Logs:Rainforest Cafe

Rainforest Cafe
Dramatis Personae DJ, Hive, Paz	2023-07-04 "You feds? Like, just figured I’d ask."
Location Boyle Heights, Los Angeles
A Boyle Heights fiesta, to the uninitiated, is a trial by fire in sensory overload. There’s no particular way the fallout drifts, no order in which what you hear becomes what you smell becomes what you see. By the time any one factor has come into play, it’s already too late; the percussive dembow beat rattles your fillings, savory arrachera sizzles on grills with assembly line efficiency, and the entire neighborhood seems to be on their feet, the street cordoned off from one intersection to the next by bicycles and lowriders. Was July 4th a particularly Hispanic holiday? Not necessarily. There had nary seemed a reason to celebrate much of what America was about, especially in the last handful of years (even longer, depending on who you asked). What was particularly Hispanic was the excuse to throw a party that nobody outside of East LA could match, all the better if it involved street food, fireworks and a healthy amount of day drinking. As the unyielding sun set over the west coast, the block was hot, festivities in full swing and enjoyment to be shared for all ages. Everyone but Paz Sepulveda, anyway. Having only just emerged from her Amazonian rainforest bedroom for the night, the teenager could only hope to make herself as small as possible, even as firecrackers erupted up and down the sidewalk and children galloped by with sparklers and snacks in hand. Paz was never the most social butterfly in the best of times. Ever since her brother Miguel was arrested, she had effectively withdrawn out of sight; rumors of her involvement had already swirled around the neighborhood, and she hadn’t the strength or the fortitude to bat them all away. Her family had asked for time, they were afforded as much, and now they had to move on. The turn of the earth felt a hell of a lot slower for Paz than it did for everyone else, it seemed. Everything around her was death by a thousand cuts; the smoke from the grills, gunpowder, and other organic material fogged up her peripheries, the music just a bit too loud and the temperature just a bit too hot on the street. Paz tugged at the hem of her shirt - an old Los Angeles Raiders jersey tied off at the waist, once her brother’s, comfortably oversized on her - and ran her thumb around the neck of an empty coke bottle, focused on keeping her breath level and eyes anywhere but where anyone could see them. “Paz! ¿Qué pasó?” Paz’s eyes first shot to her father, diligently manning an overladen grill, then her mother, her back turned arguing the finer points of how Independence Day is just as much an colonialist roll call as the British they declared it from, and anywhere else she could find purchase to remove herself from the equation before being forced to meet that of a neighbor - clearly more than a few drinks in, clearly unhappy. “So what’s going on, chica? What’s the news?” Paz gripped the bottle in her hand with white knuckles. “… I dunno, I didn’t end up having to do summer school like I thought—” “—Miggy. I’m talkin about Miggy. You were there, right?” “Yeah.” “So why’s he gone and you’re here?” “What?” “You heard me.” A spiraling green sprout had grown from the bottom of the bottle up through its neck, like a makeshift vase. Not now not now not now— “—hey vato, you wanna talk to somebody, you to talk to me,” Paz’s sister Yazmin could sense tension like her own mutant power. Maybe if it was, Paz would feel slightly less alone. As appreciative as she was of the bailout, she couldn’t help but notice the asphalt crack beneath her feet. “If I wanted to talk to you I’d have hit up every other dude in town, I’m talking to her—” “—please don’t do this.” Vines began to snake up Paz’s shins. Her father had abandoned the grill to intercede. “Ayo what the—” It was hard to miss a Boyle Heights fiesta. Especially when it gets swallowed up by a jungle’s worth of plant life and greenery, bursting from tortured, starved dirt and concrete to completely overwhelm the entire street. Paz could only stagger away, tripping over herself literally and figuratively as the sky was blacked out around them, most residents of her neighborhood screaming in panic and confusion. She heard her family calling her name, what felt like miles away. Holding back tears, Paz could only sit herself down onto a lush, leafy seat, across from a low rider being overtaken by crawling vines. It was all just too much. There is just about no part of DJ that looks like he belongs here in these festivities, really; hard to get much whiter than this steak-and-potatoes Idaho boy, dressed Not At All for festivity in jeans and a plain grey polo shirt, Mormon sensibilities steering him well away from any booze. He does, currently, feel daring enough that he's gotten himself a bottle of Coke (diet, sure, but the caffeine is still there.) The soda is clutched in the stiff prosthetic fingers of his left arm (it is not trying to Vaguely Resemble