ArchivedLogs:Never Doing That Again

Never Doing That Again
(they'd probably do it again)
Dramatis Personae Logan, Jim
In Absentia	2013-04-27 '
Location <NYC> Clinton
Despite its rough and tumble reputation of old, Clinton has come far from the illegal gambling and shakedowns of Prohibition, and the gang warfare of West Side Story. Clinton has now become the industrial supply center for midtown Manhattan, with hospitals and the light industrial and commercial businesses required to support so many thousands of people. The neighborhood has become quite expensive, but many actors still cram together in small apartments due to its proximity to Broadway. This alley is dim and quiet. New York spring is chilly in the evening, but carries just the slightest humidity in quiet promise of the sweltering months of summer to come; and moss has begun to flourish along the cracked mortar and broken down wooden pallets littering its uninterrupted tranquility. An few rats absently settle into their trashbin repast while an torn-eared tomcat slinks big-cheeked and stub-tailed along the shadows. From this hidden urban world, the sounds mean very little. A woman screams, the sound of worn sneakers pounding pavement. The shift of rapidly moving cloth from multiple bodies. Maybe a soft silky 'snk'. Maybe the inexplicable creak of green wood - a branch? bearing weight and enduring rapid movement. The low murmur of voices. Low at first and then raising shrill again. Distant noises. City noises. The rats and ally cat don't care. Until TWO MEN come TEAR-ASS running around the corner and duck INTO this alley. Jim, for one, has a very businesslike arm raised to ward off a SWINGING PURSE aimed at his tacky fedora. He has a cigarette gripped in his teeth as he pants, "Well /there's/ some fuckin' New York gratitude for ya. What's she carry in that thing, /horseshoes/?" "Just one question..." says the other man, as he leans back against the wall of a building, taking time to cross one leg over the other and jab a finger at his friend. "How the HELL did you manage to drag me into this?" The grumbling man, Logan by name, growls under his breath and utters several choice curse-words. "I was mindin' my own business, enjoying my last cigar - damned if I'm goin' back to THAT particular convenience store ta buy any more now..." He lifts his hands to his face to drag them both down his cheeks whilst still glaring at the other man - Jim. "Ya know, bub, now WE look like bad guys--well, you do. Hidin' in an alley holdin' some lady's purse. Howabout I go explain to those nice American citizens chasin' us that it's YOU they want, 'n mebbe they'll leave me along, huh?" "You can get bent, fuzzy, I /live/ around here." Jim is saying this while looking down at the purse - dear god, is that Hello, Kitty? - with abject disgust, "I had this fucking covered before your happy ass came along. Think they'd notice if I just left this here?" Because he is tossing the purse on top of a trash bin like it's giving him /ants/. "C'mon, let your stride out. This leads out by the park." 'This' would, of course, be the alley he's walking deeper into, turning sideways to pass between the kicked out slats of a wooden fence. You'd think he'd used this route before. "This public-mutation ban bullshit is going to end in /fire/, by Christ, it'd turn anyone into a terrorist. Purse snatcher kid pulled a fucking knife. You see that? Who /carries/ knives that big in the middle of a god damn city?" His sleeve is sliced open down the forearm - there's no blood. Probably because there's no /skin/, replaced by a deep ragged brown treebark. There are other little notes of flora to his fauna; a faint green creeping through his stubble, the narrow point of new spring leaves pressing through his hair. They're already beginning to fade, though, with a crease of concentration in his brow. While /powerwalking/ around a deep puddle cluttered with floating cigarette butts. Cockroaches scatter at his feet. "Sure," Logan grunts. "Blame the tough guy. Didja learn that trick in the 'force, Jim? Or pick that one up on yer own? Wait--" The grizzled man is already stalking down the alley, about to shoulder his way past Jim (just like a 'tough guy' might be expected to - you know, playing the part) - when he stops up short, thrusting out an arm to