ArchivedLogs:Talking Shit

Talking Shit
Dramatis Personae B, Ion, Daken	2015-04-14 "There is no god above me. And below me there are only corpses. And converts."
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. Tonight it's quiet around the safehouse or -- at least, as quiet as it ever gets. There's still people, of course, there usually /are/. A pair of girls lounging on the couch, a young man boiling pasta in the kitchen. But overall it's laid back, at least until the door bursts open sudden and without warning. Itm sends the people around the room /tensing/ and then relaxing before they recognize the tiny blue figure in the doorway -- clearly familiar, clearly Not A Threat. B is in a pink and yellow ao dai, blood spattered against the satiny fabric; spiked collar and cuffs on her throat and wrists, a leather motorcycle vest and heavy boots anachronistically /tough/ in contrast to the overly feminine outfit. Hir gills flutter rapidly as ze crosses the room, stomping hir way off to the kitchen to make hir way to the sink, wash blood off hir knuckles. Maybe it's the stomping that draws Ion down from upstairs, or maybe it's just coincidence. He's in boots, too. Jeans. Wife-beater. Motorcycle vest. He's kind of just as stompy as he trails after B towards the kitchen, eyebrows raising as he watches her wash up. "Shit, yo. Who got on your wrong side, hermanita?" The roar of a motorcycle engine approaches the safehouse, only to cut off. It takes a moment for the rider to appear in the doorway, a male wearing jeans, worn combat boots, and a brown leather jacket with three red rings around the left elbow. His features are concealed by tinted helmet, at least until he makes it into the kitchen, where the helmet comes off and a hand comes up. "{What's up bitches?}" Daken questions at the sight of Ion, though B's outfit choice catches his attention. Apparently he's fluent in Vietnamese too, because that's what he switches over to. "{Actually Vietnamese, or just like the clothes?}" B answers Ion with a sharp growl, a sharper snap of teeth. She peels out of the tunic -- despite the feminine cut of the clothing there is nothing particularly feminine about the skinny blue chest beneath it, lean and flat and wiry. The long rows of slitted gills running down her sides are fluttering, too. She turns the water to cold, rinsing at the stains in the fabric. "The /world/," she answers sharply, though after this just a sigh: "... I'm always on /its/ wrong side." These words are gritted out through clenched teeth. The growl, the clench, these things subside at Daken's entry. Hir black eyes open wide, gills fluttering faster. Hir head bows over the sink, eyes locking down on the tunic she is washing. "... I'm not a bitch," she whispers, more to herself than properly /to/ Daken. "Tch, querida, the world it don't /got/ a good side 'less you carve one the fuck out." Ion hops up onto the counter -- it's kind of a stiff motion, breath catching in a hiss as he pulls himself up there to sit. "You find your people, you make your damn place, then it's all-just-only good-side. And fuck everyone on the /out/side those motherfucker they can /blow/ me." His brows lift, chin jerking up towards Daken. "{Nah, baby-sister,}" this is in Spanish, Ion sure as hell doesn't know Vietnamese, "{you the sweetest of all pups.} -- Someone fucking with you, though, they need maybe a bone broken? Maaaybe?" His eyes are narrowing at the blood washing down the sink. "That a no to that then? Alright, I'll make sure not to use that anymore." Daken says with a simple shrug, setting the helmet down on a table. He actually tugs a note pad out and scratches something out before tucking it back into his pocket. "Be sixty-nine next month. No time to keep up with how you kids greet each other." He pauses to watch the exchange, arms crossing slightly. His brows go up a bit at Ion's display of pain, before his gaze settles onto B. "I already know I have some bitches to hunt down. You having people issues, or learning to ride issues? I know I had my fair share of skin scraped off when I got my first bike. Was a Birmingham Small Arms, got that bitch in seventy-one. If it's people issues, have a solution." There's a SNK as the two upper claws in his left hand break through the skin. Then his attention is back on Ion. "I'll need to get a description from you later too. Once you fill me in on what exactly happened anyway, heard you were stuck at the clinic, but I missed out on almost all the details." B's eyes flick over to the notepad, peering over at what Daken is scratching out in curiosity before it is put away. "... huh?" Hir brows furrow in confusion at Daken's steam of words. "No, I -- ... no." She shakes her head to both the older men, first uncertainly but then more vehemently. "No, it's /fine/. I already took care of -- I mean they're not going to --" Hir gills flutter faster again, her voice a little breathy-unstable. "I just really like this dress." This is a little sheepish, hir head dipping. Hir cheeks flush slightly darker. "Thanks." Softer. A little shyer, glancing up at Ion: "The world's definitely got its good side -- sometimes." "Who you hunting?" Ion's brows lift to Daken curiously. He glances at the notepad, too, but only for a second before looking away. "Need a description? What of?" Maybe he's not tracking this conversation very well because his follow up to this is: "Be easier just /show/ you my damn bike she parked right outside." He braces his palms against the countertop, watching B scrub at the clothing. "We get you a new dress, huh? Prettier dress. Dusk, he sew like a god. He make you /two/ dresses, make up for that one. Make you look proper killer." "Ramble when I'm stressed." Daken explains with an apologetic smile, though something seems to hit him. "Apologies, I can be rude sometimes. I'm Daken." He bows with a slight flourish of his arm, claws retracting back into his arm. His next words are directed at Ion. "Not sure yet. But I haven't hit a live target with my bow in a long time." He fishes back into his pocket to fish out a box mod, which he takes a hit from. After blowing two rings and exhaling a cloud of