ArchivedLogs:Show Yourself

Show Yourself
Dramatis Personae Jackson, Nox	2013-04-02 Street art, shadows and a troubling bit of news.
Location <NYC> Greenwich Village
A rather bohemian neighborhood and the East Coast birthplace of the Beat movement, Greenwich is the residential counterpart to its more punk east sibling. The Village has been a historical center for the important political movements-- landmarks such as the Stonewall Inn on Christopher street were here during the GLBT rights movement, and the Weather Underground had safehouses here during the radical anti-war movement as well. Historically a place for artists and hippies to flock, gentrification has driven up prices in the locale, causing Greenwich to now trend less bohemian and more yuppie, though the stereotype remains. By the middle of the night spring is feeling more like winter again, a sharp bite in the air and a stiff breeze adding to the chill. There are still a /few/ people out and about, there always are, but Tuesday is not the most exciting night of the week so even in Greenwich their numbers are few. Away from the main thoroughfares many of the side streets and alleys are deserted entirely. Including this one, a small street passing behind a row of townhomes, intermittently lamp-lit but mostly quiet and dark. Or -- mostly quiet and dark? There is a sound coming from next to one brick wall that closes in the adjacent property. A rattly shaking, a spraying. But not, at present, a whole lot else to be seen. Except -- every now and then, a faint glow blossoms near the wall; every now and then, that glow illuminates not the plain red brick but a bright-strong riot of colour. A host of blossoms in vivid shades (though most of them are not any kind of flowers Earth has ever seen); a huge dragonfly. These images appear, for a moment, and then return to the bland-plain city-grubby brick face. It is possibly not the most normal of things to do, by surface world standards--cruising the home of one’s romantic interest, just to be certain everything seems all right. But Morlocks live by different rules? Perhaps. It has become a habit for Nox, anyway, since the start of both her infamy and her fame. The Tessier family have become part of her patrols. She slides by, she checks the house without peeking in any windows, and off she goes again. But someone lingering by the wall that curls around Lucien’s garden is out of the ordinary and requires a closer look. At this hour, the shadows are thick almost everywhere, aided by the flickering on and off of the closest lamp. They grow thicker still as the lady eels her way through darkness towards the sound of the pebbles rattling in a can. Closer and closer--until the pulse of light drives her back, forcing her to observe from a safer distance. From the bottom of the wall where the dark puddles deepest, a humming emanates. It takes shape, coalescing in a whisper: “Hello?” The rattling stops short. The spraying, too. For a long while there is only silence on the street. The whistle of breeze, the rustle of a plastic bag blowing in the gutter. And then the quiet gritty shift of shoes on concrete. And then more silence. For a time. Until, eventually, “-- Someone there?” It’s quiet. Also, it’s extremely Southern-drawly. Nox waits through the silence. It and she are old friends. She waits so comfortably that it might have seemed a trick of wind and night that there was a hailing whisper at all. But when someone answers and in so distinctive a voice, all wariness flees. The shadows begin to draw themselves up, swirling higher and higher until the woman--or a good facsimile thereof--is standing just shy of the pool of intermittent light. Her head is tilted, only her shining eyes visible in her dark face. But the whisper that follows sounds pleased, or at least carries as much pleasure as such faint tones /can/. “Jax? I thought perhaps you were a hoodlum.” Yes, she says things like ‘hoodlum’. “I /am/ a hoodlum,” comes the quietly amused answer. Another rattle, then. Another spraaaay. And then the whole /wall/ erupts with colour -- okay, well, half the wall. Jax isn’t /done/. But there’s a veritable forest of kind of whimsical-surreal blossoms and bright-coloured insects scattered among them, and it is decorating half of what was once plain brick with vivid paint. Jax is still nowhere to be /seen/ but where he’s standing is clear enough because it is the spot where slowly a prickly-cactusy plant is sprouting up. “Hi, Nox. What’re you doin’ out here?” What Jax is doing out here is probably brightly apparent. It’s difficult to tell which of these things Nox is studying--the mural in progress or the plant. Her head remains canted at that angle, a posture that projects ‘puzzled’. But, having been asked a direct question, she is compelled to answer before asking any questions of her own. “I am patrolling,” she