Logs:Freak Jail Hipsters
| Freak Jail Hipsters | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia | 2024-08-05 "Not a big sample size, though." |
| Location
<XAV> Back Patio - Xs Grounds | |
This patio is expertly laid out for relaxing singly or in groups. The section nearest the back door is a more or less conventional veranda, the mansion's eaves--supported by elegant white wooden columns joined with matching railings--extending out to shelter the long porch swings, rocking chairs, and a chess table from the elements. Down the stairs or the ramp from this is a fan-shaped expanse of slate flagstones populated by clusters of deck chairs and picnic tables, always changing in number and arrangement, and stone planter boxes bursting with seasonal flowers and ornamentals. The centerpiece is an elegant pavilion with a hot tub open for use year-round, even if the transition in and out may prove chilly in snowy weather. It's a hot and humid day, the shiny-bright metal and glass of the Xavier's construction site glimmering with a mirage-y sheen from here. With class juuust finished for the day, the grounds are juuust starting to get busy again. Roscoe is sitting on the back steps, head tilted back against the porch railing, wearing swim trunks and a slightly-clinging white t-shirt, slide sandals; where his legs are outstretched in a sunny patch, the wood is discolored by nearly-dry chlorine water, and there's a slightly-more-damp spot in the shade directly under him. He's only just sat down -- he's still scrolling through his phone to pick out a playlist to accompany the scarlet-and-yellow vape pod he's holding in one hand, subtly tucked against a fold of his t-shirt where surely nobody will notice it. There's a humming overhead -- at first but soon growing close enough to feel the thrum. Swooping down from the sunny sky is, somewhat improbably, a motorcycle -- then again it's not the most improbable Flying Object that's zoomed around these grounds. The bike that is descending definitely is identifiable as a motorcycle, but more in concept than execution, sleek and minimalist and full of negative space like some kind of Concept Cycle from a futuristic sci-fi film. The fact that it is flying probably only helps this impression. The rider atop it is tiny, a diminutive figure whose pinstripe slacks manage to not be at odds with the leather vest over top that is offering some flight protection to his short-sleeved mandarin-collar button down. The faceplate on his helmet is decorated like a very sharptoothed grinning sharkface, which as he alights on the edge of the flagstones is the only face that is visible. Past the sleeves of his shirt, though, his arms are very blue, webbed hands ending in small but very sharp black claws. There's not a lot of expression discernible just yet, but the curious sideways tilt of head as he kills the engine and hops off suggests that he's looking right at Roscoe. "Lassiter, right?" Roscoe looks up from his phone in what is almost but not quite a double-take -- his eyes flutter a little wide, then a little squinty, at the helmet's painted face. The vape pod has been tucked very hastily into his gym bag (for a phys ed class as involved as 'Swimming' this is just a drawstring backpack with a change of clothes), the phone screen very hastily turned off. "Uh-huh," he says, then after a miniscule pause he corrects himself to a self-consciously polite, "-- yessir. Were you --" he cuts himself off, tilts his head -- "No, I would've remembered that," is kind of just to himself. "Who're you?" "Oh, nah, they hadn't even dreamed up Lassiter Back In My Day," Shane is tugging his helmet off and, unfortunately, beneath the painted sharktoothed grin his own smile is even wider, even toothier, "-- I'm Spence's brother. Shane. You the eyes kid?" Maaaybe (prooobably) Roscoe was already aware of what Shane looks like, for this time there isn't a flinch in his expression, just a small, less-toothy smile back; he pulls himself up a little less slouchy, pulls his feet to the stair directly below him to sit more compactly. "Jeez," he says, very gravely. "Hard to even imagine everything before Lassiter." His eyes do widen a bit, then -- "Oh-h-h," he says. "You're the tough-tough one. I'm his roommate. Roscoe." Is he the eye kid? He's sort of puffed himself up at that description, with a distinctly pleased grin. "Am I, shit, you should meet my twin." Shane's grin has gotten just a bit bigger, here. "And yeah, fff, it all looked pretty different back then. Smaller. Sometimes hard for me to imagine what you all --" Shane waggles a webbed hand toward Roscoe. He hooks his helmet on the handlebar of his bike before ambling closer. "Thanks, though. Kinda like having my brother around and I heard you really saved their asses." Roscoe nods, his eyes flicking Shane up-down -- "Sometimes at Lassiter I would meet a real old-timer," he says, then gives a tiny headshake. He's not exactly unpuffing when he defers, "Naw, Spence made my life so much easier, nobody else would ever let me join their gang." Shane's gills flutter, and though his shoulders shake his laughter is a silent thing. "Yeah, B and I are real freak jail hipsters." When his expression softens it's not, really, all that legible, slightly more eye and slightly less teeth. "Sucks he didn't get the art shit from pa you all could have had Lassiteen stick-n-pokes. I mean, I guess you still could've, no skill has not stopped a lot of prison ink." He's looking over Roscoe again, a small sympathetic scrunch in his nose: "... not surprised, though, I'm guessing Asians were not exactly rolling deep in Lassiter? Feel like those numbers dropped precipitously after we got out." "Heh," Roscoe has flicked Shane another glance, up-down, but whatever is amusing him about this freak-jail-hipster designation he keeps to himself. "I'm a freak jail normie," he says dolefully. He pulls his feet in a little tighter, smooths his trunks where the material is still clinging to his skin. "Yeah, that sucks," he says, "I bet everyone's parents would've loved their kids coming out all inked up. I guess Mr. Jax might've." Evidently he didn't expect Shane to come out and say this so baldly -- his eyes widen and he lets out a possibly-involuntary snort. "Not on my side of the glass, at least," he says. "Who else was in your lab? Lotta Asians?" He probably doesn't mean to sound this bewildered by that prospect. Shane winces, but doesn't disagree. "God, a demographic breakdown of the shitfucks might not come out looking so good for us. --and it was one-hundred-percent Asians when I first went in," this, at least, is, kiiind of amused. "Not a big sample size, though. By the time B got transferred out it was, uh, bigger, and I think she was the only one at her lab. Penfield was a real mixed bag but Hive and Daiki and..." For a second his gills press closed, inner eyelids shuttering, though the actual hitch in his words is barely noticeable. "-- Dai's brother were all in there so it was kinda solid. Dai learned Vietnamese just so we could annoy the hell out of the guards. Not the brightest move but you know. Gets fucking boring in there. You could," he's musing, as he looks over towards the new construction, "probably rustle up an all-Asian gang at this place but it won't give you as much street cred once you're free." This time Roscoe's grin is more of a grimace, his front teeth pressing at his lip. "I got my phone privileges took away when I got sent to Lassiter, I didn't hear no Viet for -- did you say Vietnamese?" His eyes widen at Shane like he's trying to find Vietnamese features in his face, before he seems to realize this might be rude and -- perhaps at a loss for how else to stop -- takes a hit off his vape (cherry banana punch), then folds his arms over his knees, tries to sigh this sweet-smelling vapor not at Shane. "I'm already in Key Club," he says. "And it doesn't." "{I know, I look so much like my Ba, right? My birth parents left Saigon in the 70s.} Moved straight to the shittiest state they could find, for some goddamn reason. I think they missed suffering." Shane's Vietnamese is at is not much less fluid than his English but it is less coarse, less like Some Biker and more, perhaps, suited for a fancy prep school. He is snorting, shaking his head at this last revelation. "Could be worse," he is offering as he starts to saunter towards the door, "I was a band geek." | |
