Participants:
| Scene Title | For Those About To Rock |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | MAKE ROCK, NOT WAR. |
| Date | August 7, 2009 |
Staten Island: Inland
The inland of Staten Island changes dependent on the path you choose, but for the most, it can be described as containing desolate, sprawling suburbia ripped apart from the sudden overpopulation of Bomb survivor refugees, and the subsequent evacuation that took place nearly immediately after. Streets and blocks of houses emptied of families and taken over by squatters; the libraries, the schools, the churches all left behind and taken over by whoever is brave enough to claim it.
The cluster of civilization is namely controlled by a still developing crime population, a neighborhood known as the Rookery. A large portion of the island is taken over by a somewhat wild, unkempt rural landscape known as the Greenbelt, and most of everything, be it structure or vegetation, seems to be in a stay of slow death and decay. Graffiti stains brick walls, glass windows are broken and boarded, and plant life slowly tries to make a feeble reclamation of the land.
This is New York's forgotten borough, and it looks it.
The daylight drives away the very worst of Staten Island's lowlife, but it's still not precisely a pretty scene. Litter drifts in the wet, oilstained rivulets from the last downpour, and the puddles have a grim opacity that touch on metaphors about just how deep any place can sink.
Sable doesn't much give a shit, though. She's got rubber boots to keep the scummy water off her feet, and she is weaving between toppled newspaper dispensers. As she moves from possibly still open business to possibly still open business, she performs her own misdemeanor: she is distributing leaflets on privately own property. The green papers form a breadcrumb trail behind her, each one emblazoned with bold font.
The ramshackle house with the blue windows was private property once, perhaps, but since then, the stealthiest of cattle-rustlers has since turned it into something else entirely. A safehouse, the second floor in which temporarily reside a number of teenagers and young children, the Lighthouse's former inhabitants evicted by fire and psychotic old man who had too many superpowers and are now reassuringly dead.
"Hey." There's a curly head popped out the first floor, though, hung out past a corrugated metal shelf of hardware implements for sale. A few painted plaster scars, too, from the last time the place was shot up and robbed, but this establishment is one of the live ones. "Dudette, you dro… you dropped— oh, hey! C'mere, c'mere." He sticks an arm out, waves, as if she couldn't hear him over the bleat of rain.
Sable turns and peers with an natural sort of suspicion. Who's talking to her in this part of town? The fact that the actual words are harmless, even friendly, doesn't get decoded until after her initial reaction. Once it does, however, her expression softens. "Oh, hey!" She turns, getting a better look, "You're familiar. You were… y'know… when this place opened, right?" She tugs up her broad brimmed hat with a hand cluttered with flyers, to better display her face and admittedly pretty weird eyes.
Those eyes look like mutant eyes, even from the thin light diffused down through the clouds and out of the shop's window. They make Rocket's eyebrows go up, and then the eyes underneath them seize left, then right, checking for— cops or something, however ridiculous that notion is.
"I don't understand some of the words that aren't coming out of your mouth," Rocket admits, setting his ribs at a slightly uncomfortable angle against the sill. He blinks slightly, starts to tilt back when raindrops dab his curly head, but ultimately decides that closer to Sable is better than closer to safety, for the time-being. "When this place what.
"But I probably was. I think. I mean, if you remember me, I have a pretty memorable face." He shrugs. It is sort of like misguided vanity, and probably is at least in part that, but it's only funny because it's true. Rocket looks kind of like a frog.
He peers down at the stack of papers in her hand. "Whatcha got?"
Another sort of strange gaze, like she's looking for something in him. 'The Right Stuff', it's an officer-looking-for-a-few-good-men look, kind of absurdly grave one the face of a woman this young. She saunters over, giving the building a mild kick, like some sort of greeting, and then sticks a flyer in Rocket's face. Here's your paper sir.
The ink has run some, but the message is clear, in big black letters, some all caps.
ATTENTION ALL MISCREANT YOUTH!
I'm making a call for all the young people of little care and less cash, whose real passion lies in being passionate, and whose true power is the power to rock out with your cock out!
