ArchivedLogs:Bang

Bang
Dramatis Personae Dusk, Ion, Isra, Kay, Rasputin, Toru, Kal, Thea, in absentia
In Absentia	2014-01-27 Not with a whimper. (Well, Maybe some whimpers.)
Location <BOM> Beachfront - Ascension Island
Largely rocky and desolate, the majority of the waterfront on this small island is an unwelcoming place. Craggy and forbidding, lined with jagged black rocks, the coast here can take a fair bit of scrambling to navigate. Here and there, though, the coastline levels out to narrow sweeps of pebbly beaches littered with shells and seaweed carried in on the frigid tide. Occasional old trunks of fallen trees dot the narrow beach, victims of the storms that frequently plague the island. One small stretch of the western shore holds a small dock, a few boats usually moored there. Tucked off the mainland coast in Jamaica Bay, the buildings and lights of the city can be seen far across the water. It’s after dark, and bitterly cold -- through most of the island, at least. Out by the water the chill off the ocean renders it colder /still/, a biting wind that cuts through to the bone. What does help to cut through this, though, to fight off the wind and ocean-spray and winter ice are the fires studded in semicircle here along the rocky shore, set up like windbreak on one less-treacherous sweep of coastline. They ring an -- as-yet-unlit /larger/ pyre, taller and darker in silhouette against the glimmering backdrop of ocean, a lone figure rested atop it wrapped only in one thin sheet for shroud -- veined with stitching, its embroidery resembles the wings of a termite. There are already quite a few Brothers gathered, clustered around one blaze or another, talking in low voices or /hollering/ in loud ones. Regan is doing neither, a warm coat wrapped around herself, arms folded across her chest, back to one fire and eyes turned out across the bay towards the distant lights of the city. Hat pulled down over her head, hair tucked into a low bun beneath it, the wind whips stray wisps of hair briskly against her face. Her leather gloves slowly creak as they clench at the crooks of her arms. Positioned at a center point between the minor fires and the as of yet darkened pyre before him, Kay stands with no jacket, fingerless gloves, his MC kutte - beneath, however, he's settled on a simple black shirt with a V-neck and skinny jeans, high boots. The black banana usually worn at his bicep has been removed and fastened over his head, holding his longish hair back off his face - it shows off the severe line of his brows, a scar at either temple where a dull pulse can be subtly seen throbbing. The flames ripple responsively when he turns his head, looks to Regan. Positioned in one of the clusters, is the four-armed Kal, Rasputin resting on his shoulders as to watch everything that happens. Ze is awfully quiet, atleast, in Rasputin terms, talking from time to time to respond to statements, but other than that, mostly silent. Rasputin’s mostly watching the pyre, a bit of sadness to hir face, just sitting there. Kal, dressed in a long four-sleeved sweater and some pants, is scratching hir on hir head, as he also watches the pyre. To say that Toru looks like he's been hit by a train would be putting things mildly. The teen came dressed for the occasion moreso than the weather; he's wearing a black suit, with white shirt and black tie, and little to guard against the cold save for a new pair of thin gloves covering his hands (and his forearms, under the clothing). It's certainly the nicest the teen is ever seen dressed; one hopes it isn't an outfit that will see much more use. He's hauled a chair down to the beach and is sitting hunched-over in it, holding-- a teddy bear. His attention is focused primarily on the toy, the teen blocking out most external stimuli. The way he's staring at it, it's like he's expecting it to be able to answer some question, but evidently he hasn't yet succeeded in finding whatever it is he's looking for. Hercules finally appears, trudging his way down to the appointed location, huge horn swaying side-to-side as he goes. The beetle-man has lived on the island a long time, and he's acquired more than a few human mannerisms, but he still doesn't wear clothes, nor does he really need to. The only thing adorning his carapaced body is a gold locket which sways and clacks against his hard exterior. Also under his right arm he carries a curled up Sonic, about the size of soccer ball. From his expression it seems like Herc would just as rather be curled up like the little pill bug, but he knows why he has to be here. Once he arrives, he thumps his heavy body down onto the ground and leans back against a tree waiting for things to proceed.' On a normal day Dusk’s arrival would be noteworthy, heralded as it tends to be by the stirring up of a rather large draft; windy as tonight is it’s barely even noticeable. The flap of his wings is hardly audible over the