19848/Luck Patrol

Luck Patrol
Date of Scene:	11 January 2025
Location:	Doom Manor
Synopsis:	No description
Cast of Characters:	Larry Trainor, Longshot, Cliff Steele

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Larry Trainor has posed:
There's something about an old ruin that brings out a sense of melancholy in the viewer. Like most old ruins, Doom Manor used to be new, and built by people who were excited about the prospect of living there. As it gradually rots away in full view of anyone driving by, the mansion has become yet another shrine to disappointment in the northeast. But now that the grounds and the roof have been covered by a blanket of snow, there's a certain grace that the old manor doesn't possess when all of its faults are exposed in the warmer months.

Looks like it's going to snow again. Someone should really throw salt out on the walkways. But as he pushes an old wheelbarrow in front of himself, Captain Larry Trainor doesn't look as if he's in a walkway salting mood.

Off the walkway he goes, the ankles of his aging mid-calf Bean Boots disappearing into the snow. The wheelbarrow's single wheel squeaks audibly with each rotation, the wood frame having been eaten partially away with time, as has the rusted metal body.

Across the expansive yard trudges the solitary bandaged figure, pushing the load with some obvious effort. In all fairness though, wheelbarrows aren't generally used for transporting giant dollhouses. Or at least that's probably the most likely of assumptions would would make about the ramshackle structure being carried across the yard. But if appearance is any indication, this dollhouse was made specifically to house the world's ugliest dolls.

"Okay pals... I got it finished."

The wheelbarrow pulls up to a patch of garden that has been abandoned for the winter. But although the plants are either dead or dormant, there are still denizens of this depressing patch of real estate. As Larry sets the wheelbarrow down, he moves to the side, and carefully picks up the relatively large 'house', which seems to have been made from some two by fours, and a piece of aluminum sheeting.

Walking through the snow, he finally sets the structure down overtop of a couple of garden gnomes who have been sitting patiently in the snow for most of the season with no cover whatsoever. As the structure is placed over them, the inanimate objects are covered temporarily from the elements, before one of the structure's 'legs' falls off, and the building falls over and collapses on its side.

"I suck at carpentry."

Longshot has posed:
The picture-esque snowscape of the midwest paints even the saddest mansions in flattering light, even the most unloved of pathways are sometimes are salted by people who do not care to salt them. Longshot really wishes someone had salted these pathways, as the front gate does not appear to want to open and he will simply hop over it and sink into the snow beyond. The long leather jacket will be pulled a bit tighter around him as he starts to trudge forward, stopping only a few steps in and staring up at the house with a mild surprise.

How Longshot ended up in front of Doom Manor is a story in and of itself. A story filled with a littering of minor miracles, ridiculous coincidences, improbable happenstance and no small amount of amusingly unlikely events. However, to relate such a story would take too much time and would not drastically change the understanding and current fact that Longshot stands on the steps of Doom Manor hours after breaking out of Ryker Penitentiary's holding facility with his new friend(?) Deadshot with nothing other than the stolen clothes on his back. Deadshot left and Longshot had decided going to his actual home might cause more trouble than it is worth. So he came here. Cliff Steele and that 'Chief' person could help, right?

Help or not, Longshot continues to stand in the snow on the walk. Staring at the house. He'll take a few more steps, all thoughts of the snow forgotten for now, but he is quickly halted again.

It's been a long day. Ryker is a very Angry place. Longshot used a lot of luck to get here with no resources and not being totally sure where Here is. He did know this was where his friend, Cliff Steele, was supposed to be. And Here is a very. . . .

Sad Place?

Sad but Hopeful?

Also kind of Angry, but in a different way than Ryker was Angry.

Really entrenched in the past, that was easy to tell, but exactly what emotions were absolutely screaming at him just trying to approach the door? It's hard to tell when there is simply So Much.

Longshot doesn't have gloves right now. He doesn't want to knock on the door if he is already reading many, many years of very emotional imprints on this location when just standing here.

Luckily, he doesn't have to!

The sound of a voice from a previously unnoticed garden-bed will grab Longshot's attention and his progress toward the house is abandoned in favor of clambering through the snow and will arrive in time to see a house become an odd pile of wood bits now hiding garden gnomes.

"What's Carpentry?"

Cliff Steele has posed:
Garbage day!

With only three current residents at Doom Manor, one might imagine that there wouldn't be too much to clean up--particularly as two-thirds of the trio doesn't need to eat--but it builds up regardless, a veritable mountain between Rita's takeout binges, Larry's wood scrap and the inevitable post-holiday heap.

And so, the Christmas tree-topped mountain moves, shambling rustily onto the front porch, its means of locomotion nearly obscured by overstuffed Glad bags stacked like haybales. But beneath this mound of modern excess, like the chicken legs of Baba Yaga's hut, a pair of steel-framed and boot-clad feet clomp uncertainly out the front door.

Behind, a voice calls out in a fair approximation of old-time sweetness: "Oh, thank you, Cliff! Now, do be a dear and make sure to set the tree on the left side of the street, hmm? You know how persnickety the trashmen can be."

"Yeah, yeah, Rita. Sheesh."

