ArchivedLogs:Fine

Fine
Dramatis Personae Ash, Jackson, Telford
In Absentia	2014-03-23 failshopping
Location <NYC> Clothescycle - Garment District
Selling clothing both new and used -- but mostly used -- this store often has something for those fashion-conscious but on a budget. There is a distinct alternative bent to many of the clothes (and many of the dyed-haired, pierced clientele that often show up) but for those willing to take the time to look through their racks and racks of clothing, there are gems to be found both in their newer and vintage sections. In their basement, for the adventurous, their dollar-a-pound section offers just what the name suggests: they sell clothing for a dollar per pound. The pickings are often unusual, to be sure, but for those handy with needle and thread, sometimes the heaps of fabric can be turned to creative use. It's been -- a long week. And though the benefits of some mutant healing have him looking considerably none the worse for wear, by the end of a long week/end/ at the end of a long week even Jackson's relentless energy is starting to flag. It hasn't faded entirely, but there's a tightened strain at the edges of his eyes, a drag to his steps as he pulls himself through the aisles of the clothing store. He doesn't actually look -- very much like himself at /all/, today, not to those who've seen him in weeks past. His bright colourful mop of shaggy hair has been shaved completely down to only smooth-pale bald skin, his ridiculous wealth of piercings is all gone (and not just gone but all the holes /sealed/ clean up -- though the /sole/ lingering evidence of their existence is the still /slightly/ stretched-out lobes that didn't seal back up, at the bottoms of his ears) his /enormous/ library of scars is vanished nearly without a trace (the only remaining evidence /there/ is the black eyepatch over his eye and the missing finger, still traced over with now-fainter scars, on his right hand), and his brilliant-bright tattoos are also just -- vanished. He has a plain black jacket draped over his arm, a Red Cross t-shirt encouraging people to give blood, a pair of jeans that don't quite fit being held up with a belt, a beaten-up old pair of sneakers, and is /decidedly/ unglittery as compared to his usual flamboyance. His nails at least glitter, black with a shimmery rainbow-oilslick sheen as he rifles through a rack of women's jeans, stopping on a marbled purple-and-black pair thoughtfully. Ash, on the other hand, is somewhat mostly himself. There's a layer of dirt on him that shows he's been working outside, in the cool mud of spring, making its way up his jeans to his knees and brushed along the cuffs of his canvas, insulated jacket. There's also a layer of dirt on him that is more intentional, a hint of more brown on his face that is as even as a makeup foundation. His hands, for the most part are clean, which is important for looking through clothes. He treks after Jax, head tilting to one side a little at what draws the other's attention, a peaceful smile on his lips. "I don't know if I will ever understand women's clothing. I mean, they don't do pockets. They're kind of there, you know, but shallow and close to the body. Dunno how they manage to get a set of keys in there, let alone a wallet and a cellphone, you know?" His eyes focus on the pair in Jackson's hands right now and he smiles a little brighter, showing off a set of pearly whites, unmarred by life, perhaps made to look a little whiter by the color of his skin. "Ohhh. Those are your colors, dude. Just all purple all over the place." "It is a downside," Jackson admits with a grimace. "I try to favour pants with decent back pockets but I swear it's become /worse/ an' worse a problem. S'why I love my JNC -- oh, gosh. They don't even make those no more." His fingers run against the fabric, and he pulls it out further before frowning in mild disgruntlement at its size -- shelved wrongly -- and taking it off to shelve it in the /right/ place. "Purple is pretty incredible. Though. Admittedly any pants I get /could/ be purple so I guess the fit's most important." His fingers trail against all the row of jeans on his way back. "-- How's Jim holdin' up?" His voice is quieter, here. "Aww. Come on. Those /got/ to be hitting the vintage stores soon, right? I mean, we're doing that eighties thing now. Maybe the nineties thing will be coming up and your super huge pants'll make a reappearance." Ash is ever hopeful. He scuffs the back of his head as he listens, shifting a little to give Jax a little more space to maneuver. "Oh. Jim. Well. I am optimistic. I mean, well, the land around him is getting less green, so he's got to be sucking in some delicious life-y-ness from that. So he can't be gone. That's a good sign. I grafted a whole bunch of stuff into him and if that stays good, he'll