ArchivedLogs:Harbor

Harbor
Dramatis Personae Eric, Jax, Jim	2014-09-08 '
Location <NYC> Harbor Commons - Makerspace - Lower East Side
It isn't huge in this workshop, but it's well-ventilated and well-equipped. Like the Common house, this building -- small and shedlike and tucked off to a side of the courtyard -- is accessible to Commons residents via their electronic keycards. Stocked with plentiful tools for all kinds of workmanship, it has a small number of workspaces along the side of the room with a fair amount of open floorspace that can be repurposed as needed. In different corners there are a couple more specialized sections -- one front corner has been walled off into its own darkroom, and farthest off in back, cordoned off and thankfully left empty when not in use, is a squat furnace with a tendency to look like a pot of glowing lava when it is filled with molten glass. A faint wave of shifting texture ripples back from Jim's face as though the heat of Jax's furnace gave off a sort of selective WIND that rolls flesh back into a crackly-gray - a reflexive response to heat, one of his own eyes squinting up. "Watch it sonny," (or maybe he said SUNNY) and he adjusts his spectacles smartly at Jax like a LIBRARIAN, peering over the top of them, "All the close-up work you do, you end up living to be /my/ age, you'll probably have a set like these, too." Pause. "Well, more like--." He covers one of the eye pieces with a hand. He heads over in typical LOOKSIE LOO fashion, hands folding over the cordoned off barrier, watching the oozie-glass surface collect colors, "How's it." Jax's goggles briefly transform, shifting into a brightly floral pair of bifocals. He lifts a hand from the pole he holds to rub briefly against his chin (fuzzy! with a bit of growing-out beardscruff), and then shakes his head. "S'a big if. You pull it off better anyway." His cheek wipes down against his sleeve as the goggles return to their normal appearance. "Hooot." His head tips towards the darkroom. "Productive?" "It's an /iffy/ fucking world." Jim manages to make it so cynical it passes around its own equator and manages to sound /optimistic/ coming out the other side. Except the growl also implies a dark little 'knowing /your/ luck'. He doesn't exactly smile, but he does /hrf/ at Jax's glasses, scratching at his own thick-grizzled hobo-beard (losing flakes of skin and bark and possibly a FLEA or termite), glancing over a shoulder and the darkroom door, "Ngh. Kinda guess. Got a client hiring me on to help prove some fucking... vehicle fraud case - open and shut. Writing off the supplies anyway; using what's left to develop the last roll from Thailand." There's a few hundred. Which does lead to, "Was gonna ask you about that." "It's been a backwards world lately." Though here there's just a hint of amusement in Jax's voice. "You know they made their first arrest this weekend under the Mayor's new. Criminalizing mutant powers. Law." He is returning to his bench, turning the pole slowly clockwise to keep the glass on it neatly centered as he uses a pair of long tweezers to shape it. He tips a puzzled look back at Jim, though. "Gonna ask me about -- vehicle fraud?" Maybe his brain is a little bit split. "And it wasn't you?" Jim may have a hint of amusement too. Or maybe he doesn't know /what/ the hell it is, maybe he's /pissed/, it's all kind of coming up SCOWL, "Vehicle fr-," except, being Jim, he's actually thinking about it, "Fuck, you could pull off a lot of weird-ass fraud schemes with your shit. You ever tried photo--kineting for a photograph? Some sort of long-exposure shit FUCK," sidetracked. Shakes his head, "No. I was meaning the Thailand shit. Wanna make a scrapbook." He says it like scrapbooks are a mortal enemy. The intent LOOK he's giving Jax seems like he's waiting for the younger man to SAY something at this point. It's a look Jax has gotten a lot during Jim's mute-gardener periods. Don't make him ask for help, Jax. He might implode. "Shane and Dusk and some of the others had a -- wager. On who could get arrested for it first? It was Micah." The amusement in Jax's voice here is bubbling to the surface. He stands, again, carrying his rod back to the furnace to gather new clear glass over the coloured bit. "Um -- I mean, my illusions have showed up in photographs but at different angles it can be /odd/? I haven't tried -- any kinda. Photo-art or anything though." He glances back over his shoulder at Jim as he moves away from the furnace, wiping his sweat-damp face against his shoulder once more. "Scrapbook. Oh wow with the new flowers you've been growing