Logs:How bad could this be? / We have been to hell and back / and we're doing fine.
| How bad could this be? / We have been to hell and back / and we're doing fine. | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia
Hive, Dawson, bat-winged man, two small, blue faces, Ryan, Joshua, Bryce, Dallen |
2025-05-18 "The federal government would never spend that much money to support the railways." |
| Location | |
This is an old bootlegger's cellar dug into the side of a rocky ravine in up in the less-trafficked hills of the Xavier family's vast property. Its door is cunningly hidden by the surrounding geography and quite overgrown to boot, but joined by a path to a boat launch at a bend in the stream below. Inside, it's just a simple if sturdily built space lined with shelves and racks, some of which still hold bottles of contraband presumably smuggled up the Hudson to keep the wealthy residents in good spirits during the Prohibition era. A tunnel at the back of the cellar passes under the hills, though sections of it are beginning to crumble and the other entrance near the mansion has long since collapsed. There are extensive notes scattered on the table, and a backpack half-packed, but Natsumi is not contributing anything further to these planning efforts. She's slouched face-up over a large beanbag in comfortable flared leggings and a loose red tank over a racerback sports bra. Her hair is pulled up in a simple bun that had already started to come a little loose during her earlier yoga class and is now in a considerable further state of disarray as gravity sloooowly slides her down toward the floor. She isn't bothering to pull herself back up -- the gradual scooch does get her minutely closer to the bottle of rum on the table nearby, and she's grasping for it clumsily with one hand. In the other hand she's holding a packet of sorts, stapled together from a mismatched assortment of scrap papers and reading 'WELCOME "Whoa, empath Pablo? That's nice. I thought he got, you know," Roscoe says, though his gesturing is not really indicating anything, much less, "back in juvie, or something. He was not well." He's not accepting the Welcome Packet back so much as he's just not fighting its return; it starts to slide down off his stomach and it takes him a moment to find the will to knock it into his lap instead with a twitch of one elbow. He's wearing a rugby shirt striped with blue and darker blue, its sleeves pulled down over his hands as though he needs to conceal the vape he's very blatantly taking a hit from; he at least turns his head slightly so that Natsumi isn't getting blasted with some fruity tropical blend of scents even if it would complement the rum. But then he's dropping the vape back down to leaf back through the packet. "Be really useful if there was a Welcome to Varela packet." "I meeean imagine going through the cages as an empath you'd have to be a little insane to choose that life." Natsumi's lightly scoffing tone is not the best suited to the matter at hand, but it's what she's got. She pushes herself upright to gulp at the rum and then sets the bottle (precariously) down nestled into the beanbag and balanced against her side. "Oh we had one but it ended up an unfortunate kitchen incident catastrophe. I could be a Varela Welcome Packet, I knew everything about that place. One thing I know," she's saying very seriously, "it was never on a train." "Yeaaah," Roscoe agrees woefully, "Chicken-egg situation, I guess." He pushes a little more upright on one elbow to make a grabby hand at the rum as Natsumi is settling it down. "Varela had kitchen duty? What the fuck, they never let me have a job." Even if this complaint wasn't made in earnest, it's still distinctly whiny. He shakes his head disgruntledly and manages to push himself a little more upright still. "Not -- on -- a train," he says, like he's adding a diligent note to the packet in his lap with an imaginary pen. "I already knew that, the federal government would never spend that much money to support the railways." Natsumi snorts at this, clapping her hand over her mouth afterwards as if this rough laughter was terribly undignified. She picks the rum back up (just before it's started to tip) and puts it in Roscoe's hand. "Oh-h-h most of us did not get paid we were too young." This comes with a giggle, evidently deemed acceptable enough that she does not cover her mouth. She's taking the welcome packet back, holding it up over her head -- a photograph comes dislodged from somewhere near the back to flutter down to the beanbag while she's looking at it. "Really curious how Prometheus: Snowpiercer Edition has improved upon the model though. Can you imagine getting a spinal tap while the A train is rattling around a bend." Roscoe blows a huffy raspberry of deep, disgusted contempt as he's accepting the bottle, shaking his head. He takes a generous swig of the rum and wipes his mouth with his sleeve, thankfully before he bursts into a small, spluttery laugh. "Just close your eyes and think of America," he says, then, maybe this is as much optimism as he can muster: "Maybe they have better TV." As he's replacing the rum carefully next to her, he picks up the photograph, pushing himself up a little straighter in the beanbag to look at it, his dark eyes scanning over the familiar firelit faces. "I haven't reread this thing in, like, years," he says. "What does y va caer mean? Do you know any..." he's squinting, then hazarding, "Latin?" "Oh my God --" Natsumi is leaning in closer to look at the picture. She takes a large swig of rum, her eyes gone very wide. "It's so weird seeing that now that we're all -- now that they're all -- I mean when I first saw it it was like, a minute and I guess I just assumed some fan..." She shakes her head, wincing and pressing a hand down against the beanbag to attempt to stop her small wobble. She's starting to reach for the picture but her hand stops, falls down to her knee. She's staring down at Hive and Flicker's firelit faces, and shivers -- she looks on the verge of saying something but instead she just flops backwards. "Spanish. It's, um, 'and it will fall'? I guess they were right about that. -- Who do you think it came from? If that's like, OG Ryan Black Prometheus merch I bet it'd go on ebay for a fortune. Prooobably to some fed trying to collect evidence to bust the team more, um, harder." "I know, I was three when this was taken," says Roscoe, obligingly tilting the photo so Natsumi can see it, then sliding a little lower into his own beanbag. He's frowning from the two small blue faces to the bat-winged man. "I stole this fair and square when I left Lassiter, I'm not selling it," he says. "-- and, what? Was there a first part?" He takes the packet back to flip through it worrying with his teeth at his lower lip and frowning at the remnants of paper in the staple where pages have been removed. Makes a small and unhappy noise, deep in his throat, then lets the packet drop back to his lap, and reaches for the rum again. "I never thought about who it came from," he says. "Maybe Joshua knows." "Bryce and Dallen's brother was class of 2011, this was probably like, right after he graduated here." Natsumi turns the rub back over and flops backwards again heavily. "It was a common, slogan, I think? Like, rebels who were fighting Pinochet or -- other dictators, down there. I think Ryan Black is like, half Colombian? That whole part of the world has had a lot of rebel-ing." She rolls her head over to the side to squint back in the general direction of the photo, though she can probably no longer see it well from her angle. "He probably knows. Maybe," this is a little dubious; she's looking back toward their Planning Table, "when we get back. We can ask him." After a moment Roscoe just nods, and tucks the photo back into the packet, and leans forward to put it onto the Planning Table, a little ways away from their Plans. "When we get back," he agrees, his voice low, and takes another slow sip of the rum. | |
