Logs:Homegoing/Homecoming
| Homegoing/Homecoming | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia | 2024-10-19 Not so hard to not fuck up. Stay alive. |
| Location
<NYC> Hellhound Bikes - The Hole | |
Located not far from Jamaica Bay in a predominantly Latinx sector of East New York, this garage doesn't look like much from the outside. A low-slung squat dingy brick building with a hand-painted sign over front proclaiming it to be HELLHOUND CUSTOM CYCLES, this garage has a small office area with its own pedestrian entrance from the street at the front, containing a minifridge usually full of beer and beaten down old desk with a ledger and an antique cash register that no one ever seems to use. The rest of the space is roughly L-shaped, its walls lined with racks of tools and heavy workbenches with built-in steel drawers full of hardware and spare parts. There's a raised platform in the wider leg of the space for working on one motorcycle, and there's space in the narrower leg for parking at least three more. The garage's entrance has been filling up with gifts since the return of the missing Mongrels (minus one) -- flowers and stuffed toys and baskets of food, a lot of children's drawings and cards, several handmade trinkets. The driveway and sidewalk in front of the space is bright with sidewalk-chalked messages of warmth and remembrance; at the moment a pair of young siblings are filling in the many teeth of a large shark with wings and a halo that they have drawn stretching halfway across the street. The garage itself is quiet, more or less. There's been a lot of noise all morning but the clang and buzz of tools has faded off. There's a small sleek bike on the workstand in the center of the garage. It's been quite recently refitted from the small sharkpup who used to ride it as a teenager, customized instead to better fit the limbs and proportions of a young vampgoyle. Ion is standing back, now, wiping grease-stained hand on a grease-stained rag as he studies their handiwork critically. "{This the first bike I fix up for Shane,}" he's telling Egg. "{Think he be glad she get more use. How she feel. Good size?}" In the intervening days since their return from Mojoverse, Egg has acclimatized well--insofar as a dimension-hopping adolescent mutant from an alternate universe can. That is to say: with a lot of grit and buried emotion; the resilience and plasticity of youth; and sheer force of will they assume a complacent sort of 'normalcy' in life with Ion. Towards whom they are thoroughly imprinted, as a sulking, winged, monstrous gray shadow. Somehow, they acquired a tablet. It might be vaguely crystalline, slightly alien, and be attached by a lanyard to hang from their neck when not in use. Most importantly, it's functionally connected to the internet, and the pale blue-light white of the screen illumines their pallid face, bright green eyes tracking the movement of a video as their taloned thumb scrolls through the feed that keeps them entertained, wings draped cowl-like with the spars clasped about the hollow of their throat, and slumped against the wall while Ion tinkers away. Waiting until the end of their current clip, large ear tips incline forward, pinpointing Ion while their gaze follows. Now quite intrigued at the prospect of gaining another worldly possession, they scamper forward, feet click-clacking across the cement floor of the garage to conduct a thorough inspection. Circumscription completed, with a finger gliding down the length of a polished handlebar, 'It goes fast?' appears to be the most pressing of concerns. Gratitude follows in quieter though no less evident a fashion, canines bared in an excited, vampoyle grin. 'Yeah,' Ion's signing in return, bright and confident, 'will go fast.' He's speaking aloud after this: "{Needa gas her up. Check some last few things. She gonna fly, though.}" He's polishing the end of his hook and then slinging the grungy rag casually over one shoulder, his plain white undershirt already also so stained that the oil on the rag can hardly make it any worse. 'Tomorrow we gonna have a whole procession. Go up Shane's old school for a memorial service, give him proper biker sendoff after that.' There's just a little bit of hesitation in him after this, only noticeable in its contrast to his usual decisive energy. 'His old school up there's a whole. Place for freak kids. Learn all the --' His brow furrows here like he's just realized he's not entirely sure and comes up somewhat uncertainly with: '... book,' as if this can in itself encompass an entire prep school curriculum. 'Fly?' Without an eyebrow to lift, a flaring of the nose-leaf and upticked orbital ridge suffices to infuse disbelief into Egg's query, wings rustling as they pantomime a bird flapping with their hands. Digitigrade legs hunker down, weight applied as they sink into place, stance grounded to really allow eye-level vantage of the bike, probing curiously for alien technology. Contemplative, staring, an intense focus and introspection arrests their attention, broken with a crane of their neck and looking over at Ion. 