ArchivedLogs:Gathering Dusk
Gathering Dusk | |
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Dramatis Personae | |
In Absentia
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2013-06-09 ' |
Location
<NYC> 304 {Ryan} - Village Lofts - East Village | |
Similar in layout to many apartments in this building, the front door opens into a narrow entryway with a small coat closet. The living room beyond is wide and receives plenty of light from its high windows; floored in dark hardwood, it is separated from the adjoining kitchen by a half-wall counter, stools perched on the living room side and the sink and counterspace on the kitchen side. On the other side from the kitchen stands doors branching off to a pair of bedrooms and one bathroom; to the left of the entryway, a short hall wraps around past the kitchen to the second pair of bedrooms, a second bathroom at the far end of the hall. The apartment here stands often in a state of disarray, musical equipment or books or scattered notes spread among the pair of couches or coffeetable. The kitchen, at least, is usually kept neatly organized in contrast to the living room's clutter. At odd intervals from the walls, sturdy wooden poles branch out, somewhat akin to very large bird perches. THUMP THUMP THUMP, there is a thumping of fist on Ryan's apartment door. Mostly a courtesy, because Shane is unlocking the door himself a moment later and COMING IN. He's dressed -- much like he often is, dapper-neat in vest and bowtie, dress shirt and slacks. He is quiet -- his gills are flaring rapidly, flutterflutterflutter and with them working it means his lungs are /not/. Hard to speak with no air passing through him. So: quiet. But there's a restless agitation to him all the same. He beelines straight for Ryan's television -- turning it on if it is off, COMMANDEERING it if it's in use. He's flipping. To /news/. BORING. Horus flutters his wings it rapid-quick flaps when Shane barges into the apartment, steers himself for the large flat screen mounted on the wall and CHANGES. With a squawk, he protests (he was watching SOAP OPERAS). Ryan appears from the back, exiting from the bathroom with hair still mild-damp. He wears a black tank-top with some neon script screen painted over it in some obscure graffiti style, light grey jeans, and flip-flops. "Yo. Shane, what's --" He extends himself, empathic /feelers/ carrying on the sound of his voice to ascertain mood, better informing the /emotion/ behind fluttering gills. "Wrong?" Shane just shakes his head, settling on local news. His gills still flutter; after a pause he manages to quiet them long enough to draw in a ragged gasp of breath. The news report in question has a picture of an NYPD officer, burly, blonde, smiling in his uniform. MUTANT KILLS NYPD SERGEANT scrolls under the picture. Along with other tickertape of commentary. Shadow-mutant suspected in NYPD officer death-Suspect is at large and extremely dangerous-Mayor vows criminal will be brought to justice. "My dad's still gone," Shane manages, fluttery-hitchy between flares of his gills. His mood is -- agitated. Highly agitated. Scared-worried-upset. Possibly on the verge of panicking. Possibly already panicking in a quiet sort of way. Horus provides yet another /squawk/, this time in agitated alarm as he hops from wooden pole to wooden pole, perching closer to the television, then flapping down towards Shane. To preen, the ruffled feathers of his neck laid over the top of his head in a soothing gesture. Ryan clears his throat, fetching a glass from the dish rack next to the sink and filling it with water from a pitcher on the counter. He offers this first to Shane. "/Drink/." Shoving the glass towards him, his eyes flick to the television, causing his brows to knit together as the headlines flash across the screen. "Jax is--still?" His voice intones worry, and /yet/, from the sounds of the speakers broadcasting the television, to the words coming from his mouth, a calm washes across the room. Dulling. Shane presses his spiky head up against Horus, closing his eyes as his forehead sinks in against feathers. He reaches one hand to take the water, taking a large gulp first but then pouring a little of the rest into one cupped palm to splash it against his gills. "The school says he's fine. Went with the -- /giant bugs/ -- on purpose. To talk. But --" The fluttering of his gills slows under that empathic touch, his words coming smoother. He takes another sip of water, still rested up against Horus, looking to the TV. "Horus," he says this pretty seriously, "-- don't go outside right now." His eyes shift back to the television. The reporter is on the fringes of Central Park, which is oddly emptied of any people except a swarm of police. Talking about the attack. Ryan frowns, arms crossed as he stares at the procession on the screen, alternating between a livefeed of Central Park to the news anchor back at the station headquarters. After a brief re-cap, he mutes the television with his powers, walking around to insert himself between the visuals behind him and Shane and Horus in front of him. Horus chirps at Shane, large beak pecking Shane not once, but twice, as if to say, 'that goes for you too, kiddo.' Ryan continues to wear his grimace, eclipsing his face in a distinct concern belied by the static level of tranquility he maintains when he speaks. "I am /so/ not convinced that school is the safest place for -- mutants these days. How long has he been gone now? And do we know /where/ he was before he disappeared with the bugs?" "Just since the afternoon." Shane's cheek rubs up against Horus's beak. "He was out with Micah I -- I think he's /fine/ I just. Wish he was home right now." Shane lifts his cheek, gesturing past Ryan to the television. "Guys, the city's going fucking nuts." He takes another sip of water. "-- Ian's