ArchivedLogs:Unforged Connections

Unforged Connections
Dramatis Personae Anole, Emma, Ion	2013-10-11 (Part of the Battle for Harlem TP.)
Location <NYC> Harlem
Harlem's gritty reputation has become less and less earned over the past decade or so as gentrification has set in. Its reputation as a hub of jazz and culture, however, is still very much earned -- throughout the years Harlem has been renowned for its contributions to music, from its swing dancing and jazz culture back when speakeasies were prevalent to the many hip-hop artists with Harlem roots in modern day. Around sunset on Friday evening is the perfect time to go for a walk in the crisp autumn air. The street lights begin to flick on, bathing the world in orange light that augments the fall folliage as it begins to turn from green to orange, red, and brown. Emma is using the long shadows cast by the buildings near by and the inconsistent light of the dwindling day and dawning electric night to be somewhat inconspicuous as she makes her way to the site of the now famous church in Harlem, her attention drawn to the damage and yellow hazard tape rather than to the signage which describes the rebuilding efforts. She is dressed in a sturdy off white trench coat, the color weathered intentionally to disguise future weathering, with white slacks over cream boots. About her neck is a loosely woven scarf that is looped around her neck such that it puffs her hair up a bit around her ears. Contrasting all this white, a pair of thick, black rimmed glasses perch on her nose. At length, she pulls a tablet from her purse and starts tapping at it. Though Emma's company isn't immediately obvious visually, Anole's /mind/ is more conspicuous than his physical presence. The teenager is an odd veneer of calm layered over jangling nerves, never /comfortable/ to be out in public but more comfortable hidden than otherwise. He's perched up beneath the fire escape of the apartment buildings right adjacent to the church, surveying the damage curiously too (and wondering why someone would drive a /truck/ through that beautiful church.) (do they really hate us that much?) (Will they do that to my home next?) He's faded into the mottled dirty brick of the apartment building, perfectly still and hard to notice save for the intermittent tiny shift of blinking eyelids. Behind the hazard lines, a motorcycle is parked in the church's tiny side alley. Has been parked, for some while. A gleaming black-and-Chrome Harley, its vanity license plate says WIRED. There's a young man, scruffyish, dark tan skin, feathery dark hair sticking out from beneath a black-and-white striped knit cap, hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket -- it's emblazoned on the back with a skull, kind of human and kind of /not/, warped and fangy and horned and where crossbones might be it has jagged crossed bolts of /lightning/. "Police tape's gone." No more CRIME SCENE, only CAUTION. He's remarking this -- to Emma? With a /fierce/ toothy grin. << My baby. >> The motorcycle, that is, he's eying it with a manic /glee/ that feels in its bright livewire of thoughtstream like this happiness might be accentuated by -- some kind of stimulant? "You are correct." Emma notes, her eyes squinting a little at the tape to confirm the lack of official lingo. "I'm glad it didn't get impounded out of spite." She steps a little further in, turning on the camera function of her tablet and takes a couple quick pictures of the mess, framing Ion and his bike incidentally in one. She frowns a little as she lowers the technology, shaking her head. "It is a travesty. Why would somebody drive a truck through this beautiful church?" Inwardly, she keeps an eye on Anole, listening rather than looking, but currently unaware of his unique talents. << Out of spite. >> Anole's mind echoes Emma's words a moment before he does: "Out of spite." He immediately seems kind of startled that he spoke, skittering a short ways up the wall to perch with a creak of metal on the fire escape stairs. "Ya, out of -- those bastards just hate us more than they love beauty." Ion's tongue clicks, together with a little gunfinger motion towards -- what? He squints over towards the fire escape with a bit of a bemused look for seemingly not seeing anyone there. Emma's camera, though, immediately puts his hackles up, prickles of irritated suspicion skittering in bright sparks across his mind. "Eyy, what's that for." He turns slightly away from the bike, frowning at the phone. "Harlem is continuing to reside at the center of a lot of controversy these days," Emma replies, likewise turning to look over her shoulder at the fire escape. "I just wanted a couple pictures of my own of the damage. The ones online were not clear of people." She slips the tablet back into her bag and tilts her head as she turns back toward Ion and the church. "I'm sorry. I thought I heard something. But yes. It's a thing of beauty, it shouldn't be marred by the aftermath of the past few weeks. I know a couple people in architecture and restoration and I wanted to run it by them for cost analysis before it is hyped up by one politician or another." The fire escape has grown eyes, huge and green and staring down from where Anole has pressed his back up against the building. The panic in his thoughts rises as attention turns his way, but the conversation has him drawn -- tentatively, but curiously -- away from the wall. The rest of his brick-coloured skin and clothes melt back to normal -- green scales, tattered dark blue hoodie, hood pulled up over his head, threadbare blue jeans, worn old sneakers. "It was a thing of beauty when people were living in it." "I don't do pictures," Ion says irritably, mood shifting from glee to annoyance in nothing flat. There's a rising