Clomp. Clomp. Clomp. The feet of the Robo Yaga pause at the edge of the porch, search uncertainly for the stair.

From the mountain comes a booming voice:

"You talking to the gnomes again, Lar?"

Larry Trainor has posed:
Sighing, Larry puts his hands in the pockets of his coat and beholds the newly-created ruin. Although it's only minutes old, it looks like the sort of lawn decoration that a place like this would have. Standing in cold that he can't really feel, it looks as if Larry has used up all of his ambition for the day. There apparently isn't time for him to stare into space for a few hours, however, and he turns slowly at the sound of voices. One is familiar, while the other signals that much-dreaded development which the Doom Patrol spend most of their quietly regimented lives avoid.

Company.

"Carpentry is... well, whatever it is, I'm pretty sure that what that is... it isn't carpentry."

He nods at the attempt at a Gnome House, and begins walking back toward the Manor's entrance. Like a mummy in hipster paramilitary garb, Larry looks very much like the sort of ghost who would haunt a place like this. And in a sense, that's exactly what he is.

Walking past his robotic housemate, Larry pauses only briefly to see what he's carrying away. Much like the manor, the tree was starting to look a little rough.

"The gnomes send their regards."

Longshot has posed:
Awe! There's a voice he knows! Longshot's attention jerks toward the sound of Cliff, immediately a hand up and waving, "HI CLIFF!!! CAN I STAY WITH YOU FOR A FEW DAYS!? I JUST GOT OUT OF RYKER JAIL!"

Yelling aside, the hand will be shoved back into a pocket at the chill and Whatever carpentry is or isn't, Longshot will nod at the answer. When the stranger in bandages moves, Longshot immediately falls in behind him. Nice to have someone else to plow through the snow, and thus their footprints to step in each step of the way toward the very Emotional house.

"Why is your house so sad? Or-I'm not actually sure it's sad, it's a lot of something that doesn't really have good words?" Regardless of if he is getting a response or not, he will continue talking until finally Cliff is is within range without having to trek through too much more snow. The moment he can, Longshot will launch himself at Cliff and hug the man tightly, "HI! You should text me back sometimes!" Clearly the difference between a landline and a cellphone was not properly explained.

Cliff Steele has posed:
Oh, boy. That's not a gnome. That's...

... A hug missile about to blow the mountaintop off as Robo Yaga stumbles down the porch stair and right onto the unsalted walkway.

I mean, how else could it turn out?

A veritable avalanche of liquor bottles, twisted tinsel, and styrofoam shapes of all sizes comes tumbling down in a skid as man-machine and elfin acrobat collide on a friction-free surface, sending debris flying every whichaway as the mountain barrels towards Mumhommad.

"Fuuuucccckkk!"

Ever-erudite, our Cliffster.

Larry Trainor has posed:
Throwing up his hands defensively, Larry darts to the side to get well out of the way of any hijinks, as is his custom. He nearly slips and falls himself in the process, but manages to steady himself thanks to the patented chain pattern of his rubber-soled boots. There seems to be no imminent threat, aside from displays of emotion. He keeps his hands up defensively, just to be on the safe side, as he watches the train wreck occur mere feet away from him. Deadpan as always, he replies.

"Ah. Friend of Cliff's."

It's the only explanation that Larry really needs. Any remaining friends of Larry's probably died out more than a decade ago. True, there's been a troubling uptick in the number of visitors the past few months, but generally they go away eventually as long as he stays in his room long enough.

As he steps onto the porch, Larry bumps his feet a couple of times until most of the snow has fallen off of his boots. Only then does he take the heavy wooden door by the handle, and open it despite its creaky protestations. The air from inside is a bit warmer than outside, but not enough to be especially noticeable. But who has the money to keep an oil furnace burning all winter in this economy? Certainly not Larry, he's retired.

Stepping inside, Larry begins the tedious process of unlacing his boots so that he may set them near the door and change into his House Boots. It requires a great deal of unlacing, for these are midcalf boots.

"Sorry the place is a mess."

He points to a single scarf hanging over the entrance table instead of hanging from the scarf hooks. Hopefully, the guest will be able to look past this.

Longshot has posed:
Longshot, thankfully, doesn't weigh much and is pretty difficult to actually hurt. The fall, skid and scattering of trash seems to have left Longshot in Cliff's arms rather than any of the other things he was carrying and, and as excited as Longshot might be, he does seem to realize that he has just caused a problem. "Oh, I'm sorry!"

Still, since he's already here, que a second, more proper hug! Tight, earnest, warm all the things a good hug should be, real shame that it is wasted on a metal man who cannot feel it.

The second hug will be abandoned in favor of hopping up and starting to try and assist in the clean-up of the mess, two pairs of hands are faster than one, and it's likely a short-task. A glance tossed back toward the mummy of a man with the brightest of grins, "Yeah! Cliff and I met at a super villain bar!"

Still, the important question that has yet to be answered will be repeated, "Cliff, can I stay here a little bit? I don't mind a mess! I won't be any trouble!" Even with Larry pointing, Longshot isn't sure where the mess is apart from the one they just created, Longshot will shrug, "Just a few days, if that's okay? Also, I don't have anything. At all. The police have all my stuff."