wind, the breeze it stirs up hardly able to be felt over the whip of wind off the water. He backwings to landing in the darkness just outside one of the flickering fires, shaking cold off his wings, boots crunching into the pebbly beach. By /genetics/ he tends to come looking like he’s in mourning; black hair, black eyes, black wings draping in like a shroud against his back. Black boots, black jeans, black denim coat that he’s shivering inside until he steps into the warmth of the bonfires and exhales a sharp-relieved breath for the wash of -- -- maybe more for the wash of /people/ than the fires, it’s /them/ he’s gravitating towards more than the flames. His wings stretch and flex and fold back again, restless. Reach out in passing to brush a longboned spar against Toru’s elbow, reach out to scritch a talon beneath Rasputin’s chin. One wing lingers longer in drape against Regan’s back, against Kay’s shoulder. His shoulders cord up in tight-hunched muscle when he finally settles in at Regan’s side, back to a fire as well and black eyes tipped up at the pyre. His enormous wings mantle half over and around those Brothers nearest him, in shadowy-dark backdrop backlit by the flickering flames. Regan does not actually look up at the flap of wings from overhead, not, at least, until they mantle up and around like a giant dark-velvet canopy. Her eyes don't watch Dusk, though, at his landing; they watch the flames ripple as Kay turns, shifting bright in her pale blue eyes. "Thea died fighting, certainly. But she lived fighting, too. She lived fighting to protect all of us. She lived fighting for her family. Her family here on this island. Her family everywhere. These nights -- come far too often. And they will keep coming as long as this war continues. But it was the days that came /before/ it that defined this night. And in the days that came before it, Thea's choices defined /her/. That world --" Regan's arm lifts, points past the mantled shelter of Dusk's warm wing and towards the cold bright distant lights of the City, "has given us so many of these nights. And she never let it beat the fight out of her. Even right up until the end. We all of us take that lesson in living? And that world is going to tremble before us. Like it did before her." Lagging behind Dusk, slower and less graceful in her descent, Isra lands further down the beach after a brief struggle with the crosswind. She unties the parts of her garment that had been secured for the flight as she approaches the fires. Her long black dress is wrapped in sweeping diagonal lines that echo the drape of her wings as they settle across her shoulders. Stopping at the edge of the light, her eyes wander slowly over the gathered figures, some familiar and some not, before settling on the pyre. Her face betrays no emotion, but her tail lashes in the darkness behind her. Something in Regan's words must have reached her, for her ears suddenly press back and she takes a long, gliding step forward, into the circle of mourners. There are layers of heat to pass through, nearing Kay; Dusk's wing will find them like micro-thermals, filling up the pockets of his wingsails in warm puffs, before it finds his shoulder. Not so hot it burns, but the hand he places briefly over the wing can be felt in a notable handprint of warmth. For the duration of Regan's words, his eyes remain fixed on the pyre, the shrouded shape. And when she's done, he turns, a slow rotation of head to the left, then the right, to seek out familiar eyes, faces. He meets Toru's, makes a longer lingering study of Hercules. His features don't precisely harbor sorrow; just something old and familiar. Something that eases at Isra's arrival - a new sister to their fires. And his mouth slides sideways briefly in a grin - it's not a fragile smile. It's hard and /ready/, and then it fades off and and he turns back to the pyre. And expands out his arms, opens his long fingers, like there's some wall that he's pushing over… /now/. It catches up in the smaller tinder of the pyre first; shreds of bark and grass shriveling black and curling in, twisting around glowing embers that leap to life into a buttery yellow glow that abruptly runs the course of the wood pile and its cargo in a cast net of flames, enveloping Thea's body rapidly in snarling satiny ribbons. The bitter cold is shoved back, all flesh facing the fire will find itself pulling tight from the fire's heat. Kay's hands drop, and he lets out a harsh breath, "See ya on the other side, sister." He pulls off the bandana tied around his head. When the last people arrive, and Kay gets ready to light the pyre, Hercules sets the ball of Sonic gently on the ground by the tree, and pushes himself to his feet. He looks from one face to the next, human sadness plain on the soft parts of his face. There are no tears because his body doesn't work that way, but it looks like there should be. He steps forward next to