Logs:In Which a Hot Dog Has an Unfortunate Beginning and Unfortunate End, and an X-Kid’s Hopes Are Dashed

In Which a Hot Dog Has an Unfortunate Beginning and Unfortunate End, and an X-Kid’s Hopes Are Dashed
Dramatis Personae Naomi, Roscoe, Taylor
In Absentia	2024-04-17 "Psh, all my friends are cool."
Location <NYC> Freaktown - Riverdale
Maybe this cul-de-sac doubles as Freaktown's hottest eatery; toward the middle of the emptied road, an eclectic assortment of barbecues dragged from the neighboring backyards has been arrayed in an intimidating Stonehenge circle. Only one of the barbecues is occupied today, by a burly man with an apron that reads "YOUR OPINION WASN'T IN THE RECIPE" and a surly scowl to match it, who is nonetheless patiently grilling hot dogs for a couple of ravenous recently-arrived teenagers huddling under their raggedy umbrella. It is anybody's guess how the grill is still working in the light April drizzle, until the chef blows steam out his nose and rakes his fingers through the coals to rekindle them. Roscoe is wearing a puffy, bright orange coat with the hood pulled up over a ball cap; this might seem like overkill in fifty-something weather but not to worry, he is also wearing shorts. He has his own hot dog in one hand, entirely uncondimented and now a little soggy, which he is eating at a rapid pace even as he is telling his companion brightly, "-- sort of ninety-percent char but that's fine, my dad always says color is flavor." He swallows his bite and adds, "He's a really bad cook." Naomi is watching the disappearance of Roscoe’s hotdog with pressed lips — is it the lack of condiments, is it the amount of char flaking off the rest of his meal, something here is not quite correct to her. "Ch, and y’all let him grill like that?" She shakes her head, wrapping the rest of her meal (about half of a similarly charred-to-hell burger, underneath the vegetables and cheese) up in paper (possibly? homework? it sure says DUE APRIL 17 in blue pen on the top) and tucking it away into her bag. She’s in a hunter-green rain shell, partially unzipped over a grey long-sleeved crop-top, and wide-legged jeans with giant holes where denim might otherwise be effectively keeping her knees dry. "I like some char much as anybody but," she sucks in air through her teeth. "My big brother he burns the whole thing too, s'like eating coal." The throaty purr of a pair of motorcycle has been sounding in the distance, getting closer now -- it stirs a kind of reflexive alertness from some around the block that eases the moment the Mongrels' insignia can be seen. One of the riders -- broad and dark -- is peeling off deeper into Freaktown, leaving the other to pull up near the X-Kids. Taylor is -- considerably broader and considerably darker, an onyx-skinned muscular mountain of a man whose appearance of Size is only getting larger as several of his many arms start to unwind. "Yooo," comes cheerily as he kills his engine, one snakey arm extending toward the snakey girl; maybe it can't quite be a fistbump but its end is curling in a reasonable approximation all the same. "How you holdin' up, who yuh bog friend?" Probably the sound Roscoe makes was intended as a huff, but his mouth is full. "Shoot, he thinks I'm being dramatic when I complain about the food in prison," he says, then, "Wait, Lael?" but then he too is glancing warily over his shoulder at the sound of approaching motorbikes, though -- unlike the actual Freaktonians in the area -- he is not relaxing very much once the Mongrels have come into view. His eyes only widen an infinitesmal amount given that, internally, his mind is lighting up with alarm and anxiety and a sudden, keen desire to hide behind Naomi. << Jesus Christ tentacles >> is his first thought, along with an instinct to map Taylor onto a spectrum of Monster Scariness that he has ranked somewhat arbitrarily by how badly he thinks he would get his ass beat in a fight, and how long it would take for someone else to intervene (the longer he looks at Taylor, the higher Taylor is ticking up on this scale.) Somewhere in all of this he's taken an involuntary step closer to Naomi. "Yo," he says back, a little faintly. "Nah, Zeke, ain’t I ever mention him?" Naomi corrects, tugging the hood of her jacket just a little more forward to hide the faint glow growing in her eyes as engines draw near. When she spots who is riding towards them, the unnatural light disappears as she smiles, big and broad. "Yo!" Naomi fisbumps the offered tentacle. "Dang, you ain’t met Roscoe yet?" Behind a comfortable background psionic static of drumline cadences, Naomi is shuffling through Roscoe Vo Facts like trading cards, judging them for their introductory merit. "We go to school together," she says out loud, bumping the boy’s (suddenly closer) shoulder. In her head she’s annotating an image of Roscoe in Lassiter scrubs in bright TikTok Captions: one of us! (prometheus) flashes first, then hoards cigarettes! and then, more anxious and apologetic and guilty all at once, does NOT like teeps. "Taylor, Roscoe, Roscoe, Taylor. Taylor —" << is in a gang (don’t say that!) (it’s a cool mutant gang) (bogass already freaked) ( 😵‍💫 ) >> "— does safety for Freaktown. He's chill." Taylor's brows are hiking, and his smile is bright and broad, a gleaming contrast to his inky skin. More of his tentacles are unwinding, longer and more muscular; these are holding his hefty chopper in place as he dismounts. "Boy, you