ArchivedLogs:Less Ugly

Less Ugly
Dramatis Personae Jax, Jerome, Flicker, Micah
In Absentia	6 October 2014 Handling a little vandalism at Evolve.
Location <NYC> Lower East Side
Historically characterized by crime and immigrant families crammed into cramped tenement buildings, the Lower East Side is often identified with its working-class roots. Today, it plays host to many of New York's mutant poor, although even here they are still often forced into hiding. It's crisp -- chilly, even, a sharp breeze making the autumn cool even more biting now that there's no sun to take its edge off. Sun or no sun, though, even here in this alley it's well-lit, thanks mostly to the lights (Bright! Cheery! Inviting!) outside the (Bright! Cheery! Inviting!) door into Evolve. Well, okay, maybe less cheery at the moment. One of the coffeeshop's small windows has been smashed in, its door a little bit splintery-dented in places, and there's paint sprayed garish and bold red across its lime-green paint as well as the brickface around it: DIE FREAKS SCUM KILL ALL MUTANTS It runs together with a rather crudely painted (blue!) shark that has a knife sticking out of it. At the moment, Jax is standing outside, fingers drumming against his opposite upper arm. He has a bucket of sudsy water and a couple of sturdy scrub brushes standing together alongside a large black duffel bag. He isn't scrubbing just yet, though. Just -- frowning, at the shark more than anything else. /He/ looks rather colourfully dressed for Cleaning Duty, skinny jeans (also lime green!), knee-high glittery-black stompy boots, a sweatshirt that is colourblocked in bright rainbow fabrics, his short scruff of hair dyed lime green and purple and mirrored dark glasses shading his eyes, still. Drumdrumdrum/drum/, go his metallic purple nails against the side of his arm (they make an odd scraping sound that seems /wrong/ for the soft fabric of his sweatshirt.) Eventually, though, he steps forward, grabbing a scrub brush and dunking it into the water. Jerome stops across the street to look at the scene. His pensive expression turns into a frown, which turns into him running a hand through his hair. He's dressed in cargo pants, combat boots, and a black leather jacket. "Well, ain't that some fuck shit." he mutters lightly before moving up near the cleaning effort. "Got ah brush to spare?" he asks quietly aside to Jax. Crunch, snap, tinkle; in a city alley bootsteps often come with their own distinctive sound effects. The crackling of broken glass underfoot, the crunch of pebbles. Flicker is less colorful than Jax is, by far, plain Dockers and a black denim jacket worn buttoned-up over his navy button-down shirt. He comes to a halt before the doorway, though. Brows hike up. Lips pull down. He /was/, probably, heading in for a drink, but his steps reroute to grab a spare brush without much of any preamble. He attacks the shark-picture first, maybe more vigorously than is /necessary/. Micah's arrival is rather /sudden/. It might be at a run if not for having the wrong foot equipped, as such a loping sort of jog is what brings him to Jax's side. He looks like he had a stop home before arriving here, changed into faded-patchy bluejeans and a red and orange plaid button-down over a white T-shirt, olive newsboy cap crammed on and a bit askew atop his messy mass of auburn hair. "Hi, honey. Ohgosh. I came as soon as I heard. I'd just gotten home. Everyone's okay, right?" He rests an arm on Jax's back, not quite pulling him into a hug for all the sudsy brushes going on. "I should deal with the broken glass. If everyone's alright." "Oh -- oh, hey," Jax spares a smile, a little bit frazzled but warm nevertheless, when the others arrive. "Plenty of brushes, yeah, wow, thanks. That's kind'a you." He nods towards the extra brushes near his bucket. His husband's arrival puts a little bit more /ease/ in his expression, a little bit less strain. He leans back into the touch -- there's a feeling under Micah's hands of more plasticky fabric than the colourful sweatshirt would suggest, a warmer and more waterproof but probably less cheerfully coloured jacket hidden beneath his illused attire. The heat radiating off of him is even fiercer than usual, positively summery in his immediate vicinity in contrast to the rest of the autumn cold. His pierced lips twitch up slightly when Flicker gets to work. "No, nobody hurt or nothin'. Tak was on shift, I think he cleared folks away from the windows 'fore any damage got dealt. It's just --" He huffs out a sharp breath, waving his own scrub brush towards the shark. "Look at that, they got no sense'a style. The fins is all in the wrong places an' m'pretty sure that eye is where gills should be. Feel like they coulda at least put a /little/ effort into it, y'know?" "I don't think it's the artistic style that offends ya. I know it ain't what pisses me off." Jerome offers quietly before picking up a brush and getting to work scrubbing 'die freaks' off. "This shit ain't right. Not even a little. Who the hell told them it'd be alright to play god? I mean, just 'cuz somebody doesn't look or act like you.. Don't mean they should die. Don't even mean they should be segregated. How shit like the holocaust happens." He clearly isn't talking to anybody in particular, just mumbling to himself as he