(A) for Arrival [ He's in hell. A very personal hell, which could almost be made specifically for him if anybody thought he was big-time enough to warrant that. But it's feeling very targeted right about now. The floral prints. The white picket fence and the birds chirping merrily outside the window. The “Our Wedding” photo between the beds. The ugly striped PJs…
Actually, he'd probably wear those without prompting. As a joke, though. Not with the saccharine sincerity that oozes from underneath the bedskirts and lurks under the plastic slip covers on the sofa. No. No way, José. He did not sign up for this.
(Later, when he finds it, when the panic just begins to ebb— the mail on the table that really cranks the uncanny creepy-crawlies up to 11. Addressed to “Mr. Patrick O’Brian”. How did they know?)
Plas appreciates commitment to the bit. He really does. But it stopped being funny after the first five seconds, when on reflex he'd tried to GASP! in horror, really just full-body like a startled cat in the cartoons, and reached for his face…and the skin didn’t stretch off his skull. Literally. Nothing stretched. His spine stubbornly refused to be anything but rigid. It all just stayed…in place. Frozen. Stubbornly stiff. Small.
(There aren't words, and he's not an eloquent man anyway. But at least if his body's a prison, he's still Plastic Man somewhere in it.)
Ma O'Brian always said “you keep making that face and it'll stay that way.” Except he hasn't stayed any way in about thirty years. And folks— it sucks. Holy shit, the list of things Plas forgot is endless. Like: your knees will betray you at the first opportunity; and, backs are God's idea of a big practical joke; and also, gravity is for suckers and squares.
So is balance. So is remembering your leg won't just lengthen to meet the pavement. Observe: an adult man who appears to be in his 30s, in a somewhat disheveled pinstriped suit, stepping off the curb. Please look away, as the fool goes forward, and keeps going forward, and pratfalls onto the pavement. Please. These scraps of dignity are all he has left. ]
Oh, for God's sake—
[ Bleeding! He also forgot about bleeding. And the way pavement will cut up your hands, when you catch yourself on it. And bruises. Forgot about those. And, once again, the white-rimmed shades go skittering away as they fall off his face. That didn't used to happen either. ]
You know— [ To no one. To himself, as he plops himself over to sit on the street, looking miserably at the dirt on his pants and his scratched up hands. To you, maybe? ] You always think karma's gonna come back around on you one day, maybe, but you never think it's gonna be like this.
[ Except this is definitely karmic. Plas (not Patrick, don’t ever call him Patrick sighs heavily. Looks around for his lost shades. At least, at least— he's still got the shades. In some form, anyway. Even if he had to track them down himself. ]
Do you mind grabbing those? [ And that's definitely to you, whoever you are. ] Just gotta…remember how this goes again…
[ Standing up like a normal human being, and not a Gumby-like hell-man. It's so hard. ]
(B) is for “Block Party of My Nightmares” [ And see, this is karmic, this shit right here. The part where Plas always failed miserably back home: playing at having a day job and a normal life and a family. And now it's like— Pleasantville normal. Too normal. “Leave it to Beaver” normal. Strong evidence for his I'm in hell theory, either way. He'd have put himself in a Chicago overcoat before he’' voluntarily end up in the suburbs.
Okay, but this, though. This is a kick in the teeth. This moment, right here, where they hand him this wobbly mountain of brightly-colored and mismatched ingredients. Plas stares at it, forlorn. Wishing he could be just as gelatinous and jiggly as this strange Meatloaf Souffle Jello Surprise. ]
Oh, you…shouldn't have…now you're just making fun of me…
[ It makes sense in the context of his life, okay? ]
(C) is for Creeping Zombie Children Everywhere [ Plas is like 99.9% sure: he's seen this movie. Like, definitely. It was an 80s smash hit, or something? (It wasn't.) But in a way— in a way that suggests that maybe there is something so very wrong with him— it's a relief. Kicking it with Lucy and Ricky and Donna Reed? Surreal. Zombie hordes? God, thank you, something finally familiar.
Or not zombies. Plas doesn't need to know exactly what they are. Those are the sort of details you leave to Bats or Mister Terrific or somebody who's not him. What he does know— what still feels distressingly familiar, even decades removed from being Eel O’Brian— is breaking people, with things. With a chair (sorry, honey, whoever you are, they'll get another chair—) when they break in the door and storm the kitchen. Better, with a bat snatched from the kid's room (sorry, son who's not his actual son, but thank God he's not here.) Shattering water-logged femurs to try and make a break out the back door.
It makes him feel like shit. Plas feels keenly that this is not the sort of thing former members of the Justice League should be doing. Even though they're clearly, MANIFESTLY dead. That's some comfort, at least. Not enough to outweigh swinging a bat at dead children's legs, but. Some, you know? And he would like to keep not being dead, until he can figure out why he's flesh-and-blood and then get the hell outta dodge and all that, which means options are limited.
But he forgot how hard it is, beating people down when you're just an ordinary guy. Even when it's people who stay down. Unlike these tykes. Soon he's covered in scratches, clothes ripped beyond repair. Gotta keep swinging. Gotta get out. ]
Sorry, I'm sorry— [ ‘Cause, well. What else is there to say? In those moments where he can catch his breath, before he's got to start swinging again. ] I'm really sorry, I'll— find the cursed amulet and put you back, or the serial killer, or…or whatever! Just— stay down, for five minutes, could ya—!
[ They cannot. Alas. But help would be appreciated! ]
(OOC: I only have hellish shapeshifting icons please just roll with it.)
