ArchivedLogs:Good Vibes

Good Vibes
Dramatis Personae Ion, Julie, Gremlin	2015-12-23 "Mutant, baseline, don't matter. They're alll fragile."
Location <NYC> St. Martin's Church - Harlem
St. Martin de Porres Catholic Church is not large, but it has a quiet majesty to it all the same, in the way of many old churches. A tall stone building tucked into the center of Harlem, it is one of the earliest Catholic churches in the city, and it looks it. Inside, the wooden pews stretch off towards the alter, the crucifix an immense and solemn wooden carving that presides over it all. Most of the windows are stained class, rich and vibrantly colourful depictions of various saints and Biblical scenes. Small recesses along the wall hold the Stations of the Cross depicted in intricate stone carvings, and the prayer alcove holds real flickering votive candles unlike many modern churches who have switched over to electric. The vaulted ceiling has detailed painting done between its arches, and the distinctive scent of frankincense often lingers faintly in the air. Below, the basement of the church has been heavily modernized; there is a pair of meeting rooms for classes, a pair of bathrooms with showers, a door leading out to the tiny adjoining rectory building where the pastor lives. In tribute to the church's namesake, ministries for the poor are a large part of the church community; one room holds a wealth of donated clothing that is free for any to take. With the large dining room and industrial kitchen that serve hot dinners six days a week and distribute donated bags of groceries every Monday, there are frequent visitors through here who are often in need of the helping hand. The basement of St. Martin's is filled with the smells of food right now, braised pork and spinach and mac and cheese being dished out in the dining room to a crowd of hungry people -- lately, there are a Lot of hungry people in the city. Ion has been in the kitchen for some time -- his touch can be seen (or, tasted, rather) in the flavorful bondiola being served right now. Just at the moment he is taking a break from kitchen duty, though, pushing his way into the bathrooms -- admittedly, the sign on /this/ bathroom door says WOMEN but that doesn't seem to be bothering him much. The young man is dressed in black-and-white plaid flannel over a plain white undershirt, black jeans, tall stompy boots; the veeeeery beaten-up kutte he wears over his flannel (singed) (restitched where it's been cut into and cut into again) (claw and tooth marks stippled into it) (bleached handprints palmed into the leather at its front flaps) is very /decorated/, glitzy jeweled lightning-bolts BEADAZZLED into its shoulders, diamond-looking pyramid studs at its armholes, a large MUTANT MONGRELS MC patch at its back (his particular version in addition to the club's typically inhuman horned skull has a pair of crossed lightning bolts on his Jolly Roger.) He has a Santa hat perched on his head, and a baby carrier in his hands -- though the creature inside does not even remotely resemble anything like a typical human baby, grey-skinned and fuzzily black-furred, huge droopy batlike ears, bulging green eyes, small nubby hornbuds on their overlarge head, spindly limbs with long black talons tipping their thin fingers. There is a very glittery sequined reindeer antler headband perched on /their/ head. They also are clinging to a Santa hat -- though currently only to gnaw on the pompom at its tip. What is the plural of pompom? Poms? Pompoms? Julie doesn't know, and maybe never will know. It's probably not really that important in the greater scheme of things. Still, this is bizarrely, her FIRST thought when she steps into the restroom to take a break from the feasting. She's dressed in her usual single set of clothes. Old, weatherbeaten, cleaned several-times-over tattered clothes and no shoes (the soles of her feet are like kevlar anyway). The next thought is that there is in fact someone who looks suspiciously dudely in the women's bathroom. Albeit accompanied by a child. Does she care about this? Well, after a moment to think, she decides that no, she doesn't actually care. She was just coming in to use a stall anyway. The mutant baby elicits little more than curiosity from her. After all, her face is more often than not a softly buzzing blur unless she's concentrating. Finally, she