ArchivedLogs:All Kinds

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All Kinds
Dramatis Personae

Fiona, Ion, Lucien


"We could all do with a little more boring in our lives, to be honest."


<NYC> Washington Square Park - Greenwich Village

Behind a majestic white marble arch, a smaller cousin of the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, this beautiful green space is a popular destination for the young, the hip, and the artistic. A huge circular wading fountain is the centerpiece, ringed by benches, playgrounds, dog runs, gaming tables, and lush green lawns. In fair weather, the park is almost always crowded with tourists, students, chess enthusiasts, and local families come to tire out their children and dogs.

Though it's hardly late, this time of year means even in the afternoon the sun is already beginning to set, throwing long shadows through the city buildings and slowly pulling the mild daytime temperature down into a chill. The park here is not particularly crowded, that strange in-between hour: too late for lunch breaks, too early for most people to be off work. A few people gathered around a busker playing the harp by the fountain; a couple joggers, desultory few people scattered around the benches, a street preacher by one entrance shouting fiery damnation to just about anyone who will listen.

Down by the other end of the park there are excited yips and playful growls from the dog run -- where one sleek black-and-tan mongrel pup is reluctantly getting harnessed up to be led back /out/ away from all the playing. The mid-sized Shepherd mix, quite all-over-dusty from her romping, is casting a /very/ disapproving look on her accompanying human as she is parted from the playtime -- though the human in question, admittedly, looks little chagrined. "{As if you don't get to come back here near every day. /Some/ of us actually have work to get to, my dear, mournful eyes or no.}" His quiet French sounds quietly amused. In contrast to the dog's mess, Lucien looks rather pristine -- well-tailored grey trousers falling neatly over his polished loafers, crisp dark peacoat buttoned up over top.

Into the park walks Fiona - looking in rather good spirits (but tired) as if she's been walking all day... which she most likely has. You know, going around and seeing all the typical New York sights. Well, those that don't cost any money anyway, which is a lot of them... She's lugging around that ever-present backpack of hers, looking pretty out of place. Though as is typical of New York, the crazy is somewhat normal so nobody really pays her much attention... A few maybe disapproving glances though. She flops down on a bench near to where the French speaking man and his dog are, looking amusedly at the canine's antics and then at the rest of the dogs still playing.

Bound, bound, bound -- though Lucien seems intent on going one direction the dog seems rather intent on prolonging this walk -- oh is that a /squirrel/? A stray leaf to pounce on? A new person to sniff? Her cavorting brings her (after some exuberant sidetracking) to pounce upward -- not quite /on/ Fiona, at least, though she plants her paws on the bench just beside the girl, tail wagging furiously as her muzzle thrusts toward the backpack.

"Ah -- my apologies." Lucien's soft voice is tinged with a distinct Francophone accent. "She isn't good at -- boundaries. Flèche, {down}." This, at least, is listened to promptly -- though the dog is still snufffling around Fiona's feet, now.

"Oh, it's fine," Fiona peers down at the dog, "Wow, she's really well trained!" she reaches down to pet the dog, scratching it behind the ears if it will let her. "I mean, most dogs you see people yank on the leash and all." The girl then looks up at Lucien, "That's an interesting accent. I don't think... is that French? I guess you hear all kinds of stuff around here." Her own speech doesn't sound particularly local at all, more 'generic american.' "How old is she?" Standard dog questions!

The distinctive thrumming growl of a motorcycle mixes in with the rest of the city traffic noises. Somewhat distant first but then growing louder as a heavily modified black-and-chrome Harley (its license plate reads WIRED) pulls up by and then straight into the park. Its rider does not, at least, go as far as to drive /far/ into the park, killing the engine near the entryway to hop off the bike and just -- leave it, at the side of the walkway.

The bike's /rider/ is a somewhat colorful figure -- plain black jeans and tall heavy motorcycle boots, together with a well-worn and well-loved kutte that reads MUTANT MONGRELS MC around a modified skull-and-crossbones logo (the skull horned and fanged, the crossbones actually a pair of crossed lightning bolts.) The leather vest is dotted brightly with colorful rhinestone beadazzling -- a pair of lightning bolts on the shoulders, a bat down on one pocket. His helmet -- which he's just pulling off to reveal a bright grin underneath -- is lit up with red-and-green el-wire, a Santa hat attached to its top.

