Logs:In Which You Have Made People Like the Fish of the Sea, Like Crawling Things That Have No Ruler.

In Which You Have Made People Like the Fish of the Sea, Like Crawling Things That Have No Ruler.
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Leo, Scramble, Shane, B, DJ, Sera, Nick, Tian-shin, Polaris, Joshua, Skye, Anahita, Desi, Lael, Taylor, Elie	2023-12-31 "Freaktown has been having many too much of their own problems, they do not need..." (freaktown unrest.)
Location the closing of the year
23 november. chez tessier. The surprise on Lucien's face when he's answered the door is clear, swift though it is to tamp itself back down. "-- {my apologies, I will have to call you back,}" he is informing someone on the other side of his bluetooth earpiece, and tucking the other phone he's been checking texts on back into the pocket of his apron. He's opening the door wider immediately, gesturing the other man inside where the house is already smelling warm and herby. "Things are nowhere near ready, but you are welcome to Matthieu's habitual place lounging against the counter interfering," he offers, tone light though his gaze sweeps the other man with a scrutinizing concern. The intensity eases only when he has satisfied himself Leo seems relatively intact. "Many people have been asking after you," has only the very mildest of reproach, given how little Lucien cares for being out of the loop. "Nobody in Freaktown or -- any of the usual places has heard a thing. Have you been safe? I am exceedingly glad you made it." Leo is shifting his weight awkwardly, his head ducking with a preemptive apology even before Lucien has finished speaking and a small tight smile touching his lips and dying again in short order. "Yes -- no, I am sorry," he is demurring, not quite over the end of Lucien's words. "I should have said I was coming but communication has been -- I had to --" This trails off as he drifts inside, some faint tension easing once the door is closed. "Freaktown has been having many too much of their own problems, they do not need..." He shakes his head slightly, hands wringing in front of him as though discomfited by their emptiness. "I have..." he begins, then trails off, looking from Lucien's earpiece to the apron and down to the floor. "I am sorry to be early. I can help with the cooking?" --- 27 november. guest house. freaktown. Conflicts with new residents, like the one manspreading across the parlor couch in the next room, are not terribly uncommon here and usually not that big of a deal. Perhaps this one wouldn't be, either, under different circumstances. Scramble closes the door to the study behind her two advisors and presses a fist into her eye socket as if she could excavate the pain that has moved in there for the long haul, also unwanted. "Aight," she says eloquently, slouching back against the edge of the huge desk. "He been talked to, he steady actin', he ain't gon' change and he got to go." Her dark eyes skip from one small shark to the other and back. "His crew won't take the L, though -- hell, not even just his crew. E'ery one them crackers reppin' the Swords been waiting for some shit like this. Even the ones can't stand his smarmy ass they own selves gon' swarm us for kicking him out. Probably," she adds wearily, "on account of how we the ones being racist." Shane is swiveling back and forth idly in the desk chair, his claws prickling down into its leather armrest. "Not like we can wait this shit out, they're just going to bring more shitbags here if we don't..." If we don't what trails off a little uncertainly. "This doesn't have to turn into some kind of showdown in Town Square for the soul of Freaktown." Over at one side, B has been watching a drubbing rain sluice down the window. Her wide eyes light brief in a flash of rain-filtered lighting -- at a delay she traces a reflection of its jagged path through the fog on the glass. "We don't have to kick all these people out if they just -- disappear." --- 3 december. freaktown. Christmas season might have started long ago for retailers, but it's only today as Advent begins that this large nativity set is being erected to one side of a wide Freaktown patio. The humble stable and accompanying manger are far more sturdy than is probably necessary for such a temporary structure, simple but exquisitely crafted woodwork. Over at one side of the tableau tucked among figurines of sheep and donkeys, Ophelia is fully oblivious to her seasonal appropriateness; she's just chewing with contemplative pleasure at some of the straw intended to give the baby Jesus a comfortable bed. At the moment DJ isn't paying his goat much