Setting down his empty mug of coffee, Roland slipped his jacket from over the back of the chair, punching both arms through it one at a time and shrugging it onto his shoulders. Checking his watch against the clock on the wall, he flinched, not realising how much time was slipping away.
"Damn!" he muttered under his breath, speeding into the den. He swiped his straw hat from an end table near the foyer entrance, nearly missing the slip of paper set underneath it. It wasn’t until it was whisked into the breeze from Roland’s swiftly passing body that he stopped to behold it. The entertainer picked the paper up, scanning it over. His features softened, his lips turning up into the quaintest smile.
…One of his favourite creatures, drawn by one of his other favourite creatures.
He was always dogging Teagan to see his drawings…not his work but his real work. The labours of love he nourished outside of the office. Finally, he was rewarded with such.
His pace slowed considerably, Roland tucked the drawing into an inside pocket on his suit coat, meandering out of the front door, whistling “The Way You Look To-night”, a song he always sang to his young lover.
- Full name: Roland Constantin Russell (changed from Reuven Roland Constantin Roshal)
- Other names: “Rapture’s Sweetheart”, “Columbia’s Nightingale”
- Age: 52 (at time of death in 1968)
- Birth date: August 5, 1916
- Ethnicity: French-American
- Gender: (cis) Male
- Preferred pronouns: He, him, his
- Sexual orientation: Pansexual (with a preference for cis men)
- Religion: Atheist/Nihilist
- Occupation: Entertainer (professional vocalist/tap-dancer)
- Status: Varies
- Fandom: BioShock
- Face claim: Fred Astairerelationships
- Parents: Florent and Amelie Roschal
- Siblings: None
- Significant other: Varies
- Children: None
- Eye colour: Green
- Hair colour: Black
- Height: 5’2”
- Weight: 160 lbs
- Body build: Slim except for around the middle
- Notable physical traits: Big ears, large head, short stature, scars on his arms, thighs, and stomach, and green skin (from 1958 onwards)phobias and diseases
- Phobias: Electrophobia
- Mental diseases: Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD), psychotic depression
- When was this diagnosed?: Depression diagnosed in 1933 (when he was 17). (BPD not recognised until the 1980s)usual expression/mood
His Royal Majesty Leo Hartwig did not hide from anybody. Especially not scrawny, vomit-coloured, vertically challenged sodomites. At least, that was what he told himself as he perched on the rooftop of the diner and tried to make as little noise as possible. For the first time, he cursed his inhuman girth. It made covert operations such as this one very difficult. He had only managed to flee the diner in time to avoid his intrepid admirer because, well, it wasn’t that hard to hear Pockets approaching.
He knew he should get around to killing the bugger sooner or later. Talk of their prolonged association might damage Leo’s reputation, and he knew how Pockets loved to talk. The smaller splicer had only survived his last few attempts at friendship by being practised in the art of a fast getaway, a skill that Leo envied now. Perhaps with a little cunning he could get the drop on him and quit procrastinating, but to be honest it was less of a headache just to wait for him to get bored and slink off. Pockets was pretty much a walking, talking, tap-dancing amalgamation of everything that made Leo uncomfortable. He didn’t need to deal with that today. Or any day, if he could help it. So he remained where he was, looking like an uglier-than-average gargoyle and praying what was left of the architecture could support his weight.
Callin’ me “love”. Who does that little shit think he is? the brute mused, fiddling with his last few strands of hair to distract from the anxiety.
Under tables and chairs, behind counters, and in cabinets Pockets searched. Very impractical, nonsensical places for a brute like Leo to hide, but in short, there were lights on upstairs in the little splicer’s head but no one was really home.
"Oh, Leo! Leeeeeeoooooo!" Pockets bellowed out, vaulting himself over the lunch counter and and back into the kitchen area. "Hm, now where in the world could a monster like him hide?” He picked up a rather large pot still set on a burner. “It’s not like he has any important, pressing things to attend to of late, right?” Looking inside it and concluding he wasn’t there, Pockets set the pot back down. “Then again, I could be wrong. I have been before.”
He mused like that to himself as he went through the kitchen, but not without stopping to devour the rest of the canned food. Dropping the final can to the floor, he slid off the counter, flicking a few stray beans from his collar. “Ah, nothing like a little snack to give you a boost when looking for your friends. I feel better encouraged now!” Swaggering out of the diner, he placed his hands on his hips, huffing.
"Well! That was a bust what is a bust. If he’s not here he might be over by the Limbo Room. I’ve seen him haunting that district on the occasion." The little splicer had gotten nearly to the tunnel he entered from when the sound of cracking infrastructure caught his ears. He may have had a deteriorating mind and body but his hearing was immaculate. Whipping around, he saw a hulked figure hidden very well in the shadows of the rooftop on the Fishbowl. If it hadn’t have been for the various physical tonics he’d taken and the aforementioned sound, Pockets would’ve never even saw him.