I'm making a call for young people who want to join a rock and roll band, who want to make awesome music that peels paint from dive bar walls. I have the guitar licks and the voice, I need drums, bass and maybe a keyboardist.
I'm making a call for young people who want to write an anthem of our generation, even if we're not nearly talented enough. I'm looking for kids who are cool with shooting for the stars, missing, and dying in the inky blackness of space!
Call 212-555-1243! Ask for Sable! And no fucking salespeople!
…it may be easier to just take it and read it with steady hands.
Man, what. Dude, what. This is the most preposterous and awesome thing that Rocket has seen since Arthur Petrelli tried to kill him and all the other babies then Gillian strutted in made of metal and buck-naked and bore him away, the most unlikely of beacons (rave lasers) of distraction, which is really just another word for hope.
"Uhh," he says, pinching two fingers shut on the bottom corner of the page, to hold it still enough to reread easier, as if he hadn't quite gotten it the first scan through. "Wow." Rains falls into the quiet without managing quite to fill it. He closes and opens his own perfectly pedestrian brown eyes. "So— you're saying that you need roadies?"
"Shit, I /wish/ I needed roadies," Sable growls, holding the flyers steady, the torch of her intention, "I wish I had the money to pay roadies. I wish I had enough stuff that I would even fuckin' require roadies. Goddamn, that would be something," she wrinkles her nose, corners of her lips tugging down at a frown. Oh, the anger she feels towards a world unappreciative of her talents, "I need a fuckin' band," she lets her arm drop, stepping closer to Rocket, her nose little more than a ruler's length away from his, his broad brimmed hat shedding a few fat droplets that tumble into his hair, darkening the sites of impact, "You play something? Better yet, you /want/ to play something?"
Aa now Rocket's head is cold. And he might catch a head-cold. A spidery array of fingers riffles through his hair, shedding dots of bright water out of his curls in a few brusque swats, his brow furrowed from unpleasantness rather than any real sense of indignation at being subject to it. "What?" he asks, only to stop both physically and verbally very suddenly when he realizes that there's a real live girl like right there in front of his headdd. "Iuh. Iuh.
"Um—I." Stammering, his mouth flattens, draws wide. Kermit appears to be concerned, or else mishandled by the artist below the riser. "Yes!" he blurts. "Yeah, totally. I mean, I dunno what, because— I've never really thought about it before and couldn' afford instruments even when I had a dad because he was on heroin and I used to kind of throw up in front of really big crowd without Valium but if it's dark or those epilepsy strobe lights are on… I wanna rock, yeah," his tenor dwindles in and out of hearing, jostled by the concentric reverberations of Sable's tangible aura. He beams, shows teeth that look slightly further apart than they really are. "Yeah. I wanna rock."
Sable isn't the best motivational speaker, and she also doesn't seem to be the best motivational looker either. As Rocket goes off, as rockets tend to, at a tangent to Earth's surface and the conversation, her face twists into one of what would, on a less frankly reckless person's face, look like a theatrical expression of fascinated confusion. What the fuck is this kid on about? But as the actual /content/ of his monologue hits her cerebral cortex, rather than simply the limbic comprehension of sound, the expression forms into a huge, near wolfish grin.
"Fuck yeah, brother," she says, "That's all I need to fucking hear. We do this, you can buy all the valium you need, shit. Valium, valium…" she looks up into the penumbra of her hat, searching for some wisdom there, some memory she stored in the shadow. Her weird eyes snap back to Rocket, "Keyboards?" Meaning, do you play them?
That — would — be —
A negative. "I don't," Rocket answers a little dazedly. "I don't ty— I do type." Correction, slashed in there, white-out, and then the smeary slog of a pen's nib too early through the wet strip patina. "I type, but I don't play like— you mean the piano, right? No. I don't. But I have good hands, and I'm good at fixing my mistakes." He has a whole superpower dedicated to that, hilariously. "I guess I can play chopsticks but everyone can play chopsticks. Ow." Not her; the fact that the window sill is cutting into his ribs, he's leaning so far out, eager now, unwary of the abyssinian threat of her hat. "I could learn. I have time. No keyboard, though."