also decides she likes the man's jacked. It's got 'zazz' or some other difficult to pin down adjective. Thusly sorted out (all of this took roughly a full second), she strides in, words running together as she zips through them,"You know you're in the wrong bathroom right?" The stall gets kneed open as she pushes into it. Apparently that's not enough reason to stop talking. Ex-military AND homeless. She booted modesty out the window a long time ago. "Your kid is adorable with those antlers." "Pfft." Ion is dismissing this Wrong Bathroom statement with a shake of his head, ploughing ahead to the side of the room to set the baby carrier down and unhook a baby changing table from the wall. "Yeah-yeah-yeah, tell /that/ to the assholes think ain't no dudes ever gotta change a baby. Half the men's they don't have no table." His voice is a gravelly-deep bass, rapidfire words coming very heavy on a throaty Argentine accent that is all the clearer in his ensuing segue into Spanish. "{Hear that, tinymonster? Someone she thinks you're precious. Now you just gotta get the flying down, be a /proper/ reindeer, right?}" Egg is listening quite intently to Ion, bulging eyes tipped up with a lot of blinking against the bathroom's lights. 'Flying,' they soon agree, /this/ sign coming eagerly (and with no interruption in chewing at the Hat.) Presumably to Julie once again, though now /she's/ in a stall and /his/ back is turned as he scoops the Eggling out of their carrier: "S'the fiercest of reindeers. Zoom around on my sleigh, been helping deliver all the presents. Sometimes small bit chew-onned." Oh look! Another spanish speaker! "{Just get the kid a jetpack. Kids love jetpacks. Nothing bad could possibly happen.}" Her own is the accent of Mexico, Guerrera to be exact. "Anyway, I wouldn't know about the challenges presented to parental types. No kids. Probably not build for 'em anyway. Can't imagine the constant vibrating would be good for anything that young. Only thing my womb grows is spite, anyway." At least, she says it in a joking tone anyway! And then, she does her bathroom business because that's what she came in to do. Thanks to physics, this isn't actually much quicker than any normal person. "Those are the best kind of presents. You look at them and know they have taste." "{We're working on it. First get these wings in good order and /then/ you get to take the hoverbike out, right? Right right right. Fly all the things.}" Ion holds Egg on one hip, pulling out one of several of the layered blankets from their carrier to lay it on the table before setting them down. Then retrieving a pack of wipes and a clean cloth diaper from a storage pocket at the side of the carrier. The diaper, like the one the child is currently wearing, has been cut to allow for their long ratlike tail. "{What you vibrate for anyway, sister? Too much /spite/ get you wired?} I ain't tried that diet yet." "One too many dances in Fallujah and a whole he- heck of a lot of meth my brother. Tio Sam decided mutant and drug addict were one too many things to be generous about." By now, the porcelain of the toilet is actually literally beginning to hum. "I'm always like this, 24/7, no end, now how. The world moves in slow motion for me. It's more effort to act normal than anything else. You ever tried to stand still and talk as slowly as possible for other peoples' benefit? It's like having worms live under your skin. And you civvies do everything at such a measured pace." The frustration in her voice is clear, even as she begins to finish up her encounter with the great porcelain deity. "Anyway, I wouldn't recommend my diet. It ain't healthy." "Measured, measured, yeah, I guess. Depends how you measuring, huh?" There's a rough chuckle in Ion's voice, deep and low. "No, no, that don't sound in no-ways healthy. Man, fuck Uncle Sam, yo, that not the kind of family you can /rely/ on." Gremlin is fidgety, kind of /absently/ trying to hook a wing around his hand as he undoes their diaper to get them cleaned up. "I don't maybe feel it the same way but I got some-kind idea, the world don't never move half so quick as I would like. I don't know about no /meth/ though, it doesn't play so good with my sort of wired." "See, for me, it played too well. I'm a mutant. No two ways about it, ain't no hidin' it either. That's what I DID, though. Drink a little caffeine, take