ArchivedLogs:No Shanking

No Shanking
Dramatis Personae Jax, Kick, Micah, Dusk, Doug
In Absentia	3 June 2014 Food Not Bombs goes a little more interestingly than usual.
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. The evening is growing late, though this late into the season there's still a last lingering shred of dim sunlight to be found. It's fading faster than it otherwise might, the sky overcast above, and most of the electric lampposts have already switched on /anyway/. Though there are clouds threatening rain it hasn't yet started to fall, a muggy-humidity to the air that warns of incoming storm. In Tompkins Square there is a series of tables set up -- a common sight, they're here /several/ days a week. A large banner rolled off the front of one of the tables reads 'Food Not Bombs', with a logo of a raised fist in a circle, clutching a carrot. /On/ the tables there's an assortment of /food/, home-cooked meal being dished up to a small crowd of mostly-but-not-all homeless folk from the neighborhood by an assortment of fairly typical East Village punks. A lot of dyed hair and piercings and ink. Jax fits right in, among them. Skull tattoo and brightly coloured ink running down his arms, a wealth of piercings sprinkled through his face. Vivid lime-green cap-sleeved fishnet shirt worn over a silver tank top, black capris embroidered with dragonflies, faintly shimmery-sparkly purple Doc Martens. Enormous mirrored sunglasses, despite the darkening hour. He's posted at the end of the tables, handling /dessert/ (blueberry-lemon or chocolate-with-orange-pudding-filling cupcakes) and drinks (lemonade, or coffee, or water) as well as reclaiming used dishes once people have eaten, presumably for later washing. This being a place where homeless people are gathering to grab free food, Kick fits right into this scruffy crowd which probably, as a collective, smells faintly of urine and poor decision making skills. Kick himself is at the table with a plate already filled with food, contemplatively eyeing the dessert table. "The sugar's where it's at," he remarks conversationally to Jax, who he's eyeing with undisguised curiosity (but not with as much interest as he's eyeing the cupcakes). "The junkies hit like two AM and they're dying for sugar, right? It's great to have it on hand, you know, it puts you in a good position." He eyes his plate again. "Shit! I should have got like fifty cupcakes." Micah fits in less, dressed in faded bluejeans and a dark green T-shirt depicting a jubilant T-rex with a pair of adaptive reaching aids under the heading 'UNSTOPPABLE!' His auburn hair sticks out messily from under an olive newsboy cap. He is currently pre-cleaning and organising the collected dishes for transport to later-washing. Though that also conveniently posts him near to his husband. A smile tugs at his lips as he glances over at the dessert table. "'Tween us, the school, Evolve, an' this...how much d'you think y'been bakin' on any given day, hon?" He chuckles at Kick's enthusiasm for cupcakes. "We ain't never at a shortage for baked goods 'round this one." Dusk is making his way through the park slowly, today. His phone is out in one hand, eyes locked intently on the screen which seems to have a map of the area overlaid with a number of glowing blue and green hotspots. He seems to be rather focused on his task, at least until one of those green spots flares red and then turns a bland grey. There's a faintly victorious look on his face; at least till he looks /up/ and realizes ohshitpeople. He -- doesn't really fit in much of anywhere; blandly dressed in jeans and Vans sneakers and a soft grey v-neck tee but its the enormous black batlike wings sprouting from his back that tend to mark him as Something Odd. Those wings quiver against his back as he beelines for the tables, latching on to Jax and Micah as Familiar Faces. "-- whoa. You're here. Can I eat your cupcakes?" His dark eyes flick sideways to Kick and there's a moment of hesitation before he speaks up again, "-- You /should/ get fifty, if Jax baked them. They're gonna be delicious." "Shoulda come at the start'a things, I think if y'took fifty /now/ you'd clean us right out." There's warm laughter in Jax's voice -- a /very/ thick Southern drawl that marks him quite clearly as a non-native. "An' I been bakin' a fair bit but s'cheatin', I can' jus' do it in /giant/ batches. Kinda sad term's over, I used t'jus' get my bakin'-class kids t'do it /for/ me an' that's even /more/ cheatin'. Um --" His sunny smile is directed to Kick and Dusk both. "There's lemon cupcakes