Kay as the fire is lit, and whispers as best he can to Kay, in his deep, crunching gravel voice, "Thank you, Kay." Then Herc takes several strides toward the pyre, hesitates, and then grabs the gold locket dangling at his throat and yanks it off with the pang of breaking chains. A couple of loose links scatter across his smooth shell, and he holds the locket in his fist for a long moment, gold chains draped over the back of his hand. He mumbles something to the pyre too quiet to be heard, and then throws the locket into the flames. He sighs and stands, just watching. His posture seems to indicate his intention to watch the fire until it goes out, his last act of being Thea's personal guard. As Regan speaks, Rasputin listens intently, watching the pyre as Kay prepares to set it aflame. Twisting on Kal’s shoulders, Rasputin whispers to Kay as he finishes lighting the pyre. “Thank you. May she rest in peace.”. And then ze tips her head, just watching the fire. Fire ripples warm behind Dusk’s wings, bathing them in a warm glow as Isra approaches. One wing stretches out /just/ a little more, brushing wingtip to wingtip in a light touch; the corded tension in his muscles and hard fix of his eyes ahead at the pyre suggests this is more for his own reassurance than in true greeting. The restlessness of his wings /stills/, though, as Regan speaks. His lips pull back, sharp fangs baring. His wings curl up higher, their lithe-muscled canopy forming a protective arc around the others beside him. The fire Kay calls forward glints fierce and glowing off his fangs. His hands lift, the words he signs sketched out almost to himself, though his lips touch to the backs of his knuckles before his hands come together for the final word /sister/. "Peace, man." This, he says, aloud and not signed. Teeth still bared hard. "Won't that be the day." "Her peace be our hellfire." Kay grunts. His neck is bent, tying off the black banana around his bicep once more with the aid of his teeth and a smart /yank/. Then his long swinging arm drops back to his side, the other moving out to clap Hercules hard on the back for his words. Nodding hard and turning to Regan. With the fire burning high behind him, his dirty blond hair is haloed, "How're you doing with all this." Toru looks up as Dusk passes, the man's nudge just eliciting a halfhearted, "Yeah," from the despondent teen. He just sits there quietly while everyone gathers, hugging the bear to his chest with both arms, and when Regan delivers her eulogy, he actually lets out a little choking sound at 'she lived fighting'. The rest of the ceremony is spent watching in silence, with a thousand-yard-stare that doesn't flinch away when the pyre's flames kick up. Watching Herc make his final offering is, however, enough to kick the teen back into some semblance of awareness-of-surroundings, and gradually he lifts himself up /out/ of his chair, stumbling while he remembers how to use his feet, then lurching forward - the bear set down in his place - and lumbering towards the central pyre. At the point where it starts to become /uncomfortably/ warm, the teen abruptly pitches forward into the sand, prostrating himself before the flames. Ion's been here a while, out on one of the fringes of the semicircle -- he's in more of the /hollering/ clusters than the quiet-murmuring. He's brought a /six/-pack with him -- okay, let's face it, he's brought MANY six-packs with him, though in his defense he's only cracked his first beer /open/ now that Kay's actually lit the pyre. He's got one pack of porter beneath an arm, a pack of IPAs in that same hand, a milk stout held in his hand that he is lifting HIGH to the SKY as he approaches the pyre. "Fuuuuck peace," he says with a /fierce/ grin. "I hope where she's gone she's got one fucking /hell/ of a party." He /shoves/ the pack of porters in Regan and Dusk and Kay's direction, chin jerking towards Toru on the ground. "C'mon, hermanito. Thea was a /good/ woman. And we all gonna keep fighting for her. We all gonna keep fighting with you." His wolfish sharp grin doesn't fade through his gulp of beer. "And you can be damn fucking sure wherever she's gone she's just as much as bad-fucking-ass." His words drift from fierce-/bright/ -- /cheer/? into fierce-bright /singing/. "-- Y es por eso que yo canto." And another swig of beer, before he sets his second six pack /and/ the bottle down on the beach, hands both lifting to send a sparkling-bright shiver of lightning up towards the sky, briefly sending the /warm/ bright lights of the pyre into starkly /cold/ bright relief. All the Brothers beneath it into stark silhouette, too. "-- con la familia que yo quiero --" He stoops to snag his beer, as the lightning fades. His elbow nudges Kay. "I always thought a bonfire meant a /party/, motherfucker." Regan's eyes fix on the ribbons of fire curling upwards. Draw upwards further, as Dusk's wings curl around. Upwards further, at