ArchivedLogs:Uncle Amos' Sin

Uncle Amos' Sin
Wow.
Dramatis Personae Roger, Block	2013-03-28 Roger meets his Brotherhood of Mutants contact, Block. Something is amiss.
Location <NYC> IHOP - Bronx
Pancakes. Not the greatest pancakes, but it's two a.m., you're probably drunk, and they're available all night long. Rogers forays to the public were always dangerous, nerve wracking affairs. Everything he had or wore was a stolen commodity, all strictly utilitarian in intent. Large wal-mart aviator sunglasses, a black do-rag to cover his hair, ten dollar black faux leather gloves so he wouldn't leave a print. He'd come to IHOP to meet a certain someone, an ally - a member of the scurrilous Brotherhood of Mutants who he was certain he needed to meet and work with. The laziness of the scene he walked into belied his own personal inner volatility. Septigenarians in a booth down this way sipping on coffee. A couple of kids on a bender chattering quietly over at that table. He scanned the area, head turning slowly. "...at least, that's what Uncle Amos always told me," says a voice at a table with three figures sitting around it. The owner of said voice is a burly man in blue overalls, bald, tattooed all over his head, and quietly eating a mountain of pancakes with lemon juice. "Family looks out for family," he goes on to say, his voice a lightly-timbred tenor, and its tone reminiscent of a young boy, repeating the advice of his parents. "He said lots of things; lots and lots of things, but I remember all of them - but they sometimes get mixed up... 'If a pretty girl asks you for something - she probably wants whatever you got in your trousers.' ... So I gave her my bubblegum." The other two seated at the table both chuckle, snort, and shake their heads derisively at the tattooed fellow, before rising and heading out. The man it left by himself, then, munching away - frowning in confusion. "Why does everyone laugh at that story?" Roger walks past the two men on their way out, one of their shoulders bumping in to him as they leave - he pays no mind, since he came here with a singular goal - the solidification of a bond. He'd know him by the tattoos, they said. There he was - he didn't look like much, but neither did Roger. He took a seat at the table in front of Block without a word of greeting. "Are you my brother?" he asked pointedly, his brow knit. Block blinks. He sits there, staring at this stranger who has just sat down in front of him, his brown eyes blinking from time to time - until finally he lets out a small breath, reaches for his fork and puts a forkful of pancake into his mouth and resumes chewing. He chews. He swallows. He looks back at the newcomer and abruptly thrust a meaty hand out toward him, in greeting. "My name's Block; what's yours?" he says - his eyes never leaving the other man's. Roger's face fell a little, drooping. All of his cagey spy-act was sort of stuck with a knife, and it was clear now there wasn't much point in acting cool. He sniffed, rubbed under his nose with his finger (a pointless gesture for him), and then reached out and clutched Block's hand with his gloved one, shaking it firmly. "Roger," he says in a hushed tone, glancing over his shoulder in case anyone might be listening in. "I heard about you, from your Uncle Amos. He and I have some history, you know. He used to roll with some of the guys that busted me out of the clink." His accent was a lazy Texas drawl, the sort you'd find out in the rural East portion of the state. "That's why I came here," he trailed. Before breaking contact, Block's eyes take on a faraway look for a few moments, and he even looks like he might tear up... but he regains composure quickly enough. "Uncle Amos helped you," he says matter-of-factly, his accent typical of someone who has lived in the Bronx most of his life. "Are you here to help me?" He clears his plate, and sets aside his cutlery with all the attention and diligence of a child trying to do the 'right thing'. Then, he dabs at his mouth with a napkin, and continues watching Roger with an expression that is oddly intense. "Uncle Amos always, always said, family looks out for family - and I met a lot of HIS brothers. You're MY first brother I've met. ...Am I going to live with you now?... Brother Roger?" Oh, god. What was going on here? What the fuck is this? That is how the stunned look on Roger's face read, his eyes a little wider than they'd normally be. He licked his lips and swallowed. "Hey...man. Block, right? I don't really have any sort of serious house or nothin'. There's a safe house here in Manhattan and I'll take you there, but..." Roger was sweating that intense look. He could be all spitfire and monstrous out when he was burning down bagel joints but what the fuck was he supposed to say? "I guess? Yeah? Did something happen to you?" The tattooed man's face takes on a confused frown. He hesitates before replying, and starts nibbling on the fingernails of his left hand. "Uncle Amos said I shouldn't bite my nails," he says - his voice distorted by the fact that he has his fingers in his teeth. "I don't do everything Uncle Amos says..." There's another pause. "Lots of things have happened to me. Lots of things have happened to you - who is the man with the shiny claws?" This begs the question: What does the strange fellow with the tattoos KNOW? One might also wonder HOW he knows whatever it is he knows, and whether or not he understands it. "Family looks out for family," he repeats with a nod. "Uncle Amos went away and I don't know where to find him. He always said I should look for family if he ever went away..." He hangs his head. "I can live somewhere else if you want me to. I'm used to being alone - I don't like being alone, but I'm used to it..." Not the sharpest tool in the shed, Roger is still starting to have his suspicions about what might have went down regarding Uncle Amos disappearing on this guy - doing his best to disregard his initial open-mouthed shock at Block knowing the information he knows. The mutant terrorist drops his head a little, shoulders drooping as he sighs, wiping his face with his hand and finally clutching his chin. "Alright, alright - don't be like that. Alright. We're family. You stick with me. But you've got to shape up, alright? You can't just be saying whatever pops into your head. We've got to be careful. We're wanted criminals in the eyes of the law. And that means keeping secrets from everybody else." Block literally zips up his lips and nods - vigorously - several times over. The earnestness in his eyes might almost be considered comical, but for the seriousness of the situation. "Cnn uh sssy smffngs, Bthrr?" he mumbles from between his teeth, as if someone really had zipped them closed or otherwise gagged 'em. Roger gives Block a look of severe (but vaguely familial, unbeknownst to him) annoyance, and he reaches over and lightly smacks Block on the forehead, just enough to get his attention. "Just say what you want to say!" Block reaches a hand up to his bald scalp and repeatedly rubs the area Roger slapped - looking thoroughly dejected. "Uncle Amos used to do that all the time - but only when I said something I shouldn't." He lowers his hand. "He was always the one who did the thinking, and I did the--oh. I'm not allowed to talk about that." Pushing his plate aside, he reaches for a drink - of what looks like orange juice - and drains the plastic cup in one go. "Do we go to your place now, Brother?" he asks with a measure of eagerness. "I'm all finished for the day, now - with my pret--ah, other - job. I'm a builder in constriction!" He beams. "Do you have a cat?" he asks a second later. "I like cats." Roger's face falls, sagging as much as it possibly could. He looks like a huge weight has been placed on his shoulders. Fuck you, Uncle Amos.