ArchivedLogs:Half a Shot of Sunday Afternoon, Half a Shot of Excellent New Style, One Percent of Chaos, Serve Chilled
| Half a Shot of Sunday Afternoon, Half a Shot of Excellent New Style, One Percent of Chaos, Serve Chilled | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 2017-08-13 "If Lunachick bringing the crazy, first round of drinks on me." |
| Location
<NYC> Prospect Park - Brooklyn | |
Adjoining the famed Brooklyn Botanical Gardens, much of this gigantic park is woodland threaded by winding paths and artificial waterways, dotted with fields and ponds. Popular attractions include the skating rink at its southeastern entrance, beautiful ravine at its very heart, and even a small zoo. It's a bright, clear evening, and the Nazis are in full, ruinous retreat. A group of 20 or 30 had arrived at the lakeside community center , apparently attempting to regroup after their expulsion from the Grand Army Plaza, but now they have broken rank again, abandoning singed banners and broken flagpoles. Most are fleeing back towards the street and the safety of the police there, but some are running deeper into the park. One or two are still screaming as they disappear among the trees. Scramble is snapping the unnecessarily hefty stick of a picket sign ("ANTI-ANTIFA" it reads in bold black text) over her knee and throwing it in a trash can. She wears a black a-shirt, black cargo pants, and ancient, well-worn black Doc Martens with red laces, black fingerless gloves, and a red bandana covering (most of) her hair. Looking around at the scattering demonstrators, she smiles. Nods. "Aight, wanna go find some more fash to bash?" Nearby, Natalie has confiscated a flag nominally patterned after the U.S. flag, though it bears a swastika on the blue field in place of the fifty stars. Until quite recently the flag /was/ wrapped around the neck of one of the (now-fleeing) Proud Boys. She is wearing olive drab cargo pants with her combat boots, black sports bra visible beneath her ribbed red tank top, a silver Magen David hanging from a slender chain around her neck. Her lip curls in disgust as the neonazis flee, and she cumples the flag, tossing it over to Ion and rolling her shoulders. "They're not going to bash themselves." Ion snatches the flag out of the air, pressing it tighter into a ball. There's a crackling within his hands, a burning plasticky smell as it doesn't really ignite the flag so much as melt it into a hardened lump of char. He's in jeans, steel-toed boots, his Mongrels cut on over a red tee reading "¡No Pasarán!" in bold black text. "{Hey sister girl could probably make them, huh? We just bring the popcorn.}" He shoots the melted flag toward the trash can -- misses, glares at it like it's betrayed him. Leaving it right where it fell (it's the thought that counts, right?) he starts wandering down a path back toward the street, where his black and silver chopper has been left haphazardly parked. "But I never gonna say no to giving them a hand neither." "Can't /make/ them, but I can encourage them to bash themselves..." Scramble is grinning maniacally as she fall into step beside Ion. "Or anyone in reach, which is even better if you got a good tight knot of them. But watching y'all fight is fucking beautiful. You know this -- this is the way to spend a Sunday afternoon." She slings one long arm over Ion's shoulders and stretches out the other arm for Nat. "{Cruising around the City, beating down Nazis.}" Her bike, a shiny new (to her) black Suzuki SV650, is parked next to Ion's. Natalie steps on the melted flag in passing, but does pick it up and chunk it in the trash where it belongs. She leans herself in under Scramble's arm, a perk to her step, now. Her bike is slotted alongside the others, a red Stark electric model that's had a lot of custom work put in to it. "{You're not wrong. But a nice cold beer and some Nazis going Fight Club on themselves would be an entertaining evening.}" She leans just a little bit harder against Scramble, then peels away, unclipping her keys from a carabiner on her belt. "Yo if Lunachick bringing the crazy, first round of drinks on me." Ion leans up against his bike, fingers dancing lightly over the top of one of his hard panniers. "But we gonna keep getting our beatdown on, maybe I help you do it in some more style, huh?" Bright and eager, his eyes are darting between his Sisters -- though he can't actually contain himself long enough to wait for response. Bouncing slightly on his toes, he unlocks the pannier, pulling out two heavy folded leather vests and tossing one to each woman. Scramble laughs, bright and happy. "You've convinced me. Next gaggle we find, Imma drive 'em nuts. So..." Snapping her fingers decisively at Ion, "You're on." She digs out her own keys, which are attached to a bottle opener and a pewter charm of a cracked hand mirror, and then stops short to catch the flying bundle. "Right /on!/" She cracks a huge smile as she unfolds the kutte, breathing in the new leather smell. It features a 1%er patch over the right breast and a MMNY patch over a rank badge reading 'PACK MEMBER' on the left, while on the back a large fanged and horned skull has hypnotic swirling eyes and small brightly colored birds circling it. "Now /this/ some fine Nazi-beating gear!" Natalie's eyes widen. Her smile -- sharp, quick -- soon follows. "/Hell/ yeah." Snatching it out of the air, she shakes out her cut, turning it one way and then the other -- its front patches match Scramble's, though her horned-and-fanged skull-and-crossbones comes with a slightly askew halo perched over it. She shrugs into it quickly, running her hands down over the smooth leather. "Now we're dressed for a party." The smile remains as she hops up onto her bike. "Let's ride." | |
