ArchivedLogs:Not Quite Criminal

Not Quite Criminal
Dramatis Personae Dusk, Flicker, Teague
In Absentia	2015-08-12 "Well, isn’t that a pretty picture."
Location <NYC> Tompkins Square Park - East Village
Small but popular, this tree-lined park is a perfect centerpiece to the eclectic neighborhood it resides in. Home to a number of playgrounds and courts from handball to basketball, it also houses a dog park and chess tables, providing excellent space for people watching -- especially during its frequent and often eccentric festivals, from Wigstock to its yearly Allen Ginsberg tribute Howl festival. SOME people are probably at work at this hour. Sucks to be them, really. It's a stunningly gorgeous summer day and for those people not tied to the rigors of Day Jobs, the park seems to hold a good deal of appeal. Dusk, in verrry dark sunglasses and a lot of sunblock -- perhaps doesn't have as /much/ appreciating for the bright sunny afternoon as some, but nevertheless he is out here, right now. Though there's plenty of people in the park today, plenty of demand for the playing courts, he and his roommate have managed to commandeer one of the basketball courts all to themselves. Though there are a few onlookers (some wary-to-horrified, perhaps a couple appreciative) mooost people are content to give them their space. Probably this has little to do with their basketball skills and everything to do with the flagrantly displayed mutation out on the court. In shorts and sneakers but shirtless, Dusk's wings are intensely eye-catching as he moves; they flex and flare with him, the sunlight illuminating the bright stained-glass-inspired flame-hued starburst design thrown across their expanse. At the moment he has the ball, dribbling down towards the net but --given his /opponent/ in this little game of one-on-one, that is perhaps not likely to last. His opponent should be far less eye catching. No wings, for one. And unlike Dusk, Flicker actually has a shirt on (bland and boringly plain blue. His shorts are equally boring-plain-black.) More noteworthy, though, is the lightning-quick way that he moves, ducking in under one of those bright flared wings to nab the ball in a blink and abscond with it to the opposite basket. Less eye catching but perhaps also noticeable, the fact that this theft is effected with one arm; his other sleeve droops empty at his side. He hasn't /been/ teleporting throughout this match but any lingering gawkers have more to gawk at once the ball swishes through the net; where there was Flicker now there is just a blur, flitting first to collect the ball and then to zip back towards Dusk to land with a bright grin. "I always told you I could beat you with -- well. Do I have to /actually/ tie it behind my back for it to count? I could, next time." Jewel raises his arms high above his head and laces his fingers through the fence surrounding the basketball court, somehow still keeping his cigarette in-hand. He wears a pair of tight cut-offs made from the remains of old, black, skinny jeans and a black t-shirt cut down the sides to expose as much skin as possible. The young Brotherhood recruit is bruised, battered, and wiry-hewn from morning combat training sessions on the compound, but carries it all like a badge of honor. The wall of metal ringlets jingle and ripple with the sudden addition of Jewel’s weight. If that isn’t enough to make his presence known, from behind small, round, black-out shades and a lion’s mane of dark, windblown hair, he let’s out a slow, audible wolf-whistle directed towards the two mutant men on the other side of the fence. Like a schoolgirl, he turns one knee inward and digs the corresponding foot into the ground, “Who’s winning?” He calls out smoothly, making no effort to conceal his London accent. There's a soft rumble of growl, but no real surprise from Dusk when his hands are abruptly emptied of Ball. One wing snaps out to try and snag the ball back, but a little too slow. When Flicker returns, Dusk’s own grin is warm and easy, his wing draping briefly around the other man's shoulders in quick squeeze. "Fff." He glances up, over towards the fence. Meanders over that way, too, to snag a water bottle from a gym bag at the side of the court. "I got my ass kicked. I don't even know why I bother. Should stick to goddamn Smash Bros. How's your day going?" He stoops back down, rummaging through the bag again and pulling out first a harness and then a mechanical arm. Both of these, he offers to Flicker. "Tied. Firmly." Another shimmer of motion brings Flicker over to the fence. "Don't front." He sounds cheerful. "I trounce you there, too." He settles down beside the gym bag with a pleasant nod to Teague. One knee tucked under him, the other foot still braced on the ground. The harness and prosthesis (also brightly colored, patterned in a mosaic of gingko leaves, green and gold-leaf that makes no attempt at all towards looking like a Real Arm), he takes with a laugh. "If you're that eager for another round." He strips his t-shirt off, leaving an undershirt on beneath. The process of donning the harness and its liner is a somewhat tedious one. Some of the few remaining onlookers, alright with Gawking At Mutants, have gotten kind of abashed at this open display of /cripple/ and finally dispersed. Flicker, though, seems unabashed. "Friend of Dusk's?" His heavily scarred face has tipped toward Teague with this question. “Well, if he says you’re tied, I’m inclined to believe him,” Jewel pouts and raises his eyebrows well above the rim of his glasses as he saunters ‘round through the open gate. His tone, bemused, insinuates that he knows who the winner was and as Flicker partially strips, it doesn’t seem like Jewel finds his lack of appendage off-putting. “He’s a likeable fellow,” He smiles demurely to Dusk. Absently, he flicks his lit cigarette in the direction of some gawkers. It’s done with