a snort of something, and I just... soared, like crazy athletic. REAL performance enhancement. Meth though. Meth was like bein' a god. Except, it worked TOO well. Brain damage to my pineal gland. Plus my adrenal glands are like, nonstop now. This whole zombie thing was even worse. So slow, and still not a damned thing I could do to end it. No matter how fast, there's one o' me." She exits the stall now, a light humming sound escaping as she cleans her hands, and then moves to perch on the sink. Which she hops off of a moment later. Then back on. This would be leisurely pacing if she were normal. "My squaddies. I could rely on them. They're dead, though. Can't rely on Uncle Sam, but the people who end up shooting with and beside you, you trust them like crazy." Her head keeps tilting from side to side as she views Gremlin, examining him at length. "You ever get that crappy feeling where, it's like, someone is doing something a speed you KNOW is reasonable, but you you still feel guilty for thinking 'God, how long is this going to take?'?" "Guilty?" Ion looks a little bit puzzled by this word, trying it out first in English and then in Spanish. He shakes his hand free of Egg's clawed wing -- a task made easier once Julie is out of the stall and the infant turns their attention to goggling at her instead. Their wings unfurl, reaching towards her without a good deal of coordination. "Mmm, I don't know, all-the-damn-time I want to the world to hurry-the-fuck up but I usually just tell them so. Or drag them on with me, yeah. Come-come-come things to do. Faster that way, yeah? Zoom." There's a quiet clicking from Egg, here, their hands shifting as they echo this sentiment in sign: 'Zoom.' "Yeah. Zoom-zoom. Faster if you just --" Ion shakes his head. "Anyway, maybe now it time you find a new squad, yeah? Maybe ain't in Fallujah no more but world's still at fucking war. And what do you got if you don't got family? Fast as hell but still only one of you." "You livin' la vida mutante too, I take it?" She swings her legs in the air beneath her, nose wrinkling up. "A squad yeah. But trust like that ain't easy. I Don't... mmm... I don't trust easy. It's not paranoia when they really ARE out to get you." Man with a baby gets a pass, apparently. "Can't stay too long in one place, make myself a target, ya know?" Her countenance, meanwhile, is becoming increasingly jittery. "New squad. Don't know what it would even look like. But I was born a soldier, and that's all I ever wanted to be. Tio Sam, he ain't exactly keen on lettin' me be a soldier, an' somehow, I doubt private security companies are gonna risk their security clearances hirin' someone like me. It's a good thought, though. Be a soldier again, whether they want me to or not." A sudden bark of laughter,"Most of the time, I just wanna do it FOR the people so it will be done and we can move on to the next thing. And people... They're so fragile, man... Mutant, baseline, don't matter. They're alll fragile." She pauses JUST long enough to wiggle a finger to the kiddo. No ASL for her? In response, Ion's grin flashes bright and wide as he holds up a hand, a rippling arc of blue-white electricity coursing from fingertip to fingertip before skittering down his arm and into the floor. "Shit, you don't gotta tell /me/, sister, my stint in them fucking mad science labs enough to give everyone a twitchy streak." The child on the table squirms at his display, eyes squeezing shut even as their hands clap together. 'Play play play,' they eagerly demand, wings straining up /towards/ the jittering crackle of energy. "{Playtime soon, tiny demon. What you gonna just trail shit everywhere that ain't no kind of /sanitary/.} Someone maybe start thinking we uncivilized or something. {Legs.}" He turns his attention back to his current project of Diaper, rendered a little bit more complicated than usual because of erratically squirming tail on his fidgety ward. "These days, I think what it'd look like?" His grin is still bright, even if it's tipped down towards the Gremlin now. "Is all /kindsa/ freakish. What you /doing/ with yourself now the government ain't got their teeth in you?" "Ah, you got one a' those pretty-as-shit powers. Yeah. I can imagine them wantin' to look into the whole 'human battery' thing. Hook you up to some high-needs equipment. Yeah. You'd be a logistical dream. I worry that they get their hands in me, then next thing you know, there's an army of baselines runnin' around super fast, snappin' up all us 'homo superior' or whatever." The sink starts to shudder a little from her vibrating, so she pops off of it. "{What am I doin'? Can't you tell? I'm livin' the good life. Ridin' around on my brokedown Indian, sleeping in dumpsters and donation boxes, eating in soup kitchens? I'm a regular Queen of the Streets.