( the drifting, DAY 1-2 ) It's a testament to the slow decline of Nacho's sanity that his first thought is only, "Not this shit again." when he realizes some of their crew are talking like they've been here for years. Some of them talk like they've lived here all their lives.
Karsa says not to say anything to them, so he doesn't.
Anyway, he thinks, would it be so bad to stay here? After all, being a tax collector isn't glamorous and it doesn't win you a lot of friends, but it's a legitimate, legal job, and he's good at it. Maybe this is his chance to do things right, he thinks, live the normal, legal life his father would have wanted him to live...
There's a somehow ominous knock on the door of your place of business or your residence that afternoon. Open it, and see Nacho wordlessly extending his tax collector jar to you, one eyebrow raised meaningfully. Pay up.
( the drifting part ii - DAY 3-4 ) Or, open it to see a slightly more haggard Nacho holding up candles. Drugs, as it turns out, tend to sell themselves. Candles require more legwork, and so far he's not having much luck. He promised Jesse he'd try, though, so here he is.
"Hey," he says, as you open the door. He looks you up and down, trying to decide if you're the kind of person he's okay with hawking pyramid scheme candles to. If you look poor, or he knows from his other job that you're behind on your taxes, expect him to quickly rescind his offer. If, however, you look like you've got more dollars than sense, he'll launch into his scripted speech.
( drifting, part iii - NIGHT 5 ) cw: brief mention of drugs and drug trafficking
The pungent odor of an upholstery shop fills one of the upstairs rooms at the dilapidated restaurant that Nacho and a few others call home. It's a smell that was comforting for Nacho, once upon a time, even if it isn't to most people. Now, though, it burns his lungs and makes his heart ache with guilt. He still see it even now. His father, hiding around a corner, watching Hector helplessly with pained, angry eyes... thinking about his father's beloved shop being used to funnel drugs...
It hurts Nacho even now to think about it.
He closes his eyes, breathing hard but trying to get back to sleep when he hears it. Just outside his window. Unmistakably, that's his father's voice. Talking about-- talking about work shit, nothing important, but that his old man--
Simple logic would dictate that his father wouldn't be trying to fit upholstery here, now, in the middle of the night, but Nacho is half-asleep and not operating on normal waking logic. He jumps up and flings himself out of bed, opening his door with such force it bounces against the wall. "Dad!" he yells, rubbing the sleep out of one eye.
Also, yeah, he is still in sleep clothes as he charges down the stairs, through the restaurant, barreling past anyone ringing bells for chowder or doing just about anything else, yelling frantically, "Dad! Dad!"
He's heading for directly outdoors, and he's probably being loud enough to wake everyone in the place if they're not up already.
( they sleep - MAY 22) cw: minor, magic-induced suicidal ideation
Nacho is unable to look away from the scratches on the inside of the lids of some of the boats. He's unable to look away from any of it. He rests a hand on a boat lid there, crouches down to get a better look at something there. He frowns thoughtfully as he does it.
The ocean water that gently laps at the edges of the returned funeral boats is dark but more and more tempting by the second. He can imagine, at first, how cool the water would feel against his skin if he slipped into it, and when that's not enough to convince him to take the plunge his thoughts become more intense. More vividly, he thinks suddenly that he shouldn't be, that his existence was supposed to be over now. He took his own life. That was supposed to be the end.
There's a crash and a splash as Nacho halfway flings, half lets himself fall into the water.
( ill met by moonlight - MAY 27 ) You're probably a housemate, or maybe a restaurant patron! Maybe you're not at the Dancing Seagull at all; who knows, this could be somewhere else completely different. He's not the type not to go out and try to save people who need it, after all.
Wherever you are, though, one of the walking dead is creeping slowly past you. Nacho is on top of you, hand lightly pressing against your mouth. "Shhh," he whispers into your ear. "Don't. Move."
