ArchivedLogs:Forward Motion

Forward Motion
Dramatis Personae B, Isra, Shane	2015-08-21 "Those who do not wish to hear you will find reasons not to hear you, no matter how calm and reasoned your words."
Location <NYC> Harbor Commons - Arts and Crafts Room - Lower East Side
The art studio of the Harbor Commons is fairly neutral in base coloration. Easy to clean linoleum tiles in soft gray run up against darker gray baseboard. Overhead is a simple ceiling, unfinished but sprayed with a protecting paint to keep moisture, dirt, and other assorted substances do not stick. There is an exhaust fan to carry heavier fumes up and out, keeping the workspace usable all year. Where they can be seen, the walls are the color of white chalk, flecked here and there with paint, but for the most part, the walls are stacked with supplies, storage, and equipment. There's a small section for wood working, places to store canvases and larger drawings, and cabinets a plenty. In the center of the room, there are work tables aplenty, three at sitting height with a third set up for standing height, next to the open space for the easels. Two deep, stainless steel sinks face off against wide tall windows that open the craft room up to the outside, allowing air and sunlight in, weather permitting. The shades have been drawn in here -- with the overhead lights on but the windows shut it leaves it kind of difficult to tell, exactly, what time it is. Easy to lose /track/ of time, too, which has probably been happening with B. Dressed in bright pink and black yukata, barefoot, the tiny sharkpup is perched on a stool at one of the long work tables, a large toolbox beside her and a long thin board in front of her. The box's compartments are full of bones, clean and white; the board is home to a growing sculpture. Some sort of long monstrous looking creature with far too many centipede-esqe legs and huge sail-like wings. B's claws slowly scratch a notch out of one more slender bone before fitting it onto the sculpture and digging a new one out of the box. Into the quiet scratchscratchscratch of B's boneworking comes the soft pad of footsteps. Shane is barefoot, too. Less dressed, in only loose-fitting white pants and no shirt. He brings with him the savoury smells of food; very large containers of lemongrass pork and seared ahi tuna. "{You're gonna fall off your stool if you don't eat.} And then where will you be? Faceplant /right/ the fuck into your horrible monsterthing and ruin it all." Isra trails in Shane's wake, carrying a lacquered bamboo serving tray with three tall glasses of milky bubble tea and a blue canvas tote under each arm. Particularly striking this week in her coloration, most of her skin ranges from a strange, fierce sunset red to a luminous, misty silver gray, swirled with wisps of deep night-black, set off with gold talons and horns. Her wings, as much as visible when folded in close to fit through doorways, display a portrait of a violent storm, billowing black clouds lanced through with orange-yellow forks of lightning. She wears a simple black jersey wrap dress, though mostly as a skirt. Only the long, broad straps rise above her waist, forming an X across her lean, muscular chest across again between her wings to tie off in a neat bow just above her tail. "It would be a shame," she agrees quietly, her soft alto tinted with mirth absent from her face. "It is coming along so very well." B's nostrils flare as the others enter, a low hungry whine rising up in hir throat. It is followed by a growl, soft and rumbling as ze sets hir bone down and looks up, huge eyes fixed on the container of pork. "It'd still be art, smashed. Just a different kind of art." Ze reaches out a clawed hand, hook-hooking towards Shane and his fooooods. C'mere. "I'm not sure how it's coming along, yet," ze admits to Isra. "It /looks/ good. Not sure how it'll hold up in motion." "In motion?" Shane's eyes get wider. He steps in closer to B's hooking, easily allowing himself to be snagged. Pulled in. He leans against B's side, setting the containers of meats down beside the toolbox on the table. It's kind of a sleepy nuzzle that he gives to the side of B's neck; one eye is giving the sculpture a /skeptical/ look. "... why the fuck would you want that thing to /move/ it's creepy enough already." Leaving her tray beside the food and the totes on the floor, Isra walks around the table, examining the sculpture with new interest. Her tail swishes beneath the hem of her skirt. "What kind of power source and drive system do you have in mind?" When she comes back around to the twins, she curls one massive wing around both. "Also, do you mean for it to locomote like the arthropod which its design so resembles?" One bare eyebrow ridge lifts up. "I understand that the undulating movement of legs constitutes the largest part of the distaste most people hold toward centipedes." B flicks a hand towards a dragonfly drone standing nearby, waking it up so that she can sign to it. After a moment it summons up a video, holo-projected onto the tabletop; the bug-monster sculpture, finished and with its wings filled out with thin sails. Walking (and yes, with that odd undulating gait.) "No power except the wind. I make a lot of robots but haven't really done kinetic sculptures. I thought it'd be fun." Hir head tips slightly to