ArchivedLogs:Joining the Family

Joining the Family
Dramatis Personae Toru, Regan
In Absentia	2013-06-15 Toru finally makes contact with the Brotherhood.
Location <NYC> Brotherhood HOUSE - Lower East Side
Tucked away off a little-used side street in the Lower East Side, sandwiched between a youth drop-in center and a taqueria, this narrow three-story townhouse has very little to catch the eye. Boarded-up windows, a door peeling its paint, shabby grubby brickface; from the outside it does not look like much. Inside someone has gone to great lengths to renovate the building into something more habitable. It isn't glamorous but it is comfortable, old furniture dragged in, the place generally swept clean. The first floor holds a large living room, a smaller dining room, a spacious kitchen, a half-bathroom. There are three bedrooms and a full bathroom on the second floor; the attic is just a large empty space crammed full of boxes with a window out to the large flat roof. The basement, much like the attic, consists of a lot of empty space. A bare concrete floor, no windows, occasional poles running up to the ceiling. A tiny half-bathroom down here, too. Not a whole lot else. Given his relative lack of actual credentials within the organization, Toru is not the most familiar face around the Brotherhood house. Still on occasion he'll steal himself away there, often for want of anything better to do, but generally there isn't anyone else to be seen, with other members either operating on a separate time table or just not existing in the first place. Still, given recent events, he's decided now might be a good time to put in an appearance, maybe find himself another contact after his previous one's disappearance. Today, he's upside-down on a couch in the living room, his back on the seat, his legs hooked over the back, reading a very thick book with yellow pages that almost looks... like a phonebook? Though the cover is written in Japanese, and covered in pictures of comic characters. Other members are often hard to pin down, scattered throughout the city -- their own houses, other safehouses -- or perhaps actually tucked away ensconced in the Brotherhood's proper complex outside the city. But today, one is making an appearance. Through the front door, even! Keys thunk in the locks, the door swings open. Regan is kind of businesslike today; grey slacks and a pink button-down blouse; the heels of her strappy black sandals click against the floor. She stops in the doorway to the living room, blue eyes sweeping over the room. Her head turns slowly to one side, then keeps turning. Almost upside down! Attempting to look at Toru right-way-up. By the time Regan gets to the living room, Toru has already set his book on the floor ... 'above' his head, hands planted on the ground so that he can make a /swift escape/ if need be. But when he sees who's there, well, his face is suddenly plastered with a big grin. "Cafe chica!" He thusly pulls his legs forward, over his head, so that he can tumble upright. It.. is not a very graceful maneuver. Muffled curses might be involved as he thumps to the floor, awkwardly pulling himself into a slightly more visible pile. His hair is thus rather dissheveled by the entire performance, and he pulls his t-shirt - today's is beige, illustrated with a donkey carring taco saddlebags and labelled 'burrito' - down a bit to be more orderly. Jeans and Union Jack Chuck Taylors complete his significantly more casual outfit. In a poor attempt to look smooth, he crosses his legs, leaning against the couch and folding his arms behind his head. "Gotta say I'm not used to ladies beign so persistent in hunting me down, yeah?" For some reason, the accent he's affecting is vaguely reminiscent of Cheech Marin. Regan's head turns back upright through these maneuvers. A small smile tugs at her lips, soon to fade. "Hunting you down." It sounds a trace puzzled until she places: "Right. The brick." She doesn't enter any further; her eyes sweep over Toru a moment, then shift to his book instead. "I haven't seen you before. What are you doing here?" Toru raises his eyebrows. And looks just a little /hurt/ that it takes so long for Regan to remember him. Just a little. "The brick, yeah." And abruptly, he drops the Cheech accent; his natural voice has a touch of Bronx to it. "I could ask you the same thing, y'know. And say.. the same thing. That I haven't seen you. Before." He pauses, frowns. "...Things are getting shitty so I'm digging myself a hole. What're /you/ doin' here?" "You could ask me the same thing. But this is my house, so I think you owe me the courtesy of an answer first." The smile returns when Toru's accent shifts, amusement in her eyes. Regan's bag -- a large black and pink purse -- slips from her shoulder, down to the crook of her arm. "Shitty. Oh, I think that's an understatement. Do you have a name?" /That/ gets Toru's attention; he pushes himself up to his feet and all but rushes Regan, smoothing his hair down as he strides over. "Fucking /finally/, you have any idea how long I've been lookin' for somebody to-- /jeez/. Y'all are hard to get ahold of, I finally met a dude and he like, got the hell outta Dodge after doin' some shit and-- fuckin'-- name. Right." He sticks his hand out. "Skel." "What dude?" Regan's eyebrows hike upwards. She stays where she is, watching Toru approach, but does lift a hand to shake his. "Have you been /trying/ to get a hold of us?" The handshake is held a moment longer than necessary as she looks the teenager over. "It tends to be difficult for a reason. Were you just here to --" There is a brief hitch of hesitation as she looks from Toru to the book again. "-- get away from the troubles in the city? Or --?" Toru takes a step back, shaking his head a few times. "No, no, no, sorry I'm like." He lifts his hands in an apologetic gesture. "Little excited, yeah? So no, yeah, I been tryin' to get in with you guys on accounta I'm into what you're doin', y'know? I mean I'm not like /hidin'/ or anythin' like that I'm just kinda-- I ain't an idiot, I don't know what I should be /doin'/." There's a weak shrug there. "I was tight with that guy who shot up Doctor Doom, but he pretty much cut out right after all that, not that I blame him." "Ah!" This at least earns a small nod from Regan, something relaxing just a hair in her bearing. "Yes, it seemed a prudent time for him to be out of town. Have you been staying here?" She gestures around the house. "Do you /have/ a place to stay? In times like these --" She moves into the room, now, finally, moving over to settle down in an armchair, setting the purse at her feet. As she talks, telepathy reaches out -- it's a quiet probing, pressing at Toru's mind to try and ascertain his motivations. Regan is not in a business inclined to taking people at their word. "-- the first thing to be doing is staying alive. You've managed that so far, at least. It's a good initial step." Toru runs a hand over his hair, shaking his head again. "Yeah I got a place, it's uh.. shit's a little complicated right now, I'm lookin' for a new one but I'm good." {Fucking /cops/,} echoes loud and clear in his head as he says that. He then flops back down onto the couch he'd been sitting on, crossing one leg over the other. As far as this conversation goes, Toru has been entirely honest! There are plenty of other branches of thought that venture into more adults-only territory, though. He may be a bit deluded. "Pretty much I just been comin' 'round here to try and get in with someone /else/ now that he's gone." {Probably shouldn't name names, that's like, bad guy 101 yeah?} Regan's lips twitch, her telepathic probing withdrawing as she sinks back into the armchair. She crosses one leg over the other, as well, watching Toru with a touch of amusement. "That was a while back. It wasn't just recent events, then, that brought you seeking -- someone /else/?" Her elbow props on an arm of the chair, chin resting in her palm. "What is it you do? Work? Skills?" Rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, Toru sort of looks off to the side a moment. /Evasively/. "I, uh." And there's a hopeful smile there. "I deliver Chinese food? I'm kinda-- I'm a bike messenger. Just-- Chinese is one of the better gigs 'cause they don't really care about your papers and shit and I don't like throwin' mine around, but I do like.. parcels and shit sometimes in summer. And I can turn my skin into bone, that's why Skel. 