read?" would sound amiable enough, probably, if it were not coming from an enormous slab of muscle wreathed in writhing tentacles. "Sign over the entrance say Freaktown and it ain't lying." He's braced a couple arms on the saddle of his bike, leaning slightly back against it. "Labrat, huh? I was up in Rosen with Spence. Lifetime ago." << Don't nobody like teeps, >> he's allowing to Naomi with amusement, << I best let him get over the damn arms before I drop that bomb. -- you can say gang, >> he adds brightly as if he didn't just suggest Roscoe might need some time between shocks. << I mean, he outta prison he gotta have some idea we don't rock these colors for fun. >> Roscoe's eyes flinch open a tiny bit wider when he's addressed; he squeezes the last bite of his half-forgotten hot dog in his hand like it's the world's worst stress ball. A swift mental admonishment to << be respectful! >> kicks him back into gear and, perhaps unclear how exactly to go about this, he says, "Sorry, sir, I didn't mean to --" he is still staring, so he shuts his mouth and diverts his gaze back to Naomi. He looks back at Taylor with a quizzical squint that he hastily schools away, self-reflecting on what might be an Instant Labrat Giveaway about his demeanor and finally just concluding << (you're acting like a little bitch knock it off!) >> Does this work? No. Though << safety? >> confuses him a little bit now he is placing Taylor slightly differently on his Monster Map as a protector of the meek (?) somewhere around Queen Bee. (This is still highly terrifying.) "Naomi and me met in Lassiter last year. But I was up at Lavoisier before that," is added on too hastily, just because << so fucking lame being from Lassiter. >> "He's the best tour guide in Lassiter," Naomi declares, trying to gauge how long Roscoe will take to get over Taylor’s many many arms and failing to come up with an estimate she likes. Colors and fun send her thoughts spinning to the rumble of motorcycle engines and the very heavy-looking, very cool ride in front of her. She's trying to work out the funniest way to mention that Freaktown is protected by a mutant gang when she starts thinking about the insignia on Taylor's jacket. "-- why all y’all got different skulls, anyway?" is the first of many questions bubbling to the surface. << (why they called colors anyway) (damn are all bikes that heavy) (where do you learn how to ride one) (it don’t look hard) >> "Shit, for real?" Taylor is running a slim arm over the top of his smooth scalp, bobbing his head in a nod. He sounds faintly impressed, and not at Lavoisier but, "You been in Lassiter long enough to roll out the welcome wagon you musta seen some shit." He's glancing down at his patches, and shrugs one shoulder (and kind of incidentally a couple other arms with it). "Just to make life harder when we gotta get new patches made, I guess. I'onno, that tradition started long time back. Before my time, before there was a New York Mongrels." << There some bogs been coming 'round Evolve years and they ain't never got over it. I give it an hour. >> A beat, a reconsideration of Roscoe before adding wryly, << per arm. >> And maybe it's this lengthy estimate that has him giving up, because he's simply going ahead and answering -- aloud -- "you know the small-sharks? They bikes sleek as hell. Lotta me, though. Need a lotta bike. You wanna learn?" "I was the best tour guide in Lassiter," says Roscoe, but he is puffing up anyway at these extremely flattering assessments. He yanks the brim of his ball cap a little lower, tempted to laugh at 'musta seen some shit' but too nervous that this will come across as disrespectful or as stolen valor or something -- he ratchets through a handful of responses << I seen literally everything / I seen a lot / eh, not much to look at there >> and then just crams the last bite of hot dog into his mouth to keep his cool, << (that seemed natural, you're good.) >> With his hat now hiding most of his face, who can tell how much of Taylor's Mongrels patch he can actually see, but he is thoughtfully picturing Taylor with a sewing machine. He is perhaps grateful for the excuse to look back at Naomi, then through Taylor at his enormous bike; he perks up again. << PLEASE I have to see this! >> his mind is saying. "You would make a wicked biker," he tells Naomi. Naomi’s mental image has no sewing machine, just arms upon arms holding needles and threads while Taylor is slinging drinks at the same time. She’s also wondering, briefly, where the heck else a mutant biker gang could start if it wasn’t right here in New York, before — << woah YEAH I do >> Was she thinking about learning how to ride, or being a biker? Now that Roscoe has weighed in she’s thinking about both, one with more apprehension than the other. "Boy, you just wanna steal my tires." She's teasing. Mostly. Still, she is asking, kind of shy but mostly eager, "You offering lessons?" She’s imagining herself on a motorcycle, Taylor’s bike, balanced on top for a shining moment before the whole contraption falls on its side to the ground in comical slow-motion. "What'chu think make a wicked biker?" Taylor is sizing up Naomi -- and then Roscoe -- with a slightly amused smile. "And yeah, I'd teach you for sure. Nooot," he hedges, one arm twining around his handlebars, "on this, step one you gotta be sure you on a ride that fits you. You get on a bike, should feel comfortable. I think this behemoth maaay not be there. Even if