She's actually pretty aware, though. Wandering, hopping over messes and puddles, the rainy chill didn't really get to her; she stayed warm through activity. But now that her freneticism has focused on in her head, the rest of her body begins to complain. "Uh… mind if we take this son-of-a-bitch," meaning the conversation, "Inside?" She flicks the brim of her hat, showering Rocket with another cascade of droplets. "I just noticed how dumb we look," a pause, another look up, this time a bit to the left, not memories but ideas stored there, "Might make a sort of cool album cover, though. Um… yeah," she snaps back to him, "Let me in? If it's locked. Otherwise…" she makes for the door.
It isn't. Upstairs is a different story, what with the illegal 'fugees, but the hardware store level is open to the public. For business, primarily, but Rocket seems to have no compunction about nodding assent and puttering off to get the door.
There's a small, rust-chipped bell above it, which rings a surprisingly clear one-note as the wooden doorjamb butts on by, and then a broad yellow bar of light falls out into the dreary blue ambience of the rainy day. Rocket protrudes out, too, one long arm waving to and fro, and to and fro, like spent tooth floss off the lip of a waste basket. "In here," he says, failing to notice the vague half a smile on the clerk's face. "You don't got big pockets, 'm sure this is fine."
Sable sidles inside, out of the patter and pour. She pulls off her hat as soon as she's inside, revealing a tangle of shortish black hair that looks very pleased if slightly shocked to suddenly have so much more freedom. She rubs at her nose with the back of her arm, but this just causes the slick of rainwater to dribble over her mouth and she 'ptaws!' in protest. "Fuck, man. Fucking weather. Fucking Northeast," she shakes her hat out, creating small puddles all across the floor, before looking up at Rocket. She glances at the clerk and winks at her, "Hey, babe," she says, in a tone that is way closer to crude sarcasm than to clever irony. Oh well, work in progress.
To Rocket again, and the mission at hand. She rolls her neck, keeping her vision on the lad even as she works out her spinal kinks, "Okay. So, you're good at typing or something? Computers? Is that what I'm getting. Shit… Don't sell yourself to me or nothin', okay? Beggars don't bitch over nickels just because they ain't quarters. Just tell me what you can /actually/ do, slash are /actually/ good at."
"I am good at computers. Sort of. I dunno. I went to school awhile before the Bomb—" Unsure if inspiration has seized her at quite the level of conveniently detail-muddying derangement that he had originally thought had her, Rocket is left to lean in between a bunch of hanging hammers, cross his arms, and sort of pose while watching the girl doubtfully. It does no good to the pose, of course, that his doubt is largely and visibly self-directed. "I'm not awesome at computers, but… I dunno.
"I'd want to learn the keyboard," Rocket rounds off, desultorily. 'I'd,' as if he's asking permission to manifest the desire itself. "That would be groo— cool. I'erno. There isn't a lot of music around here. 'Specially not from kids. It would be cool t'— have more. I bet Brian would help. Y'know—
"The orphanage guy— Fulk— on the news, who got backing from Linderman?" He peels a hand out of the pretezeling of arms across his chest, and makes some kind of inscrutable gesture of fingers in the air which is probably supposed to indicate the size of the headline in inches. Or else, something truly unimaginable. "He's really cool. He likes helping out kids who don't have lots of stuff otherwise."
Sable's utterly unguarded expressions range across wide spectrums as Rocket speaks. First she looks like she's trying to look interested, then she just looks sort of bored, then she looks kinda vaguely hopeful, and then at the aborted anachronism she perks up, and spends the rest of the time looking like she wants Rocket to just hurry up so she can comment.
"Dude, were you gonna say 'groovy'?" Sable says, sounding like an evil older sister. She reaches out and tries to poke Rocket in the side while his arms are lifted, framing invisible typeface. "Fucking-a, you totally were. Oh my god, you're such a fucking throwback, sweet! What /bands/ do you listen to?" This is totally connected to the previous conversation, ohmygod she swears!