says, entirely serious. “Has Lucien asked you to paint this wall? Why are you a cactus, Jax? You are...oh. It is the light, yes? You are bending the light.” She sounds pleased with herself for having worked it out. The shadow-doll takes half a step closer to the pool of light. “It is very beautiful. This.” "I ain't a -- oh. Um, right, no, s'just kinda -- thinkin' out loud." Because now with another spraying sound, a similar cactus is getting painted onto the wall in bright strokes. "I mean, yeah, sorry. S'-- illusion, right." His tone is just slightly distracted, now, as he works. "Y'think? Thank you." There's a quiet stretch in which there is only painting, pause to change out colours. And then: "Patrolling? Whatwhy? S'there trouble here? -- why would Lucien, uh, I ain't never gathered he's got a real vested interest in street art." This sounds mostly /puzzled/. "What're you patrollin', shouldn't you be resting? You feeling alright?" “Yes.” Yes to which? Apparently ‘yes you are a cactus’, because as the colored cactus appears on the wall, the Nox-doll slides from view and a shadow of the prickly plant appears at the edge of the mural. It is not at all colorful but there are a few grey and white pockmarks spackled over its shape. Can cactii suffer from acne? The plant speaks to him. “I am feeling much better, thank you for asking,” it says politely. “There is no trouble but to ensure that this is so, it is best to keep an eye out, yes? This is...oh. Oh.” Sprouts appear on the shadow-cactus, they bend towards its center like hands moving to cover a face. She has embarrassed herself. “Please forgive me. It is not very important. But yes...this is beautiful. It is like living art.” "Well -- good. If you're sure you're feelin' better." Jackson's invisible expression is not, clearly, visible, but his tone sounds just slightly doubtful as to this. Maybe it's the pockmarks. He just sounds puzzled again next, though. "-- forgive you? M'sorry what am I forgiving you for?" The cactus is growing flowers, petals fanning out like bird-feathers. "I guess it don't hurt to keep an eye on things. I ain't hear this neighborhood's real high on the troublemeter, though." With a small bit of amusement: "Well, 'cept for the occasional spot of petty vandalism." Distraction is pursued in the form of mimicking the petal-spread with shadows, the dark cactus blossoming just as the colored one does. “But is it vandalism if it’s beautiful? I have seen tagging, and it is crude. Ugly. But this is different. This is worthy of...ah. It is Lucien’s wall, you see.” The honesty comes out in a rushed hum, some embarrassment remaining. “But I am sure he would appreciate this. He enjoys the arts.” "Woahwoahwoah." The spraying stops, halfway through another feather-petal. "This is /Lucien's/ house? I mean but these houses are so --" He stops for a moment, hesitant. "I don't know he might also hate it he gives the most /withering/ looks oh man I'd die." Another hesitation. "-- You was patrolling Lucien's house?" How does one comfort a cactus? It is nigh impossible. They do not take pats well. But Nox tries because distress summons her the way light summons moths. Shadow-cactus creeps closer, obscuring parts of the finished mural, and a tendril of darkness extends towards where she presumes his shoulder to be. “He would not. He /enjoys/ the arts,” she murmurs again. “Though if you are concerned, we can say...we can say that perhaps I had it done? Asked for you to do this? As a. Gift. Of sorts.” Nox does /not/ answer that last question, or squirm, or blush, or project embarrassment--it’s good to be shadows sometimes. "I'm concerned, wouldn't you be concerned, he's so --" Jackson hesitates. The cactus does not quite /exactly/ overlap with him, but near enough; still it probably takes a bit of tendril-feeling to find his shoulder. “I mean, if he /likes/ the arts -- I guess he do kinda seem like an arts-y type -- um, although, this ain’t exactly /refined/.” There’s another rattle of shaking spray-paint-can. “-- S’it a gifts-getting sorta, uh, Thing?” The capital letter there can be /heard/. “I mean you an’ -- after the Gala when you was -- he just seemed -- I don’t see him real worried like that much.” The polite thing to do would be to answer the question. But there are so many distractions! For one, Nox has to probe around until she can find a shoulder to stroke with that tendril. Then there is petting--perhaps because she is more enamored now with this illusion than with offering comfort--and then finally, a hint of confusion. “Why should I be concerned?” she asks him quietly. “I don’t understand, Jax. He is so...?” “So -- Lucien.” This might not be the most helpful of answers. Jackson shifts, slightly, pressing up into that petting touch. He does not, at least, /feel/ cactusy. Mostly just human, if a /lot/ hotter at the moment than humans