enough accuracy and nonchalance for one to assume it’s likely something he does to people often. It doesn’t hit, but the red ember ricocheting off of the chain-link is enough to draw them back. “My day? Peachy.” "No, he won. I /meant/ --" There's laughter in Dusk's voice, but he doesn't finish this expansion. Kind of watches Flicker re-arm himself, kind of leans up against the fence to look over Teague's current state as well. "Looks peachy." He doesn't sound sarcastic. His head does tip to the side, though. A small curl of grin crosses his lips. "And someone over there," he tells Flicker with a twitch of thumbclaw across the court, "called the cops on you." "He meant that it only counts," Flicker explains cheerfully, "if I win with my arm /literally/ tied behind my back. Otherwise I'm only allowed to be," he lifts forefinger and thumb a small distance apart. "So smug." His eyes roll over in the direction Dusk points. Brows lifting. Neither surprise nor concern in his expression. "Took 'em this long?" He's still unhurried as he straps his arm into its harness. "Cops aren't going to show." Jewel ohs quietly, letting out a breathy laugh of his own. For all his confident airs, the young man flicks his muddy-colored eyes over the rim of his glasses to check in the direction Dusk had gestured. His nervousness is watered down by his ever-present youthful apathy, but is there, nonetheless. “Ah. Well, isn’t that a pretty picture,” Jewel subdues a small smile while he envisions Flicker, an armless, meaty stub, still beating Dusk at basketball. He tucks his hair back behind his ears, revealing the diamond tattoo on his neck. Taking his lead from the others, the teen remains, asking casually and with some esteem, “You’re not concerned at all?” "They /might/ turn up. They sometimes turn up. Back when the law changed they used to for every fucking call." Dusk grimaces at this thought, stretching out his wings wide and then curling them back in behind himself. "He'll probably be more worried once --" For a moment there's a grin that flashes across his face. "Pigs fly." Flicker's head dips down. Small laugh stifled. Small head shake. "I don't want to get /arrested/, if that's what you mean." Then a small frown, to join it. "... or shot." Maybe a longer frown. "But most police /aren't/ very good at flying, yet. And they'll really only /chase/ you on these calls if you're /also/ doing some -- you know. /Actual/ crime. I don't think losing at basketball is criminal enough." “From what I saw, the way he was losing, it ought to be,” Jewel presses forward a small smile, moving out of the court. “I was just chased by a pudgy, little dull-witted one the other day,” he drags the pads of his fingers along the fence as he walks, staying close. “Dusk,” his eyebrows flick up, feigning disappointment, “Am I reading between the lines incorrectly, or did you pick up a respected /officer of the law/, and carry him into the air?” Dusk's fangs flash in a bright grin. He stoops finally to pick up his shirt -- see, he did bring one! -- but doesn't go so far as to put it /on/, pssh. Just tucks it to dangle from his back pocket. "/Respected/," he replies, second set of vocal cords adding a soft thrum of purr underneath his words, "might be overstating the case a little bit. And I set him down pretty undamaged." His wings flare; the draft they stir up is easily felt through the fence as he pushes into the air. Up and over the fence, coming down lightly on the other side. "... on top of a tree." Flicker presses his knuckles to his lips to stifle his laugh, this time. Arm now firmly in place, he tugs his t-shirt back on. Slings the gym bag over his shoulder. A quick blur of motion carries him through to the other side of the fence, too. "Gotta be careful. One of the cops on MID /does/ fly. They'll start sending him after you in particular. Hates doing it, though. Likes to pretend he's not a mutant. But he might /just/ find it in himself to take to the skies if it means arresting /your/ smug ass." He shifts the gym bag slightly, settling it more comfortably. Glances across the park for a moment, then back to Jewel. "... what were they chasing you over?" Jewel’s small smile grows, just a little. The lad turns as Flicker exits the court, pressing his back against the fence some but otherwise remaining unchanged by the unexpected movement. “I’m sure I have no idea,” he purrs. In the wind created by Dusk’s brief flight, most Jewel’s blackish is dramatically swept away from his face, save for a few wavy strands that land in front of one eye. There is a definite quality to his casual statement that should make it clear, he knows why they were chasing him. “What do you boys have planned for the rest of your day? Washing up?” Jewel asks, slowly bringing up a hand to tuck the strands back behind his ear. "Flying cops?" Dusk's shudder is exaggerated. "There ought to be a law against that kind of thing." His wings flare out in a lazy stretch. "You were being a perfect angel, I'm sure. Unfairly targeted just like we /all/ are. -- /I'm/ going for a long hot soak and then /sleep/. It's way past my bedtime." "Washing up -- just in time to change for work." Flicker grimaces. "/And/ I have a double. One day I'm going to get on this working-from-home train, it seems like the way to go." He leans forward, offering (mechanical) hand out towards Jewel for a knuckletap before he goes. "I'm Flicker, by the way. Good to meet you." Jewel’s eyes follow the cylon-arm as it extends towards him. His lean muscles tense under his skin instinctively, pending the dodge-reaction that doesn’t come. “Jewel,” he offers in a breathy tone, his lips pressing into a thin line. He brings up his small hand to bump Flicker’s. It’s not a gesture he’s used to, clearly. Jewel’s eyes twinkle with amusement, settling on Flicker for a moment before scanning over to Dusk. His eyebrows flick, “Sweet dreams, then.”