Logs:With the Territory

With the Territory
Dramatis Personae B, Ion, Scramble	2023-01-24 "I got a bad feeling those 8's ain't gon' have the good sense to back the fuck down."
Location <NYC> Freaktown - Riverdale
"{-- you make sure your sister get some that too, boy, don't think I ain't gonna ask!}" Ion is delivering this Very Stern warning to a small child, gaunt and covered in a soft coat of brindle fur that is just regaining a shine to it. The child only giggles in response as they dart off, hugging the package Ion has carefully bundled up for them close -- a feast of smokey-spicy beef tips just off the fire, roast yucca, still-steaming tamales. Ion isn't, currently, in his frequent mealtime spot in Freaktown's bustling town square -- considerably after the lunch hour now, he's tucked himself away in one of the sprawling backyards. What once was just a rolling expanse of manicured lawn has been turned into many garden beds, a squat row of greenhouses, a large and very chaotic-looking playset of questionable safety, three tiny houses in a line -- and, a last vestige of the luxury mansion grounds that were once here, a small stone patio beside an elegant bubbling fountain trickling into a koi pond. Next to this, cruder, a pit dug into the ground, rock-filled and leaf-covered and smoking, where Ion is, at the moment, enjoying a rare snatch of semi-quiet with his lunch. He's just settling down on a rocking chair, peeling the husk off a spicy chicken tamale of his own. The day is mild -- he's dressed in just jeans, boots, a black and white checked flannel underneath his much-loved cut. Ambling in from the direction of Ion's frequent mealtime spot in Freaktown's bustling town square, Scramble is still in her work clothes from some earlier meeting -- a red blouse with gold detailing inside the cuffs and collar, slim black slacks, dress boots with just a sliver of a heel -- but has added her own cut on top. The look works quite well, which might be a surprise to anyone who doesn't see Scramble on a regular basis. "Ionno what they do with those kids after we throw them out," she's telling her companion. "It's not like they actually wanna recruit no freaks. Hopefully just tell them to get lost and look for more suckers. Yo!" This last is to Ion, once she picks him out. "{Save any for us?}" At Scramble's side, B looks almost like she intended to match Scramble in a casual echo -- red cropped ao dai detailed in gold worn over black skinny jeans with red stitching, extremely clunky-stompy metallic boots that match the bracelets at her wrists, her cut on over top as well. "Throw 'em out, too, I'd guess." B's shrug is not overly concerned. She flops herself down on a chair beside Ion, peering hopefully towards the covered fire pit. "{Oh wow that smells good.}" "{Who the fuck you throwing out?}" Ion grabs a stick from beside the pit, using it to poke aside several of the damp leaves and reveal the tamales and beef and yucca smoking over the hot rocks beneath. He waves his stick in invitation for them to burn their fingers, help themselves. "{You bullying kids, now?}" He, admittedly, does not sound like he is particularly concerned about egregious lapses of judgment on their parts, here. "{We caught another one of them 8's selling. Brother you are a saint.}" Scramble is stooping to snag a tamale gingerly by its husk. "{I keep thinking they'll develop enough of a reputation to put people off falling for that shit.}" Tosses the tamale lightly from one hand to the other, "But I guess they ain't never gon' run out of dumbass freaks to send here tryna push they crusty-ass drugs." "{Need quick cash? Need a quick fix?} That's all the reputation they need. {They're not going to run out of homeless addicts until -- well, a lot changes in this country.}" B grimaces at this thought, her gills fluttering rapidly alongside her neck. Her claws stretch out long, and she skewers a large chunk of beef between the nails of her forefinger and thumb. "And," as if this is the most offensive part of the ordeal, "{they are crazy overcharging for that doctored garbage.}" Ion sucks at his teeth, head shaking. "{Goddamn, you see them babies around outside, you offer them a bed and a meal, huh? They leave that shit outside, though, we got enough people turning up here trying damn hard to leave alla that behind.}" He's blowing on his tamale, then taking a large bite, sucking sauce off one fingertip. "Fucking persistent, though, {getting silly just chucking sad teenagers outta here every week} they keep this up I'mm'a have to have words. {Whole big-ass fucking borough out there they can't hit up them posh-ass motherfuckers down the block? Who got cash here anyway, this just low.}" Scramble nods slow and thoughtful. Unwraps her tamale slow, too. "{Whole big-ass borough is full of cops those posh-ass motherfuckers love to call for any damn reason.}" Finally settles herself into a chair beside B. "{It's low and it's petty and it's dumb, but whoever's sending these poor kids clearly thinks he's real clever.}" "{They're recruiting the freak-freaks,}" B says wryly. "{Going out like hey, you got a tail, you got scales, kid you want to go sling pills in Freaktown?}" Her amusement fades in short order. "... maybe they're not clever, maybe those are just the easiest desperate homeless kids to find. {Maybe a little of both.}" Her shoulders sag, a little, as she nibbles on her meat. Despite the gloom, the tender-spicy taste of it sets her gills to a slow flutter again. "{I'll keep an eye out,}" she promises Ion, "{If I see any of them around and not muling, see if they want a place here legitimately. Goodness knows they could use one.}" "Adapt. Improvise. Over-fucking-come. {Almost gotta respect their fucking hustle.}" Almost, though, doesn't stop this curse coming on a sharp puff of laugh and a sharp skitter-shower of sparks. Ion shakes his head, polishing off his tamale in another two large bites and leaning over to clap a hand to B's back. "{Good pup. Greedy-ass flatscans want to make their bread bleeding our people they can do it over my fucking body, huh?}" One of his legs is bouncing, jittery-quick, his chair set to an uneven scraping back-and-forth teeter on the stone. "... maybe-maybe, we check-up, {see all the houses got their first aid kits stocked on narcan.}" Scramble is still nodding. Or bobbing gently to a rhythm only she can hear, it's hard to say. "{I'll make the rounds. Get 'em to remind new folks where they keep their kits, too.}" Her hands go still for just a moment. "I got a bad feeling those 8's ain't gon' have the good sense to back the fuck down."