ArchivedLogs:Crank up the Volume
| Crank up the Volume | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia
|
2016-10-15 "Lest you forget, this /is/ my day job." |
| Location
<NYC> {Funhaus} - Harbor Commons - Lower East Side | |
The house might have started out looking capacious and respectable, but it has since moved through various incarnations, always colorful, but never colorful the same way for longer than a few days. There is little in the way of what most people would call furniture: a sectional couch buried in fluffy cushions, three bean bags of varying sizes, a scattering of bookshelves, what looks like a human-scale cat tree in one corner, and a low, square table surrounded by zafus. The floor plan is largely open, criss-crossed by rope bridges linking small elevated platforms to the landing of the second storey, beyond which lie the bedrooms. The kitchen is separated from the living room only by a long counter, lined with stools. Even the appliances are decked out in unexpected hues, edged with designs that change on a daily basis. A row of tins and jars runs the length of the breakfast counter, none of which match and all of which bear brightly colored text describing their contents: teas, coffees, mates, and various herbal blends. This week, Funhaus has taken to the high seas! The platforms are easily turned into foretops, and sheets draped from the rope bridges serve as sails to a tall ship that stretches across the front wall, with the cat tree serving as a quarterdeck. Open ocean stretches as far as eye can see in the walls, though an island looms up on one side with the bedrooms on top, a cave mouth below yawning to frame the kitchen. The sectional couch has been rearranged between two beanbags to create a skiff. Tag has been cooking, a constant flutter of shifting colors from one side of the kitchen to the other, filling the house with the rich smell of Japanese curry. He wears an old, soft t-shirt two sizes too big and coming apart at the seams, though the rainbow that arcs across the cloudy sky on it is almost unreal in its vibrancy. His gi pants are similarly threadbare but plain black. He's singing, on and off, "...it's not the long walk home that will change this heart, but the welcome I receive with every start. Darkness is a harsh term--" A series of electronic tones issue from his phone: a rebuke from R2-D2. He scrambles to decant a teapot and a french press into three cups shaped like ceramic renditions of bamboo segments, each rendered in bright swirls of colors that change as he fills them. These he loads onto a tray and carries into the living room. "The reddish one is the coffee," he says, and a distinct black coffee bean graphic helpfully appears on the cup with the most red on it. "The others are oolong." Tian-shin is perched on an arm of the couch, her bare feet resting on the cushion and a notebook computer open in her lap. Her long, glossy black hair is done up in a bun--downright messy, by her standards--at the back of her head. Her pale pink t-shirt features a heart outlined in rainbow and containing a simple, stylized double helix. Below it are the words "Mutant Lives Matter" in bold black letters. Her glasses are pushed up onto her head, and her eyes look a little bleary, blinking as she looks at her brother's approach. "Oh hey, tea. {Thank you.}" She reaches out and takes one of the cups, wrapping both hands around it as if to guard it from imminent theft. The only other person in the room, a tall brown haired white man sitting on the couch in a rumpled white dress shirt and charcoal slacks, does not look very inclined to seize her tea. He takes the coffee instead with his own "{Thank you}", his Mandarin easy but a little toneless. A hum of appreciation follows his first experimental sip. "Perfect! And the food's smelling great already. Maybe we should actually break for dinner..." His eyes skim aside to Tian-shin, brows quirking slightly in doubt, then drop back down to the (rather large) notebook computer in his own lap. Tag takes the last cup for himself, leaves the tray on the coffee table (which has been altered to resemble a treasure chest and is mostly covered with manilla folders and sheafs of paper), and sinks down onto the beanbag chair beside his sister. "Glad you like. The food is...kinda basic, I guess. Good autumn comfort food, though." He peers at Tian-shin's monitor. "Has /anyone/ actually listened to Amnesty International. Like. Ever?" He starts to drink his tea without waiting for it to cool and winces, hissing. Then, a moment later, does it again. Tian-shin's eyes have slid shut, and she appears sensible to nothing at all but the cup which she has lifted--still with both hands--to her lips. Not to drink, not yet. She blows across the surface of the tea gently for now, and opens her eyes and cast an exasperated sidelong glance at Tag. "It's a wonder you have any taste buds left." Then, to the man on the couch, "Curry rice is great, but we really need to get this statement prepped, and I'm not going to have time tomorrow." The tall man shrugs. "Depends on your definition of 'listen,' I guess?" He takes another careful sip of his coffee. "A statement from Amnesty is rarely enough to motivate any government to action, but it often draws more attention to the violation and helps galvanize the efforts of other human rights orgs." To Tian-shin, he shakes his head. "Don't worry, I'll finish that up. I can write press releases in my sleep." "Seems like there's been /plenty/ of attention, in traditional media and...uh, not-so-traditional media," Tag points out, drinking his own tea a touch more conservatively this time. "How much is going to be enough?" Tian-shin finally takes a small sip of her tea, and emits a quiet sigh, shoulders easing a touch. "I wish I knew. Jax and Ryan's case is a political hot potato, and no one wants to be caught holding it come election day." To her partner, she just rolls her eyes. "You know, that would be great...if you actually slept." This with the faint twitch of a smile. "I can't just keep shoving more work off on you, Trick." "Well," Trick's mid-western accent is suddenly quite pronounced, "the election's a two-edged sword. Some Congressperson or other might be willing put on pressure for the case to get dropped." Another sip of his coffee. "One whose term limit is up and needs the political capital for their new career in lobbying. Or one who's just far enough behind in polls to risk courting the pro-mutant vote." Then, with a lopsided grin, "Lest you forget, this /is/ my day job." "I sure wish they'd get on with it," Tag murmurs, gazing out of a front window framed in a towering storm cloud off of their ship's port beam. "But I'm sure the government mostly just wishes we would just go away. Or be quiet, anyway." Tian-shin snorts. "Remind me to have a word with you about your night job when we're not busy with /my/ night job." This last with a sweep of her hand at their computers and the documents scattered across the coffee table. Glancing over at her brother, she curls in around her tea, her body language for a moment strikingly Tag-esque. "Certainly, that's what most humans want." But then she straightens up, posture returning to something like her wont. "They will not get either, though." "Oh, shoot, think I might be in trouble. Earned myself some detention." Admittedly, Trick does not look overly concerned. He puts his coffee down and slouches back, lacing his fingers behind his head. "Gonna need to crank up that volume to continue being heard over all the election noise. Lotta late nights and delivery in the offing--excepting when we have the fortune of being graced with home-cooked food, that is." He inhales the rich scent of curry rice and gives Tag a movie poster smile as he sets his computer aside and stands up. "For which I am ever so grateful, by the way. Let me help you finish getting ready, if there's any help needed. I ought to stretch my legs anyhow." | |