scrubs. If the way he was rambling and holding himself didn't give away his agitation, the dermal armor appearing on his hands and neck probably does. With tightened muscles and clenched jaw and /very/ fierce scrubbing, eyes narrowed, it's probably not the lack of artistic prowess that is bothering Flicker, either. But as he dips his brush back into the soapy water and applies its bristles firmly to brick again what he voices is: "No pride in their work." Together with a small disapproving click of tongue. The mention of the holocaust draws an oddly contrasting /smile/ out of him -- thin, maybe. Sharp, maybe. His finger nudges at some of the shattered glass on the window ledge. "Ohgood. Folks's okay. /You're/ okay, right?" Micah's arm wraps a little tighter around Jax's shoulders and squeezes reassuringly. His tone might imply more than /physically/ okay in the question. Jerome's comment earns a head tilt and a small, lopsided grin. "No, he's really offended by the artistic style. Mightn't be the only thing, but I'll wager he is. Y'know it's the deep-seated disappointment in their own lack of artistic ability that leads folks t'lash out like this." His eyebrows give one bounce to betray his teasing, though tension bunches his shoulders as Flicker pokes the glass. "Hey, hon. Everybody leave off the glass. I'll sweep up what's loose an' then break down what's still in the frame an' get it taken care off. Brought a nail gun an' some plywood should be big enough t'just pop over it 'til we can get a new window installed. Seal it over with some polythene t'keep the cold out." His next head tilt is more appraising and aimed at the window. Jax turns his head, pressing a small kiss to Micah's jaw. "Shane's okay," is how he elects to answer this question. "S'inside talkin' to the freak squad. Eric's there, if you want t'get hit on or somethin'." It's reluctant, but he finally shifts away from Micah's embrace, returning to his scrubbing. "Cuts me t'my bones," he informs Jerome seriously. "If folks is gonna be taggin' on /this/ block least they could do is do it with flair." As he speaks, the shark that is melting away under Flicker's brush re-forms, bolder, more stylized, a faintly sheeny mako with a sharptoothed grin. The soapy water runs to deep murky blue-green, the shark on the wall flicking its tail and lunging around to chomp at Flicker's brush -- oddly playfully, more like a /puppy/ than a predator. "I can understand that kinda pain. Frustration. I feel some anger comin' on now an' then when I mess up a canvas, too." Jerome nods once. "I get that way sometimes, not art or anything. I make stick figures look bad." He exhales slowly as he scrubs, trying to calm down a bit before he actually puts muscle into it. It doesn't take the paint long to wash away, similar to a pressure washer, but not quite as fast. "Should have already put my application in. Maybe I'd have been here for this shit." Flicker obediently stops poking at the glass, quietly turning back to the wall. He doesn't start scrubbing again, the illusions getting in the way of seeing the /actual/ paint -- or maybe he's just fascinated, skating the brush along the brick lightly to see if the playful shark will chase after it. "-- Or if you want to get arrested," he adds lightly to Micah. "You're overdue." He shoots a glance over to Jerome, then looks back at the broken window. "Maybe? You'd have stopped this?" "You talk at me when we get home, okay?" Micah insists softly, a murmur near Jax's ear before the other man pulls away. He giggles at the illusion on the wall. "Do wanna be careful with cops just inside, though. Wonder if I could convince 'em it was me again? Give Luci an early birthday present." He points to the door before moving himself to it. "Gotta grab a broom an' bags an' newspaper an' gloves an'..." The list trails off along with his departure. "Yessir." The ocean has spread to take up most of the wall, now, the shark eagerly pounce-chomping after Flicker's wandering brush. "He wouldn't'a set this right, he's already /said/ he can't barely draw stick figures. Woulda needed Aly, maybe, t'turn this in a masterpiece worthy'a this wall." He looks a bit sheepish as Micah heads for the door -- not that that /stops/ the shark, now going after a school of red fish whose scales look oddly like letters printed across their sides. "Lookit you bein' all actually useful. -- Anyway we're only a week into October, s'got another week before he's /really/ past due." "I'd probably have just hit somebody. Got shot a few times, and went to jail. Probably best I wasn't here." Jerome admits. "Never been as useful as I wished I could be." The dermal armor starts to retreat back under his sleeves. He stops scrubbing to watch the scene now, unoccupied hand finding his pocket. The corners of Flicker's eyes tighten in a faint wince as Jerome speaks. His finger trails against the wall, running through the fake water as it chases after the shark. "I don't think the jail part is where you'd be going wrong there." Micah returns with his listed items plus one dustpan, the heavy work gloves already on his hands. "Who's goin' t'jail this time?" he asks off-handedly as he begins sweeping up all of the glass into a pile. The doubled-up trashbag that he is toting, heavy with a slightly tinkly newspaper-wrapped