"S'me Beatles and th-the Cure," by which time Rocket has unfolded himself out of his tough guy (really) posture and is currently trying for something with better balance. He rubs at his stomach through the thin fabric of T-shirt, nails scuffing along parallel to the arcs of ribs that doubtlessly jut like the keyboards of discussion. "And um, stuff— radio stuff, Joel has this little handheldlike
"Hand-sized thing with an antennae we sometimes use like a sword." Ungainly silence sits squarely on his chest, imploding it, a sudden expungment of lungs just short of wheezing. "I should introduce you to Zuleyka," he says, wearily, fetching a glance at the clerk. Who seems to have buttoned her laughter up behind white lips, is listening and mmhmming on whoever has the other end of her line. "She's my friend. I think you'd really get along, and she'd probably have some fun hanging out with kids and instruments instead of old guys and guns all the frigging time."
"Old guys and guns, shiiiiiit," Sable says, crossing her arms for a moment and then, deciding that it's too hard with a stack of flyers in one hand, takes the papers in both hands and sets them on her head, holding them there and doubtless getting them even more wet. Like a great poet once said: oh well, whatever, nevermind. "That's precisely the fucking problem. Old guys and guns. And that's precisely the solution, kids and instruments. Okay, so you can use computers decent. And you admitted to liking, like, two bands that you probably knew I couldn't disapprove of even though anyone with a totally unshrivelled music organ likes the fucking Beatles and the fucking Cure, so really all I know is that you want to come off as having good taste which, shit," she shrugs, though this makes her bent arms and stuck out elbows flap like an ungainly da Vinci flying machine, "Is good enough for now. Okay… right. Well, I can't afford keyboards, but maybe if we talk to this Fulk guy or whatever, if he likes helping kids, he can use his big connections or whatever and hook us up with a fuckin' Yamaha or something and maybe, just maybe, I can show you something. Plus… wait… can Zul-whatever her name is play anything?" All this without pausing for breath. She's not a half bad vocalist, really!
Oh God the little girl is dissecting Rocket's behavior. He looks instantly scandalized, pinched, like someone had grasped the edges of his face and pulled it back really tight toward the back of his head. Not that this is the full blast of Sable's criticism, of course, and even he recognizes that amid his reddening fluster, just. Transparency inevitably comes when you're trying fffor. Opacity. His eyes dart up to the new roof she's furnished the top of her head with, and then back down to her face and the bizarre pair of eyes that make that their home.
"I haaave nnno idea." It's the question he decides to answer, suspecting that she had constructed one specifically so that he would have something to say. "I'll ask her. 'Nd Brian. They're around. D'you… hey." For whatever reason, his curiosity closer resembles prissy indignation. His eyebrows sink low enough below his curls to actually see. "What instrument do you play?"
"Guitar, 'course," Sable says, as if Rocket's question was insane, not unlike asking if she's a girl or a boy. Okay… maybe not the best example. Of course, how he'd know that is unclear. Her bearing? Do guitarists smell a certain way? She slips her hands behind her head, the flyers forming a ink smeared, rectangular halo behind her messy hair. "I also sing and write, though I dunno if I'm any good because I don't usually get to play anything I write," she gives a snort, "When you busque, you gotta do covers, shit people already know. So I /need/ a band," she reaches out to pokes Rocket again, this time in the chest, "I need /you/," she smirks, "Won't pay your college, but it's less likely to get you killed. Unless we're /really/ successful and get to join the twenty seven club."
The twenty seven what. "Yeah," Rocket says. Then, "The twenty seven what?" He is indeed casting an inquisitive eye down and up her body, as if expecting to find the tattoo of a great flaming axe jutting off one sinewy bicep, or exactly string-shaped calluses webbing the flats of her fingers, possibly some saucy slogan on her T-shirt declaring this specific niche talent with tremendous pride and deserving. Any option seems as likely as the next. Failing that, he bends his mouth into a wide grin, cluelessly enthusiastic. "Great," he says. "I'm kinda sick of getting killed."