"/Yo/ /pupface/." Ion's gravelly bass (accented, as well, with heavy Argentine flavor) projects easily across the park. His bounding is -- about as exuberant as the dog's, really. "Luci I swear she get prettier all the damn /time/ --" Don't mind him, he's dropping his motorcycle helmet onto the bench Flèche just vacated, dropping to his knees to scruff at the pup as well. The smile he turns up to Fiona is broad. "You know this dog?" The jerk of his thumb might -- indicate Flèche /or/ Lucien, it's hard to tell. "Ten-hundred-percent sweet."

"She occasionally indulges me and pretends she is." There is warmth in Lucien's voice, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a smile. "She doesn't much care for being yanked around. Cajoling. Bribery. She is -- coming up on two, nearly." He is hanging slightly back, fingers tightening on Flèche's leash as the dog's tail thumps the ground harder. "French -- yes, nearly. Quebecois." A very faint crease forms between his brows as his green eyes flick over Fiona. "You do hear quite a lot around here, it is true. Are you not --" Though he breaks off at the nearing thrum -- at the booming greeting that hails, well, his dog, from across the park. For just a brief moment his eyes slide shut, lips compressing -- slightly. His very faint smile has returned by the time Ion hops up onto the bench, though, head inclining in a small nod. "She is a dog. She cannot help but be -- ten hundred percent."

With the roar of the motorcycle and sudden bursting of Ion onto the scene, Fiona looks somewhat pensive - the tip of her tail twitches nervously and her shoulders tighten. Moreso when he comes closer - then surprise, and finally (almost) relaxing back to normal when it seems that this is NOT some kind of gang shooting in progress. "Nah, we just met," Fiona shakes her head, "She seems nice though!" the girl still looks slightly intimidated by Ion. "I mean, I've met plenty of awful dogs. Usually kept by just as awful owners. My dad always said, a dog is the reflection of the owner. Yanno?"

"See, this girl she know what she talking about?" A snap of fingers, one finger pointing up at Fiona. "Ain't no bad dogs. It's the people fucks it up. But then what's she say about /you/, huh?" Now Ion's looking from Flèche up to Lucien. He rocks heavily back to sit down on the ground, scratching a little more languidly at the pup's back. "You keep any pets, huh?"

"About me?" Lucien's brows hike up. "Very little. She is my brother's dog." His weight eases back onto a heel as Ion's settles -- just a smidge farther from the other man. "Met seems a touch overstatement. My manners have been terribly poor. This is Flèche --" Who is shoving her head happily up towards Fiona -- c'mon, /all/ the petting? "And I am Lucien. Hear all kinds 'around here'? Is this new to you, then?" A slight flutter of fingers indicates -- the park? The neighborhood? The city?

"You know... here!" Fiona nods, waving an arm around, "New York. It's pretty crazy!" she looks down at the insistent pup, grabbing the fur on each side of Flèche's neck gently, then shaking, "Who's a good girl?" in that voice that people only use to talk to babies and dogs. You know the one. "It's a little overwhelming. Like trying to watch two different TV shows at the same time. Anyway, your brother must be a pretty nice guy. My name's Fiona, also!"

"Whole damn world's pretty crazy, yo. We just /concentrate/ it. Lots of people, heavy ass doses. Ain't never /boring/ though that's something." Ion is done with sitting, evidently, bouncing back to his feet and hopping up to sit on the back of the bench instead. "-- Oh shit here I come down to Greenwich I damn near forgot." He draws a small paper bag from the inside off his pocket, its top folded down many times over till it's nearly just a squashed pouch. Tosses it to Lucien. "Ion," he introduces himself, now. "You new here, huh? Guess that make the crazy even crazier, shit. Where you ride in from before?"

"My brother makes 'nice' an art form." In the vein of brothers everywhere, Lucien sounds a touch put /out/ by this. "Well. Welcome, Fiona. I hope it grows less overwhelming soon -- though I've been here many a year and I can't offer any great promises to that end." His eyes grow slightly wider when he's confronted by Sudden Package -- he reaches for it only at a delay, fumbling it and stooping then to pick it from the ground where it's fallen.

