Logs:New In Town

New In Town
Dramatis Personae Ion, Pietro, Scramble, Wanda
In Absentia	2020-08-16 "If you're like us, you'll want to help us, no?"
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. The sun's still blazing over this run-down section of town, baking the city block into an oh-so-pleasant and oh-so-New York miasma. Just down the block a row of trash bags fester in the heat. In the middle of the street a very large rat has been run over some time past. The large garage door at Hellhound has been thrown open, the thick oily smells inside mingling in chemical contrast with the rest of the outdoors. On the threshhold, Ion is definitely not working. Perched on a canvas folding chair, booted feet resting on a large cooler, he's cracked open a cold bottle of stout just recently retrieved from that cooler. He's dressed blandly -- grease-stained jeans, a white sleeveless undershirt, his tough but much-abused leather vest (MUTANT MONGRELS MC, it is emblazoned large on the back over a modified Jolly Roger emblem -- the skull horned and fanged and a pair of crossed lightning bolts in place of crossbones) hung over the back of the chair. "{-- not that there was much to worry about,}" he's saying in gravelly-deep Spanish, "{what's it now, three-for-three?}" "{Was a good game, anyway,}" Scramble says from the chair beside Ion's, her Spanish rough and heavily accented but comprehensible. "{More exciting when the other guys actually put up a fight, yeah?}" She's actually still wearing her cut, though not much else, just a red sports bra underneath and black cut-off shorts that lace up the sides, red Doc Martens. A row of gold bangles adorn her left wrist, matching the large hoop earrings that peek out from from her impressive afro and the gold ankh hanging from a black cord around her neck. "{You hear Boston's goalie decided to go home? Good for him and I hope it screws them over.}" Pietro had expected more from America; when they first planned this trip, the country seemed a prime place for revolution, organization and mutant supremacy. Sadly, no ‘welcome home’ banners were displayed, no open arms of fellow brethren to usher them into a new era, just stolen luggage in a cheap motel that took in fresh-off-the-boat immigrants such as themselves. At least some things remained the same, such as black market valuables and dangerous people who could assess their value. If America wouldn’t have freedom, it would at least have criminals. Dressed in a black tracksuit with silver details, there is no way of mistaking just how Caucasian the man is as he walks up the street. His skin is practically translucent in the hot sun, white hair striking in dirty surroundings. Over one shoulder is a heavy duffel bag that he grips with a tight fist, his expression stern as he heads directly towards the garage. Wanda was told to stay behind, in their roach-motel. She had found a sundress in one of the suitcases, sunflowers adorning white linen. It was a stark contrast to the dark eye make up and heavy boots. They clopped like a horse as she ran down the street to catch up with Pietro. "Pietro! It's better if the both of us go." Her voice echoed off the buildings, a thick hard-to-place European accent and that sisterly whine to it. Ion takes a large gulp of his beer, his laugh deep and booming. "{Shiiit, hope the rest of them fuckers follow him. They --}" He breaks off at the sound of that whining voice, head tilting. Boot clomping to the pavement, his beer bottle lowering to his knee as his gaze shifts to track the approaching pair. When he switches languages his deep voice is heavily accented, too, from Andean Spanish to a similarly mountain-influenced English. "You tourists lost?" Scramble is nodding along to Ion's commentary, and follows his gaze when he breaks off. Her eyebrows lift up-up as she studies to pair. She wordlessly plucks up a pair of oversized sunglasses that had been lying beside her own half-drunk beer on the driveway and dons them wordlessly as if to protect her eyes from the glare. Still, she sounds unbothered when she adds, "Subway's back that way." Her English sounds American enough, bland north central radio standard with just a hint of a drawl. “Tsst, tsst,” Pietro tells his sister, his free hand gentle as he tries to ward off her complaint seeing as how they already started this little misadventure when someone else has his attention. Instead of puffing himself up in an act of machismo or recoiling in offense, the white haired man’s posture remains loose, slouched… bored. Either unaware of the danger he’s found himself in or missing whatever circuits in his brain that handle self-preservation. Still, he does stand a little more in front of the woman with him, rolling his head lazily to look at the sign above the shop. “Hellhounds,” he reads, voice accented somewhere between Russian and Polish. “You buy? Sell?” "We have something you might want." Pietro had the important items, the ones they found in the suitcase. Wanda herself is clutching a small, ceramic monkey. It's holding a baby and is somewhat abstract. "Art?" She waggles the little shiny creature back and forth in front of Pietro's face. Don't look at him, look at me, she's trying to say. Ion raises his brows at Pietro's question. "Shit, I'ono