the lightning. The lightning seems to spark a release of some tension in her, a sudden sharp exhalation that comes with a quick shake of her head. "-- We're still fighting," is the simple answer that she gives. Her hand lifts, resting in firm squeeze against Dusk's shoulder. She plucks two of the porters from the six-pack Ion offers, lowering the bottle to open it against her belt and then tapping the neck of her bottle against the one she presses into Kay's hand. Her lips twitch faintly after she says this, fingers curling snugly around the bottle. She absently hums along with Ion's singing, picking her way across the beach to Toru's side. Half-crouching, to offer a hand towards the teenager, extended to help him back to his feet. "HAH man, though you'd never bust those out," Kay is all for the beer, swinging his bony-ass hip against Regan in thanks (provocation??) when she passes - hip checks are better than words. His head tips back, reflecting white-brilliant when the lightning strikes, pupils pulsing miniature and then swelling large again in the orange dim that swallows in when it's back to firelight, and he throws open his arms in the heat of the moment and coyote-howls, yipyipyaaaoooo! - all of the miniature fires and the pyre itself all erupt in tandem in a miniature mushroom-blossom of fire that's larger towards the top than the bottom - to keep from torching the folk on nearby. The fwoooomish ROAR of the fire gives an odd implied /voice/ to the body rapidly being rendered to ash and smoke - a smoke that Kay tips his bottle up towards. Extends towards the fire to pour a few mouthfuls out on the sand for Thea's memorial imbibement, then heartily swigs of himself. Tossing an arm across the back of Ion's neck, he gestures to the two figures, Regan and Toru, cast in starker shadow by the fire, jerking his head for Dusk, for Isra, for anyone nearby to come nearer to hear him without having to shout, "He's Toru. 's his name." MM DRINKING. Hercules flinches when folks take up with whooping and hollering, and turns slightly to look over his shoulder at everyone. His fingers scrape at the base of his neck where his anatomy becomes so abruptly human in the transition from bug body to human skull. Still, the sound of his fingers against the carapace is like scraping rocks together, not high-pitch or likely irritating, yet distinct all the same. He takes a hesitant step away from the fire, glancing to Toru on the ground and Regan ready to help him up. Then his eyes go to Kay and Ion and everyone a little further off, and he takes trudging, reluctant steps in their direction. When he finally gets there, he dips his head, gesturing at the beers and gravels out a question, "Can I. Have one. Of those?" Everything about his manner is somber, but his need for 'human' contact seems no less than anyone else's. As Ion offers the beers, Kal is taking one himself, opening it. Rasputin, of course, declines, but instead speaks. “Man, this is a bummer. But, yeah, wherever she is, she’s still amazing. Though she’s gone, she’ll always be with us in one way. She even left Hercules as a reminder, and I’m glad for that.”. Rasputin grins, but doesn’t partake in the whooping and hollering, just watching the pyre. Ion's words are, perhaps, not as reassuring to Toru as they are intended. He shoots the other teen a bit of a /look/, but he can barely summon up the energy for anything less lethargic than /annoyance/. Regan's hand is regarded with some appreciation, though, Toru twisting his head up a little to look up at her through bleary eyes. A mumble of assent is given, and he lifts a hand to take hers, lifting himself to his feet a bit roughly, though he's still hunched over. Aaand he only makes it a few feet away from the pyre before pitching forward again, landing face-first in the sand this time and just. Laying there. Curling up a little, bringing a pile of sand in front of his face, he groans, "Just let me die here." "You want throw down with me, boy, I'll do it here." Ion raises his eyebrows at Toru's annoyed look, but his words don't sound particularly belligerent despite /being/ belligerent in fact; he says them over a swig of beer, a wave of hand towards the fires. Another humming bar of the tune he's been singing, his rich deep bass carrying melodies strong and well. "But I tell you what's better, is you pick yourself up, you grab a beer and you find a tune. Because you pissing facedown in the sand and you pissin' on everything that brave woman /fight/ for. And there's only so much longer --" This time his hand waves towards the rest of the people gathered around. "Her brothers gonna stand for anyone pissing on what we all fight for." He stoops to grab another beer, smile flicking bright again as he thunks the beer down into the cold sand beside Toru. Claps the other man on the shoulder in a quick jostle-squeeze. "C'mon man. Is time now for singing." Which he's starting