the side; she exhales a soft-happy sigh at the nuzzling and leans back into Isra's wing. "Don't worry, I'm not just going to leave them around to skitter at people." Shane grimaces, turning his face in against B's neck for a moment. But, a moment later, turning back to watch the holographic centipedemonster wander the table. "Actually, I could think of a few places that could do with them just. Lurking around." He reaches out a hand to poke gently at the skeleton of the unfinished wingsail on the /actual/ sculpture. "Teacher's lounge, for one." "I have seen videos of wind-powered kinetic sculptures before, but never one constructed out of bone." Isra reaches over the pups to lift one glass of bubble tea from the tray. Her other hand drops to scritch the back of B's spiny head. "Ambitious. I quite look forward to seeing it in action." Her laugh is short, barely audible--just a sharp exhale, really. "The teacher's lounge probably does not have adequate airflow to power sustained skittering," apparently constitutes her primary issue with Shane's suggestion. "I suppose the discourse over the outing of the school has proceeded in similar fashion from where I saw it floundering last?" "Pfft. There's /plenty/ of hot air in there," B disagrees, laughter clear in her own voice. She tips her head back to rub against Isra's scritching talons, eyes slowly squeezing shut. Hir arm curls around Shane's waist, squeezing him close, fingers trailing lightly downward against hir brother's gills. Hir other hand reaches for the container of pork, prying its lid open. "I can't believe you're moving back /in/. You're a stronger person than I am, that's for sure." Shane huffs out a sharp breath. Maybe a laugh. He presses in tighter against his twin's side, gills fluttering once, quickly. "Well. People have branched out, a little," he allows thoughtfully. "It's not /just/ people whining about how /all/ mutants have equally valid opinions now and it doesn't matter who is a visible mutant or not we just need to respect each other." He leans forward to skewer a chunk of pork on one long claw -- not eating it, but holding it up towards B. "Now it's also people telling me I /would/ have a point worth listening to, maybe, except I'm just so /angry/ and have such a bad /attitude/ and if I'd just cut the angry rebellious crap maybe they'd hear me out." "All the hot air in the world won't help if it hasn't enough room to circulate." Isra speaks levelly, but her lower vocal chords engage, lending a growly bass echo to her words. She takes a long pull on her bubble tea, and remains silent for a long while. Then, finally, very softly, "That...displeases me." The last syllable turns into a growl that does not abate, even when she adds, "But it does not surprise me. Those who do not wish to hear you will find reasons not to hear you, no matter how calm and reasoned your words." B's growl is rougher, harsher. Before taking the piece of pork she turns her head, pressing a kiss to the side of Shane's fluttering gills. After this, a large chomp, wolfing down the chunk of pork hungrily and reaching for one of the bubble teas to grab to wash it down. "{Fuck them.}" She hasn't let go of Shane, palm still stroking slow down along the longer set of gills on his side. "Totally unsurprising. It doesn't matter /what/ cause you have, there's always going to phonies who act like they /would/ be supporting you if only you'd present yourself the way your oppressors define. But that {bullshit} isn't real support anyway." Shane's eyes close, his gills pressing down flat. The side of his head tips in to rest against B's forehead. "Not surprising, no. It's -- pretty much the exact same crap I've been getting since the day I started there. But --" Now he has a long silence. A pause in which he leans forward to steal a sip of B's bubble tea, chew slowly at one of the boba. "... you'd think I'd get used to it, right? It's. Still. Just -- tiring." His voice has slipped quieter, with this. But firmer again when he continues on: "Just glad they /let/ me stay. Hopefully I can help make it less goddamn exhausting for the new kids coming in." Isra's wing tightens around the pups, the heavy thumb claw digging into Shane's shoulder. "I don't think it's the sort of thing you merely get used to. It wears you down and you either come up with strategies to get through it, or strategies to get away from it." She swirls her bubble tea and stares at B's sculpture. "Sometimes I wish I could have stayed, too--for the reason you just mentioned. Though..." Her lips pull back, grinning bright and sharp now. "...it's probably best for some members of faculty that I left before all this happened." "Strategies to get away." B's lips curl upward, hir smile thin. "... they like to ignore how many kids like us drop out or leave for the tunnels but has anyone mentioned how many kids like us have actually /killed/ themselves there?" She rubs a cheek against Isra's wing, fingers still playing against Shane's gills. "But even if you did I'm sure they'd explain away how it was just our poor attitudes. Nothing to do with institutional bigotry at /all/, nope. The school has nothing to do with grinding us -- did you know," ze tips a glance up to Isra, now, "that Anole dropped out? I wish you were still there. Some of those {motherfuckers} could do with a good --" This finishes in a growl rather than a word, hir eyes darting to Isra's talons. Shane leans back, shoulder pressing slightly upward into the point of Isra's claw. His gills flutter open and closed again, breaths a little shakier. "At least it is happening." His voice is kind of flat. Heavy. Despite the words he doesn't sound all that happy. Just a little resigned. "Might have had to drag some of the faculty into the light kicking and throwing fucking /tantrums/, but. S'/happening/." "Not sure a good tearing-up will help them." Isra hooks the index talon of her free wing around both of the tote bags' straps and drags them close. "Then, neither would having a winged centipede made of bones turn up in the faculty room, but it might make /us/ feel a touch better." She shakes her head, horns gleaming in the soft light. "I suppose some at the school think it's an accomplishment. That they have done right by the freaks now, who, after all, had nothing to lose." Her talons flex again. "I fear that self-righteousness will not incline the majority of the faculty to give further consideration to the needs of the physical mutants at the school." "A good tearing-up might clear things out, though. Make room for some people who actually -- care." B reaches for another chunk of pork. "In some ways I think it's likely to make things worse, honestly. This gives people something to point to. Pat themselves on the back. Pretend they've done enough now and we can shut up now that they've tossed us some crumbs." Shane's breath hisses out sharply, his head bowing and face mooshing in against B's shoulder. "Nnngh." He shakes his head sharply. "People can't be shitty /forever/. We're /literally/ fucking dying, they can't just keep --" His hand curls into a fist, head lifting again so that he can lean slightly over. Peer at Isra's tote bag. Then up at Isra. "There's a lot of faculty I'd like to fight. It /would/ be cathartic." "They can keep being shitty forever, unfortunately," Isra says evenly, her voice back to the soft, sweet alto without a monstrous growl beneath. "Which is not to say they will, or that those who do will stay. But they can. Accepting that is not the same as giving up hope...or the opportunity for catharsis, I suppose." She lifts one of the tote bags and sets it down beside Shane, leaving the other on B's side. Both contain neat folds of garments in dry-cleaning bags, their hangers twist-tied together. "After you eat," this apparently in reference to the totes. "Else we'll have to send them in for cleaning before you even get to try them on. Though I feel powerfully confident that I have got your sizes correct." "Sure they can. I don't think most of them even really think of us like we're people. So it's not hard." B licks at hir fingertips, crouching to sniff at the bag. Hands behind hir back. Not touching! At least not with hir hands; she noses hir whole /face/ into the bag to rifle through it. With teeth. "Woah. Clothes? It's not even our birthday." Shane slumps in against Isra's wing when B slides down to crouch by hir bag. He nuzzles against the leathery membrane, opening his eyes only when B speaks. "I'm a very neat eater," he protests with a small scoff. "You got us clothes?" A grin blossoms across his face quickly. "Are they fantastic?" "Well, they are /covered/ at least," Isra concedes. "I did not buy you clothes. I made you clothes. I had not meant it as a birthday present or a going-to-school present. It was just a matter of when I finished them." Her tone almost sounds apologetic. Almost. But then, with a hint of pride, "It took me a while, but I think they'll serve you well. I'm particularly pleased with how these turned out..." The tip of one wing hooks onto one hanger in B's bag, tugs--once, two, and the twist tie just breaks off to let the garment come free: a flouncy sun dress covered with tessellated baby pink and navy blue sharks. From a distance, one could mistake the pattern for houndstooth. The other wing fishes a matching vest from Shane's bag. "You /made/ these?" Now B sounds way more impressed, hooking the hanger over her wrist so that she can hold the dress up against herself. "Oh wow. Oh wow." Still holding the hanger against her arm, she flings her other around Isra for a tight squeeze. "You're gonna be the best-dressed fucking nerd in Cambridge." Shane's grin has not faded. His spiky head butts up against Isra's wing, though he hooks himself a piece of fish rather than the clothing. "/You've/ gotten damn good at that. Maybe you should consider a new profession as --" A small hiss from B interrupts this. "Astronomer is /just/ fine. We don't need another tailor." "I did, with a great deal of study and even more trial and error." Isra wraps her arm around B, squeeze back. "Still an amateur effort, alas, but I hope it will at least fit and feel comfortable. I welcome your critique, as well. I've not much experience sewing for people without wings. And do not worry..." She leans forward to pluck a slice of pork delicately between the thumb and index talons of one long-fingered hand. "I'm not going to give up astronomy any more than I would the two of you." Shane exhales a long slow breath at this. Soft, and less shaky than before as he relaxes in against Isra. B just smiles. Nuzzles in at the older woman's wing. "... it feels comfortable."