Man, all dis cold just remind me of ice cream. I got me an envie for somethin’ sweet,” grumbles the canine to himself as he trudges along, trying to keep from shivering too much. He has a weird craving for some of them marischino cherries in particular, the sickeningly ones that sends him into diabetic shock. Olivier knows he could do with some protein and some good solid food, but man does he want some sort of dessert. That type of stuff is a rarity in these conditions and he couldn’t afford those empty calories when he was just trying to survive on his own.

[he probably isn’t too difficult to understand, but just in case: “Man, all this cold just reminds me of ice cream. I’m desiring something sweet.”]

[recyling]

[align=center][div style="width:400px; text-align: justify; "]Angel's mother had been the first good animal in his life to die. His father had died first, but he wasn't relevant, now in his own mind. Willow only confirmed this when she'd told him that he was an animal that dragged their entire family down. Leaving even before Angel was born, with news traveling to their quaint little village that poor Nicholas was dead, didn't make for a tragic heartbreak. Besides, he had been too young to understand, anyway.

Thoughts like that usually left him in a mood that meant he wanted to be left alone but with some dog yapping about ice cream and sweet stuff, it was difficult to keep to himself. Who in the world would even have that after all this destruction? He frowned at Olivier but kept his expression relatively flat as he passed by. "Hm. Tragic." He mutters. What were wishful musings to Olivier sounded like complaining to Angel. He wouldn't mind a dulce de leche right now but it wasn't like it was going to show up out of nowhere.

//angel why r u so rude smh

[LICORICE .]

[align=center][div style="width:420px; background: transparent; border: 0px;"][justify][tags] ✦ Licoricetwist snickered as he heard Angelpaw's comment. He decided to joke with him, lightly, hoping that they had reached the level of knowledge and understanding between them that he could do such a thing. "Wow, Angel. I've only ever heard you be nice to me. You must like me or something." Licoricetwist was in a good mood today, having finished creating a small den for little creatures. He was hoping to find more brambles today to reinforce walls. "The closest thing to ice cream around here is probably snow."

It reminded him of Riverclan, the thought of ice cream. The first and only time he saw a human was when that truck crashed, full of the stuff in the back. He filled his tummy until it ached. He remembered his Mom being in one of her good moods, licking his stomach that night. Her episodes were random and unpredictable, but when she was doing okay, she was the most gentle and caring mother he could ever wish for. The thought of her made his heart ache. He missed her. He knew, especially after all this, Stark was probably right. She had gone mad, driven herself over the edge. Cori's smile had faltered a bit, but he let it slip as he looked down, spun in a circle, and plopped down on his side in the sun.

[jayus]

He would like to believe that death doesn’t affect him all that much. It was very...final, irreversible, so why should he have to worry? That’s what he tells himself, but Olivier had never really experienced the death of a loved one. Leaving was worse, in his opinion. A willing and conscious decision to leave, a choice, whereas death was oftentimes not. His experiences made him biased.

His interest is piqued by the passing feline and his irritable expression; it only grows when he sees the slight movement of his mouth. Now, Olivier’s ears may be weird and floppy, but he could hear just fine. ”Ain’t it just?” he mumbles right back, not bothering to hide his amused smirk. He does find it wildly amusing to poke at all the moody grumps he sees, a habit from talking back to his dear old mama. Testing for a reaction.

Ollie is, truthfully, slightly disappointed when a noticeably more amicable stranger approaches. Still, he was never one to turn away from friendliness. ”He’s always like dis, him?” asks the male, gesturing vaguely in Angel’s direction. ”For an Angel, he certainly seems to jus’ boudé all day, hm? All moody and mad.”

”We can make somethin’ outta dis snow. Not da fanciest dessert, but it’ll be somethin’ cold and refreshin’, yeah?” There were desserts made of snow, weren’t there? Ollie can sort of recall some sort of cone, ice pumped with sticky stuff. He doesn’t know where he can find any of that up here in these mountains, but he supposed he’ll have to make do. It was a chance to be inventive, he thinks, but what kinda flavoring can he give the snow? None of the nearby prey could jazz it up. Perhaps the radiation would’ve found its way into it, give it a little extra punch. He’s about to ask if they’d like a sample of his fine post-radiation apocalypse snow cuisine when he realizes something. ”Beg your pardons, I forgot to introduce myself. The name’s Olivier, but y’all can call me Ollie if French ain’t your style.”