you get a little taller her controls gonna be just a lil fiddly, you got them wrong-ass limbs. You for serious, though, ain't hard to find something in a more snake-y range." What does Roscoe think makes a wicked biker? Mostly he said this in the hopes he would get to see Naomi fall off a motorcycle today, so he is bluescreening now, his brain tossing out somewhat hysterical suggestions like, << Women! >> He seizes instead on the somehow less embarrassing, "I don't do that anymore." << (you barely did that in the first place this is definitely stolen valor!!!) >> He goes on his toes trying to see the controls of Taylor's bike, as if he has any way to compare them with regular bike controls; he only knows how acoustic bikes work. "Was it hard to find this one? Did you build this one yourself?" He is trying not to wonder which of Taylor's arms control the motorcycle, but from under the brim of his hat, he is staring again, more analytically this time. Naomi straightens her back, like making sure all five-foot-eight-point-five of her is visible will change the fact she is shaped like a skinny, two-armed kind of snake girl and not an Extremely Large, multi-armed Squid Person. She strongly thinks Roscoe is setting her up, but for future tire theft and not for immediately falling off of bikes. "Do y’all gotta build them, I ain’t —" << (that kinda gay) >> "— taken auto shop." She’s not sure she can fit shop into her last few terms at Xavier’s and is lightly concerned she wouldn’t be good at it and her grades would drop. "Hell yeah I’m serious," Naomi says anyway, both because she genuinely is and also because she still wants to seem cool in front of Roscoe. "Yeah, she custom work -- my dogs," one of Taylor's slim arms is tapping at the smaller Mongrels patch on his chest indicatively, "we got a garage out Brooklyn-ways. Make bikes suit all kindsa folk. I'onno if you seen my boy Nick 'round," this is more addressed to Naomi than Roscoe, lifting an arm indicatively at about werewolf-height, "'bout yea big, real wolfy? He a wizard with remodels, I can tell you they do not make bikes off the line for them kinda leg-bones." He's squinting at the teenagers thoughtfully. "Don't hafta build 'em, no. Some folks come with they own rides ready-made, and there enough gearheads in the club to help anyone out who wants, needs, a lotta modding. You ride long enough, though, you gon' learn a few tricks to keep her running smooth. Tell you what, you lemme know when's good, you swing by Hellhound some evening, I give you the full crash course in how to handle one." << lol crash course >> Roscoe thinks gleefully, though this is clearly not an invitation to go to this gangster garage right now and he's also not sure this was an invitation for him and even if it was, he had to stop riding his bike to school well before the labs when his vision had started to clip randomly and annoyingly to the next street over. He still wants to watch Naomi fall off a motorcycle, but he is resigning himself to life without it with ill grace, << (never get anything I want.) >> He raises his eyebrows at Naomi, though probably the hat/hood combo renders this inconsequential. "Oh shit, Nick do all that?" The wolf cub is inseparable from his motorcycle in Naomi’s mind, though the ruler she is imposing over his legs now is very much a jpeg-like addition. << uhhh what about a no-crash course >> is part joke, part anxiety now about what her brother and partner might think if she came back to campus covered in road rash. "Thanks! Uhhhh --" Naomi is also considering if this invite is for Roscoe, trying to imagine him now on Taylor’s behemoth bike with much amusement, but also trying to give both Taylor and/or Roscoe a graceful way out of this uncertainty. "-- Imma text you when I know 'bout midterms?" She knows when her midterms are, obviously, and has decided she does not care about studying for them. << (whatabout Saturday?) >> "Yeah, fo sho, hit me up." << Saturday good, bring yuh skittish friend if you want, we got plenty bikes fo him to spill from. Or don't. S'chill. >> Taylor is straightening, slinging his leg back over the mammoth chopper and grinning broad at the X-Kids. "You want get in out the rain, they having some kinda bake-off down Winter House --" He's gesturing vaguely in the right direction, "-- you stay dry and have some bomb cookies. Not," he's hastily reassuring, "no literal bomb, Artem's been banned from the kitchen since that last time. -- Good luck on the midterms, yeah?" His bike rumbles to life again, and he flicks one arm in a lazy wave as he pulls off. Roscoe perks up, giving Naomi a (yet again, futile) excited look through the brim of his hat and once his initial, instinctive urgency << oh we gotta go, who knows when cookies will happen again! >> quells, he thinks more sheepishly, << cookies happen all the time, moron. >> As Taylor is driving away probably he hears Roscoe's last parting thoughts, which are << holy Moses that guy had tentacles!!! >> But Roscoe plays it super cazh to Naomi, out loud: "Your friend seems cool." Naomi waves Taylor off with a general, formless << (thanks!) >> only vaguely attached to imminent bike lessons or cookie tip offs. She gives Roscoe an appraising look for a moment, eyes narrow, before grinning and saying, "Psh, all my friends are cool." She bumps Roscoe again in the shoulder, tipping her chin towards Winter House. "Get some unburnt food while we here -- whatchu doing Saturday?"