Logs:No Way Home

No Way Home
Dramatis Personae Dawson, Scramble
In Absentia	2020-09-20 "Maybe you should sit." (Followed by telling the Brotherhood.)
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. It's a beautiful day, sunny but cool, and the usual Sunday afternoon neighborhood cookout is well underway on the sidewalk. Scramble isn't partaking right at this moment -- at least, not in the food. Sitting by herself on the office steps, she has a neat line of empty beer bottles beside her and the scent of marijuana lingering in the air around her. It is perhaps thanks to all this chemical intervention that she is looking reasonably at ease now, slouched against the railing as she watches the festivities. She's neatly dressed in a black button-down, a predominantly gold kente cloth vest, black slacks with gold pinstripes, and high-heeled dress boots that accentuate her already lanky figure. Her afro is perfectly teased out into a soft sphere, and she wears bright gold hoop earrings and a jade bi pendant on a black cord, just barely visible at the notch of her throat where she wears her shirt collar open. Dawson's arrival is quiet. A flutter, blur, drop down to land nearby Scramble. Here, for once, he stands out, his crisp blue slacks and vest and tie neatly fastened in a half-windsor not exactly Cookout attire. Lingering stress and anxiety weighs at his already depression-clouded brain chemistry, pulling it into an uneasy churn. His normally ready smile is muted, too, just a small uncertain pull that fades quickly. "Hey," is all the preamble he manages before, already apologetic: "Can we talk? Maybe -- somewhere more private?" Scramble's eyesbrows arch slightly. "Sure thing -- c'mon." She levers herself up gracefully, plucking up a pair of the beer bottles as she goes, and waves him after her into the office. Deposits the bottles into the trash and offers hims the desk chair, leaning against the desk herself. "You aight, Blinkdog?" She drops one eyebrow, examining him closely. "What's up?" Dawson takes the seat, hands folding in his lap. Almost immediately gets back up, curling one arm around his chest instead to grip at the mechanical opposing elbow. "Maybe you should sit, I --" He does not leave very much time following this, head bowing as he slumps against a wall. "I saw Nat last night." It's unclear whether Scramble would have taken the seat if she'd had time to consider the offer. Instead she's on her feet and straightening to her full (slightly augmented) height, dark eyes wide-wide and fixed on Dawson with nearly palpable intensity. "Where? Is she alright?" Then, slightly choked. "She comin' home?" "Out in Jersey, we --" Dawson cuts himself off here, fingers squeezing down harder at his arm. He swallows, shakes his head. His eyes have dropped to the floor, but now he lifts them, meeting Scramble's hesitantly. "She's -- not who she said she was, Scramble. She's not -- not coming back." "The hell do you mean?" Scramble's voice has gone tight and cold. She takes a step closer to Dawson, the chaos of her mind roiling loud enough to register on the edge of his awareness -- just for a moment, before she reins it hard. "You gonna have to give it to me straight," still tense, but gentle all of a sudden, tired. "I'm sorry." Dawson's shoulders tense, but he doesn't otherwise move, just shaking his head once more. "She was -- some kind of spy. Is, still, some kind of..." His shoulder hitches, jerky-quick. "She was on a job. Gathering information on --" Another shake of his head, another shrug. "And I guess -- her assignment's over." Scramble doesn't move or speak for a moment -- doesn't seem to react at all. But the churn of that undefinable something just beneath the surface of her mind is welling abruptly back up, grasping, tugging, tearing at Dawson's. She hisses and staggers back, putting the man out of her range. "Can't be. You're wrong. She wouldn't -- can't be." "I'm sorry," Dawson says again, a little more quietly than before. His gaze lowers again, his other arm wrapping around his chest as well in a tight hug. "She was with -- somebody I met, um. In Blackburn. He was -- also undercover, and --" His shoulders sag, head thumping back against the wall. "She was giving her agency information. On -- all of --" There's a hard twitch in the side of his jaw. "... you all." Scramble finally does drop into the chair, as if all the strength had left her at once. Her mouth works soundlessly. Her eyes lift sharply back up to Dawson. "I'm gonna kill her," she says, her voice flat and emotionless. "I will find that bitch and kill her." Despite her flat affect, she's shaky as she tries to rise. "Thank you -- thank you for telling me. God, and I'd been so terrified she was --" She slaps a hand to her mouth, stifling whatever was about to come. What spills out instead are tears, sudden and copious. Dawson doesn't answer this. Not aloud, at least, just a small dip of his head as Scramble speaks. He does finally step forward when the tears come, moving nearer to Scramble's chair to lift one arm in offer of a hug. Scramble's struggle to reel her power in is visible this time, her eyes squeezing shut as she gasps for air between heaving sobs. But she does manage to rise and not drain away what remains of Dawson's mental equilibrium. She falls into the embrace he offers, fragile in this moment despite the tone of her athletic frame. Though she tries -- once, twice -- to speak, no words come. When she finally does manage to, it is only the word "no", again and again. Dawson holds her tight, rubbing slow at her back. For a while, he's silent, only a steady calm presence while Scramble's tears fall. It takes some time before he speaks, reluctant when he does. "There's -- something else. I'm -- sorry but I don't know which of -- who -- I should tell. It's about B." The sobs wracking Scramble's body grow less frequent, and she keeps her power firmly tamped down all the while. When Dawson finally speaks again she pulls back, shaky and drained moreso than calm. "B? You can tell me." But then, shaking her head vehemently. "The fuck am I kidding? I ain't -- I ain't good for shit right now. Maybe Dusk? Yeah?" There's a hesitation before Dawson's nod. "Dusk. Right. Yeah. I'll talk to him" His hand squeezes at Scramble's shoulder before falling away. He glances towards the door, the lively noises from beyond. "I don't know if you want to go back to that. I can take you home or -- wherever. If you want." "I ain't got a home no more," Scramble says bleakly. "I should...should just..." Shakes her head again, hard. "If you going to see Dusk anyway. Take me to him?" At first Dawson nods -- but then hesitates, sinking back against the desk. He's pulling his phone out of his pocket, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he answers, "He's -- not at home." A small and uncertain pause. "Not -- at our home, anyway. I do need to talk to -- someone, but I'm not sure I'm exactly welcome at your other one." "Ohhhh, right..." Scramble nods. Then suddenly guffaws. "Shit. Sorry -- I know it ain't funny, but --" She can't quite stop giggling now. "Half of them gon try to kill your ass and the other half'll want you to stay for dinner." The breath of laughter Dawson breathes out is lacking all that much mirth. It takes a moment before he puts his phone back away, straightening with a hard swallow as he rests a hand on Scramble's arm. "Well. From what I know of Ion, at least my last meal will be delicious."