A Little For A Lot


aurora_icon.gif jesus_icon.gif keira_icon.gif

Scene Title A Little For A Lot
Synopsis Keira gets a second opinion on her injuries.
Date May 20, 2018

Park Slope

There are whole streets of Park Slope that have been reclaimed by a savage garden, making travel treacherous and navigation difficult. By Keira's estimation, this is probably deliberate, an attempt to be off the grid while still on the grid, a segment of New York City given to the wilderness, with buildings that stay dark unless someone enterprising has wired them up with their own generator. The sounds of birds is abundant, particularly as the weather grows warmer, and sunlight comes in bright and clean from a clear sky.

Inside, sunlight creeps through the cracks in the walls, the broken open windows. From the outside, the townhouse had looked like a dilapidated ruin, overgrown with plantlife and crumbling at the edges; within, it doesn't strike Keira as dirty as it looked. Even with flowering vines creeping in through the walls, the glassless windows, the light fixtures in the ceiling, there's something kept about this place, like a garden, or a greenhouse. The floor is swept clean even as water stains the walls, and rotting furniture has been replaced by wrought-iron benches and tables.

Entering through the grand front door, Keira finds herself in an expansive living area, empty of residents. The staircase to the left doesn't look particularly safe, overgrown and broken in places, but she hears creaking from the floor above anyway.

Getting about is not easy for Keira, these days. With the metal leg brace and the cane, she moves slow, and the pain combined with the pain pills doesn't help the sluggish pace at which she moves. This will not do — she refuses to live like this. One eye is one thing, but being a cripple…it's not the life for her. She's not the brave, overcome disability type — she'll pass on learning to live with it.

Which is why she struggles her way up the front stairs and into the townhouse — and she does so on her own. She had a few of her men escort her up to this point, but she's going it alone now. She pauses within, glancing about at her surroundings and taking stock. There's a gun at her hip, just in case — but hopefully, she won't need it.

The creaking of the ceiling prompts her blue eye to raise up, then to turn toward the stairs. Those don't look safe, and they don't look like they'll be a fun thing for her to tackle…but she'll do it. At her fastest speed (which is unfortunately quite sluggish), she makes her way up the stairs, leaning heavily on the bannisters and her cane as she goes — she goes carefully, too, using that cane to test where she puts her feet on the way up.

Upstairs, it's even brighter, half the roof stripped back, a canopy of vines letting shafts of sunlight through. The hallway is skinny, with closed doors on either side, but the one at the end is flung open, and a figure steps into view. Skirt and jacket, heels and big hair, red nails and red lips, she peers out at Keira, and gives a bright smile.

Not to Keira, but to someone else behind her, "Told you I saw a bitch with a cane." Where at first glance, all that makeup and hair seemed older, the voice that comes out is that of a young 20-year-old.

Word choice aside, there's nothing unfriendly to her voice, and she crooks a finger to invite Keira into the room. It's a large one, loft-like, the wall crumbled to the outer world to expose a balcony, on which lounges a young man, smoking a cigarette. His black hair is in dreadlocks, gathered into a ponytail, his clothing casual but well-made, clean, expensive. He doesn't look over, continuing to contemplate— well, not a view, per se, trees making an obscuring wall around their little neighbourhood, but it's pretty enough.

There are places to sit. Outdoor furniture, like below. A granite bird bath, dry, appropriated as a place to deposit cigarette butts.

Neither of them look like they live here. Or even on Staten Island, where the name 'Jesus' was first collected.

The woman moves to circle her with a click of her heels, although up close, Keira can only make a safe bet with regards to gender. Her hair is stiff and styled, worn straight, and makeup obscures things like skin tone and age, all glamour and illusion. "Do you mind if I get friendly?" she asks, hands flat and splayed to communicate an imminent pat down. "I just wanna make sure your stick's the only weapon you're packing. The ink is dope as hell, by the way."