missing," he says to the others. "Dusk came home a bloody mess. Bastian's not home yet. There's cops everywhere and I think they might want us all dead." "Where was he though?" Ryan repeats, straining to keep the ire from his voice (the news volume likely still going through /his/ ears). He briefly casts a look across his shoulder, before leaning in over Shane to /pry/ the remote from wherever it rests and manually shut it off. Horus looms behind the sharkboy still, fretting over him by pulling at the corners of his bowtie with the tip of his beak, fanning his wings out behind him - generally being protective and /assertive/ within the apatment. "Shit. Well /you/ definitely need to stay inside. Do you know where Hive is?" Even as he continues to ask questions, he fishes through his pocket for his cellphone, thumbs flipping through his number directory. "I don't know! I'm sorry. Um. Downtown. Midtown." Shane scrubs his fingers through his spiky hair. He leans back into the fan of Horus's wings, shoulder tucking up against the other teenager's chest. "That cop," he says, nodding towards the blank television. "The one who died." He swallows. The agitation from him is growing palpable again, even with the mitigating empathic influence. "Upstairs. Flicker and Dusk are home, too." Ryan pinches the bridge of his nose, the applied pressure helping him focus, level his tone. "No, it's not your fault. Did you already call and text Bastian and tell him to get his as home?" He continues to stare at the glowing glass of his phone, texting one-handed while Horus nuzzles against Shane's sandpapery roughness. "What about that cop?" His head lifts when a tension spikes against his softening empathic blanket that envelops the room. Gentle, insistent, he sends a creeping /push/ of soothing comfort towards them, lapping over them as a warm, ocean wave. "Maybe we should all camp out together. Chill with Hive and them while I," his gaze turns to the windowsill, "go for a drive." Shane closes his eyes, turning his head to press back against Horus. His arm hooks upward, underneath Horus's wing and around his back. "Where are you going to go?" His words come a little muffled against Horus's feathers. His gills calm again. Softer still: "He's the one who took us. Caught us. Tased me. Beat Sebastian almost to death. Took us -- to -- the fight -- I think he might have been running it." Horus leans forward, casting his wings down over Shane, erecting a wall of soft feathers around him, wrapped in a loose embrace. Ryan delays a response, striding forward to lean past the tips of Horus's wings to lay a hand on Shane's shoulder. Grip firm, expression stern, he shakes his head, "He's dead now. Just how we showed those Prometheus fuckers during the last raid. Justice gets /served/ Shane. Now, I think you and Horus should head upstairs to stay with Hive and Flicker and them. Maybe drag Clarice with you. /I/ am going for a drive. In search of bugs." "It's not justice," Shane says this very quietly, lifting his hand to rest over Ryan's. "I don't know what it is. Revenge." His hand squeezes tighter. "It doesn't change anything that happened to us and it's going to make things a whole fuck ton worse." He lets go of Ryan's hand, though only to snake his arm forward and drag the bigger man into a tight hug. "... you could try calling him," he suggests. But then bops Horus lightly on the head. "Come on," he says, and the cheer in his voice is light although empathic senses could easily detect the deep roil of turbulent emotions beneath, "s'go see if Hive's got any beer." "It's...something." Anarchy, maybe: a cause Ryan finds himself endorsing. "But it's not something you should worry about. Let's take it one step at a time. Focus on getting everyone together. It's a lot harder to persecute a ton of mutants when they are all together," he says, and, whether he believes it or not -- optimism surges forth, bolstering the spirits of those it touches. Ryan 'oofs,' falling over Shane to re-position his arms around him, squeezing back with Horus completing the last, outer layer to the hug-fest that ensues. "Even if Jax is fine when I call, there's no guarantee. I'm finding him and driving him straight back /here/. With his family." Disentangling himself, he stands, offering a hand to pull Shane upright. "Y'maybe wanna take Augustus with you? He does a pretty good job of lightening the mood in my stead. Relax, Shane. I'll do my best to help keep us all safe." And hey! Augustus is a mutant too. Even potcacti need safeguarding. "Ryan don't --" Shane relaxes, into the hug, the smile that touches his lips he can't help with the surge of optimism. "Please don't -- "A moment later he BURROWS his face against Ryan's side, shaking his head. "I don't want to feel good right now." His eyes scrunch up, and he amends: "... I don't know what I want to feel right now. But I want to feel it." He takes the offered hand when Ryan pulls away. His grin is decidedly crooked. "I don't know if Hive wants to think about Jim right now. Maybe I'll just take some of Augustus's leaves." He stretches up onto his toes to peck Ryan! lightly on the cheek. And then bop his forehead against Horus's chest, and slip away to SEIZE some contraband. Or just a leaf from potcactus. Per his request, a fog lifts; whatever empathic film he stretched over them, Ryan pulls back, relenting, as undiluted or channeled emotion runs its natural course. "Alright. But, seriously. Don't go outside. I'll kick your ass if somebody else doesn't. And I'll text you once I squash a few of those six-legged monsters. Holy shit what the hell do they put in the water down in Jersey." His last words are just that: a joke. Grabbing his keys from a bowl on the counter, patting down his pants to ensure he has his wallet, he gestures towards Shane and Horus - they can walk out together. |