Plastic Man | DC Comics | OTA
[ He's in hell. A very personal hell, which could almost be made specifically for him if anybody thought he was big-time enough to warrant that. But it's feeling very targeted right about now. The floral prints. The white picket fence and the birds chirping merrily outside the window. The “Our Wedding” photo between the beds. The ugly striped PJs…
Actually, he'd probably wear those without prompting. As a joke, though. Not with the saccharine sincerity that oozes from underneath the bedskirts and lurks under the plastic slip covers on the sofa. No. No way, José. He did not sign up for this.
(Later, when he finds it, when the panic just begins to ebb— the mail on the table that really cranks the uncanny creepy-crawlies up to 11. Addressed to “Mr. Patrick O’Brian”. How did they know?)
Plas appreciates commitment to the bit. He really does. But it stopped being funny after the first five seconds, when on reflex he'd tried to GASP! in horror, really just full-body like a startled cat in the cartoons, and reached for his face…and the skin didn’t stretch off his skull. Literally. Nothing stretched. His spine stubbornly refused to be anything but rigid. It all just stayed…in place. Frozen. Stubbornly stiff. Small.
(There aren't words, and he's not an eloquent man anyway. But at least if his body's a prison, he's still Plastic Man somewhere in it.)
Ma O'Brian always said “you keep making that face and it'll stay that way.” Except he hasn't stayed any way in about thirty years. And folks— it sucks. Holy shit, the list of things Plas forgot is endless. Like: your knees will betray you at the first opportunity; and, backs are God's idea of a big practical joke; and also, gravity is for suckers and squares.
So is balance. So is remembering your leg won't just lengthen to meet the pavement. Observe: an adult man who appears to be in his 30s, in a somewhat disheveled pinstriped suit, stepping off the curb. Please look away, as the fool goes forward, and keeps going forward, and pratfalls onto the pavement. Please. These scraps of dignity are all he has left. ]
Oh, for God's sake—
[ Bleeding! He also forgot about bleeding. And the way pavement will cut up your hands, when you catch yourself on it. And bruises. Forgot about those. And, once again, the white-rimmed shades go skittering away as they fall off his face. That didn't used to happen either. ]
You know— [ To no one. To himself, as he plops himself over to sit on the street, looking miserably at the dirt on his pants and his scratched up hands. To you, maybe? ] You always think karma's gonna come back around on you one day, maybe, but you never think it's gonna be like this.
[ Except this is definitely karmic. Plas (not Patrick, don’t ever call him Patrick sighs heavily. Looks around for his lost shades. At least, at least— he's still got the shades. In some form, anyway. Even if he had to track them down himself. ]
Do you mind grabbing those? [ And that's definitely to you, whoever you are. ] Just gotta…remember how this goes again…
[ Standing up like a normal human being, and not a Gumby-like hell-man. It's so hard. ]
(B) is for “Block Party of My Nightmares”
[ And see, this is karmic, this shit right here. The part where Plas always failed miserably back home: playing at having a day job and a normal life and a family. And now it's like— Pleasantville normal. Too normal. “Leave it to Beaver” normal. Strong evidence for his I'm in hell theory, either way. He'd have put himself in a Chicago overcoat before he’' voluntarily end up in the suburbs.
Okay, but this, though. This is a kick in the teeth. This moment, right here, where they hand him this wobbly mountain of brightly-colored and mismatched ingredients. Plas stares at it, forlorn. Wishing he could be just as gelatinous and jiggly as this strange Meatloaf Souffle Jello Surprise. ]
Oh, you…shouldn't have…now you're just making fun of me…
[ It makes sense in the context of his life, okay? ]
(C) is for Creeping Zombie Children Everywhere
[ Plas is like 99.9% sure: he's seen this movie. Like, definitely. It was an 80s smash hit, or something? (It wasn't.) But in a way— in a way that suggests that maybe there is something so very wrong with him— it's a relief. Kicking it with Lucy and Ricky and Donna Reed? Surreal. Zombie hordes? God, thank you, something finally familiar.
Or not zombies. Plas doesn't need to know exactly what they are. Those are the sort of details you leave to Bats or Mister Terrific or somebody who's not him. What he does know— what still feels distressingly familiar, even decades removed from being Eel O’Brian— is breaking people, with things. With a chair (sorry, honey, whoever you are, they'll get another chair—) when they break in the door and storm the kitchen. Better, with a bat snatched from the kid's room (sorry, son who's not his actual son, but thank God he's not here.) Shattering water-logged femurs to try and make a break out the back door.
It makes him feel like shit. Plas feels keenly that this is not the sort of thing former members of the Justice League should be doing. Even though they're clearly, MANIFESTLY dead. That's some comfort, at least. Not enough to outweigh swinging a bat at dead children's legs, but. Some, you know? And he would like to keep not being dead, until he can figure out why he's flesh-and-blood and then get the hell outta dodge and all that, which means options are limited.
But he forgot how hard it is, beating people down when you're just an ordinary guy. Even when it's people who stay down. Unlike these tykes. Soon he's covered in scratches, clothes ripped beyond repair. Gotta keep swinging. Gotta get out. ]
Sorry, I'm sorry— [ ‘Cause, well. What else is there to say? In those moments where he can catch his breath, before he's got to start swinging again. ] I'm really sorry, I'll— find the cursed amulet and put you back, or the serial killer, or…or whatever! Just— stay down, for five minutes, could ya—!
[ They cannot. Alas. But help would be appreciated! ]
(OOC: I only have hellish shapeshifting icons please just roll with it.)