bundle, gives away that he already swept out the floor inside. "Maybe y'/should/ paint somethin' on the door, Jax. Let the folks come by t'survey their handiwork find the window replaced, graffiti gone, an' a prettier paintin' here in its place. Quick as y'like." Jax's mouth curls up into a grin, and the illusions fade away to leave the sudsy wall with its melting-away graffiti. "Could do. I feel like t'be appropriate it'd have to be the /freakiest/ of pretty murals, though. Or maybe I'll jus' make it oceany. Happy sharks." He rolls his head slowly back against his shoulders, cracking his neck briefly before getting back to work on some of the remaining paint. "Guess I'll ask Shane an' Aly what they'd like best." His teeth click down against his lip ring as he works, and he gives his head a very small shake. "Ain't sure this was really a violence-neccessary sorta situation. Weren't nobody gettin' hurt to start off even." "This time." Jerome says lightly, moving to start scrubbing again. "This place /was/ firebombed. First graffiti and broken windows, next physical violence. The last thing we need is a gunman with a god complex." Once his phrase is cleaned up he moves to start working on the next one. "Catch who did it on camera? Because if it wasn't, cameras might be a good idea here." "Or a barista with a hero complex." Flicker is still working on the knife that was stuck into the shark, though the shark itself is mostly a blue blur against the bricks. Micah's suggestion pulls his mouth into a smile again. "Turn a scar into something pretty. Think he knows how to do that well." "Could pull off a little of both. Oceany, but mostly yellow an' blue like Cage's ribbons. Should definitely ask Shane an' Aly first, though." Micah smiles pleasantly at that thought, sweeping his gathered glass shards first into a pile, then into a dustpan, then depositing it carefully into some newspaper, /then/ wrapping it and tossing it into the trashbag. He moves on to the window itself, slowly prying shards out of the putty in the window frame. "Last thing anybody needs t'do is /escalate/ the level of violence folks is throwin' out. S'enough trouble already without askin' for more." His teeth dig into his lower lip for a moment, though he shakes his head and returns to grinning at Flicker soon enough. "S'pretty much a specialty." Jax's cheeks flush pink, one kind of damp-soapy hand moving to touch lightly against his heart. "Do got a lotta practice, don't I?" This is followed by the sort of amused: "Guess we've all had a lotta scars." His nose crinkles up at the rest of the conversation, fingers clenching tighter against his brush as he scrubs all the harder at his segment of words. "It's aright," he tells Jerome, "we all done had plenty'a experience dealin' with violent folks." There's a faint flutter of light glowing flickering-unsteady yellow around him, but though his scrubbing is fiercer his voice is soft and carefully level. "/Shane's/ had plenty'a experience dealin' with violent folks. I think someone shows up lookin' to start trouble, he'll have his priorities in order." Jerome just nods once and keeps on scrubbing. There are a few moments before he speaks again, "Used to hate violence, myself." He takes the hoop in his lower lip lightly into his mouth for a few moments. "Wasn't super popular before my mutations really expressed. Ran track and played other sports in high school. Still spent most my time with the goth and grunge kids." He rolls his shoulders a bit. "If my senior year, and the time I spent looking for myself taught me anything? It's that violence is necessary sometimes. Don't know what it was like to be Shane. Know he got offended when I said that it sucks getting judged before people really know you. I know I won't experience like he does. Not to the same extent, anyway. But I know it sucks, so I feel for the little guy." He's just rambling at this point. "Still hate violence." Flicker speaks quietly, stepping back from the wall and watching the colored suds drip down the brick. His shoulder twitches up for a moment, the sleeve of his jacket swaying where it hangs empty at his side. He stoops to rinse his brush, swiping it once more against the wall to wipe away the last of the scrubwater and then drop the brush back into the pail. Briefly, he looks to Jerome again. "What did you find?" A quick shimmer of movement puts him very abruptly on Jerome's other side, closer now to Jax. He flicks water from his fingertips and rests a hand lightly on the photokinetic's glowing shoulder. No words. Just a small squeeze. "More'n a little," Micah agrees with his husband, smiling a little before his jaw sets to pry out the next jagged triangle of glass. "S'fine t'see violence as necessary. Sometimes y'gotta meet what folks come at y'with t'protect folks. Don't mean y'gotta like it. Or want it. Or make things worse'n they need. That's all folks're sayin'. Ain't a one of us here could really stake claim t'pacifism." Maybe that thin press of his lips has to do with more than the effort of freeing glass from the frame. "Find?" The question isn't intended for him, but Jax still responds to it with puzzlement. Flicker's hand finds his shoulder tense and clenched, but it eases juuust a hair at the squeeze. He turns to peck the taller man lightly on the cheek. "Violence