ArchivedLogs:Family Reunion

Family Reunion
Dramatis Personae Kay, Briar, Munch	2013-04-02 '
Location An Empty Lot in East Harlem
The rumble of motorcycles cuts through the otherwise silent night air of an empty lot somewhere in the rough end of East Harlem. Two of them -- arriving, per request, amidst very little fanfare, to meet someone here. The first hog is unusual in several ways. To begin with: It's driven by a /hulk/ of a man with a somewhat boyish looking face. His skin is just off of dark olive -- with an unusual greyish 'tint' to it -- and he's got on a sleeveless white cotton shirt, a black leather jacket with metal studs, and red bandana around his head. The bike itself is -- well. /Weird/. 'Inelegant' might be the word; it's actually a /trike/, and it's got any number of metal supports built around the driver's seat, designed to distribute the rider's extraordinary weight down along the thoroughly reinforced frame -- down into those back wheels. The wheels, one might notice, are /doubled/ up -- much like on a semi-truck. This is Munch. The other bike is a street standard Harley, except for being a dull brown color under a layer of road dust. Maybe it's bronze when washed? It's every bit as loud as Munch's monstrosity though, loud enough that when the woman seated upon it cuts the engine, /pressure/ is left beating against the eardrums at the sudden absence of noise. Her booted feet connect with the pavement a moment after and she reaches up to pull her helmet off, loosing a spill of platinum and pink hair around her shoulders. She does /not/ swish it around in the manner of a shampoo model. Instead, she reaches up to scratch at salt-itchy scalp while flicking a narrow look around the lot. The bike's headlamp is kept on, providing a broad beam of light--it catches a tumble of wet newspaper, slapping end over end in a stiff wind. A pair of /very/ long legs steps into the beam of the bike lights, illuminating their denim fit - slightly highwatering over sneakers, the bottom hem of a white t-shirt and the draped front of a denim jacket. Whoever these legs belong to, they have their thumbs hooked off the front of a studded brown belt. And a scratchy ratty-fox voice barks, "That's a hella monster machine right there." There's a long pause. And the voice sounds almost... almost softer. "How y'been, Lee." The big greyish-black guy on the trike isn't wearing a helmet. And when he shifts his weight to get off his hog, it actually /creaks/ -- like it's complaining about the sudden shuffle of body parts. Once he's slung himself off, his feet 'whump' into the lot -- and he puts on a big, happy grin. Like he's thrilled to meet Lee! But he doesn't say anything. Briar's initial answer is to just swing her leg over the bikeseat and stand. The weathered saddlebag behind the cushion is flipped open, a folded denim vest removed. Its faded but the patches decorating it are still bright. Then she crosses over to /Munch/ rather than Kay, to clap the big fella on the shoulder and grunt a, "C'mon. Behind me." Only then does she amble on in Kay's direction. The kutte is kept draped over her forearm as she approaches--and that approach is /slow/, partly due to natural inclination, partly because she's checking Kay out from toes to crown. Special attention is paid to the head still in shadow--and that it /is/ in shadow makes hazel eyes narrow. "You for real?" For a moment, the face in the dark is silent. There's a subtle sizzle and the glow of a cigarette cherry rises from a baleful deep crimson to a livid orange-yellow. Then the sound of an exhale, blown up defiantly at the face of the stars above. A sniff. A suggestion of a gesture towards the grayish guy behind Briar, "That the guy that sent me the calling card?" Purposeful obscurity. It /sounds/ like it's grinning. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Munch follows along with Briar once she claps him on the shoulder; it's like leading a puppy around. He's still got that cheerful, 'oh-hello!' grin on his face. Although he blinks at the shadowed figure -- and then back to Lee -- he never loses that silent friendliness. "Munch," Briar says, supplying the name and gesturing the person in question forward. "Good people. Saved my ass." High praise indeed but the woman continues to eyeball the smoking shadow with the sort of unpleasant skepticism typically reserved for people who come knocking at 7am on a Sunday morning. For long-lost friends, she sure is taking her dear sweet time in deciding that Kay is all right. But maybe the glow of the cigarette decides her--she holds her hand up and the kutte floats above it. But...just out of reach of Kay. There's a long moment of silence from the dark, eyeing that battered old kutte with a taut coiled sense of /hunger/. Long wiry wrists can be seen hanging down at waist level, suspending bony fists that clench, open to stretch fingers, and then clench again. Then, rapidly, the shadowy figure darts forward UNDER the kutte to throw arms around Briar in a WILD hug, "HOLY SHIT, bitch! Fucking look at you! You're in mother-fucking New York City!" And here's Kay suddenly, his infernal-high body heat swooping forward in a wave to try and BOUNCE Briar's stocky frame off the ground. "Munch! Jesus Christ, you're huge! When'd they bring you in? You my replacement? I'll /fight/ you for it, bro!" Munch is... /hugged/? He was not expecting that. But he also does not seem opposed to it! He slings one arm about to return said hug; he is big, yes, and also /strong/. And despite all of Kay's considerable heat and force, Munch does not budge one bit! He seems firmly rooted to the earth, in fact. At the mention of fighting, Munch wrinkles his nose -- but responds to this with a shrug. He then jerks his thumb at his bike. Or trike. As if to indicate that /that's/ what he does. Not whatever Kay did. The kutte? Yeah, it goes to the ground when Briar is seized. Plop! She doesn't so much hug Kay back--though the grip of her arms is fierce and hard--as thump him in the back with a fist. And just as quickly she's released! Which, given how quickly she readjusts to being under her own power again, means that she's probably used to this sort of exuberance from Kay. A faint smile goes Munchwards, and she echoes his shrug with one of her own--this is just the way he is. "Fucking playing quiet," she comments under all of the crackling and the exclamation points. Asshole. Yeah, you! She's thinking it at him, it's plain on her face. "Lay me a lil' kiss right here," Kay /smacks/ himself on the ass in Briar's direction, his other hand making grabby haaaand at his kutte. It's right there. On the GROUND. Surely a little TK could find its way to him...? "New boy's /quiet/!" He 'yows!' the last word the way someone might say 'that chick is /smokin/!' He falls instantly into stalking a circle around the trike-bike, whistling, "Never seen a thing like it, man, the motor alone..." Mutter-mutter. Putter-putter. "Y'miss me?" All too casually tossed up from where he's kneeling down to /punch/ at one of the huge-ass wheels. Dmp! Munch watches Kay's antics, head cocked -- like a galapagos bird-of-paradise catching sight of its first predator and saying 'huh, wonder wuzzat?'. When Kay starts circling Munch's bike, the big guy tenses a little bit -- when he punches a tire, well! He looks a little put-out, but he doesn't move to /stop/ him. He does, however, finally deign to speak -- his voice metallic, dark and rumbling like some sort of Darth Vader shit: "S'gotta support weight." No kiss lands on Kay's ass. The kutte, on the other hand, goes whipping up through the air to connect with said ass in solid fashion. Briar folds her arms. Her faint smile gets slightly /less/ faint. "Enh," is her answer to that question. Kay yips when he gets spanked with his own kutte, and then grips it between his knees so that he can set about tearing his way out of his denim jacket and then, swinging it away from himself he promptly /incinerates/ it. It erupts in a silky 'fwwwoooosh' and a thick wave of heat, orange light suddenly spilling across the lot. For just one moment, Kay's face is illuminated, scarred and flashing-teeth, eyes glinting a demonic yellow in the light of the blaze. They all three stand, visible and clear bathed and baptized in the swelter with the rest of the world fallen black. And then the shadows return, the old jacket drops into a sizzling pile of embers, and Kay is wearing his kutte again. "Get me outta here, guys. I got a /story/ to tell you. There's gonna be a /reckoning/."