Logs:In Which a Wildcat Stretches His Legs and Two Mongrels Do Not

In Which a Wildcat Stretches His Legs and Two Mongrels Do Not
Dramatis Personae Alastair, Scramble, Taylor
In Absentia Ion	2023-08-01 "You just aspiring to uncle-hood ahead of your years."
Location <NYC> Freaktown - Riverdale
It's strikingly easy to see, when the affluent manicured lawns and gardens and HOA-enforced Home Standards of the surrounding neighborhoods give way to the colorful riot that is Freaktown. There are the masses and masses of string lights hung liberally on every telephone pole and street sign, across all the fences, across every roof and lintel of every ~~stolen~~ liberated mansion. There are the decorations -- from every conceivable holiday long out of date, from comical to tasteful all clashing together in wildly garish tableau, inflatable turkey next to a beautifully decorated Sukkah next to hand-sculpted Nativity set beneath faded red lanterns, and on and on. There are the people, swapping stories and bartering goods or Helpful Powers in what has informally come to be known as the Town Square, a cul-de-sac and surrounding yards full of makeshift stalls and laughter; though most faces look fairly Standard Human there's plenty of visible uses of powers in sight and here and there wings or scales or feathers or claws mingled in with the lot. And, of course, if none of that gave the place away, there's the sign, huge and broad where it's taken up residence: WELCOME TO FREAKTOWN painted bright and, at this current intersection: flatscans fuck off. Strung up nearby the sign there are liberal trophies -- a FRIENDS OF HUMANITY cap here, several bold white-cross painted Purifiers jackets there, numerous other t-shirts and dog-tags and battle vests all commandeered and then draped high as cheerful greeting or ominous warning, depending on who is approaching. Currently, there's a motorcycle -- purring, not roaring, its way up the street, a hefty and heavily customized night-black chopper. Its rider is more distinctive still than the bike: Taylor is as black as the motorcycle, tall and broad and inky-skinned, and has quite a number more arms than the standard complement, a boneless mass of sinuous tentacles that are starting to unwind as he pulls the bike up beneath the sign. He has another vest -- PAGANS MC -- held in one long arm, which is stretching up up up up casually overhead to drape the vest high from a telephone wire. He's wearing a vest of his own: MUTANT MONGRELS MC, it reads on the large top rocker, EMPIRE STATE on the bottom, around a modified Jolly Roger emblem of a somewhat Cthulhu-esque tentacle-face'd skull sitting over a pair of crossbones. Beneath the vest, a plain black tee shirt reading 'WHITE LIVES MATTER TOO MUCH' in bold white all-caps across his muscular chest. Jeans, boots. Though the way he drapes the vest is casual, his thought, a short moment later, to his fellow Mongrel: << they getting bolder >> is anything but. Cruising alongside Taylor, Scramble's bike is smaller, sleeker, even quieter, though also heavily customized, with cherry red fairing over polished black and chrome. Black she may be, too, but of a warm brown shade more commonly seen among humans, her 'fro not currently confined by a helmet nor much worse for the fight they've just been in. Her cut, at least, resembles his -- only the skull of her Jolly Roger has swirly-dizzy eyes and is circled by cheerful cartoon songbirds. Beneath it she wears a red cropped top, tight black jeans, and black tank boots. When she dismounts she casually hands Taylor another Pagan's cut to hang up with their decorations. << They think we weak without Ion. >> Beneath the words, she does think they are weaker without their leader, but not perhaps in the way their rivals hope. << And they pissed the Tongs been up here for our folk. 'Least they can blame the powers when we beat they asses. >> Stepping out of a Van parked on a street that Taylor and Scramble had ended up Riding Through, a Young man with a White T-Shirt, Long Denim Shorts (Cut from a pair of baggy jeans) and a a pair of worn Vans looks around. As he squinted his eyes and adjusted to the sunlight as the scenery of Freaktown began to set in. His Brother had him Blindfold himself before they arrived and dropped him off. The Assorted Decorations, the Declarations of Anti-Authoritarianism plastered on Street Signs, and the Overtaken Houses nearly brought a tear to Alastair's eye. Prior to this, He'd been having a rough week. He kept finding himself being offensive and rude to others, or just too shy to talk to anyone. Moving to NYC was supposed to Kickstart his journey into the Punk Rock scene, as well as get him more acquainted with the Mutant Community. Thankfully, Oswald, Another member of his motley crew, had heard of Freaktown and figured this would be the best place to let him loose. Now that he's here, though, he's not exactly sure what to do. Those biker folk looked pretty fun to hang around. They might be riding to some place closer to the heart of town. May as well follow their trail. He focused for a minute before picking up he scent of the Exhaust on the last Bike to pass through before waving to the Van and darting off in their direction. At first on 2 legs, but eventually on his Hands as well, using his claws for better traction on the concrete. Certainly a dude running through the street on all fours at like, 35 mph isn't the strangest thing people