mind; he's just outside the stable, assisting with staking a sculpture of one of the reverent shepherds firmly into the ground. From this crouched position he has to look up at his younger companion, his expression scrunched into thoughtfulness. "-- sincere about caring, even if he doesn't share your faith," he's offering gently, "but --" For a second the but just hangs there, and it seems like he might not continue. Maybe he's just focused on getting this statue properly settled. "It's understandable if that makes some things harder. I think it's okay if you need..." This time, his trailing off isn't born of contemplation. There's a sharp focus in his expression, eyes snapping past Sera, and though he doesn't hurry to his feet there's a distinct purposefulness when he rises. His mechanical hand hangs stiff at his side, bright red and black cardinal-feathered fingers striking past the boring beige sleeve of his jacket, but his other hand has dropped deceptively casual to the innocuous-looking pouch at his hip. Aside from his keen gaze, the way he steps forward to put himself more squarely in front of the teenager is casual as well. Sera nods, slow and thoughtful and maybe not altogether consciously agreeing with DJ. Though she's facing the wrong way, it's probably no real surprise to her when one of the two police officers who have swaggered up to them speaks. "Do you have a permit for that goat?" The cop looks and sounds very serious, but his partner can't quite suppress a smirk. "It's illegal to keep farm animals as pets in the city." If Sera is surprised, it doesn't show on her face or in her carriage. She turns to stand beside DJ, not displacing him but not hiding behind him, either. The flex of her power so subtle DJ would not likely clock it if he did not know her so well. It's just a quiet wash of fellowship, goodwill, and charity that intensifies her natural affability when she speaks. "Oh! Hello, officers. That's Ophelia, she's an emotional support animal." She indicates the nanny goat with a charming tilt of her head, and a surge of sympathetic charity softens her smile as she lays a hand on DJ's prosthetic arm. "We understand you have to check, of course! Thank you for doing what you do." --- 7 december. village square. freaktown. It's barely gotten above freezing all day, but not nearly cold enough for Nick to break out a jacket. He looks perfectly cozy with just a white thermal shirt under his cut and heavy work jeans, though the work presently at hand is fairly light. Too light, maybe. He's just finished adding blue-and-white string pennants to the meager few strands of fairy lights ringing the plaza. His nose crinkles with dissatisfaction as he considers the cardboard box that holds his remaining options: many rolls of streamers in various shades of blue and white, a six-pack of dreidel garden flags, one smallish silver menorah, and several "Happy Hanukkah" banners featuring different English transliterations of the holiday's name. He picks up the most festive-looking of these last (holographic letters!) and considers entrance to the cul-de-sac where such a banner would be logical, then looks past it at the woman approaching him down the adjoining street. "Oh, no no no." His expression is hard to read, and though his ears are pressed slightly back there's amusement in his voice. "Shane and J.C. already shot you down! I gotta respect your persistence, but seriously? No." Tian-shin comes up short and blinks at Nick's reception. A faint blush develops at a delay, and she allows a faintly--but only faintly--embarrassed duck of her head. "Shane, J.C., and Scramble," she corrects, an ironic smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "I didn't even get to the pitch I rehearsed! Next person I ask is probably going to text me 'no' before they even see me." Her eyes drop to the banner in Nick's hands, tick past him to survey the pennant and lights, then finally settle on the box of dubious Hanukkah cheer. "But since I'm here anyway, can I give you a hand?" It's nominally a question, but she's already ambling over to inspect the remaining decorations. "Okay, this is not going to cut it. I'll see if my brother can bring some stuff up from Chimaera..." She swipes out a text on her phone and flashes a smile at Nick, "...and we're going to pick up a lot more string lights and a giant inflatable menorah or three." --- 11 december. plaza. freaktown. Though it did not ultimately come to blows, the extended shouting match in front of Tia Lupe's snack stand has dampened the cheerful bustle in the heart of Freaktown. Whether the two men ever had any intention of carrying out the threats