Well, at least they're cool with smoking. Limping into the room, Keira pulls out her own pack of cigarettes, tapping one out and placing it in the corner of her mouth. Another moment is spent locating the expensive zippo in her pocket, and then she is lighting it up, blue eye glancing between the woman and the young man with a thoughtful look on her face.

The request to pat her down prompts a nod, and she raises her arms. "So you're not surprised, gun's on my hip. Feel free to take it, s'long as you ain't plannin' anything. Boys outside won't take too kindly to any funny business." A simple warning — she doesn't want any trouble, but there will be trouble if they look for it. As to the ink, she smirks. "Thanks."

"If you touch me, I might turn into you for a second or two." If big hair makes skin-to-skin contact, Keira is not negated. She's drugged enough that it shouldn't hurt too bad, and Big Hair isn't too big for her brace — perhaps a bit tall, but otherwise fine. The blue eye that is not covered by the patch turns toward the man, even as she places the cigarette at the corner of her mouth so she can be better patted down.

"No plans, just a party."

Shit, though. Big Hair curls her lip in exaggerated yikes, and decides to go careful, pat-patting along Keira's clothed body, sliding the gun out of its holster with delicate fingers. The brace is inspected but not removed, as if decided that if Keira had gone to the trouble of smuggling something in there, then both she and the man at the balcony can probably handle themselves against a cripple. The gun is slid into a pocket, winking one set of false eyelashes once the search is done.

The man turns his head enough to see get them both in his periphery. "I wanna see the money," he says, too casual and simply stated to come across as demanding. He adds, "If you don't mind. You can give it to Aurora."

One skeptical eye is turned toward the man, brow raising slightly. After a moment, she pulls out a wad of cash from her back pocket, folded and held together by a clip. It's all there, and it's summarily tossed to Aurora, eye hooding. "If you try t'fuck me over, my boys have this place surrounded," she murmurs, never having been one to fully trust strangers. You know how the crime world goes — usually everyone is trying to fuck everyone, one way or another.

Again, the implication hangs there — she really wants this transaction to go smoothly, and so long as they hold up their end up the bargain, she'll hold up hers. So distrustful. "Hope you can fix me, for this price," she grumbles. The price isn't really that bad — not to her, at least. But then, she's also a penny pincher who really likes money, and the power that it can bring.

She glances to Aurora, then to the man. "What next?"

"All this talk of boys," Aurora says, wandering away from her. "Promises, promises."

She flicks through bank notes with the edge of her thumb, practiced and efficient, before that disappears too down the front of her shirt. The man twists enough to make eye contact as she counts, and they share a look. He pitches his cigarette over the edge of the balcony as Aurora grips the edge of a chair, dragging it out to angle, and tips her head to suggest Keira take a seat.

Then, she walks away, disappearing through a door.

"I ain't fucking you," Jesus says. At second glance, he doesn't seem much older than Aurora — maybe a couple of years, maybe none. He also doesn't look like much, more wiry strength than bulk, a few inches shorter than his associate, and he moves to sit down on a chair opposite to the one Aurora set out. "Money is blood. The nature of its design is to move. Change hands. Keep the whole thing alive." He tilts a look down at the leg she has trapped in the brace, then back up to her eyepatch.

The click of heels returns, and Aurora a moment later, holding a small leather briefcase. She sets it down on a table, opening it, its contents not quite visible from Keira's vantage point. "You're a smart woman," Jesus is saying. "You know what you're worth."

Suspiciously, Keira eyes Aurora as she pulls out the chair and walks out. After a moment, the tiny gangster limps over to the chair and seats herself, loosening the brace a bit as she does so to make the action more comfortable. This thing hurts almost as much as her back does when she doesn't adjust it properly. She's adapted, sure enough, but she has hated every last second of it.

The blue eye trails over the briefcase, while her left eyebrow raises over the patch. Curiousity mixes with distrust, and while she tries not to make it too obvious, she strains a bit to see the contents. But then, Jesus is talking, and her eye snaps to his face, memorizing the details.