be able to get sustenance from the ground and the sky. Kind of hating the fact that it's not warmer, but that's also good for trees, on account of the fact that they just kind of sleep through it." The young, somewhat dirty construction worker rambles on for a while as they stand in women's jeans. He's not exactly looking at the clothes, but hanging out with another who is. "I'm going to bring him some more bushes when my next paycheck clears. I've taken all of the ones from the apartment out. That should hold him over for a while. He'll be okay. How about you?" The other that Ash is hanging out with is -- actually probably one of the most famous mutant faces in the country, if not the world. Though Jackson's face at the moment is /strikingly/ dissimilar from what he tends to look like on the news; his generally brightly-dyed shaggy mop of hair has been shorn down to only pale bald scalp, his /wealth/ of tattoos is clean /gone/, his wealth of scars is gone too, his plethora of piercings vanished and sealed back /up/ except for a small stretching of his gauged earlobes. His usually flashy-bright raver-punk clothing is gone, too, instead just a faded ill-fitting pair of jeans and a Red Cross t-shirt encouraging people to give blood. Not even his usual complement of glittery makeup, except for a sheeny black-rainbow oilslick glimmer varnishing his nails (he is, at least, still missing a finger on his right hand; his left eye still has an eyepatch covering it. A moment ago it was plain black; now there's a bright purple starburst pattern on it.) "Okay is good," he says with a small nod. "And we have some good people -- if Corey can help him -- and there's a woman I work wih Ororo who's -- /really/ really amazing with plants and. Just. She'll take good care of him." He sounds softly confident, his molasses-thick Southern drawl hpoeful. "Me? I wouldn't even be here without what he done for me. Without what a /whole/ lotta folks done for me. I'm --" His smile flashes quick and bright as he reaches for a pair of black jeans, wide-wide legged, detailed with metallic-reflective strips of blue and silver. Dangly straps hanging from D-rings. /Abundant/ enormous pockets. "Oh /gosh/," excitement lights his voice now, "I'm /gonna/ be a whole lot /better/ if I fit into these, let me tell you." Telford Porter, the man with the freaky tattoos is attempting to rebuild his life after he had the misfortune of moving all of his stuff into a new building which promptly exploded three hours later. He was injured pulling people out of the fire and he's not the kind that can hang around for extended medical care. He has left his hat in the abandoned building he calls home for now because it's really hard to wear a hat comfortably with a day-old make shift bandage over half of your face. He's wearing women's jeans he stole from an unattended drier at a public laundry and wearing a pair of non-matching shoes. One of them is two, maybe three sizes larger than the other and he's walking with a limp favoring the foot with the smaller leg. One of his hands is bandaged as if he is a mummy. He's managed to scrounge up a little money but he's in no condition to do a real job for at least a week so here he is, shopping with the normal people.. ok. Well, the more normal people than him. The tattoos on his face have changed due to the heat and damage around his eye. One side of his head is still covered in decorative style but the damaged side is solid black running up from under his shirt, bifurcating his face. He walks into the store carefully avoiding putting weight on the injured leg as best he can as he moves towards the men's part of the store. He's just there to pick up some temporary clothing. He's not looking at anyone, he's trying to not draw attention to himself any more than he can given his condition. He's just a man in the background, a unintrusive figure blending into the racks, a rumor, recognizable only as deja vu and dismissed just as quickly. Ok, well, not really, but he wishes he was. It's really hard to be stealthy when you can barely walk. "Well, I'll hope that if anything, they're a little loose. I hear you can size down, but not so much size upward, right?" Ash nods to the pants with an air of authority. "Fit, jeans, and we'll give you a good home." He looks over at Jax's face once more then, picking up the dropped conversation. "Ororo, right? Okay. Well, when I head back out to check on him, I'll ask if she'll come down too. We can go over all the stuff I've done and she can tell me what else to do, or what she needs in order to work her green thumb magic. I've never really done any of the stuff I did before. I'd just seen it was done that summer I spent picking fruit. I hope I did it right." He shifts his weight, looking more like a boy of ten rather than a young man of twenty, little