ArchivedLogs:Rude

Rude
Dramatis Personae Clint, Dusk, Scramble
In Absentia	2016-05-06 Getting shot, not fun.
Location <NYC> Busboys and Poets - East Harlem
A quiet, artsy spot nestled away on a side street in East Harlem, Busboys and Poets combines cafe and bookstore in a way a Starbucks tacked on to a Barnes & Noble could never achieve. The food is a solid, multi-national cuisine menu that caters to all kinds of dietary choices, and its fair-trade tea menu is extensive. Its weekend brunch tends to draw a large crowd, but there is ample enough seating both at tables and on its many comfortable armchairs and couches that at other times of the week there is never a wait. The walls are adorned with the work of local artists, and tucked in among and alongside the couches are rows upon rows of books, with a definite slant towards the political and the bohemian. Though the chill gray day outside has faded into a chillier and grayer evening, it's bright and warm inside the bustling venue. The first Friday ASL poetry/storytelling event is packed as usual, and fliers advertising other Deaf events having been distributed to every table in anticipation of this. The MC, something of a social butterfly known at least in passing to a startling large percentage of of those gathered, has just finished a /somewhat/ long-winded introduction, complete with announcements and self-deprecating jokes about how he goes on and on. Though most of the lively conversations happening around the room are carried out in sign language, the space is rather noisy all the same. Clint is perched on a stool at the bar in a black soft shell jacket with purple trim and gray corduroys, a black sling pack across his back as usual. He's nursing his first beer of the evening and picking at a soft pretzel with a dizzying array of toppings and sauces. He lifts one hand to flutter along with the applause when the MC departs the small stage, and waits for the first performer to come on. Scramble is easy to spot in the crowd, her enormous poof of hair padding her already considerable height. Certainly her outfit tonight doesn't hurt: a leaf green thigh-length tunic with verticle stripes of shimmering gold, cinched with an elaborately braided gold rope belt, and black jeans with strategically engineered slashes along the front that show the gold tights she wears underbeath. She's making her way through the standing-room area to the bar, walking kind of sideways and signing one-handed to her companion, '...and /then/ we went dancing -- have you seen her dance? White girl got some /moves./ Excuse me.' This last to Clint and the large, burly, much-inked fellow sitting at the next stool down from him as she wedges herself between them to catch the bartender's attention. 'Remy VS, please,' she signs, then back over her shoulder, 'What'd you want?' Dusk is blandly dressed in contrast -- compared to his companion, he got /no/ style. Black v-neck shirt with one thin red stripe across its chest, plain blue jeans, heavily fraying at the hems, worn Vans sneakers. He's pretty eye-catching anyway, though, enormous wings spiking up in pointy silhouette behind his shaggy head -- they're painted up, today, with skin deep red, the fine fuzz faintly iridescent black and fine silver veins glimmering along their length like the wings of a dragonfly, his sharp talons tipped in gleaming iridescent black as well. 'I've /seen/ her dance,' he's answering -- cheerful, /fierce/, 'with zombies, but that's a whole different tune. /Wasn't/ she a dancer?' The smile he flashes to the bartender is bright -- cheerful, too, if unsettlingly sharp-toothed. 'You have good tequila? Like /actually/ decent tequila? I want that.' His wings have pressed tighter and smaller against his back as he nears the bar -- it keeps them out of the /way/, certainly, he's definitely /used/ to maneuvering with them in crowds -- but it doesn't really make them less noticeable and isn't doing much to draw fewer uncomfortable glances his way. There are equally as many people, though -- clearly frequent regulars in this type of crowd -- paying him little mind. He drapes one arm around Scramble's shoulders as he tucks himself in beside her -- tips his head to the side, brows lifting as his eyes sweep over Clint. His fanged smile widens, fingers snapping once -- pointing to the other man /over/ Scramble's shoulder. Lazily one-handed: 'You! Keeping -- not-isolated, then?' Clint shifts to one side on the stool, glancing over Scramble quickly as he makes space for her at the bar. '1-8-0-0 Silver, not bad,' he offers, casually. His signing has grown somewhat more fluid since the last time Dusk spoke with him. He expresses no surprise at the other man's recognition--admittedly, Dusk is quite recognizeable. 'So-so? Could try harder. How are you?' The bartender chuckles, '1-8-0-0 not bad,' he agree with a nod at Clint, 'I alos recommend A-V-I-O-N.' His signing is kind of mechanical, but his fingerspelling is more fluid than most would probably expect from someone of his skill level. 'Which you like, B-L-A-N-C-O, R-E-S-P-O-S-A-D-O, A-N-E-J-O?' 'Gymnast,' Scramble corrects, grinning widely. 'Similar idea, though. Best night I've had -- in a while.' Her smile dims, but only a /little./ When Dusk addresses Clint, she looks at him, brown eyes skipping from his visibly calloused fingers to the side of his head to the pack on his back. 'Hey there,' she offers hims a ready smile, not bothering to question how he and Dusk know each other. 'I'm S-C-R-A-M-B-L-E.' 'No /wonder/ she's got moves. This going to be a thing? More -- moves?' Dusk's hand drops from Scramble's shoulder, his wing sliding out to take its place. '1-8-0-0, decent. A-N-E-J-O, please.' His eyes flick to Clint's beer, his extravagant pretzel, then to the crowded room. 