"Shit, that's sorta Goth for your look," Sable says, arching a brow. She's talking about the 'getting killed' comment, though she tends to pass over logical bridges, her neurological mapping remaining foggy to the observer. She's just expecting people to be on board. "And, y'know… Kobain, Robert Johnson, Jimi Hendrix, like… I think… all the greatest greats who die when they're twenty seven. Shit, what I'd do to be part of that club, 'slong as I got to be as good as Hendrix."
Always one for immense social savvy, Rocket refrains from pointing out that being as good as Hendrix (even he knows Hendrix. Musician, right? —possibly also a guitarist…) is not exactly within the scope of speculation defined in Sable's advertisement, or the fact that she is appealing to him for participation. There's a few degrees of seesaw to his stance, side to side, his brow knit, the whole picture of him coming together to lend the illusion that he is thinking very serious penguin thoughts.
Or he's nervous. He ends up shaking his head, four or five times in rapid-fire succession, retracting his earlier statement or just his choice of words. "Nah, man. I used to be a river pirate, 's all. I mean, I guess I still am, but I'm kinda between captains. I've never died-died— but that happens sometimes 'round here, you know?" She lives here, it seems: she must. "Iuhh. I yeah. So… so what's the first step?"
"Get instruments. Wait, scratch that. Get /passion/," Sable insists, derailed from inquiring about the whole 'river pirate' thing by directing her attention to what she came in here for; the looks in her eyes suggests that she might well jump back to the topic, though, given half a chance, "Then get instrument. Then you play. Then, hopefully, someone hears you and you get paid."
Sable looks around, "Somewhere I can sit? We can sit? My dogs are fucking barking, y'know what I mean?"
Nnnnnoo? Rocket isn't about to admit to that, either, though. He casts about instead for a thing to sit on, brightens considerably when he spies the storage cabinet at the end of the store, between shelves full of other nameless and inscrutable building implements. Throwing the cashier a wave and motiony finger-pointy version of an explanation, he begins to lope down the cramped aisle. Reaching the furniture, he pats one long, knobby-knuckled hand on the flat top, rather like selling the little girl a pony ride.
"I can get passion," he says, after these and other distractions have been pushed away by the distance of the walk, and the quietude of clarity (except for the old AC unit they're now directly underneath— not too cold against Sable's skin, fortunately, but loud as fuck) has replaced the noise of more mundane mortal concerns. "I'm good at concentrating and listening and stuff, and you have to listen to get passionate about music, am I right?"
Sable hops up, not objecting to the improptu and improvised nature of the seating. Most things beat a damp curbside. Her legs dangle, swinging and banging her heels lightly against the metal, causing soft booms to set a beat to the AC's snarl. "Mmmm… yeah, I mean, I think I'll have to see you play to know. But you seem like a sort of… um…" she suddenly grins like a Jack-O-Lantern, "Sort of like John Linnel. But that's not bad. He's a hell of a writer. Just… y'know… in a certain style."
Evening has brought rain over Staten Island tonight, which means that the flyers that Sable had been frittering along the sidewalk outside the Ferry safehouse have gotten sodden and incomprehensibly runny with ink. There's a hardware store where we lay our scene. Upstairs, Ferrymen and refugees go quietly about their evening business in the apartment.
Below, we have the makings of greatness, or at least a kitschily nonconformist and heartfelt attempt thereof. They're at the back of the store, Rocket and the girl in the wet dress, the boy on his feet with a awkwardly earnest expression on his face, the latter sitting up on a dusty cabinet below the whining AC. There is nothing suspicious about the scenario whatsoever, unless you're worried about shoplifters, loiterers, dangerous mutants, or atrocious music. "I… don't know who that is," he admits, shuffling a curled forefinger through his curls. "Okay. And— you gotta meet Zu and Brian. They'll help us out."
