Logs:Soldiering On
| Soldiering On | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia | 2024-10-18 "I am the army. Or rather... I guess I was." |
| Location
<NYC> Evolve Nightclub - Lower East Side | |
Accessible up a flight of stairs from the coffeeshop below, Evolve's nightclub is only open Thursday-Sunday nights. The bar stretches wide along the back wall, polished dark wood with an abundance of drinks available behind, their selection none too high-end. A balcony overlooks the dancefloor, filled with plush black and green couches and armchairs and small black-wood and glass tables between them. The stark white and black walls encourage graffiti, paint markers of all shades hung around the walls by chains. Despite the recent chaos Evolve has been going through, between the influx of aliens camping there last weekend and the loss of their owner, the place is still open and the nightclub crowd still bustling tonight. The dance floor is packed, the bartenders busy. It is a considerably quieter up in the balcony -- a lot quieter, in fact, than would be expected; though the thump of music is still clearly audible it sounds far more distant than it ought to from only one floor up with no walls between them. It's less crowded up here than on the floor, several tables occupied but plenty free. Ryan isn't exactly dressed for clubbing -- a single button black shadow stripe suit with wide pointed lapels and a striking blue satin pocket square, a black dress shirt with no tie and the top button undone, and sober black dress boots. He currently has a table to himself, several empty glasses in front of him and a bartender just arriving from downstairs to bring up another -- is there usually delivery-service here, no, but maybe they are taking pity on him with his leg braces and the crutches propped against his table, or maybe the $100 tip he has just handed over in exchange for his Mexican mule has given incentive enough to trek up here with his drink order. He sits back with it, kind of looking out over the dance floor and kind of just looking blank. Akihiro is for once clearly drunk as he ambles out onto the balcony, a bottle of bottom shelf liquor cluched in his right hand. He's dressed in a much lower tax bracket, a simple brown leather jacket thrown over a white tee, a pair of ragged blue jeans, and scuffed black boots.There's a black expression on his face as he sways his way out towards the edge to peer out at the city. After a few moments he turns around to face Ryan and takes another gulp of the foul liquid before offering a simple, "How ya holding up?" Ryan twists in his seat. His eyes drift over Akihiro, slowly squinting up before recognition clears up his frown. He gestures to the couch beside him in invitation. Undoubtedly he heard the question, his augmented hearing is no secret at all, but is he answering it? Pfft. He is offering, "You want a better drink than that?", waving his glass in the direction of Akihiro's bottle. There's a flush of buzz that spills over with his words, layering this empathic warmth on top of the inebriation Akihiro is already feeling. "Could have them send you up -- something. Something better. After a month and a half in hell you should -- fffuck. S'on me." Akihiro stumbles over and takes a seat on the couch, careful not to plop down too hard. "S'wasted on me." he replies with a wave of his hand. "Appreciate you though." There's another moment of silence before he adds unprompted, "A month and a half is nothing. Was a soldier for three decades. Damn good one, even if I didn't have a choice." He flexes his left forearm muscles, almost like he's about to pop his claws. "Wacky races would've almost been a vacation if it weren't for my friends dying." "Still got tastebuds, don't you? Feel like if you have to drink ten times as much the quality's even more important." Ryan slumps back in the seat. His eyes linger on Akihiro's forearm, then pull away. "You aren't a soldier now. Neither is Jax. Or B. Neither was Shane." He pushes out a breath slow and hard, and lifts his glass for a long gulp. "Still a month and a half too long." "I'll always be a soldier, but one day I won't have to fight anymore." Akihiro tilts the bottle upwards and drains the rest of the liquid before setting the empty glass down. "Honestly I've gotten a taste for it now. Still appreciate a good bottle every so often, I just don't like spending the money. Don't exactly have a real job. Hell, legally I'm dead." He seems to catch himself and shuts up before he overshares anymore. "They aren't, and shouldn't of been in that situation. Jax shouldn't of ever had to take on the roles he has. Shane and B shouldn't of had to suffer. I shouldn't of had this metal grafted to my skeleton, but the world isn't kind, and people are terrified of the unknown." "Yeah? What day's that?" Ryan's brows have arched, a bitter exhaustion in his voice. "... don't see no army with you. Getting war dropped on you over and over don't make a soldier. Soldiers are fighting for someone else's bullshit. Think our people just fight to survive. Feel like that fight's only over one way, more often than not." "Probably long after I've outlived everyone." Akihiro doesn't seem to believe this either. "I am the army. Or rather... I guess I was." He looks torwards Ryan and slow blinks at him, "The fuck am I supposed to do against a drone strike? Nothing. Used to be they'd at least need to send somebody out to hunt us." He snorts and tilts his head back to look at the ceiling. "The longer this drags out the worse it's going to be for us." "You're supposed to sit back and watch people die. S'what they're for. Build deadlier and deadlier weapons and still pretend we're the ones..." Ryan is trailing off, his train of thought a little derailed, whether by grief or the additional alcohol he is drinking. One of the bartenders is returning -- this time with an entire bottle of W.L. Weller bourbon, which Ryan once again tips heavily for. He holds the bottle out to Akihiro. "'less you got a plan for taking on all the flatscans in all the world, think it's gonna drag out." Akihiro takes the bottle, a small smile creeping across his face despite his sour mood, "You sneaky sunnuva bitch." He traces his thumb across the label, thinking on Ryans words. "It's an almost impossible fight. Do we cut the snakes' heads off, or do we roll over and take it while trying to convince them we're not a threat? Seem's like there's almost no winning, always a bigger bigot to deal with." "What I heard, you not the most roll-over-and-take-it kinda guy. Shit, not sure my -- Jax'n'em -- even know how. Guess that leaves the other option." As he speaks Ryan is slouching lower, and has to pull himself back up with an effort, gripping the arm of the couch as he does. His eyes cut to the side, a smile pulling small at his mouth. "Sneaky," he's echoing, as though this amuses him, "well. You know how them mutants are." | |
