ArchivedLogs:Lost Boys and the Wendy Lady

Lost Boys and the Wendy Lady
Dramatis Personae Alyssa, Kay, Melinda	2014-03-26 '
Location <NYC> BoM Safehouse - Lower East Side
Tucked away off a little-used side street in the Lower East Side, sandwiched between a youth drop-in center and a taqueria, this narrow three-story townhouse has very little to catch the eye. Boarded-up windows, a door peeling its paint, shabby grubby brickface; from the outside it does not look like much. Inside someone has gone to great lengths to renovate the building into something more habitable. It isn't glamorous but it is comfortable, old furniture dragged in, the place generally swept clean. The first floor holds a large living room, a smaller dining room, a spacious kitchen, a half-bathroom. There are three bedrooms and a full bathroom on the second floor; the attic is just a large empty space crammed full of boxes with a window out to the large flat roof. The basement, much like the attic, consists of a lot of empty space. A bare concrete floor, no windows, occasional poles running up to the ceiling. A tiny half-bathroom down here, too. Not a whole lot else. Dear god, someone let Kay drive a van, knifing up to park at the curb of the innocuous Lower East Side safehouse with an alarming amount of precision. Pulling up in front and behind are a few other Brotherhood-driven vehicles, transporting the few stray refugees to their new home. It's a highly Mutant affair - many are physical mutants, some kind of shy about public visibility. The Brotherhood members in turn are Not. Kay's dressed kind of like a trucker, in a black tshirt beneath a denim jacket, where very small MMMC patch is sewn on the left breast pocket - no MC kutte, this, but low-key is the name of the game when you're wanted by the fucking FBI. He has a paisley black bandana tied over his dirty-blond (or just dirty, blond) hair and a HUGE pair of aviator sunglasses. Fingerless black gloves. An alarmingly expensive, alarmingly COLORFUL watch, probably an inordinately huge silver chain. "Ladies," he doesn't just open his side of the door - he pulls the handle, braces a foot against it, and KICKS it open. "Welcome to your new home." That ready transport was, in fact, included in the deal has one (1) Aly Carter all (tired, tired) smiles of gratitude as the van pulls up to the curb so //precisely//. More importantly: her lungs thank whoever thought of providing it. She's been quiet since she was picked up, her breathing still a little bit on the rough side -- if not //so// rough as to require, you know. More hospital. She's conspicuously less colorful than she is usually wont to be, and less put-together: the usually-braided fall of her hair is bound back in a low and sloppy ponytail, and the clothes she wears are -- plain. Faded jeans and a black t-shirt, a no-brand hoodie worn open -- and half-on, because to couple with her (mostly-bandaged, mostly-hidden, non-lifethreatening) burns, her left arm is //charmingly// cast-bound from knuckles to elbow. She fidgets, with the clear plastic bag in her lap that holds the clothes she wore into the hospital, with the hospital-ID still bound around her right wrist. "--was that a taqueria?" is the first question actually out of her mouth once they've stopped, a bit of a dry-rasp as she turns (gingerly) in her seat. Melinda is still also seat bound. She unrolls the window to get a better look at the place, a small wrinkle between her brows. She is not damaged like poor Aly, but she is rather large and has been encouraged not to stand up. Turning, she leans forward a bit and braces her arms on the frame of the window, a small smile on her lips. "Oh. Hey. Looks like a place. I ... Thank you, Kay. It's nice." "The taq-ierest taqueria this side -," even Kay can't really finish that, kind of nose-scrunch-eye-swint grinning that bares his bad teeth, "Well, this side the block. I'm from fucking Nevada. /There's/ some god good-damn," he's hopped from the van, come around the side and opened Melinda's door to start wrangling out her wheelchair. Many people might treat such items with the delicate care they would treat those destined to ride in them - Kay, not so much. He wrangles it down like a BIKE. PLOP. And opens it up. And then offers out his arms to Melinda, smiling just as brightly, even for the knowing look in road-rough oldman eyes, "--Give it a few days. We're a bunch of freaks and weirdos but y'might like it. Maybe you'll wanna stay on, perm. Like Wendy for the Lost Boys. Tell us mom-stories. Wash our faces." Except Wendy DIDN'T STAY. Aly's laugh is surprised-sharp, and it loses itself in a rough-edged cough that brings a (slightly-embarrassed) flush to her freckled cheeks. When her breathing is clear, though, she knuckles her eyes dry with her non-cast hand and grins, nose-scrunch included over, "Arizona, originally, and California most recent, so -- I'll take this side of the block, anyway. Awesome." She watches the wheelchair-wrangle, then turns wide-bright eyes on Melinda, her, "Is there anything I can get for you?" tired-chirrup-helpful despite her currently-disreputable (and displaced) state. She waits her turn to exit, fuss-fidgeting with her hospital bracelet again over, "Freaks and weirdos kinda grow on you, maybe, after a bit." "Oh." Melinda watches Kay with her temporary wheelchair, trying to disguise her amusement with vague horror, but it only manages to look neutral, perhaps a teensy bit skeptical. When he offers his arms, she turns her knees and grabs on tight as she starts to walk herself out of the van and into the