Logs:Cooped
| Cooped | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia
|
2021-03-07 <<"ooh. you wanna practice, kid? let's go find ourselves some fucks to practice on. whaddya say?">> |
| Location | |
It's oddly both unassuming and not at all, a collection of stately homes along a quiet tree-lined drive backed up to the park -- probably not exactly the first thing that jumps to mind at rumors of a Hostile Mutant Takeover of part of this Bronx neighborhood. Up close it's clearer that there's been a distinct tonal shift from the battling aesthetics of upper-class-WASPiness or upper-class-Orthodoxy that predominate in most of the rest of Riverdale. The houses have sprouted a bizarre confection of outdoor decoration, the previously neatly manicured landscaping is being torn out in favor of newly built yet-to-be-planted garden beds, many of the driveways now hold several old cars in various stages of repair. Over in the expansive front yard of one of the large homes, a young man in jeans and warm black and white checked flannel (one empty sleeve pinned flat against his side) is late in the process of setting up a large (currently empty) chicken run. DJ is crouched near the entrance of the structure, grimacing as he tries holding a sheet of wire mesh in place with one boot so that he can fasten it to the wood. It curls up; he exhales heavily, his eyes narrowing and his hand squeezing gently around the large nail he's holding. Though the curl of his lip looks like he's caught on the very edge of some profanity, he presses his lips together, smooths the wire back down with his knuckles, and starts to try holding it in place again. Farther down the street, someone's just finished with one of those cars in a driveway -- a lean, russet-skinned kid with a broad, short, sable-black mohawk (the sides trimmed down to peach-fuzz) and a black windbreaker. He's talking to the car's owner -- a short, stout old woman in a pastel-blue blouse and steel-gray curls who's trying to very insistently pay him, while he holds his hands up and tries very hard not to accept payment. Eventually, she wins; he accepts the wad of bills and slips them into his pocket -- making his way down the street, toward where he stashed his ride. Robbie doesn't make it all the way before he catches sight of DJ, struggling with that wire mesh. With both hands shoved in his pockets, he makes his way toward him... moving with considerable (though certainly not unnatural) stealth, bringing the tip of a thick black work-boot down to pin the mesh, both hands reaching out to take hold of it and keep it in place. "...need a hand?" <<sniff sniff>> Scramble has been out patrolling the neighborhood at a leisurely pace on a black Suzuki SV650, dressed in a stylish if still no-nonsense black bomber jacket open over her leather MMMC cut, a vermilion sweater, and bootleg blue jeans with heavy polished engineer boots. Her hair has grown up long enough to be teased out into a small afro, and she's elected not to squash it beneath a helmet today, at least. The bike purrs to a stop at the curb near DJ's frustrating venture and Scramble raises an eyebrow. "Looking pretty good," she allows as she dismounts and strolls over. Studies Robbie's stealthy approach with a faint but building frown. "It's Rob, right? Or Bobby?" DJ's shoulders tense at the question, his jaw going a little tighter at the question. The nail that was in his hand has vanished, seemingly into thin air. He looks up, a smile on his face by the time his eyes meet Robbie's. "Oh -- hey. Yeah, um. Thanks, man, I really appreciate it, this -- should not have been an all weekend long kind of project but --" His left shoulder lifts, accentuating the empty sleeve on that side that much more. He's digging into a front pocket for another nail -- this one, too, vanishes, though the keen-eyed might notice this time it has embedded itself into the wood beside Robbie's boot, its head neat and flush with the wood. "Was starting to worry I'd be back out here still fixing up this mesh tomorrow. You have time to help with the rest of this wall before it gets dark?" He's tugging more nails from his pocket, looking over to offer Scramble a nod, a quick smile. "Thanks. It'll look nicer when there's fresh eggs every day." <<scratching sounds.>> "No problem. I..." Robbie's eyebrows lift -- not so much at the empty sleeve, but at the sudden appearance of a nail embedded directly in front of his boot. Robbie's boot scoots back, just a tad. "...th'fuck?" he whispers, brows crumpling together, staring down at the nail. Was that... there a moment ago? Still puzzling over it -- he looks back at DJ, his perplexed expression dropping for a more blank-faced one. "Huh? Oh, yeah, sure, no problem -- ain't gotta be anywhere for a bit." When Scramble approaches, Robbie's posture briefly stiffens; his eyes drift back to her bike, though -- then back to her. Something about it seems to put him more-at-ease -- but not completely. "...Robbie," he replies. <<rrrrrrrrrr...