Logs:Good Shepherds

Good Shepherds
Dramatis Personae Dusk, Heather, NPC-Carnage
In Absentia Erik	2022-04-06 "I need a sheepdog."
Location <BOM> Beachfront - Ascension Island
Largely rocky and desolate, the majority of the waterfront on this small island is an unwelcoming place. Craggy and forbidding, lined with jagged black rocks, the coast here can take a fair bit of scrambling to navigate. Here and there, though, the coastline levels out to narrow sweeps of pebbly beaches littered with shells and seaweed carried in on the frigid tide. Occasional old trunks of fallen trees dot the narrow beach, victims of the storms that frequently plague the island. One small stretch of the western shore holds a small dock, a few boats usually moored there. Tucked off the mainland coast in Jamaica Bay, the buildings and lights of the city can be seen far across the water. Just a little deeper in -- past the sharp, jagged rocks, past a few of the trees -- tucked away at a spot you can't quite see from the shoreline... there's an old, small, rusted up speed-boat that washed up ashore maybe a decade ago. It's just big enough to have an interior cabin (with a cramped space for a bed and precious little else), and -- thanks to some recent work -- both the engine and internal battery work. Which means this old rust-bucket is now... a semi-serviceable (and extremely inefficient) house! As to who's house it is... well, the first clue is probably the name -- once 'PRINCESS', emblazoned in black, someone's added 'MISTER' in front of the name in rusty-red letters that look almost like they were put on with finger-paint. Additionally, there's an ice-chest besides it, plopped down in the sand -- with more red-brown lettering: 'PUT BLOOD AND/OR BEER IN HERE'. _ _ The contents of various... 'care packages' that the boat's inhabitant have received are strewn around the boat, used up -- empty water and beer-bottles, chopped up cereal boxes... some attempt to organize it into a pile (to be disposed of later) has been made, and promptly abandoned. Many of the trees around here have notable score marks, as if immense claws have been regularly raked across their surface. Within the boat, there's a light -- the faint sound of people speaking -- someone's watching something on a recently acquired tablet, by the sound of it. Dusk is a frequent conveyor of both blood and beer -- today he's noticeably bearing the latter, a six-pack of stout held in one hand. He doesn't put it in the chest, instead making his way onto the boat. He leans his shoulder up against the wall beside the door, turning to look out at the mess around the boat with a faint grimace that fades away as he knocks at the cabin door. "Yo," he calls, bright and clear, "delivery." As Dusk approaches, the sound of voices from inside of the makeshift boat-home decreases -- a if someone's turning down the volume. There's an immediate clink-clink-clank of bottles all tumbling against one another; a muffled curse follows. By the time Dusk's knocking, the voice rises up, raspy and hoarse: "Just -- one sec. One fuckin'... fuck." The door rattles and opens. Cletus peers out -- clad in a white sleeveless shirt and sweatpants. He lifts his one arm up to rub the back of his knuckles against a bleary, slightly reddened eye. Behind him, the tablet is thrown atop of that absolute mess of a bed, its screen frozen on a scene from some show about pirates. "I'll clean that shit up, I swear," Cletus mutters, looking past Dusk at the mess surrounding the boat. During the course of the clattering inside of the boat-home, Heather has zipped her way over to join Dusk. She is holding in one hand a notebook with a pen hooked on the coil, the clip having a horizontal white mark that bodes poorly for the writing utensil's longevity. The other hand is her everpresenct recorder, which plays, "Hello. Am I interrupting your boat visit?" Despite her slight build, her tie-dye t-shirt and multicolour star-patterned tights and purple ski goggles make her hard to miss amidst the mess around the boat. Her eyebrows raise. "If you require tidying assistance, I may be able to offer some. Later. I have other tasks to complete more pressingly." "Is that Our Flag Means Death? I'm obsessed. I've been reading this great fic where Izzy Hands --" Dusk stops as Heather zips over, offering the beers out to Cletus. "Don't think we have like, a room tidiness rule but I can definitely help get --" His thumbclaw flicks behind him toward the beach. "Some of that away." Cletus's nostrils flare. He turns to Heather, eyeing the recorder with a look of puzzlement -- like he's trying to figure out whether or not he's seeing what he's seeing or maybe he really needs some sleep. He looks back to Dusk, down to the beer -- decides this is, in fact, real -- then leans his back against the door frame and resumes rubbing his eye. "...naw, I'll -- take care of it," he mutters. "I... uh." His brow furrows, working through the next words: "...appreciate it, though." Dusk's mention of the show seems to prompt Cletus to flash a little paler; he folds his arm over his chest, rubbing his left bicep: "I, uh... I dunno, it's some show about pirates? I just watched an episode or two." The screen is clearly frozen on the last episode. Cletus's eyes drop back down to the beer. From the tip of his left forearm, crimson emerges -- extending into a five-clawed hand. It plucks a bottle of stout out by the tip of the bottle in a motion that seems almost surgical in its careful precision. "What's the notepad for?" he asks Heather. "Nerd shit?" By his tone, he considers this a