normally feel. Maybe like a fresh-baked human. “That is not very helpful.” Nox, mistress of the obvious. This time her humming carries a buzz of laughter, transmitted through the strand that continues to stroke his shoulder, and then lifts to ruffle his hair. “I find him to be most...congenial. If ‘Lucien’ is to be an adjective.” She pauses for a beat. “You are very warm, Jax. Is it fever?” “Congenial.” Jackson echoes this carefully, like trying out the word. “-- Lucien? Like. The /same/ Lucien, right? Eyes like emeralds, kinda drop-dead-breathtaking like maybe he should be in a museum? Dresses like a GQ model?” His head dips a little at the hair-ruffling, and he shakes the spray paint again, rattlerattlerattle. “Me, what? No, oh no, I just-- am hot. /Um/ I mean temperaturewise not -- it’s the light thing, I -- sometimes -- sorry.” Oh my. A vibration travels through that thread of Nox that’s petting Lucien. As soon as she realizes it, she withdraws and becomes only a shadow on the wall. A shadow that scoots sideways to clear the way for paint spraying. “You should not apologize for your temperature, if it is a part of you. You did not hurt me.” Another pause. This one longer. Thoughtful. “Is he not congenial with you? He has always been...he is...as lovely on the inside. Truly.” “Y’aright, miss?” Jax asks, at the vibration. There’s another rattle, but then just quiet; he doesn’t start painting again yet. “-- Does it, uh, bother you if -- like if I got paint /on/ you would that be -- weird?” Now he pauses, there’s a slow sound of exhale. “No, no, he’s real polite. I just -- congenial makes me think like warm. He’s always -- he always seems kinda -- like at a distance, y’know? Coolish.” “No. I mean, yes. I am all right. You would paint through me, as I am now. But I did not wish to distract you. It would only be on me if I became more...” The shadow eases back into a cactus shape to demonstrate--once formed, it bulges out from the wall like living darkness. “Then it would fade as normal, if I remained like this. Or disappear if I disappear again.” Nox demonstrates, flattening to the wall again. A long silence follows. A very long silence. Then, softly, “He does keep himself to himself. But so do many. I do. You do.” “Me?” Jackson’s voice has a tinge of laughter in it. The painting resumes, finishing the blossoms on the cactus before moving on to a new explosion of flowers that look more like fireworks. “Don’t get that one a lot. Most people are tellin’ me they /wish/ I done keep t’myself more cuz I’m /too/ smiley in their /face/. Bright. Loud. I ain’t good at tonin’ down.” More painting. “But he don’t keep to himself with you?” “You are very bright, and very good at catching the eye,” Nox on the wall agrees, “but that is rather different from showing one’s self. At the moment, you are not showing yourself at all.” It is possible she is referring to Jax-as-cactus. Maybe. That assumption is at least allowed for him, should he choose to take it. As for Lucien, well...having just said what she has said, it would be hypocritical not to answer, wouldn’t it? There is a sense of sighing from the shadow-cactus. “In a way. Yes. I believe so. But it is...complicated.” “S’pose these kinda things usually is.” This is quiet, almost drowned out by the spraying of paint. And then the cactus fades from view, and then, a moment later, there is Jax. Bundled up in a silvery jacket, purple hat, purple scarf, fingerless black-and-purple striped knit gloves. There is a backpack beside him rather stuffed with various cans of paints. He is wielding a red right now with which to make firework-flower. “An’ you, with him?” “I am trying.” It is not /quite/ the same thing, Jax appearing and Nox manifesting. But the shadows slip to the ground again, separating from the natural ones to build up that woman-shape again. There is slightly more distinction to her form this time, actual expression shown when her face turns up--she has positioned herself beside him, opposite the can-bearing arm--to study his profile. “It is very hard. After so long. But it was speaking with you that helped me learn to try,” she tells him with a small smile. “It is worth the trying. How have you been, Jackson?” In profile Jackson -- glints! Light occasionally reflecting off the dozens of piercings poked through his skin. His expression is kind of /concentrated/, brow furrowed as he concentrates on the art he is making. But he slants his one good eye sideways to look at Nox, answering her small smile with a lopsided one of his own. “Worth it. Yeah. Good. Cuz you deserve -- well. M’glad s’worth it.” He rolls his shoulder at the question, maybe a shrug. “Busy. Real busy. Been teachin’ this semester on top’a classes and other work. How’s your folks?” Is it a relief when she looks away? Because arting causes Nox to look at the wall, as fascinated by the process as she