ArchivedLogs:Fun

Fun
Dramatis Personae Shane, Steve
In Absentia	2015-12-16 "{What's the fun in having a gift if you can't play with it anyway?}"
Location <NYC> Harbor Commons - Rooftop - Lower East Side
An open-air escape especially popular with smokers and fliers, the Common House rooftop makes good use of its limited space. The railing that circles it has child-resistant gates where walkways can be extended to connect to the other buildings in the development. A colorful and ever-changing table with sometimes-matching benches provides an ideal spot for an urban picnic. There are two garden boxes on the south-facing side, one for vegetables and the other for herbs and flowers, a tool shed and small patio table with chairs between them. Steve sits on the edge of the roof with his legs dangling down. He is wearing a red and black flannel shirt and dark blue jeans, both much-mended and in need of more. His shield rests against the railing beside him; there are green vines painted onto it, growing out from the blue circle at the center to climb outward along the red and white bands. There's sketchbook open in his lap, and he's working on a drawing of two airborne human figures at bizarre angles to each other, one large and one small, neither showing enough details yet to identify them. The door to the roof opens, shuts again with a heavy thud. Shane is already flicking his lighter even before it's finished closing, head dipping to light the hand-rolled cigarette tucked between his thin blue lips. He's dressed plainly, black jeans -- a little too long for him, they've been neatly cuffed at their hems -- heavy boots, a dark corduroy jacket over a light grey-blue henley. The first drag he takes from his cigarette is long and deep, his steps heavy as he crosses the roof. His gills flutter quickly, black eyes looking over at Steve's shield. "{Best not let Tag make that /too/ shiny or Horus'll yoink it right the fuck off you.}" The words come in quiet French, voice a little rough but amusement showing through all the same. Steve looks over his shoulder when the door opens. Smiles and lifts the pencil-wielding hand to wave. "{I've asked Tag to try to keep it subtle.}" Steve's French is very country, very casual. "{But I think he has a hard time with subtle.}" With only a few additional lines on the page, it becomes apparent that the arm the larger figure strethes out toward the smaller one is a prosthesis. "{Besides, Horus yoinked it when it wasn't modified at all.}" "{Man, Tag lives with all of /us/. His idea of subtle might be kind of fucked the hell /up/.}" Shane's gaze shifts from the shield to the page, watching the developing sketch as he takes another puff of cigarette. "{Anyway if he's already got it in for your shield regardless then the game is up. Fuck subtle. Go big or go home. What's the fun in having a gift if you can't play with it anyway?} Steve chuckles, nodding. "{I think the Commons' standards of subtlety is starting to influence me. I'm finding my own wardrobe boring -- in addition to being very chewed-up.}" The child in the drawing wears an exuberant grin as he twists away from the artificial hand's grasp, and with the addition of hair (flung outward mid-motion) is definitely identifiable as Spence. "{But I certainly do not begrudge people having some fun with their powers. I know it's not the same, but I certainly enjoy being able to run a two-minute mile and jumping down from this roof without breaking anything.}" Shane smooths a hand down against his jeans reflexively, a thin smile twisting up at his lips. "{Boring? Yeah? Maybe you should get my Pa to take you shopping.}" His gills flutter again as the drawing continues to take shape. He plucks the cigarette from his lips, brows lifting. "{How's that not the same?}" His teeth bare further, grin sharpening. "{Wait, don't tell me, is it because you're boring as fuck? I mean, run two miles, great, sure, but is that even a challenge anymore? Who are you out there /with/? Is that playing or just -- training?}" "{Maybe I will.}" Steve sounds quite serious about this. "{We're not the only ones needing new clothes, though.}" He looks over Shane's outfit. "{Good training is always a challenge, but I'm not going to /deny/ being boring with my abilities.}" He shrugs, looking back down at his sketch. He decorates Flicker's prosthetic arm with its most recent motif. "{I kept busy during the war, training, or just fighting. Sparred with my team for fun when we had time but... Well. I had to be real careful so I didn't break them.}" Shane's claws curl slightly into the thick fabric of his jeans, his breath huffing out in a quick stream of smoke. "{Sounds like fucking balls, man. So you've what.}" He quenches the cigarette carefully against his palm, plucking a black case out of his jacket to put the half-finished stick away. "{Trained and trained some more and gone to /war/ and gone to --}" His hand waves out over the courtyard, his jaw clenched. "{-- more war and practiced on a fucking leash but never -- /ever/ -- come on.}" He sheds his jacket, tossing it to one side and beckoning to Steve with a curl of webbed fingers. "{Up up up.}" Steve raises one blond eyebrow at Shane. "{That's not to say I never enjoyed it, just...}" But at the sharkpup's insistence, he sets sketchbook and pencil aside and climbs to his feet. Still shaking his head, though. "{You want to spar -- here?}" His eyes stray to the railing, a dubious frown between his brows. "{Maybe we ought to go to the gym.}" Even so, he is settling into a loose fighting stance. "{What, I thought you said you could take the fall.}" Shane is rolling up the sleeves of his henley; rolled, it just accentuates the thinness of his arms, the odd black cuffs that he wears looking even bulkier on his tiny wrists. Still, his grin is fierce and broad. "{Spar, hell yeah.