ArchivedLogs:Southerners

Southerners
Dramatis Personae Ion, Violet	2014-07-10 and plans of riots to come.
Location <NYC> St. Martin's Church - Harlem
St. Martin de Porres Catholic Church is not large, but it has a quiet majesty to it all the same, in the way of many old churches. A tall stone building tucked into the center of Harlem, it is one of the earliest Catholic churches in the city, and it looks it. Inside, the wooden pews stretch off towards the alter, the crucifix an immense and solemn wooden carving that presides over it all. Most of the windows are stained class, rich and vibrantly colourful depictions of various saints and Biblical scenes. Small recesses along the wall hold the Stations of the Cross depicted in intricate stone carvings, and the prayer alcove holds real flickering votive candles unlike many modern churches who have switched over to electric. The vaulted ceiling has detailed painting done between its arches, and the distinctive scent of frankincense often lingers faintly in the air. Below, the basement of the church has been heavily modernized; there is a pair of meeting rooms for classes, a pair of bathrooms with showers, a door leading out to the tiny adjoining rectory building where the pastor lives. In tribute to the church's namesake, ministries for the poor are a large part of the church community; one room holds a wealth of donated clothing that is free for any to take. With the large dining room and industrial kitchen that serve hot dinners six days a week and distribute donated bags of groceries every Monday, there are frequent visitors through here who are often in need of the helping hand. Hustle and bustle aren't /normally/ concepts associated with churches, but given the overflow--and choices--of rescuees, this one has staked a claim. Reverent hushes have been replaced with the hum of conversation in both chapel and downstairs rooms, the clink and clatter of dishes being washed in the basement kitchen, even distant shouting (of the friendly sort!) as a game of handball in the hallways gets energetic. But modern thought does trend towards reverence coming in all forms, right? Certainly that's why there's a Southern Baptist in the Catholic church right now. Violet is upstairs, in one of the back pews. A plastic grocery bag rests on the bench beside her, filled with donated clothing for herself. On her person, khaki cutoffs and that stained hoodie have been replaced with /denim/ cutoffs--a little shorter--and a pink t-shirt with a cartoon cat lounging under glitter letters that read "That's Princess Diva to you!". At the moment she is bent over to slip off sneakers whose toes have been wrapped in duct tape, swapping them out for chunky sandals that close with velcro. Ahhh, yes. Stylin'. Ion's arrivals usually come with /noise/ of their own, the throaty rumble of a motorcycle, his own gravel-deep voice so often raised in whooping-shouting of his own. Today, though, he just arrives /quietly/. A soft creak of wheels against floor as he makes his way in from the outdoors in kind of bland non-biker-style, today, a plain white tee with jean shorts -- probably to accomodate the cast on his leg. He's tucked into a wheelchair borrowed (maybe-borrowed, it's yet to be seen if he'll ever remember to return it) from the Clinic; there's a patchwork of scars running down his arm, a stippling of scrapes dotted up along his face, and though one of his forearms is in a black cast this doesn't seem to be stopping him from pushing his /own/ chair. He stops near the front to stretch his hand up and dip fingers into one of the fonts of holy water near the door, crossing himself before he continues in further. He's tucking his chair in against one end of a pew in back when his eyes light on Violet, a sudden bright smile lighting his face. "Gatita. I did not know you church here, huh." Two casts and a wheelchair! Violet performs a doubletake, the first casual glance yanking back into a more attentive study with ears pricked and eyes ticking over all of those visible signs of injury and healing. But with all limbs accounted for, the intensity of that gaze softens and she's able to apply a grin to match the smile offered. "Hey there...nah, 'm not Catholic. Southern Baptist, yeah? But someone said they had free clothes down here and /you/ look like someone tried t'stuff you in a blender, fella." How's that for a segue? Master of oration, she is not. The second sandal is slipped on, secured with a rip of and smoothing of velcro and then she's