ArchivedLogs:Lesson

Lesson
Dramatis Personae Ion, Monsterling
In Absentia	2017-01-21 "I ain't going to no /library/."
Location <NYC> Brooklyn
The most populous of the boroughs, Brooklyn has nothing if not character. With a thriving music and arts scene, and a distinctive New York slant to its stereotypical gritty accents, Brooklyn ranges from the high-cultured to the very much working class. From botanical gardens to beachfronts, Manhattanites might like to think their borough is the only one that matters, but Brooklyn has a lot to offer of its own. January is not really trying its hardest, today. Sunny, mild out, almost balmy for wintertime. There are a flock of seagulls loudly squawking, scrabbling around the rocks at the banks of a weedy and junk-strewn creek. Some remnants of fries are causing a bit of a squabble among some of the birds, though on the fringes some of them are ignoring the fries in favor of clamoring after their /source/. Ion, though, has already dispensed the last of his snacks to the ravening hordes. Or, anyway, the last of the snacks he's willing to part with, tipping out the crunchy remnants of fry-bits and tossing the empty carton towards a trash can. He still has a nub end of hot dog in his other hand, holding it up high as he clambers up the rocks away from the birds. "{Ey-yo shoo, no, pest, /my/ fucking food no goddamn manners these birds, huh?}" He's not dressed for /winter/ -- but then the day doesn't really call for it. Not dressed for much of anything but knocking about, faded jeans and heavy boots and a greyscale flannel shirt with his well-beaten Mongrels cut over top. "{So what you thinking,}" he's asking as he climbs up away from the strip of not-quite-parkland toward where his black and silver chopper is parked behind a squat ugly row of rundown industrial buildings by the side of the road, "{maybe we go see the train-show at the gardens? I think we could make storytime in the library too, maybe we go fast.}" Clinging to Ion's cut with the hooked claws of their leathery wings and spindly legs, Egg looks like a horror film-inspired novelty backpack. They're dressed in a pair of jeans--made of old, soft, faded denim--a soft green wrap shirt, their own tiny cut ('MONGREL PUP', reads the patch). and heavily tinted goggles. They stretch one long arm over their father's shoulder to sign 'Yes I want to go, fast fast /fast!/.' Someone has very carelessly parked another -- much less shiny -- motorcycle in front of Ion's. Lengthwise, at that. The owner is standing next to it, arms crossed and chest out-thrust. He's white, with a hint of Mediterranean in his complexion, not very tall, but quite muscular. He's wearing black jeans with thick chains hanging from the belt and a white thermal shirt with a brand new black leather cut (still faintly creased where it was folded) over top. The patch on his chest says 'Prospect', and the graphic on the back is a simple stark white cross. "HEY!" He thrusts his chin out at Ion as he approaches. "You Ion?" Maybe the parking job's not so careless, after all. "{Library it is, then. /Fast/ fast fast. They gonna have some /good/ story today and after we can --}" Ion breaks off, brows lifting and a quick smile quirking his lips as he nears the bikes. "Ey, how you feel about frogs? Is almost storytime, huh, they say today-one it's a classic." His chin jerks up toward the bike parked in front of his. "She look a sturdy ride, we in some kind of rush but I way sure that Rebel can keep up, huh?" 'Faster if we /fly/ right?' Egg has wriggled up and is now half draped over Ion's shoulder. 'They flying with us?' this last is directed at the stranger. 'You like stories? The library has /good/ stories, lots of pictures, and /words/, too!' They flex their wings in a sort of push-up motion, hoisting themself up to sit on their father's shoulder. '/We're/ going to get there /fast/,' they add, a bit haughtily. The biker blinks. "Wha -- frogs?" Then blinks again. It's suddenly obvious that he's quite young -- early twenties, if that. "I'm look for Ion, and you sound -- /Jesus Christ!/" He actually takes half a step back when Egg perches themselves on Ion's shoulder, his Jersey accent strong in his surprise. In a moment, though, he rallies, squaring his shoulder. "My ride can keep up with whatever, but my business is with /you./ Mutie freak." The slurs sound sort of tacked-on, as though he were not particularly used to saying them aloud. But he bolsters the conviction lacking his words by taking a step toward Ion. "Here to teach you a /lesson./" "Yeah, is this book, right? /Frog and Toad is Friend/. At the library," Ion explains patiently, popping the last of his hot dog into his mouth. He hitches a thumb up toward Egg, over his shoulder. "They real excited about the trip, you want to join. I didn't have no /business/ schedule for today." His dark eyes flit up-down, quick, over the younger man. "And you /really/ don't got no business with me, prospie." This comes out quieter, gruff but not harsh. "Who you riding with?" He waves his empty hot dog wrapper toward the other man's vest before crumpling it into a fist. "They new in town?" Egg nods their head vigorously, their long pointed ears flopping back and forth. '/So/ many books, you should come, yes.' They sit up even straighter and start clicking at the stranger. 'What are you teaching Dad?' Skeptical. 