Logs:My eyes are spent with weeping; my stomach churns; my bile is poured out on the ground because of the destruction of my people,
| My eyes are spent with weeping; my stomach churns; my bile is poured out on the ground because of the destruction of my people, | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia | 2024-02-10 "What you see this?" |
| Location
<NOLA> Jazzland | |
The chipped and aging sign above the doorway just claims: GAMES, nothing further. There are still some wires here and there telling of the machines that must have been here at some point, but the space is now cavernous and mostly empty, walls coated with years of urban explorer graffiti and some incongruous detritus -- a broken-down unicorn with a pole stuck through it that tells of the carousel it should be on, a large plastic SpongeBob whose face has been scratched and painted over into an oddly sinister mask -- that have been hauled in here at some time or other by the curious strays who come through. Today it's busier than this park has been in some time, though the current visitors don't seem festive enough for amusement or curious enough for exploration. Quite a number of people are simply sleeping, exhausted; others talk in small huddled knots or stare blankly down into the food that has been rustled up for them. Regan is at the moment seated behind a sweep of counter, the empty shelves behind her bare of the prizes they once likely had -- but under the circumstances maybe the packed bags of first aid supplies and quickly portable food is prize enough. She's working her way steadily through -- well, it's probably not actually a rich and steaming bowl of curry chicken ramen just like the rest of the Brothers around the room have probably not obtained an eclectic mix of their preferred cravings tonight. But it certainly smells just like one, tastes just like one, and that counts for something. She's been making updates in a small notebook as she eats but sets that aside, now, eyes flicking out of the motley assembly as she continues on through her lunch. Ion has not been here, but now he is, shivering into unsteady existence from the frayed end of a nearby wire. He hops up onto the counter to sit, peering first down at Regan's fragrant ramen and then over at the nearest bag on the shelf still half-full of Campbell's cans. "Yo shit you glow me up one them? Sancocho maybe hit the spot now." He's swiping his hook sort of lazily soup-wards in hopeful indication. Regan glances up at Ion's abrupt appearance, and swivels around to snag a can. It was definitely a can of chunky Campbell's bean and ham when she plucked it and a plastic spoon from their stores but by the time she's turned back to deliver it's steaming, heavy with fresh vegetables and tender stewed beef, redolent with sofrito and spices in a sturdy stoneware bowl conjured up from the eclectic mishmash that lives -- lived -- in the common lodge kitchen. She settles back in front of her bowl -- for just a moment as she reaches to scratch absent and wincing at her shoulder, bandages hidden away under her blouse, her rich ramen shifts into its cold and bland chicken noodle. Just a moment, and then she's twirling noodles around her fork again. "Just how many haunted parks do you have tucked away? This many of us, we can only stay so long." "Got me plenty. World's big as hell and people leave all kind ghost town." Ion's haggard expression has lit up with a warmer delight at the simple comfort. He's starting to lift the bowl from the counter but then reconsidering, flopping belly-down along the countertop to start digging in instead. "{That ain't the problem}," comes with his mouth full, "{We keep jumping I'mm'a start leaving some people in the damn clouds. Too much more this, might be safer to take chances with the fucking spiders before I fritz someone into --}" He's waggling (heavily sparking) fingers indicatively. "Hnh." Regan is watching the sparks flutter off the end of Ion's hook. Her eyes have grown a little pinched as she looks him over again, the new scars, the new exhaustion, but some of that melts back away at the more familiar warmth that has lit his expression. "In your wanderings you didn't happen to come across any nice deserted -- no, island ends in disaster. Mnh. Small and easily conquered nations? Habitable asteroids? Friendly pocket dimensions? We could use the win, here." "Shit, all we want to do is lick our damn wounds I know plenty places for that." For all the extra scars, for all the uncertain fritzing and the Far Too Much Weight he's lost, Ion is clicking his tongue sharp and dismissive against his teeth at the thought of tucking tail. "That nazi-ass fuck slaughter half our damn family, {I know for damn sure you don't want no place to hide.