>> <<"Relax, old man.">> "Fresh eggs," Scramble echoes, her smile also echoing DJ's. "I'm looking forward to it. Appreciate you doing this, it sure beats the shit out of what most of us could manage, there'd be chickens everywhere." She doesn't miss Robbie's lingering glance at her bike. "Robbie, got it. You met Ion yet? He's the one helped me fix up my ride. And the man can work miracles with some eggs -- or whatever else he finds in the back of the fridge." "Great. Don't worry, I've had -- a lot of practice with these." DJ's lip twitches as Robbie's boot pulls back. He holds up a small fistful of the nails and nods to the rest of the long wood wall and its unfastened sheet of wire. "I'm putting them every six inches, if you want to keep that in place." His eyes turn out towards the trees, then back to the wood frame. "Chickens everywhere isn't usually such a bad problem, it's mostly -- other things eating your chickens that's important to stop." His smile tips a little brighter. "If you haven't you probably will soon. He's hard to miss." <<"he's killed.">> <<"Who?">> <<"dunno. doesn't make sense. have a sniff.">> For a moment, something bubbles up from the depths of the Rider into Robbie's mind -- and Robbie shivers. Suddenly, he's staring at DJ, and his expression is... there's a hint of anxiety, there. <<"The fuck was that?!">> <<"careful, beto. he 'reeks' of death.">> Robbie shakes off whatever it was that briefly came over him, his eyes drifting back to DJ's gesture at the rest of the rest of the wall. "--r-right, uh. Six inches." He moves his foot to the next spot, pulling back about seven or eight inches -- holding the sheet up. "Ion?" Robbie's eyes flick up to Scramble. "No. He... fixes bikes?" There's a hint of interest there, but he sounds a little distracted. <<"she ain't no saint either, mind. but it's mostly cops.">> "We get foxes up here time to time," Scramble allows, wandering over to circle the new construction as the two men continue to work on it. "Coyotes, too, though not as many. And outdoor cats, I guess." Her gaze flicks to Robbie at his obvious distraction, but her smile widens quickly enough. She tips her head toward DJ, "He's right, you'd know it if you'd met Ion. He -- fixes a lot of things, but mostly cars and bikes. Got a garage down in the Hole. You like bikes, yeah?" "Cats don't usually bother them but raccoons are surprisingly vicious killers." DJ is eyeing the mesh intently. He doesn't move, but another nail appears buried snug in the wood. "Can I ask what you guys' deal is? The -- Mutant Mongrels? Is that a thing I can ask? I feel like everyone I talk to gives me a wildly different impression of what it is you actually do." Robbie moves his foot, shifting his hold on the sheet to make more room. He seems to be getting the hang of it -- the way the nail just appears is still perplexing, but... he doesn't seem too thrown by it. He's seen way weirder, especially recently. "I... yeah. I like bikes," he says. It sounds half-mumbled. <<"beto, you fuckin' 'love' bikes. and so do i. 'vroom-vroom'.">> "They clever as hell, too, I've seen 'em get into --" Robbie starts, almost thoughtlessly -- before realizing he's nudging into the conversation. He pulls back. But the mention of Mutant Mongrels... he perks, eyebrows lifting, his posture immediately shifting. Focus snaps up to Scramble: "--the bikers?" <<"ooohohoho. 'those' motherfuckers.">> "Raccoons?" Scramble raises both eyebrows. Crosses her arms. "We get hella racoons. Here I was thinking they just eat out the trash cans and the cat food old ladies leave out." Her smile slants wider. "You sure can. We're a motorcycle club for mutants." She unfolds her arms so the rank patch -- Dog of War -- on the left breast of her cut can be seen. "We ride out together, hang out together, and we do some charity stuff -- coat drives, free clinics, food pantry, you know the deal." She beams with slightly mischievous pride. "Bit of a neighborhood watch, too, round where there's a lot of mutant residents. We tight with our communities." "Yeah," DJ agrees with a nod, an easy smile, "they're brilliant. Can get to be a bit of a puzzle figuring out how to keep them out of some places." He's moving slowly to the side as Robbie shifts, falling into a steadier rhythm now with the quiet flicking