ArchivedLogs:Roller Coaster

Roller Coaster
Dramatis Personae Jackson, Shelby	2013-06-25 '
Location <NYC> Inkline Studios - Lower East Side
The front room of Inkline Studio is small, and does not, particularly, look like a tattoo parlor at all. Framed surrealist oil paintings line the walls instead of the typical flash ink, although interspersed are a handful of tasteful, artistic photographs of various people displaying their tattoos that might give away the nature of this business. Black leather armchairs cluster around a low glass coffee table; large black binders that sit on the table contain portfolios of the past work done in the studio. A glass counter stretches along the length of one wall, a plethora of various body jewelry on display; the 'front desk' sits at the far end of the counter, computer and cash register and large file cabinet making up the work space. The piercing and tattoo rooms are in the back, brightly lit and sterile, with doors closeable for privacy. It's admittedly not as busy around here this week as it sometimes is -- a combination perhaps of the sweltering heat and the city's unrest keeping many people away from doing all but the necessities. Still, even if there aren't a lot of drop-ins off the street searching for jewelry, there are still people with longstanding appointments to keep and the intermittent pseudo-emergency of replacing lost jewelry before the piercings close up. This all conspires to mean that while the waiting room is only sparsely populated the back rooms still hum with the song of buzzing needles, and the /phones/ at least have been rather hectic with people calling to schedule or /re/schedule appointments. There's still lots of cleanup to tend to, still lots of aftercare instructions to dispense, still lots of tedium by way of proper ID collection and consent forms to handle. Jackson does not tend to be found here much on weekday mornings, with class to teach elsewhere; it's some time after two that he arrives, bright and summery in a red and white vine-patterned sarong and white tank top. He beelines towards the front desk when he comes in, first stop always the computer to look over his schedule for the afternoon. Lots of cleanup. Lots and LOTS of cleanup. For someone with an ego like Shelby, this is mildly insulting but she's tolerating it well thus far. It helps that even when tasked with sweeping and restocking work stations, she can spy on the goings on. Who knows how many valuable morsels of information she's picked up through listening in? Probably a lot! But even so, by two of the clock, the teenager is shifting from eager to grumpy. She's an artist! She should be arting something! Which is why grump shifts to better cheer when Jax makes it in. First blue-green eyes peep around the curtain separating work area from waiting area, and then she's pushing through--just a skinny kid in holey jeans and a black tee, decorated with comic-style stars and text bubbles that say BIFF! and POW! and BAM! There are chalk stripes of green and blue in her hair as well, though she's still not been able to convince anyone to add some metal to her face. One day. "Hey!" she chirps, after setting an intercept course. "How you doin'?" "Freaking melting," Jackson answers, dropping his bag heavily onto the floor and slumping into the chair behind the counter. "You know, I think the twins got the right idea 'bout sleeping. I'm trading out for just the water part of a waterbed. How's it been here?" His chair rolls back a few inches, rocks back so he can thunk his head against a wall. Or, really, a cabinet full of files, but it's the nearest thunkable solid surface. "You know," he studies her shirt for a minute, "that'd be a good shirt to keep around during self-defense classes, could move the BIFFs to the wall over your opponent's head. For maximum effect." Shelby folds her arms and leans against the counter beside the computer, observing with interest this settling in ritual. /She/ looks cool, of course, courtesy of working indoors all day. She also looks woefully unsympathetic, to judge by the gap-toothed grin aimed at Jackson. "You ever illussioned yourself up to look like 'em? Bet they'd like that, seeing you all blue 'n gilly." Mention of her shirt causes a brief downwards glance with chin tucked to throat but for whatever reason, it leaves the teen looking rather more sober. "I'm a lover, not a fighter," she quips, deadpan. "S'been pretty busy here. One big dude threw up, it was /awesome/. Except I had to mop it up." "Done it with Spence a lot but that's harder to keep /up/. Plus then he thinks it means he can swim like them and /uh/. Nope." Jackson pulls out his phone, opening up its calendar to sync it with the computer's. "Ohjeez," his nose wrinkles while this process is going, "that's always fun. You know, it's the most macho brodudes that happens with all the time, too. I wonder if testosterone makes you a wimp." He spins idly back and forth in the chair, eventually leaning down to drag his sketchbook out of his back. "You could be both. Or neither," he adds with a quick smirk, "just grouch around hating the world from your couch." The smirk fades; for a moment he studies Shelby's expression. Then looks down to the sketchbook. His thumb gestures back to one of the tattoo rooms, the one reserved for his boss, the studio's owner. "Teek keeping you busy or you got time to help me with some stuff?" "Least he didn't faint, would've been a hell of a