hints of insecurity rising up. "Also, should I call this Corey? I mean, I'll do whatever to help Jim. Well, anyone, but Jim's kind of in my realm of outdoorsy stuff, someone I can throw some mud on to recover, so ... you know, more my forte." He glances over at the limping man briefly, head tilting, but doesn't say anything to him as he heads toward the other section of the store. "Yeah makin' things smaller is easy makin' things larger --" Jackson shakes his head quickly. "I'd -- guess requires matchin' extra fabric to 'em an' /way/ more sewin' skills than I /got/. -- Micah's called Corey to go jus' -- well he don't actually hafta do anything he kinda works his magic jus' by /existing/. An' I'll introdoce you to you Ororo y'all can -- garden together." For a Jim variety of gardening. He plucks the jeans off the rack, drifting a little bit farther down to continue looking for pairs to try on. "I think it'll be --" He catches himself before he says 'okay', instead amending to: "I think folks are doin' everything they /can/ to help. I think there's real /good/ folks helpin'. I think it's always kinda amazin', stuff like this, you know? It's huge an' it's /terrible/ an' you got horrible people who do horrible stuff like /blow/ up an /apartment/ buildin' jus' cuz they don't want a mutant bein' successful but then you got so much amazin' comin' out of it, too. So many folks comin' together t'help. You saw it durin' the zombies, y'saw it after this." He notices Telford, certainly; his bright blue eye shifts to track the man, less because of the limp initially and more because of the /tattoos/, gaze drawn over them with an automatic-reflexive appraisal that skims over the decorative size first and then the solid black side with a thoughtful-critical look. It's only /after/ his long-ingrained habit of tattoo-appraisal that he even looks at the rest of Telford with an /also/ habitual half-step forward when he notes the bandaging, the limp; he's just starting to offer a, "-- Oh, gosh, sir, d'you need --" but then Telford is continuing past their section of store and onto a different one. So it's back to browsing, with a faint flush of colour on his cheeks as he is reminded: Right, this is New York, not Georgia. Talking to strangers, and all. Coughing while flipping through a rack of jeans looking for anything in his size. Funny thing about his tattoos, something most people wouldn't notice unless they were taking a long look at them, on the side that isn't wrapped in bandages on the border of the swollen area around his eye where the bandage is, the tattoo across the bridge of his nose moves just a little like the ink is alive and trying to reach across his face to reach the other eye or connect to the ink above his eyes it's as if the small black pigment of skin can't make up it's mind where to go on his face because of the damage so it ends up wiggling a little in place. Hardly noticeable unless you are looking at it intensely. Telford goes about the business of getting a few pairs of old jeans together throwing them over his good shoulder. He doesn't seem to care much about what they are as long as they are generic looking and in his size but in a store like this, generic can be hard to find. "I'd offer you a place to stay in my apartment, if it'd help, but it's kind of a bad apartment and I might have left some dirt all over the place. See, well, I took out a lot of it on account of getting ready for the new place, but well. It's my mud. You know? If you see anyone you know who needs a spot, it's totally available, you know, with the understanding of dirt." Ash isn't particularly /staring/ at Telford, but he is looking from time to time. He inhales deeply and exhales a small sigh. "I kind of want to ask him if he was there too, but it's a little presumptuous to assume that all bandages came from the same event, you know? I mean, it's a big city and it makes sense to be thrifting afterward. Did the Red Cross give you some money for new clothes?" He finally looks back toward Jax, oblivious to the changes in the other man's tattoos. "I don't know. The person I know in most dire need of place is probably Hive and he -- can't really. Dirt. Because sick. I don't really know where he's going to go," Jackson admits with a small frown. "-- because, sick. He can't have a lot of people around and can't have a lot of noise around and can't have a lot of dirt around and -- well, I guess it's not like he's going to have a lot of options." He exhales quick-sharp, picking up a pair of sky-blue skinny jeans to hold them up contemplatively. While he /was/ looking at Telford's tattoos intensely when the man entered, now that he's moved across the store he no longer is; the hardly-noticeable movements of pigment go hardly-noticed. His /own/ skin is changing in rather intensely noticeable