of the nails. "Huh. Charity. That's not exactly --" His eyes dart up to the Dog of War patch. Back down to his work. "And you have a garage. In -- the Hole? Is that far?" <<"charity work. y'hear that? you should roll with 'em.">> <<"We both know what you want to do with them, cabrón.">> <<"aw, c'mon. don't you wanna bust heads?">> "--just mutants, yeah?" Robbie's voice is low and quiet, as he adjusts his footing for the next nail again. He's getting the hang of it, now. <<"don't worry 'bout that. you can be my plus one.">> <<"I'm not -- they might know how to find Gabe.">> "I fix bikes," he just blurts out, as the next nail goes in. "I mean. I know how to... I'm good at fixing that sort of shit." <<"smooth move, kiddo. but we both know you know how to 'ride' 'em, too.">> <<"Shut up.">> <<"'vroooooooom!'">> "What else they gonna do with those little hands, right?" Scramble adds, bemused. "Mutants only. The club itself, anyway. We don't discriminate with the charity, and we got plenty of human volunteers help us with that. It ain't no Sons of Anarchy, we about taking care of our people and giving back to the community. And bikes, obviously." She nods "S'a bit of a hike." Though here she glances down at the nails vanishing one by one from DJ's hand. "Not so much for you, I guess." Her voice is only soft and wistful for a moment. "We down on the border between Brooklyn and Queens. So. You a freak too, Robbie?" DJ's brow creases; his eyes flick down, darting from his own fist closed around the nails to Robbie's hands to Scramble's. "-- Sons of Anarchy?" His head shakes. "Is that what this place is? Giving back?" He scoots a little further. There's not even any satisfying kchunks to go with the nails. Just a tiny crackling creak for each one. "That all sounds very different than I -- I mean, it kind of sounds like church on wheels." <<"oh, we'll give back to the community, alright. we're great with communities. soccer moms 'love' us.">> <<"Is fucking shit up all you know, old man?">> <<"nah. sometimes we set shit on fire, too. gotta keep 'em guessing, yeah? shake it up. diversify our portfolio.">> Scramble's question throws Robbie off; his face is burning. "I'm -- uh..." <<"you's a freak, beto. you tell her. you tell her you're the freakiest freak who ever freaked.">> <<"I'm not gonna lie you goddamn goat, I'm not--">> <<"robbie, you literally set your car on fire with your mind.">> <<"That ain't just ME, that's--">> <<"cool story. hey, y'know you ain't done shit for the past five seconds 'cept look real fuckin' constipated, right?">> "No," Robbie finally blurts out. "I mean. Not... 'zactly. My little brother's -- he's..." Robbie's foot slides back again, making room for the next nail. The crinkling sound... he crumples his brow, then vaguely gestures toward Scramble and DJ. "He's a mutant, though. Went missing. Been looking for him. Just... trying to look in places where folks know how to find someone like him. Y'know?" <<"fuckin' smooth, beto. bet they trust you now. why don't you let us steer? bikers, they're our people.">> <<"Pretty sure anyone who ain't tryin' to burn the world down ain't your people, cabrón.">> <<"mmm. touché. but we know the language.">> <<"You ain't steering.">> <<"fuckin' blue-ballin' us, robbie.">> "I mean the raccoons' weird little hands," Scramble clarifies, laughing. "For gettin' where they not supposed to be." Her head shakes. "It's that show about a motorcycle club -- guess I'm not surprised you didn't watch it, but you ain't missing much anyhow." She gestures around them at the block. "It is that, but with some work it could be so much more. Not just a safe harbor but a home." This last word wavers, just a little, on her lips. Her eyebrows lift up again at Robbie's long hesitation. Then up further at his stammering reply. Her voice is surprisingly gentle, though, she answers, "You get us some info, we'll put the word out. There's other safe places -- smaller, you know, but still -- across the city. If someone seen him, we'll find out." "You okay, man?" DJ's looked to Robbie at the hesitation, too. His smile drops away at the answer. Brows knitting together. "I'm sorry." This is softer. His brow creases a little deeper. His glance to Scramble is very quick. "Mutants go missing a lot in your --" A very small stutter of pause. "-- around here?" "...I can do that. Garage in the Hole, right?" Robbie makes a mental note. "I'll stop by there. I still got pictures of him." There's another pause; something tugs at his mind. Something Dusk said, the other day. <<"you getting cold feet on us?">> <<"This is... look, I don't know how any of this -- how you work.">> DJ's question