see everyday Taylor reaches out one arm to snake it into the grimy armhole of the second cut. He hefts that one, too, high overhead, to sling it up alongside the rest of their war trophies. Thus divested of his burden, he's wiping his snakey-long arm against the side of his jeans a little distastefully, and leaning up against the saddle of his bike where it's parked under the welcome sign. << We ain't weak, but -- >> The brief press of his mind against Scramble's is heavy with grief and worry both, though he doesn't finish this but. He does hike up his brows, mouth twitching up in mild amusement as Alastair comes -- sprinting? Loping? down the street. "Someone after you, chile, or just stretching yuh legs?" Catching up to the Biker in question, he moved to stride alongside Taylor. After he asked him, clearly amused, he couldn't help but chuckle himself as he responded between heavy breaths "Nah! You just seemed like you knew where you were going, so I followed you! I'm new in town, so I'm just kind of looking for wherever-" He pauses briefly to breathe "-the most activity is. I can leave you be if I'm being a nuisance!" His panting broke up his words, but it didn't seem like he was tiring all that much. Just breathing heavier because of his speed. He was more than happy to find his own way, he just didn't want to annoy anyone by Climbing up on the Rooftops and jumping around, though on second though, he didn't know if anyone would mind as long as he didn't break anything Scramble's own grief and rage are woven deep into the determinedly steady strength that presses back into Taylor's mind. << (we ain't weak) >> is more than just a reflexive echo, but she too is distracted in short order by the galloping entrance of Freaktown's latest visitor. "We do know where we going," she agrees easily. "There's pretty much always some activity goin' down somewhere or other up in here. Plaza up in the center of town's a good place to start." Her smile is fond and proud. "One-stop shop for snacks, gossip, jamming, dancing, and getting your ass handed to you at old folks type board games." "Don't listen to her none," Taylor is saying amiably, as one of his arms baps very-lightly against Scramble's shoulder, "Mahjongg's for errybody." He rolls his head back, and hasn't actually moved from where he's posted up against his parked bike. "Where are we goin'. Thinking maybe dinner." "You just aspiring to uncle-hood ahead of your years," Scramble replies breezily. "And the aunties that rule them tables be slapping me silly if they heard me. But the the chess table crowd, tho?" She shakes her head -- still fondly -- as she half-sits back against her bike. "Dinner at the main house, maybe that pool party after if it's still going? Or going again?" The questioning lift of her brows is for Taylor, but then she turns back to Alastair. "What kinda activities you lookin' for?" "I don't know. Anything I guess. I'm just looking to stretch my legs, get a foothold I suppose. I've never really been around too many people at once. At least when I want to socialize. Do they have Poker or Something over there?" He asked, innocently. Poker was his usual go to for any given activity there might be. Popular enough to be common, Has a betting element, but it's not necessary to the game. "Oh, fuh sure someone's playing poker 'round here but you an entire fool if you join those games, they a whole sucker trap for newbies. That big house, though," Taylor is gesturing with an arm to one huge mansion not far off, "that one's a party pretty much 'round the clock and that one," indicating another, "for chilling, too, but -- quieter." He is straightening casually, looking over Alastair with a curiosity. "Never been 'round many people, where you been living?" To Scramble alone, there's a flickering mental image of a cartoon-rendered Alastair, tumbling around with the Jungle Book's wolfcubs. "There's a whole lotta 'anything' to be found 'round here." Scramble's friendly smile pulls just a little crooked. "But I'd take his word on the poker games, if I was you. The parties may stand out first, but this a whole community here. You don't gotta socialize any particular way, and you sure don't have to do in it a crowd if that ain't your speed." Her smile curves wider again, in time with Taylor's whimsical thought. "It takes all kinds, right?" " 'Spose so! I guess I'll when I get down there." He said, slowing down and stopping as they parked. He was surprised by how Welcoming these folk were to some Wildcat of a man who just shortly before was running beside them, Keeping pace with motorcycles. Again, they've probably seen weirder and he's more than a Non-Threat to them as he's made clear, but still, they're not even a little bit freaked out. "Name's Alastair!" He introduced himself. "Y'do join the games don't say I en't warn yuh," Taylor says, light and cheerful. "You stop by the big house someone'll feed you, for sure. Need a bed, someone'll find you a spot. Need som'n else --" One of his slender arms coils over a shoulder, tapping on the large Mongrels logo on the back of his vest. "Anyone of us can hook you up, probably." He's hopping back onto his bike, now, turning it back on with a thrum. His head jerks to Scramble, a very you coming gesture. "One more circuit before dinner, maybe? Last thing we need is gate-crashers at the pool party." To Alastair, a farewell lift of his chin. "Alastair, huh? Well. Welcome to Freaktown."