ways, though, as if seeing the other ink has /reminded/ him of his own; a vivid-bright chimaera has blossomed on his bald skull (a rather nonstandard one, dragonfly wings, the body of a black panther, the triple-heads of a goat, a dragon, an eagle, a segmented scorpion tail) and an intricate mosaic of veined dragonfly wings have patterned themselves up the sides of his neck. A wealth of surreal (kind of nightmarish-fantasy) imagery has spread in bright colours up his arms, styled very identifiably in the same patterning that painted itself across the entire city the previous month. "The Red Cross gave money for m'whole family, yeah. Clothes, food, lotsa stuff. They're good folks, I think. Offered a place at the shelter, but we had somewhere t'go, I think. I talked t'Hive 'bout what t'do but he ain't /left/ Flicker's side yet so I think it'll only become a /real/ issue once he's outta the hospital." His eye tracks back over to Telford curiously. "-- there's other hurts in the city," he agrees, musing, "but I admit I kinda automatically start wonderin' the same. Especially given all the mis-match clothes. S'silly. I think it's a -- what's that thing called? Where you see a thing or hear a thing an' after that you start hearin' it /everywhere/? S'like that." Moving from the pants rack to a bin of shirts, the tattooed man starts looking for nice, brown or black colors even a dark blue would be fine.. why does everything old have to be so colorful? He finally finds a button up black shirt in a size too large for him but he can work with it. He adds that to his collection of purchases on his shoulder then starts to limp towards the counter but he pauses as he starts to cough again this time harder. He coughs so hard he is almost doubles over but after a few moments he recovers and starts to limp towards the counter to pay for his goods. For a change he's actually not shop lifting because he's trying to conserve his strength. "If he needs a place, I can clean it up," Ash amends quickly, biting on his lip as he thinks. "I mean, there's pretty much no one better to clean up dirt than me. I can make sure to get every little bit - and then vacuum up the other stuff that is not actual dirt." He stuffs his hands into his pockets as he thinks, stirring to the conversation only when Jax asks him a question. "Oh. You're colorful again." He grins quickly. "I don't know the word. It was like two German people's names maybe. I heard it once. I want to say... Beider-Minehoff?" He shrugs and stares happily at Jackson's tattoos before glancing over at the man with the dark tattoos. Then there is coughing. Ash quickly moves over to help, slowing to a halt when the man straightens and moves on. Hrm. Oh look! A wrack full of sweaters. "You need sweaters, Jax?" he calls back to the colorful one. "It's probably going to be chilly for a little while." "I was slackin'. Now I ain't," Jackson replies with a bright smile, bouncing slightly on his toes. He snaps his fingers together -- "/Oh/, that's the one. Meinhof, right, yesss. Prob'ly now I'm doomed t'hear it everywhere the next couple days. An' I'll ask Hive if he needs --" He's distracted by the coughing, turning aside to trail after Ash with a worried frown. "Sir, d'you -- need help?" This time he /actually/ asks the question, whether or not it's answered with Telford -- apparently leaving. His teeth drag against his lower lip, habitually /trying/ to worry at a lip ring that is no longer there, and one (now brightly-tattooed) arm holds his bundle of clothing against his chest while his other hand skims against his (now brightly-tattooed) skull. He watches Telford with a note of concern, half-turning towards Ash with a bit of distraction. "Oh -- sweaters? Hm. It -- /is/ cold." Sweaters, that is actually a good idea, especially when you are living in an abandoned building with no heat. The coughing man lays his stuff down on the counter and says in a voice that is rough and raw from excessive coughing. "I'll take these, but I think I need a sweater too." then he turns and starts to limp back towards the sweater wrack. He says to the two men as he approaches, "Thanks for the concern. I'm fine." but his voice sounds like he's been gurgling with broken glass. He says, "Just had a rough week." yeah he'll be fine. Ignore the sweating, the paleness, the coughing and limping, the smell of burning building still lingering in his clothing and bandages everywhere. Everything will be just fine! He doesn't need no hospital! He's a super-criminal! "You'll be fine, sure," Ash agrees whole heartedly, but he continues as well. "But you could be better faster if you had some help, maybe." He tilts his head and holds up something that looks a bit like an army issue sweater next to Telford's torso, lips pursing as he tries to judge if it is too big or too small. "Anyway. We