Logs:Snacking While High

Snacking While High
Dramatis Personae Quentin, Roscoe
In Absentia Avi, Bryce, Nahida, Sriyani	2024-11-01 "You're a part of the group too."
Location <NYC> Midtown
Midtown still bears plenty of scars from the Brood invasion -- gleaming new construction where buildings have been gutted or torn down and rebuilt entirely, scaffolding still up in many many places where the work is ongoing. Somewhere high up above it's some of that scaffolding that's the target today, a group of X-Kids sneaking around waaaay up in an in-progress-renovating skyscraper in search of the perfect crossbeam for a lunch midnight snack photo. Down at street level, Quentin has his arms full with a plastic bag with a miscellany of candy and snacks procured from a nearby bodega and is making his way back towards the Door, propped open with a cement block, that is currently serving as shortcut to Way Up High. The elaborate and very realistic alien outfit he'd been in earlier has entirely vanished -- probably because it was freaking the cashier out Way Too Much to finish the transaction -- and as he double-checks their supplies Quentin is, now, just in a plain white tee, jeans, plain black Chucks, pink hair flopping down over his face. "You don't think anyone wanted a real, like, meal, right? ... can Bryce eat real food?" "Shoot, I dunno, in Lassiter," is this a normal thing to bring up right now? Roscoe is just a liiiittle bit too faded right now to avoid this topic, "They just fed everyone the same crap, just suck it up. -- he's a bug, right? They love candy." This, at least, is pretty confident, as Roscoe rifles through the plastic bag, through the junk food on offer. He lifts his head with a squinty frown, gives Quentin a quick up-down glance. "You don't got -- tentacles or mandibles or anything? Can't believe you made it this far without." This is definitely, grudgingly, kind of admiring. "I could have mandibles." Quentin is immediate and defensive with this. When he lifts his head from peeking into the bag, he's grown hard gleaming black chitin over his face, clicking jagged mandibles protruding from the sides of his mouth, huge multifaceted eyes. His mandibles flick together, and a glob of some glowing acid drips from them to sizzle hot and dangerous-sounding into the sidewalk by his feet. "Do tentacles make this easier? Taking all your pictures is easier with my hands." "You telling me you're not dying to take a telekinetic photo?" Roscoe has paused, single-mindedly focused on a pack of flavored licorice in a somewhat transparent bid at avoiding Quentin's bugsona, though by the tense set of his shoulders, the nervous flicking of his eyes, he has definitely noticed it. He does manage a glance up just in time to watch Bug!Quentin spit acid, and looks hastily back down to the junk food. "You're a part of the group too." "I've taken plenty. That pic over the Brooklyn Bridge would've been just -- just generic without..." But the last comment pulls Quentin up short, eyes wide. Roscoe gets his wish; the bugsona is easy to avoid, now, because it's vanished altogether. He plucks at his plain tee with a hand that is first very much fingers and second, very much a clawed pincer. His head is bowing. "Cameras can't... it's too late to get a costume." "You seen who we're with?" Roscoe is super dedicated, now, to checking out the ingredients on the back of a flavored licorice, little though he knows about what anybody's dietary restrictions are or how to check for them. "You can't wear some weird ice hat for five minutes? Nahida can probably even do you one that won't give you frostbite." He shoots a glance sideways at Quentin, then -- bugsona no longer an issue -- lifts his head at him with a grin, small but friendly around his big front teeth. "Don't be such a pussy. We wouldn't drag you all the way out here if we didn't like you." "Yeah, I -- you're all a little hard to miss." Quentin's fingers crinkle loud into the stiff plastic of the corner store bag. He might have stayed there even longer, stunned and mulling over this somewhat unprecedented position he's found himself in, but. Whatever millions of brilliant thoughts he's pondering on the subject of Having Friends are cut short as a trio of hoverboards go careening by, wobbly and teetering, one the very drunk young men atop (unclear what exactly their costumes are but they are each wearing business suits that are very bloodied) yelling as they pass: "-- outta the way, damn tourists!" Quentin laughs, at this, high and startled. Then claps his hand to his mouth, a little sheepish. "Right, yeah. It's not like they're short on I ❤️ NY shirts." The portal door nearby creaks a little wider open as he ducks back toward. it. "And we should get back before someone falls from the beam and splats without me there." For all his Boston Strong swagger Roscoe is missing no beats flipping these bloodied local businessmen off as they skid away. (Only to their backs, at least.) He practically does a skip and a hop as he's following Quentin to the door, though he also does an exaggerated eyeroll -- "Ye of little faith. What kinda New Yorkers would we be."