"I just hate bein' infirm, that's all." She frowns, leaning back in the chair. "Which is rather obviously why I'm sittin' here."

Jesus tips his head — fair enough — and says, "So what's wrong with you."

Other details include: a nose ring, the designer sunglasses hanging off his shirt collar, and the second set of sleeves embracing his forearms. Now, he removes one, and Keira can note the evidence of needle marks where his dark skin blushes a little lighter along the inside of his arm. "Specifically," he adds.

"Not in general," Aurora pipes up, peeling off the plastic from the syringe she's extracted from the briefcase, and adds, with a dazzling smile, "J.K."

"Got my back snapped and my eye ripped out." Keira eyes the needle quietly, then turns her eyes back to Jesus. "More specifically, doctors said I had a nasty fracture of L3 and L4. My left leg's completely numb," she gestures to the braced leg. "My back hurts like a motherfucker all the time unless I take drugs, and my left eye got squished somewhere on Staten Island." She frowns. "I enjoy opiates as much as the next person, but I'm not too fond of needing them."

She peers at the needle marks, then at the needle. Blood. That's probably it. The thought makes her a little bit squeamish, but she'll deal with it if it maybe fixes her back and leg.

Medical equipment is extracted, laid out, prepared, all between glue-on nails by someone who has clearly done this many times before. Aurora listens, curiousity transparent, but otherwise businesslike. A glance will tell Keira that the money has been most thoroughly stowed away, but as a result, neither are fucking around in getting this transaction complete.

Jesus nods to himself as Keira talks, then, to Aurora, "2 ccs, tops. A little goes a long way with nerve shit. That eye, though," he adds, relaxing back, and offering out his arm to Aurora. She ducks down, swabbing a spot on his arm, a glittery and proficient nurse in the moment. "Maybe if you like what we do, we can see about getting you a new one."

"Get it," Aurora says, and gives an exaggerated wink. "We can see about getting you a new eye."


"I'm fucking hilarious," is whispered as she lays the needle point down against dark skin. "Sorry about it."

Okay. That one was a little bit amusing. Keira always was fond of a good pun. Despite herself, a smile tugs at the corners of her mouth, though she mostly manages to keep her cool. The blue eye watches the process, head tilting to one side as curiousity and fascination take over — she still doesn't trust these people, but Nurse Big Hair has a disarming enough bedside manner that she's relaxing a little bit.

So long as she gets what she's paying for, she'll certainly look into doing business with them in the future. "I certainly hope that's the case," she replies, leaning back a bit in her seat, shifting to be a little bit more comfortable. Even with the opiates (which are beginning to slowly wear off), there's something unsettling about having a dead leg — the lack of feeling is extremely uncomfortable on its own. "I always like establishing good business relationships."

She watches Aurora thoughtfully. "I thought it was a good pun."

Aurora, focusing on her task, only grins broadly where Keira can see as she slowly, carefully, draws dark, dark blood from Jesus's arm. Silence wraps around them until the needle is slipped from skin, Aurora rising to her feet as she moves to get rid of the needle, syringe kept full. "White dad humour's my forte," she says, now that her concentration is freed up. "Apparently. I leave the stand-up comedy to my sisters."

His part done, Jesus swipes a thumb along the tiny puncture wound where blood has begun to well. Blood ceases, but the mark remains, as if already partially healed. "You deserve it?" he asks, like he's tuned out of Aurora's commentary. "The shit that went down with you."

Needle replaced, which seems like an excessive amount of caution given that still warm blood is moving from one human to the other — but hey, it's good practice — Aurora moves towards where Keira is sitting, dragging a chair with. She holds out a hand, fingers making a gimme gesture. For her arm, presumably.

"My friend growin' up had a dad who was great at white dad humor. It gave me a healthy appreciation." The shapeshifter smirks, watching the entire process.

