ArchivedLogs:Burning Out

Burning Out
Dramatis Personae Dusk, Isra, Kay, Tristan
In Absentia	January 28, 2014 "No night can last forever." (A flashback to the morning after Thea's funeral.)
Location <BOM> Beachfront - Ascension Island
Largely rocky and desolate, the majority of the waterfront on this small island is an unwelcoming place. Craggy and forbidding, lined with jagged black rocks, the coast here can take a fair bit of scrambling to navigate. Here and there, though, the coastline levels out to narrow sweeps of pebbly beaches littered with shells and seaweed carried in on the frigid tide. Occasional old trunks of fallen trees dot the narrow beach, victims of the storms that frequently plague the island. One small stretch of the western shore holds a small dock, a few boats usually moored there. Tucked off the mainland coast in Jamaica Bay, the buildings and lights of the city can be seen far across the water. There'd been a funeral; there'd been a reverie. There'd been tears and raised drinks and red flames of a funeral pyre spearing up at the overhanging stars. The festivities have long-since died down, now, in the fragile after hours, night passing from opaque inky-black skies to something gauzy and side-ways light by the creamy first caresses of the coming morning. Many occupants of the Island have gone to bed - others, just returning from vital errands, cluster here and there in quieter huddles, to pay their respects in whatever manner they find appropriate. Some Island occupants are even beginning to wake up, lights coming on in windows for the early risers. Kay is none of the above; there from the start to maintain the funerary fire -- now a mere pile of smoldering ashes with a few red embers pulsing softly beneath -- there'd been other bonfires as well, spaced down the beach to help keep people warm; he'd drank, he'd danced, he'd probably ended up wrestling in the sand with his roommate in the very lest, if not also other people, the infernal-radiant heat his body puts off tangible as a hearth fire to those within his proximity. Now, his long-limbed and rangy-scarred body is strolling inelegantly along the beach's parameters with a trash bag. Though only wearing a black sleeveless compression shirt that exposes a red and yellow dragon snaking it's long neck and tail up and down either arm, jeans and... mismatched boots? ... the pyrokinetic doesn't seem affected by the cold. The BOOZE, yes, though it's resolving more steadily into a headache and a squinshed up eye, at this point. Piiickin' up trash. HUFFING out steamy-warm air. Dusk has been here. In the blazing warmth of bonfire he'd been drinking and dancing -- and probably wrestling as well, though as the fire died down at some point he's vanished in search of more /layers/ to add to his black denim coat. There's a large heavy shawl draped now over his large heavy wings; even if Kay is unaffected by cold /he/ sheds heat in spades. But he's out here, still, sunglasses now on his eyes preemptively against the dawn. A trash bag in his hands -- though maybe he's for the moment forgotten its purpose, because he's not picking up trash so much as staring out to the ocean with a deep frown. This lapse in purpose might have something to do with the /copious/ amount of tequila and blood he's had overnight. Maybe. Possibly. The young feral has not been at the party. He has been out destorying some of the gangs in the city. He needed to deal with the loss of his teammate his own way. The ability to beat up gang members gave him that outlet. As he steps out onto the beach, his eyes shift to cat eye yellow as he takes a deep breath in through his nose. He presses his lips into a fine line getting slammed with the various scents. He shoves his hands into his leather jacket and begins to walk down the beach towards Dusk, and Kay. As he gathers closer the teenager just stops and watches from afar and remains silent his yellow eyes almost glow against the light of the moon slowly faded and the peek of the sun coming through the dark night. Perched on a chunk of driftwood near the embers of one of the fresher fires, Isra stares into the offing as the sky grows pale. She looks to have passed beyond weariness and into some other place, still and quiet. At some point she has acquired a large blanket to wear like a cloak over her massive wings and horned head, and the hem of her black dress bears a generous dusting of salt and sand. She holds an insulated mug, fingers laced around it even though it gives out little warmth. Green eyes flick aside to track Dusk, then Kay in his shambling. Hesitant, she rises and goes to the latter. "Would you like any help--picking up? You look exhausted." She herself does not seem much worse for the drinking and staying up all night. It first appears that Kay is fully intending to wander right past Dusk, past /Isra/, failing to look up as he passing between them, dragging his trash bag like a ball and chain. Then he just... stops. Still facing forward, the bag is dropped to the cold sand, and Kay slumps sideways, shoulder thumping against Dusk's chest. Shoulderbutt. His other arm hooks out and seeks to loop around the back of Isra's neck, seeking to pull her nearer as well. The warmth of him, unrestrained and burning hard, is akin to submerging in a heated bath; it's solid and thick and rises off him in ripples. "You guys." He mumbles. It's not slurred at least? And jerks a chin towards the young man hanging back, "Hey." Eloquent. "...c'mere." Come to drunkKay. He is extending a grabby hand Tristan-ward. Too... far... to snag... Dusk's fangs flash in a glinting wide smile, wing curling out