ArchivedLogs:Eating Words

Eating Words
Dramatis Personae Ainsley, Dusk, Steve
In Absentia	2015-11-25 "{More hands is...more...good.}" (Part of Flu Season TP.)
Location <NYC> Harbor Commons - Courtyard - Lower East Side
This courtyard is the lush central hub of the surrounding Harbor Commons, bound in on three sides by rows of duplexes and triplexes, cutting upward at the sky with the sharp thrift of a minimalist's style, neat lines and bountiful windows, boldened with accents in wood towards the upper stories, stone towards the base, the whole of the compound sealed in by a low stoneworked wall that opens entrance gates to the streets beyond at its two far corners, smaller gates at building back doors. The fourth side of the courtyard is open to the East River, the ground forming a slight decline, controlled on one side by micro-retaining walls to form wide steps where picnic tables sit beneath the nominative shelter of a trio of dogwood trees, accessible by ramp. The other side is allowed to slope at its natural angle, a wide open yard space, until its cut off at the river's edge, where a massive pair of oak trees stand, a staircase leading away up one of their thick trunks. The yard itself is carpeted in an organic flow of emerald grass swirled through with wending channels of smooth-paved cement walkways, flowing naturally away from the building's front entrances, where some are arced by trellis, some flanked by hosta plants, fern and lilies, a few laid in gentle switch-backing ramps for wheelchair access, before forking off at matching angles to sites of small garden installments. Bird feeders and baths suspended from the necks of small lamp posts, a rock-lined koi pond, a sleek gazebo tucked to one side in simplistic varnished wood, its southern side overgrown with a mass of thriving grapevine and a caged-in barbecue pit under its sheltering roof. A play area and proper garden are within sight off another branch, until finally all paths spiral in like wheel spokes to a shared common house at the center of all traffic flow. It's been -- kind of a /week/. And then some, really. The once-tidy pathways and plant beds of the courtyard have been trampled into dead muddy mess by hundreds of shambling undead feet; there are bodies still bloating at the bottom of the koi pond; the gazebo is half broken, wood splintered and caved in on one side; the smooth paved walkways are stained red with blood. In places the stone wall surrounding the community is crumbling, scorch-marks testament to the mutation-augmented battle that happened here not long past. Dusk, at the moment, is cleaning the shattered and broken glass out of a window pane of the very much beaten-on workshop -- /not/ locked down like the residences and the Common house, it took a heavy brunt of damage both living and undead alike, lately. He is dressed blandly -- faded brown corduroys, hiking boots, a soft blue fleece that has been raggedly torn open at the back to leave room for his enormous dark-fuzzed bat-wings. There's a soft hiss of irritation from him briefly as one stray piece of glass nicks his finger, eyes narrowing on the window as though it has OFFENDED him. Steve has just hoisted one of the gazebo's broken columns into the junkheap, without any apparent effort despite the size and weight of his load. He's dressed in a blue and green plaid flannel shirt under a brown leather jacket and dark blue jeans with combat boots. On his return trip he passes Dusk. Glances at the wound, then at the glass. Strips off his work gloves and offers them with upraised eyebrows. They'd probably be a bit too big, but not much impediment to this kind of work. "{My things, less sharp,}" he explains in somewhat clumsy Spanish, tossing his blond head in the direction of the gazebo's ruins. A young woman, probably barely into her 20s and someone that's been living in a fairly passive way, walks out into the courtyard. Ainsley, known as a mutant by the locals but something of a meek mouse compared to the others, especially due to her abilities being entirely within her voice and her hearing, finally steps out into the courtyard and stares around at the hell that this infection has created. Corpses are not fun to look at, especially for someone so afraid of causing more of them herself, thanks to how dangerous her abilities could be when combined with this infection. Her boots click and her scarf sways a bit. She's got a newsboy hat on, the brim hanging low to shadow her neutral face and her distant gaze, while she quietly drags a bucket and a mop over to a nearby spot, and begins mopping up. She's wearing a brown leather jacket and jeans, and she's got a thick pair of rubber gloves on. She trundles the bucket through the courtyard aimlessly as she finds spots to half-heartedly mop at, until she stops at the sound of Dusk's irritation. She approaches and then awkwardly stands nearby, leaning to try to get a look at what happened to his hand. She then turns her gaze momentarily to Steve, and as if inspired by his offer... she reaches to start helping clean the glass out a piece at a time, without asking or waiting for them to suggest it. Dusk's finger has lifted to his mouth, eyes still narrowed as he sucks at the small cut there. In the grand scheme of things -- the few drops of blood, really not the worst injury he's suffered lately. This doesn't stop his scowl, though. But Ainsley comng up to help remove the broken glass /does/ ease his scowl, his frown melting away into a quick crooked smile. His hand drops, scruffy-bearded chin lifting in a quick nod of hello. "{It's okay,}" he answers Steve with a brief slice of (very fangy) grin. "{I'm just as sharp.}" Steve's eyebrows climb just slightly higher, but then he chuckles. "{You certainly are.}" He is tugging the gloves back on and getting ready to return to the gazebo, but then tilts his head at Ainsley. "{Have we met? Forgive me, it's been a lot of new faces these last few weeks.