apparently is with him. Her head tilts. She observes, content for the moment. At least until curiosity compels her to look up at Jax again. “Busy. Real busy.” Her smile deepens to have parroted him--then dims somewhat. “It is spring. Things are waking up.” Pause. “That is a great deal to do. For you. How are yours? Your boys?” “That /is/ but oh -- oh! I was talkin’ to Micah and we -- cuz it’s /gardening/ time and there’s a lot of great plots we’ve found an’ I know you wanted to -- anyway there’s a lotta place that are good and do you still want to -- to plant because oh my /gosh/ I really want to get my hands in some earth. I been preppin’ our roof garden but there’s so /much/ city that we could grow things in.” This is all a rapidfire chipper rush that comes out as Jackson continues his work, focused hard on it rather than Nox. “What things’re wakin’ up?” There’s a beat of pause before the last is answered with a shrug, a bland, “Not home still -- tssss.” This last hiss is because in the course of this bland sentence his hand (now gripping its spraycan /tight/) has shaken, slipped, sprayed a streak of red across his (purple-and-blue) cactus. He grimaces, rummaging for the paints needed to fix this error. So many things to respond to! And manners might compel Nox to listen attentively for an opportunity to answer the first several points--when Jax takes a breath--but the combination of bland and art-error when speaking of the children is enough to steal manners. She locks on and there is no more looking away. Carefully, as one might do with a spooked horse, she reaches out to touch fingertips to shoulder. “Jax?” Jackson’s shoulder tenses up at the touch, and there’s a beat of frozen-posture before he shoots a quick smile at Nox, bright. “Sorry, sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “Kinda just tired, I guess. S’late, ain’t it? And all this with the kids’s been -- y’know. Kinda stressy?” He shrugs. “Sorry. Um. The gardening! Did you still -- still want to --” He’s looking back at the wall, carefully fixing the red-paint error. “They are not home yet?” Nox was puzzled, and concerned. She remains so, though as he begins correcting the mistake done to the painting, she does draw her hand back. First things first: she will address the gardening with a simple, “I would very much like that, yes, if we are able to find time.” Then, with that out of the way, she reaches out for him again. This time her hand is aimed for his wrist. It is a stilling gesture, in a sort of...hesitant way. “What has happened? Would you...should I not ask?” There is a long silence, or near enough, save the rattle-spray of the painting. And then, calm and quiet: “They ain’t coming home.” Jackson’s hand stills, when Nox reaches for it, and his eye sweeps over the mural on the wall. He stares at it a very long time. And then gives Nox a /bright/ smile. “Oh, I got plenty’a time these days. When’s good for you?” Incredulous might best describe the look on Nox’s face. It comes through clearly in spite of the dark cast to her features. She doesn’t respond to the question--gardening? With news like that revealed?--but instead steps in closer. Now that Jax is no longer painting, she judges it safe to attempt to slip her arms around him. In fact, she’s grown taller, broader, taking in more of the shadows--or simply allowing her golem to expand--in order to try to wrap him in her arms. “Oh...oh, no. No. That...how? Why? All of the attention you have suffered, turned to /that/ good, to bring them home.” There’s a moment when Jackson wilts, sinks, leaning into the touch, his eye closing. It doesn’t last, though. After a moment he tenses, drawing in a shaky breath and pulling back. “Yeah, well, it.” His head shakes. “Don’t none of it sum up to much if /they/ don’t /want/ to come back. Guess it -- ain’t really much of their home.” He’s back to staring at the mural, but apparently he judges it complete because he is stooping to hastily shove his cans back into the backpack. “Sorry, I should, I gotta. It’s late, I. You should come by, though. Soon. We can garden. Make nice foods for your folks.” At the first sign of tension, Nox lets him go. She’s there until he no longer wishes to be there, and then her arms don’t fall away so much as simple phase out to leave him free. She goes back to being indistinct, a smudge of charcoal against the darker black behind her. “I will. I will come by soon,” she promises, her whisper hardly even that in her own distress. “Be safe. Please.” Jackson just nods, jerky-shaky hands zipping up his bag to sling it onto a shoulder. “I -- yeah. I -- thanks. I will. You -- you too. Take -- take care’a yourself. Your folks. You.” He swallows, and gives Nox a quick smile that is soon to fade -- much as he is, vanishing from sight. The sound of hurried sneakers on sidewalk fades off into the distance soon after.