[As before, swimming and clawing her way out of a gooey egg has Trish shouting her displeasure even with her limbs too heavy to move.
Otherwise, she's slinging slime from her clothes and hair onto the cell floor, less than careful of who might be sitting nearby, seemingly with a renewed energy found between the disgusting squelches of slime between her fingers, and the anxiety of decidedly not being anywhere in Italy, not anymore.]
Whoever put me in that egg is going to pay with their life! Look at me, look at this! I'll never complain about being a boy again, at least they were dry!
[Her comments are extremely odd ones to make, to be sure.]
THEATRE
A.
[For Trish, several of the recruitment branches are either out of her element or entirely unappealing, with medical care the former and sanitation the latter. But she needs to do something and finds herself at the theatre. It's saturated in a color and cheer that's absent from the rest of the camp, strikingly so, and the smiling thespians and cadres of children are equally unique.
She gets dragged aside immediately, complaints dense on her lips, and she's left to paint the faces of children for a play of theirs, because her face is painted too in a way, and she should be good at it, right? No, her tigers and zebras are minimalist in design, but the kids don't care, turning to growl at each other anyway when she's done, predators all.
No, Trish isn't exactly enjoying herself, not until she blithely watches the adults on stage discussing an improv play, and wanders over, considering aloud. What about a monologue? With a musical aspect?
And she takes up a bowl and length of cloth, tossing the cloth about her shoulders and placing the bowl on her head, starting an impromptu story about a mysterious stranger arriving to town, stalking the length of the stage as if to make her steps the beat of the story itself. The thespians toss her questions to keep the story going, ever helpful.
There's guns and kidnappings and the Woman with No Name riding into danger, and it's very clearly a reimagining of a Fistful of Dollars with massive creative liberty. At a critical point, and with a few kids clinging to her skirt and giggling, Trish recounts how the woman had no semblance of happiness, trying to change a world all alone, caught in the strife with everyone else.]
Look around...everywhere you turn is heartache.
It's everywhere that you go.
You try everything you can to escape the pain of life that you know.
When all else fails and you long to be...somewhere better than you are today.
I know a place where you can get away...!
It's called a dance floor, and here's what it's for, so! Come on, let's go!
Let your body move to the music - hey, hey, hey...Come on!
[And she'll reach out to drag someone on stage to dance with her. Singing doesn't matter, if her partner isn't inclined, as she'll sing her edition of Vogue just fine, solo, pulling them along with her. And her singing isn't half bad. Strike a pose! Or end the whole thing by declining. The energy will deflate instantly, but that's fine. Trish is desperate for a break.]
B.
[If not able to find someone to hassle, she'll bend to dance with one of the kids, trading hands and spinning them until they're too dizzy to cling to her, but if they're having so much fun, surely anyone can?
Or, if preferred, she wouldn't mind a partner for her play. At any point prior to her closing musical, Trish will close her free hand into the flesh and bone facsimile of a gun, levelling it at any fellow hatchling wandering by because she's not going to entertain alone! Not forever, god no. In her best faux Western voice:]
I don't recognize your face. You from around these parts?
[Theme doesn't matter. Be a witch or a machine, she's a fashionista cowboy with nondescript animals clinging to her. This play makes no sense!]
C.
[For anyone content to watch (cowards), eventually her singing fades, the mysterious stranger rides to lands unknown, and the kids scatter to play more or nap, leaving Trish sitting on the makeshift stage, exhausted. Anyone who happened to be watching gets an especially pinched expression.]
You don't have to say it. That was embarrassing.
[ EXTRA
You will never catch her:
In the communal showers. At least, undressed. She will bathe with her clothes on and stomp out afterwards like the world's soggiest Prince Album. A towel isn't going to do much for a strategy like that, but it's what she's left with! She's too private to deign to this!
You can catch her:
In the mess hall, eating and enjoying it as much as anyone else. She looks ill, honestly. Even travelling in Mr. President afforded better food, and they never found out if the turtle came with the fridge or if someone installed it. Awful. At least the food from outside the room was legitimate!! She's otherwise present in all areas at least once, driven by curiosity.
OR: WILDCARD
I am open to anything! Any permutations of these prompts included! Trish is sort of distant at the moment but she's not opposed to conversation or commentary. Handwaving prior introductions or remarks on seeing her around are perfectly fine!]