'He knows a /lot/ of stuff.' The prospect narrows his eyes. "Do /not/ fuck with me, f-freak, I ain't going to no /library/." He cracks his knuckles pointedly. "Oh, I got business with you. The Purifiers sent me to give you a beatdown, see? I'll throw in one for your gremlin, too." "They say there lots of books..." Ion begins to voice, but trails off with a faint compression of lips. "{Hey, little friend, you hang tight to my back, yeah?}" There's a firmer edge to his Quechua, here. "You want to be careful maybe how you talk on my kid." His hands drop, though, even as the other man cracks his knuckles. Hooking one thumb through a beltloop, weight shifted languidly back onto a heel and his shoulders dropped lax and easy. "Purifiers? Shit. These people growing like damn weeds these days. Man, I think it's your new club do the fucking with you. What them wannabe Nazis tell you before they send you down here, huh?" 'But aren't we gonna /ride/? Why are they so /slow?/' Egg's complaint is directed at the prospect, but they obey all the same, clambering down to cling to their father's back with all six limbs, peering over his shoulder with plenty of clicking and ear-twitching. "Hey, we ain't no /Nazis/!" The prospect's face twists with abrupt anger. "We're making America safe for /humans/, don't give a shit what color they are as long as it's /natural/ color." He lowers his weight and raises his fists. "They said you lead some freak club here, think you're some kinda big shot. Need taking down a notch. Your demon kid, too!" He throws a punch -- quick, solid, but decidedly amateur -- aimed at Ion's head. "{Fucking prospect is why. They only still just learning how to ride.}" Ion lifts a hand -- not to return the strike, not even to block it, really. Open-palmed, fingers spread, the punch -- kind of connects? Although it's hard to say what it connects /with/ -- the hard jolt-kick that accompanies the blow doesn't feel like the solid impact of a /punch/. More a brief sharp seizing that clenches through the other man's muscles, short, painful, but gone nearly as soon as it's there. Ion is gone, too; or at least, he isn't where he was just standing. Disappeared and reappeared just on the other side of the would-be Purifier, head shaking slightly. "/Kid/," his teeth are clenched, now, as he backs toward his bike, "this ain't a goddamn fight you want. Better for you you get back on that bike. I lead a fucking /freak club/, boy, you think some flatscan take me down a notch easy I wouldn't of already been goddamn /took/? Your boys they trying to make you have a real bad day." 'Prospect, /they/ need a lesson,' Egg frees one hand long enough to sign. When the fists start flying, though, they just click loud and fast with delight, repeating 'fight fight fight!' with only a brief hitch when Ion dematerializes them both into electricity. The prospect makes a grunt low in his gut when the jolt passes through him. When he recovers -- admirably fast -- he blinks in utter confusion for a moment before he whips around looking for his opponent. "You ain't /shit/! I'm not gonna fall for -- whatever you're doing." He charges straight at Ion again, much less precise now in his rage and pain. "{Fight,}" Ion agrees, though now in a low rumble. "{Don't let go, monster.}" His weight drops lower, braced now. This time he stays put, meeting the charge with a step forward, an elbow brought up hard toward the young man's rapidly incoming midsection. There's only the faintest tingle in the air to warn of the heavy shock that accompanies contact. The prospect's intended tackle comes up short when Ion intercepts him. The blow connects solidly with his solar plexus and almost certainly would have dropped him, with or without electrokinesis, but with it, he jerks violently, eyes wide and mouth open. The he crumples as if in slow motion, his breath coming back a bit late, in one long wheeze, until he's kneeling on the ground, doubled over. Ion takes a step back. His hand is curled into a fist, but it slowly unclenches, extends to the younger man instead. "Still time for that story, hermano. If we ride quick." As he recovers, the prospect slowly uncurls and lifts his head to look up at Ion. The anger and hate have drained from his features. There is fear in his huge, bloodshot eyes, soon eclipsed by confusion. His mouth works, lower lip trembling, but no words come out. His gaze darts to the studded leather panniers on his bike, then back up to Ion. The shake of his head seems as much an expression of incredulity as refusal, but all the same, he scrambles to his feet and staggers to his motorcycle, hurriedly and not very efficiently starting it up and peeling away, leaving only the stench of rubber and motor oil behind. 'They're going to storytime, too?' Egg asks, cocking their ears after the departing prospect. Then they add, hurried and excited now, 'Dad dad we should go they're going to beat us there!' Ion exhales heavily, his head shaking as well. "{Not sure they meeting us there, little monster.}" He is quicker, more coordinated than the prospect as he heads over to buckle Egg into their sidecar. Get helmets for the both of them. His smile is returning, hard and bright just before he puts his own helmet on. "{Just means,}" over the thrum of the bike's revving engine, "{more time to make some /new/ friend there.}" The growl of his motor fills the quiet street -- if only briefly, before the bike slams straight into the side of the building nearest it, and vanishes.