Flesh the way prosthetics often do, but has been intricately painted in a feathered pattern, on the over side a more staid black-brown but on the underneath brilliant metallic emerald giving way to a bold scarlet with a very subtle metallic purple flash at the edges, the fine detail of the lining and shading making the painted-feathers look like they might actually be supple-strong or soft by turns like real feathers are.) Is he someone's in-law? Old school friend? It doesn't really seem like he belongs to Anyone in the neighborhood but that hasn't stopped him from making light-and-easy conversation as he picks his way down the boisterous street -- -- and stops, head tilting just slightly at the cracking asphalt. << got one >> is for Hive psionic ears alone, and he's ambling closer like the raised voices and cracking asphalt and sudden entire jungle where no jungle was before are all Just Another Tuesday, for him. His fingers trail against the thorny trunk of a floss silk tree that's cracked itself straight out of the street ahead of him. A stray thought is nudging his mental other-half in the direction of the screaming and panic beyond the newborn forest's borders, while he heads for its center. He's walking, calm, unhurried, until he's almost in sight of Paz. The last few feet he traverses as if they were nothing -- a small flutter-blink of rapid-teleportation motion that brings him within eyeshot of Paz, to perch himself on the low overhang of a deodar cedar branch that's way too sturdy for having been born all of a minute ago. "{Some party, huh?}" His Spanish is fluid and easy but definitely not local, accent and diction formed from the heavily Nuyorican communities far out East. Somewhere along the way he's picked up two heavily-laden plates. One of the two feasts blinks out of his hand and sets itself down neatly beside Paz. The other man arriving with DJ -- isn't arriving at all. Not anywhere Paz can notice yet, anyway; but nevertheless DJ's invisible passenger is stretching out rootlike mental tendrils to the neighborhood around. Somewhere, not-quite-here but still in earshot, some of the panic and chaos and screaming is subsiding. Somewhere, not-quite-here but still in earshot, some slightly-nervous but still festive conversation is resuming. Somewhere, not-quite-here but still in earshot, the world hasn't quite ended and the neighbors are not getting out pitchforks. Somewhere, here, there's a quiet ripple pressing through Paz's mind. It comes with a feeling not-unlike the forest itself: thick-hanging branches, shady beneath, dappled sunlight spilling through. This forest, though, doesn't come with stress or panic or uncertainty: this is old growth, deep and sure and steady, and brings with it the quiet but certain knowledge that this is a calm and safe place to gather one's thoughts. The panic that tugs at Paz’s breath and heaves her chest up and out rattles a shuddering gasp as DJ appears before her, casual as can be with a pair of platters in hand. Curled in a corner of her own making, she stares bewildered at the relaxed stranger. “Sí, uhh… I-I’m sorry, I didn’t think… I mean, I didn’t mean… I didn’t mean to…” "Didn't mean to do all this?" DJ gestures with the mouth of the Coke bottle in his hand -- around them, towards the lush newformed vegetation. "It's gorgeous, but I can understand why. Some people probably liked the street -- in one piece, yeah?" A sympathetic wince accompanies these words. "Don't have to apologize to me, though. I just came to see if you're okay. I remember when my thing --" Demonstratively the Coke bottle blips out of his hand, landing neatly just above his lap; a half-second later he's pinched it snug between his knees before it has time to fall or spill, "-- first started, getting control of it was. Tough. How long's this been happening?" There's another quiet mental ripple -- soft-sighing, gentle, like breeze through thick leaves. It pushes away panic, pushes away fear. Probably doesn't help the confusion, though, when it comes with a dry amusement gusting through Paz's mind. << I think it's an improvement. Free landscaping. >> The voice doesn't sound like it's spoken -- doesn't sound like it's here. Doesn't, even, really sound human; it sounds like a thousandthousand ghosts in overlapping whispers, sounds like the spirits that might haunt an old forest. And, yet, very firmly, fear-and-panic are still being kept pressed back at a distance. The air of tranquility washing over Paz was just as overwhelming as the noise and anxiety that cast her into this tangled mess in the first place - yet as it sunk in, her breathing regulated, the claustrophobic density of the lush green nightmare making way for an arboreal splendor. The voice (Paz was so sure it was a voice, even as it became less clear as it left her head) would have sent her spiraling further if it weren’t for how separate she felt from the world around her. A familiar isolation, but as she looked up at DJ, not a lonely one. “For a few years now, it’s just…” Paz blinked, interrupting