just kind of had a building blow up around us, so we're kind of keen on helping other people who've had things like that happen." He grabs one that is blue and black with glittery thread laced through the black sections and holds it out for Jax. "Kinda literally around us. M'entire life sorta went up in --" Jax's cheeks puff out, his breath expelled in a puff of air. "Pretty much near died. /Woulda/ died, if not for a whole lotta people helpin' /me/ get back to bein' fine. -- 'zat green one looks near 'bout his size." His chin tips towards one near Ash's hand even as he reaches towards the glittery one eagerly, holding it up to himself. "You had anyone look at those --" He waves -- with a sleeve of the sweater -- towards Telford's bandages. Covering his mouth and coughing again but less intensely. Telford recovers and says, "Oh, it's just some minor burns and I stepped on something in all the smoke no need to make a big deal about it. I'm sure it'll heal up fine." But then he says, "It wasn't the building that in the news that exploded from the napalm charges was it?" as he looks at the man shopping for him. Why is he so familiar? Jackson! It's Jackson Hollen-zomthing-or-nother! Ford's one eye goes wider, "Hey, aren't you that guy from TV?" he asks, "The mutant who everyone said was a terrorist for a while then they dropped the charges? You lived in that building? That explains a lot." he says as if that somehow solves the mystery of why his house got blown up. "Small world! I lived there for all of three hours before the whole place went boom." he says. "Just my luck. I finally find a place to live and this happens." "Oh man, you really are recognizable," Ash remarks, a small smirk on his lips. "I am glad my video kind of went a little less noticed. I mean, it messed up work, but I'm working on that. I'm actually going to see if what I did for the lofts will get me back in good with my union." He exhales quietly and takes a step back, letting the other two men talk. He is very interested in the sweaters, checking tags for Jackson before offering them to him for his perusal. "Yeah, it was -- I don't know what kinda charges, but that was --" Jax's one eye opens a litle wider when he's recognized, a sudden flush darkening his cheeks. "Oh -- gosh, yes, that's me. I -- I don't think they was tryin' to -- well. I mean they -- think they was aimin' for my -- neighbor but -- s'hard t'tell a whole lot quite --" His blush only deepens when he finds out Telford lived there too, and he ducks his head, rubbing a hand, still gripping the glitter-threaded sweater, against the back of his neck. "Oh -- oh gosh. 'pologies, yeah, um, that's -- poor luck." His hand lowers, draping the sweater over the rest of his bundle of clothing. "Burns can get real bad though an' that cough don't sound -- oh, gosh, m'frettin' again. We jus' seen a lotta injuries come outta that so -- I don't know, I know a lotta good folk who can help with --" He shrugs a shoulder, glancing bcak to the the sweaters Ash is offering and lighting up at a peacocky blue-and-green one. "How /has/ work been goin' for you lately?" he wonders of Ash. "Oh, well. It's kind of halting, you know, start a job, lose a job kind of stuff lately, but the apartment complex I'm working on right now is good because I'm in with the architect and he knows the contractor. They're giving me some good work all the way through June, I think, but there may be more on that too." He stops looking through the sweaters and pulls out his cell phone, it seems to have been buzzing on vibrate in his pocket. "Oh. I should go take this. Hope you guys don't mind. I'll be back in a little bit." He lifts a hand before pressing the answer button and starting to walk away. Telford gets quiet for a moment as if considering something but his stomach grumbles and the fear of his eye getting worse worries him. He waits until the two are done talking and then the phone call is addressed but once he has one of them alone he says in a quiet voice, not just because of the roughness of his throat but because he doesn't want people to hear, "If.. you know somewhere that would be open to treating a mutant without asking a lot of questions. I went to that clinic in mutant-town but they were swarmed with people." and cops and security. "I don't want to be a bother but I could use someone antibiotics and pain pills. I can take care of the rest myself." "There -- ain't hardly many places in town that /will/ but I work at Mendel, actually," Jackson answers, softly as well. "The chaos's died down a lot now that the immediate emergency's passed. They'll do right by you an' won't pester you none. C'mon." With some reluctance he leaves his armload of clothes -- since he hasn't actually had a chance yet to try them /on/ -- and gestures Telford towards the door. "S'get you checked out."