Caps For Sale

[puddledancer]

((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.

Comments

[puddledancer]

He didn't notice her subtle magic, but he sure would later when he got undressed for the night, and wonder what the hell had happened. At the time, all he saw was a pretty girl taking interest in his stuff, which automatically made his day a billion times better even without the surprise clothing patch-up.

"Psh, sir, please. Call me P.J. And I dunno, maybe some? I know not everyone's into superheroes. That one's Pyrite Man, he's the bodyguard for a rich scientist. Course, there are plenty of theories that he really is the rich scientist, but if he were, he would've admitted it by now, the guy's got an ego the size of the city park."

[stitch_witch]

"That's quite the tale to tell," Lark mused, touching the figure before leaving it aside. Not as interesting as it could be.

"Children love stories of heroics. Though I've found that it's not often the rich they wish to hear the stories of."

[puddledancer]

"Nah, cuz the rich already have everything," he agreed, having totally been one of those children and still quite one at heart. "They wanna hear about people that stand up for the little guys, like The Sheriff, or Corporal Anglo-Saxon - who uh, by the way, is actually called Captain America, and he's the coolest one of the bunch." He fishes through the stacks until he finds a comic for reference, flipping through the pages to show her as he tells the story. As was the case with some of the older comics he was fond of, the first few panels told the origin for new readers' reference. "He fought the Nazis, see? Y'know, way back in World War II? And then there was this accident... and he ended up frozen for a bunch of years until SHIELD found him and thawed him out, and now he protects the city."

[stitch_witch]

The rich have everything is right. Not that it is always bad, such as with some nobility in her world. But that isn't something she'd mention. But she raises an interested eyebrow at his animation over talking about his wares. How pleasing.

"I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about. Nazis, or World War II. Or these people. I'm... new here."

[puddledancer]

He blinked a bit at that remark. She didn't know anything about WWII? What sort of rock had she been raised under? Maybe her parents were Holocaust deniers, he thought. That'd explain it. Eh, he wasn't about to ruin her day by telling her about a genocidal maniac's war crimes, he'd let that be someone else's job.

"Yeah? Where you from? I just moved here a couple years ago myself."

[stitch_witch]

"Emelan," she answered, though the name would mean nothing at all here. This world didn't even seem to touch hers, much less had the Duchy she resided in there. "I just arrived here today."

[puddledancer]

It sounded snooty and European and ridiculously foreign to him, and he was okay with that. Geography had never been his strong suit. He let out a low, impressed whistle.

"Wow, that's a long haul. I only came from Missouri... you on vacation, or something?"

[stitch_witch]

An impossible distance.

"One might call it more of a journey than a vacation. A seeking of something."

That was the best way she could describe it to someone who was not part of the strangeness of the beings who had taken her from her home.

[puddledancer]

"Neat," he smiled, genuinely interested. Something about the concept of an epic quest really appealed to him, but he wasn't sure why. Heroes and their stories in general fascinated him, and treasure hunts fell under the same umbrella. "Is it some kind of secret treasure?"

[stitch_witch]

"Aren't all proper treasures kept secret?" Lark asked with a smile. The man likes stories, why not give him one?

[puddledancer]

"Awwwww, maaaaaan!" His eyes lit up. "I mean, clearly I'm not gonna ask you too much because, well, that'd ruin it, but ... can I see it if you find it? Like, can you bring it back here?"

[stitch_witch]

Lark just offered a smile and nodded. There was no harm in promising, for there was nothing, she imagined, to bring back. Let him have the story, if it would make him happy.

"I would be pleased to do so."