Dirk Strider (Ultimate) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
uber_marionettist) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
victory_road2022-09-29 02:45 pm
uber_marionettist) wrote in victory_road2022-09-29 02:45 pm
Dirk catchall for this tournament
Who: Dirk Strider and You!
Where: Tournament event stuff
When: Tournament dates
Summary: As many "not a normal human" things to do as I can think of for him to be doing
Warning: PG 13 to R rating for suggestive language and profanity, probably
A. After Round 2!
Call him a shut-in (actually don't, he'll argue with you), but it's not until after his second victory that Dirk actually takes the time to start exploring the event. It's big. Busy. Alive, in the way any large venue that's successfully hosting anything is alive. There's just so many god damn people, is the thing.
Dirk may have moved to Saffron City to place his gym, but he did so with every intention of being hundreds of miles above it all. Down on the ground with the rest of the human race, he's quickly overwhelmed. Trying to find Heather after the match is a fucking nightmare. What makes this actually tolerable is the part that one would expect to send him packing: the weirdly nostalgic presence of fans. He's a Champion, a Gym Leader, and now he's defeated a fellow Aurora League member--it's almost like being a god-celebrity again. And he's visually distinctive, albeit... er, shorter than much of the crowd.
Not that this encourages his contrary ass to give these poor people what they want. He does not give autographs or pose for selfies, does not answer questions or permit handshakes or even look their way when they call out to him. Not even a single solitary thumbs up. He ignores them utterly, staring straight ahead with a flat and stony expression, indifferent to any badgering or squealing or even the odd Pokeball lobbed at his head (presumably with the intention of soliciting his autograph, but he doesn't ask. Sometimes he doesn't even dodge them.)
Is there some deeper ploy to his behaviour, some secret method by which he's decided that this is a completely not-insane person thing to do? Yes. Of course there is. Because despite being as big of a tool as he can possibly be about fan attention, he doesn't ditch them, either. He could quite easily hop on his Mandibuzz and Fly his ass out of there, or simply run up a wall and flip onto the roof of the nearest building, leaving all but the most intrepid enthusiasts behind on the ground below. But he doesn't.
The fact that this act coincides perfectly with the fact that he's a little... uh, overstimulated... is just a coincidence. It's fine. He's fine, this is just how he operates. It's functional.
He definitely didn't just turn a corner too soon and crack his head against a metal pole.
B. Finals
The day before the final match, Dirk is... surprisingly not hidden away from the world or holed up in his hotel room. This may be due to the fact that he shares his hotel room with two other people, neither of whom he especially wants witnessing him speedrunning a turbo crisis of character, performance, and public image.
See, when one gets down to it, being the villain has a lot of perks. One of them is that successfuly playing the villain demands one's eventual downfall. Losing is a given. The grander and more spectacular a spectacle, the higher the stakes and the more beloved or unlikely the hero to whose efforts the villain must succumb, the better and more memorable the story. A swift and brutal defeat is just as effective. Or a prolonged, gruelling, even tedious contest by which the villain might lose only by a hair, or else prove himself weak and worthless and wretched after all... it doesn't matter. As long as he, the villain, loses, he can't actually lose. It's honestly genius.
Here is where Dirk fucked up: he forgot, in his excitement to prove his superiority, to cast himself as the villain.
He was so preoccupied with raising the stakes, analysing and deconstructing the strategies of his opponents with machinelike precision to engineer another victory... that his character slipped. It--and he--became sincere. And now, faced with the prospect of losing here at the pinnacle of a tournament he hadn't thought to give his narrative attention to... well. It's not going so well for him.
He's hoping to use the fact that he's in a public place to discourage prying--and if the presence of potential witnesses to whatever conversation one might get from Dirk Strider isn't deterrent enough, the fevered intensity of the energy radiating from him borders on the deranged. He's occupying a bench next to a pop-up shop of souvenirs, seated more or less directly in the middle of it; normally this would be pretty impolite, especially with his legs spread the way they are. (Yes, Dirk Strider manspreads. What did you expect?) But even though you can't see his eyes behind the sick signature sunglasses, the deep furrow of his brows suggests something pretty serious is happening behind those shades. He's sitting with his elbows on his knees, hands folded over his chin like fucking Gendo Ikari--but so tightly that it looks almost painful, and while he's trying (no, really, he is trying) to look preoccupied in a cool, pensive way... his normally impassive, immovable exterior is marred by the way his leg starts bouncing frantically any time his thoughts wander. Which is pretty much constantly, because behind those shades is an abyssal whirlpool of catastrophising and overthinking. This man? Is spiralling.