stop Jim (and possibly clock 'im one if he's not careful) from moving any further. "I can smell somethin'--" True enough, at the far end of the alley ahead of them, some of the 'good citizens of New York' who had been chasing them earlier, have obviously decided to 'head them off at the pass', and block their escape at the far end of the alley. Logan snarls at the misguided fools who are mere seconds from spotting them. "You ain't the only one who knows these parts, bub. Keep it down..." He eyes Jim's arm, and a frown passes over his face. "'N hope they don't have any dogs with 'em. You okay?" He veeery quietly begins backing away to try and make it behind a dumpster before they're spotted. "Ksh." Jim mashes out his cigarette with the urgent casualness of a man too accustomed to moving quickly to be able to even register it as dramatic, turning already on a heel to cram in alongside Logan. It's a tight fit, neither of them are on the diminutive /willowy/ side, broad shoulders and /ego/ piling up. This close, Jim's hardened skin can be felt where his elbow and shoulder compete for space. It might also be noted over the smell of jacket and cigarette smoke, he seems more comprised of the green smell of grass and cottonwood and something - basil? - rather than people-flesh. "Was just a love bite. He didn't get you, did he?" He's looking down at the hardpacked gravel and concrete sidewalk in their little nook behind the dumpster, then at some of the blue-green spears of a small mulberry shrub struggling to flourish alongside them, "Wonder if I could camo in back here... How much time we got?" "13, maybe 14 seconds before they see us," Logan murmurs with his eyes on the group ahead of them. It's a bunch of construction workers, from the clothing they wear and some fellows that appear to have just vacated the nearest bar and... joined in. "We get into a fight, someone's gonna end up--hang on." The gruff-featured man turns his head back they way they had come and spots a back door into one of the nearby buildings. The door has a chain and padlock on it and appears to see at least some use, for taking out the trash. "Keep an eye on 'em..." he whispers and starts edging toward the door. There's a single //'snikt!'// sound as one claw extends rapidly from his right hand and he slices the chain, making some (but not much) noise. He glances back at Jim and nods urgently. Jim moves into filling the space when Logan moves out of it, his back pressed against the side of the dumpster, head tipped to the side to cock his ear to the sound of feet approaching, crunching on the gravel. He times his movements as best he can to match with their tempo, rolling forward and making his way up the three short steps up to the door Logan has so graciously opened. The world inside is - /hot/, and smelling strongly of baked grease and ovens and the shuffling of chef's clogs. "You gotta kidding me," Jim mutters, and he takes off, rounding a corner into a cramped kitchen, /broiling/ with deep fat friers and sizzling stove tops and hispanic workers that look up with /severely/ wary-puzzled looks on their faces when two men crowd into their work space. "Uuuuh, s'cuse me, pardon! Watch out, uh, l-lo siento, por FAVOR." He pronounces 'favor' like an American. Like he's asking him to do him a mother fucking FAVOR while he rushes his way through, grabbing one guy carrying a tray around the waist and bodily /moving/ him aside, while glancing non-too-comfortably over his shoulder as the construction workers begin to poke their heads into the kitchen. "Logan has less trouble getting through people. Even without the claws, folks just... get out of his way, apologising to HIM and THEN staring at his back. "Yer Spanglish sucks, bub," he mutters to Jim before ducking into the back of a cheap, typical diner. His nose is wrinkled at the onslaught of smells. "Ugh, someone burned the coffee beans too..." he complains. "C'mon, let's get--" He stops, looking at the doors to the diner, and particularly through the window to the sidewalk just outside. "Great..." A cheery bright yellow school bus is parked outside with the words 'Urban Outreach Big Brothers United', its sliding door rolled open and /hemorrhaging/ children, possibly seven, eight years of age, under the haggard watchful eyes of three beleaguered