ArchivedLogs:Moustache Twirling

Moustache Twirling
Dramatis Personae Teague, Charlie Torres
In Absentia	23 April 2015 '
Location <BOM> Compound Grounds - Ascension Island
In some places, reaching the main grounds of this island takes a precarious scramble up from the rocky-craggy shore; in some places, just a short hike away from the beach. Once an old homestead, most of the 28 acres of property are taken up with forest, a dark thick sprawl of greenery through which a small stream winds crookedly. Under its shady canopy, myriad buildings are tucked away, an eclectic mix of sheds and tiny sturdy log cabins that give the area a rustic feel. Centrally, a wide clearing has been cut out of the trees. A large sweep of lawn has had a metal swingset -- two swings to either side of a small trapeze bar -- set up to one side. The lawn leads up to a cabin bigger than the others, a squat one-story building. Long and low, its wide front porch and cheerfully-painted yellow and pink shutters lend the building a welcoming air. Two long Pocahontas braids drape down Teague's back, weighed down by shimmering diamond cuffs. With his legs crossed, the teen sits regally above the compound on the swingset. Dressed for the weather in donated clothes, he must climbed up onto the trapeze bar some time ago. Quite comfortable, even with the chill, he stares contemplatively out into the forest as he milks an Opera-length cigarette holder. It's made of diamonds of course, and glitters in the lingering evening sun as he elegantly moves it away from his mouth. Judging by the pungent smell drifting on the wind, the hand-rolled cigarette on the end isn't entirely tobacco. Teague being /up/ on a trapeze bar, among other things, manages to catch Charlie's attention despite the fact that the hare-girl has been out for a jog. Well, it is jog by her definition. On the average it would look like a good /run/ for most people out exercising. She is dressed simply in a black and white ringer tee with a fading abstract tiger pictured on the front and light jogging pants, her long brown hair tied back and exposing her ears. She rolls to a stop by the swingset, looking up at Teague. "I didn't know anybody ever used those things not bein' written by Fitzgerald or tryin' t'steal a crazy number of spotty puppies." It's kind of a like a greeting. Slowly batting his long, dark lashes, Teague watches Charlie down below with some delay in his reaction time. "I could have used a fur coat today, quite frankly," he cocks his chin haughtily, gripping the bar with his free hand as he switches crossed legs, "I don't suppose you get very cold, do you?" He taps the cigarette holder away from Charlie to flick away any ash before offering it to her. "Kinda come with my own," Charlie acknowledges with a half-grin. "But, yeah, I sure do get cold when it's cold. These ears're made for keepin' cool, not warm. Just out joggin', means bein' pretty warm as a baseline." Speaking of which, she settles onto one of the vacant swings, pushing a small back-and-forth excursion just enough to keep the blood flowing and muscles moving for warmth. Her head shakes at the cigarette offer. "I...seriously don't think I could use that thing without laughin'. Got my own, though." Fishing around in her pocket, she comes up with her own RYO number...entirely sans holder. It takes a fair amount of cupping against the wind to get it lit with her cheapo lighter. From jogging right to smoking...that's how most people keep up their health, right? "I was just thinking about how this is like being at sleep away camp," Teague gestures around them, at the forest and unassuming central building, "Of course, I never went to one. Saw them in movies, though." Opening both arms, the teen slips down from the bar. His braids flap behind him as he falls, and lands on his feet. "I keep expecting someone from the outside world to appear and say that they're here to bring me back." Cat-like, Teague makes his way closer. "You live here long?" “Camp? S'one of those mythical things like school, right?” It's a pretty good bet Charlie never went to one, either. “Ain't nobody in the outside world t'give a damn about me. Figure they mostly'd be happy to have me /be/ away.” Her head shakes slightly as she exhales a plume of smoke. “Little over a month. Not /quite/ the newest face here.” Teague shows Charlie his profile as he turns back to the woods, "Me too, I suppose." He takes a long drag, holding it before exhaling a long stream of white smoke into the air. "If you don't mind me saying, you're so bold. I figured you'd been here longer." “S'that the fancy way of saying I got a big mouth?” Charlie asks with a slight waggle of her eyebrows, half-smirk returning in that way that can only be achieved by a lagomorph mouth. “Ain't been living here long, but I ain't a stranger, either. Been with the family since I was sixteen, official-like. My uncle, he was with 'em since before he ever took me in. So's family /and/ family, you know?” She takes another long drag on the cigarette. “Where you coming from?” "London," Teague gives confirmation to her by returning the smirk, "By way of D.C." He turns the cigarette holder in his wrist, staring