Logs:Telling Stories
| Telling Stories | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 2023-01-27 "{Some men would rather bury the past than learn from it, but I cannot abide by that.}" |
| Location | |
In many ways Ion is a difficult man to find -- no fixed address, no email, no phone, no schedule, no reliable way at all, really, to get in touch or leave a message or know where he might be about. In other ways, it's really just a matter of time before -- "-- {overdue for a fucking riot!}" Ion's gravelly-bass voice is booming ahead of him, well over the smooth purr of his bike, a sleek and heavily modified black and chrome number bearing a license plate that reads WIRED on its vanity plate. "{Cops want to run they fucking mouths let 'em, we be ready.}" He's just veering up to a smooth stop at the edge of the ever-changing gathering-place-cum-bazaar that has become the neighborhood's de facto town square, booted foot planting itself on the ground squarely as he -- does he actually turn the bike off? It certainly shuts itself off, anyway, when he straightens from the handlebars. He looks quite comfortably a cheerful contradiction, heavy boots and heavy jeans, warm black and grey flannel, his cut (well-worn and well-scuffed, it bears the large Jolly Roger insignia of all his crew -- his own horned and fanged with a jagged pair of crossed lightning bolts where crossbones should be. MUTANT MONGRELS reads the top rocker and EMPIRE STATE the bottom; on the front, under the club's name: PRESIDENT) oddly softened by a glittery plastic tiara perched on his head, a thick wreathing of cheap cloth-flower lei in pink and purple and gaudy plastic rhinestone, a fairy-wand with a head shaped like a star (... in contrast to the other accessories, this looks solid and finely constructed, albeit no less gaudy, the star encrusted with what -- can't possibly be myriad real diamonds. Can they?) tucked haphazardly into a vest pocket. Alongside him his companion's bike is a heavier number, a squat and gnarled beast of a machine that looks as fierce as its rider does -- tall and muscular with sharp horns, sharp claws, heavy satyr-like hooves, a sharp-spaded tail that lashes behind as they dismount. They don't speak, just twitch their very flattened nose in a small snort, head dipping in acknowledgment before they clap a hand to Ion's shoulder and amble off very hopefully towards a young woman grilling kebabs. Ion is hopping off his bike after, casually adjusting the tiara on his head. Does this actually straighten the thing? No, it does not. Anahita does not usually attract much remark when she does not wish to, and today she's actively trying to blend in with Freaktown's regulars. She's wearing a black canvas jacket over a pink, purple, and black flannel, old sturdy denim overalls, and engineer's boots. Her long hair spills out, silky black streaked bright with silver, from a slightly oversized red newsboy cap. She has been sitting by a fire in the yard of a manor next to the square chatting amiably with a couple of residents over a shared cigarette, but sits up at the spectacle of Ion's arrival. Taking her leave in no particular hurry, she takes up the pack she'd unslung from across her back and makes her way into the plaza and up to the mayor of the town. "Ion." There's no question in her tone, though it's been two years and more since she's seen him. She does not smile, but there's a spark of mirth in her eyes as they skip between his incongruous accessories. "{I don't know if you remember me,}" she says, her Spanish easy but crammed full of jumbled accents with Argentine, Venezuelan, and Cuban predominating, "{but Joshua said you were the one to come to if I have concerns here.}" Ion is just slipping a slightly crumpled pack of Newports out of a pocket, tapping one out to tuck it between his lips. He doesn't light it -- turns at the sound of his name, his own smile lighting ready and bright around the dangling cigarette, though there is no immediate sign of recognition. "{Ey-o, friend --}" He's reflexively tipping the open pack of cigarettes toward Anahita in offering as he squinches one eye up in a studious examination, continuing through several long beats before his free hand snaps, points delightedly at Anahita. "{Shit, Arepas! The fuck you disappear off to? -- wait who said? Man, when we gonna see that Leatherman 'round here?}" he is enquiring all in an eager rush, before his brows dip in. "{You been having some problems?}" "{Thank you.}" Anahita accepts a cigarette even as she conjures up an ancient steel lighter with a red star on it and offers to light Ion's before her own. Her smile at being identified as "Arepas" looks genuinely amused. "{I went to find my son, in San Francisco. I have missed your arepas, though.}" She looks around as if expecting Joshua to materialize nearby as she speaks. "{He did not say, but I do hope to see him again.}" No Joshua is evident, but she does start leading Ion toward a less populated corner of the plaza, her steps unhurried. "{There is a man who does not like me telling stories here. He.}" This hesitation is extremely brief. "{Warned me.}" Her hand starts to lift towards her collar, but she aborts the gesture and takes a long drag on the cigarette instead. "{He is the kind of man who expects to get his way, and usually does.