Logs:Glass Half Full

Glass Half Full
Dramatis Personae Ion, Jax, Scott
In Absentia B, Blink, Joshua, Lucien, Mystique, Shane	2024-08-29 "Bet."
Location <MOJ> Champion's Circle - Mojoverse
Originally this was intended as a place for the games participants to relax and hang out in between events, but that idea quickly fell by the wayside when their initial participants were all too dead and/or traumatized to do any hanging out. Still. in preparation for hosting a bunch of Earthlings they've taken their best stab at what Earthers might enjoy for a little R&R, which has led to this... place. It's looks like it was kind of a bar, once. There are tables to sit at, though half of them come pre-knocked-over; there are several broken bottles and broken pool cues lying around (no pool tables in evidence.) There are numerous guns. Several of the bottles behind the bar are filled with bullets, a couple more with gasoline; some do have alcohol but none of it is drinking grade. There is also a game of darts. If there ever were any employees there are not anymore, but a very large number of cats are in residence here. The building doesn't end so much as just truncate like it's some kind of movie set. The open back of the "bar" opens up onto, a road that for some reason has a large ramp leading to nowhere. There are a variety of vehicles out there with keys in the ignition and though it's usually hard to tell this from a look, they have the indefinable air of cars that will explode at the slightest provocation. Maybe it's the unnecessary racing stripes. It's quiet here, a little while after the opening ceremony, with only the yowling of a few brawling cats to disturb the peace. Many of the bottles behind the bar have been lined up on the bar, their pour spouts veeeery meticulously oriented parallelly at a 45 degree angle. Just now, Scott Punch-Eyes is holding the latest up to his nose, making a face -- with his visor firmly affixed over his eyes (this is all that he has, of his X-Suit; he's otherwise dressed in a very drab blue-on-blue ensemble of t-shirt and jeans) this mostly looks like a very disappointed scowl. He sets it down in line with the others, shaking his head -- "Gasoline," he says. Probably his companion does not need to be told as much; this is the fourth or fifth bottle of gasoline yet. Oh, well. Scott is reaching for the next. If Jax had planned ahead for this, he probably would have chosen a more practical mission outfit than the color-blocked turquoise-purple-pink button down and jeans he was wearing with his rainbow-and-black platform boots today, but then, if he had planned ahead for this, probably he would be at home right now. He is currently frowning between a bottle (filled with bullets) and a table (covered in guns), and looking extremely critical. "None of these actually -- match. The gasoline might could come in handy, though?" There's a faint flutter outside, and then a less faint tromp, and then a very distinct gravelly bass of a voice: "Damn you boys getting trash already?" Ion is loping in from the racetrack side of this dubious recreational establishment, teeth bared fierce and bright. He looks like he's already been through the wringer and not just from the surreality of the situation, dark bruising mottled over his face, raw healing cuts striped over his skin, some bandaging visible on his bare arms and probably plenty more not visible judging by the occasionally guarded stiffness of his movements. It doesn't stop him from clapping a FIRM jostling hand on Scott's shoulder -- there was definitely an intention there to pull the man in for a hug but he has been solidly derailed by the smell here: "-- this gasoline?" Sniff, sniff. "The fuck?" Scott darts one hand up to the visor, but once Ion is in sight he drops it back down to the bar, not really sheepishly. "Ion," he says, in greeting. This is all he says, for a moment, just fixing Ion with a possibly-judgmental look (who can ever tell?) though he does clap Ion's shoulder rather less firmly, leery of the bandaging on his arms. He hffs out at 'the fuck' -- "That about sums it up," he says. "Ion!" Jax is turning, his brows pulling deep together; he's looking over the injuries with a worried twist of lips that he decides in short enough order it's transparently pointless to call attention to. Instead his mouth quirks up in an answering smile, brows lifting. "Yeah, our drinks good and strong here." He's wandering back nearer to the bar, setting his bottle of bullets down like he's offering Ion a pull. "Guess you ain't had no more luck than Joshua 'n' Blink, then, huh?" "Tch," is what Ion replies to this, sharp and irritated; the prongs of his hook clack together with a brief flash of spark. "I been zipping in trillion fucking circle. How this place just floating in goddamn nowhere, fuck." He's starting to bounce in place, restless, but has to quiet this motion very deliberately, teeth gritting against some sudden jolt of pain. "All these damn tourists coming from somewhere, right?" Over the visor, Scott's brow is knitting in concern, but he also is not bringing up Ion's obvious injuries, just directing his gaze politely back to his row of booze bottles. "'sa pretty big world," he says, then -- more slowly -- "Someone told me a while ago, there's worse out there than the Brood." "From a certain perspective it's a step up they only wanna kill us an' not our whole planet. I mean, not so very great for us but for a couple other billion people a little bit of a win." There's a tiny earth hovering over the bar, now, teeny fireworks going off above it before it fades away. Jax is resting his chin in his palm, other hand rotating the bottle slowly with a clink-clink-clink of the bullets rattling inside. "-- they give y'all enough food over there?" he's asking Ion, but somewhere after this question his fingers tighten briefly against the bottle. Then -- almost like he's just noticed the bullets it is full of, he sets it somewhat hastily back upright and presses his hand flat against the bar, his face gone just a faint shade paler and his eye fixed somewhere on the space between the three of them. "Bet." For some time, this is all Ion says, low. His hook scratches against the top of the bar, etching an uneven groove into it and then tracing it deeper. The restless scritching continues for several seconds before he looks back up at the other men. The scritching stops and in its place he sets down, heavily: "B there with us." Scott just looks at Jax; he doesn't say anything but his silence is just as heavy. Jax has gone very still, his gaze still fixed right where it was. His hand is pressing a little flatter against the bartop, his arm a little tenser. "Oh," he finally says, quiet, blinking, and then again, "oh." He swallows, dips his head, pulls his hand back -- there are fingermarks burned black against the wood, now -- and then just rests his knuckles on the bar once more like he is not quite sure anymore what to do with them. "Thank -- you. For... letting me..." This trails off. "Shane is, too. That's... probably..." "Probably fucking dangerous is what it is. You hear that fucking psycho up there today, yeah? Want some freaks give him a show. Them small sharks on different teams, shit, only better drama be if Punch Eyes been secretly in love with Blue Mystery. -- {if they don't know you're their dad --}" he's adding, lower and urgent in Spanish, but cuts himself off with a tight press of lips. "One thing we got going, huh. I don't know they want us dead." His smile is kiiind of grim. "Just don't give a shit we die." Scott is shaking his head, plonking his latest bottle down on the bar in his neatly maintained row with a pained grimace. "Blue Mystery," he's scoffing, like this is way more offensive to him than 'Punch-Eyes'. His hand comes to rest on the bar too, the index finger tapping lightly against the wood. "Glass half full," he says, not actually optimistically, "lots of places don't give a shit if we die." "Y'know, when you put it that way," Jax is, now, getting out a glass, so that he can pour out a measure (it is rattling half-full of bullets); unlike Scott his tone does have a certain this-is-what-we-train-for brightness to it, "it's starting to feel a lot like home already."