filled with blueberry compote or chocolate cupcakes filled with orange puddin'. Can have one'a each if y'like, I think most folks is done eatin' an' we prob'ly ain't gonna run short. Though if you're in need'a a sugar /fix/ there's a cute li'l cupcake shop /right/ down past the park on seventh an' they'll hand out a whole /bag/'a goodies come closin' time to whoever's around t claim it. -- You get lost, honey-honey?" This last question comes with a lift of chin to Dusk. Kick's apparent solution to the cupcake dilemma is to stay where he is and stare at them while eating the other food, as though Jax, Micah, and fifty cupcakes might disappear if he looks away for too long. Luckily there isn't much of a line to make standing there a problem for other cupcake-seekers, except possibly Dusk. "You've got to be down on your luck in order to eat these cupcakes," he answers a question that wasn't addressed to him, around a mouthful of dinner roll. "That's what they're for. Otherwise, bitches gonna shank you over these." He's kidding. Probably. "Not me though," he adds as he mashes half a dinner roll from the savory part of the table into what might be mashed potatoes. "I'd never cut a bitch. Unless strictly necessary." Jax goes on, and Kick seems impressed. "I don't even know what compote is. I thought that's what people put on their gardens and whatever. This cupcake shop of yours just gives shit away? For free? Why?" "Hey, Dusk! Y'can definitely have a cupcake." Micah looks like he might be tempted to give the arriving man a hug, then thinks better of it when he remembers he has messy dish gloves on his hands. "Ain't cheatin' nothin'. Y'bake more'n any /not/ professional baker I've ever heard of. An' I think he's Ingressin'," he assumes based on the way Dusk had been staring at his phone. "How could he get lost /here/ of all places?" Bouncing cheerfully up on his toes, he separates more of the waste materials into bins for garbage, recycling, and compost. "Compost!" Well, that was topical. "Is what you're thinkin' of. 'Compote' s'just a fancy word for a mix of things." He nods at the question of the cupcake shop. "Lotsa bakeries give stuff away or sell it /real/ cheap at the end of the day. People want new, fresh baked goods t'buy. Not the stuff as has been sittin' 'round all day." "I got lost," Dusk agrees with a touch of distraction, curling his enormous wings in against his shoulders. "I was just paying attention to my -- yeah. That." He lifts his phone a little sheepishly to wiggle his Ingress scanner towards the others. "I just followed where the most portals were. Am I gonna get shanked if I eat your cupcake? I mean, /I'd/ shank a bitch over one of these but only if it were the last one. I'm pretty sure if you're keeping tabs though I'm -- well. Not /up/ on my luck, at least." He's sneaking a hand towards one of the lemon cupcakes. Surreptitiously. Like maybe he's waiting for his shanking. "Most bakeries bake stuff fresh each day so --" Jax trails off as Micah explains; he waves glittery-nailed fingers towards his partner in affirmation. "Yeah. End-a-day /lots/'a bakeries jus' toss their stuff. Some'a the nicer ones'll hand it /to/ you 'stead'a dumpin' it in the trash first." Jax nudges a pair of cupcakes, one of each kind, towards Kick. "Strict no-shankin' policy 'round our foods, though. Not since the cookie incident las' winter." "Probably not," Kick replies honestly to Dusk, regarding the likelihood of cupcake shanking. He's speaking around a mouthful of some sort of vegetable from his plate, which is being cleared like he hasn't eaten in two days. Maybe he hasn't. "My 'this guy can kick your ass'-dar is telling me that probably wouldn't end good for me." Content with the two cupcakes being herded toward him, he picks them up and... one goes into each of his spacious coat pockets. Just straight in. Plop. Then his gaze returns to Dusk, long and thoughtful for a moment before he asks, "What's it like? Wings." "This is a distinctly shankin'-free zone," Micah agrees firmly, then gives an exaggerated shudder. "We don't discuss the cookie incident." His grin goes lopsided at Kick's declaration of 'dar, deliberately misdirecting his comment. "Yeah, I get that a lot." Because he's totally ferocious. Downright terrifying. And also giggling. He tilts his head at the question of Dusk's wings. "They have stupid rules against shanking just because they're all hippies. It'd be kinda silly to dish up their organic vegetarian foods with a side of /murder/." Dusk makes a small mock-stabbing motion towards Kick's midsection, fist armed