Logs:Not a Disaster
| Not a Disaster | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia | 2024-10-22 "I feel like again your calculations are a little off." |
| Location
<NYC> Topside - Williamsburg - Brooklyn | |
This rooftop bar is probably the strongest out of the cluster of disparate venues which, outside of being physically located in the same building, are united primarily by their nautical theme. It is reasonably accurate to describe it as a faux pirate dive, fancifully furnished like the deck of a Hollywood galleon, with fancy cocktails and jumped-up bar snacks named accordingly. None of those are particularly memorable on a strip lousy with ironically kitschy businesses, but the nightly live music is usually excellent, featuring mostly local indy performers ranging postmodern string quartets to a cappella sea shanty ensembles. There is no view of the water, not even from the semi-private "bridge" half a level above the common rabble, but there is an ongoing semi-official over-under bet on how much longer the place will stay afloat. It would be an absolutely glorious evening to be on the water, the sunset brilliant over the buildings and the weather mild and clear. It's a decent enough evening to be pretending to be on the water, too, and this rooftop is quite packed -- has gotten a lot more packed since Ryan showed up here some time ago and, very much against his longsuffering bodyguard's wishes, posted about the show. He's in a black button-down with a large floral pattern embroidered in slightly deeper black over one shoulder and one side of the chest, skirt draped in asymmetrical layers of black and silvery-grey, chunky boots whose heavy silver hardware neatly integrates with that of his leg braces. His companion -- a tall muscular woman with crimson fur and goat hooved digitigrade legs and wickedly sharp claws -- has been dissuading a bulk of selfie-seekers, largely by sheer dint of her presence but occasionally with a cheery flash of sharp fangs as well, and they've enjoyed mediocre snacks and a lively and excellent set from the klezm-ish band that's been playing. His dinner partner is taking her leave as the band does, though Ryan is lingering for dessert and for the next group. It's maybe a decision he's quick to regret because he's been alone at the table all of ten seconds when a trio of young women with a lot of enthusiasm and no sense whatsoever of personal space are descending upon him, crowding close around his wheelchair with a flurry of gushing. His fluid transformation from slightly-wilted to bright smile and bright warmth, thankfully, happens with a practiced ease that takes much quicker than ten seconds. Let's call it twenty seconds, then, before an immense winged shadow is divebombing this small cluster of fanning, the whoosh of air and (absolutely gleeful, Ryan can clock) fierce hawklike screeching sending these particular autograph-seekers scattering back. Horus has landed on the back of an empty chair hard enough to send it toppling. Indignant, he pulls right back away from its clatter to set himself, with a huff and a ruffle and even less respect for personal space, on the arm of Ryan's chair. He's ignoring the startled fans and staring hard in the direction that Ryan's companion just departed, a shamelessly accusatory curiosity in his next sharp squawk. Even with the brief advanced notice Ryan's startled jump is not altogether feigned. His profuse apology to the interrupted fans likely is; certainly he's making no effort to shoo the giant bird, just waiting for them to nervously take themselves back to their own table. "Mind your own business is who she is." He sounds amiable enough about this, and pulls his plate of also not-very-good apple cinnamon donut holes closer to Horus. At least the berries they come with are sweet. "Come down give me a heart attack and then casting aspersions." Once he has patted his hair and shirt back into place his own ruffled feathers seem smoothed enough that he relents as far as: "You know anyone outta Euler? She's just got into town, looking for a job but some friends wouldn't hurt either, probably." Horus's small acknowledging chirrup sounds mollified and disappointed all at once. He's lost interest immediately in the question of Ryan's Companion with this entirely non-prurient answer and is, instead, pecking at a large strawberry messily. He chirps a little distracted and a lot perfunctory, but is relenting to reconsider with a sudden sharp spike of grief that accompanies a fiercer more violent stab at the plate. The mangled half-eaten strawberry goes sliding off the dish. "Yeah." Ryan sounds flatter, here. He reflexively reaches for the berry when it falls and also reflexively drops it sharply to the floor at the first unpleasantly mooshy-wet slap against his fingers. His shoulders droop as he plucks up his napkin and tips a small splash of water against it, wiping his fingers thoroughly. "Yeah." He's looking off, a little blank, in the direction of the stage where the next group is setting up. "... you don't happen to want to run a cafe, do you?" Pfft. Is that even a question? Horus's bright twitter is immediate and eager, thoughts of grief not so much displaced as sharpening his bold confidence. He hops up onto the table properly so that he can pull himself up tall and striking. For a second, anyway; the pose didn't last, there are berries to continue munching. "That was not a serious --" Ryan pauses, amends. "Not a very serious offer. 