ArchivedLogs:Wide Range

Wide Range
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Ryan, Steve	2017-08-20 "Richard Spencer's face has gotta be public domain by now."
Location <NYC> Harbor Commons - Sunroom - Lower East Side
Bright and warm, this room is set up to enjoy a little bit of the outdoors even year-round. Tall glass panes make up most of its wall in between wood supports, providing a wide three-sided view of the garden and yard outside. As well as the inner doors leading back into the kitchens and dining room, an outer door leads out to the outdoor gardens, as well. Inside, the room is airy and green -- a plethora of potted herbs and plants hang from the ceiling, as well as ring the room in a series of narrow wooden raised-beds that provide growing space for a selection of herbs year-round. Outside of the herb beds that ring the room, this place is designed simply to come and relax; quiet and simple, with clean stone floors and neutral-toned wicker furniture adorned with comfortable cushioning. Some of the chairs ring stone-and-glass tables for eating or conversing; a few more solitary seats come in the form of rocking chairs or netted hammock-chairs hanging from the ceiling. Dinner has come and gone but the sunroom is flooded with light, still, the setting sun not yet low enough to warrant turning on the indoor lights. It's filled with sound as well, just at the moment; the soft strumming of a guitar, quiet creaking of a wicker rocking chair. Summertime-casual in black and blue-fishnet-mesh shorts, a grey tank top reading 'Be Kind' in flowing cursive, Ryan has his guitar in his lap and his laptop out on front of him. Bare toes hooked against the edge of a low table in front of him, intermittently propelling his chair slowly back and forth. His strumming is not exactly formless, right now; trying one progression, adjusting it, tweaking it just a little more. Aside from the upbeat music it suffuses the room with a soft cheer, subtle but gently uplifting. Lucien's presence at the sunroom door is quiet, at first. A touch more dressy than Ryan -- pale neatly tailored linen trousers, grey and green embroidered button-down -- he is barefoot as well in concession to either summer or the Commons' clean floors. Though he pushes the door open, he stops in the doorway between kitchen and sunroom, shoulder fetched up against the doorjamb and his eyes slipped half-closed. He has a mug of tea (lightly fragrant strawberry sencha) still steaming in one hand that, for the moment, he is ignoring as the music (and mood) washes over him. Though he's quite thoroughly rinsed off from earlier adventures, Steve is still looking every so slightly haggard in his post-shower-not-going-anywhere-else-tonight clothes: tight black t-shirt and much-mended jeans. He has been in the kitchen, rinsing out the tea things, but presently he comes into the sunroom with two mug clasped in one hand, brushing past Lucien and waving him in casually. A smile touches his lips as he sets a mug of strawberry sencha near Ryan, then he sinks down into a hammock chair, inhaling the steam rising from his own tea but also not drinking it just yet. Ryan's foot stays pressed against the table, still rocking his chair slowly. His head bows when the door opens, dark mop of hair flopping down with his nod of thanks to Steve. Half-covering his face through the next few experimental bars, though not at all covering the sharp hook of smile that crosses it. Seamlessly, his playing shifts. No longer working out something new -- now the airy ethereal melody is something immediately familiar, as he slides into the opening of "Green and Growing Things." Lucien lifts his tea, taking a slow sip. He follows Steve into the room, taking a seat nearby and settling into the hammock carefully, tea sloshing a bit but not spiling. He's already humming quietly when the familiar music begins to play, one finger keeping beat against the side of his mug. On cue, voice warm and rich, he picks up the song where it begins, "-- The first seed I ever planted --" -- though just as quickly he breaks off again with a sharp huff. "My gods. I had hoped not to think of that again till Tuesday. You /are/ cruel." Steve gives a small, stifled guffaw. "Oh, I shouldn't have laughed." He bows sheepishly. "The fellows used to make a game of getting me to sing 'The Star Spangled Man' unawares. Managed it while I was /asleep/ once, or so -- so they claimed." He takes a delicate sip of his tea, then salutes Ryan with the mug. "What you were working before sounded promising, though." Ryan shakes his hair back from his face. Smile bright and laugh brighter still. His hand presses down against his strings, quieting the last reverberation of the guitar as Lucien's singing cuts off. "I don't /doubt/ it, man, there was a year when I swear to god "Brighter" played in my dreams every damn night. Don't worry," reassuringly SINCERE to Lucien, "Come winter you'll have a new show and all /new/ music we can troll you with." He lets his chair rock forward so he can grab his tea, take a gulp -- wince, immediately regret its heat. Take another gulp /anyway/. "Yeah? I'm thinking a new track, grab some friends to put some down too, maybe put out an anti-fascist compilation. Raise some cash for bail funds. You in?" His brows lift to Steve. "We can record the meaty sound of your fist slamming some faces." Lucien lifts his hand, forefinger and thumb rubbing slowly at the bridge of his nose. "Delightful." He sounds exaggeratedly weary, when Ryan suggests Steve contribute to this charity album. "Surely you would prefer 'The Star-Spangled Man'?" "Excellent." There's no weariness in /Steve's/ voice. "I will happily contribute. Though, while 'The Star-Spangled Man' is somewhat topical, I don't own the rights to that." His brows wrinkle faintly. "You know, I actually have no idea who /does/, now. The last time it was used commercially was...the musical? Or the film. I can't remember which came first." He studies his hand critically, balling it into a fist (the small cuts that had been visible on his knuckles only a while ago have already faded to faint red marks). "Would we have to pay the Nazis royalties for contributing the sound of their faces?" "Probably depends which one. Richard Spencer's face has gotta be public domain by now." Ryan lowers his cup to the arm of his chair now, at least. His tongue swipes across his teeth, eyes lingering on Steve's knuckles. "Seriously, though, you down?" He's looking between both the other men, now. "If I pulled something together, you know Luci'd make it blow the fuck up. And we could use..." A palpable unease comes together with his trailing words. He speaks more abruptly after this, "Like shit are they really just going to keep Dusk locked /up/ over this crap? We're fighting that, right?" "I can market your music. I would prefer at least /one/ day respite from doing damage control over you all being in jail yet again." Lucien does not sound all that reproachful, for all that. Placid, a small smile tugging at his lips -- /he's/ eying the red marks on Steve's knuckles, too, as he sips at his tea. The smile fades soon enough, though. "Tian-shin has been stretched somewhat thin. I will give her what support I can." Steve laughs aloud at Ryan's musing over Nazi faces, nearly spilling his tea in the process of taking another sip. "Oh gosh! It's true, I've not heard about anyone trying to sue for the rights to video footage of their own beatings." Then, somewhat more soberly. "I'll absolutely lend my voice -- and my fists -- to this project." His lips press into a thin line here, and he sets his tea down. "We should -- we /must./ There's that entire non-profit Tian-shin's with, surely some of those lawyers and paralegals can take some of the load." He shakes his head quickly. "I'm sure she just never sleeps anymore, and school hasn't even started yet.You and she should start a club." This last is directed at Lucien, with slightly uplifted eyebrows. "One that never meets because neither of you has any time to spare." "Psh, their meetings happen in thirty-second intervals in the hallways of the courthouse and /still/ manage to get more done than an entire year of my George Soros funded ANTIFA clubhouse meetings." You can just /hear/ the all-caps in Ryan's voice, there. "Crap, when /is/ school starting? That's soon, isn't it?" One hand still clutching his mug, the other is returning his guitar to its case -- he's on his feet now as if the answer might be /right this second/. "I gotta take Spence shopping. New pencils and knives and books and lockpicks and -- clothes?" A little helplessly. "He'll want those?" Lucien takes a longer pull of tea. Slow, his eyes closing on a very small shake of shoulders. Eventually he lowers his mug, green eyes bright with amusement when they lift to meet Steve's. "Oh, you have a bit yet. I am sure he will be quite happy for the supply run. No doubt if you ask him he can provide you a list." "I should not have doubted you." Steve inclines his head toward Lucien. "Do forgive me. But remember you have other resources, too. I'm neither a lawyer nor a genius at public relations, but my range is wider than just punching Nazis and recording PSAs." To Ryan, he nods. "Good luck. If he holds true to pattern, it'll be an epic quest that takes you all across the city and you're likely to come out of it with at least three new friends and short several vital school supplies." He picks his tea back up and raises it in another salute. "Keep me posted about that fundraising compilation."