down at it, "Your uncle 'was' ...?" He flits his eyes to watch Charlie again, frowning. Charlie's head gives another shake. "Nobody said that it's low risk, being part of this family." Her shoulders rise and fall in a little shrug. "Cop got off a lucky shot when we were doing a job on a registration office. So I come up here." Another puff of smoke, a slow creak of the swing's chains. "How you end up here from London?" "My condolences," Teague runs his fingers along the support of the swingset, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead against the cool metal, "My mother was a mutant. She was pathetic, and killed herself. So, I was sent to live with my father, but I couldn't stay-" His voice drifts off before he mimics a very generalized American accent, "/Senator Peter Stepford./" A brief odd look crosses Charlie's features, a twitch of nose, before she shuts it down with a nod. “Likewise,” she returns as Teague reveals the news about his mother. “S'that the man's real name or are you mocking him? I legitimately can't tell.” Either way, she seems amused by it. Teague taps some ash onto the ground. "That's his real name," he smirks, bringing the sparkling holder to his smirky mouth, "And I /was/ mocking him. Very 'beige' man, hates Mutants, Gays," his eyes widen briefly for inflection, "Science. Fucking imbecile. Lovely home, though. Very nice roof deck." Charlie's snort comes with a curl of smoke from her nostrils. “That's the best way. Mock with the damn /truth/.” The flick she gives to knock the ash from her own cigarette comes with a hint of distaste. “S'the kinda person seems to do well for themselves in this country. Not surprised you took off, nice house or not.” "I hadn't intended to," Teague admits, ashing his joint and holding up the holder to stare at it once more, "I was told to watch him. Spy. But his son...my half-brother, I suppose. He was one of us, too. I had no idea. Went mad." A wave of warmth glides out over the air as Teague open his palm, releasing the object in his hand. Sparkles dance around it, like magic, as it seems to disassemble into the air. In a moment, it is no more. "I do wonder about his fate." “Spy for us?” Charlie asks for clarification. “What are the chances your freak-hating dad would go getting mutant sons from two different women? He isn't one of those I-hate-you-'cause-I-hate-myself-really guys, is he?” Her brow furrows at the vague description. “That sounds like a story there, maybe.” Teague nods as his answer, eyebrows waggling, "Would that he was. Unfortunately for him, I doubt he has the capacity for such personal depth. Someone somewhere is playing a joke on him though, for sure." He breathes out a laugh. “So your brother went crazy, pops threw you both out?” Charlie hazards a guess at the events. “Don't think self loathing takes a lotta depth, really. Sure are enough people doin' it that ain't tryin' very hard, at least.” She holds the cigarette in her lips for a time while her hands are occupied on the swing chains, increasing the pendulum-movement slightly with a bit of a harder push. "Oh, it was a massacre," Teague says quietly, looking off grimly for a moment. Drumming his fingers against the metal pole of the swing set, he nods to himself, "I'm thankful this place exists." “Like, literally?” Charlie's already wide doe-eyes widen ever further. “Man. That's some harsh stuff.” She spares a hand for another drag from the cigarette. “S'a good place. Good people. Nice t'be able to let your hair down somewhere, you know?” "Quite literally," Teague brings one of his braids into sight, toying with its end, "Or braid it. /Whichever/." His eyes crinkle into little smiles. He pushes off to mosey over to the other swing. It creaks as he sits, wrapping both hands around the chains, "Can you French braid?" He kicks his legs to get the swing going. “Probably law's hunting him, then. Keep him on the run.” Charlie gives a little chuff of laughter at the last. “Ain't that about the exact opposite of down?” She reaches away from her swing chain a bit to tap off the building ash. “No, I don't really know how to handle long hair that isn't on my own head. Didn't exactly have little siblings or cousins to be practicing on. You get some shorter hair, I set you up with an okay cut. Did for my uncle often enough, at least. Do a good straight razor shave, too. Hot lather and all that.” Teague gradually builds up the pendulum motion of his swing. "He must be," he agrees, though he does peer over his shoulder at her for suggesting he cut his hair, even as it flaps around wildly in his wake, "I can't even /grow/ a beard." He laughs. Charlie gives another laugh at that look. “Hey, it's only if you want me to be at all helpful for grooming purposes. You able to get a tiny moustache even, or nothing trying to be on your face?” She stubs out the end of her cigarette and gives pushing her swing more attention. "Don't act like you can't see it," Teague jokingly brings a hand up to tweak the end of an invisible mustachio. The pair's laughter and the innocent creak of the swingset float out over the Brotherhood compound as the playground equipment is silhouetted against the setting sun.