Peter "Starlord" Quill (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
puddledancer) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
revivalproject2021-05-18 04:02 pm
puddledancer) wrote in revivalproject2021-05-18 04:02 pm
Caps For Sale
((OOC: Will match format if you're not feelin' prosey!))
The kitschy stall sits at one of the busiest corners of the city. No one knows how he's managed to keep it there for so long without being ousted by more ... er, lucrative ... businesses, but P.J.'s Emporium and its owner have been a questionable adornment on the street for a couple of years now. The racks are filled with old used issues of comic books and pages with ads featuring hero memorabilia, preserved in plastic bags against sheets of cardboard cut from produce boxes or reused manila folders. There are toys and figurines, too: cheap plastic or tin knock-offs of the city's heroes - you know the sort.
The eponymous owner, Peter Jason "P.J." Quill, can always be found sitting in a lawn chair in front of or beside his booth, reading a magazine or comic book, oldies music drifting up from a static-y radio chained to the leg of the booth. That band t-shirt he's sporting has seen better days, and the hems of his shorts are fraying. The soles of his canvas tennis shoes are starting to come detached. Clearly the money from that merch is going to rent and not too much else.
Once in a while he'll wet his whistle from a gallon jug of Country Time Lemonade and holler into the metropolitan abyss... "HERO MERCH, GET YER HERO MERCH HERE! I got'cher Pyrite Man, I got The Sheriff, E.T., Corporal Anglo-Saxon! Brand new Princess Lighting! Pretty sweet stuff, come check it out!"
Familiar faces on their way to work or coffee runs will get a broad grin, a tip of the head, and a "Hey, how are ya?" Otherwise, he has two modes: selling and slacking, and not much in between.
The kitschy stall sits at one of the busiest corners of the city. No one knows how he's managed to keep it there for so long without being ousted by more ... er, lucrative ... businesses, but P.J.'s Emporium and its owner have been a questionable adornment on the street for a couple of years now. The racks are filled with old used issues of comic books and pages with ads featuring hero memorabilia, preserved in plastic bags against sheets of cardboard cut from produce boxes or reused manila folders. There are toys and figurines, too: cheap plastic or tin knock-offs of the city's heroes - you know the sort.
The eponymous owner, Peter Jason "P.J." Quill, can always be found sitting in a lawn chair in front of or beside his booth, reading a magazine or comic book, oldies music drifting up from a static-y radio chained to the leg of the booth. That band t-shirt he's sporting has seen better days, and the hems of his shorts are fraying. The soles of his canvas tennis shoes are starting to come detached. Clearly the money from that merch is going to rent and not too much else.
Once in a while he'll wet his whistle from a gallon jug of Country Time Lemonade and holler into the metropolitan abyss... "HERO MERCH, GET YER HERO MERCH HERE! I got'cher Pyrite Man, I got The Sheriff, E.T., Corporal Anglo-Saxon! Brand new Princess Lighting! Pretty sweet stuff, come check it out!"
Familiar faces on their way to work or coffee runs will get a broad grin, a tip of the head, and a "Hey, how are ya?" Otherwise, he has two modes: selling and slacking, and not much in between.
no subject
"Hey, P.J. I'm Ezra," he greets, with an easy smile. "If you've been here a while, where you were you before?" he prods.
cw: parental death/illness, grief
His uncle had not exactly been okay with him wanting to get in touch with his deadbeat, long-gone father, especially since Quill hadn't ever really met him. There had been money every few years, but never cards or Nerf footballs or any of the other minimal efforts such parents stereotypically made. Just the letters to his mother, and even those stopped coming after the diagnosis.
If Ezra tried to get an emotional read on it, it all rang true, but somewhere beneath it was a darker layer, something even more disturbing that P.J. himself probably wasn't even aware of - the real story behind it, and another, fresher loss, a grief just barely covered by the sheen of this new world and new life.
no subject
"I'm sorry, man," he says, swallowing and going solemn. "I lost my parents when I was little. My big brother's looked after me, and it would suck if I hadn't been able to count on him."
That, he doesn't have to imagine. In his real life he'd been mostly on his own a long time.
no subject
"But we seem to have made it alright, yeah? You lived here your whole life, then, or are you new in town?"
no subject
"I grew here mostly, yeah. Dad was from the UK and my brother grew up mostly there."
no subject