}" He blushes faintly. "{I'm Steve Rogers. I'm...visiting.}" The exchange of Spanish between Dusk and Steven prompts raised brows from Ainsley. She smiles lightly at Dusk's comment. She understands them, but she doesn't speak immediately, putting shards of glass away in the appropriate bin, if one is nearby, or a durable bag that she brought for that purpose if not. She's always been helpful with chores, and she hasn't changed just because zombies are attacking. "{Yes,}" she replies to Steve, and says, "{Spanish classes. I'm Ainsley Gossard. I'm the quiet one.}" She is, as far as the 'mundane-ish' residents go. "{Nothing to forgive. I keep to myself.}" Her Spanish is melodic and pleasant. Her voice in general, really. "{So, you will cut the glass?}" she wonders at Dusk with good-natured skepticism while she discards another piece of glass, a rare moment that she's speaking to anyone at all. The first time she's done more talking than the bare minimum needed to function in the community. She isn't cold, she's just reserved. "{It's only fair, isn't it? Cut me /first/, it's time for payback.}" Dusk's smile remans in place as he yanks out another piece of the broken window with a little more /enthusiasm/, now. "{'Visiting'.}" He doesn't exactly put /finger/ quotes around this -- instead, the sharp long thumb-claws that top his huge wings curl inward to supply the gesture. "{Right. Tell the truth. He's staying for the pie. -- You been okay in there?}" His wing gestures -- across the courtyard, presumably in the direction of the house that contains Ainsley's apartment. "{Food and all? People been going on scavenging runs to stock the common house. If you're running low.}" "{Ah, yes! I remember now. I'm the...loud one in class.}" Steve smiles sheepishly. It's only a slight exaggeration; he does ask a lot of questions, at least. "{I need much practice.}" Then, in reply to Dusk's accusation, "{It's completely true. But be fair. The pie /is/ very good.}" He removes a segment of splintered windowframe once the other two have cleared it of glass. "{Supply runs, getting more dangerous. Maybe should start organizing teams for that?}" The wings get a momentary glance, Ainsley raising her brows. The emoting of some of the more physically-altered mutants still throws her off, though less than when she first saw Dusk. "{I have been sharing some of my food with others,}" she guiltily admits (some people may have received mysterious prepared, simple sandwiches), giving an apologetic smile, "{I need a bit of everything. No rush, though.}" She looks between Steve and Dusk, stepping back and blinking owlishly at the removal of the window frame. "{Should I help?}" she wonders at them, rubbing one of her arms. She means with the supply runs... she shuffles her feet, looking even more guilty, or ashamed. Her thoughts go elsewhere, her gaze turning to look at the aftermath of the surge of zombie activity here. "{Teams would be good. Safer. And I'm sure,}" Dusk nods to Ainsley, "{people would appreciate any help they can get.}" Very suddenly, his hand lifts to his mouth, wings rippling in a shiver that -- looks for a moment like it might be pained before he drops his hand to reveal a grin, a quiet shaky gasp of laughter. "{... tomorrow's Thanksgiving. You know. This one year. Jax nearly had this fucking /meltdown/, he'd forgotten to pick up pumpkin and there was /no/ pumpkin to be had for love or money in like. /Any/ goddamn grocery store for miles. I swear I flew like --}" He shakes his head, scuffing his hand up through his shaggy mop of dark hair. His grin is kiiind of crooked. "{Nearly had to deck someone over the last cans of pumpin in Harlem. I told him then Thanksgiving shopping feels like some kind of apocalypse. Hell if I'm not eating my words now.}" Steve nods at Ainsley. "{Your decision, but more hands is...more...good.}" Pushing his still less-than-stellar Spanish vocabularity to its limits here. "{I will write, on the Commons Internet page. Make teams, schedules.}" He looks genuinely startled by the description of Dusk's quest for pumpkin. "{Wait...that was not during the /last/ sickness?}" Incredulous. Maybe even a little skeptical. "{We did a lot of scraping together of loose change for holiday dinners when I was a child...}" He deposits the broken frame in the 'flammable' pile. "{...but /that/ was the Great Depression.}" Ainsley still wasn't quite sure about Steve, but nothing about him seemed... wrong. She looked at him again, like she usually did when he wasn't looking, surprised to be reminded he's displaced from the time he's actually from. The look lasts long enough to notice, but fades soon enough. "{I'm going with. I can... distract them.}" The Zombies, she means. "{Throw my voice?}" She's not sure how to phrase the act in Spanish, so her voice gets uncertain there. "{Funny phrasing, 'eating words.' You didn't know this would happen when you said that,}" she tells Dusk, in a gentler tone as if trying to be reassuring. "{Huh. Useful. Trick the dumbass biters, /then/ stab them. Mindless enough 'hey look over there' actually -- works.}" There's a hint of amusement in Dusk's tone. "{Man, we were in a depression worse than that one /before/ the plague hit. Just nobody talks about it. -- Anyway, we don't make another supply run soon, words is all we'll be eating.}" He pats at the empty hole where the window had been, wings shifting behind his back before he turns for the Common house. "{I'll see if I can rustle up some plastic for this till Flicker puts the new frame in. Back soon.}" Steve lifts his brows, nods--the expression speaks for itself: 'no bad.' "{That would help much, yes,}" he agrees. Then, with a frown. "{You were? I need to read more. Recent history is difficult for me. But supply runs? Fighting zombies? These I can.}" He offers Ainsley a friendly smile. "{Good to meet you. Again,}" before going back to pick up broken chunks of the gazebo.