Logs:On the Rooftop

On the Rooftop
Dramatis Personae Ion, Akihiro, Peter
In Absentia	2019-07-18 "Between us, I have three words for them."
Location <NYC> Lower East Side - BoM Safehouse
Tucked away off a little-used side street in the Lower East Side, sandwiched between a youth drop-in center and a taqueria, this narrow three-story townhouse has very little to catch the eye. Boarded-up windows, a door peeling its paint, shabby grubby brickface; from the outside it does not look like much. Inside someone has gone to great lengths to renovate the building into something more habitable. It isn't glamorous but it is comfortable, old furniture dragged in, the place generally swept clean. The first floor holds a large living room, a smaller dining room, a spacious kitchen, a half-bathroom. There are three bedrooms and a full bathroom on the second floor; the attic is just a large empty space crammed full of boxes with a window out to the large flat roof. The basement, much like the attic, consists of a lot of empty space. A bare concrete floor, no windows, occasional poles running up to the ceiling. A tiny half-bathroom down here, too. Not a whole lot else. Getting on top of the three-story building is tricky, especially if you want to do it quietly (and without going inside). Neither the youth center nor the taqueria are high enough to reach the roof; the fire-escape looks like it's barely clinging to the wall (and even if you did use it, it'd make one hell of a racket). And yet, in the waning hours of the late-evening, someone has managed to do so without so much as making a peep. He isn't much to look at; just some lean white guy in a dark-gray hoodie crouched on the building's edge. One foot dangles over the side -- the back of his sneaker scuffs against cheap masonwork. The sun's creeping down. Lights flick on and off. And Peter... just listens. Watches. Eyes on the street below. The faint odor of exhaust and grease linger around him. His hood is pulled up, his attention focused. Brows crumpled into a tight, clenched knot. “You don’t look like the mechanic type.” A soft yet rough voice breaks the silence, the soft orange glow of a cigarette illuminating the fine features of a younger looking Japanese man. Pushing to his feet he takes a few steps forward out of the shadows that had previously concealed his presence. He’s a touch on the thin side despite having some visible muscle. “Something in particular you’re looking for?” Peter's skin prickles at the back of his neck. Even when he's distracted, he's pretty good at noticing things. The fact that he didn't notice Akihiro until he spoke is... mildly alarming. Enough to put Peter on edge. He looks over one shoulder, turning to lift his head toward the younger looking man... his brow still crumpled. "Mechanic?" Peter asks. He's on the younger side, himself; you'd be forgiven for thinking he's an older teen. Maybe early 20s at most. He visibly tenses, examining Akihiro. "Just people-watching." Technically, it's the truth. And isn't technically true the best kind of truth? "How long have you been there?" There's a crackling, a quiet zzzt, and then there's a third joining this rooftop party. Ion is dressed in jeans, a white tee, his much-abused Mutant Mongrels cut. More than a little bouncy, his barely-contained energy seems more jittery than anything else. "Yoooo, shit, new guy, you got a smoke?" He is patting at his pockets as he moves closer to the others, a hopeful note in his gravelly-deep voice. "'chu doing up here, kid? You find anyone interesting to spy at?" “A little while.” Akihiro answers, drifting forward several more steps up until something else catches his attention. Of course that something else turns out to be Ion. “You know the kid here? Was just about to see if he was a mongrel or purifier.” Fishing around in his pockets he produces a pack of cheap (cheap as it can be in New York) cigarettes, offering the pack out. That crackle -- presumably accompanied by a whiff of scorched ozone -- prompts Peter to leap up and spin in place. It's a frightfully fast motion, particularly considering that he's perched right on the building's edge. "Holy-moly," he mumbles, blinking owlishly at Ion... only to glance at Akihiro. Then, back to Ion. Then, back to Akihiro, then... 