Fiona looks up towards Ion, making little motorcycle revving gestures with a questioning look on her face, "Ah, I walked! Well. I walked a lot of the way. It turns out hitch-hiking isn't as easy as it's made out to be..." she shrugs. "I'm from Missouri though. Like Mis-er-ey. No uh or ah on the end. Can't stand it when people do that," she pauses, pushing her glasses up her nose a little. "It's west of here. A ways. Pretty boring place. Not like this!"

"Shit, yo, hitchhiking when you look like you?" Ion's eyes have gone wide. "I hope you pack a punch, girl, more people probably looking to stab you than give you a lift. Roads ain't /always/ so friendly. I'm glad you make it safe. One whole piece. Missouri, that's a trip."

"That /does/ take some gusto." Lucien's agreement is milder than Ion's incredulity, though his brows have lifted as well with the mention of walking. "And must have been quite some journey, non?" He tucks his bag away into his pocket, exchanging it for his wallet to offer a couple folded bills to Ion. "We could all do with a little more boring in our lives, to be honest. Still. I wish you a soft landing. New York -- /is/ overwhelming, but has many charms. They just -- occasionally take some seeking out."

"Non," Fiona repeats, giggling quietly, apparently quite taken with Lucien's accent. "It was a trip! I didn't come perfectly straight here, but I guess it took about two months," more nodding. Mhm mhm. "It seems like the whole country is kinda goin crazy these days... I kept hearing people say 'like those freaks in New York' so I thought, maybe I'd go check out New York's freaks..." Which was maybe not the BEST idea she's ever had. "You got that motorcycle though. I bet you've been all over. I have an uncle that likes those things."

"Country been going crazy a long-ass time. People just now maybe starting to /notice/ it, huh?" Ion pockets his cash, hopping back down off the bench. "Crazier shit gets, though, the more we got people coming together to fight it. /That/ ain't nothing either." He grins at Fiona -- wide and broad. "People not wrong, though. Goddamn /full/ of freaks we are. You learned where's the good places to hang out yet?" He glances back over his shoulder towards his bike, bouncing on his toes again. "I get around some. You ever ride?"

"Two months. You must have some interesting stories to tell." Lucien is gently tugging Flèche back to his side -- though she currently seems very keen on snuffling at the Santa-hat bike helmet. His hand drops to her head when he finally coaxes her near enough. "Have you yet been by Evolve? Cafe. Lower East Side. I believe that for those looking for a -- gathering place, there is not else like it in the city. If you are searching for --" His lips press faintly thinner before his very careful echo, "'New York's freaks', I imagine it a good place to start."

Fiona looks over at the hat, then back at Lucien, "I'll check it out eventually, I think. If it's a cafe, and around here, it's probably pretty expensive, yea?" She looks back over at Ion, "I rode on the back of one once. Kinda scary, that. But, I don't really have my license yet or anything... So, it'll probly be a while before I could ride one..." she shrugs, "The traffic here is insane, too... aaanyway."

"Expensive? Nah. Is cheap. They have mad free food. Luci right, it's the place to go any freak wanting some meal. Coffee. Nap on the couch -- 'least till someone want it for board games," Ion amends with a small frown. "Best goddamn ice cream too ho-ly-shit I'm eat there /all/ the time." He snags his helmet back off the bench, tucking it under his arm. "Good luck, New-Girl." He reaches down to ruffle Flèche between her ears again. "Any luck maybe some time I see you round, huh?" He pulls the helmet back onto his head, bounding back off as quickly as he'd come.

"{Good evening, Ion. And thank you.} You're a lifesaver." Nevertheless there is a very faint relaxation that creeps into Lucien's posture as Ion heads back off. He only lifts a shoulder in answer to the question of Evolve's prices. His tongue clicks lightly to Flèche, prompting the dog back to her feet, forepaws dancing lightly on the ground in very admirable not-actually-jumping restraint. "Luck, yes. I should -- away to work. I wish you the best. Whatever you've come to New York seeking."

"Take it easy!" Fiona waves after Lucien, hefting her backpack up again as she heads off to do... whatever it is Fionas do. Probably check out that cafe they mentioned.