Logs:Against All Odds
| Against All Odds | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia | 2024-06-29 "You gay now or just angry?" |
| Location
<NYC> Ruins of the (Second) Seventh District - Lower East Side | |
Pride Weekend it may be, but the mood around the former Seventh Precinct -- its windows cracked and soot-stained, its door boarded up, still cordoned off by street barricades and Rent-A-Fences -- is more restive than festive. There is no counterprotest today, the slightly smaller-than-usual crowd facing only a small squadron of riot cops, one or two enterprising protesters clinging to the fence for the improved vantage, or perhaps because they like to be tall. It may be an underwhelming turnout, for now, but a middle-aged woman with a bullhorn is heralding a respectable amount of ruckus anyway, hoarsely leading the assembly in a repeat-after-me chant. Roscoe has parked himself leaned up against a parked car at the outskirts of the crowd, in a Celtics cap, and a too-big probably-borrowed HOLLAND WAS RIGHT tee; he's not participating in the chant, so the shirt is the only indication he's with the protest. Maybe this and his companion, a burly, bald man in a hi-vis vest and an impressively creepy mustache. They've been gossiping merrily for a while, until the man spots a budding confrontation between a handful of protesters and bystanders and hastens over; Roscoe stares after him, his face pinching into a worried frown, and then -- while he's alone -- digs his phone out of his pocket, cupping one hand around the screen to block the glare of the sun. Screenagers. Pride Weekend it is and some hint of this breaking into the periphery of the ex-7-2.0. At first the drumbeat can be more heard than felt, a distant pound of energy. When some music does VROOM close enough to be intelligible -- Ryan Black's "Stonewall" blasting loud and defiant -- it doesn't quite seem to match the beat still thumping in the background -- it's coming from a VERY brightly festooned heavily modified Harley chopper, windshield decorated in glass chalk with a molotov cocktail whose flames are burning in rainbow, a half-dozen different pride flags fluttering behind, bright beads looped and strung from its handlebars. The rider of this bike does not look like he dressed for Pride even if his bike did -- Ion is just in sturdy boots, sturdy old jeans, a somewhat sweaty and grease-smudged white tee underneath his much-loved Mongrels cut. He has seemed to collect a bit of Pride somewhere en route -- a rainbow boa draped around his neck, a pair of glittery-rainbow-framed sunglasses on his eyes. "Yooooo cop haters," he's cheerfully greeting the protest, "got some extra caffeine incoming." He's swiveled his bike into the street across the lane to cut off cross-traffic with a dismissive (and lightning-sparkling) wave of his hook; there's another (even brighter-colored; Kouto does look like he dressed for Pride) Mongrels swiveling to block the other lane as well. Only then does he get off his bike, hopping up onto the car Roscoe is leaning against so he can wave to a protest marshal on the corner -- as the marshals in their vivid vests usher the way very leading edge of a colorful and impromptu march is starting to turn the corner into sight. The flamboyant vanguard -- discounting Ion himself -- are a large bloc of large drag queens behind a street-spanning banner reading "THESE BRICKS THROW BRICKS"; chants of "bottoms or tops, we all hate cops" are gleefully answered with: "don't forget switches, all cops are bitches." "Hope those your dancing shoes --" Ion is starting to say cheerfully down to the kid nearby but then he stops, squints. "Hoshit I know you, you one of ours, yeah?" His fingers are snapping like maybe the name will come to him in a minute, in blithe defiance of his long and storied history with not bothering to remember the names of his dearest friends. Roscoe definitely hears the bike roaring over and the march it's shepherding -- he squinches his eyes narrower, tilting his head to better hear the distant chanting, though surely there's no way he can see the crowd yet. He is (kind of guilty-thrilled and uncomfortable) laughing at 'all cops are bitches' or maybe just at the drag queens coming into view, his eyes wide and stare-y, though he doesn't seem to notice what Ion is doing until the car rocks with movement and he jerks upright. "I -- what?" he says, then looks down at his shoes (boring red Chucks, probably not his dancing shoes) as though this will help him answer the question, and when he looks back up his eyes are not wide, but definitely searching, and his tone is aggressively (and uncharacteristically) polite. "No, I don't think you know me. I'm -- Roscoe." He gives his name just enough hesitation to be noticeable. "Roscoe," Ion echoes as if this will ring any bells or stick with him later (it will do neither). He's dropping down to sit on the car's roof, kind of sideways, one leg crooked up and the other hanging down by the driver-side window; from here he's sort of lazily keeping an eye on both the protest and the approaching gaiety. "Damn. Well, do now, huh? Ion." He's thumped his hook light against his chest with this introduction and now is digging a crumpled pack of Newports out of his pocket. He sticks one in his mouth and squints down