Trish Una | Jojo's Bizarre Adventure
[As before, swimming and clawing her way out of a gooey egg has Trish shouting her displeasure even with her limbs too heavy to move.
Otherwise, she's slinging slime from her clothes and hair onto the cell floor, less than careful of who might be sitting nearby, seemingly with a renewed energy found between the disgusting squelches of slime between her fingers, and the anxiety of decidedly not being anywhere in Italy, not anymore.]
Whoever put me in that egg is going to pay with their life! Look at me, look at this! I'll never complain about being a boy again, at least they were dry!
[Her comments are extremely odd ones to make, to be sure.]
THEATRE
A.
[For Trish, several of the recruitment branches are either out of her element or entirely unappealing, with medical care the former and sanitation the latter. But she needs to do something and finds herself at the theatre. It's saturated in a color and cheer that's absent from the rest of the camp, strikingly so, and the smiling thespians and cadres of children are equally unique.
She gets dragged aside immediately, complaints dense on her lips, and she's left to paint the faces of children for a play of theirs, because her face is painted too in a way, and she should be good at it, right? No, her tigers and zebras are minimalist in design, but the kids don't care, turning to growl at each other anyway when she's done, predators all.
No, Trish isn't exactly enjoying herself, not until she blithely watches the adults on stage discussing an improv play, and wanders over, considering aloud. What about a monologue? With a musical aspect?
And she takes up a bowl and length of cloth, tossing the cloth about her shoulders and placing the bowl on her head, starting an impromptu story about a mysterious stranger arriving to town, stalking the length of the stage as if to make her steps the beat of the story itself. The thespians toss her questions to keep the story going, ever helpful.
There's guns and kidnappings and the Woman with No Name riding into danger, and it's very clearly a reimagining of a Fistful of Dollars with massive creative liberty. At a critical point, and with a few kids clinging to her skirt and giggling, Trish recounts how the woman had no semblance of happiness, trying to change a world all alone, caught in the strife with everyone else.]
Look around...everywhere you turn is heartache.
It's everywhere that you go.
You try everything you can to escape the pain of life that you know.
When all else fails and you long to be...somewhere better than you are today.
I know a place where you can get away...!
It's called a dance floor, and here's what it's for, so! Come on, let's go!
Let your body move to the music - hey, hey, hey...Come on!
[And she'll reach out to drag someone on stage to dance with her. Singing doesn't matter, if her partner isn't inclined, as she'll sing her edition of Vogue just fine, solo, pulling them along with her. And her singing isn't half bad. Strike a pose! Or end the whole thing by declining. The energy will deflate instantly, but that's fine. Trish is desperate for a break.]
B.
[If not able to find someone to hassle, she'll bend to dance with one of the kids, trading hands and spinning them until they're too dizzy to cling to her, but if they're having so much fun, surely anyone can?
Or, if preferred, she wouldn't mind a partner for her play. At any point prior to her closing musical, Trish will close her free hand into the flesh and bone facsimile of a gun, levelling it at any fellow hatchling wandering by because she's not going to entertain alone! Not forever, god no. In her best faux Western voice:]
I don't recognize your face. You from around these parts?
[Theme doesn't matter. Be a witch or a machine, she's a fashionista cowboy with nondescript animals clinging to her. This play makes no sense!]
C.
[For anyone content to watch (cowards), eventually her singing fades, the mysterious stranger rides to lands unknown, and the kids scatter to play more or nap, leaving Trish sitting on the makeshift stage, exhausted. Anyone who happened to be watching gets an especially pinched expression.]
You don't have to say it. That was embarrassing.
[ EXTRA
You will never catch her:
In the communal showers. At least, undressed. She will bathe with her clothes on and stomp out afterwards like the world's soggiest Prince Album. A towel isn't going to do much for a strategy like that, but it's what she's left with! She's too private to deign to this!
You can catch her:
In the mess hall, eating and enjoying it as much as anyone else. She looks ill, honestly. Even travelling in Mr. President afforded better food, and they never found out if the turtle came with the fridge or if someone installed it. Awful. At least the food from outside the room was legitimate!! She's otherwise present in all areas at least once, driven by curiosity.
OR: WILDCARD
I am open to anything! Any permutations of these prompts included! Trish is sort of distant at the moment but she's not opposed to conversation or commentary. Handwaving prior introductions or remarks on seeing her around are perfectly fine!]