ArchivedLogs:The Enemy of my Enemy

The Enemy of my Enemy
Dramatis Personae Ion, Scramble
In Absentia	2018-02-20 "{I think they got the idea to run around, stomp them some freaks /first/, thought the bikes made a good accessory like a goddamn afterthought.}"
Location <NYC> Hellhound Bikes - Brooklyn
Located not far from Jamaica Bay in a predominantly Latinx sector of East New York, this garage doesn't look like much from the outside. A low-slung squat dingy brick building with a hand-painted sign over front proclaiming it to be HELLHOUND CUSTOM CYCLES, this garage has a small office area with its own pedestrian entrance from the street at the front, containing a minifridge usually full of beer and beaten down old desk with a ledger and an antique cash register that no one ever seems to use. The rest of the space is roughly L-shaped, its walls lined with racks of tools and heavy workbenches with built-in steel drawers full of hardware and spare parts. There's a raised platform in the wider leg of the space for working on one motorcycle, and there's space in the narrower leg for parking at least three more. It's gloriously warm today, sun blazing bright from a blue sky dotted with cheerful white clouds. Precocious flowers wild and otherwise stir in garden plots and sidewalk cracks and empty lots all across the city, lured by the promises of yet another false spring. Hellhound Bikes' main garage door is open and Scramble, dressed in a red tank top mostly covered by her cut and tight black jeans, has a push broom in hand, sweeping out some detritus that had gathered along where the door usually rests. The entire neighborhood seems to be out of doors, glad of the reprieve from the previous days of cold and damp. There's an impromptu street soccer game of tweens and teens in progress under the watchful eye of older folks smoking and chatting on their stoops. At the sound of approaching engines, the older kids pause the game and herd the rest back onto the sidewalk to watch the two motorcycles approach. The bikes -- a heavily modified Harley cruiser and a somewhat closer to factory condition Victory -- are things of beauty, their chrome polished to a mirror shine, their leather worn but well-conditioned. They pull up at the curb just short of the garage's driveway. The rider of the Harley dismounts first. He is not very imposing, standing barely five foot seven, more wiry than bulky. His helmet is red with a stark white graphic of a dual-bladed ax at the back and lightning bolts along the sides, and he removes it to show a head of lush black hair meticulously braided back, his skin a luminous light brown. He wears a gray long-sleeve t-shirt, heavy blue jeans, thick-soled tank boots, and a black leather cut -- with an 'LC - NY' patch on the right breast above an 'El Presidente' rank badge. the image on the back is that of an armored knight astride an equally armored mechanical steed beneath the stylized words 'Los Caballeros'. His companion is larger and lighter skinned, dressed alike but for a white shirt and a rank badge that reads 'El Diputado'. Both men wear serious expressions, the leader nodding once to Scramble when their eyes meet. "{I'm here to talk to Ion,}" he says. His voice is very deep, his Spanish heavily Cuban accented. There is a string of glass beads in alternating red and white with a few cowrie shells in between wound multiple times around his left wrist. Scramble nods back -- also once. "{Welcome.}" Then, raising her voice without taking her eyes off their guests. "{Yo Ion! Los Caballeros are here to see you.}" It is just a few minutes before a door opens deeper in the garage to spill one energetic electrokinetic out into the world. Ion is dressed in jeans, a plain white tee, his much-scarred cut over top. His clap of Scramble's shoulder in passing is companionable, though accompanied by a sharp brief jolt of shock. He offers a quick lift of chin to the taller man, an extended hand to the shorter. "Luis. {Warm ride today, we get you something cold?}" Luis inclines his head. "{Your hospitality is legendary, and I will not /complain/ about the weather, but...}" He gives a nonchalant shrug. "{This is my brother Francisco...}" He glaces aside at his deputy, who is staring in what he probably thinks is a surreptitious fashion at Scramble. "{...he /usually/ has better manners.}" The last comment carries only a touch of sharpness, but Francisco snaps upright as though he had been struck, and immediately leaves off his gawking. Scramble, for her part, does not seem to have noticed either Francisco's rudeness nor Luis's reproof. "{Welcome, and please excuse the mess. We did not expect company.}" She steps back inside and picks up the cleaning supplies she'd left about. The garage does not, actually look a mess, aside from that. Ion's head dips briefly downward, his hand pulling back to fold loosely across his chest. "{Francisco. That's my brother's name, too. Come in, have a sit.}" He gestures just inside the garage -- not into the office but into the shade of the building; past the open garage door a rickety folding table sits nearby the raised workspace, a few stools sprinkled around it. Ion sweeps the papers that have been sitting on the table into one neat pile, tucking them away into a folder. He gestures to the empty stools, disappears briefly into the front office, returns again sans folder but with a few chilled bottles of water and a six-pack of an Other Half Imperial Stout ("Astro Travelin'", says the label.) "{All good with you lot?}" It's casually enough asked as Ion sets down the beer, brows lifting. He doesn't, himself, sit. "{Been --}" There's a beat of hesitation, a slight press of lips. "{A minute since you had reason to stop by our neighborhood.}" Luis and Francisco follow the Mongrels through to the sitting area. "{It's a good name,}" Luis says, "{and a lot to live up to.