'sides you got school to think on now, I don't want to distract from your -- howzat going, anyway? Heard a lot on Sunday that..." Though there's a worry briefly creasing his forehead, he doesn't elaborate here. Horus is still demolishing Ryan's berries, small lumps of pink and blue mush starting to accumulate on the sharp tip of his beak. He pauses long enough to croon soft and reassuring in Ryan's direction, then tears into a donut hole. A few small nibbles and he's dropping the rest of it in dissatisfaction, plucking up another blueberry instead. "Feel like you'd be tryna play it cool even if things were an unmitigated disaster, though." Ryan's grumbling here is, nevertheless, a little proud. "School can just be a big adjustment, yeah? And some of what I was overhearing -- just sounds like maybe some of the teachers might not always know what's best for kids like you. I don't want to be -- missing it if there's someone I gotta nag over there." Horus's grumble is more straightforwardly grumbly. He swallows his berries, dipping his head to wipe his beak against Ryan's damp napkin. Then, with a performative huffiness at this inconvenience, he is taking off. Only to return, a few minutes later (are there new fans need chasing? He will chase them with VIGOR) with his tablet now strapped to his chest and a deep red bowler hat on his head, banded in ornate braided gold and black cord. As he settles back on the table he unlatches the tablet to play the message he's already written out, a longsuffering patience behind the deep voice: Too much worry too too much no faith no faith at all all all. I am not a disaster classes are going great great great some of us are very very smart birds very good at school There are more, but they are not bold enough to stand up to a giant hat-wearing bird of prey and Ryan is certainly not encouraging them to stay. By now the next band has started. Not quite as interesting as the first, despite the many many hipster adjectives they've used to describe their genre, but he's listening with thoughtful interest to them all the same until he transfers that interest to Horus. "Yeah," he allows freely, "If I ever was any good at school I would probably have gone into a much different line of work." He shrugs, looking down at his plate to examine the current state if the berries. After a consideration he opts not to try eating any. "I'm not so fussed about your grades, you're way brighter than I'll ever be. I just -- you getting along okay? Making any friends?" Horus's talons click against the table uncomfortably. He takes an unnecessarily long time to grind his blackberry into mush and swallow it. I'm not at school to make friends Like the click of his claws this, too, has an uncomfortable undertone. I'm doing good good good photography is good I'm trying chemistry too very exciting very very exciting although probably now boring boring boring with the regular teacher back "You even met him yet? Could be as much fun as your sub, you don't know." A quiet concern has slipped into Ryan's voice. His mouth twists to one side, and the music dampens around them. "Friends is kinda most of what I was hoping for. They aren't treating you bad, are they?" Wrong so wrong so so wrong I know know know she won't be Here, at least, the discomfort is melting into amusement. The amusement continues on through Horus's next message. They're fine fine fine very fine very okay. Very okay. The friends I have already are better better better than okay. I don't need annoying okay-friends I have you I have Joshua I have a thousand birds Horus's restless shifting continues until his quick pivot: You know it's not not not convincing telling me if I drop out of school I can become number one world famous superstar ryan black I'm very very close very close now to dropping out right now and becoming you "She," Ryan's correcting, automatic and a little sheepish. "And I don't really think there's a -- one-to-one correlation exactly with dropping out of school and becoming literally me but I'll support you in your dreams. Won't be able to support you after you achieve 'em on account of you taking my job and all." He picks up his water, taking a small sip and sucking up a cube of ice to crunch on. "I bet there's lots of interesting kids at your school if you gave em half a chance. How are you even gonna find out, with that attitude? What have you ever learned by assuming you already know?" Horus is replying here with a quickness, brighly smug: How do you know you failed math The cockiness doesn't entirely deflate, then, but he is setting down his stylus in order to preen slowly at his chest feathers, a careful and none too subtle stalling as he gives Ryan's words a far heftier consideration than he wants to let on. There's still a noticeable reluctance, in the quiet whispering shift of his feathers, the soft taptap of his talons. Eventually he picks up his stylus again, and while he can't quite bring himself to own that he is anything less than brilliant on the matter of Navigating New Situations he does admit, grudgingly, Spence is not always boring Ryan's laughter spills a muted warmth over Horus. "See? That's one. The only one you really know well. My math does kinda suck but I feel like if you extrapolate a little --" I will not absolutely not NO extrapolating. On this matter, Horus is firm. I need to stay bad bad bad at math if I'm going to take over being Ryan Black. "I feel like again your calculations are a little off." Ryan's head shakes, knuckles scuffing against his cheek. "But what do I know, I failed math." | |