}" She snorts a little bit,"{Freakish is good. Terror for them, group identity for you. Don't take a genius to be a revolutionary. Hugo Chavez took over an empty museum and tried to hold it hostage decades before the moron took office. Pol Pot was a literature teacher. Assad was an opthamologist. Identity matters more 'n appropriateness, good or evil, a lot of the time. Numbers fused with identity, that's power. That's real power.}" Ion finishes snugging the Gremlin's diaper up comfortably, putting the diaper cover back over before tossing the wipes. "{Brokedown, shit? You need somewhere to fix that up?}" His eyes have lit, bright and excited at the mention of the Indian. He crouches to tuck the child back into their carrier, comfortably nesting them in the blankets and giving them by way of chew toy -- this time a Christmas tree ornament. Candy cane. It looks like it is made out of some sort of crystal, glittering in red and white. They suck on it happily. Ion straightens with the carrier slung over an arm, an eager bounce in his step as he gets up. Whatever other conversation was going on has maaaybe been derailed by Bike. "Come on your ride outside?" He holds a hand out to Julie, his grin bright-bright-bright. "{I guess so. It's ancient. Military surplus kind of thing. You know, the whole 'we had a war and then we didn't need them anymore afterward' kind of thing? It's a 1917. Not easy to find parts, but they're easy to keep running if you have 'em. Real simple built, but efficient, you know? Not a lot of wasted effort. Sure, I could run everywhere, but even I get a little tired. Besides, it feels like freedom.}" She does NOT comment on choice of chew toys. For a human baby, it might be iffy? This kid is not human, and she doesn't even begin to approach understanding the situation. Not gonna kid herself. She takes the hand, looking a little bewildered,"Yeah, it's outside. Unless someone has finally stolen it. I call her Pine Leaf." Native American reference? "I used to have the side car, but... well, park in one-too-many alleys, and see what you get." Ion's hand closes around Julie's with a small static-shock zap -- bzzt -- brief and harmless. It is followed by a far more disorientieng shock, the world flitting out of view and into a sudden electric crackle, a surge of voltage coursing in and around them -- bright and jolting and over nearly the moment it began. No longer standing in the basement, now they're just outside the front of the church, a small ozone crackle to the air around them. Egg is bouncing happily in their carrier, evidently unphased by the minor electrocution of the trip. Ion's own bike, a gleaming black and chrome Harley chopper with the license plate WIRED, is parked outside, though at the moment he is ignoring this in favor of bouncing some more. Restless, jittery, his eyes searching the block for the promised Indian. "{You need some shits, my crew}" he jerks a thumb towards the Mutant Mongrels patch on the back of his kutte, "{we got a garage.} Fix everything. Everyone. Up real good." It is indeed an antique! Not far, her small bike is parked in all its glory. The tires need replacing. As much of the rest of its parts probably do. Mainly because almost all of them are original. The paint's been touched up, and one or two things here and there have been replaced by carefully sourced (read, scavenged from a junk yard) parts. It runs. Close examination reveals the truth though. While it's far from a sorry or hopeless piece of junk, it is suffering under the owner's inability to afford the kind of parts and tools necessary to restore it. It's got it share of duct tape and there's a spot weld or two here and there. That said, it's cleaner than the person who rides it, and some effort has been made to buff out scratches and blemishes on the pain, as the matte green finish and white star on the side may indicate. She is shaking her head when they arrive, as well as her hand. Thankfully, she recovers from the 'shock' of transportation relatively quickly. She too is soon bouncing from foot to foot. "When I find something that pays more than sandwhiches and in cash, I'll look you up." She lets her gaze travel over the man's kutte, then nods. "{I bought her with some of the money I got when I was discharged. That's a hell of a ride you got there. Harley. I'm glad someone still likes the classic black.