[QUIETUS]

[align=center][div style=" background-color: transparent; border: 0px solid black; width: 500px; min-height: 9px; font-family:georgia; line-height: 110%; text-align: justify; color: black; padding: 20px"]In contrast to his dad, Quietus' mother had been an angel. She had been lovely and sweet, and sometimes a little overprotective and strict, but that was okay; he preferred it to when his dad would get into one of his violent rages and lash out at him or one of his siblings, and his mom would have to get between them and ward him off into a separate area. She kept him around, though, 'cause she loved him enough to raise a family full of his snot-nosed pups that looked just like him, Quietus most of all. Looking back at it now, Quietus had not only become to look like his dad, but mirror his ways, too. Despite him throwing fits, his dad had been nonchalant to everyone most of the time, and only rarely endeared his children with tales of his life or played with them, and focused on feeding them and making sure they were safe instead. And the few times someone dared to hurt them, his dad would be on them in a blur of black and russet fur, his teeth flashing yellow and his claws drawing red. He'd been a fighting dog - his unpredictable nature had been okay, understandable, and Quietus forgave him in the long run. And although Quietus rarely got angry and never took it out on the people he was sworn to protect, that rage was still there, crawling under his skin like a virus. He didn't know why. Besides the occasional hit his dad would give him if he got too bold or out of hand, nothing traumatizing had happened to him. Anger couldn't possibly be inherited - it was an emotion, not a trait.

Quietus didn't know if his mother was still alive, or any of his siblings, for that matter. They'd all separated on that fateful day three years ago when he'd only been two, and never crossed paths again. His father had died on Qu's first year of life before the start of the new year.

"Just don't eat the yellow snow. It's not lemon-flavored or anything." Qu wasn't one to humor others, but yellow snow was a running joke he could indulge in briefly, especially when the individual in question was one with an accent that spread an infectious kind of warmth to the cold, black nothingness one would call his soul (sarcasm fully intended). His own voice was throaty and gross, in the robotic, too-deep-for-me kind of way that a stereotypical monster would have in one of those stories. He isn't proud of it, and misses his smooth voice from before the radiation had really screwed him up, but he dealt with it anyways because he had balls of steel. He wasn't much of a looker either. Sauntering forth, he'd glance at the others before giving a once-over in Oliver's direction. He hadn't seen him before, but he lightened the place up a tad bit, he supposed.

[recyling]

[align=center][div style="width:400px; text-align: justify; "]At Licorice's words, he let himself give a fake scowl. "Me? Like people?" A scoff left him but an easiness came into his movements as he settled down near the malamute, glancing over at him with pricked ears. "No, you've got the wrong cat." His tail flicks the malamute's side as his ear twitches with his amusement, before allowing it to fall as he looked back at Olivier.

"Yep. I'm always like this." He tilts his head and offers a flat look. "Well, this Angel took a hard fall from heaven." The tom's looks past the dog at Quietus, regarding the other with a slightly guarded but curious look. He seemed quiet and more remote than any other animal, rarely showing any annoyance or anger. It was intimidating, but he respected it. At his word's, he gives an unflattering noise that's between a laugh and a snort. "Thanks for the heads-up."

[jayus]

Sometimes his mind wanders. He usually allows himself to contemplate just where  his parents could be or what they could be doing at that point in time, but only for five or ten minutes. He gives his papa most of that time, allotting only a few minutes for him to imagine his mama’s fate.  Any over that and he just gets sad and guilty. Olivier ain’t gonna shed any tears for nobody like that. They were...they were getting what they deserved. Or not. He doesn’t know or give a flyin’ fuck.

It’s the first he’d ever heard a yellow snow joke, but he’s bright enough to draw conclusions. Where he’d been raised, there wasn’t any annual snow or anything. Maybe an overnight frost, but all of that melted come morning. ”Naw, you don’t hafta worry about any of dat. Olivier knows his way ‘round flavor,” he says with a chuckle, rubbing his paws together. ”Could make do with some fruit. Y’all have dat up here or is it too cold?”

”Hm. So if I’d gone through with askin’ if it hurt when you fell from up above, it would’ve made perfect sense. Dunno why I ain’t start with dat before.” He isn’t discouraged by the flat expression he’d recieved, but responds with a cheeky grin. His amusement is only furthered by his reaction to Quietus’ quip. ”Well, look at dat! Mister Hard Fall can laugh. Still an angel through and through, eh, cher?”

[recyling]

[align=center][div style="width:400px; text-align: justify; "]"Too cold for fruit," He answers his question but before he actually begins to like the guy, Olivier opens his mouth again. A part of him wants to be annoyed, but really, there wasn't any sense in getting worked up. "If only. Then you'd be the best. The ultimate smooth-talker." He said, deadpanning. "I don't know if that counts as a laugh," He comments off-handedly, looking away from Olivier.

"Still an angel through and through, eh, cher?" Ha. He wished. If Willow saw him now, he didn't know whether or not she'd still call him her bellissimo angioletto. No, she wouldn't. The tom's face is neutral, but the aching thoughts make it hard to keep it that way. "I'm going to go now. it was nice meeting you, Olivier." Though the other had suggested a nickname, Angel didn't feel right using it. Nicknames were meant for close friends, or so he believed. Besides—french was nice.

As he rises from from his seating, he lets his tail flick the malamute next to him, ear twitching as though they were sharing an inside joke before offering something like a smile. "Naps aren't going to take themselves, right?"