up! Ambling across the way to poke a finger, gentle like, at the cast on his arm. "Should've got a white one, no one can sign that. Kay said y'were doin' better?" "This one it match my bike more better." Ion says this like /duh/. "Some one they /did/ stuff me in a blending. I come out the other side, though, yeah? So I come stop here now they let me out. Say /gracias/ for that." His non-broken hand tips up towards the crucifix hanging above the altar at the front of the chapel. "Baptist. You switch teams just for the mooching?" His grin kind of implies he /approves/. "Is okay, it's all the same Jesus. Anyway people they can sign, look, Jax he help me /prepare/." He grits his teeth as he turns slightly around to access the backpack hanging from the chair's handlebars. It takes a little bit of rummaging but eventually he produces a pair of metallic silver Sharpies. "See? Black and silver just like my girl." He offers the sharpies out towards Violet with a lift of eyebrows and his broken arm /outstretched/. For breaking in, maybe, clean and unmarked as it currently is. "Gracias," Vi obediently parrots--though that was likely not his intention, nor is her drawl well suited to Espanol. Hopefully the wattage of her grin helps smooth over her butchery of the language. "Good t'see you're on th'med. Perkier 'n some of 'em are lookin' too." Ah, Sharpies! She takes both when they're produced, though only one is uncapped. "Also s'not moochin'. 'M givin' all th'charity minded folks th'chance to do what they get off on doin', y'know. They get their warm fuzzies 'n I get new clothes," she says as she takes a knee beside the chair. One hand curls beneath his wrist to offer up support so broken arm isn't just left /hanging/ there while the other plies the Sharpie. Naturally she marks territory in a long strip down the center top of the cast, scrubbing in GLAD YOU DIDN'T DIE - VIOLET in a bold hand. "You got a bike? Big bike or li'l bike?" The mangled Spanish draws a snort out of Ion -- despite his regular brutal maiming of /English/ he's still gonna smirk. "I got so much fuckin' /perk/ in me, you have no idea." He rests his cast-arm heavily in the hand Violet props beneath it, looking down as she claims her space on it. "Big bike. Good bike. She a Harley -- though I do a little-tiny remodeling, yeah? We all do. Make our /own/ rides. You ride? Some day I take you? When I have two leg again, I think. /Most/ people they seem to like riding better when it ends not in fire." Violet pokes her tongue out of the corner of her mouth as she adds in a =^^= doodle at the end of her "signature". There. Perfection! Except for the words being rightside up to her, and upside down to the wearer of the cast. Oops. Still, she's got the grin on again as the Sharpie is capped. "I kinda figured y'for perky, ayuh. Guess it fits you'd have a big ol' bike too. Ain't never been on one before...this one kid, down where I lived, he got one've th'fast little ones, yeah? Smeared himself all over th'road too, after that kinda figured I maybe liked m'self in one piece. An' not on fire, yeah, that's a good one too." Rather than hand the pen back, she is spinning it baton-style beyween her fingers. "So you're...what, in a biker gang?" Upside-down or right-way-up, Ion just grins at the signature, peering down at it and then setting his arm back on his armrest. "I only say /most/ people like it to end not in fire, huh? With my brothers it ain't been a /party/ till /everything/ end in flames." There's a distinct amusement in his voice at this. "Maybe don't always go," he admits, looking down at his broken leg, "/so/ so well for us but." He shakes his head at the menton of biker gang, "We a bike /club/. Anyway around esta ciudad, there no place to even /go/ fast. You take a spill creeping along these taxi-packed streets, you maybe-probably be okay." For some standard of okay, anyway. "Down where you lived, where that at?" "Yyyeah, saw Kay a few days back, he mentioned th'whole makin' th'world burn plan he's got." Though she seems more amused than put off by the firestarter's inclinations. But Ion's glance reminds Vi--there's /another/ cast! She crab-walks herself down a foot or two to study the casted leg, head tipping this way and that as she ponders how best to /decorate/ it. This time, she uncaps both Sharpies, one with her teeth, and then bends to begin work starting around the ankle. The cap is pushed to the corner of her mouth with her tongue, clamped between teeth it sticks out like a cigarette. It bobs when she speaks. "A /club/. See, I knew ya'll were all of twelve years old. 