}" "Well. You looking to /make/ some cash, you look us up on that front too, huh?" Ion's fingers trace lovingly over the seat of his bike as he passes it en route to check out Julie's (/Egg/ gets more bouncy as they pass the bike, too: 'Go! Ride! Zoom!' -- not that they seem particularly /less/ enthusiastic about passing on by the bike to check out another one.) "Just so long as you not too particular about how's that income coming. World like this, we make what business we can, yeah?" He's crouching down by Julie's bike now, pointing out some of its parts to Egg with explanatory signing. "{She some real beauty, huh?} You put hella love in this girl." "{Yeah, but she needs more love than I can give her.}" Suddenly, she barks out in laughter,"{You ever met a meth addict who WAS very particular about where their money comes from? I'm not... in my addiction right now, but as long as I ain't snappin' necks for a living, I don't give two shits. You know what the really sad thing is? I went to college. I got an MBA. But mutant, ex-military, and addict don't add up to a whole lot career opportunities.}" She spends a little time oogling Ion's bike because, well... She KNOWS her bike, even if she loves it. Still, eventually she comes to stand next to the man,"{She's the only thing that keeps me sane sometimes. It hurts not being able to give her what she deserves.}" Almost obsessively, she begins to check her bike tactilely, piece by piece, repeatedly. Maybe it just gives her something to do. "{She's an old lady, and old ladies deserve respect.}" "{Not more love than a whole crew of us could, though. You come. Look us up. She'll be in good hands. Got this one tiny-shark rides with us she do some /magic/ with machines, she keeps bikes singing. Keeps them flying.}" Ion grins bright. "Fucking literally too, hell, {goddamn wizardry in those claws of hers.}" He stands, adjusting the glittery antlers carefully on Egg's head where they've started to slip. "{You know Evolve?} Ain't open right just yet but few doors down there a safe-house. Some-times, you find one of us there. If you short some cash. Or just looking for some friendly face to ride with, yeah?" The woman nods slowly at that. "Truth truth. Wait... you talkin' about that brother and sister? I stayed sort of with them over in the Commons when the zombies were running around. Made supply runs and shit. B. She's got the flying bike. Yeah, I know 'em. I've never been inside Evolve, but I know it. Ever mutant seems to in this city." The woman scrubs at her nose a little bit, head tilting ever so slightly,"I might just do that. Truth be told, if the money's good, you might not have to wait long. If it's good enough, you might also get it right back in the form of some TLC for my girl." "Yeah! Yeahyeahyeah. You know the smallsharks?" Ion's bouncing has grown, a positively delighted expression lighting his face. "Most /excellent/ of pups, them kids. They roll with us. Shane, he own Evolve. B /invent/ those damn fly-bikes, that's some kinda brain." His head shakes, clearly impressed. He pats, gentle, at the handles of Julie's bike, then stretches his hand out in a curled fist for tapping. "Good. Good. Maybe-then I hope I see you 'round soon. I'm Ion. You come by, some time, we get a beer. Meanwhile I finish up making sure them-folks," he jerks a thumb back towards the church, "get some /dessert/ in 'em." "Folks call me Julie, or sometimes Crazy Julie." No need to explain that one. "If it's all the same to you, though, I'm going to skip dessert. I'm always hungry seconds afterward. Something about sugar and addiction centers. Anyway, you hang out with them, you're probably good people." She looks at the hand for a moment, then reaches out to tap it with her knuckles. She hops onto her bike, giving it a good start (it grumbles to life more than 'rumbles'), andthen she's looking over at the man,"Nice to meet you Ion. See you around, hopefully."