'Is it too much to do a sendoff for Dad too? A last fly seems proper.' It is perhaps the most mundane moment for reflection and grief to broach the topic of their orphanage in a long while, expression gone solemn. And then there is mention of book, and they are gripping and upholding their tablet, signing with their free hand, self-assured in their logic, 'This is lots of books.' "Okay, not that way fly, just fast-fly -- though that other shark, she could fix-up in the air for you if you want. {Probably you fly better than the bike ever can, though.}" Ion is confident about this assertion, too, firm faith that Egg's winged prowess outstrips any fancy hoverbike technology. He bobs his head, one and then twice in a nod. 'Yeah. Yeah, we can say bye however feel right to you.' He sucks his cheek against his teeth, head shaking when Egg holds the tablet up. "Yeah, yeah, I mean, I know them things can show plenty. I just -- the school it gonna have all kind of shit we can't give you in no compound, they got whole big workshop for build all kinds things, they got them fancy science..." He's frowning here though, and, given exactly where their Secret Terrorist Base has been located shifts away from this as maybe a poor example. Instead he's seizing again on: 'And other mutant kids! I'm not saying you gotta go, you always gonna have a home with me whether you want to go to school or not. Always. I just -- think maybe it be nice to make friends somewhere that isn't shooting at you.' Briefly crestfallen, but enthusiasm for the bike no less diminished, Egg nods, prideful and in agreement. 'I do fly very fast. A bike will be more fun though, there are not as many obstacles in the air.' Approaching the back from behind to peer over its dashboard and sleek design, projecting to a future road ahead, they nod, self-satisfied. 'A shark and a bat with one stone.' And that settles it for the young hematophage. Unconvinced as to the appeal of formal schooling, they are less sold on the topic of attendance to one. 'The world is like my school. It's scarier. You learn by doing. Fix bikes. Make hovercrafts. Science-y friends,' comes the initial counter, bristling with rebellion. The tone of acquiescence and the assertion of self-selection calms them, some. 'Okay. There are not a lot of other kids here.' Carefully weighing this, a heavier notion looms, implicit with a delicate resignation. Somehow, the topic of fathers is relevant again. 'Dad would want me to go...' elides into a revelation and designation of, 'You want me to go,' and in quicker succession, 'You are home now.' "The world gonna keep teaching you plenty." There's a bit of a grim edge in this declaration, a whether we want it or not kind of undertone maybe made all the grimmer by their so-very-recent return from a very hands-on lesson in Interdimensional Geography. "Maybe tomorrow you look around. Talk some the teacher. See how you feeling. And if you fucking hate it, you don't gotta stay, okay?" Ion's expression is solemn as he adds, firm: 'Promise.' His breath catches at Egg's final words, and his hand drops between Egg's horns to pull their head closer and press a kiss to the top of their head. "Your dad he trust me to give you a home. I don't want to fuck up." 'The bike comes with me. Non-negotiable.' This, Egg insists, humorous bearing intentional, empathetic, to lighten the somber turn in conversation. Admiring the fine construction of the bike once again, they lean every-so-slightly against it, emphasizing their possession of it. 'I keep an open mind. As long as you visit. And I get to come home often.' So simple an acceptance--an adaptation, to the fate allotted them, straightening out their legs to push up into the embrace Ion offers. 'Not so hard to not fuck up. Stay alive.' "Someone try take her from you I might fucking bite 'em." Ion is back to cheer, here, bright and fierce and toothy with an intensity that the past six weeks has sharpened rather than dimmed. "Damn, that all it take? I acing this shit. And people say kids is hard." 'Quite simple, really,' Egg assures Ion, before breaking contact to step aside and start inputting a search query into their tablet. 'We order takeout again, what you want?' Dinner occupies the mind now, as they pace back towards the office. Although it doubtless goes without saying--blood might be their mainstay, but the social observation of mealtime and the exploration of flavors in the culinary mecca of NYC offers a fun pastime--at their pseudo-paren'ts literal expense. And just like that: the momentum of life carries them forth once more with the current. | |