"THERE you are! Oh, I’ve been lookin’ all over for you!” Pockets exclaimed flamboyantly, both wrists very limp. He scrambled over to the diner, staring up to the eaves. “Come on down there, Mr. Hartwig, and give lil’ Pockets a squeeze! It’s only polite to greet guests, you know!”
"I was with him a while ago! Fifteen minutes at the most." Loretta slowed her pace once they were a safe distance from the Mr. B. "So he can’t be far, right? Though Mr. Bubbles does walk awful fast sometimes…" she trailed off. Glowing yellow eyes narrowed in thought. "What if he’s really far away? I don’t wanna have to go home and wait for him." She would rather she was with him now, rather than have to wait for ages back at the orphanage.
"Maybe I should get some angels for him so he won’t be angry that I wandered off?" She was speaking mostly to herself. Mr. Bubbles never really got angry at her, but it would be nice for him if she got some more angels anyway. She wasn’t gathering as much lately - there were too many splicers around for her to stay long.
The little man listened carefully to her words, trying to keep to himself. Her thoughts were completely scattered and he realised she was most likely not addressing him directly. He’d known quite a few people like that back in the asylum topside. It was always hard to gauge whether or not he should answer them.
"Uh…yeah. Angels. That certainly does sound nice." Roland had no clue what she meant by such, but assumed it wouldn’t be anything good. Nothing those little girls did seemed pleasant.
"Say uh…whereabouts do you live, cupcake? Perhaps you ought to go there? I’m sure it’ll be safer. Just tell me where home is and I’ll escort you there. I haven’t much else to do to-night."
She takes the bill only to tuck it carefully back into his hands, shaking her head as her only response. It was in Jasmine’s nature to act this way, and helping Russell was the least she could do considering how horrible his day seemed to be going. She reaches back into her purse, pulling out a few bills and stuffing them quickly into the kiosk before he can protest further.
"You should be careful with those things, darlin’." She herself didn’t know the mechanics behind plasmids, but something about messing around with your hardware sounded unsafe to her. She reaches for his arm, tugging gently and urging him to engage the Med Station.
The diminutive entertainer huddled to himself, reluctantly stepping up to the station. Part of him felt bad for soliciting such assistance, but he’d grown so accustomed to being pampered and spoiled by his studio and the people who handled his entertainment affairs.
Roland busied himself with cleaning and bandaging cuts and wounds, treating a bloody nose, and wiping his face down. Concluding with a MediHypo shot just to be safe, he wiped his nose on the back of a hand, sniffling any remaining dried blood and stepping down.
"Well, I certainly do thank you…Ms. Jolene, isn’t it? If I might say, you’ve got a very motherly disposition about you. It’s very comforting." Russell placed his hat back on his head, shrugging. "I mean, it’s probably not very reassuring after that, but if you’d like, I’d be more than willing to walk you home."
|dearest Roland, Rosalind here, I was simply wondering if you'd do me the honor and accompany me to one of mister cohen's shows over in fort frolic. I do believe we have some catching up to do.|
Roland had to think for a moment. Someone like him (being both a star and a swinger) often forgot the many liaisons and meetings they’d had with people. But then it dawned on him…
"…Oh yeah! That feisty red-head! How could I forget?" Giggling boyishly to himself, he immediately chose a slip from the stack of Jet Postal telegrams he had for just such an occasion. After only a few minutes of furious scribbling the note read:
Dearest Ms. Rosalind-
It would be an honour and a pleasure to attend the theatre with you! Just tell me the date and the time and I’ll pick you up not a moment too soon!
PS. If you don’t mind, we’ll have to sit somewhere inconspicuous. Cohen and I are a bit like oil and water.
PSS. I hope you wear the same dress you met me in. It was fabulous.
Satisfied with the response, the entertainer hurried downstairs to the first floor to have it sent off.
Uncle Biltmore and Uncle William
"What are you looking for? You’ve been rummaging around in that crap for— for around… twenty minutes, maybe?”
"Ya never know whatcha may find, babydoll!
I knows a couple ‘a people who’d pass up good victuals just because the bag’s a little torn or it’s bruised a bit. I say down here food is food, especially since we don’t have anyone sane enough around here to harvest or process it for us, eh?”
"I think…I may have found a way around the whole ordeal regarding the latest song the studio wants of me. I was slated to sing a version of that ‘You Belong to Me’ one Mr. Sander Cohen is known for, but…I talked to this artist fellow I met the other day, Jeremiah Stalk, and he agreed to help me make quite a spectacle of this. I asked him if there was a way he could separate my version of this song from the original and any others outside of just the vocals, and the diagrams he drew up for me…it was like he could read my mind! How I’ve always admired visual artists. I just hope this works and Cohen won’t have a renewed lust for my head on a platter."