ArchivedLogs:Wrecked

Wrecked
Dramatis Personae Dusk, Ion, Isra, Egg
In Absentia	2015-06-23 "Oh hell yeah is it /wrecking/ shit time?" (Part of Buzzkill TP.)
Location <BOM> Common Room - Main Lodge - Ascension Island
The common room's rustic-lodge feel has been somewhat mitigated by the modern amenities inside its sturdy wooden walls. It has comfortable couches, several chairs, a refrigerator (stocked with snacks and drinks!), a pool table, a pinball machine (METALLICA!), an assortment of books, a television -- with several game systems! -- and a splendid view out the windows (when their lacy yellow curtains are drawn open) for the rest of the island. The pale wood floors have been covered in places -- by a pair of soft thick blue rugs, by a large squishy pair of beanbags that stand in front of the stone fireplace. There's also a board up on the wall, half corkboard, half whiteboard, with a variety of community notes (and occasional insults) to other Brotherhood members. Large doors on the right-hand side lead off to the kitchen and dining room. In the back of the room, the council room's heavy oak door bears solid locks that are almost never actually barred. A short hall adjacent to the council room's door leads to a trio of multi-stalled bathrooms; these might once have been marked with the typical man-woman-handicapped signs, but someone has given them new plaques on the door; a stick figure with horns and a long tail, one with wings. One -- the large single-user toilet -- has instead been given a helmet and a cape. Things around the island have been more alive! More alert! More productive, than on the mainland. ... some days. They're certainly alive right /now/ -- admittedly less so with productivity and moreso with squabbling. An irritable scuffle out in the gardens. A cabin off in the woods (not even Kay and Ion's, this time!) that is currently on fire. The sound of angry voices yelling from the kitchen. And in here, a deep rumbling snarl and a wet slosh of coffee spilling out from a suddenly airborne mug that is, at the moment, in the process of hurtling towards the currently-closed front door. '{What the fucking fuck fuck fuck}' -- in sign this is, at least, more /quiet/ than the arguing in the kitchen, if no less impassioned. Mingled aloud and signed: "It was fine /yesterday/, {where the fuck do we need to /go/.}" Dusk is perched on the couch -- crouched on its arm rather than a cushion, his watery blue wings half-mantled and quivering. Barefoot, shirtless, in dark cargo shorts, he's glaring after his just-thrown mug with a very baleful look. Isra, sprawled across the cushions of said couch in a white linen sun dress over lake blue skin, hardly blinks at the sudden flight and crash of the coffee mug. She has one of her own, half-full, which she now sets aside with a rueful parting glare that suggests she might like it better across the room as well. She levers herself up with one wing--the membranes glossy black and lanced through with blue-white electrical patterns--and curls the other around Dusk. \{Farther out, but /how/ far...\} She signs one handed, as though the effort of lifting the other arm exceeds her capacities. "Who knows." The door is just opening -- and then closing again with a /quickness/ as the coffee mug slam-crash-shatters into it. Then opens again, Ion's face peering around the edge befpre he slips inside. "Oh hell yeah is it /wrecking/ shit time? We smashing? Dibs on that lamp," he's gesturing towards an ornate Tiffany piece stylized like a Wisteria tree. "{It'd smash into /damn/ fine pieces, eh?}" He doesn't really bother with an effort to clean the mess. Or even avoid it. Heavy shitkicker boots crunch through broken ceramic and spilled coffee as he quick-steps over to take up a half-seat on the couch's opposite arm. He's in jeans, a plain white undershirt, heavy leather sling holding a droopy-eyed Egg against his chest. Probably sleepier due to the heat and just waking from naptime than lack of caffeine. Prooobably. Dusk's glare settles on the door through its open-close-open, transferring to Ion as the electrokinetic crosses the room. "Isn't it /always/ wrecking-shit time with you?" His wings twitch further as Ion crunches through the broken shards of mug, but he makes no move to get up and /clean/ the mess. "... and didn't /you/ get that lamp?" His knuckles lift, scrubbing against his eyes. "I don't know how far. The map will recalculate in fifteen or so. We can. Look. If you're up to -- fff." His wings shiver, and press in against his back. "... hopefully not far." "You may certainly wreck shit if you deem it wrecking-shit time," this to Ion, equably if wearily. Isra releases Dusk and rises, not very gracefully, to fetch cleaning supplies. She returns with a rag, a broom, and a dustpan. She crouches down gingerly by the door, keeping the hem of her dress out of the spreading pool of defanged coffee as she picks up the larger pieces of mug remnant. "I should happily fly with you in quest for a fix, especially after the sun has gone down properly." The glare she aims out the window at the fading light has a certain accusatory quality to it. "I do not suppose that map has turned up any obvious patterns as of yet?" "Did I? Looks like a lamp I'd get. It's /proper/, ain't it? Real fancy. {Gives it some goddamn /class/ up in here.} Like she do." Ion gestures to Isra as she (ungracefully) rises to clean the broken cup. "That's what, we need in every room, huh? Stain glass and a gargoyle." His fingers rub lightly against one of the Gremlin's cheeks. "{You, you only can hope, one day, to have as much class as your mama. Be sipping your blood out a champagne flute.