from beneath his shawl to curl around Kay. This might be equal parts affection and /heat/ seeking, snagging the pyrokinetic in to greedily leech off his /warmth/. "He looks," Dusk proclaims, "like a goddamn zombie." His teeth chomp-chomp vaguely towards Kay's neck. "Though this island would be a -- fucking. Lot more on /fire/ with zombie -- Kay -- /yo/." This last is to Tristan, his chin jerking upwards in greeting. "How'd it go?" As he shrugs slightly, "I burnt off some steam." The smell of blood on his clothes, he moves to hold out a single hand to Kay. His own super strength holding him up with ease. "I see things went off...swimmingly here." He looks around the beach before looking between Isra and Dusk. "By the smell of it. It must have been a good party." His yellow eyes fade back to their baby blue as he sighs softly. Tristan takes his free hand and runs it through his hair to get it out of his eyes before looking back at Kay, "And something tells me he might puke." Isra allows Kay to draw her near as well, her own wing wrapping around him--and over Dusk's--sandy blanket and all. Her bright green flick to Tristan, regarding the youth with a studied calm as he approaches. "Good morning. I saw you at Harlem a few times, but I do not believe anyone ever introduced us." Her voice leans toward the alto at present, the lower register only a faint rumble that lends it resonance. "I am Isra." Then with an appraising glance aside at Kay, "It happens sometimes. Coffee?" She offers the mug, though the pyrokinetic does not presently have any hands free to accept it. The smells of /festival/ are indeed evident; those staples of a party, food, alcohol, sweat, skin, mingled with the sharp-savory smell of bonfire, the deeper, cooler smell of kicked up frozen sand. Coffee, too, thanks to Isra. "/Way/ ahead of you," Kay slow-steady-inexorably draaaaaws Tristan closer. In order to bounce a fingertip off the younger man's FOREHEAD, "on puking." Then ssschlrps back into the enclosure of dual wings, the trapped heat creating a chamber of warmth between them. "Ffffuck, it was on fire plenty enough jus' being /almost/ zombie'd." He actually sounds vaguely /pleased/ at this memory, grumbly chuckling and nuzzling the side of his head against Dusk's temple, neck undefended ... save for the hand Kay lazily whomps over the front of Dusk's face, fingers to one cheek, thumb to the other, palm pressed over Dusk's /mouth/. "YOU." Cheek-squeeze-cheek-squeeze-VICIOUS nose-wrinkling GRIN. "Should come have a fucken-- nightcap. On /me/. After. Finish cleaning up. Put my ass /right/ to sleep. -- That's Tristan. He is. My /boy/." Never mind that he's only known /of/ Tristan up to this point. He opens his mouth like a helpless birdy? At Isra and her coffee? "Tristan," Dusk unhelpfully re-introduces (muffled behind Kay's palm), waving a wing towards the catboy. "Isra. Kay. -- It went. Y'know. Burny. She's ashes now. Dust-to-dust." His nostrils flare, head tipping towards Tristan in time with a low-soft rumble of growl in his chest. The wider stretch of his /grin/ scrapes fangs against Kay's palm. His mouth opens, closes again in a very small-sharp nip. A quick shake of head pulls his face back from behind Kay's hand. "It's on fire plenty even when you're fucking sober, man. Whole damn place." The feral's super senses are slammed by Kay's breath, as he turns his head from the path of his breath. He looks over at Isra, "Tristan Kitsch." He gives her a curt nod before looking over at Dusk. Tristan still holding firmly and easily onto Kay asks, "Do you want me to take over over with the cleaning, man? I can have it done twice as fast as you and you can sit down and have that drink of...coffee?" Tristan makes sure that he is held up by Dusk, as he bends down to get the trash bag. He cracks his neck and his eyes go cat eye yellow. A soft growl escapes him and he is off. The feral moving with an unnatural speed and grace that exceeds any human as he moves from one piece of trash to the next in an attempt to cut down on the cleaning. He remains focused on the cleaning but with his sense he can clearly hear the conversation at hand. "Drunk or no, I certainly learned the appreciate those fires through the night." Isra puts the mug to Kay's lips and tips it, not as carefully as she could--the coffee's temperature could hardly cause him any harm. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Tristan," she says equably, as though quite accustomed to meeting people while hand-feeding coffee to hungover comrades. "Nimble," this as she watches the boy scour the beach. Drinking deep, coffee drips off the side of Kay's mouth barbarian-style to hang in beads from his chin. "I don't remember," he squints after Tristan's fleet movements, "if I knew he could do that." A lifetime of mutant mayhem doesn't seem to leave much room, in any case, for shock, hand falling away from Dusk's face to simply cling to the steadying support of the BATMAN'S shoulder. "These fires'll be goin' out /soon/, bro. I am settling on /drained/." And, closing his eyes, he whispers with sudden harshness, "God /damn/, Thea." Dusk's wing curls a little stronger, a little more supportive, around Kay's shoulder. Tristan's dashing off prompts a laugh from him, bright and kind of delighted. "-- fff, man, he's /hunting/ the trash." For a moment he watches this, Tristan's darting antics briefly reflected in the mirrored lenses of his glasses, before his head tips back towards the sky. "Cat," he explains to Kay. "He can do /hella/ a lot." It sounds sort of impressed. Then fades off into silence at Kay's last whisper. The wing tightens around the