vapor, he nods towards the sink. "Soak it in cold salt water for a few hours, rub some dish soap on that bitch, then toss it into the wash. Good as new. And I had a dream about Dusk last night, helping future me and Anette get our son back from one of those camps. We need to figure out what leads up to that before we actually have those robots to deal with." "B," B replies, admittedly without further context or elucidation that would turn this into a helpful introduction. "... you and Anette have a /kid/?" Her eyes open just a little wider at this. She turns aside from the sink, gills flared again. For a small moment a tiny hint of a smile curls back across her lips. Just small. Timid. Tipped up towards Ion: "You saying I don't look killer already?" "Be pretty damn quick, he only get here some-week-ago. Unless tinyowls they hatch fast?" Ion shrugs. Shakes his head at the mention of the dreams. "You can work all you like, figure out whatever-you-damn-want. Fuck those dreams, ese, that whole thing it's a bullshit. /You/ lose sleep over it. /I/ ain't going to." Though B's comment hooks his grin back up. He reaches over to ruffle at her spiky hair. "Shit, pup, you /know/ you look a fucking badass. Every damn day." "Only if those future dreams are right." Daken confirms. "Right now we're just fuck buddies." Ion's opinion of the matter gets a slight nod from him. "Haven't lost any sleep over them, c'est la vie and all. I just won't be blowing any parts of New York up, or assassinating senators. Unless the pay is better than last time anyway." The dark tinge in B's cheeks deepens at Daken's explanation. Hir gills flutter faster, and she shuts off the water, hir head bowing deep again. "-- Oh..." It's a little bit awkward, hir weight shifting from one foot to the other. "I should -- go. Try and. Get this clean. Probably. I don't want to go back to school in it anyway." Hir arm lifts as she turns from the sink -- almost like she's going to hug Ion. But she doesn't, just clutches the bloody tunic against hir chest and zips hir vest up. B might not lean in for the hug but Ion certainly does, curling his arm down to scoop the tinyshark in close and fierce and tight -- despite the way this makes his teeth clench up and his breath hiss in. He presses a kiss to the top of her head before letting go. "You need a ride back, you just holler at me, si? I run you out there. No problem." He squeezes her shoulder and settles back on the counter, huffing out a snort. "Yeah. Future gonna happen how it happen, vato. Always has. Always will." "Not my choice, can assure you that. Even stopped messing around with that Chelsea boy that was selling pot for me." Daken says with a slightly annoyed grunt. "Probably for the best though, since I'll outlive her. Anyway, take it easy B." He taps out a salute. "And a bit of advice? Don't live life like me. Fights, drugs, sex, and motorcycles aren't for everyone." A wink accompanies this statement before he settles into a chair at the table. Though B's eyes open wider at the hug, her smile stretches wider, too. She leans into it, returns it just as fiercely. Daken's advice just makes her blush deeper, her gills flutter faster. "I --" is all she answers it with, pulling away from the others to hurry out of the room. "Pfft." Ion slides down off the counter, thudding back to the ground once B is gone. "{Sure thing, grandpa. Think the pup'll be alright, though.} Gonna be a fucking badass. Just don't know it yet." "{That shit got me shot twice the other night.}" Daken grunts towards Ion, pointing at the center of his chest, right over his heart. "If I didn't heal fast, I'd have died a long ass time ago. Speaking of which, the fuck happened to you? Didn't really want to ask in front of the kid." "Got shot," Ion answers with a crooked grin. "Obviously. Get a good look at who did it?" Daken twists in his seat until his back pops. "Or at least know what kind of shit it was tipped in? Know a few weapon dealers out here, and that's not an order you get every day." "Hell yeah. /Fly/-ass mama, legs from here to fucking there," Ion answers. "Kind of woman can shoot me any-fucking-day." His tongue clicks against his teeth. "Down the clinic, they say is a strychnine. That shit it's fucking everywhere though, ese. Every damn box of fucking rat poison in the city. Not take a lot to get hands on that, huh?" "Well, they try that shit with me the won't be walking again." Daken says simply, attention falling onto the table. "Yeah, I got that picture, dude." Ion rolls his shoulders, huffing out a quiet laugh. "You got the biggest-fucking-dick on the entire damn coast. Leave a whole river of bodies everywhere you go. I read you, don't gotta keep saying it." "Not what I was saying. You can't poison me." Daken explains. "It's just a matter of getting the arrow out. And as far as I'm concerned there are three kinds of people. People that talk big shit but don't do anything. People that do big things but don't do shit. And me. I don't do shit unless I have to. But I /love/ talking shit. Favorite pastime of mine, really. But I can back it up. Sure I've killed a lot of people." He takes another his from his vaporizer, giving Ion time to process everything. "A /lot/ of people. But there are a lot of people I haven't. Not yet anyway. I'm only sixty-eight. Have at least a hundred-fifty more years to go. Who knows. I might become a monk. Or maybe even the pope. Not because I'm religious. Quite the opposite. There is no god above me. And below me there are only corpses. And converts." "Getting the arrow out gonna stop them from walking -- how, exactly?" By now Ion's laugh has turned into an outright guffaw. "You sure as hell do like talking shit. Just endless-damn-stream of it, man, /hell/. Guess sixty-whatever years give you a lotta damn time to get full of your damn self." He thumps Daken on the shoulder with a loosely-curled fist in passing, though he's already heading out. "Only so much fucking shit I can listen to, one evening though, you know? Then I gotta flush. Peace, man." "Take care, man. Hope you're better by Friday, want a round at fight club." Daken calls out, offering a two-fingered salute.