'M from Savannah. On th'coast, yeah?" "Is a /cleaning/ fire. Some of this world, it could do with rebuilding?" Ion starts to lean down to look at what Violet is doing, but sits back up straighter with another distinct wince, his hand curling against his stomach. "Tch, twelve. Why only kids they should get the fun? When I'm /fifty/ I still gonna build all the best forts. Climb all the best trees. Twelve, I'd still be hang the 'No Girls Allowed' sign. Savannah --" His eyes lift, searching the church ceiling as though it would help elucidate where that is. "That somewhere way-down-there, right?" "S'what he said, yep." Violet is not helpful with elaborating on her own opinion of this plan. Her head is bent over her work, both hands moving to make little silver...blobs? Circles? A collection of circles...? It's hard to tell, but each little cluster is added to to make a string working a zigzaggy path up Ion's shin. Maybe he'll figure out they're cartoon catpaws meandering around his cast. Maybe he won't. "If girls aren't allowed, fella, y'might wanna stop offerin' rides to us ladies," and for that remark she'll glance up to beam at him, for her own wit, "gives th'wrong impression. S'down in Georgia, yeah. Guessin' y'haven't been down that way. Lots've bikers though. Lots've flat highways." Judging by Ion's squintyface he really has no idea what Violet is printing on hs leg. His eye just scrunches up in confusion, though he doesn't actually make any move to stop this or even ask. "Nah kinda out/grown/ that no girls thing, yeah? That was the twelve-year-old club. Gets gone once you old enough to drive." Though here he frowns, considering: "-- Though I knowed how to drive at twelve." His fingers tap against his armrest, and he gives his head a shake. "Nah, I come into this country all the way the /other/ side, right? Up through Mexico. Spent little-bit-time out west. Lots of highway there too. Is nice there? Savannah. You like?" "Lots've Mexicans there too." Oh, such casual racial stereotyping. She doesn't even flick an ear while voicing this. "All th'orchards. Wanted t'pick up some Spanish but never got 'round to it...it was okay. I mean. I liked th'city. Some've the folks there though, not so much. Sometimes seemed like all th'heat got into folks' heads, made 'em bigger jerks than they'd've been on their own. 'Specially when it was hot /and/ they were drinkin'. Was pretty rough, some of it. But pretty. Ain't no one does pretty like it, all th'moss 'n th'water 'n th'big ol' buildin's. There." The pawprints wind in a circle before ending just before the top of the cast. She pokes one of the markers at the cap she still has clamped in her teeth, misses, and dabs silver on the fur covering her cheek. Oops. Ion probably doesn't help the silver-streaking of fur by leaning over to /bap/ at Violet's hand. "Me, I'm not fucking Mexican. I swear, goddamn gringos don't know any flavor of /brown/ people outside Chicanos. I said I come /through/ Mexico not /from/ Mexico. You know there's one whole continent? Sits below." He points downward with a small click of tongue. "So many people in it." He settles back in his chair with another small wince. "Drinking make a lot of people rougher. Is why you come up? Here? Jerk-folks?" Sure enough, dark is silver-streaked /again/, and Violet jerks both hand and face out of range. But she's laughing as she does it. "Hey, don't hurt yourself, tryin' t'hurt me. And for all you know I could be black under all this hair." Careless of social niceties, she drops her rump down onto the ground and crosses her legs. Her tail curls against her hip and flips over her lap. "Y'mean like...oh, hey, yeah. South America?" Color her curious and interested, as well as silver. She tilts her head and looks up to study Ion anew. Meanwhile, she works to successfully shove pens into caps and lifts them for reclaiming. "You're really from way down there? That's a long way t'come...lotta jerk-folks down there too? Mostly that's why I hit the road, yeah. Some fella put a brick through our window. M'nephew was on the floor. Could've been bad. Could've got worse." "You black /with/ all that fur, gatita, but you still American as they come." Ion swipes the markers back out of Violet's hands, shoving them into his pocket rather than trying to reach his backpack a second time. "Yah, the /other/ America. I'm a Southerner too, yeah?" He shrugs a shoulder at the queston of jerks. "S'/everywhere/ some jerks, I think. Never been a place without some." His expression briefly shifts into a scowl at the mention of brick-through-window. "Not why I come here, though, I never had half so much of pushy assholes as I done since I landed up in this country one day. New York I only come to because is where Jax and his people bring us, out those labs. Found some brothers, stayed. Is an okay place I think? /So/ many fucking assholes. But you have this-many-millions people, there's plenty of gems too." His claim to Southernerhood gets another laugh, this one delighted--he's /right/. "Guess y'are, at that. More'n me, even. Sorry 'bout th'Mexican thing. I did a report once in school 'bout...where was it. Peru? Had t'dress up for it an' everything." She lifts her hands and shapes them in the air over her head, sketching out the boundaries of a hat. "Got a C on it but th'teacher didn't like me much," she finishes, dropping her hands back into her lap and leaning forward to rest elbows on knees. Her fingers toy with her tail, combing the fur down to smoothness. "Seems like plenty of good an' bad up here too, yeah. They done this a lot, then. Get folks out." "Am pretty southern even /in/ Sudamerica. Wayway down. From Argentina," Ion says with a tap of fingers to his own chest and a /bright/ smile with the addition: "Need to trick this chair out in blue and white. Show some /pride/ for when we kick Germany-ass this weekend." He might still be a /little/ chuffed about their victory over the Netherlands yesterday. The smile remains through the sketched hat over Violet's head. "Teacher had no taste maybe." He settles a little further back in his chair, eyes skating up to the crucifix again as his expression eases back into a calmer thoughtfulness. "They do a lot. Most was in there them own selves. Once-on-a-time. Jax and his friend, I think, once they got out, turn around and collect people to help do it again. And again. And again." "Wait wait. They got th'blue 'n white flag? Like, soft blue, yeah?" There is a cat-shaped scramble that sends Violet back to the pew on which she'd set that bag of clothes. Plastic crinkles as it's upended. She paws through what tumbles out and ends up with a t-shirt. Blue on either side, a broad white stripe going down the center, it is style on soccer jersies though definitely pitched towards those on a budget. This is carried back to the young man in his wheelchair like the prize it is--far superior to dead bird or the head of a mouse, if she does say so herself. It's shaken before him like a flag before a bull. "Figure a guy who'd go back /in/ th' fire he got out of maybe deserves somethin' nice. Want?" Okay so maybe she feels a little badly about the Mexican thing. "Oh/shit/ oh/snap/!" Ion's expression lights back /up/ at this, and his sudden /bounce/ in his chair as he reaches to snatch the shaken garment causes his breath to draw in in a pained hiss. "{You are /fantastic/ holy crap little-cat you're pretty much the /greatest/ oh shit I could kiss you.}" This comes out in a tumbling rush of rapid Spanish but his elated tone is clear enough to read. "It's like Christmas. In fucking -- what month /are/ we?" He grins, bright. "I ain't /asking/ no prizes for that, if you'd seen these shitholes you would not want so much leaving our hermanos in there either? But I'll /take/ this prize anyhow." He's already unbuttoning his shirt one-handed, intent on putting this new treasure on /right now/. Even if they're in church while he's disrobing. "Hey, hey, stop, you're gonna split somethin'," Violet advises through her laughter. She can't help it, there's no stopping the giggles at hyperhappy Ion. "I'm guessin' you're hailin' me as the second comin' but I swear, s'just a shirt. But sure, Christmas in July, whatever y'say. Here." She flips the t'shirt over her shoulder and steps forward to /help/. Jesus is just going to have to handle assisted undressing under his roof. Little swats shoo his hands away from the buttons so she can take over the unbuttoning and the tugging needed to get outer layer off. "Just stop bouncin'. If y'hurt yourself again an' I get blamed for it, I'm takin' this back. I look good in blue." "Stitches, probably." Ion does at least drop his hand to let Violet take care of the shirt -- beneath it he's /still/ clad in white, bandaging swathing a good chunk of his torso -- there's a few tiny red speckles that suggest /maybe/ he might have split something just a little bit already. He's not the world's /best/ convalescent. "Is not just a shirt is a symbol of my /pride/ this country it don't understand just /how/ serious -- I wish I was /home/, I could have a good /riot/ this Sunday." Because win or lose he's already pretty much just planning on it. He tugs the blue and white shirt on once Violet has disrobed him, snagging the edge of his cast briefly on the sleeve before shoving through. His good hand brushes down over his chest. "Look /proper/ now, don't I? I should buy you a beer. You want a beer? Sunday we can find a television and /all/ the beer." "Yeah, you busted those open all right. You're gonna get blood on your pretty new shirt and then what? That stuff doesn't come out, y'know." But Vi is stepping back to eye this study of Ion in Blue and White. What she sees meets with approval, shown in a chipper nod. "So that probably means no riotin' either. Gotta say though, y'do wear it better'n I would've." So he's flashed a grin and a thumbs up, before she tosses the discard shirt across his lap. "I don't really do beer but y'can buy me a soda if y'want. Sunday's when th'game is? Haven't really been followin' all th'soccer stuff but it could be fun," she muses, crouching down again and hanging her hands down between her knees. "Use t'watch th'Bulldog games with m'uncle. Sports is always better in a crowd." "Ehhh that's a bullshit, I think, I got a feeling you rock most thing you wear." Ion waves one hand at Violet's (TOTALLY STYLING) thrift-store haul though after this his face falls into exaggerated dismay at the injunction against rioting. "Rioting it's the lifeblood of my people." After a moment he clarifies: "I mean football fans, yeah? Not los argentinos." He holds out his fist for a knuckletap. "Soda. All the soda you want. Too bad Sunday there's Mass, yeah, I'd drag a TV in /here/ and let /Jesus/ himself watch over the game." Violet's grin ticks a little wider and she slips a hand down to tug at the hem of her own swanky new tee. "For someone who don't speak English so good, y'got your compliments down, fella." Once done fussing over her own attire, she doesn't hesitate to reach out to complete the requested 'tap. Though it's more a piff. Fuzziness. It comes with its challenges. "Pretty sure any doctor'd agree with me though. About behavin' yourself while you're on th'mend. You won't be savin' many folks, y'puncture a lung or somethin'. 'Sides, y'cant' riot good in a wheelchair. Lootin', maybe. Bet y'could carry more...sorry, Jesus." Oops. Realizing she was just speculating on crime in front of their Lord & Saviour, she casts a brief, abashed look towards the altar. "Well sure. I don't know what's a point of learning fucking /anything/ if is not to play with it, yeah? Language is for playing. The whole world it's for playing." Ion drops his hand back to his armrest again, grinning crooked up at Jesus on the cross. "Man, when times got /real/ hard I think he /bless/ my looting. S'only way I know how to explain how I even /survive/ the apocalypse. Looting karma and my brothers at my back. Maybe the chair, I'll keep." Though the glance back up to the cross seems to remind him why he was even /here/ to begin with. "-- You come by here again, some time? Sunday mornings I come for the Mass, with Jax. After that maybe we have a riot. Party. Football. Whatever. Here now, though, I need a minute before dinner." He gestures up to the crucifix. "Never did give Him my thanks." "Give ya a tip, don't ever compliment a girl then tell her you're playin', yeah?" This is Violet being helpful--and possibly teasing, if the solemn shuttering of one big eye is any indication. Wiiiink. "But hey, yeah, get on with your prayin'. I'll come by Sunday when service is done, you wait for me and y'can spring for those sodas. Still lookin' for a decent church of m'own, not many of my flavor 'round here's willin' t'let me sit but one've these days. 'Til then, you tell'm hi for me, yeah?" She withdraws, uncoiling and swinging back to her original pew to shove clothes back in the grocery bag. "Tch. Maybe I just looking for someone to play /with/. World's a lot more fun with friends anyway." Ion jerks his chin upward to Violet. "I see you. Sunday. In my /best/ Sunday clothes." By which he probably means his faux-soccer jersey, given that he's /proudly/ tugging it down. He doesn't bother trying to get out of his chair and into a pew -- he's probably not going to be doing a lot of shifting around to /kneel/ anyway. Just folds his hands in his lap and bows his head quietly as Violet heads away.