pyro's shoulder. His other one stretches, touching briefly to the side of Isra's, then pulling back in beneath his shawl. "Nah." His head shakes. "Time for sleep soon, maybe. Fires aren't going out any time soon, though." As he continues to move in one fluid motion from one piece of trash to the next, Tristan says in a loud voice for the group to listen, "Feral. Whose baseline is feline. I am not a cat...well not mostly." He growls softly as he is nearly done, he begins to push himself to the limit moving for a moment into a blur of color before he suddenly stops before the group. His hand sets down the trash and he is breathing hard, "And besides. I needed that. It helped burn off the last bit of my restless energy." He runs a hand through his hair as his eyes shift back to normal before sitting down on the sand and sighing softly. Isra tilts her head ever so slightly, watching Tristan move even faster. Her expression registers no amazement as such, but something like curiosity. "Feral," she echoes, the lower register of her voice engaging more fully now and lending her speech an uncanny dual quality. "Do you mean that you grew up apart from human society? Or does this have some other meaning in mutant parlance?" She glances aside at Kay and Dusk--more the latter than the former, held up between them. Without shame, Kay shrugs when Isra glances to him, and drags his coffee-moistened chin against one of his shoulders to dry it. "'s in good company, whate'r he wants to call himself. Not a lotta domestication, these parts. - thaaaanks, man. Your uh- eyes always go," he points at his face as though wearing some secret /clue/ what he might be trying to ask. "All. Like that. When you're uh." He gestures up the beach. He can talk while melting - because that's what he's doing. Right up against Dusk, loose-boned and casual. Save perhaps the hesitated pat that comes lower, more discretely against the vampire's forearm. And the following harder squeeze that doesn't rush to release. Dusk also shrugs, wing lifting in a pretty typical -- beats me! -- sort of gesture. "... Mutant slang? Uh, nope. Not that I know. But I mean, people can pretty much make their own words if they wanna?" His teeth flash again in a small quick grin. "Know /plenty/ of us that get pretty fucking, uh. Savage, though. From time to time." The smile sharpens. "And plenty who don't exactly fit /in/ to flatscan society either." The note of fierce pride in his tone /implies/ easily enough the unspoken: and who don't want to. Tristan begins to catch his breath, as he looks up at the trio, "I guess." He looks over at Isra and shakes his head, "No, but because I can lose control of my animalistic side. I just assumed I am a feral feline then just some dude with catlike abilities. Yet it would be nice if I could grow claws or have a tail to smack people with." He chuckles and looks over at the rising sun, "Yet, I am cool with what I can do. It has it's uses." "Ah, I see." Isra's eyes continue to study Tristan. "I think...I can relate to that, I just never thought to apply that particular adjective." Her tail sweeps once back and forth, ruffling the hem of her dress and tracing a wide arc in the sand. "I have found a tail of considerable use; indeed, I doubt if I could walk right without it. You, however, have exceptional agility, and senses--good low-light vision, I will venture to guess." She smiles for the first time since rising from her seat, fangs stark white between dark gray lips. "You're outnumbered by the nightwatch here, Kay. Though, I suppose you can just light it up in any event..." "Daaaamn right," Kay agrees with Dusk lustily. "Kid, I'll tell ya. You don't need claws to lay a smack down, anyway," the arm slung around Isra's neck shifts so Kay might rest lightly atop her head, between her horns. "You show up at Fight Club some Friday, you'll see a whole /room/ of feral - 'specially /these/ bastards. Now me." If he had a hand, he'd lay it humbly over his chest. You'll have to infer it, instead, through his scratchy smoker's tenor, "I am - a /gentleman/." There's a shiver of tension tightening up Dusk's wings, a very brief rumble of growl thrumming in his chest, low and discomfited; his jaw tenses, head turning away to cast sunglass-shaded gaze out towards the bay at Tristan's words. His tongue presses up over his teeth, and for a while he's quiet. When he finally does speak again it's through a low purr of laughter. "/Gentleman/. You? Shit, yo, now we really /are/ redefining language. I'm not sure we have a damn gentleman /on/ this island." One thumbclaw twitches out towards Isra. "Though we're not short on class." As he stands in one fluid motion, Tristan turns to look at the three and says, "It's getting late...or should I say early." He smirks softly, "I am gonna head to bed for a few hours." He looks at Kay and smirks, "I assume you guys can get him to bed or do you want me to carry him?" Tristan cocks his head curiously at Dusk. "He'll make it easy to infer by setting you on fire," Isra translates, nuzzling Kay's head with somewhat less care than her wont, since the blanket still covers the sharp ends of her backswept spiral horns. "But I do encourage you to attend Fight Club, all the same. You may find your animalistic side easier to relate to when you have some space to give it free reign." She looks up at the sky, grown several shades paler as they chatted. "True enough, no night can last forever. But I think that we can get this gentlemen safely tucked in. Thank you, though, for finishing the clean-up, and may you rest well." Then she adds, sharp-toothed smile flashing once more, "...Brother."