herself as DJ teleported his drink around his person. “… it’s gotten a lot worse, this past year. I used to think I could control it, but one thing sets me off and it’s the Rainforest Cafe.” Paz sheepishly eyed the platter of tacos, scooping one up to nosh for comfort. Her Dad definitely made these. “The food’s better here, but… I think you get what I mean.” "Food here is setting a high bar." DJ is starting in on one of his own tacos, tongue swiping up across his teeth before he continues. "But yeah, I get what you mean. How have people been taking it? Your family?" He looks -- vaguely back out in the direction he came from, where the clamor has receded and the partying seems to be getting back into full swing despite the Sudden Forest. "-- your neighbors? S'probably been a lot." << You can control it, >> Hive's inhuman-strange voice rustles back, and this comes with a mental image -- many of the same plants around them springing up, but carefully, guided, turning neighbor's yards into beautiful lush paradises, overhanging the sidewalks with much-needed shade. << could learn to control it. With help. >> Something welled up behind Paz’s eyes, the leaves around her rustling with a sudden, sharply cold wind for the middle of a Los Angeles summer. “My family… it’s just one more thing on their plate, I think. It wasn’t like they were scared or nothing… my mom, my dad, my brothers and sisters all kind of figured out what was up with me. But it got my brother in trouble,” Paz shook her head, running her a hand through her dark hair, killing off the remainder of another taco. “the kind of trouble that the wrong kind of people notice around here. Should’ve gotten me in trouble too, but I was afraid… I am afraid.” Paz took a breath, trying to let that same ethereal calm wash over her again. She didn’t know if it was working anymore, but she appreciated that they afforded her the time to gather her thoughts. “You feds? Like, just figured I’d ask, talking about controlling this and all that. Might as well tell me too, everybody else’ll just assume you are, anyways.” "Woah. Do feds usually tell you they're feds?" DJ is musing, kind of unhelpful but kind of genuinely curious if this is just One More Backwards Thing about This Entire Backwards Dimension. << not even fucking American >> rattles back a -- distinctly more offended haunted-forest voice. << And this dumbass is Mormon, they just look like feds from birth. He went to a school that can help get control of your powers, though, and since he's not supposed be evangelizing Jesus out here he's evangelizing for them instead. >> Paz scoffed. “Mormon honestly explains it—n-no offense,” she stopped herself, sarcastic tone a bit too quick on the draw. If it walks like a never-nude and it quacks like a never-nude… “I’m not out here tryna get human trafficked, all due respect, but… I’d really appreciate if you were telling the truth, because I’d do anything right now to be anywhere but here like this.” DJ blushes, his head ducking, but he does not contest Hive's assertion -- nor Paz's sarcasm. "Gosh-honest truth," he says earnestly, as if the Mormon was not alreay obvious enough, though Hive at least can feel the inward-amused self-awareness as he says it. "School really saved my life when I was out there looking real obvious, and sometimes -- other kids could use that, too. I know a lot of people aren't -- always understanding. And," a little softer, "I'm sorry about your brother." << Not planning to take you anywhere, if that helps, >> Hive supplies in addition. << Just wanted to float the idea. See how you felt, first. If you think you'd like a school with more kids like you, we can get info to your parents. Let you all check it out, decide together, yeah? >> Paz swallowed a lump she’d forgotten was in her throat to begin with, tears - this time of relief - flowing freely down her cheeks. “That sounds good,” she choked out, wiping away her outburst of emotion, rising to her feet. “I’m Paz, but I figure if you’re talking in my head and new where to find me, y’all already know that. Who are you?” Something twinges quick and almost-pained in DJ's mind, but he doesn't voice it, just leans very slightly harder into the strong-rooted feel of Hive in his mind. "I'm DJ. My invisible other half is Hive." He's examining the thick plant growth -- idly curious as he sizes up both the potential for Beautifying Space and for wreaking absolutely terrifying destruction. He picks up his plate and his bottle of coke, rising when Paz does. "We were actually -- out here looking for a friend, but --" His shoulder lifts, his voice light despite the sudden sinking in his mind. "Never too busy to help where we can." That twinge in DJ's mind, that trailing but -- completes itself in memory-thought whispered just beneath the surface of the teleporter's consciousness: but when we go searching for kids in trouble, we're always going to find them. << Let's find your folks, yeah? Soon they're gonna start thinking some witch is set to shove you in an oven out here. >>