at Roscoe for a brief and uncertain moment before offering him one. "Bunch them," he's waggling his hook in the general direction of the Incoming Gays, "think damn, our dance party it got plenty music, not enough yelling on the cops, better wander on down -- you know some them dickgirls been going strong a mile in them heels." He's saying this with a definite tone of respect, like, damn, commitment. Maybe Roscoe is trying to place Ion in his memory, too, but squinting does not help, and after a moment he just settles back against the hood of the car, head still twisted to keep Ion in eyeshot. "Ion," he repeats -- this probably doesn't ring any bells for him either, and though he takes the proffered cigarette automatically, as soon as it's in his hand he squints down at it like he's not totally clear on how he got it. He seems to decide that he is not questioning it, though, tucking it into his mouth with an amused grin. "You came to the right place," he says, tilting his head at where the two crowds are converging like he can make sense of the exuberant chaos. "We got yelling at cops here but no music. And no, uh --" he is glancing, brief, up at the banner. "-- bricks." Ion tucks the cigarettes back away. He's snapping his fingers idly together, tiny sparks dancing out of each small snap to fizzle away harmless in the air. After the first couple distracted snaps there's a steady small arc of energy that sizzles between his forefinger and thumb; he lights his own cigarette off this and holds his hand out toward Roscoe in absent offering. "Shit, I'm sure we could rummage up some bricks, we really need." He's kind of eying the neighboring buildings like he's sizing them up for this prospect, but none of them, evidently, pass Scummy Enough muster to be dismantled for parts. "Shit we should save some the last of this," he's nodding here towards a sad small corner of the lot that is all that remains of that particular wall, "keep it somewhere safe so we ready when they build up the seventh again." The queens at the forefront are already making their own joyful harmonies with the existing chants as they filter in -- repeating them with a little more zhuzh, a little more flare. Behind it's a motley crew of rowdy queers in various stages of Colorful. Nanami is on the lower-key end of this group, bright pink streaks woven bold through her twin braids and pink leopard print Chucks but otherwise just very baggy jean shorts down past her knees, a black ribbed tank top over her pink sports bra. She has just been kind of filtering in with the rest of the group but turns with reflexive curiosity towards Ion's very bright electrical signature -- it's not him that draws her to double back, though, but: "Cheee, Roscoe?" She's squinting -- up at the yellow sticking out from under his hat, critically "-- what'chu doing there?" -- but offering him a bright smile despite this moment of evident judgment. "You gay now or just angry?" Ion she's looking over with a more appreciative squint, an upward jerk of her chin: "You glowing loud." Roscoe widens his eyes at the snap of electricity, though he's quick to put his smoke in his mouth and lean in; he does not take a very deep pull initially, cutting himself off to say, grinning, "Like using a battery and a gum wrapper." He throws a glance sideways at the little pile of rubble with vague dismay (they do have bricks!) and is probably calculating his way out of this humiliating faux pas when his attention is pulled to -- "Nanami? Yooo." Either oblivious to or unfussed by her judgment, he is puffing himself up a little taller, tilting his feet onto the sides of his sneakers, eyes widening again -- "Nooo, I'm here with --" when he waves one hand back at the protest he started with, he is unfortunately mostly indicating the new contingent of drag queens. His eyes track sideways at Ion -- "I'on't see no glowing," he says. Ion grins right back at this comparison, his eyes lighting bright. "Yoo where you went up at? I --" He does not get as far as his disreputable alma mater though when his eyes are also snapping, curious, to Nanami. Then Roscoe. Then Nanami again, and with this one of the Sixteen here now his fingers are snapping in recognition: "Shit, Lassiter?" His smile twitches crooked and amused when Roscoe proclaims himself one of the drag queens -- he's taking the boa from around his neck and offering it out to the teen on the curve of his hook: "You ain't dress half so fierce as them ladies, get yourself some flash." He turns his head back, blows up a stream of smoke, and after some longer consideration of the younger electrokinetic he's holding his hand up, out like in offering though the dubious gift on offer is a shiver of blue-white energy. "Nah, nah, lil thunderbird here she feel it though, yeah?" There's a genuine delight in this recognition. "-- You kids surviving?" "Yo," Nanami answers, brighter; she's holding out a fist for Roscoe and grinning broader at Ion's boa, her brows lifted expectantly. "You friends with this badass?" She's jerking her thumb at Ion like clearly Roscoe should know who he is. Some of her brash cheer is fading, startled -- maybe at Ion's nickname, maybe at the glimmer of power he offers out -- a lot more tentative she reaches out her hand, the lightning jumping to her fingertips and