Logs:W.F.O.

W.F.O.
Dramatis Personae Ion, Scott
In Absentia	2024-10-03 "Wouldn't you know it, Ion, life keeps getting in the way."
Location <MOJ> Brotherhood House - Mojoverse
This is a largish house that has been very unevenly appointed, its decorator gone somewhat heavy-handed with red and purple color theming in all the decor. The ground floor has a spacious kitchen that is nearly empty of any equipment or food. The adjacent sitting room has a very comfortable eclectic range of seating, though no tables; there is a truly enormous television setup taking up the entirety of one wall that plays nothing but Mojo's own baffling network all day. There is an extremely well furnished gym on the basement level, as well as a small library that is entirely stocked with hundreds of copies of "The Pop-Up Book of Phobias", except for one singular copy of the NFT Guide to Manhattan. There's a small yard tucked out behind the basement door. There are enough bedrooms split across the top two levels for everyone to pair up, though they haven't been "furnished" so much as someone has hastily chucked mattresses and bedding into them. The sheets and blankets are extremely soft and comfortable, at least. Though there are two bathrooms on each level with excessively luxurious soaking tubs and capacious showers, there do not seem to be toilets in any of them. For the moment, there's a respite in the grisly occupation of the basement-gym-turned-makeshift-morgue, a lull in its macabre string of temporary tenants. There might not be any dead (for the moment) (knock wood) but there's been plenty of live ones, for once, gathered somewhat unusually around the until-now-unused Peloton in one corner. Ion is not sitting on the stationary bike -- he's keeping his distance from the thing like he's worried it might explode, or more likely, like he might harm it. Instead he's sitting cross-legged on a weight bench, one leg bouncing jittery up and down, his hook clack-clacking prongs together. "What the fuck a bike for it just stay in place." Scott is not using the stationary bike either, sitting at the lat pulldown machine with his elbows on his knees, running the fingers of one hand through his hair. His laugh is weak and breathy, but genuine -- "These newfangled machines with their goddamn computer screens," he says, "kids need a television to exercise now, what the hell is the use of that -- never got the appeal." Is this a little rich coming from somebody who mostly works out in a geodesic hologram thunderdome, maybe, but perhaps Scott is beyond caring about his hypocrisy right now, just shaking his head. "Guess we be thankful." Ion's clacking continues, as he glances towards the now-quiet bike. "My girl she fly but she don't take no phone calls, not from any damn dimension. Shit, feel good to ride her again, was starting to think...." His restless bobbing stills, hook twisting in against the bright fabric of his team uniform. "You get back on your bike, where the first place you be going?" "Don't --" this is much quieter than before, Scott's head still hanging, before he sits back up, sweeps his hair back with one hand. Though he's lifted his head, he's leaning further down, hands clasped between his knees. "-- don't know, I was going to say back to school but my bike is at the school." He considers this for a moment before he says, decisively, "Alaska. How about you?" "Alaska, damn, you don't fuck around, Boy Scout. Why go home when you can go big. Some wide-ass road between you and Alaska. You been? Before?" There's been a taut exhaustion written into Ion's face but it vanishes quick in the bright smile that lights his expression. "Tch, I get my dogs together, wherever the hell we go I be home. Just roll deep down the damn street in East New York, it's gonna feel like heaven." Scott laughs again, a little self-consciously this time, shifting his feet on the ground, wringing his hands together. "Born there," he says. "Way back when. Man." He shakes his head again -- "That sounds nice. Sounds right." "You from Alaska? Grow 'em different up there, huh." Ion leans forward, scrutinizing Scott here like he might detect some visible trace of Alaska-ness somewhere in the inscrutable red gaze. His tongue clicks against his teeth, his head shaking. "When you go back last?" He dips his head, his voice quieter, now. "Had plenty enough fucking wrong this year, think we past time for some right." "Different, huh?" Scott tilts his head inquisitively, the corners of his mouth tugging slightly wider; he props his chin on his folded hands, scratches thoughtfully at the growing stubble. "Way back when," he says. "Wouldn't you know it, Ion, life keeps getting in the way." The corners of his mouth pull wider still, at this, into a wan smile. "Yeah," he says -- this is a little rougher, deeper in his throat -- "Think we're well overdue."