Jesus' question prompts a thoughtful look to cross the tattooed woman's angular face. "In my own way, I deserved th'eye, I think," she replies. "I don't feel like I deserved havin' my back snapped. But I feel justified in th'actions that led me to these consequences, I think. Was trying to write my own personal redemption story arc, or somethin' like that." She shrugs — he's taken her money and the process is going through, so it probably is more him being curious than any attempt at taking a moral high ground.

She turns her eye to Aurora as she seats herself, and holds her arm out. "Don't forget, skin t'skin contact might be creepy for you." She's squirming on the inside, but she's also quite desperate — she puts on a strong mask for the world to see, but she doesn't really want to live like this.

"Is it weird if I kind of wanna just do it though," Aurora asks of Keira, lowly, eyes narrowing, before she gets back up to, you know, find a way to mitigate that.

From his side of things, Jesus finally smiles a little at the antics from his associate, the way they clash up against the little tough as nails criminal sitting opposite him. "The only person's gonna write your story is you," he says, agreeably. "Eye patch pretty badass. Maybe you should keep it."

"Unless you love driving," Aurora adds, sitting back down. Sharp nails means that gloves are out of the question, but she uses a few loose bandages to make a barrier between skin to skin contact. "Operating heavy machinery. Bowling. Winking." As efficient and careful as she was with Jesus, Aurora sets about with the injection. "It's gonna sting a little," she says, as she goes about it.

"Then it's gonna take a half hour before you really feel it," Jesus says. "But you can chill if you want to. If the boys don't mind."

"Not weird at all," is Keira's response, watching Aurora with a faint smile playing over her lips. "Reactions range from horrified to amazed. Though it hurts a little bit right now." The shifting of size and weight doesn't help with the back pain in the slightest.

"I kinda don't mind being one-eyed. Depth perception's a little off, but at least it's my aimin' eye." She taps the eye patch. "Though it's an unfortunately distinguishing feature." The eye doesn't come back when she shifts, and it's much easier to find a one-eyed person with a different face than a normal person with a different face. "Hopefully I like doin' business with you fine folks, and I can continue to give you money, and probably refer you plenty of business that m'sure would be willin' to compensate you accordingly."

She smirks at Aurora, hardly flinching at the injection. The opiods help that part a little bit. "In favor of the eye patch, I never was good at bowling, and I fancy myself a strong independent woman who don't need no man, so winking doesn't happen too often." She pauses. "And makeup is so much less complicated with one eye."

"Boys won't mind. Told 'em to give me an hour, so there's time." She settles in once Aurora's done, intent on making sure her money was well spent. One can never be too careful.

She pulls out the cigarette pack again, producing a nicely rolled blunt. Because she regularly carries around peace offerings. "Care to partake?" She'll only light up if they're interested, because she's also polite. Or something like that.

"Holy cunting shit," Aurora says, laughing, as she draws the needle out. "You'd never have to give a fuck about being symmetrical ever. You're a genius." Her part now also over, she sets about cleaning down, tossing the sharp parts, stowing the used syringe for some likely more complicated destruction arrangement.

Jesus half-smiles and then nods once to the offer, having let his gaze wander towards Aurora before Keira made her offer — of partaking. Offer of business had been listened to in a friendly kind of silence, and it's on that topic that he speaks, rather than only nods. "You refer on the people you feel are worth it. Worth the money, worth the trust. You do that," and he holds out a hand for the joint that Keira's stoked to ember, "you're cool."

The sting that grew where the needle kissed her skin fades over the next few minutes, replaced with a dull ache in her back that last the rest of her time in the townhouse in Park Slope, a strange pulsing warmth shooting lightning down her leg, oddly unpainful for all that it seemed like it should have hurt.

Maybe it's the weed, or the Stoli that Aurora offers midway through, or the imminent sense of satisfaction at the prospect of walking her way out of here with more ease than with what she walked in.

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