adults - two older women and one young man. Bright frilly skirts and sashes swish around legs, a few children just learning how to be 'hip' in skinny jeans and flannel button-ups, the jocks-in-training in sports shirts and rugby socks, many wearing party hats and all of them /streaming/ into the diner with bright eyes and balloons in a wave of vocal /volume/. The young bespectacled boy in the front has a balloon that says 'Happy Birthday, Jamal!' Jim stands for a moment. /Staring/. He jumps slightly at the sound of a pan being dropped in the kitchen behind them, and a few far more mature, and far more /angry/ shouts muffling into the cheers of children. "/Really/?" Jim says this while holding up his elbows like he's wading through DEEP DIRTY WATER and begins to rushingly hipcheck his way through the legion of small bouncing heads and shoulders and pigtails. "Awww, ya gotta be kiddin me!" Logan exclaims as he gives Jim a long-suffering, 'why do I do these things with you?' look - and moments later he's watching the back door again. "Here they come. What'll it be? Kids Over Easy? or Thugs Benedict with a side o' violence?" He snorts, shrugs and makes the decision him by walking toward the BARRAGE of... children. "Little Shop o' Horrors..." the Wolverine might be heard muttering over the din. "Hey, kid--no, excuse me--argh, no after you, 'n you, 'n you--yeah you. C'mon! Hey, I'm tryin' ta... reach... th'... Goddamned... door!" And the eyes of three exhausted teachers converge on the man, glaring with reproach. "Sorry," Logan mutters as he shoulders his way toward the door. He gives Jim a glowering look. "Little help 'ere?" And that's when the first of the misguided morons chasing them crash into the kitchen behind the counter. Logan bites back a curse. The only help Jim offers Logan is a bitter, deadpan, "I swear to god one of those little bastards goosed me. Shit, it's like losing your god damn virginity all over again. You still got you wallet?" No, this isn't a joke. Even while he's watching their pursuers come crashing to a pile up in the diner as /they/ now face the miniature hoard, he's running a hand into his back pocket to make sure he isn't LIGHT a few objects. Team Hooligan still inside are kind of baffled-but firmly trying to snowplow their way through the kiddy pool, and Jim takes this as his moment to split - RIGHT for his apartment building half a block up the street, yanking out his keys with a merry little jingle, "C'mon, c'mon, /c'mon/..." SUCCESS. His gritted-grin is /evil/ with excitement. He shoves open the door. There was a snarl and snarky retort on Logan's lips just ready for kid, teacher, parent, patron and... Jim, alike, but the mention of losing wallets has him biting back his words and checking his jacket. Logan looks relieved. Then he looks like he's had an idea. "Uhh," he says with his voice slightly raised. "Some kid's dropped a twenty on the floor near the counter!" he calls out to the teachers, and... yippie-ki-yay, it's a stampede. The Wolverine smirks in Jim's direction with utter self-satisfaction, and ducks easily through the double-doors to get out into the street and follow suit. He runs alongside Jim to the apartment, kicks the door shut and makes a bee-line for the fridge. "We. Are--" he pulls out two beers (without asking), and tosses one to Jim. "--NEVER. Doing that again." He cracks the can open and takes his first mouthful. "Heh, you see those dickheads' faces?" And Logan starts to laugh. Jim is a hardcore teetotaler - but he stocks on beer like a responsible consummate bachelor. Logan probably knows this routine by now, and will be tossing Jim a ginger-ail. Which he'll yank out of the air like Logan /owed/ it to him. "A /twenty/ on the floor, Jesus-deep-fried-/Christ/ on a stick." He wanders past, to pull down the blinds, to watch the construction crew vanish up the block and pause, their heads rotating aggressively. Jim shakes his head in some semblance of either pity or disgust, and heads for his sprung and beaten old couch, flopping down and kicking up his worn out loafers to prop on the coffee table. "This fucking city." And Jim? Jim is laughing as well, still catching his breath with a hand gripped against the front of his chest. He raises up his bottle in a toast that can span the length of the room. "Skol."