ArchivedLogs:Refugee Camp

Refugee Camp
Dramatis Personae Ryan, Shane
In Absentia	2013-03-10 Shane is Totally Not Fretting At All.
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. Welcome to one of three refugee camps in the Village Lofts. Added to the usual clutter of the four regular tenants of the is the mess of how many other Prometheus rescuees have been (welcomingly) crammed into the living space. Right now, it's late lunch time, with Ryan found in the kitchen alongside roommates Clarice and Liam, all stationed in an assembly line of sandwich production. Some contemporary indie beat plays throughout, and, with Ryan humming along, the mood is light and relaxed as he slathers condiments across bread slices. Knockknockknock! Shane doesn't actually wait for answer, he lets himself in with key borrowed from Jax. He has a heavy armload of /things/, recently retrieved from, most likely, a thrift store. Extra blankets. Extra clothing. It's still /warm/, implying a recent /laundering/ of secondhandgoods. He wanders in to skirt around refugees and DEPOSIT these clothes on the kitchen table. "Special delivery," he says, "I figured people might have run through all /your/ clothes by now. Shouldn't you be, like, sleeping or some shit, dude, I heard some freakish bloodmonster took a chunk off you." That's /like/ a welcome-back-happy-to-see-you-alive right? The twins have been probably too busy with refugeeaid for proper hellos. "Yo, come in," Ryan hollers, even if the teenager enters unbidden of his own accord. Shane is the recipient of a warm smile and chorus of greetings when he appears with his load, complete with curious stares by the refugees milling about the living room area, most of them entertained by the television, books, or various instruments strewn about. "You're a godsend. Whatcha' want on your sandwich, tuna?" He grins crookedly, abandoning his butter knife to pace around to the kitchen to aid in any sorting of goods. "Don't talk about Dusk that way man, he always *asks*," is his playful denial of being TASTED or tired. "How's it over at your place? Jax doing alright?" "Jax is pretending like his entire left side didn't get acided off and you're pretending like you didn't get eaten so I guess you're both, uh, the same as always," Shane says with a rather /toothy/ grin. "Oh, man, do you actually have /meat/ in here for once, hippie?" He's shaking out clothing, starting to fold things into piles by general sizes. "You know he didn't even sleep till last night. I hope /you/ have, you're not solar powered. I'll make you if you haven't, you know. I have teeth. You can't argue." Demonstratively, he chomps. Sharkteeth. Chomp, chomp. Ryan tosses a faded 80s band tee at Shane with a laugh, humming a long to the change in song; one thing is certain, it is never *quiet* in this apartment. He picks up a pair of pants, folding each leg along the seams with a, "You guys finish up lunch, I'll help Shane out," tossed over his shoulder at his roommates, the sandwich brigade. "Had to make a concession for the guests. So have all the chemically processed fish corpse you want, kiddo." He slaps the folded pair down on top of a pile, and picks up a charcoal denim jacket. "I, uh, have snuck a nap in here and there. I mean, I'm kinda needed for any /supply/ runs." Having cash and all. "You remember to floss?" There's an accompanying elbow nudge with that dig. "Pffft, shark," Shane says, "I get any cavities, I'll just /plier/ 'em out and grow a new one. It's your own fault, you know." He says this like an accusation. "If you weren't so damn popular we wouldn't mooch off of you. Um, plus that whole superhero thing. I mean, you /could/ just leave people to rot. You keep this up, though, you'll need to churn out another record or two to keep everyone in tuna and goodwill jeans. I expect a Grammy by this time next year." He might be just a litttttle more chattery than usual but that's /totally not/ worry over the various injuries sustained by the rescue team. Not at all. He's just eying Ryan carefully as he folds a baggy Yankees jersey because Ryan is /so damn pretty/. "Right, sharkface. Neat trick with that moutha' yours too, I imagine you'll have more than a few teeth smacked out of you in your lifetime," Ryan snarks back, shaking his head. "Right. Clearly /that's/ an option. I'll work on the Grammy thing. I look good on a red carpet. In a tux. Then we can upgrade to tofuna and True Religion for /everyone/." There might be a collective eyeroll by his roommates behind him at that, but he pays neither them nor Shane's eyeballing any overt attention. Doot doot, he's minding his own business smoothing the wrinkles from a vintage Oxford. "Everyone that ended up at Xavier's settling in alright?" "Yeah, uh, I mean, the dragon-kid's still got Hive tethered to his brain and there's a couple people at my place who don't really /want/ to be around all the kids yet but they'll end up there eventually, I'm sure." Shane looks over Ryan again and this time it isn't concerned but openly checking him out. "Dude you'd look good in fucking anything. If you get yourself a Grammy