kinda hates you too, sugar." It's a very wry sort of teasing that fades away as he lowers his brush to his side, looking over at Micah. A glowing halo blossoms over his head, making his brightly dyed hair even brighter. "Psh, what're you on about. I got St. Francis's prayer tattooed right on my /heart/." Though it's /also/ wry when he admits: "Though it's sorta more, ah, somethin' I /strive/ for than anythin' I ever done /reached/ in life." Jerome looks over at Flicker, "What did I find? I found I wasn't sure about myself, or what I can do," he admits. "I have no real training with my offensive abilities. Sometimes my armor forms based on mood, or I spike out when I get angry. You don't know how many shirts I've destroyed," he sighs a bit before he gets back to scrubbing. "Worried I'll have an anxiety attack and get fined for something I can't control." "Fined?" Flicker's brows draw together briefly. "No, they're arresting people now. But not -- Things you can't control. Like being strong or fast or --" He glances towards the door and its streaks of colored water. "Blue. But control is still good. You know, the therapists at the Clinic can help you with --" His frown deepens. "Anxiety." His smile returns, a small brief twitch as he drops his hand back to his side. "Me and violence have never really gotten along," he agrees with Jax. "But Micah's right, we're not exactly --" He lifts his hand again, flicking uselessly at the illusionary halo. "St. Francis." "Might could be I've noticed it once or twice," Micah returns with a smirk and another little bounce of his eyebrows between tugs of glass removal. "S'very true, though. They're arrestin' 'stead of finin' now. Done got arrested m'self 'bout a month back, not even. An' they're not /s'posed/ t'arrest folks for things they can't help, but who wants t'wager s'gonna happen sure enough? Waitin' for the first person with wings t'get arrested for flyin'. Or someone with natural camoflauge t'get arrested for their skin changin' colour though it happens without 'em thinkin'." He sighs heavily, adding another shard to his glass pile. "S'right 'bout the clinic, though. Their therapists're good folks. Our family alone keeps 'em in enough business." The inflection of 'family' may be implying a broader circle than blood relatives. "Horus an' Dusk both been ticketed for flyin' but not arrested." Jax's brows knit now, too. "Yet." The frown clears up, though, /pride/ in his voice as he informs Jerome, "M'husband was the /first/ person arrested under that law change jus' last month. M'slackin' on catchin' him up. Though I still got a mountain'a never-paid citations from when they was jus' only ticketin'." "Are they? I don't keep up with much news." Jerome admits with a sheepish grin. He stops scrubbing and rolls his right sleeve up. "Can't really get away with saying I don't mean to do something that looks like this." Once he finishes speaking spikes made of bone about the length of daggers tear through his arm, causing him to grunt and wince, though they don't bleed (much), though they shortly retreat back beneath the skin and his sleeve is rolled down. "Think it's more a form of Osteokinesis. Had a few x-rays, and it isn't my bone structure." He nods a bit, "I'll probably run away if they try arresting me." he admits. "As long as they don't have a positive identification of me anyway." "Never a good plan. Running gets you shot." A small shudder runs through Flicker. He shakes his head, turning for the now-cleaner if still broken door. "Cold. I'm getting a cocoa. Anyone want anything?" He stops to wait for responses with one hand on the door before heading in. "Ain't gonna complain none if I end up higher on the arrests than you," Micah tosses back at Jax with a wink, the last shard of glass clinking into its pile. He wraps the glass into a secure newspaper bundle and deposits it in the trash bag with the other bundles. "I'll take better care preparin' the window frame once we got new glass...get m'good chisel over an' some linseed oil... Meanwhile, I think wrappin' 'er up and popping on the plywood'll be good enough for the night. Come by tomorrow once the glass is cut an' ready t'set." He nods at the door. "Should prob'ly sand that out 'fore y'paint anythin' new on it, too. But it /looks/ t'be salvageable. Maybe need a touch of wood filler at that spot as got splintery." Micah nods to Flicker's offer. "I'd be all about a chocolate chai once I get done coverin' the window. Shouldn't take too long." "Coconut almond mocha," Jax chirrups to Flicker, "Triple shot." He presses against the door, lightly first and then more firmly, nodding to Micah's assessment. "Still solid. Jus' ugly." He dries his hands against his jeans, taking a step back closer to Micah once his husband has deposited his broken glass. His chin lifts to Jerome, warm smile returning. "Thank y'kindly, honey-honey. S'-- nice. Havin' folks to help when stuff's -- ugly. Makes it less ugly." "Not a problem." Jerome shrugs a bit and deposits the brush. "Can't let the only people that've really been kind to me here have stuff like this happen and not help." He taps out a slight salute, "I'm sure I'll see you guys around. Bump into you everywhere else." A playful wink is flashed before he tucks his hands into his pockets and heads turns to head off.