vanishing though she's still holding up her empty hand with fingers curled inward like there's something precious cradled there. She swallows back some unexpected surge of emotion and maybe she is aiming for nonchalant but it comes out a little too husky when she adds: "S'cool you came back. I --" She doesn't answer the question on surviving, just looks to Roscoe like perhaps he has a better answer. "Oh okay, I do know you from Lassiter," Roscoe is saying, though he still seems confused about this, for as he is dutifully (kind of reluctantly) draping the boa around his neck, he follows this apologetically with, "Maybe it was really early on." He bops Nanami's fist with his own, scoots indecisively closer to Ion and then back away like he's unsure if the gentlemanly thing to do is to offer her his Ion lets out a small whoop when Nanami yoinks the electricity, hopping down off the car to clap Nanami heavily on the shoulder, jostle her -- "you see that," he's asking Roscoe eagerly like this small zap was some crowning moment of glory. "Shit you friends with this badass?" He clicks his tongue, waving away know you from Lassiter -- "shit, nah, you all probably this high when I gone through Lassiter," possibly he has no idea how to gauge these kids' ages or possibly he has no idea how tall kids are in general because the height he is indicating is more like a toddler than elementary schooler. "S"right, every damn day we here is beat some odds. Where the fuck you all landed?" Nanami has a satisfied amusement when Roscoe dons the boa but this shifts in short order to incredulity: "Boy! You don't know who this --" She clicks her tongue against her teeth, head shaking as she gestures towards the hook, the vest, the All Of Ion. "This fakka the Mongrels bossman? One of Mr. Jax's guys? Thought he wen die bus us out of Lassiter he like some lightning-phoenix. Also," this is said not like an afterthought but like it is the most important in the series, "they say he wen get the best drugs in town, Gaé he so damn happy when you pop back up, everybody else," she says with a disappointed shake of head, "cut their molly now." She shifts a little uncomfortably at the question, shrugging a shoulder: "Been stay in the Village with Gaé Tessier but, soon, I go home home." "I didn't get bus out of -- lightning-what?" Roscoe tilts his head at Ion, "Oh-oh-oh." He is smoothing the boa restlessly and a little self-consciously, bothered by the feathers tickling his neck -- "Ooh," he says. "I only -- met one Mongrel, ever. Back in Freaktown. He didn't sell me drugs," whether this was greatly disappointing or not, his tone leaves kind of ambiguous. His eyes track sideways at Nanami -- "Home, home, Hawai'i?" "Not the bossman no more, death kinda vacate a position. -- Didn't die for real though, just took a long-ass sabbatical getting stitch back together and got me this fine new bling." Ion is waggling his hook cheerfully, and taking another puff of his cigarette. "-- Damn, Hawai'i? You come a far way just to get in freak jail, huh? S'gonna be nice, head home? You looking to party before you dip out, we hook you up." He flicks sharp at the end of his smoke, bouncing slightly restless in place. "Hawai'i," Nanami agrees, and here at least she's easier, warmer. "We wen come stay for school but --" Shrug, like, sometimes school just ends in torture jail, what can you do. "It'll be nice. This place --" Another shrug, but more offhand now, "stay too cold." Her smile grows sharper at the mention of drugs and she baps Roscoe lightly in the shoulder. "You wanna come my going-away party? Maybe Sriyani help you all come my coming-home party, too, we go party twice." Roscoe gives Ion's new bling a kind of suspicious squint, head sinking lower between his shoulders (directly into the boa) -- his mouth opens to make some kind of Masshole objection to 'too cold' before he evidently thinks better of this. "Twice, shoot, yeah I do," he says, though, "-- gimme heads-up so I can lie to my mom about it and I can show up twice. I'll ask Sriyani too I bet they're down!" This is very eager, whether at the prospect of party in Hawai'i or the promise to bother Sriyani about a trip. "Hell yeah. You get me shopping list," Ion replies brightly, adding: "normally give some small labrat discount but you put on that white boy's tab, he can afford it and then some. -- Ohshit," somewhere just beyond the Mongrels' traffic-blocking bikes there is some agitation, raised voices from an Uber driver who sounds about equal parts incensed by having the traffic blocked, and having the traffic blocked by Loud Gays. "I go check on this before Kouto filet some bigot. Enjoy the gays." It's kind of like saying Happy Pride, maybe. Ion is vaulting back over the hood of the car and dipping away. "Fo sho." Nanami's promise on a heads-up is earnest. "Sriyani gonna be down before you even finish the question. You roll up like 'hey Sriyani, wanna --' they gonna have one hand on the door already." She's throwing Ion a languid shaka as he heads off, eyes tracking with a casual interest to the (escalating? deescalating?) confrontation. When she looks back to Roscoe it's with a grin. "Lots of parts of prison way different to what I expect, but. I definitely wen imagine that prison get you a good hookup. Glad some stereotypes true." | |