Sable waves a hand in a perfect expression of 'dude, whatever, no biggy'. She grins at Rocket, head tilting almost ninety degrees, "Just point me in their direction. I've been a rotten bitch my whole life, saving up my good grace and manners for when it really matters. I'm sure I'll charm their eyebrows right the fuck off." Her fingers hook around the edge of the cabinet, gripping so that she can tip herself back, her torso now fully horizontal, drying hair hanging in a dark tangle down from her head as she looks up at the ceiling. "So, we've got a guitarist, a keyboardist… probably need a drummer unless we wanna do synth drums. Fucking drummers. Basket cases, especially if they're any good." She suddenly turns her head, looking up at Rocket. "Shit. What's your name?"
"I don't think Zuleyka swings that way," Rocket hastens to reply, with somewhat more haste than a simple share of mundane facts or concern for Sable's ego, given he just met Sable's ego, and already he realizes it would take more than one choke to fail. There's a beat's pause, then, paranoia etching in between the thin brown wisps of his eyebrows. "Oh, God. But maybe she do—" he's on the wrong subject, now, and even Rocket while Rocket is thinking about Zuleyka has enough presence of mind enough to tell that this is so and probably ought to be quelled post-haste.
He twists his mouth to the left, so far it almost disappears around the round curve of his cheek, forces that train of thought to clash to a halt with what feels like spine-popping Herculean effort. "Uhwha? Oh. Rocket," automatically, he pops a dry hand up to shake. "Rocket Tucker. It isn't a nickname." That disclaimer is served up just as promptly, thoughtlessly, as the clasp of fingers.
"Zuleyka certainly does not," says the little Iranian girl, with perfect feline self-possession. Rocket told her where he was going to be, and well, so here is she. Her concession to the swelter of summer in New York is army shorts rather than fatigue pants, a shortsleeved punk t-shirt. CinderEdmund is poking his head out of the black messenger bag she has draped over one shoulder, and making miniature Wookiee groans in complaint. He must have some hound in there somewhere, despite looking like a bar artist's impression of a chihuahua
Sable narrows her eyes at Rocket's aborted digression. This is something else she's tempted to follow up on, but Rocket again (intentionally or not) deftly manages to distract her back to her previous line of thought, the tangents bringing her again parallel to matters bandtastic. The name, his name, /not/ a nickname, causes Sable to swing back up into a sit, slanted grin revealing the sharp canines that hang on the left side of her mouth, "Fuckin'-A," she says, with absolute appreciation.
And then chibichewie's owner shows. Sable's attention, birdlike, hones in on the sound of astral fuzziness. There is momentary confusion, as Sable attributes the sound to the punked out girl and not the critter in her bag, and a tumble of impressions makes her brows, lips and eyes form a look of profound nonplussosity. Then some cerebral curcuits start talking and she reattributes the canine complaints to their proper source. Still, the question remains… "Whozzat?" An arm lifted, a finger pointing to indicate the mystery in question.
Rocket's change to good cheer is instant and obvious, even if he had been pretty happy about the prospect of this whole 'band' business. "Zuleyka," he says, popping his arm up more like a boom gate than any useful sort of pointer, given he's standing at the wrong angle to get the Iranian in line with his forefinger. "My friend. I think we were the oldest ones hanging out at the Lighthouse."
"Oldest of those who didn't truly work there, yeah," Zuzu agrees, offering a tentative wave and a smile. "I'm Zuzu, this here is Ed," she notes, lifting up the dog, while he's still in the bag. Not chancing the chihuahua thing getting free and running wild. "What's up?"
"I'm excited about when I don't have to introduce myself, 'stead people will come up and ask me 'Are you Sable?' and I'll be all, 'Yes, sorry, no autographs'." This tidbit the yellow eyed girl offers by way of introduction. Her absolute lack of any sort of ironic self deprecation means she either really thinks this and thinks it's cool to say, or really thinks this and understands its sort of dicky, and thinks that's funny. Either way, if this is her saved up charm and grace, one has to wonder what she's like when she's being tactless.