with -- the cupcake he's just scooped off the table. His own mouth quirks up in a smile -- it's fleeting but there just long enough to bare the sharp fangs behind his lips. "Micah /is/ pretty much a badass. Robo-warrior." The humour drains at the question, though he doesn't seem /uncomfortable/ at it so much as just thoughtful. One of his wings shifts in a slow stretch. "It's -- I mean, you get to fly. So there's that. Fucking murder on the back though." "Ohmygosh. /Rules/. Micah, we've /become/ The Man. Infringin' on his right to shank. Stompin' on /freedom/ with my --" Jax looks down at his glittery purple boots. "Jackboots." His smile brightens at the mention of wings, and /he/ answers this question with: "They're /real/ soft." Clearly, the most relevant part of having wings. "An' them all crumpled in against his back like that don't hardly do 'em justice when he /is/ flyin' they're crazy-impressive." Kick reacts to the mock-stabbing jab with obvious instinct, and obviously as though he's fairly used to less friendly weapons coming at him. There's a sharp indrawn breath and his plate and its remaining contents go flying to land scattered on the ground, while he reaches into a pocket to grab -- oh. also a cupcake. And now a squashed one. He sort of stands there looking deer in the headlights for a moment, then slowly seems to relax despite the slight bead of sweat on his brow. "Shit," Kick breathes. "Shit man, you can't do that in the homeless people line." An awkward pause lingers, still standing there holding squashed cupcake, then he appears to make an effort to get his synapses firing again. "Soft. Flying. ... That's cool." "Yeah, I'd go with fuzzy. Predominantly fuzzy. Generally impressive as a secondary descriptor." Micah stacks more plates into a bin with a light clinking. "Like /that's/ the first rule we've ever had. Pretty sure there ain't no inherent right t'shank. Seriously." Oh, look, now there's more giggling. "Jaxboots," he finally shares with the class. His silliness is interrupted by flying food. "It's okay. S'okay, hon, it's just cupcakes. An' there's more food still if y'need replacements." Since he's /already/ collecting dishes and refuse, he moves to the other side of the table to help clean up the scatter-mess. Incidentally, he is also positioned /between/ Kick and Dusk to do so. Dusk drops back with a reflexive-startled flinch, eyes suddenly wider and his sharp teeth baring as his muscles tense. He relaxes when Kick speaks, colour rushing to tint his pale cheeks crimson as he swallows once, hard. His 'shit', comes as a silent echo of Kick's, signed rather than spoken aloud. His fist lifts afterwards, circling over his chest in also-signed 'Sorry'. "Hey, lo siento, man, I didn't mean to -- fuck." He sets the cupcake down on the edge of the table, nudging it towards Kick like a peace offering as he steps /back/. "... Jaxboots. I should hit you for that." Jax /groans/ at Micah's pun, clapping a hand to the side of his face. Until the sudden tension, where his hands lift instinctively, palms-out in a pacifying gesture; for a moment around him there's a faint shiver of light that fades soon into the evening murk. "Hey-hey-hey nobody's -- no shankin' zone, remember? We're tough on that." He relaxes when everyone /else/ does, moving down the row to collect a /new/ plate of veggies and rice and bean-chili for Kick. "Here, man, do you want -- more food. Your food's kinda turned into pigeon-food." "It's cool," Kick says, ruffled feathers seeming to start soothing, though what he's going to do with a pocket full of frosting remains to be seen. Regardless, the squashed cupcake is not to be wasted, and he's halfway through eating it when he stiffens again, this time not from imaginary mutant threats. "Hey!" he shouts, and seems fixed on something happening across the park. "Hey! MY BIKE!" Sure enough, a couple of other disreputable folks formerly of the food line seem a little too interested in a shabby bike locked to a tree over yonder. Filled with what's clearly righteous indignation, he pushes his glasses a little farther up his nose (leaving a small smudge of frosting there), stuffs the rest of the cupcake in his mouth, and starts running full speed across the park, words slightly muffled by compote. "MY BIIIIIIIKE...!" And he's gone. Micah collects the last of the fallen dishes and deposits them into the dish bin. Looking excessively contrite, he then holds his wrists out at Dusk's threat of hitting. His head turns at the sudden running-shouting commotion. “Um. Y'think he's got that handled?” Dusk baps at