perfectly legit question. "Nerd shit is my modus operandi," confirms Heather, "My answer to that question cannot be no. In this case, I am keeping it so that I can write anything I think. I am considering how to approach a problem. I need to force organization upon a chaotic situation." She bows her head and then looks over towards Dusk. "If you are reading a good fic, I would appreciate a link. I have not finished the show, but I would like to bookmark it." "Oh, it only keeps getting better," Dusk assures Cletus. He's taking out his phone, paging through his browser history -- a moment later a text with a link comes through to Heather. "We usually force chaos on organized situations but it's nice to mix things up every once in a while." Cletus's red claw thumb snaps up beneath the neck of the bottle, popping the cap off with a pfsst. He immediately takes a pull while Dusk is browsing through his history to send the link to Heather. He grimaces, wipes his mouth with the back of his flesh-hand, then tells her: "...force organization on... uh, yeah. More of a 'chaos' guy myself. They call me 'Carnage', not 'Calm and Orderly'." Heather places her hands on her hips as her recorder plays, "I enjoy chaos as much as anyone. It is interesting. But sometimes some chaos control is required to accomplish the main objective. The chaos that is to be tamed is going to be brought by us as well." She places her thumb on her chin thoughtfully, while her voice continues uninterrupted by the change in posture. "I would be interested in your interpretation of someone called 'Calm and Orderly'." "...the hell you doin' that? The recorder, I mean, like how the hell -- did you fuckin' record everything you're gonna say before you even got here?" Cletus asks, his nose scrunching at Heather as he peers at the recorder. "If so, that's one hell of a trick." He lets the bottle he's opened dangle between two claws, placed just far apart enough to let it dangle by the rim, slowly swinging it back and forth -- thinking about what 'Calm and Orderly' would be. "I guess... I dunno. Guy who makes shit boring. Reverses entropy or some shit. Coins always come up heads, tails, heads, tails -- shit like that. Most likely outcome is what you get." He shrugs. Then, after a pause -- eye drifting back to Dusk, then back to Heather -- he tilts the bottle back, drinks, and asks: "...this about a job?" "I record some of what I say before I arrive. I record more upon arriving. My voice is too fast and I make it slow," explains Heather's recorder. "There are common phrases or explanations that are pre-recorded." She points downards to the voice recorder at this part to point out that this is one such explanation. There is a brief pause as she readies something new to say. "This is about a job. It would not do for things to fall apart too easily." Behind his sunglasses Dusk's expression is mostly opaque, but he is leveling a long look on Cletus before speaking. "So you're looking for what, Orderly Carnage?" One of his shoulders rolls in a languid approximation of a shrug. "If we play this right, could be in and out pretty quick and keep the chaos to a minimum, but, best laid plans. I don't think this jail is --" He stops here, frowning. "Wait. Do you -- know who Magneto is." Cletus's brows perk up at Heather's explanation. "But I don't see you -- you're that fast?" he says, and there's a breathy amusement in his voice. "But if you have to slow your voice down... shit, you can't turn it off? That's gotta be... fuck. I get pissed when I gotta wait through those 5 second video ads." The ebb of amusement becomes a faint glimmer at the mention of a job -- a slight exhaled hiss. "Look, I..." His eyes drift to Dusk. "...owe y'all... a lot, so I'm happy to do whatever, but there's really only one thing I'm good at, and only one group of people I really wanna keep doin' it to." He bares his teeth; it's half-way between a grimace and a grin. "Hopefully, that's why you're here." He head-tilts at Dusk's question, then looks back to Heather: "Huh?" Back to Dusk again: "Mag... wait, ain't he... that guy in the cape and helmet? Tried to like, blow up the Statue of Liberty or somethin' a while back?" "I use an ad blocker," is all Heather seems to have to say on the subject of her speed. "Magneto is the wizard man from the news," she confirms with a few rapid nods of her head. "If he intended to blow up the Statue of Liberty, it would be gone. It is mostly metal. Which is good that he did not; I have nothing against giant torch-bearing women." She gestures with her recorder towards Dusk, "Orderly Carnage suits me. It is a shepherding issue. I need a sheepdog." "It's a prison for mutants run by a bunch of genocidal fascists who want us all dead," Dusk answers plainly. "We're getting people out. You don't have to come, but we could use the help." His wing pushes at the wall, levering him up out of his lean. "We're not aiming for a massacre, just a rescue. But I got a feeling HAMMER is gonna be pretty pro-massacre, so if everyone's gonna get out alive --" His wing lifts in a small shrug. "More wolf than shepherd, but I can get the job done," Cletus tells Heather. When Dusk says the words 'prison', 'mutants', and 'genocidal fascists who want us all dead', his mouth twitches upwards. A little bit of the sadness melts out of him; there's a sort of underlying manic energy to him, now. "Oh, well fuck -- in that case, I'm definitely in." The empty socket where an eye once laid is now filled with a moon-yellow orb, floating in a black-crimson sea. "I'll help you spring your wizard out of wizard jail."