causes something hot and angry to flash through Robbie. Before he knows it, he's replying to a question not even directed at him: "Lotta folk go missing, mutants especially." Then, frowning at his own impertinence, he slides his boot again -- and asks, softer: "How'd you figure it out? How..." He gestures at the last nail. "Without... hurting yourself. Or somebody else?" "Hellhound Bikes. You get down that neighborhood an' you asks folks on the street, they'll tell you the way. Come round dinnertime you might just get a feast." Scramble goes still at DJ's question and Robbie's reply, her casual posture unchanged but tense now, her dark brown eyes scanning the street reflexively. "Even one's too many, you ask me," she says finally, her voice tightly controlled. "Don't nobody disappear right off the street so much, but sometimes from jail, or hospitals..." She swallows. "One of the reasons we be looking out for our people especially, you know?" "Yeah -- yeah. I know." DJ's jaw tightens. "I'm glad you all are out there." He's tensed, too. Fist gripping harder around the last couple nails. There's a brief but noticeable hitch in the rhythm that he's laying them at, rippling in time with a small flare of sick cold anger. "Hell of a caveat, isn't it." His left shoulder hitches again. "I -- had a lot of practice." Something in Robbie's own expression tightens at the mention of jail; he briefly looks away. "Hellhound Bikes," he repeats to himself, staring off in the direction of the neighborhood -- almost forgetting to move his foot for the next nail. <<"i like 'em already.">> "Practice. Right, that... that makes sense." <<"ooh. you wanna practice, kid? let's go find ourselves some fucks to practice on. whaddya say?">> Robbie's eyes drift to DJ's left shoulder. Suddenly: "Mierda. That's not -- fuck. Is that how you lost your...? Shit. Sorry. I shouldn't just be asking shit like that." "We do what we can," Scramble says quietly. "Ain't never enough, but we do what we can." She shifts, arms crossing again, watching the precision of DJ's work. "Hope your practice weren't..." But she doesn't finish the sentence. Her eyes skate up to DJ's empty sleeve, then flick sharply to Robbie. "Ain't generally considered polite," she manages, more or less evenly, though bristling again. "Not enough's better than nothing. Seems to be where a lot of people fall, unfortunately. Always glad for the ones who step up." DJ's eyes go wider at Robbie's question, a deep crimson flushing his cheeks. "No." It's terse. The last nails vanish from his hand. The mesh is pinned firmly in place, though the final nail sits at just a bit of an angle, head not quite flush with the wood. The smile that returns to his face, cheer that returns to his tone, as he turns (abruptly) aside to start gathering his tools together, are a little too forced. "Really appreciate the help. Probably so will a lot of people once fresh omelettes are on the menu." "Right, yeah. Sorry, that was fucked up of me." Robbie frowns. "I just -- thinking about bein' out there with no idea how any of this works, nobody to help figure out how it works --" <<"you projecting, robbie? ">> "--just worried... 'bout Gabe, is all." As that final nail snaps into place, Robbie steps back; he's still frowning as he watches DJ retrieving those tools. <<"leave it alone. he's seen shit. 'you' ain't gonna help him.">> Robbie tugs briefly at his own jacket. "It's nothing, don't worry. Sorry -- about that, and... that load." <<"kid, 'shut up'.">> "Probably rough, scary. But he knows he got family watching out for him." Scramble's arms tighten across her chest. "We ain't the only ones steppin' up around here," she says softly as DJ finishes with the enclosure. "Thank you both." She glances back at her bike. "Gotta go put her away proper before my kitchen shift. And kid," she adds as she turns to go, "you need a ride down to the garage you let me know." Her smile, when it returns, is thin and sharp, "But I'm guessing you got a ride of your own. See y'all around." "I'm sorry. I'm not going to pretend it's easy to figure out how all this works, on your own with a whole new --" DJ shakes his head. "Well." Even down an arm, he's cleaning up with remarkable efficiency; the tools he picks up vanish almost immediately from his grip, reappearing to gather in a small pile in a dropcloth just beside the coop. It makes it possible, if clunky, to scoop up in one go, lifting the cloth by all corners into a makeshift bag and heaving it awkwardly up over his shoulder. "I'm sorry. I really hope you find him." His chin lifts to Scramble as he starts back towards one of the houses. "Ride safe." | |
