ArchivedLogs:A Measure of Soon To Be Former Homelessness, A Splash Of Color, Garnish With Wary Anticipation
|A Measure of Soon To Be Former Homelessness, A Splash Of Color, Garnish With Wary Anticipation|
"It's just. It's full of /humans/."
<NYC> Sunyata - Bronx
The construction of this squat office building in Port Morris ground to a halt over a year ago. Since, a group of punks have taken it over and converted it to one of the more impressive squats in the city. From outside, the building is wildly colorful, covered with massive interlocking murals. The roof supports a thriving urban farm with a sizeable greenhouse and beehives, while the offices below are homes to both long- and short-term residents, who are encouraged but not actually required to contribute supplies, income, and labor to the community. The cavernous lobby has no glass, but has become a partially indoor skate park/playground, including a rather popular free-running circuit. Dogs and cats and children wander the grounds, shamelessly soliciting food and attention from any who will give it.
The thrum of B's bike is quiet, today, its sleek small body not /quite/ as flashy as usual with its Tronlike lights not currently illuminated. Still, gleaming silver paintjob and unusual finned shape and bright toothy sharklike grin that is painted onto its front render it still eyecatching /enough/, as it veers through the streets of the south Bronx, pulling up in front of the brightly painted walls of the would-be office building.
The rider on the bike is brightly dressed, too, silver jacket and lacy black-on-purple skirt and skull-patterned silver and black thigh-high stockings and heavy stompy metal boots; hir helmet, at least, has its silhouetted lights lit up until ze removes it from hir head. "Well." Hir nose is twitching thoughtfully. "It's got good art, at least." Ze sounds juuust a touch skeptical as ze eyes the building.
Behind B, Scramble hops off the bike deftly before pulling off her helmet. "Thanks for the ride, sister." She removes the stretchy satin cap from her head, leaving her magnificent afro kind of /smooshed/ but reasonably neat in its wild and untamed glory. Her black asymmetrical jacket is zipped shut beneath a black circle scarf with flecks of gold, and her tight black jeans lace up the sides with glittery gold laces. She's carrying a large black backpack, as well, much-abused and heavy with a eclectic collection of patches and buttons displaying a vast range of slogans and symbols from Black Power to Powerpuff Girls. "Heard good things about the place. Not /all/ good, but..." She shrugs, handing the helmet back to B. "Supposedly folks here pretty laid back. If it don't work out, we'll try somewhere else."
Alongside B's smaller silver bike, Natalie is pulling up on her own. Much more prosaic looking, though it's a well-built enough Stark model that's had a fair amount of custom work put in. Quiet, too, electric motor making little enough noise as she parks. Tugs her helmet off, pulls out her ponytail, runs her fingers through her hair to retie it. "Good art." Her eyes are slightly scrunched behind the sunglasses she's wearing. "It could be stone ugly and we'd brighten the place up. Well." Her smile crooks quick and wide. "One of us, anyway." /She's/ just in grungy old jeans, a waffle-mesh weaved henley shirt underneath a canvas jacket. "I got a good feeling. And anyway, my bike is fast."
"Yeah, anytime. It's just. It's full of /humans/." B leans in to whisper this to the others, as though? They might not have been aware? There's a small flutter of hir gills with this word, too. Conspiratorial. "You /know/ we have room at the Commons, right? I mean." Hir huge black eyes open up -- wiiider. "We have a /treehouse/. /And/ art." Though here her brow furrows deeply before a reluctant admission: "... a couple humans, too."
Scramble beams at Natalie's praise. "It'll be slightly /less/ full of humans now, by percentage anyway." Her gaze travels over the murals that cover the outside the building. "Besides, we're not the kind of freaks who get shit on just for walking into a room." Her smile fails a little here. "Well, not for being /freaks/, anyway." She hops up onto a concrete jersey barrier painted up to look like a wall of fire, uses the vantage point to check out the partially exposed lobby. "They got a wicked skate park, bet you could blow their minds with your hoverboots." Then looks back at her sisters. "Hey, Commons's at the top of my list once I get my company going. Or, you know, if we get kicked outta here."
Natalie's eyes widen, her hand coming up to press to her lips in a /shocked/ face at B's conspiratorial whisper. "You don't say?" Her brows lift, though her crooked smile hasn't slipped any less wide: "I think we can handle them." She pats at her bike. Confident. AFFECTIONATE. "Not that a treehouse doesn't sound like a bit of /awesome/." She swings her leg over the bike, sliding down to the ground to stand up straighter. There's a backpack on her own back, heavy multicolored woven cloth and well-beaten. "Alright. Alright, into the -- really well-decorated and cheerful belly of the -- hopefully communally-minded beast, then."