Or maybe this... maybe this is just what he looks like when he's strategising. It's hard work, pre-visualising all those battle-specific mechanics and moves conditions in that overclocked brain of his. Yeah.
C. Closed to Emporio... I'm so sorry Emporio
With the finals looming over him and his intended opponent--the one battle whose promised potential motivated Dirk to sign up for this whole thing to begin with--eliminated in the first round, Dirk has but one other competitor in his sights.
And, true to form, he's chosen to pursue his interest.... er, literally. And secretively. Across rooftops and behind corners, in shadows and otherwise out of sight. Without his flash step, it's not as simple as it could have been, but he has no shame about abusing the skills of a well-trained Greninja. He spent three years training SIN, the least he could get out of it is the freedom to surreptitiously hound people across one measly city.
He's watching you, Emporio.
What are you going to do about it?
D. Closed to Emet-selch and Hythlodaeus
Dirk is not remotely surprised to discover that Emet prioritised booking at the fanciest and most expensive hotel in the entire city. He's not. It's just that sometimes it feels like his surroundings are a constantly swinging pendulum between his preferences and Emet's--which is to say, the most luxe, high-end examples of finery and taste that money can buy, or a chaotic mixture of poverty-adjacent asceticism and hyper-exaggerated indulgence jumbled together with inaccessible and sometimes hostile results.
It's not hard to guess whose is whose.
Anyway, this is just how Emet does things. Emet is like Jake when it comes to amenities and the so-called finer things in life. The difference is that Emet is actually possessed of some experience with culture and not just going all-in on everything in every way, so he knows what he's doing and isn't just making decisions on price alone. So it's not like he doesn't have the coin for it (as they say in Emet's canon.) It just never occurs to Dirk to do that kind of thing himself.
So, whatever, right?
Except that's not what's giving him pause inside the door to their hotel room. No, what's giving him pause is....
"....at what point was this booking for only one bed?"
Where: Tournament event stuff
When: Tournament dates
Summary: As many "not a normal human" things to do as I can think of for him to be doing
Warning: PG 13 to R rating for suggestive language and profanity, probably
A. After Round 2!
Call him a shut-in (actually don't, he'll argue with you), but it's not until after his second victory that Dirk actually takes the time to start exploring the event. It's big. Busy. Alive, in the way any large venue that's successfully hosting anything is alive. There's just so many god damn people, is the thing.
Dirk may have moved to Saffron City to place his gym, but he did so with every intention of being hundreds of miles above it all. Down on the ground with the rest of the human race, he's quickly overwhelmed. Trying to find Heather after the match is a fucking nightmare. What makes this actually tolerable is the part that one would expect to send him packing: the weirdly nostalgic presence of fans. He's a Champion, a Gym Leader, and now he's defeated a fellow Aurora League member--it's almost like being a god-celebrity again. And he's visually distinctive, albeit... er, shorter than much of the crowd.
Not that this encourages his contrary ass to give these poor people what they want. He does not give autographs or pose for selfies, does not answer questions or permit handshakes or even look their way when they call out to him. Not even a single solitary thumbs up. He ignores them utterly, staring straight ahead with a flat and stony expression, indifferent to any badgering or squealing or even the odd Pokeball lobbed at his head (presumably with the intention of soliciting his autograph, but he doesn't ask. Sometimes he doesn't even dodge them.)
Is there some deeper ploy to his behaviour, some secret method by which he's decided that this is a completely not-insane person thing to do? Yes. Of course there is. Because despite being as big of a tool as he can possibly be about fan attention, he doesn't ditch them, either. He could quite easily hop on his Mandibuzz and Fly his ass out of there, or simply run up a wall and flip onto the roof of the nearest building, leaving all but the most intrepid enthusiasts behind on the ground below. But he doesn't.
The fact that this act coincides perfectly with the fact that he's a little... uh, overstimulated... is just a coincidence. It's fine. He's fine, this is just how he operates. It's functional.
He definitely didn't just turn a corner too soon and crack his head against a metal pole.
B. Finals
The day before the final match, Dirk is... surprisingly not hidden away from the world or holed up in his hotel room. This may be due to the fact that he shares his hotel room with two other people, neither of whom he especially wants witnessing him speedrunning a turbo crisis of character, performance, and public image.