chair. "Um. I don't know. We'll see. I kind of only signed up for one kid to start. Dunno how I'm going to feel about mothering adult kids. Aly? What do you think? You want to be Kay's mom?" She pauses and considers. "Um. Hm. Careful what you ask for. I can basically do nothing. I'll need people to get me small meals throughout the day and help me on my various and frequent bathroom breaks. Gah. My bladder is the size of an acorn these days. But if you're interested, I'll hook you up with Tove." "Desert brother - the lizard people!" Kay identifies with Alyssa toothily, his brows all hiked up with excitement, "Man, no wonder you got a bike. You picked a hell of a time to move out here, kiddo." Nevermind that Aly's Everything Else has been on fire. Is the BIKE ok? His arms are wiry and solid when Melinda's weight bears down on them, not underweight in any way - lean like a doberman. LONG like a doberman, too, the serpents of tendon under his tanned-rough skin making the faded and scar-damaged dragon tattoos encircling them twitch like living things. "Sure, momma," he uses a foot to kick-nudge the chair nearer for Melinda to maneuver into, then reaches in behind her to haul out whatever duffel or backpack she might have brought with her, slinging it over a shoulder, "You can /practice/ on us while we feed you." Nevermind that Kay is older than BOTH young women. He isn't doing it for Melinda's benefit, when he makes quite 'vroom-room' sounds when he wheels her up the walk. It's just a reflex. He does it with shopping carts, too. Maybe it's because she's tired. Maybe it's because Aly is learning to think before she actually speaks, but oh it is //clear// across her face the moment she starts to answer Melinda: grinning, her mouth opens, her eyes are wide -- and then she snaps her mouth closed with an audible click and the grin (and flush under her freckles) grows. "I'll leave the actual mom-ing to you," she says more diplomatically, crinkling her nose as she scoot-scoot trundles out of the van in their wake, and slams the door shut behind them. "It's always a hell of a time to move out here," she says with a hint of a shiver as she drifts along in their wake. To make sure it's //separate// from the mothering commentary, it's not until they're close to the door that she adds, "I can cook," like she actually NEEDS to be useful in order to be kept around. Melinda settles nervously into the chair, exhaling as she comes to a rest once more, putting her feet up on the little rests. She shakes her head at Kay and his practicing comments, not speaking again until Aly does, her smile relaxing. "Oh good. It's always nice to have someone who can cook. Though, apparently that comes from the most surprising of corners. Someone I've only ever see order out made some really good food for my birthday this year." She grows nervous once more as she waits to be shown the place, hands fidgeting on the arm rests. "I hope you don't mind if I mostly want bland food, or stuff doused in vinegar." <Borg> Someone is thinking warm and pleasant thoughts about Hive. Uh oh. <Borg> Someone stirs, in a mess of prickly-disgruntled << what. >> <Borg> Someone, SOMEONE is a warm flush of almost-said, bitten-back amusement and reflexive-flirt tamped down, down, down. <Borg> Someone is being inducted into the lost boys group as a Wendy and she needed a happy thought. << My happy thought was Lasagna. >> <Borg> Someone is suddenly blushing for even less apparent reason than usual. It's not a terribly reassuring housefront; paint peeling off the door, the windows boarded over. "HohoAWESOME. Can't cook. Just set shit on FIRE." Kay isn't going fast with the wheelchair, but he's doing a kind of skipping running-man behind it. Possibly that dancemove, the Shopping Cart, "You can feed ALL us bastards. I mean. Hope you're good with food from /cans/." They don't have /oodles/ of money to spare, but the upside of Kay playing host is that he is cheerfully ruthless about cutting corners without apology. MM CAN FOOD. Alyssa's rearmost position means she's free when Kay spontaneously tosses the house keys to her, coming around the side of Melinda's chair when they reach it. "Upsey-daisy, Momz." He -- seems intent on carrying her up the few small steps to the door and over the threshold like a BRIDE. Or maybe just to help her hobble. Alyssa snatches the keys out of the air, automatic-like -- except wait, no, she doesn't. The //reflex// is there, and so's the speed, but the automatic part means that she'd doing it left-handed, so instead of actually hooking the damn things out of the air she's, uh, batting them. Out of the air. Toward the ground. Where they land with a jingly sort of sound that's met with an, "--//honestly//, Aly," as she half-jogs the couple of steps to them, and bends down to retrieve them. "--I can do cans, I mean. I can do lots of things but I'm good with poor-student and oh-shit-god close-your-eyes-and-pray small businessrunner, um," she vague-gestures with her cast-arm as she inserts herself between them and the door, and actually manages the locks. "I can do //lots// with cans." The door finally sees fit to open. Thank you, door. "Oh good. Cans." Melinda sounds optimistic, for the most part. She clears her throat and gets up when she gets to the door, leaning on Kay again. "Let's, uh, go inside and get the full tour. It'll be great. How many people are we going to have in here? I can maybe chip in a little more for food. I do have a budget that cost of health care shouldn't really eat all of." She's tugging Kay inside next, looking for her next sit down.