tinge of ozone in the air, a faint static /prickle/ at the back of necks. At least until the lizardkid appears on the fire escape; his eyes widen, looking past Emma's shoulder towards Anole. His bright grin reappears -- though distinctly for /Anole/ and not for Emma, who he is only feeling lingering hostility towards. "That's a neat trick, kid." "And you're still not doing pictures." Emma replies flatly. "Why would I come down here to get a shot of the church without people and then include you?" She sends a little nudge to persuade him to give more weight to her logic. (He only saw a flash.) (She never pointed the camera at him.) (She's only interested in the church.) She gives him a wide eyed, mildly pouty, curious look as she quietly judges if it works. Then there is an Anole and Emma's attention is swiftly divided. "Ahh, yes, that makes sense. Some people will only see this place as a castle, a bastion against brutality, beautiful in architecture, but broken in the end - whereas you, I bet it seemed more like your neighbor's house? Maybe a family member's home?" Anole shrugs, a little uncomfortably, looking down at the church. "I just know what it's like not to --" He hesitates, biting down at his lip. "This place was home to people. Some people don't have a lot of that. And they're taking what we /do/ have." "I don't know, woman, most people who've come snooping around here haven't exactly had good /intentions/." Ion's irritation is only growing, sparking bright and annoyed in his mind. Electronics in their immediate vicinity are silently shorting out, fizzling to an unhappy death. The pouty look only irritates him /more/, though her mental nudge mollifies him far more than the attempted feminine wiles do. "Whatever. Not worth my time anyway." He pushes his way beneath the tape, heading down the alley towards the motorcycle halfway down it. "They'll take everything we /got/ if we let them," his voice carries back. "S'why we gotta work harder. Not to let them, yeah?" Emma shakes her head and wets her lips. "I'd say something about paranoia and it's detriments, but I think we all need it more than not these days." She watches Ion's departing back thoughtfully. When she speaks, however, it is to Anole. "I came here myself, a couple times when I was homeless. I'm not going to say that it was special to me, but it was something that helped keep me alive, so I hate to see it like this." "I don't think it counts as paranoia when people drive trucks through your home just to drive you out of it." Anole has a healthy dose of paranoia himself, keeping him perched high above on the fire escape rather than coming to the ground to join the conversation, but his voice is growing less tentative. "I mean, after what the police did here -- after what the police do everywhere," this comes with twinging memories of cages, of spilled blood, of bruised muscles and huddling under dirty blankets on narrow bunks, "I think it's -- probably smart to. Worry. People in this city aren't -- usually here to. Help." "This was my church." Ion's irritation hasn't quite subsided, but it lessens when he gets his hands back on his bike. Running lovingly over the seat. The handlebars. "I don't think I'm paranoid, I think I'm realistic. Look at the place." His head shakes in disgust at Anole. "Fuck la yuta, man. They been messing with you? We got places. Not the best. But you can hide out a while." "I agree completely. Wariness, alertness, suspicion, these are all tools we need right now. Just makes forging new connections more difficult." She stuffs her hands in her pockets, letting out a breath of air that turns a bit frosty in the waining light. "I think what your group did here was very helpful. If not for the increased firepower given to the police and the interference of other agencies, it would have succeeded longer." "They --" Anole shakes his head, sinking down to a crouch to peer at them now from between the bars of the fire escape railing. "No, not messing with me." << Anymore. >> "Just I don't. Trust them. I have places though. I don't need." He frowns, thinking of a tiny little nook tucked away into the sewers. "I have a place." He eyes the motorcycle with more interest, though. "Is that yours? It's -- it's so shiny." His green eyes flick to Emma curiously. "Are you trying? To make connections?" "This church's been here to help people who needed it since it was founded. I guess sometimes that's just a little bit more risky than other times." Ion leans in to switch the cycle to neutral, muscles flexing as he straightens it very upright to start walking it towards the mouth of the alley. "Next time," he says with a snort, "we'll just have to bring bigger guns." "Well, I didn't come here intending to. I just wanted an opportunity to look over the damage. I did not expect to find one of those strong enough to demand the city stop and pay attention." Emma gives Anole a small shrug. "I'm trying and failing it seems. I'm glad you have a place. I hope it stays safe for many years to come." Riding on the mood of departure, she turns to excuse herself as well. "Good luck with the bigger guns, they'll be needed." Her tone is genuine. "Have a good night." Anole doesn't say goodnight. There's a moment of deliberation where he thinks he probably /should/ say it, but skittishness wins out; by the next time anyone looks up towards the fire escape, there's nothing there again but the rusty metal and dirty bricks, the small lizardboy fading back into the background and scurrying quickly away towards the roof. "See-ya." It's as much of a goodbye as Ion gives. His irritation has long since vanished, replaced once more with bright cheerful exuberance. The throaty growl of motorcycle engine rumbles to life, seeing /him/ off down the street.