what them Q fucks say but nobody out here selling no gringos, k?" He lifts his hand back to his mouth, takes another long swig of the beer. It's only when Wanda speaks that he glances to the bag, glances to Scramble. His leg bounces restlessly against the floor, fingers drumming at the side of his bottle. "Hellhound Cycles," he corrects lightly, his grin sharpening. "Sign say bikes. We got bikes here. And its Sunday, bro. God's day. Day of fucking rest. You got me a reason I oughtta work?" Scramble's expression does not change behind her sunglasses. "Aight," is all she says for a moment. Takes a long swig of her brew. "Even if it weren't blasphemy, we'd have to have real strong motivation to be buying a monkey off some white folks what appeared outta nowhere." The cords of muscle in Pietro’s neck tighten as Wanda displays her prize but manages to school his face into continued passivity. His knuckles crack as he grips the duffel bag strap a little tighter though, just to express something of the tension between the two parties. His eyes bounce from the sign to their hands to their faces to the quickest viable escape route in a few flickers, making plans in his mind for the plans he has ahead that should have already happened by now. “You don’t have to work,” the white haired man chides, unable to keep the disdain out of the tone of his voice. He adjusts the bag, letting it make the tell tale clink of heavy machine parts and glass, and looks past them towards the interior of the garage. “You just have to have cash.” Wanda lowers the monkey. "The art is just to sweeten the deal." She looks down at the monkey, with an almost motherly reverence. "My brother has something much better-- my brother, Pietro. My name is Wanda. We're new in town." Wanda salutes with two fingers, a little bit of red electric power encircling her fingers. It's a subtle hint. Either that they're mutants and we can get along-- or that they're mutants and they'll fuck up some shit if it comes to that. Whatever Pietro has just said is immediately forgotten in the wake of Wanda's electric crackle. Ion's eyes light immediately, a brighter grin flashing broad and wide across his face. His hand slaps down on his knee, pure delight in his expression as he look to Wanda -- claps Scramble on the shoulder with a jostle-jolt -- bounces to his feet with a sudden childlike enthusiasm. "Oh shit {oh shit} oh shit you see that sis? She lit that up do that again!" At his side his fingers are tapping together, jittery-rapid, a tiny shower of blue-white elecric sparks dancing between them. "Red lightning how you do it red 'what' that badass, ghost girl!" "Yep, I see it," Scramble deadpans, evidently unbothered by the jolting and jostling. "Guess I see why folks sent you our way, now. You gon have a time of getting him calmed down now." She takes a long gulp of her beer before setting it aside and standing to follow Ion. "Don't worry, our people round they used to him." Catching the red sparks in the corner of his eye, Pietro moved to stand in front of his sister with a slide of his feet. He was ready for anything; taking a swing at her, spitting in her direction, grabbing for her hand, a shouted slur, anything but… a smile. Excitement, even. He looks more put off now than he did with the low key threats. Still keeping his defensive position, his bright blue eyes dart to the other woman. “As my sister explained… we are new in town.” Wanda grins huge and wide, but it comically shrinks as Pietro slides over in front of her. She pokes him in the back a few times, but tries to stay quiet. BUT. SHE CAN'T. From the side of Pietro, her head pokes out. Her dyed black hair is a stark contrast to Pietro's silvery-white. They for sure have the same nose, matching eyebrows. "If you're like us, you'll want to help us, no?" She ducks back behind Pietro, but sticks her hand out to play with a small, tightly wound ball of red electricity. Part of her knows that if she gets attention, Pietro will grow jealous. She loves him and doesn't want to cause him discomfort, but damn if it's not hilarious. "Yo you ain't allowed to smile, sparkler?" There's a brighter dance of energy crackling along Ion's arm now -- not going anywhere, just sizzling there and then out as he bounces on the balls of his feet. Watches Wanda hiding behind Pietro, the red glow of her lightning reflected in his wide-bright eyes. "I had some badass fire like that you could not stop me grinning." (The white-blue glow of his own skitter-spark, too, glinting off bared teeth, makes his own wide smile look near-manic.) "New? Where you wash up in from? -- Help? Help what?" Ion certainly has... many traits. An attention span of any length? Not one of them. Scramble keeps level with Ion, evidently unconcerned with standing so close to his light show. "Don't worry, he ain't starting nothin' -- if he was you'd know it. Just being friendly, which is gonna get you a lot farther than the alternative around here." Her voice is calm, even. Then, to Ion, a casual and matter-of-fact reminder, "They tryna sell you shit." Pietro sighed deeply, his chest rising and falling with a great breath. The scowl across his face is less tightly controlled, taking him from hawkishly shrewd to tired in an instant. He slips a lowered glance