( wildcard ) [ Something else grab your fancy? Feel free to BYOS (Bring Your Own Starter). As a note, willing to match whatever style you prefer; just did this in prose because it was easier for me to get it written that way! ]
Nacho Varga | Better Call Saul | Old Timer
It's a testament to the slow decline of Nacho's sanity that his first thought is only, "Not this shit again." when he realizes some of their crew are talking like they've been here for years. Some of them talk like they've lived here all their lives.
Karsa says not to say anything to them, so he doesn't.
Anyway, he thinks, would it be so bad to stay here? After all, being a tax collector isn't glamorous and it doesn't win you a lot of friends, but it's a legitimate, legal job, and he's good at it. Maybe this is his chance to do things right, he thinks, live the normal, legal life his father would have wanted him to live...
There's a somehow ominous knock on the door of your place of business or your residence that afternoon. Open it, and see Nacho wordlessly extending his tax collector jar to you, one eyebrow raised meaningfully. Pay up.
( the drifting part ii - DAY 3-4 )
Or, open it to see a slightly more haggard Nacho holding up candles. Drugs, as it turns out, tend to sell themselves. Candles require more legwork, and so far he's not having much luck. He promised Jesse he'd try, though, so here he is.
"Hey," he says, as you open the door. He looks you up and down, trying to decide if you're the kind of person he's okay with hawking pyramid scheme candles to. If you look poor, or he knows from his other job that you're behind on your taxes, expect him to quickly rescind his offer. If, however, you look like you've got more dollars than sense, he'll launch into his scripted speech.
( drifting, part iii - NIGHT 5 )
cw: brief mention of drugs and drug trafficking
The pungent odor of an upholstery shop fills one of the upstairs rooms at the dilapidated restaurant that Nacho and a few others call home. It's a smell that was comforting for Nacho, once upon a time, even if it isn't to most people. Now, though, it burns his lungs and makes his heart ache with guilt. He still see it even now. His father, hiding around a corner, watching Hector helplessly with pained, angry eyes... thinking about his father's beloved shop being used to funnel drugs...
It hurts Nacho even now to think about it.
He closes his eyes, breathing hard but trying to get back to sleep when he hears it. Just outside his window. Unmistakably, that's his father's voice. Talking about-- talking about work shit, nothing important, but that his old man--
Simple logic would dictate that his father wouldn't be trying to fit upholstery here, now, in the middle of the night, but Nacho is half-asleep and not operating on normal waking logic. He jumps up and flings himself out of bed, opening his door with such force it bounces against the wall. "Dad!" he yells, rubbing the sleep out of one eye.
Also, yeah, he is still in sleep clothes as he charges down the stairs, through the restaurant, barreling past anyone ringing bells for chowder or doing just about anything else, yelling frantically, "Dad! Dad!"
He's heading for directly outdoors, and he's probably being loud enough to wake everyone in the place if they're not up already.
( they sleep - MAY 22)
cw: minor, magic-induced suicidal ideation
Nacho is unable to look away from the scratches on the inside of the lids of some of the boats. He's unable to look away from any of it. He rests a hand on a boat lid there, crouches down to get a better look at something there. He frowns thoughtfully as he does it.
The ocean water that gently laps at the edges of the returned funeral boats is dark but more and more tempting by the second. He can imagine, at first, how cool the water would feel against his skin if he slipped into it, and when that's not enough to convince him to take the plunge his thoughts become more intense. More vividly, he thinks suddenly that he shouldn't be, that his existence was supposed to be over now. He took his own life. That was supposed to be the end.
There's a crash and a splash as Nacho halfway flings, half lets himself fall into the water.
( ill met by moonlight - MAY 27 )
You're probably a housemate, or maybe a restaurant patron! Maybe you're not at the Dancing Seagull at all; who knows, this could be somewhere else completely different. He's not the type not to go out and try to save people who need it, after all.
Wherever you are, though, one of the walking dead is creeping slowly past you. Nacho is on top of you, hand lightly pressing against your mouth. "Shhh," he whispers into your ear. "Don't. Move."
( wildcard )
[ Something else grab your fancy? Feel free to BYOS (Bring Your Own Starter). As a note, willing to match whatever style you prefer; just did this in prose because it was easier for me to get it written that way! ]