} But a place we can grow from, a place we can fight from, that --" His head shakes. "{Fuck. We could really fucking use --}" He finishes this only with a quick-darted glance to Regan -- then to the rest of the Brothers -- before an unusually subdued bite of his soup. He's got a smile back when he looks up again, though, bright and crooked: "You really want a country, though, I been making a few friends." Regan's fingers tighten around her fork, relaxing only when Ion doesn't finish that sentence. "We need a new home," she finishes, very mildly. And, after an assessing sweep of gaze over the much-dwindled remnants of their group: "Some more heavy hitters would be nice. We'll need -- a much bigger hammer." Across from their defunct prize-collection counter, a rickety old storage closet door is opening. It's letting an odd drift of cold into the mild New Orleans afternoon, chill breeze cutting in a way that really makes no sense at all for the small enclosed space that should be behind it. Maybe the ill wind is omen, because the door is dispensing one -- really not all that terrifying apocalypse Horseman. Leo is looking much as ever -- neatly dressed, neatly groomed, wide-eyed and probably on the verge of an apology (for existing, of course; leaving was simply prudent.) But whatever he was going to say drains away when he sees Ion sitting there with Regan. He blinks -- blinks again -- then ultimately narrows his eyes suspiciously at Regan. He's shifting, uncomfortable, and now trying very hard not to look at Ion when he offers cautiously: "I had a thought -- you maybe. You might be need -- somewhere to go." "'What' you see this?" Ion's eyes are lighting bright -- not just with excitement, the shivery skitter of sparks is crackling louder and sharper off him with Leo's arrivement. Heedless of his current condition he's leaping off the counter, bounding over to the door to sling a painfully jolty arm around the taller man and drag him down lower to ruffle his perfectly combed hair (thankfully with hand and not hook). "{You see this?}" Excited again like maybe Regan missed it the first time. "Put your eyes back your damn head, boy, I'm here -- you here, shit, where the fuck -- how the fuck -- you put some mad fucking work in that boat of your, she can hold all us now." He's not waiting for invitation but, curious and baffled, peering through the door Leo has left open. As the door opens Regan is sitting up straighter -- the rest of the Brothers scattered throughout the room have vanished, for a moment, from Leo's view, and behind him there's an unnervingly close crackle of heat -- -- that fades before the fire has properly reached him, her posture relaxing when she clocks who is coming through the door and the room snapping back to its messy crowd state. But -- only relaxing a little; she's frowning at him, then past him, then at him again. She's up in another moment, crossing to the doorway with an upward hitch of brow. "He'd have to be be time travelling to have sailed her here." But she's curious, too, arms crossing against the harsher chill as she moves to the door. "Oh --" Leo's eyes go wide, and his breath hitches -- he submits to the ruffling without protest, forehead pressing hard against Ion's shoulder until he's released. He rubs quick and hard at his eyes, and he's still not looking at Ion, but now perhaps it is to keep his unshed tears from spilling, to keep focused on the problem at hand. "I did not sail." He's drifting with the others towards the door and he stops on the threshold, hands clasping tight in front of him. Unsurprisingly, there is no boat outside the door. Maybe somewhat surprisingly, what there is is an expanse of what might once have been a nicely manicured courtyard but is now heavily overgrown and wild. The building around has been posted heavily with signs, large and warning though their bright icons have been dulled with exposure: DANGER, KEEP OUT, QUARANTINE AREA. Across the courtyard the door in is ajar -- from beyond it something sounds decidedly like wailing, but perhaps that's just the wind, whipping cold and eerie through the gap. "It will take a lot of work. Cleaning. Things. But I think nobody will look here." Leo takes a breath before he steps forward, his hands unclasping with difficulty to turn up and out to the facility around them. "It has been many years since anyone -- lived in Jenner." | |