'Mongrel' vs 'Purifier' gets Peter to tense up some more; fists are clenched. But he's quick enough to put two and two together. Purifiers wouldn't be showing up on this rooftop (and certainly not out of thin air). "I'm neither," Peter announces, his tone a little stiff. Then, almost defensively (with a bird-like cock of his head): "You... aren't Purifiers. Right?" Ion takes one of the cigarettes from the pack with a nod of thanks, returning the pack to Akihiro and sticking the smoke between his lips. His hand lifts, cups around its butt; there's a brief snap, a blue-white crackle, and the cigarette is lit. Just in time for Ion to cough hard and incredulous on his first drag of the cigarette. He looks down at his cut, looks back up at Peter with his brows lifted, barking a rough laugh. "Boy, you even know what the fuckin' Purifiers is?" His eyes have widened, his head shaking. "I'ono him. Some kid. Yo, Some Kid, who are you?" “Could just hang out in a garage, but I don’t think that’s it either.” Akihiro’s gaze follows Peter into the air and he nods to himself, making a mental note. “Been sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong kid?” It’s less a question and more an accusation. “Not that I give a shit, but maybe cover your face. Some folk hold grudges.” Peter's eyes dart to the blue-white flash. It causes him to relax a little more. His fists unclench; he sways along the roof's lip. His movements are quick, bobbing to a rhythm only he hears. "Hells Angels cosplay enthusiasts," he replies to Ion's first query. The response is near-automatic. The second query takes a little longer: "Ben." Half-lie; it's his middle-name. "Been following them," Peter tells Akihiro. He's still tense, but he doesn't look like he's prepping for a fight anymore. "When you cover your face, people assume you're up to no good." He gives him a tired, crooked smile. "I find it makes life easier if you don't give them the warning." "Oh shit are you here to cause a ruckus?" Suddenly Ion is even more animated, bouncing on his toes and looking to Peter with a renewed interest. "Boy you want to punch at Purifiers though you gotta learn what they even look like! No nazi flatscans stroll around wearing Mongrels patches." He taps at the patches on his biker vest. Takes a long drag of his cigarette. "Big white crosses on them biker wannabes. Easy to spot." “That I can get behind.” Akihiro takes one last drag from his smoke before it hits the filter and flicks the butt away to the corner of the rooftop. “I’ll just consider this an early seventy-fifth birthday present. Figure out where they’re holed up?” The increased energy on Ion's part -- combined with the slight shift in mood punctuated by Akihiro flicking that cigarette butt away -- actually puts Peter a little on edge, again. Kid can't seem to decide whether to be relaxed or anxious. Well, he didn't expect support. "Oh! I heard of you," he confesses to Ion. "I mean, the Mongrels. Not... you, specifically." He glances back over to Akihiro; his nose scrunches up at at the mention of 'seventy-fifth birthday', filing that away under 'possibly useful information'. "Some of them, yeah. There's this old mechanic shop nearby where they --" Suddenly, Peter's eyes snap wide. Both hands lift defensively. "Whoa. I mean, I'm not -- you're not talking about hitting them there, are you? I mean... you're not supposed to punch 'em unless they're..." The words trail off. He's not really sure how to end that sentence; honestly, he's not even sure how any of this works. "Mechanic shop," Ion scoffs with a huff, "please, like a one of them poser-ass fucks know how to fix a bike." His brows lift after this -- he takes another drag from the cigarette, shaking his head. "Not supposed to punch 'em unless what? Boy, you even know what the fuckin' Purifiers is?" This time the question is far more incredulous than the last. “We should wait for them to try and kill us?” Akihiro arches a brow. “Fuck that noise. They signed up for it when they decided we were less than them.” "I don't think they run the shop," Peter starts, but then seems to realize that this point is likely irrelevant. Ion's follow-up question gives him pause; his face scrunches into a frown. He pivots on one foot to face the street, arms outstretched, briefly teetering on the edge. "Yeah, I know who they are," Peter says, his voice muted and low. "They're the guys who keep trying to kill my family." "I mean. I do want to punch them," Peter admits, still teetering, just barely peeking at Akihiro from the corner of his eye. "Just... You ever feel like if you start doing something, you're not sure you're gonna be able to stop? You're just gonna... keep going and going." Ion's tongue clicks in time with a snap of fingers, a finger-gun pointed at Akihiro. "Them -- them --" His hand describes the shape of a cross somewhere against his own vest, "how many us they already kill? Is the only thing they want. We suppose to just wait around for it, hell no." He flicks at his cigarette; his bright laugh comes with a puff of smoke. "All the damn time. That bad? I don't see the nazis taking no breaks." “Depends. Some people hate killing. Some of us didn’t have a choice.” Akihiro scratches at his cheek before shrugging again. “They’ll keeps coming, especially if they think they’re untouchable. Between us, I have three words for them.” He lifts his left fist and three ebony claws punch out from the skin between his knuckles. Like father like son.