they hurled at one another, they've both evidently decided it's the better part of valor not to provoke the safety squad member who had butted into their fight. They're backing away now with just enough bluster to salve their egos and pretend they are retreating from each other rather than the white girl standing between them, however fierce her reputation may be. Polaris isn't actually on duty yet but is highly recognizable, both to the nervous onlookers who'd gone in search of the safety squad and the belligerent men she's just talked down. She watches until they're ushered out of sight, slower to untense than the crowd around her. The frown that had been easing from her brow deepens again when she catches lingering wary gazes that avert quickly from hers. She almost pointedly relaxes her posture now, rolling her shoulders and shifting her balance back onto her heels as she turns to go. Joshua's gaze doesn't look much more wary than usual, heavy brows furrowed over an expression that scans mournful more than anything else. He doesn't look away, either -- though there's a distinct and uncharacteristic tension that's corded up his shoulders hard as he trudges towards Polaris. The shift of fabric at his jacket pockets tells of the clench-unclench of his hands where his fists are shoved into them; though his shoulders (deliberately) ease as he falls into step beside her, this restless tic does not ease. "S'not you." His voice is gruff, eyes following a teenager who is shooting Polaris one last furtive look before he disappears into a nearby house. There's a but that perches, tense, on the tail end of this, for a long enough stretch it seems like he might swallow it again. Then his eyes drop to the still-marred pavement and one shoulder lifts heavily, sags back. "Some fears spread easy." --- 21 December. freaktown "Did you see that shit?" Skye is demanding, once again. Granted, previously she'd been asking her fellow safety volunteers as they pass through the makeshift clinic on needless patrols to reassure themselves and everyone else who probably will not sleep tonight. Plenty of them weren't intending to, anyway, but the reason has become a lot less festive. Still, the Longest Night Celebration seems to be slowly resuming outside, uncertain knots of frightened residents and the few visitors who haven't fled clustering around the safety squad and just about anyone else they think might protect them. "Fucking pigs packed it in the minute Team Sword showed up. I know everyone thinks I'm paranoid, but it's like they '"planned it that way." This time she was, in fact, talking to the woman bandaging her forearm, even though it's not that bad ("seriously it's barely even bleeding, you should get back to your festivities!"), but one of her fellow volunteers who replies first. "Better get your tinfoil hat checked out, Chica," says one of the more recent additions, who definitely isn't racist because he dates Asian girls but, you know how guys like that are. "Face it, the Paw Patrol just isn't cutting it." He chuckles to himself as he walks away, making sympathetic noises at those injured enough to linger here. Anahita makes a muted hum that might be interpreted as assent, but does not look up from her work, winding a rolled bandage around and around Skye's forearm to secure a honeyed gauze pad over the wound that is not, in fact, that bad. She does not look up at the man, either, though her eyes cut aside sharply at his chuckle. "They might have planned it," she tells Skye evenly once he's walked away. "But the agendas of fascists often align without any need for active cooperation. Frankly, most of them are quite bad at that. I suspect the pigs just came to beat up brown people for overtime and do not care to provoke the Swords. That would be enough to sway those who side with whoever keeps them safest, nevermind the safety of their neighbors." She tucks the end of the bandage back its own folds and straightens stiffly, rubbing at her lower back. "Now, I must tend to the bonfire." She stretches out a hand toward Skye's uninjured arm for help standing up. "If you stay a while longer, I'll tell you a story about two rebels and a stolen revolution." --- 25 december. b's apartment. It's chilly up here on the roof deck, but the latticework privacy screen behind the sitting area and the fire blazing merrily in the fire pit go a long way to cut down on the bite. Shane is at the fringe of the fire's warmth, leaning up against the guardrail. The flickering glow that dances off his back finds a lively echo in the twinkling Freaktown lights reflected in the immense black pools of his eyes -- though it's