ArchivedLogs:Guerilla Gardening Is A Go

Guerilla Gardening Is A Go
Dramatis Personae Jackson, Masque, Nox
In Absentia	2013-04-09 And Nox has enlisted the strangest help...
Location <NYC> Guerrilla Garden?
This abandoned lot isn't much to look at right now. Next door to a construction site and ringed by a tall, rusting chainlink fence, the rumble of large machinery is a constant disruption. Equally rusty signs have been affixed to the fence warning passersby to KEEP OUT, that this is PRIVATE PROPERTY. Weeds are as plentiful as chunks of broken concrete but there is surprisingly little garbage to be found and what does appear seems to disappear just as quickly. Here and there stacks of scavenged truck tires have been filled with dark soil and some enterprising soul has begun to create raised beds to the rear of the lot using splintery wood salvaged from packing crates. Nox's theory is this: if Masque is going to take even temporary sanctuary among the Morlocks, it is important to keep him busy and therefore out of trouble. Is it a /good/ theory? That remains to be seen. But after days of relative isolation, time spent tending to his wounds, his fever, bringing him back to some semblance of health, she recognized what she interpreted as signs of restlessness. So, to spend growing energy, she has decided that it is time...to garden. With the sun high in the sky, arcing towards the horizon, this means that she's had to take precautions. Layered robes dyed black--they probably started life as cotton sheets--and a floppy hat with sunglasses beneath provide the maximum amount of protection. Masque has also been provided with a walking stick, its middle mended with duct tape due to the break that saw it thrown into the garbage. He has /also/ been tasked with carrying the bag that has Lucien's donated seed and the gardening tools within it. Inside of the abandoned lot, those raised beds remain unfinished but somehow, the Morlocks have managed to scrounge bags of potting soil--likely "borrowed" from some grocery store front display--and these are stacked nearby, ready to be poured into the beds that /are/ almost done. Nox holds the gate apart for Masque, the chains making it difficult to open all the way. "...and so we will have fresh things for the table, come fall." Masque makes his way through without complaints, having been quiet nearly the whole trip here. Perhaps he is grateful to be out and about again, attempting to spread less verbal negativity than he usually prone to. Perhaps. He doesn't look quite as bad as he did a week or so ago. Though still limping a little due to a somewhat uneven weight distribution and a previously poorly taken care of bulletwound infection, the walking stick aids him in walking at a reasonable pace. Carrying the bag causes him no visible discomfort, slung unceremoniously over one shoulder. His red coat, hood drawn up and halfway over his face as always, looks like it may have been washed at some point! What luxury. His face does not look quite so /rejuvenated/, a scowl across it that drags deeper lines on one side than it does the other. He looks very much as though he feels like he's drawn a short straw, here. Like he's been TRICKED into coming here, scanning the area as if preparing for something to come jumping out at him and tell him it was all a big joke. When he finally speaks up, it is with the very opposite of enthusiasm. "It is, admittedly, a good use of wasted space." That may have physically hurt him a little. It is a short while later that the gate rattles again, tugged as much open as it will go to allow a very colourful young man to slip through. Jax is bright in bright purple tank top with sunny yellow butterflies embroidered on, a knee-length denim cargo skirt, chunky purple velcro sneakers. The bag he is tugging through the fence behind him -- it snags, briefly, and he has to tug harder to get it through -- is plain black, though. He turns to flash Nox a bright smile, offer a chipper, "Hi!" as he heads in. And then stops, blinks, backsteps. "-- Oh. Um." He is just staring at Masque. "What." Nox is far too solemn for all of this to be a joke! She is taking this gardening enterprise /so/ seriously. Therefore, Masque's attempt to be generous towards it gains her approval, though she doesn't go so far as to smile at the man. Instead, he is given a grave nod as she directs him with a gesture towards the soil. "The city has a great deal of wasted space. We can make better use of it." More might have been said but the rattle of the gate leaves her to turn. Even with sunglasses on, she's near blind in all of this brightness. It takes Jax's hail for her to recognize the young man and /then/ her smile appears. "Hello, Mr. Holland! Please..." A glance goes towards Masque--warning him, perhaps?--before she refocuses on the more colorful of the three. "I would like for you to meet Masque. Masque, Mr. Jackson Holland. He is helping us with this project. Masque has decided to help as well." Someones stares at Masque? Only thing he knows how to do is to eye them right back, straightening to only half of his usual hunched over stance. "Hello, Mr. Jackson Holland." The words and the name are pronounced slowly, voice grating over them like a corpse dragged along a gravel path. Memorised. "So I am." The grip on the walking stick tightens enough to turn his knuckles white, while his other hand releases the bag slung over his shoulder. The thing comes crashing down on the edge of a so-thoughtfully-soilfilled tire with a loud, metal clank rattle of tools. "Yeah I know him," Jackson is saying flatly, already, almost on top of Masque's introduction. "He mutilated a couple friends of mine." He's not entering any further, staying close by the gate, his eye not leaving Masque. His trademark cheer is fading into a decidedly cautious expression, and if he were a dog his hackles would be /raising/ at the way Masque says his name. He's not, though, but around him there's a distinct /shiver/ of light, a distortion that ends with a faint brighter area around him. "Is this a joke." "Did he." Nox's murmur is more gentle than flat. Possibly thoughtful. The lenses of her sunglasses turn towards Masque again. It is difficult to tell given that she is so well shrouded, and so limited in her abilities--and therefore her expressions--at this time of day, but that may well be a look of reproach. Or consideration. However... "It is no joke, I am afraid, Mr. Holland. He is under conditional observation by my people and has agreed