fall, blood's harder to clean up than puke," she muses. Don't ask how she knows this. But then...wait, what? Aaaaa, Shelby's face goes a ripe tomato shade as she straightens up. Whatever apprehension she's laboring under goes unexplained, however. Instead she follows that gesture with a glance and then rolls her shoulders in a shrug. "Busier this morning, I'm not really doing anything now unless someone yells for something. I could help," she says, peeking at the sketchbook. "What're you working on?" "Fainting's alright if they're already in the chair at least. We -- don't have too much blood to clean up in here all /that/ often." Jackson glances up at Shelby's reddening face, his eyebrows lifting. "Y'aright? You're doin' a real good impression of a strawberry. Kinda a grim strawberry." He flips the sketchbook open, past one black and white page that seems to consist of only simple line drawings of elephants and a lot of numbered dots, to the next, a black and and white figure in hooded sweatshirt with a bandanna tied around their face, drawing back one arm to lob -- what probably in typical imagery should be a molotov cocktail but in this drawing is a vividly bright bouquet of flowers with a pair of butterflies flitting between them. "Keep tweaking this but I can't ever figure out colours I actually like. They didn't have a preference, really, they just wanted it to -- pop, against the rest of it all in black." Shelby opens her mouth, closes it, opens it again--then glances at the sketch without comment. For /now/. She reaches up to rub at the back of her neck as she studies the detailing. "That's pretty awesome," she says, opting with that answer in order to help lower the amount of blood in her face. It works, slowly. "I'd make the butterflies all fire-colored, add in some streaks and curls here and here." Her unoccupied hand extends to trace those lines in the wake of each insect's flight path--and lo, the curlicues and flame-streaks appear, uncolored, stolen from the graphite hues of the terrorist. "And maybe blues and purples for the flowers. What's up with the elephants?" "Yeah, they actually started /out/ just -- asking for something to represent -- what activism means to them these days." Jackson shrugs a shoulder, fingers tapping against the page. "Took a while to sit down together and come up with that." The butterflies change, vibrant, flamelike. The curls do, too, similar hues but slightly faded, little wisps of colour trailing from behind them. The flowers are next, shifting to run through several shades of blue and purple before settling. "Man. The fire colour really works thematically -- oh uh. That." He flips the page back to the elephants and dots. "Connect-the-dots. They /only/ want the dots and numbers inked. I have to make it so uh -- if you doodle on them with a Sharpie you end up with --" He taps one of the line-elephants. "-- never comes out quite /good/ though. Needs one whole tusk and one broken tusk but past that kinda got liberty to just -- try and make it a /good/ looking elephant." "Yeah, if it was the flowers all fiery, it'd just be kinda...y'know. Dumb." 'Cliche' eludes her for the moment. But Shelby looks with some interest at the changed sketch and then nods approval. "If they don't like, they're a dumbass. /I'd/ wear that." Maybe not the elephant though, which is checked out with a hint of amusement. The color in her cheeks is almost back to normal now. "People're weird," sums up her opinion. Which...oddly enough segues into something more serious. "Um. Jax? Has...did Shane tell you about...about setting up a fighting club?" "Kinda defeat the purpose, yeah. Though I did /do/ a real awesome fire-flower tattoo for someone once -- totally different theme though." Jax glances at the dots, one side of his mouth hooking upwards. "Yeah, people's tastes can be kinda all over the map when it comes to body art. T'each their own." He looks up from the sketchbook, lips compressing into a thin line. "Yeah, they told me," he answers in a flatter tone. "Ain't started it yet -- wait," his eye abruptly narrows on her, "-- you signin' up for it?" "/Fuck/ no." That answer is pretty much startled out of her! Shelby's left to blink at him, shamelessly using /two/ eyes. "What the hell, dude. /Me/? Seriously? Last time I got anywhere near a fight, I wet my pants." And she only wishes she were exaggerating there. Frowning, she looks down and picks absently at the counter surface, catching at a nick with her thumbnail. "I thought maybe if you didn't know you'd get pissed off and stop 'em is all. But I guess if they told you...I told Shane it was a dumbass idea. He didn't even /argue/ but they're still doing it." "Oh --" Jackson doesn't actually /say/ thank God but there's a definite release of tension in his form at Shelby's answer. At least, for a moment before he drops his head back against the wall, teeth catching at his upper lip. "I did get pissed off," he admits, slowly, and then with another lift of eyebrows, "You think I should stop them?" Shelby shakes her head. "I wish you could but nothing's gonna, now that they're doing it. I mean...you can't tell teenagers shit, right?" A thin smile is mustered, just a ghost of her earlier expression. "I just...I just think about...what'd happen if anyone found out. Right? You /know/ someone's already thought about mutant armies and you get some stupid ass kids training themselves up and..." She shrugs, then folds her arms again and plants