See, when one gets down to it, being the villain has a lot of perks. One of them is that successfuly playing the villain demands one's eventual downfall. Losing is a given. The grander and more spectacular a spectacle, the higher the stakes and the more beloved or unlikely the hero to whose efforts the villain must succumb, the better and more memorable the story. A swift and brutal defeat is just as effective. Or a prolonged, gruelling, even tedious contest by which the villain might lose only by a hair, or else prove himself weak and worthless and wretched after all... it doesn't matter. As long as he, the villain, loses, he can't actually lose. It's honestly genius.
Here is where Dirk fucked up: he forgot, in his excitement to prove his superiority, to cast himself as the villain.
He was so preoccupied with raising the stakes, analysing and deconstructing the strategies of his opponents with machinelike precision to engineer another victory... that his character slipped. It--and he--became sincere. And now, faced with the prospect of losing here at the pinnacle of a tournament he hadn't thought to give his narrative attention to... well. It's not going so well for him.
He's hoping to use the fact that he's in a public place to discourage prying--and if the presence of potential witnesses to whatever conversation one might get from Dirk Strider isn't deterrent enough, the fevered intensity of the energy radiating from him borders on the deranged. He's occupying a bench next to a pop-up shop of souvenirs, seated more or less directly in the middle of it; normally this would be pretty impolite, especially with his legs spread the way they are. (Yes, Dirk Strider manspreads. What did you expect?) But even though you can't see his eyes behind the sick signature sunglasses, the deep furrow of his brows suggests something pretty serious is happening behind those shades. He's sitting with his elbows on his knees, hands folded over his chin like fucking Gendo Ikari--but so tightly that it looks almost painful, and while he's trying (no, really, he is trying) to look preoccupied in a cool, pensive way... his normally impassive, immovable exterior is marred by the way his leg starts bouncing frantically any time his thoughts wander. Which is pretty much constantly, because behind those shades is an abyssal whirlpool of catastrophising and overthinking. This man? Is spiralling.
Or maybe this... maybe this is just what he looks like when he's strategising. It's hard work, pre-visualising all those battle-specific mechanics and moves conditions in that overclocked brain of his. Yeah.
C. Closed to Emporio... I'm so sorry Emporio
With the finals looming over him and his intended opponent--the one battle whose promised potential motivated Dirk to sign up for this whole thing to begin with--eliminated in the first round, Dirk has but one other competitor in his sights.
And, true to form, he's chosen to pursue his interest.... er, literally. And secretively. Across rooftops and behind corners, in shadows and otherwise out of sight. Without his flash step, it's not as simple as it could have been, but he has no shame about abusing the skills of a well-trained Greninja. He spent three years training SIN, the least he could get out of it is the freedom to surreptitiously hound people across one measly city.
He's watching you, Emporio.
What are you going to do about it?
D. Closed to Emet-selch and Hythlodaeus
Dirk is not remotely surprised to discover that Emet prioritised booking at the fanciest and most expensive hotel in the entire city. He's not. It's just that sometimes it feels like his surroundings are a constantly swinging pendulum between his preferences and Emet's--which is to say, the most luxe, high-end examples of finery and taste that money can buy, or a chaotic mixture of poverty-adjacent asceticism and hyper-exaggerated indulgence jumbled together with inaccessible and sometimes hostile results.
It's not hard to guess whose is whose.
Anyway, this is just how Emet does things. Emet is like Jake when it comes to amenities and the so-called finer things in life. The difference is that Emet is actually possessed of some experience with culture and not just going all-in on everything in every way, so he knows what he's doing and isn't just making decisions on price alone. So it's not like he doesn't have the coin for it (as they say in Emet's canon.) It just never occurs to Dirk to do that kind of thing himself.
So, whatever, right?
Except that's not what's giving him pause inside the door to their hotel room. No, what's giving him pause is....
"....at what point was this booking for only one bed?"
no subject
Whatever snide remarks me might have said are stopped short when Hythlodaeus starts to blow dry his hair, and so Emet turns away from the bathroom once more to find himself silently sitting on the edge of the bed, his lips finding themselves resting against his laced fingers as he lets out a weary sigh, eyes closed.
The fact Dirk seems to favor this look is tiring in itself, but he has no words to argue if this might soften their relationship.
no subject
Also, he saw that smile Hythlodaeus gave him and he has a sinking feeling about it. So, he puts his hands in his pockets and waits, keenly aware that this gives control of the entire exchange to Hythlodaeus: to stop it at any time, or resume, at his leisure.
But it's better to look like he's cool with that than it is to show weakness. Especially with Emet and Hythlodaeus on the rocks, for once. So he's cool. It's cool. Everything right now is cool.
no subject
"Come now," he says to the men. "It brings out my eyes."
A soft chiding for Emet. See? The most important part is still there.