the back of Micah's hand with a wingtip, lightly. /He/ nabs the spare plate of food when Kick runs off, his own expression a little furrowed with more genuine contrition. "I didn't mean to -- I just. I wasn't thinking and I -- didn't --" He turns, looking after Kick with teeth digging in against his lower lip. "It's locked. He'll probably shoo them off before they -- get it." Though he's keeping an /eye/ on the situation just to make sure. "I really didn't mean to -- to." His eyes are still fixed across the gloomy park at Kick, wings shifting restlessly at his back. "I --" Jax peers after Kick, too, sunglassy-gaze turning towards where the other man has run off across the park. "I think it should be -- aright." He's standing behind a Food Not Bombs table at the tail-end of meal-serving time; there's still a small scattered crowd of mostly-homeless people in the park finishing up their dinners though from the amounts of food left in the huge pots it seems like serving time is nearing an end. He circles around from behind his table to pet a hand slowly down one of Dusk's wings. "S'okay, honey-honey, I think he's just -- I mean, I'm sure /you/ can relate t'bein' a touch jumpy." Micah chuckles a bit at the bap to his hand, then withdraws it to continue his work with dish and trash collecting. “Y'didn't do nothin' wrong, hon. It was just a cupcake. Y'just...moved a little quick an' he seemed a little...yeah, jumpy.” His eyes continue to follow the direction Kick ran off until both of the others give assurances that things seem to be panning out okay. "I just -- I wasn't. Going to stab him I just --" Dusk looks down at his abandoned cupcake again, brows furrowing and his expression now a little bit lost. He shifts his plate of food into one hand, taking his phone back out with the other to frown at its screen and then look around the park with a deep glare. "Someone's already attacking my -- do you see someone on their. On their phone. Near here." He shakes his head, setting his plate down so that he can free up both his hands for the very important task of rebuilding his portal. "When are you guys moving? It's. It's quiet. There." Doug is not in the park for free eats, although his current trajectory (from the opposite direction as Kick's hasty exit) is carrying him in that direction. His khaki slacks and blue button-down shirt mark him as probably having come from work as does the laptop bag strung across his chest with an apartment guide visible in the outer pocket. The teenager seems a bit worn-out as he comes up the path. His hair is damp, and the edge of his collar is damp with sweat. Strangely, he's not actually looking at his phone, for once. Which means he's paying enough attention to see the food tables and the trio gathered near it. He slows his pace, /staring/ at Dusk helplessly. "Y'all made Horus like some kinda Ingress /addict/ oh my lord he would camp out an' take down all the -- rebel portals /mercilessly/." Jax has a quiet laugh in his voice at this. He pets at Dusk's wing again, skirting back around the table so that he can ladle out another serving of chili to a latecomer. "I don't know when exactly we're -- s'a couple'a things I wanted to work on first 'fore --" He doesn't actually notice Doug until he looks up again, freezing with a small half-smile on his face. "-- Oh. Hey, Doug. You want a cupcake? There's um. Lemon-blueberry an'. Chocolate filled with orange puddin'." "We know y'wasn't, honey. It's okay. Really." Micah shakes his head hopelessly at the question of people on phones nearby. It's an occupied park. Narrowing that down is next to impossible. "Hive ain't moved in with you yet? We should...move 'im. Ain't like it's that much t'move for any of us." He twitches his lips over to one side in thought at the question of when /they're/ moving. "Depends what all Jax has t'do that needs doin' /prior/ t'livin' there. S'doin' all kindsa artin'." Looking over to his husband, he mouths, "One wall," at him as a reminder. "I might have t'steal one of the chocolate ones if there's any left when we're done." He lifts a blue-gloved hand from its sorting task in a small wave as Doug comes into view. "They've. They've moved it's just. It's quiet, you know, they're both out a lot Flicker keeps -- the clinic has strange shifts and Hive's got new --" Dusk's eyes are fixed down on his phone, tossing resonators at a portal as some unknown assailant is destroying them. "We're supposed to get new games. And furniture." Knowing them, probably in that order, too. "Horus was crazy-fucking-good he and Flicker shouldn't be /allowed/ to be on the same team, between them they --" He trails off at the sound of Doug's name, freezing as his teeth bare and a harsh guttural snarl rumbles up from his throat. The sudden wide flare of his wings -- noticeably /larger/ than they used to be -- doesn't actually quite have /room/ to expand, one wing thudding hard against Jax's folding table of chili and other assorted Dinners and veeery possibly threatening to just /upend/ the whole table backwards towards the servers. Doug jerks a bit when Jax speaks to him, as if suddenly remembering where he is, and that there are people around. He opens his mouth to answer, his expression already one of polite demurral, when Dusk suddenly growls. He pales visibly, and there's a sharp inhalation through his nose as he goes stone-still. Until Dusk's wings snap outward, and then he actually takes a step back, shooting a worried look in Jax's direction. "Um." Seems to be about all he can manage, at the moment. "Oh-oh-oh." Jax grimaces as the table thuds hard into his thighs, hands dropping to steady the containers on it though one nearly-empty dish of roast veggies has toppled off onto the ground. "Shh --" It's a sharp hiss that he bites off the end of, leaning forward as he rights the table again to rest a hand against Dusk's outstretched wing and lifts his other hand in somewhat apologetic placating to the rest of the members of his group. "Dusk. Sweetie. It's okay. We're right here still, honey-honey. You -- just relax, huh? You was jus' havin' your dinner." "Between your place an' the gamin' room, the Commons's gonna be stocked t'the /gills/ with games soon enough," Micah asserts with a pleased expression. "I'm sure those two aren't the only kinda unfair pairin's in the world an' it balances out a bit in the end, though." His breath sucks in quickly at the wings unfurling and table starting to topple. Quick-stepping to the side, he helps to push it back toward upright. Once it is clear that only the one bowl of food is lost, he moves around to the other side of the table, tugging off his gloves as he goes. A now-bare hand traces along Dusk's wing up to rest on his shoulder. "Honey, chill. You're too impressive for the tables." His voice is low and soothing, a vague weak-joke smile paired with it. 'Sorry, sorry, sorry --' Dusk's fist circles over his heart, growling subsiding at the petting. His head shakes as his wings crumple-fold back inward to tuck behind his back, one of them shaking a little twitchily as though it can /dislodge/ the faint ache from where it impacted the edge of the table. "I didn't -- mean to -- I just -- what's he --" He looks from Doug across the park to where there's a burned-out husk of building where the Lofts once stood. "Do you. Still /live/ here?" he asks Doug, baffled. Doug is slower to relax than Dusk is, his eyes a bit wide still as his muscles loosen. He doesn't make any effort to close the distance, shoving his hands into his pockets and licking nervously at his lips. He follows Dusk's look at the ruins of the Lofts, and shakes his head quickly at the question. "No, no," he says quickly. "I'm just passing through." He shifts his weight uncomfortably, furrowing his brow before adding "I'm at my folks', right now. In Westchester." There's another faint shimmer of light that flutters around Jax as he pulls in a deep breath and lets it out again slowly, the brief shiver of glow fading as Dusk relaxes. He nudges Dusk's plate of food back towards him, stepping aside back to the dessert table to let the rest of his group finish cleaning up the last of the food. "Y'sure you don't want no --" He gestures towards the cupcakes. "We got extras." And then, uncertainly, "s'you /stayin'/ at Westchester for good? Kinda a hike for classes an' work." "It's okay, hon. It was an accident." Micah leans in to give Dusk a one-armed hug once the wings are tucked away again. "Don't nobody still live there," he says softly, almost into Dusk's shoulder. That flutter of light perks his head back up, eyes darting over to Jax. "Jax. Honey. You're glowin' again." "We lived there," Dusk answers Micah, very quietly, his brows creased into sudden uncertainty. He curls his wing slowly around the other man, slipping his phone into his pocket and picking his plate back up together with a spoon. "You and me and both of them --" He shakes his head, dark hair flopping down over his eyes as he starts to eat. "I'm passing through. Too. He always glows," he adds to Micah. "S'a – firefly." Doug shakes his head at Jax's question about his future housing. "I'm actually looking