Logs:Punch More Nazis

Punch More Nazis
Dramatis Personae Joshua, Steve
In Absentia "Fash gonna fash, wherever you're standing."	2024-11-12 '
Location <NYC> Chimaera Arts - Dumbo
This is just one of the many abandoned warehouses in DUMBO, and like many of them it has recently changed hands. Unlike most of those, however, it does not have some corporate developer's sign out front promising a transformation into luxury condominiums or a boutique shopping center or the latest concept restaurant. Instead it's marked by a piece of weathered but wildly colorful plywood propped up on a stack of broken pallets, which reads "Chimaera Art Space!" above "chimaera.org" in smaller letters. The warehouse is moderately large and decorated with graffiti art in various styles--some of it recognizable as the work of renowned local street artists. A pair of monstrous scrap metal sculptures, perhaps still works in progress, flank the entrance. The building itself has undergone significant renovation recently, complete with wiring, plumbing, and a modular partitioning system. The grounds, too, have been cleaned up, ramshackle fences torn down and rusting detritus removed in favor of reclaimed (and brilliantly repainted) outdoor furniture ringing an impressively engineered firepit. The warehouse is loud, today. Out in the courtyard there's some kind of show going on, exuberant heavy drumming that's aglow with the light of several fire-spinners. Inside, there's a yoga class ongoing in the main warehouse, its trippy-soothing music oddly harmonizing with the heavy beats from outside. There's a class ongoing in the woodshop; some eager but somewhat clueless new members are attempting to organize the quite new printshop; a painting class is just starting, a guitar class just finishing. Somewhere upstairs there's a planning meeting for an upcoming march that is getting very very heated behind its closed doors. Joshua was in the meeting, at some point. He's not in the meeting anymore -- he's gone over to the medic storage section, busying himself with taking stock of the supplies, noting where they're running low. He's still looking pretty haggard -- far too thin and not putting much weight back on since his extradimensional jaunt, new lines in his jowly face, new grey hairs in his shaggy dark mop. He's grimacing, pulling several boxes of gloves out of a large plastic tub that is supposed to hold tourniquets. Steve inventoried the new printshop supplies earlier but, after delegating the new members with extensive instructions he has made a point of not going back in to check on their progress. He's been ricocheting around the warehouse lending his muscles to any working group but the one he's likely to micromanage if he lets himself. He's wearing a plain black t-shirt under a gray-blue-yellow plaid flannel, paint-flecked jeans, and scuffed combat boots. He drifts over to Joshua's corner, eyes ticking over the tubs Joshua is sorting. "Can I give you a hand?" He sounds kind of hopeful. "I'm shocked that meeting wrapped on time." Joshua snorts. His eyes flick up from his tablet, his head shaking ponderously. He drags two other labelled tubs out from the stack, nudging them towards Steve. "Tch, wrapped?" He's pulling up the relevant sections on the spreadsheet he's been updating, and setting the tablet down on top of the tubs. "That hadras y baranas gonna continue till dawn." He's getting out his phone so that he can open the relevant spreadsheet again, now that he's given the tablet away. Steve looks the spreadsheet over before setting it back down and unstacking the tubs. "That -- hadras...?" He shakes his head, pulling the lid off of one tub and sitting back onto his heels. "We don't even have anyone up there, even if that runs the risk they just won't tell us anything til day-of." He frowns down at a pack of gauze, then squints at the spreadsheet. "How long have you been doing this?" He glances aside at Joshua. "Organizing -- in general, not organizing these supplies." "Fuss," Joshua translates. "If I hear anything, I'll tell you." He's grimacing into another tub -- the cloth and paints that have been shoved inside are definitely not even medical supplies of any kind. They vanish when he touches them, revealing several tourniquets (in with the handwarmers and emergency blankets.) His mouth purses, brow knitting. After a lengthy consideration, he shrugs. "Don't. I just medic." Steve nods, though he's still frowning. But that's probably to do with the eclectic mix of gauze crammed into the tub. He starts pulling them out and lining them up on the lid. "Guess I was rolling all this up as 'organizing'." He makes a vague sweeping gestures that encompasses himself, Joshua, and the supplies they're going through. "It looks a bit different from how it was in my day. I used to do some strike support that was kinda like Carebearing. Well, I was more pugnacious, but that won't fly these days." He shakes his head, a small, quick gesture. "But I'm rethinking how I can help. Figured I should talk to folks who've been around this scene longer. 'Just medic' means you see a lot, I reckon, and you don't bullshit." Joshua's mouth is pulling just a little further down, but given the tendency of his face overall to trend towards mournful droop, it's hard to say if this is directed at Steve or at his task. He's transferring the tourniquets to their proper home, and grimacing, too, at how sparse their current stores are. He pulls one leg up under him on the tub he's claimed to sit on, and turns to hitch eyebrows up, questioning, at Steve. His low "hrn" of grunt does at least have kind of an inviting "go on" timbre to it. Joshua's grimace draws Steve's glance to the tourniquets. Then back down to his side of the inventory. They're definitely not short on gauze, at least. "Thinking about switching to action defense. Not sure it'd make much difference, but seeing as folks are worried about more violent counterprotest..." He shrugs. "But maybe just taking that role is escalatory. Even if I'm not acting pugnacious." "Hrn," is again Joshua's reply to this, though this time it comes out a little lower, a little less gruntled. He shrugs. Looks back to his bins. "Fash gonna fash, wherever you're standing." The bob of Steve's head is too small a motion to really qualify as a nod. "Saw that my first day out in the 21st century. But that's parta why you medic, right?" Joshua's heavy brows pull inward. "Hrn." This time, kind of a thoughtful grumble. He's taken hold of one of the tzitzit at his side, flipping it restlessly between two fingers. This lengthy deliberation also, ultimately, ends in a shrug. "Tired of Care Bearing? Or just want to punch more Nazis?" Steve chuckles. "Gosh, I always want to punch more Nazis." Blushes down at the supplies he's sorting. "Just not so sure that's needful in organizing the way it used to be. Can always punch Nazis on my own time." Joshua's brows lift, head tipping to the side in acknowledgment. "You want my blessing?" There's a small twitch at one side of his mouth. It's not really a smile. "Punch more, then." "Appreciate it. Guess I still feel like a dinosaur sometimes." Steve's blush isn't fading. He just studies at the labels on each pack he picks up more closely than he probably needs to. "But at least I'm a dinosaur who's knocked out Adolf Hitler over two hundred times."