Sable thumbs at Rocket, "He's joining my band," she says, "Okay… so I guess more like /we're/ starting a band, since I don't really have a band yet, but," she lifts a brow, "That's why you need to join too. Whaddya play?" Not 'can you play'. That is not an option here!
Rocket and Sable may differ on that point, —though what else is new? What could you play seems like a better choice of words, in his perspective. You know, go easy on the commitment, lower expectations, no pressure. "'Sable?'" he repeats, dropping his arm down to his side. Rocket shifts his gaze between the girls, curiosity pursing unspent syllables on his lips. "I… that's a nickname, right? I mean, I thought that was some kind of animal people cut up for fur. Unless you're a vegan or something," he adds, blankly.
"It's also just an old term for the color black," Zu explains, shifting Ed to her other hip and making him whie in protest. "So, you wanna be a rock star?" Her tone, while humorous, isn't too condescending, really. "I can play the piano and the guitar," she notes, after thinking it over for a moment.
Sable lifts a hand to her ear, cupping and turning her head theatrically towards Zuleyka. "Did I hear you say you play piano and /rhythm/ guitar? I'm pretty darn sure that's what I heard you say," she looks to Rocket, "Back me up here?" She doesn't carry the game on too much longer, doesn't actually wait for Zu to answer. She thumbs at herself, "We got lead," the thumb turns on its side, now pointing in Rocket's general directions, "A keyboardist," the thumb rights itself, then ducks down, pushing out the index finger that now indicates Zu, "And a rhythm guitarist who is /also/ a tutor for our keyboardist." Her smile is a flash of teeth. "This might just work out, huh?" And now to Rocket's question, a much delayed flash of defensiveness. "Sable's what you'll fuckin' call me, and I'm pretty sure that's what a name is, huh?" The flash fades, and she wrinkles her nose, "My mother can call me the name she gave me. Only… wait," her hands angle to the sides, her elbows bent, a 'huh?' pose, "I don't see /her/ anywhere. So I guess Sable'll do."
Like marbles spun on inexplicably symmetrical axes, Rocket's eyes dart left, right, flick back at Sable in tandem with her little sarcastic show of vanity. He reddens faintly, not the blush of anything particularly existentially permanent like soul-crushing humiliation at the hands of a very small and stylishly belligerent girl, but some smaller, less lethal species of fluster. Something dangerously like laughter threatens behind his eyes with an absurd twinkle, despite that twinkling's for granddads or people capable of proper mischief.
"Okay," he says, putting his hands up in surrender of acquiescence. "Okay, Sable, I get it. Okay! So, Zule." He spins his curly head around to assess the girl, with a jig of his elbow at Sable, that is kind of like nudging her ribs to pay attention expect that they are of course standing too far apart; Rocket wouldn't dare. Remember? Remember, this is the chick who hangs out with old guys and guns instead of kids with instruments. "Are you in?"
"I'll give it a….sure, I'm in," Zu says, as if remembering the little green Jedi's adage about how there is no TRY. Edmund gives an approving whine, lunges one to try and get out of the bag.
Sable sidles over so that she forms the third point on a equilateral triangle. She crosses her arms, hands proffered to each of the other young folks. "Then let's fucking shake on it!" she declares, with undisguised glee. She sounds gloating, as if all her plotting had finally paid off and finally, finally, she had these two, the two she had always had in mind all along, within her grasp. This time, Gadget, THIS TIME!
Squished into the geographical minority by the size of his grin, Rocket's eyes are for a moment very tiny and very bright indeed. That proposal sounds good. He is going to be in a band with this crazy chick Sable, who is more likely clinically insane than a con-woman, and Zuleyka, whose dog still isn't big enough to set on him. That's cool. He's about to hold both their hands too, which is also pretty cool. "Okay." He crosses his arms over one another, sticks his left hand out to Zuleyka on his right, his right out to Sable on his left, round-knuckled fingers outstretched with expectation fanning obviously through their long contours.
It ends up looking like they should be singing Kum Ba Yah, as Zu links hands with each in turn, glancing between them a little skeptically.