up again. It's in Spanish -- or ghetto Bronx /Spanglish/, really, but for those who can follow along with the rich gravelly bass of his voice the lyrics sound very much like -- hear the pistol, hear the singing; hear the song of liberation. My gun goes /bang/ and your gun goes /bang/ and together our guns go /bang bang bang/. Cheerful music. /He/ sounds cheerful about it, at any rate. Dusk's eyes close, against the sudden brightness of lightning and increased flame, night-adapted pupils shielding themselves against the brighter lights. But his smile curls brighter in time with them, his wings pulling in to fold now, capelike in their drape against his back. He swipes himself an IPA, smile lingering at the singing. His wings stay pressed in against his back when he moves in closer to the pyre. "It doesn't -- exactly get /easier/." He might be saying this down to Toru -- or maybe to the flames. "But lying down and dying's kind of the opposite of the point. C'mon, man." One wing brushes lightly against Toru's back, then ripples back into place against his own. His head arches back, tipping fanged-(smile? /snarl/?) up towards the stars as he picks up Ion's tune to -- well. He doesn't know the song, so he doesn't hum along. But he /bangs/ along, when the bangs come. Kay has slipped into a trance-like rhythm along with Ion's singing, eyes closed, expression serene, his body bobs at the knees and shoulders, sipping his porter in time with the music and pointing his other hand out, index finger and thumb forming a pistol shape (held sideways, ganster-style naturally), jerking it along with each bang-bang-bang. He sings along with /some/ of it, a back-up singing to add extra cheerful aggression. His wide-spread legs carry him around in a kind of sumo-wrestler walk, overtly leaning in people's faces and singing AT them. "'s right, Tor'," he says when he's nearer Toru, "/Use/ it, man. Take where you're at, pull it in. Put it /here/." He thumps a fist against his own chest. "If you're mad, howl at the fucking moon with us." He swoops past for a second beer - another IPA - and this one he is bringing over to Hercules, offering it over. "You in, man?" Finally, at all the dancing and singing, Rasputin is leaping off Kal’s shoulders, joining in with a howl. Except, it sounds pretty much like an actual wolf’s howl. “She died a hero, that’s what matters, her life, not her death, is the important part. It’s always the important part, I know, I /died/.”. Rasputin then dances around, though it’s kind of strange because ze is a cat, as ze goes closer towards Kay and Ion. “And I don’t think she would have had it any other way.”. Hercules takes the bottle from Kay and turns around to watch as Toru struggles with his grief. He watches the young man for a long moment, and then hands the beer back to Kay with an apologetic, "Maybe next time. Don't feel like singing. Yet." The huge creature, nearly seven feet tall before taking the horn into account, looks unsure of how to approach Toru, or any of the myriad of grieving traditions around him, and finally just turns back towards the cabins. "Thank you again. Everyone." And he starts tromping his trunk-like legs back up the beach. "You weren't /there/," Toru grumbles, partially into the mound of sand that's starting to take over his face. He slowly pushes himself up to his knees, hunched over slightly, one hand brushing sand out of his hair. "What do you want me to say? That it's my fault? That she'd still be /alive/ if I wasn't such a fucking-- /fuckup/-- do you think I don't /know/ that?!" That last bit does come out in a near growl, though it probably wasn't /quite/ what Kay was going for, and as the teen practically throws himself to his feet, he grabs a glass bottle - not really caring what it /is/ so long as it's booze - and just grips it tightly for a minute. Silently, then, he stalks back to the chair he's brought, grabbing the teddy bear with his /other/ hand, and turning to face his Brothers. "You think I don't know it'd be better if we were switched? How the hell many times you think I've told myself that already?" His voice actually cracks at the end, there, but before he can add anything else, he abruptly breaks off, running to catch up to Hercules with a stumbling limp. Regan lifts her bottle, in salute to Hercules. "Take the time you need. We'll sing with you, when you're ready." Her brows lift as Toru stands. She tap-tap-taps the lip of her bottle against her mouth, eyes skipping from the teenager to the flames. Back to Toru. Watching his shadow as it moves out of the last traces of firelight. She drinks, deeply, and turns aside. Lifts her free hand, index finger and thumb cocked into pistol shape as Ion's voice fills the air. One eye squints towards the fire, a brief accenting of illusion helping sound and flash-of-light and smoke from her triggerfinger when she draws back her thumb to mark time with his singing. BANG.