Logs:In Which The Prospies Get A Hand With Their Chores

In Which The Prospies Get A Hand With Their Chores
Dramatis Personae Nick, Shane, Taylor	2020-08-18 "You're gonna have to just trust me on this one."
Location <NYC> Hellhound Bikes - The Hole
Located not far from Jamaica Bay in a predominantly Latinx sector of East New York, this garage doesn't look like much from the outside. A low-slung squat dingy brick building with a hand-painted sign over front proclaiming it to be HELLHOUND CUSTOM CYCLES, this garage has a small office area with its own pedestrian entrance from the street at the front, containing a minifridge usually full of beer and beaten down old desk with a ledger and an antique cash register that no one ever seems to use. The rest of the space is roughly L-shaped, its walls lined with racks of tools and heavy workbenches with built-in steel drawers full of hardware and spare parts. There's a raised platform in the wider leg of the space for working on one motorcycle, and there's space in the narrower leg for parking at least three more. This autumnal mildness is jarring in mid-August, but the neighborhood children are making the most of their non-scorching summer days. The neighborhood adults, too: someone has set up a dance party right in the street, and the event is gathering momentum as participants bring snacks and beverages to share. Alas, there' no partying for the Mongrel prospects at the garage--they've been cleaning like Cinderella since lunchtime. They're down to the home stretch, though, at least until someone comes along to give them more work. Nick is scrubbing industriously at a dark motor oil stain on the smooth concrete floor. He wears an old heather gray Xavier's athletics t-shirt under his cut, and tatty, much-faded cut-off jeans. His brown coat is ruffled and damp here and there and he smells somewhat unfortunately like a wet dog. He straightens up for a minute, stretching legs that really aren't well-designed for kneeling long periods, and lifts his muzzle to sniff at the air. "I think that party is turning into a cookout," he says, just a touch mournfully. Not far away Taylor is crouched by the center platform, in old jean shorts and an equally ancient Oakland Raiders tee, his cut over top. Where Nick is degreasing he is greasing, making sure the gears and blocks on the hydraulic lift are properly lubricated. "Hnngh." His groan doesn't entirely cover the rumbling of his stomach. "Shit. Don't they all, though. We lucky, it'll run late. Ain't nobody uncle gonna rush on the grill." The hum outside is very distinctive, a thrumming vibration that's more palpable than loud as Shane's bike swoops in to land neatly in the center of the freshly-scrubbed floor. The sharkpup is dressed in deep pink short-sleeved button down, grey pinstripe trousers, grey pinstripe vest with his scaled-down club insignia embroidered on the left breast pocket. As he kills the engine and pulls off his grinning shark-face helmet his own grin beneath is no less bright. "Damn, s'like a whole new garage in here." He's setting the helmet down on the seat of the bike, opening up one of his saddlebags to pull out a heavy plastic toolbox. "Came to see if you all needed a hand but it looks you got it well covered." "True, but we're gonna be smelling it for a while, too." This doesn't sound altogether like a complaint coming from Nick. He clambers down and is about to return to work when Shane sweeps in. He bobs his head. "We still got a ways to go," he says, puffing out his deep chest just a little, "but we'll get it done." He still glances longingly at the party outside, though. "Need anything while you're here? We've had to move some stuff and not everything is back to its usual place yet." Taylor perches on the edge of the platform, stretching several arms in slow stretch as Shane's bike settles itself. He leans forward, resting elbows on his knees as one slim tendril waggles in wave. "Yeah, we good. Not that we ain't looking forward to getting some food, but." His shrug is equanimous. He stretches an arm outward, gesturing towards Shane's toolbox. "'zat for us? Gonna get to the rest of the sorting soon anyway." Shane is trailing his way through the garage, idly inspecting the (cleaner! more organized!) environs. He turns with a sharper smile at Taylor's question, and deposits the toolbox into the outstretched limb. "Oh, yeah, that's for you. Not for the garage, though, you take that one with you. Thought it was one of you-all's at first, but --" Shrug. Nick nods his agreement with Taylor as he drifts over to stand near his fellow prospect. " He cocks his head curiously at Shane's explanation, opening his mouth to ask a question but then evidently thinking better of it. "Thanks?" is what he does manage to say, unable to quite keep the questioning tone out of his voice as he watches Taylor open the box. "One've our what?" Taylor's arm wraps around the handle of the toolbox. He pulls it into his lap, clicking its locks and opening the lid. His eyes shoot open very wide. He slams the lid closed again, four arms coiling long and heavy around the box. His eyes have fixed down on the box. Several moments. "What -- are we supposed to do with this?" "You're gonna have to just trust me on this one," Shane returns back to his bike to hop up and sit sideways on the saddle, "but the saddest fucking zombie tried to rob me today, I shit you not. Half dead, shedding body parts like someone brought the Addams Family to Flushing. Said he didn't come to the surface much and I thought he was one of yours, was this close to having some fucking words." His head shakes, hand resting on his knee. "Turns out he's just some dumbass kid with no fucking manners who doesn't know shit about shit. He comes around asking for that --" He nods to the box, "maybe you can teach him like. How to be a person." Nick yips when he sees the contents of the box, his nose scrunching and his lips drawing back in distaste. He leans back well away from it even after Taylor snaps the lid shut again. "Zombie?" His amber eyes are very, very wide as they track Shane's progress back to his bike. "Sure thing, yeah, we'll--um--" He casts a wild glance at Taylor, his ears pressing back. "Talk to him, if he comes asking for it." "Iiiii'm sorry, you gonna run that zombie bit by me again?" Taylor snaps the locks shut tight. His arms stay pressed hard to the lid of the box. "You don't seem that freaked so I guess we're not looking at the next layer of this shitty apocalypse." His fingers drum against the top of the box. "So I'm just supposed to carry around a -- twitchy -- corpse -- hand until some rude undead thief comes looking for it?" "Nope." Shane picks up his helmet and hops back onto his bike. "I told him to come to Evolve. You can keep it where you want. Just think maybe the kid should talk to someone with two braincells before the next person he goes after takes a limb for good." The bike starts up its hum again. Shane's grin is soon obscured behind the painted sharp teeth of his helmet. "Know I'll be leaving him in good hands."