'Cause. Skeleton. Some double meaning shit, yeah?" He pauses. "And I speak Japanese on accounta I'm Japanese." "Skel. Eeton. Yes," Regan's small smile remains, "I see. Turn your skin into bone, that must be useful. And a bike messenger -- must know ways around the city fairly well, hmm?" Her eyebrows raise in questioning. "With everything going on right now, I think we'll be able to use that." She exhales, her eyes slipping partway closed. "The city is tearing itself apart. I wasn't joking about staying alive being priority one. For everyone like us. We've been sending out patrols -- the police," she grimaces with this word, "are unsurprisingly not lifting a finger to help mutants who are being attacked in the streets. So we're stepping in where we can." "The police," Toru notes, "are a bunch of dick-asses, and I could give two shits what the fuck they're doing." His words are a bit clipped, and as he speaks he drops his arms, folding them across his chest, and looks just slightly away. Apparently, not a very pleasant subject. He's actually silent for a moment, but gradually does remember that other things were mentioned, though his good mood is a bit deflated now. "Yeah, I know my way around. Mostly like this part'a the island, some of upper Manhattan, I don't got a driver's license so I pretty much bike or do transit or whatever. The bone thing actually ain't that useful, it's fine in a fist fight but it don't stop bullets or nothin'." "You won't get any argument from me on that," Regan shakes her head, holding one hand up placatingly on the subject of police. "I'm just saying, someone has to protect our own. Because the humans certainly aren't doing it. How handy /are/ you in a fistfight?" Toru gestures to himself. "I ain't a big guy. I'll pretty much win against a flat who's my size or a little bigger," he uses his hands to demonstrate the concept of /size/, "but if I ain't outmatched and the other guy doesn't have a gun I'm not gonna run off, yeah?" Regan's fingers drum against her cheek as she considers this. "Stick around," she tells Toru, "there'll be plenty of opportunity for practice around here the next few weeks. We're running a little, ah, boxing practice down in the basement. Let our folks sharpen up in a safe environment. If you're looking to start helping out, I'll put you out on patrols, nighttimes. Step in," one curling fist demonstrates exactly what kind of intervention, "if you see one of us put in a bad spot. It's getting ridiculous out there." Toru pinches the bridge of his nose. "Lady, I just got /outta/ a fight club, I ain't really lookin' into doin' anything organized. I'm more of a 'hangin' outside bars waitin' for drunk assholes' kinda guy. They go down easier anyway." One may infer from this that he isn't the most /sportsmanlike/. "But yeah like, that's the kinda thing I wanna do. Patrollin' and shit, whatever, you just say the word and I'm there." "You were part of that." Regan's lips compress, her tone more cataloguing than pitying. She doesn't comment further on the fight club business, though, just leans down to pick her bag up and set it in the seat next to her. "Good. We're sending people out every day. For every one of us they send to the hospital, we'll send three. What are you doing tonight?" "Nothin', now." Toru cracks his first grin in a while, and arms are once again folded behind his head. "I can call out, I'm expendable-like." He uncrosses his legs, re-crossing them the other way around, and nods vaguely. "And yeah, I was part of that. Along with a ton of fucking /pigs/ so maybe you can see why I pretty much count them as fuggin... whatever you wanna call it, enemy combatants or whatever." "Mmm. Yes. Though I wouldn't recommend tussling with them in the /streets/. There'll be other opportunities to --" Now it's Regan's turn to smile; she turns hers up towards the ceiling, bright and broad but soon to fade. "Well. Those police have earned their own special form of hell." Regan slips her bag back onto her shoulder. "Be here tonight. Nine. We'll set you up with a partner and tell you which neighborhood to keep an eye on. Possible there won't be any trouble but --" Her smile cuts thinner, sharper. "I'd plan for a fair bit of it." Standing up, Toru brushes himself off, leaning down to pick up his book. Fishing behind the couch, he also retrieves a messenger bag, and the book is shoved in there without much regard for its condition. "Tonight at nine." And his accent gradually slips back into the terrible, fake Mexican one he'd affected before. "You want my number or anythin', bijin?" Regardless of the answer, he's already pulling a scrap of paper - an old takeout receipt - from one of his pockets, scribbling some digits on it, and holds it out towards Regan. "You want me, you gimme a call, yeah?" Regan stands as well, accepting the receipt with a small nod. "Thank you." She tucks the paper into her bag. "Nine, then." Her heels click staccato-crisp against the wooden floor as she heads away, disappearing not back out into the city but down the stairs to the basement, shutting the door behind her.