ArchivedLogs:Atmospheric

Atmospheric
Dramatis Personae Isak, Kay
In Absentia	2014-04-05 The tricky little ways we touch each other... (Part of (Perfectus TP.)
Location <NYC> BoM Safehouse - 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. The initial shock and adrenaline that's coursed its impact through the Brotherhood has faded into low, resounding aftershocks of sleeplessness. A crawling twitchy quiet unnatural in a house packed not only with increased security - sentries lurking at the side of either window, exchanging periodic eye contact in a state both alarmed and bored in one - but also the adopted residents filling the guest rooms, displaced mutants and families of mutants washed in on the currents of the recently bombed Lofts. The nice weather outside is almost unfair with it, a faint chill in the evening spring breeze but otherwise it's sweatshirt weather instead of SNOW PARKA weather of the past weeks. Kay... wears neither. He strides through the front door in just a denim jacket with the sleeves cut off, a small Mutant Mongrel's patch at his left breast pocket depicting a skull and crossbones, save that the skull has horns and fanged teeth and a crown of flames. He slows to clasp wrists with one of the sentries - a teen girl with a pair of bone spears projecting from the back of either elbow, - and drag her into a militant hug. His posture is more loose, than most. His shoulders sloven-casual, his hips swinging loosely with his long-legged heel-to-toe stride. Vulpin-squinted eyes scanning from beneath idly raised eyebrows. The loose insouciance of a roaming coyote. Almost, almost grinning angrily. Isak has a large, luxurious apartment waiting for him on the Upper West Side. Why he's here is anyone's guess, really. But he's here, lying on the couch, frowning at the ceiling. He's got a cigarette in his hand, but for some reason, the smoke doesn't seem to make it very far from him without dissipating. He's wearing designer blue jeans and a likewise high-quality button-up shirt in a slightly...well, non-conservative pattern. His shoes are blue leather and sit by the couch. He's polite enough not to put his shoes up on the couch. Isak is not a known quantity among the Brotherhood as of yet. There may be a rumour or two about a rich new kid who nearly choked the life out of a scientist suspected of being involved in Prometheus. But his face isn't known - not as a safehouse refugee or a trusted member. He lifts his head when Kay comes stalking in. That he doesn't recognize the man is no surprise. He hasn't met very many people yet. Fwump-fwump - either of Kay's spidery bony hands clap down to either side of Isak's feet on the arm of the couch. And after an awkward-silent moment of expressionless study, he draws up and back an upper lip to showcase an eyetooth in some grin. Or snarl. "What're you smoking." You can almost hear the second half - 'and do you have one for me'. In closer proximity, there is a certain baleful heat wafting off his outer presence. Desert dry and smelling faintly of char and brimstone. Isak looks slightly baffled, large eyes going wide at the sudden proximity of Kay. He sits up, drawing his feet back. He grabs at his wool peacoat that dangles off the back of a nearby chair and fishes out a matte black cigarette case. He pops the top and offers it out towards Kay. Camels. "I wish I had brought some weed. People could use to chill out a bit." He has only the faintest traces of an accent, but sometimes his non-American status comes out in his word choice or syntax. Oo fancy. Kay actually makes a short little chuffy breath of amusement at the box, even extending a pinky while selecting a smoke for himself. Though he wears a rather glitzy expensive chain necklace, and an even more ostentatiously expensive watch with a blue crocodile band, diamonds set in a face broken into four-square primary colors, and an even more expensive pair of boots - knee-high steeltoe shitkickers - they're worn with absolute irreverence, poorly cared for and scuffed. It also clashes with torn off sleeves, lank hair, a ratty black bandana tied around one bicep. He /does/ put his boots on the couch, swinging a leg open wide to hoist an asscheek up onto the armrest, notching comfortably in next to Isak's personal space amiably. "People have needed t'chill out," he cups an empty palm beneath his smoke, a small snarl of flame leaping up from his palm to light the end, "for decades." He shakes out his flaming hand. He glances down a second time at Isak, and after a moment offers out a palm to clasp, "Kay. They haven't told you yet, huh?" Isak clips the cigarette case closed and slides it back into the pocket of his jacket. He inhales from the cigarette and then shakes the offered hand. Soft hands. Pampered hands. "I know. Two people got kidnapped. One I've met, one I haven't. And a human is planning a rescue. With a very stupid plan." He leans back on the couch. "It's a legitimate reason to be upset, but you could cut the tension in here with a knife. It's not good for anyone's blood pressure." Kay's hands are rough-snaggy in contrast and openly firm, spirited, palm clapping down against Isak's, "They're kids, lotta them." His sun-beaten features, hard-scared and openly smiling for a fleeting moment /fond/. He tips back his head, blows smoke at the ceiling, lazy wobbly smoke rings, "Lost a lotta folk lately." There's a faint side-eye, "...Hadn't heard there was a plan." "Yes, well. It doesn't create a very comforting atmosphere. Someone should be acting calm and in-control." Isak nods towards Kay. "Like you are. People like to see that. It reassures them." He scratches the side of his neck, then shrugs. "That guy, married to the very bright mutant who ended up in jail." He snaps. "...anyway, you know the one I mean. He wants to try and get in and /talk/ to the kidnappers." "Haha," Kay actually does laugh with it, even if he's only saying 'ha', "Their dead alread." Just that, simple, unapologetic. With cigarette held clamped in the side of his mouth, he turns his head to study the tense shapes huddled at the windows, "...lot of them aren't here to fight." Faintly, that same switchblade smile, "Yet. Safety, security. Family." He flicks ash at the ground, "Cops or government. This safehouse. Lot of them probably are just looking for whoever will protect them." After a pause, he adds, "These mutants, that grabbed Dusk 'n Ion. They could have people in here with us right now." "They could. And I suppose if you're one of them, I've just royally fucked them. Although..." Isak shrugs. "It's a bad idea to begin with. I don't see how it's going to work." He finishes his cigarette, stubs it out in an empty beer can and reaches for his shoes. "But don't go voicing suspicions too loudly, hmm? Then we'd need a lot of weed to calm everyone down." He stands and scoops up his jacket. "It'd gut us," Kay agrees readily, streams of smoke pouring through his nose while he twiddles his smoke Groucho Marx style, "But then. We got our own ways of screening." He swings down a leg as well, "Don't sweat it too hard. We got cool heads, upstairs. That human," he shakes his head. "He's not from our neck of the woods. This doesn't end til either those bastards stop breathing," he doesn't just rise, he leans back and /hops/ off the couch arm to his feet, "Or I do. You wanna ride? Got my Harley out." Clap! He whomps his palms together, rubbing them like it's an obvious TREAT, grinning wide and toothy. "I appreciate the offer," says Isak with a bit of a lopsided half-grin. "But I'm good. I'll take a cab." Like a good New Yorker. "Take care. And uh, hang out here a bit if you can? I have a feeling you'll distract people. They need that." And then he's off after doing up his stylish jacket.