towards his sister's hands, gently protective of her ruby light. "Friendly doesn't happen enough where we are from," he supposes, still looking at his sister for some unspoken confirmation between them. Wanda shakes her head. "We have a sob story, we won't tell you all about it right now. Right now, my brother has something he wants to show you in the bag. We need to eat and a roof..." She wanted to continue to talk, to babble on about how they came to America for Magneto. But-- perhaps it was better she just kept it at that. Her eyes catch Pietro's and she nods. "Oh snap? Yeah? What you selling?" Ion's fingers snap together with a final shower of sparkling electricity -- it fades away as he points to Pietro's bag, beckoning. "Let's see it then." His head shakes, his grin slipping crooked. "Shit, mija, this world? Being a freak it is a sob story, huh? Blessing for sure. And a curse. Why we gotta look out for each other." His brows crease, eyes darting between the siblings. "Where you come from? Where you stay at? I know some place, you need a couch while you find your feets." "I hear that." Scramble seems to relax ever so slightly, even though she hadn't looked tense before. "Ain't nowhere friendly to our kind except the places we make, but this is one of those." She pushes her sunglasses back up her nose where they'd started sliding down, her bangles jingling as she moves. "What can we call y'all? I'm Scramble, this is our fearless leader Ion, if you ain't already heard." And just like that the two seem to have switched places as Pietro lets Wanda lead the conversation and the white haired man was distractedly silent. Despite the encouraging words from their new contacts, he couldn't help but continue to check the exits and keep within arm's reach of his sister. His fingers drummed against the strap on his shoulder as he answers, "Pietro, my sister Wanda." Wanda went to stand next to Pietro. She held the monkey still, but tilted her head towards the bag. "Or rather, Scarlet Witch and Quicksilver. Is that what we're supposed to do? Name ourselves?" She makes the monkey nod. "So you have resources for us?? It's that easy?" "What? Name yourself?" Ion just looks confused -- shrugs a shoulder -- "I'll call you what you want, witch-girl." He drops his hand when Pietro doesn't, actually, open the bag. Shrugs that off, too; returns to the cooler to swipe his beer back up and take a swig. "Tch, this the United Shithole of America, ain't nothing easy. We know some safehouse though. Can crash a little while, till you find some better place. Ain't the Ritz, but is better than a park bench, huh? Scramble she'll write an address. Tell them Ion send you." Scramble's nod is small, more of an upward tip of her chin. "Ain't no 'supposed to' about it. If you like naming yourself, go for it. Like he says," she nods at Ion, "the right sorta folks will call you what you like." She ducks inside the garage and snags a writing pad and a pen. Writes down an address in Brooklyn, and tears off the page to hold out to the siblings. "Here you go. If they don't got space they'll send you to one of the others, but someone will find a place for y'all." Someone moved forward and even more tension bleeds out of Pietro’s silhouette. He follows closely on Scamble’s heels until she gets inside, keeping a distance and taking in the surroundings. Taking the paper from her, he turns it this way and that before sticking it into the inside of his jacket. “Coming to this country has been… difficult,” he tells her, looking back to his sister with the kind of fiercely sympathetic intensity that only family can bring out of people. It’s only a glance for others, but at the speeds that Pietro thinks, the moments between moments he lives in, he watches Wanda for an eternity. Shaking his head, he again adjusts the duffel bag to unzip it without removing it from his shoulder to flash Scramble its contents: a weapon, some sort of rifle and a heavy wooden box with a gold foil seal. They’ve been kind but Pietro is unwilling to let go of their only bargaining chip just yet. “Rifle, vodka,” he explains quietly. “It is a surprise what is moved through airport security.” Wanda gingerly pulls the paper from Pietro's pocket. "We don't want to take charity. At least let us trade you this for this." She waves the paper around. The monkey, however, is apparently no longer on the table, as she holds it behind her back now. "You said they'll let us stay? Just that easy?" "Nah, community ain't no fucking charity, white boy. It's survival. For all us. You think coming here been hard? Living here only gonna get harder. Ain't shit easy about taking care on each other. S'work we put in cuz -- who else gonna. You smart, you put it in too." Ion is dropping back into his seat again. Thunking his boots back up onto the cooler, taking another gulp of his beer. Ion's grin flashes quick again, hand waving away the bag when Pietro opens it to display its contents to Scramble. "Oh, man, that ship done sail ten year ago, keep up. You wanna do business you answer a question first time, maybe. Anyway you keep your vodka, sure them folks down the safehouse will love a celebration." He lifts his bottle, tips it out towards the twins in a casual salute. "Welcome to America, witch-kids."