herself against the counter. "I bet it was Peter's idea. He acts like comics are real." Jackson hitches up a shoulder. "I tell the boys lots of things, and they listen. I think it helps if you do it less. Then they know when I do it's probably for a good reason." He tucks a leg underneath himself, hands folding and unfolding in his lap. "Don't think it was Peter's idea." He's quiet a moment, gaze fixed on Shelby's face. "What do you do?" he asks, at length. "When you're scared or pissed off." "Yeah?" Shelby, not entirely convinced, but she'll allow the possibility. She's gone back to working at that small nick; if she keeps it up, it's going to be a larger one. "They probably got their reasons for it. Shane said a few. But..." Tiny peek. "Dance. Fuck. Visit my dealer...uh, before he got dead," she says after a moment of thought. "Not so much those anymore, I guess. Maybe I'll go out this weekend, if my check comes in and there's any left over. Why?" "I mean, everyone's got their reasons for things but --" Jackson scuffs his hand against the top of his head. "I don't know. I think times like this, everyone needs their outlets. I --" His smile is a little thin, a little wry. "-- don't know an /abundance/ of people whose outlets are really all that healthy just now. Just kinda -- holding things together till there's breathing toom to actually do everything /right/." The smile fades. "Dancing's good, though. My club's mostly just got a bunch of gay boys but if y'/just/ want the dancing part I can get you in if y'got money or no," is a little quieter, and then, curious: "-- It working out for you?" Shelby thinks it over but in the end, she shakes her head. "Nah. Every time I go out, something seems to happen. I guess maybe that's the universe trying to tell me to figure something else out. There's gotta be healthy shit I'd like. Or maybe I'll get Ryan to open up his stash." A promising idea! She reaches for her smile--only to have it fade as she makes note of Jax's regard. There is nothing that makes the teen squirm so well as quietserious looks, aaaaa. "It working out for /you/?" she asks instead of answering, slapping on a wide grin. "C'mon. We know it's all pretty shitty right now. I picked the wrong time to get my own place, huh?" "Or the best one," Jackson answers with a quick snort of laugh, "I mean, would you want to be couchsurfing right about now?" His fingers start to drum again, tapping against the numbered dots on the page open in front of him. "Pfft," he dismisses this question with a quick shake of his head, "I ain't been doing no dancing. Or getting high. -- Think you'd go stircrazy if you didn't go out at all. Maaaybe not," he allows, "if you plowed your way through Ryan's whole stash. Then even our building'd seem like freaking Disney World." "I dunno, the Doc's got crazy good security. Maybe not /bomb/ good but that's what Jane's for." Shelby gives him the ol' side eye. It's easier to find a smile this time, now that he's narrowed down /her/ list of leisure activities for himself. "Soooo, lots've time with Micah, huh? I guess that'd do it. Is he more like a roller coaster or a ferris wheel?" Now that she has the conversation back on track, she throws in a couple of illustrative hand signals to make sure it /stays/ that way. Jackson's smile fades at the mention of Iolaus's security, his jaw tighter. "Sometimes bomb good," he says, but a little distractedly. At least till that question. His eye opens wider, colour flushing into his cheeks. "Wh -- I --" Blinkblinkblink. He scrunches up one eye, staring in confusion at these hand gestures. "/What/ -- he aint like -- I don't think I -- ride the same kinda rollercoasters as you." The first response is ignored because Shelby has decided NO MORE SERIOUS TOPICS. So...she keeps up with the hand gestures, though slower now and looking at him with a blank look--that's completely false. What? There are other rides? "How many different ways are there of doin' it? C'mon. You go in, you go out." "In and out of a rollercoaster?" Now Jackson just looks /horribly/ confused which, at least, is helping his blush recede. "Mine usually are more up and downy. Sometimes in big loops?" His lips twitch upwards, red creeping back up his cheeks. "Though, I gotta say, if go in-go out is the only way /you/ can think of, you been missin' out on some of the funnest rides." "You go in the tunnel, you come out of the tunnel. It's not like, rocket science." Shelby's grin seems permanent now, once she unleashes it. "Tell you what, you tell /Hive/ about those rides and I won't make you tell me here at work, where everyone thinks you're a grown up," she says, stealing a glance around the room and dropping her voice to a conspirator's level. "Dude, have you /seen/ our clientele? Or, uh, anyone who works here? I don't think," Jackson says with a laugh, "/anyone's/ got delusions about grown-ups bein' anywhere involved around here." He glances up as the bell chime quietly above the door, wrinkling his nose. "-- Buuuut my two-thirty's in so we should probably /pretend/ for a little bit and go set up." His bright smile stays fixed in place as he gets out of his seat, chin lifting in a quick nod to their arriving client. Set up! Shelby can do that! Sure, she might be giving a suspicious snort of laughter as she brushes through the curtains but...teenagers, right? "...best job ever," she might /also/ be heard saying--once she's certain she's out of range of the paying clientele.