not the nearby enclave that he's looking towards, but the telltale blue-and-red flashing somewhere beyond. It's only when the police cars zoom past the borders of the autonomous zone that his shoulders relax. "Ion would've had this shit handled," sounds more wistful than self-deprecating. He's lifting his beer to take a sip before remembering the bottle is empty; probably the look he casts towards the roof door will not make B return with more booze any quicker. He slumps more heavily against the railing, and is only half joking with the hopeful follow-up: "... think once he's done with Cap Luci could find some time to wave his magic wand cop-wards?" Though she isn't likely all that cold, herself, Desi is tucked closer to the fire, which lends a warm glow to her winter-pale skin and flickers strangely in the depths of her vivid green eyes. "Perhaps," she hedges, at a small delay, "though even setting aside the other balls he has in the air, the people trying to make Cap happen on the big screen are courting him rather aggressively, so who knows how much." She takes another sip of her own beer before passing it casually to Shane. "That's not to say he wouldn't add another ball to his rotation, if he knew how dire your situation was. But I might just be able to help you find another fairy godmother." --- 26 december. freaktown. This airy dining room has been thoughtfully cleared for them, and three banker boxes of decorations along with a battered reusable grocery tote set at the end of one long table, as yet untouched. Lael hasn't been here long, but he's already starting to feel out of place alone here in his brand new dashiki, and so he starts in on the box without waiting for his companion. The first is brimming with brightly colored kente cloth runners wrapped with loving care around hand-carved wooden wares. He lays out the longest runner and starts arranging the other items, reflecting that his dearly departed nana would like as not brand all this as "hoodoo". He knows better--and he's sure God does, too, but sends up an earnest little prayer to remind Him, just in case. His locs, waving with their own easy rhythm, pluck up the Unity cup sitting beside the box where he'd unwrapped it. "Umoja," he murmurs, turning cup and word alike this way and that. When he tries to picture community, the images come in fractured uncertain patchwork of the Black folks in his life from Helena to Xavier's to Lassiter and now...here? He looks past the cup out the window onto streets decked with a chaotic mix of recent festivals, only dimly harkening back to its previous glory. The giant inflatable rooster Santa lolling against the also giant, somewhat deflated, but still lit menorah comes close, though. << Place sure tries real hard to be for all mutants... >> He's mentally posing Avi and Spence by the menorah and Nanami and Kelawini on the jolly rooster, all beaming their brightest, most festive smiles. But then the tableau is swallowed up by blurry phone camera footage of a fiery pillar rising from the Freaktown square... He sucks in a sharp breath, dismantles the recollection, returning it to safe, familiar, inert components and suppressing the absurd impulse to text Avi if he's okay. << Reckon most places for mutants still gotta be for white mutants, first, or the white folks just won't have it. >> His locs have wound tight around the Unity cup, which he uncoils from his hair but does not set down, rolling it from one palm to another. << What kind of Unity is that? >> Taylor can be felt before he actually arrives, mind all a-bustle with broken fragments of rap he's still workshopping for the poetry jam later, mental checklists of prep for the evening that focuses more heavily on safety concerns than on the supplies and meal plan. This jumble coalesces into a sense of apology once he pushes the door open, smile bright but head ducking guiltily as he looks over the work Lael has already done. Under his "Sorry, sorry, always something round here," comes the shape of his delayed arrival: one former teacher turned doggedly determined wannabe gangster. Tian-shin's rebuffed request has an air of finality in his mind; he's barely even entertaining the chance that she'll meet welcome from the lone notoriously misanthropic Mongrel remaining. "Cha, dat look so good denn." Taylor is surveying the table with an approving nod, though his expression is more thoughtful when he looks at Lael. "Shit, man, and most places fuh niggas sure as hell en fuh us. Think if the world was living into these principles already, getting together for all this'd be less crucial." One arm snakes out to coil around the cup Lael has