}" He plucks one of the beers from the six pack. "{My thanks for receiving us so well, though we have come by so suddenly.}" Francisco darts a longing glance at the stout but gets himself a water instead. "{Lent,}" he explains, a bit sheepishly. Luis pats his deputy on the shoulder, the quirk of his mouth only a touch sympathetic. "{We're as good as can be, with those government sons of bitches harassing our people more and more all the time.}" Though his tone is mild enough, the curse sounds somehow more venomous and severe than usual, coming from him. "{We are fortunately not here because of sickness. Unless you have found some cure for that killer flu going around. But no, I have come to talk to you about another common problem we might have. Call themselves 'The /Purifiers/'.}" The emphasis he puts on that last word sounds ever so slightly contemptuous. Scramble also picks up a beer, though she does not yet open it. Leans against the side of the building and listens to their visitor's explanation. Her shoulders stiffen slightly at hearing Luis's 'common problem'. Ion's head shakes, tongue sucking briefly against his upper teeth. "{If we had the magic to cure disease we wouldn't be hiding it. Our little clinic, it's been at capacity for weeks. By the grace of God this season will be through with soon enough and not hit any of yours too hard, hm?}" He takes a beer of his own, cracks it open on his belt buckle. The clench of fingers around his bottle and curl of his lip is clear enough with the mention of the other upstart motorcycle club even before his quick hiss of breath and the faint brief skitter of sparks that dance across his knuckles and then fade. "{Those fucking ugly-ass fanatics? They starting shit with you, too?}" Here, he /does/ sound mildly surprised. Luis opens his beer by aid of a heavy ring on his right index finger, lifts it in a casual salute, and takes a swig. "{By the grace of God,}" he agrees, "{and anyone one else who'll listen. May your people pull through it, too. But I think it's been hitting everyone hard.}" He gives a shake of his head. Francisco tenses and stares quite openly when Ion emits sparks, but when he speaks, his anger is directed elsewhere. "{I got a cousin, he like you -- well, not exactly like, but the Purifiers, they been harassing his family, scaring his kids.}" He shakes his head in disgust and chugs his water. "{There are mutants in our community, too,}" Luis says, nodding at Francisco. "{In every community, even if they don't like talking about it.}" His shrug is small, philosophical. "{So these Purifiers, they're trouble for everyone to some degree. But think about it -- they are trouble for 1%ers, mutants or no mutants.}" "{They don't even call themselves '1%ers'.}" When Scramble has managed to open her beer or how seems to have escaped notice, but she's gesturing with the open bottle now. "{Far as we can tell, they're posers who think riding a bike makes them more badass.}" Ion's arms cross loosely again, his beer bottle resting lightly against the crook of an elbow. "{Every community,}" he allows, neutrally enough. It's followed by a snort, a shake of his head. "{Shit, yeah. I think they got the idea to run around, stomp them some freaks /first/, thought the bikes made a good accessory like a goddamn afterthought.}" He lifts his beer, takes a pull from it. "{I'm sorry the shit they're bringing to your doorstep. I expect they'll only keep spreading it fucking everywhere in this city if we don't learn them some manners soon.}" Luis takes a sip of his beer, considering Ion steadily. "{Exactly. These Purifier don't understand our way of doing things -- or if they do, they have no respect for it. Yet their numbers grow all the time, and with more money and more weapons. If we let them carry on, at best they continue to be a nuisance, at worse...}" He frowns very lightly. "{Well. I don't want to speculate how far they might take it, but their love for very public violence is going to put other clubs under some spotlights we don't want.}" He tips the neck of his bottle slightly in Ion's direction. "{So I thought, you and yours probably know more about them than most, and also have more investment in seeing them taken down a notch. And together -- especially if we can get some others on board -- we stand a better chance against them than any of us alone.}" He pauses, dark eyes fixed on Ion. "{What do you think?}" Scramble has slumped a bit farther down on the wall. "{Shit. That or we just set them and the Sword of Tyr at each other. Sit back. Make some popcorn.}" "{Be convenient.}" The smile Ion gives Scramble is crooked. "{A dark fucking day when we turn to those Nazis for any-damn-thing, though.}" His fingers tap rapidly against the side of his bottle. "{I think there's plenty of people would rather see this dealt with quick and quiet and not with heat turned on all our asses. The Crows and the Black Legion, they'd be down I expect. The Silence --}" His head tips slowly, from one side to the other. "{Well, those brothers sure as fuck won't lose sleep over a few dead freaks but last I heard these /Sons of Anarchy/ wannabes were making all kinds of trouble up in Corona, Jackson Heights, they are /not/ going to love that in their backyard either.}" "{Not sure where the Tyr would fall on this,}" Luis sounds perfectly serious. "{Most of the Purifiers look white to me. I'm not about to pay them any visits to find out.}" He takes a long drink, tilting his head to one side. "{But the clubs we're on decent terms with -- I will talk to them. Having you behind this will make it easier to sell. I know we are not the only ones you've supplied with medicine, and when it comes right down to it, we are all afraid of you.}" His smile is a slow-building thing. "{Well.../nearly/ all of us.}"