for a place," he says, turning his body so that the apartment guide is visible. "Cheap, preferably, since I'm on my own with this one." He glances over at the rubble when Dusk speaks up, his expression a bit sad. "Lot of people lived there," he agrees, and exhales heavily, looking back at Jax. The comments about glowing get a confused sort of look, but he doesn't ask about that. "I wouldn't say no to a lemon-blueberry," he says in answer to the starting question, eyebrows lifting. "If everyone's gotten theirs, I mean." "We all lived there," Jax agrees quietly, plucking the last few cupcakes out of their container to set them on the table so that he can put the empty container in with the rest of the dishes to be washed. He leans across the table to hand one of the lemon-blueberries to Doug. "S'still /two/ chocolates, left, Micah-honey, you're in luck." His cheeks flush at the mention of glowing. He looks down at his hand, turning one hand up to cup his palm around -- nothing, at first. Then a very weak-pale glow, fluttering to life in a glowy-shimmering suggestion of a hummingbird shape before it blurs and away. "Maybe y'all jus' make me real happy," he murmurs, his voice slightly distant-distracted. He leans against the table, weight pressing up into it. "Cheap -- with or without roommates? I think Jim's old buildin' run pretty cheap even alone." Micah leans into Dusk's wing, reaching out as far has his arm will go and waving pathetically for delivery of a cupcake. See this hand right here? Never held a cupcake before. And it is /so sad/. "Don't glow so much anymore. Or hadn't been. S'why I was makin' a big deal of it. S'gettin' back t'...some semblance of normal." He grins at the happiness theory. "I wouldn't doubt it. Y'tend t'make cute fluttery things when you're happy." "Eric lives there," Dusk says to the mention of Jim's building. "Lived there? Lives there? But so does --" He shakes his head quickly at this and sets his spoon down, reaching out to pick up a chocolate cupcake and deposit it into Micah's needy-outstretched hand. "Happy. That's better than -- what I --" A small shiver ripples up through his wing, trembling where it curls Micah close in to him. "I should -- go. Get. Home. It's getting -- going to be late. Soon. Are there cupcakes I can take for -- Hive won't eat one. Flicker will." "I was thinking more of Little Italy," Doug admits as he steps forward to accept the cupcake. He still seems a bit wary when he nears Dusk, but he manages to take the pastry and step back again. "There's a roommate situation there that looks promising, and if not, the rents there aren't crushing." He looks down at his cupcake, then up at Jax's glowy bird-shape. "Happy is good," he says, nodding once. "I'm -- glad. You are." Color creeps into his ears, and he clears his throat when Dusk starts to make his good-byes. "Oh, yeah. I should go, too. It's a long train ride home." "Y'can take the other chocolate for Flicker. I mean, we're pretty much done here y'could take one'a /each/." Jax steps aside, briefly, to say goodnight to the others lingering on cleanup. Dispense hugs. Nab himself a last spoonful of chili. He glances briefly towards Micah uncertainly when Doug mentions the long train ride back to Westchester. He slips back around the table, stroking the backs of his fingers down against the outside of Dusk's wing (and Micah's arm, beneath it.) "You looked sadder'n Obie with that face, you'd think we /never/ feed you." "Ooo, cupcake!" Micah delivers a kiss to Dusk's cheek in thanks for acting as cupcake delivery system. "It's not that y'don't feed me. It's that I was showin' amazin' restraint in not eatin' your delicious cupcakes." His head tilts at Dusk as he mentions getting home. "Y'want me t'drop you off real quick? I gotta come back here an' help cart off the dishes an' whatnot, but it'd be a zippy swing-by t'get y'there, cupcakes intact." Dusk shakes his head, curling his wings in at his back again. "No, I -- I have some. Some important -- portals to hit on the -- it's only a mile and a. Half or so it's. I can walk. Kill all Flicker's stuff before he gets off. Um --" His wings twitch behind him, and he sneak-grabs /two/ cupcakes, holding them both together in one hand while he deposits his plate on the table. "Good -- luck," he tells Doug, head bowed slightly. "With the. Finding." His wing stretches out to rub briefly at Jax's back, and then he turns away. Cupcakes in hand. To pull out his phone so he can continue his important work on the walk home. And /hopefully/ remember not to eat the cupcakes on the way there.