}" Ion closes the box after Anahita takes a cigarette. He leans in to accept the flame, taking a long drag before he falls into an easy stride alongside her. "Saywha--" His brows have shot up, tongue clicking against his teeth. "{What kinda stories you telling, waqrasapa don't like stories how he fuckin survive here? Like the thousand-and-one-nights here every-damn-night, you get too close to a fire and shit you are high risk of being drag right in to some motherfucker's saga.}" Is that Some Motherfucker often Ion? VERY possibly many of Freaktown's children and adults alike can vouch for his skills at Spooky Voices and Dramatic Reenactments. Despite his flip tone, Anahita's small hesitation, her aborted gesture, have not gone unclocked, his eyes skating toward her collar with a slight tightening of jaw that gives his wide smile a slightly feral edge. "{Don't got a lot of rules in this place and I promise you, No Stories sure as shit ain't one. No threatening my goddamn people, though?}" His exhalation comes with a stream of smoke pushed out through his teeth. "{He still round, this story-hater?}" The briefly deeper crinkle of crow's feet around Anahita's eyes is warm even though her smile has gone. "{I don't know that he has anything against stories in general.}" This sounds less like a defense of the unnamed man and more dry musing. "{He just doesn't like mine. Because I say too much, he says, but he has not heard a word of it.}" She shakes her head. "{He comes here from time to time. I do not know how often, and I'm pretty sure he's not stalking the streets waiting for me to slip up. Maybe nothing will come of it at all.}" She shrugs. "{But I haven't exactly been eager to try his temper.}" Ion's head tilts as he lifts his cigarette, shooting Anahita a sidelong glance over his next puff. "{-- what part exactly's Too Much about yours if he heard nothing of em, then? Had to have heard enough to piss him off, huh? 'less this man just fucking batshit, like Once Upon A Time, send him round the bend?}" He glances back behind then, towards the lively hubbub of the town center. "{But you here, you shouldn't have to try nobody's temper.}" His grin is a little sharper, now, as he taps the smaller Mongrels patch on his chest. "Any-damn-body you see in these colors, {that's what we here for. Someone make this place unsafe, my dogs all got some bite, huh? You tell us, we won't let nothing come from it.}" Anahita huffs, the not-quite-scoff accentuated by a little puff of smoke. "{His actual accusation was so nonsensical it doesn't bear repeating. If I weren't panicking I'd have slapped him for suggesting I would out one of our own for a story.}" She inhales deep, breathes out a long white stream at the sky, and sounds completely calm again when she continues. "{I think the truth is seeing me again brought up memories he didn't want to deal with, so he shut me up instead, and didn't care how flimsy the excuse. Some men would rather bury the past than learn from it, but I cannot abide by that.}" The hitch of her shrug is small and fatalistic, her smile rueful. "{Thank you. Most people do not stand up to men like him, for many reasons. I believe you would, and I hope I will not have to call on you. Also for many reasons.}" Her head dips in a small bow. "{But I feel safer knowing I can.}" Ion's brows hitch just a touch at the mention of outing one of their own. "{Some people want their memories to be their own, friend. Not nobody else's place to force someone to deal with their shit. Someone want to carry their baggage to their grave, s'their own damn problem.}" He draws a long puff of his smoke, blowing it out in a hard huff through his nose. "{-- Til they make it everyone else's.}" Anahita's eyes cut aside to Ion. "{Force.}" Just repeats the word, flat and toneless, though not exactly dismayed. Then, after a brief consideration. "{Maybe it was wrong of me to dredge things up.}" There's just a suggestion of a slump in her shoulders, almost wholly obscured by layers of clothing. "{But either way, I've learned my lesson. He can do what he wants with his story, and I'll keep him well out of mine.}" "{I wasn't there. Your past, your story, s'between you and him, huh?}" Ion's thumb flicks rapidly against the butt of his cigarette; a few faint sparks skitter down from his loose grip, dissipating with the spent ash into the wind. "He try fucking with you no more though, then it's between us, too. {My word on it.}" He's half-turning now to look at her more properly, offer a quick hook of smile. "{You be here, dinner? I got plenty-time to whip up some arepas.}" "{Yes.}" Anahita still looks a little distant, and she adds, more quietly, "{Sometimes it's bigger than that, but yes.}" She seems to gather herself. "{I'd rather if nobody had to get into it over me, but if it comes to that, your word is more than enough for me.}" She sucks down the last of her cigarette and tamps it out neatly in a little steel tin that matches her lighter, though this one has a black star instead. "{Even if I weren't planning on it, I'd stay for your arepas,}" she assures him brightly, all hints of worry and melancholy flown. "{But I was going to, anyway.}" "{Most stories are. Most worth telling, anyway.}" Ion claps a hand, brief and JOSTLING to Anahita's shoulder. The touch comes with a small-sudden jolt twinging through her muscles momentarily before he's loping off. "See you at supper, then, Arepas. {Maybe you can bring some story for me.}" | |