}" His sharp black claws beckon to Steve. "{Supersoldier, who gives a fuck. I just want to see /you/.}" "{I said I could /jump/,}" Steve points out, his own grin less fierce and certainly less sharp. "{But I doubt falling would hurt me all /that/ much, either. I was more concerned about you.}" For all that, he does as Shane bades. He closes the distance to the sharkpup far faster than any human could and aims a jab of his right fist at his opponent's torso -- also fast, though nowhere near as fast as he has just shown himself capable. Shane's tongue clicks up, kind of disapproving, against the roof of his mouth as he ducks inward -- also far faster than any human is capable of. He doesn't bother attempting to block Steve's punch, instead sidestepping to slide in past it; his body is twisting up in towards the larger man's as he does in one lighting-swift motion, his hand shooting up in an open-palmed strike towards Steve's solar plexus. He /isn't/ holding back -- his fragile appearance belies the solid clout behind the blow. "{Maybe worry about yourself.}" The counterattack catches Steve by surprise, but not completely flat-footed. Though he realizes his peril too late to avoid the strike altogether, he twists his body far enough to catch it against his side. Even so, his pale blue eyes are wide with amazement...and the first glimmer of excitement. "{I prefer not to worry.}" Whatever his assumptions about Shane may have been, he adjusts them now as he continues turning, one leg sweeping low -- and at full speed this time -- in a bid to takes his opponent's feet out from under him. This draws Shane's mouth upward, teeth baring again in a quick grin. It doesn't fade even as Steve's leg connects with his; his gills press down flat, breath halting momentarily as he is toppled. The fall doesn't seem to slow him much, though. Even as his feet are kicked out from under him he is twisting back, body arching bonelessly to plant his hands against the rooftop, push straight back off again. He doesn't /regain/ his feet so much as just shift his momentum, springing from his hands to snap a scissor kick toward the leg that Steve had just swept toward him. The /mode/ of Shane's recovery, rather than its speed as such, is what catches Steve off-guard this time. Shane's kick lands quite solidly, though it likewise does not seem to bother Steve at all. He returns to a low, wide stance and aims two quick jabs at Shane's midsection. He seems to have given up, at least for the moment, on trying to predict his opponent's flipping and bouncing around. Shane is rocked back by the punches, his breath knocked out of him just as he's actually bothered to draw another one. He tucks into a roll when he falls back, landing in a crouch from which he springs right back /up/ to hook his elbow towards Steve's side. "{You are like a rubber ball!}" Steve's exclamation is exuberant and impressed. Though he seems to see the latest attack coming in time, he chooses to just receive it, planting his feet and pivoting. Just before the blow connects, he anwers with a sweep of /his/ forearm, intent on knocking Shane /back/ rather than down this time. "Bouncy, trouncy, flouncy, pouncy, fun, fun, fun, fun fun," Shane carols back in cheerful reply to this. "{/You're/ like a goddamn dino -- ooof,}" Much like Steve, he doesn't move out of the way of this strike. He doesn't plant himself, though; his body folds /into/ the sweep of Steve's arm with a grunt, his hands curling up to hook around Steve's forearm and hang on. He's kicking up and off as he's swept, riding with the motion to plant a foot -- against Steve's side, pushing off to climb /up/ the other man. A downward push of hands, an upward twist of his body -- legs hooking for Steve's neck as he bears back down, now, towards the ground. Steve tries to shake Shane from his arm, and though plenty surprised he doesn't seem all that /perturbed/. He allows Shane to pull his head toward the ground, to a point -- half-way down he throws his not inconsiderable weight behind the motion and flips /himself/ in a bid to either throw off the sharkpup half-way, or come out on top if Shane manages to hang on. A low growl comes from behind the teenager's sharp teeth; his grip clenches down in a sudden sharp prickle of claws latching in against Steve's arm. Shane's eyes open enormous and wide, his gills flaring open as Steve's weight now thuds him down onto the roof. His teeth snap at the air -- though in something of an idle threat, he doesn't /actually/ bite. "{Oh my god you know in cartoons when they see those fucking. Birds.}" Steve tries to roll off of Shane after they come crashing down to the concrete rooftop. He flexes the hand that the claws dug into. "{I do, actually,}" he sounds both surprised and pleased. "{I understood that reference.}" Then, after a beat. "{You alright?}" Shane uncurls his fingers, claws releasing Steve's arm and his limbs going limp against the roof. He flops his arm across his chest, grinning up at the sky at Steve's answer. "{You hit like a fucking Mack truck, dude.}" This sounds approving, rather than like a complaint. "{Me? Pfft, I'll throw down with you /any/ day. The hell are bodies /for/ if you're not enjoying them?}" Steve sits up, grins. "{Ion also compared me to a Mack truck. I'm honored by how specific that is.}" He tilts his head back, shrugs. "{I figure bodies are good for a lot of things. Not just enjoyment, though...that is certainly nice.}" His hand clenches into a fist again, though he's smiling easily now, relaxed. "{Thanks.}" "{Ion hits like goddamn Indra.}" Shane pushes himself back up stiffly, rubbing his hand gently against the back of his head. He shoots Steve a sidelong glance, a crooked smile. "{Anytime. Just figure everyone needs a chance to get comfortable now and then.}"