'Glad you're trying tonight, anyway. I've -- well. It's been a rough spring. Glad to get out. How you?' Clint's smile is somewhat more reserved than Scramble's. 'C-L-I-N-T,' he replies. 'Nice to meet you. S-C-R-A-M-B-L-E? Like--"'He mimes whisking something in a mixing bowl, eyebrows upraised. 'Rough spring--sorry.' His eyes skip to Dusk's wings, then back to his face. 'Related to the protests?' The first performer, a diminutive multiracial young man with a head of luxurious black curls, has taken the stage and is launching into a comedy routine that has most of the audience in stitches. Clint either does not understand the first couple of jokes or has a really impressive poker face. The bartender nods and goes to pour their drinks. When he comes back with the cognac and the tequila, Scramble slides him her credit card. 'I'm /hoping/ its going to be a thing, but we just gonna have to see.' Then, to Clint. 'Yep, like eggs, and I /do/ answer to that classifier, in a pinch.' She snerks at the comedian's very expressive description of squeezing with five friends into a car for a road trip, and then laughs uproariously at his demonstration of attempting to carry on a conversation in said vehicle. 'Yeah but you just have to be careful not to sign it too small --' Dusk repeats the motion, diminutively, towards Scramble. 'Or then you mean Ion's dragon and it'll be all kinds of confusing. His jaw tenses -- just a faint clench beneath his shadow of scruff, eyes drifting back towards the stage. His fangs flash again, wings shivering as his shoulders shake in laughter. More quietly, wing tightening around Scramble: 'Good. Can use a bit of happy in all this -- thanks.' This, with a nod to the bartender, lifting his drink in salute. With his other hand, lazy-casual to Clint: 'Now what on earth would make you think all /that/ tension's come home to roost with someone like /me/?' There's amusement glimmering in his wide dark eyes. 'Ion?' Clint repeats, eyebrows furrowing. 'Dragon? Sorry, I do not know those signs--see, confused already.' He lifts his beer, drinks from it, and at least smiles at the comedian pantomiming his attempt to sign while squeezed in between his friends. His arms only move from the elbows down, T-rex style. 'I have noticed some people being even ruder than usual to mutants, lately.' He uses the technical sign for 'mutant', X-hand followed by 'gene', index and middle fingers of each hand touching and rotating outward to trace a double helix. 'Or people they think are mutants. Or...people living in the same building as people they think are mutants.' 'Ion's a name -- our brother. Dragon,' Scramble exaggerates the motion of this sign a little, 'is his kid's name, means D-R-A-G-O-N. Think, fire coming out of mouth, right?' She takes a sip of her cognac and grins at the performer, shaking her head. 'I've been there. It's worse when you're all arms and legs.' Her head rolls back against the long bone of Dusk's wing. 'Or wings. Which are also really effective at attracting assholes.' Dusk's wings -- don't /quite/ stretch, there's really not room for /that/, but they do shift in a small roll as he takes a swallow of tequila. His grin is a little lopsided, head just tipping in a nod of agreement. 'Rude is -- one way to put it, yeah. Been a /few/ houses in my neighborhood torched. Getting fucking messy out there.' His cheeks puff out, his next swallow of tequila -- larger. 'Been at most of the protests, too. /So/ far nobody's shot me but it's usually just a matter of time.' He looks pretty casual about this, all things considered. 'I hope you don't live somewhere too, uh, chaos.' Clint purses his lips thoughtfully and nods at Scramble's explanation. 'My area, not so bad, but around the city? I see the fires, see the beatings.' He shakes his head, lips compressed and eyes narrowed. 'See the cops, too.' Then, a bit less lighter, 'See you, too, on the news. Interpreting--both of you, yes--at protests.' He tips his beer back and watches the stage for a moment, his eyes following the current joke without obvious comprehension of its rather more cultural humor. 'Hope your luck hold,' he signs the English expression somewhat literally. 'Getting shot, not fun.' 'I've had way more cops tryin to beat on me than the plain-clothes bigots,' Scramble muses. 'But then, I don't /look/ like a freak and don't live in a freak neighborhood, so it's mostly at the protests that I've been so honored.' It might seem a bit incongruous that she bursts into laughter right then, at the comedian and not Clint's comments or her own. Then she shrugs, 'Hard enough getting terps willing to work in a volatile environment like these actions, even harder when it's a bunch of freaks. But, deaf is deaf, X-gene don't make you magically better at understanding spoken English.' Though she frowns and adds, '/Usually./' 'I don't mind interpreting but I'll be damn glad when I can go back to doing it at at freak /pride/ instead of freak -- get our asses beat by every fucking body,' Dusk admits with a huff of a laugh. A little more wistful: 'Be damn glad when my boys are home.' His wings droop, faintly, against his own back and Scramble's. He brightens, with a sharp sliver of grin -- maybe at Scramble, maybe at the story. '/Usually/.' Clint nods, then inclines his head. 'Hard enough getting terps--period.' He watches the comedy routine with a placid look on his face. Then, turning back to Scramble and Dusk, raises his his beer in salute. 'To you not getting beat up. Also, to your boys coming home.'