to abide by our laws. Your friends...are they still hurt?" "The liquor store girl ain't." Masque cuts in, standing perfectly still as his scowl disappears entirely to be replaced by something that so rarely follows that expression properly - a smile. It never even comes close to reaching his eyes, worn like his namesake. "Went around and changed some people back, couple of weeks ago. All shiny and new again. All over town. People I could'a used." He doesn't sound like he's lying, and /technically/, it is true. Next next sentence has a slightly darker tone to it. "Outta the kindness of my heart. /Friends/, though." His S is lingered on, just short of a hiss, "Who was the other one." "You know, I don't particularly have a mind to answer that." Jax could be talking to Nox or to Masque; he's shifting his glance now between them with the same quiet-wary caution. He shifts a touch, rocking back a step closer to the fence and letting his duffel bag drop with a similar rattling. How many people out there did you mutilate? How many'a them are still left?" It might be a rhetorical question; he doesn't particularly wait to hear an answer, expression tightening. "Abide by yours for how long?" This is directed to Nox rather than Masque, and her he /does/ look at and wait to hear a response from. His words are similarly-toned for both of them, a careful quiet tone that doesn't hold much of his usual warmth. "Masque," Nox murmurs, and there can be no doubt of the tone, though her expression remains unruffled--she is warning him to mind his manners. A step is taken forward, closer to Jax. Just the one step. It also places Masque slightly behind her. "Until he does not, in which case it is on us to decide what is to be done with him," she tells the young man. Fighting, as best she can, to keep her voice pitched in a way that carries the distance. Damn the sun, anyway. "Please. I can understand your surprise. Your caution. If your friends are still injured, he will put them right. To make amends." It's as if Masque knows no answer is expected to come from him. He's patient, standing in his own spot, behind Nox, just /watching/ Jackson speak. Like waiting for a child to stop wailing. Despite Nox being in the position to potentially take the same stance toward /him/. "Of course." Kindness does not befit either his voice or his face, and both reject the attempts at it readily, twitches of something entirely else pushing through. Something greedier, something perhaps a little reckless. Jackson's face is watched. Closely. "These wouldn't also be friends of... Hive's, would they?" "Surprise," Jackson says, with a quiet huff of breath; it's almost a laugh but not-quite given that his expression is still just wary. "Yeah, I came here to do some gardening with a friend, not to sit here wonderin' if my /face/ is gonna get melted off. -- What?" The look Jackson gives to Masque hasn't shifted any from its wary-caution; around him there's another quick shiver of fluctuating light. "What, you real keen to go fix 'em?" "You are in no danger, Jackson. Masque understands the terms of this. Yes?" Nox's head turns and though it must pain her to do so, she reaches up to remove the sunglasses. Those huge black eyes lock on the man in question--and leave no doubt that she is trying to /will/ him to stop talking. No, that slip of greed wasn't missed. The shadow lady does not approve. "He is making a sincere attempt for reform or so he has led us to believe." That light. So interesting. Masque's eyes dart over the shivers of brightness, prompting a look that could easily be interpreted as satisfation to see them manifest. His free hand curls into a fist and out again. Eager to get to work, maybe. But on what. Jackson's question causes him to dip his head, but he looks relucant to press on, now. He leaves the question decidedly unanswered, instead waiting to respond to Nox with a slightly quieter, slightly humbler tone of voice... "My very best." Eye contact with Jackson is broken- he's reaching for the bag he brought past the gate, kneeling to rummage around in it. At Masque's shift of expression there's another shiver of light, and Jax nudges the duffel bag closer -- it has its own assortment of seeds and equipment for trellis-building -- with a toe, but doesn't come further into the plot himself. His lips press together, and the smile he offers Nox is thin and tight. "No danger while I'm here, sure. But you ain't gonna follow me around to keep him in line and I ain't none too keen on him learning no more about me. Y'let me know what other plots your folks've staked out, I'll make my rounds to get 'em started." "I needn't follow you, to make certain of his good behavior. He is being watched closely, you can be sure of that. The price of a misstep is something he wants very much to avoid," Nox says softly. "We have known other for some time now, Masque and I. I understand your trepidation." After a last glance at Masque--look at him, so very intent on getting to work! Good monster--she drifts forward to approach Jax, to slide her sunglasses back into place and bend to lift the duffel. "Thank you for this, it means more than I can say. Thus far, I believe we have two other sites, one in Spanish Harlem and the other in the Bronx. It is...good of you." "I don't blame you." Masque offers, the amount of weight he places on the walking stick while he's going through the bag with his other hand helping it dig deeper into the ground next to him. With him facing the tools below, his face below the sagging hood is no longer visible to those nearby. "We live in... very different worlds, Mr. Holland." He rises again, with a certain amount of temporary /tremble/ to his movements as weight is shifted back onto an injured foot. "Now," A bony hand once more emerges from the bag, long fingers around any old random tool so he can frown at it in confusion. Pointy. "What is this." Totally a good monster. Jackson's weight shifts forward, when Nox approaches, to brush a small peck against her cheek. "It ain't no thing," he says lightly, "s'kinda dear to me --" Gardening? Helping the Morlocks? Reclaiming space anarchist-style? It's unfinished, what is on his mind, because his gaze is shifting away to Masque to regard the man with a long and quiet consideration. "It's a cultivator," he says at length, and now he steps forward instead of back. The wariness hasn't faded from his expression, but he's heading in to start helping finish the bed. "Y'use it to till the soil. C'mon. I'll show you."