set aside, and he shifts it to a place of pride near the kinara. "Fuck most places, though." His serpentine arm squeezes down briefly against Lael's shoulder before withdrawing. "Only unity I want is with the people fighting for it 'long side me." --- 28 december. freaktown. "You really don't give up, do you?" Maybe Tian-shin was right after all, because B has offered this sharp interruption of the other woman's approach without so much as glancing up. The sharkgirl is dusty and deep in the spaghetti-mess wiring she's half-removed from the partially opened basement wall down here. Her gills flicker as she looks critically from the mess to an open YouTube video offering ill-advised DIY electrician advice. Her continued fiddling does not seem to imminently be electrocuting her, at least. It takes a minute before she rocks back to sit on the stompy heels of her boots. "Pa, the others, they did not need to see that footage, but --" The sharpness has drained; B's voice is softer, now, though she still isn't looking at Tian-shin. "My drones see everything. You didn't give up on Dusk, either." There's another shiver of gills, and then she reaches to rewind the video, frowning at it again. She turns back to her repairs, though the gaping drywall she's poking back into doesn't dampen her words. "Shane will get you a vest." Tian-shin evinces no surprise at this reception. She only inclines her head slightly to the rhetorical question, not quite a bow but a polite acknowledgement, at least. Her expression remains steady, not the pleasant demure neutrality she takes to court, but it's just as cultivated in its patient, engaged curiosity. It freezes at the mention of Dusk. She closes her eyes for just a moment, and when they open again there's a wildness in them that does not match the serene mask she's struggling (successfully) to keep in place. She looks about to speak, but draws a careful breath and bows deeply, instead. "Thank you," she replies at last when she straightens, voice clear and steady now. "I won't let you down." --- 31 december. le bonne entente. This early in the evening the party is not quite in full swing. Later there will be more booze, more music, more raucous festivities. For now, the impossibly precious restaurant is catering an impossibly precious feast for -- well, this robust crowd is probably not Lucien's Closest Friends but it is a more select group than those who simply paid the hefty price tag for the later bash. The musicians filling the ballroom are not as big name draws as the entertainers later in the night but are still inspiring endless breathless gushing from the jazz aficionados present. It's unclear whether Elie follows the stars of the modern jazz world, but she has seemed quite at home on the dance floor. Over music and ambient buzz of background chatter there's no telling quite what she's been saying to her partner, but somewhere between her smooth flourishing steps and conversation she's managed to draw not one but two almost-smiles and even a hearty guffaw from the notoriously curmudgeonly Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. before she whisks herself away for a drink. She and her champagne ultimately fetch up against the balcony overlooking the room. She's not really leaning, her fingers just delicately tented against the rail. As she lifts the champagne her eyes sweep the crowd below, something hungry in the cast of her gaze. But then, there are some exquisite amuse-bouches circling the room. Whatever one's tastes, it's hard to deny Scramble looks striking tonight, her attire a sleek androgynous affair in black and gold that doesn't so much nod at Western formalwear as lightly deigns to acknowledge its existence before moving on to better things. She's been carousing with Boss Chen's entourage for a while, but takes her leave now to do some circling of her own. She fetches up on the balcony beside Elie, casual enough -- she does lean on the railing -- though she makes no pretense of doing so by accident. "I been watching you, and I reckon you don't play." She slants an appraising sidelong look at Elie. "Neither do I. Shit's gettin' real dire for our folk up in Riverdale and my dogs say you can help -- maybe pull some strings, maybe bend some ears." Her head gives a small shake. "Now, Ionno if there's anything I can offer you can't get for a lot less trouble somewhere else. But I can tell your sons learned a helluva lot from you." She straightens to her full height, lifts her flute toward Elie and inclines her head -- not quite a bow, but there's something of a salute in the gesture. "I'm hoping you the one taught them how to give a fuck."