you should doll up Pa and take him with you. For your fucking /tofuna/ feast. Jesus. You have time to be a rockstar in between all of this?" He waves a ribbed sweater towards the cluttered apartment. "Aw shit, I should check in with Hive, that reminds me." Ryan smacks himself in the forehead, digging the heel of his palm against his eyes in a general rubbing out of encroaching drowsiness. "Haha," he laughs affably, hand slipping down to leave him a little redfaced. "Guess Jax is the only one who'd appreciate our pre-Grammy meal, huh?" Glancing around, his lets his eyes fall down to the zip-up grey hoodie in front of him. "I mean, I'm juggling it all. Haven't had time to book any gigs. But I'm managing. Giving the fans something to look forward to. Building up the suspense, y'know?" "Yeah. Uh. I think Hive wants to -- oh shit did you even /hear/ -- some assface motherfucker fucked Shelby's arm up I don't even know if she'll be /able/ to open for you at -- whateverthefuck, Bowery thing --" Shane's nose wrinkles. "I think Pa and Hive are gonna find the dude. Make him put it right. But, uh. Probably after everyone's had a chance to /sleep/ first, y'know?" The eying he is giving Ryan is back to concerned again. He drops a large blue t-shirt onto the pile of Large. And then, unprompted, turns to wrap his arms around Ryan in a hug that is rather considerably stronger than his tiny-skinny frame should allow. This comes with a quiet grumbling of: "You stupid superhero /motherfuckers/." "/Fuck/, *no* I didn't." The wave of anger and worry that overcomes Ryan contorts his face, brows furrowed and nostrils flaring. "I don't care about her opening, but, man, is she /alright/?" He drops the hoodie, frowning with a mirrored look of concern in his features. "Jax, Hive, /and/ I will find the dude." No concession is made to sleep! In fact, a slight tension in his muscles suggests he's ready to bolt that instant. Shane!hug waylays him though, and melts his animosity, arms cording tight around him. "Aw, c'mon. Everyone's gonna be fine," he murmurs, low and soothing. "Until you get /killed/ by a fucking /bloodmonster/ or dissolved in /acid/." Shane mutters this against Ryan's shirt, squeezing tighter for a moment. He pulls back abruptly, returning to clothes-folding like he totally didn't just do that. "Her hand's on backwards. Kinda weird. Clawlike. Some asshole who, I dunno, messes with flesh? S'fucked up. She's okay 'cept, I mean, upset. Can't use her hand. It's hard. You guys should beat his face in," he advises Ryan seriously. "But I bet you'll just do some fucking hippie carebearstare shit and show him the power of /love/." "I had that blood freak /running/. And we'll fine *someone* to fix up Jax. That's the great part about being a freak, there's a whole network of us working together and helping out." Ryan crushes Shane against, not without a wince for the pressure it puts on his chest, with its teeth mark injury. Releasing him, he laughs, squeezing his shoulder in a last physical reassurance. "Ugh, man. We'll handle it. Don't worry. Love's gonna bring us all together when we're through with him." Smirk. "Joshua's been working his way through being all JESUS at people, laying hands, healing ills, but. Shit. There's /so many/ fucking people and you know Pa, he won't be seen till everyone else --" Shane /eyes/ that wince. With a sudden /narrowing/. "Fucking hell you're both the same. You know, s'all well and good to look after your team but who the fuck is looking after you? Dumbass." It's a grumble again. But he can't hide the swell of affection that comes with it. "You know what, /I'm/ ordering you /both/ to rest up tonight. I'm locking you in his room. I'll make dinner. You can snuggle and have your fucking hippie /lovefest/." "I'll see to it Jax takes ca--" Damn, called out on his hypocrisy. Ryan backs away from the teen with his glower, waving a white button-up in surrender at him. "Calm, down, okay? I'll-- fine, fine. I'll agree to that, if, and only if, we're allowed to do a check-up on everyone else first, make sure all major problems have been resolved for the evening. /Deal/?" Behind him, Clarice and Liam exchange disbelieving glances and maybe snicker, coming around the counter with a platter of sandwich and bags of chips for lunch. "Now help me clear the table. We can finish folding in my room after you get your tuna-fix." "/Deal/," Shane agrees, satisfied with this compromise at least. "But if you flake out on this I'mm'a bite you." Chomp chomp. His teeth clack in Ryan's general direction, but he has an expression of amusement afterwards. It keeps with him as he starts clearing the pile of clothes from the table, preparing to sully Ryan's hippie kitchen with DELICIOUS CORPSE. "I've been told I taste delicious," Ryan boasts, resuming his laid-back humor once more, grinning fondly, and mockingly toothily at Shane. He even mimics the chomp chomp. Stacking sort piles on top of each other, he hefts them in arms to ferry them to his room. "Now c'mon, so we can make a living graveyard out of you. I know I can't wait to bite into my peanut butter and jelly."