we could do neat things with that, too." In an unusual turn of events, Eric's enterence into the Harbor Commons is a quiet one, this time - silent, to match the many police cruisers outside with flashing lights and no sirens that have pulled up around the perimeter of the building. The police following Eric, unlike the police outside, don't have their guns outstretched - rather, they carry odd looking neon-orange canisters that have a large rflector on one end, and a keen eye might even be able to make out the "Property of the NYPD Harbor Unit" lazily spraypainted on the outside of each of them. The police team fans out, blocking off staircases as they make their way through the main gate and out into the interior courtyard, fanning out with a practiced precision that belies the weight of kevlar helmets and vests that they have on. The open door to the workshop does not go unnoticed; the team approaches quietly, a pair of them making their way along the wall until, at Eric's signal, two of the police officers turn the corner at the doors sharply, hands on the controls of their flood lights. It's Eric who breaks the silence, at point in the little team. "Where is she, Jax? Where is Nox?" Thumb and forefinger at a right angle, Jim is in the midst of making a very smart PISTOL shape at Jax, "Now /that's/ the kinda thinking I'm-." He doesn't jump, with the sudden interruption. If anything, he goes an eerie variety of still, that ceases all signs of human breath or life with a quiet creak of wood muffled inside his body. And turns his head slowly, to look over a shoulder, staring dead-hard and tight jawed at Eric and his merry band. Jax /does/ jump, a little bit of twitch-startle that -- is rather /unfortunate/ while holding a heavy pole with molten glass on it. His hand slides against the length of metal, pulling back /sharply/ when it brushes up against the part that had been heating in the furnace. Teeth clenched, he looks over at the officers from behind his tinted safety goggles. "What." His normally polite drawl is just flat. "Ain't in my furnace, for sure." Eric looks back and forth between the two men, his expression equally flat. "If she was, you'd save me and the State of New York a lot of pain and money. I have a warrant here to search these buildings, top to bottom, until we find her. So, let's dispense with the pleasantries and get down to business. Where is she? Jim?" The police officer's eyes turn onto the other man, lips pressed into a thin line. "Let's not make this an... unpleasant evening. You don't want me here any more than I want to be here; just let me take her out of here and we'll be gone right after." "--Every private resident on the premises?" Jim doesn't bother sounding dubious; the hands he'd set on the barrier separating the furnace area from the rest of the room are kept carefully out and empty while he slowly turns to face the officers, sounding almost bland-bored, "Y'know we're not giving welcome consent." No, really - he says it like he KNOWS Eric already would know this. Not like Jim's making any movements to stop it; he's even withdrawing the faint crust of plant fiber on his outer body to bring out all that, only two fingers twitching a beckon, "I see the warrant?" "You seriously have a warrant for /all/ our private houses?" Jax is saying, faintly disgusted, at about the same time as Jim's flatter-toned question. His eye flicks between Eric and Jim expectantly at Jim's question. "She killed a police officer and is suspected in the murders of several federal officers." Eric lowers his twenty million candle flood light to the ground as he reaches into his pocket and withdraws a stapled piece of paper, with a blue sheet on the top. "Go ahead," Eric says, holding the paper out between two fingers, giving the two men a disgusted look. "It's a no-knock warrant good for all property owned by the association or its members. You're welcome to complain to the court." With his other hand, he depresses the microphone on his walkie-talkie, eyes locked on Jax as he speaks into it. "Strike 1 to TACCOM. Green light, ESU 2, 3, 4. Looks like we're doing this the hard way." Good thing Jim's wearing his reading specs - he adjusts them on his nose and unfolds the warrant like he's handling something slimy. And settles himself back to read the entire damn thing if he gets a chance to, making first a note of exactly who's /signed/ it and what parameters may exist. Uttering low down to the paper, "...just remember there's fucking kids here." Otherwise, it's playing the game of standing back and doing nothing. No one's favorite game.