} Real luxe. What's a map?" "I only ever drink my blood out of champagne flutes," Dusk agrees. "Anything else would be gauche." He relaxes a little bit when the mug is cleaned up; the crooked half-smile he gives Isra is both apologetic and thankful. "B and Hive and I made a thing," he explains. "Map. Thing. Track where the caffeine problem is. I'm working on getting it to update with a constant running calculation of where the approximate center is but that's hard. Not an even space. Not a /constant/ space. The pattern so far is that I have a giant fucking headache." Isra relaxes into a faint smile, only a hint of fang showing. "I think that a great many rooms can benefit from the addition of an artistically wrought lamp and a gargoyle or two, but I also suspect that an increase of gargoyle population would result in a decrease of in-tact lamps." Her wings riffle and unfurl to just over a quarter their full span--already perilously close to touching the lamp--before folding back in close to her back. "I have a sneaking suspicion," this to Dusk as she mops up the spilled coffee, "you would guzzle blood out of a chipped mason jar at this point if it came from someone already buzzed." She pauses, ears swiveling back to press against her hairless skull. "Come to think of it, /I/ might find that rather tempting." "This boy he fronting, when /wouldn't/ he guzzle the blood out a chip mason jar? You get any class," Ion cautions Gremlin earnestly, "it sure-as-shit ain't gonna come by you off your papa-side. -- Who broke your coffee? {You try some of my mate? It feels alright.}" "Yeah that's fair, you want them to learn /manners/ you're gonna have to sign 'em up for lessons with Isra and Regan. I can cover teaching --" Dusk considers for a moment. "Video games," he finally decides. "And skateboarding." He gives Ion a very skeptical look after this. "... dude, when in your life have you /ever/ not been buzzed, would you even notice?" "Class," Isra echoes the word, raising one bare eyebrow ridge. "Class does not get you much in life, least of all when you look like...well." She rises and looks down at her body, all long limbs and lean muscle under the white dress. "I would rather they take after Dusk, or yourself and Kay, in that respect." Taking up the broom, she corrals the remaining ceramic fragments."I'm afraid your mate will not have any effect, either, at least not at the moment." So saying, she stifles a fearsome yawn, and somehow manages to growl at the same time. "Whatever broke Dusk's coffee breaks all caffeine within a certain area, as far as we can tell." "Yeah, yeah, yeah," Ion is nodding along with this, quite earnest, "you teach video games, {that'd be good, I can't handle those.} Fuck anyone need with skateboarding though dude, this little monster they gonna /fly/." With the broken shards of ceramic swept up, he unwraps Egg's sling, sliding off the arm of the couch to settle on the floor and nestle the drowsy monsterling in his lap, free to -- flop /out/ of his lap onto the floor if they so choose. Or just -- flop, across his knee, which they currently do. "Maybe a little bit later on in the flying, huh." He quirks a bright grin up at the other two. "Hey-o, I haven't /always/ been wired. I was a kid, once, you know? And once, once, this /shitty-ass time I took a trip out the middle-of-fucking-nowhere. No power. Fff my brain it was /empty/. And the lab guards they shot me with the fucking darts, no buzz then too? Well, except the mate. Why the hell anyone would want to turn off caffeine, anyway?" He leans back on an elbow, brows raising at Isra. "Rather they took after me and Kay?" This prompts a deep rumble of laughter. "For real, yo, that gotta be the first time anyone said /that/ to me." One of Dusk's wings lifts, falls again. "Why, I dunno. Who even knows if it's on purpose. Some kid just coming into their powers, can't control it. They might not even know it's them doing it. Or maybe they're just an asshole. If they're holding the city hostage they're doing a shitty job, not like anyone's made any demands. Your money or your buzz." He smiles, too, though it's brief and small and sharp. "I'd pay up. -- And you kidding, Isra? Class gets you Ion's admiration. What more do you need in life?" "I do not think Eri needs class to earn Ion's admiration, though I suppose it worked out well enough for me." Isra dumps the broken mug in the trash and returns the cleaning supplies to their closet. She sits down sidewise on the couch, wings drooping willy-nilly behind her so that she takes up most of the actual sitting space. "Actually, it rather surprises me that no one has /tried/ to claim responsibility for it regardless of actual involvement. A lot of people /would/ pay up." A pause, the faintest crease between her brows. "And then a SWAT team would knock down their door, most like. Suffice to say I count it a poor idea all around, if intentional." "I'mm'a claim it," Ion decides with a bob of his head. "Make fucking bank. Well, no, I'll say it's Kay. FBI want /him/ already. {And there's /lots/ of ways you get my admiration, Darkwing. Class is just the one.}" "I'm sure Kay will appreciate this plan of yours." Dusk doesn't actually sound sarcastic with this assessment. Slightly amused, perhaps. He unfolds himself from the seat, wings slowly rustling out behind him in a small shake-stretch. "C'mon. I'm gonna brave the wilds of fucking Rockaway, see if there's better luck there." Withdrawal notwithstanding, Isra's smile comes broad and sharp. "Trying to vault Kay's infamy up to true supervillain status, now? Fortunate that I heard it from you; if I thought him actually responsible, there'd be a lot more shit getting wrecked, though..." She squints at the firelight outside the window, more easily visible through the fading night, though the blaze itself has dwindled. "...on second thought, it would probably average out to the same amount of wrecking." She trails after Dusk, one wing mantling out to wrap around Ion's shoulders. "Away with us, in search of more caffeinated pastures." "World gotta /recognize/ his greatness." Ion's forehead bops lightly against Isra's wing with a small static zap. He stays seated, tucking a finger under one of the Omelette's floppy wings to lift it to bump against Isra's too like a small claw-y... knuckletap. "Happy hunting."