Participants:
| Scene Title | For Good Reason |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Three people regroup after things get shaken up. Some questions are asked, some are answered, but at least one kills the conversation dead. |
| Date | August 15, 2009 |
Anarchy Customs - Hangout
Dark wood flooring is illuminated by dome-cage lighting set liberally in the ceiling overhead. This room is simply furnished - a stout rectangular table in the center of the room, flanked by deep, plush leather sofas shoved up to the walls at either side. The northern quadrant of the room is set with a personal mini-bar; namely a fridge full of beer, a shelf of hard liquors, and a cabinet set with a large padlock above it. The walls are covered with large mirrors, the reflective areas surrounded by sketches as well as snapshots of completed tattoos. In one corner, well out of the way, there is a bench complete with tattooing equipment.
The southern portion of the room, however, is set with an opening in the floor, supported by a black-iron staircase that offers passage into the greasy garage bellow. The same staircase also leads upwards to a hatch door into the last, upper floor of this building.
Elecrticity crackles off his fingers.
The Crucible convulses in the water, electricity completely consuming him in the wrath of earth shattering. Norman killed him. It wasn't his fault. It was Norman. Not him. Not him. He didn't kill him.
"His name is Norman White." Comes the deep voice from the man set up on one of the sofa's. "If you didn't hear me screamin' it." The former superstar explains, curling the towel around him tightly. He wears a towel and the rags left of his jumpsuit around his legs.
He closes his eyes taking a stabilizing breath. Was it his fault? The fear of being guilty for murder once again stings deep. Maybe if he wouldn't have yelled…
"He's insane. Got me mixed up with that foolishness. He- He thinks there's some type of sickness. I.." The rapper shakes his head. "I couldn't follow him. I didn't put much stock in him, just figuring he was harmless." He sighs softly.
"I was wrong."
"Not gonna argue about the insanity," Agnes mutters as she returns from the fridge with three beers. Probably more a night for hard liquor, but she knows beer better. Two of the drinks are set down on the table, for those that want them, while she takes the third for herself, cracking it open. She's been rather quiet up until now, trying to process things herself, and she falls heavily into a seat, her legs still like jelly after the adrenaline has worn off. "Wrong. Yeah," she agrees, albeit without ire. "Fuck, that was…" Se trails off, shaking her head. "But I dunno if anyone's really ever harmless. You … couldn't have known." She aims for reassuring, though there's a slight lift to the end of the statement, making it almost a question. Could he have known? But then, what could he have done? She's pretty sure it's not his fault, but then, she's not entirely sure what exactly happened, which makes it harder to figure out where to lay the blame.
The two left in the hangout have an acceptable amount of anxiety to keep Gillian from heading out, or seeking more interesting company. There's nights she'd rather spend alone than in the presense of people who don't feel fear. But Staten Island has a lot of fear— as shown tonight. "Sounded insane, looked insane. Like one of those Homeless Vets you'd see crashing in alleys talking to themselves," she says with a hint of a smile.
Still, her eyes stay on the man's hands, the electricity. There's a memory, of a time not too long ago, that gets brought up. She doesn't speak on it. Not yet. "You know what the crazy fucker wants? That woman who was yelling at him— I saw flashes of her when you lit up— she was scared. More than you, even. Probably cause he was bringing the whole fucking place down on us. And cause people were running in panic, too. That's never fucking good for your health."
"What he wants.." Shard mutters plainly. What all insane people want. Other people to follow their idiotic ideas. But this lunatic has considerably more power than most other lunatics. He clasps his hands together, lightning dancing around the linking. He shakes his head slowly, "It doesn't matter." He murmurs his eyes watching the lightning dancing around his fingertips. "Doesn't matter what he wants anymore. He's given up the right to pursue happiness when he took it away from that kid." And so many others.
His eyes slowly come up to lock onto Agnes and then Gillian. "What matters is.." Lighting plays along his hands, jumping in front of his face, giving him an odd illumination. "I have to stop him." He presses his hands to his lips. He's going to need help. Lots of it.
He glances to Agnes. "I'm sorry, I didn't even get your names, ladies. My name is Vincent King. Most people call me Shard." Yeah, that Shard.
Agnes just listens to the others speak for a moment, her gaze flickering between them, before fixing for a beat or two on the electricity that dances around Shard's hands. "Agnes," she replies in introduction, face moving before her eyes tear themselves reluctantly away from the light show in order to actually look at the man. "Aggie. Though, uh, some call me Kitty," she adds as it occurs to her. There's a pause as she takes another swig of her beer. "Stopping him, that - that sounds like a good idea. Before he takes out the whole island," she mutters, frowning pensively down into the bottle.
"Well I think it matters if he's going to go around tearing buildings down and killing people," Gillian says, leaning a little closer to Agnes, and breathing in, almost as if trying to sample someone's perfume. To her, it is a kind of perfume. "And it helps to take people out if you know what they want." She doesn't seem nearly as afraid as she should be, like her fear-triggers have been turned off. The adrenaline of the moment isn't wasting her away either. If anything she might be a little antsy. Like she wants to get up and do something, but stays seated. The only thing she'd want to do with what's building up in her is break something. But she can hold it in, too.
"My name is…" There's a hesitation, as if she's trying to decide whether to give a real one, or if she's forgotten her name. Not likely to be that case, but she side tracks. "So you're the dude who disappeared, are you? Abducted by aliens, I remember reading in one magazine. Another said you were in drug rehab, or some shit. So what really happened?"
Is she not going to give her name? "And you can call me Gillian if you want."
"It's called Moab. Ever heard of it? They put a prison in there. For the Evolved."
"A lot of people were put in prison there. A lot of people didn't commit crimes to merit such a punishment. A lot did. Norman.." He was one of those in the second category. "Can you guess which one he is?" He murmurs, clenching his fist. The electricity dies down.
"Nice to meet you Gillian, Aggie." Vincent murmurs. "You can call me Vince. Vincent. King. Whatever you'd like." He offers, waving a hand as if offering their choise on his palm. He leans back, letting out a little sigh.
"I guess I need a plan."
"Yeah, nice to meet you both. Well, maybe not nice, considering the circumstances, but…" Agnes manages a wry smirk with that, though it lacks a real spark to it, and fizzles out quickly to be drowned in another swig of beer. "I, uh… Yeah, I think you're gonna need a plan, if you're going to stop someone like that." Her eyebrows lift a little as she considers the sheer challenge of that duty. "And I gotta agree: knowing what he wants might make it easier to plan, maybe? Even if he just wants to go around tearing down old buildings. But you said something about a sickness?" She asks as if she's not quite sure she wants to know, but can't quite help herself.
"Shit," Gillian says at the mention of Moab, leaning back where she's sitting instead of trying to sniff at Agnes. There's something rather… knowledgable about her look, as she focuses most of her attention on the ex-rapper and wanted fugitive. Who's still a bit sparky. "So you're one of the ones that got tossed out of Moab. And so's he. Guessing you were locked up cause you were dangerous, and he was locked up cause he was dangerous. The murderous bastard kind of dangerous. Where as you…" She hesitates a moment, then leans forward.
"The asshole you were fighting, the guy with the fucking awesome tattoo— he used electricity. Now you're sparking all over the place. But before you went all 'bzzzt'… I saw you land a good punch on him with no 'bzzzt' necessary." There's that look in her eyes. "And he was still all 'bzzzt' up until he went squish, so you didn't steal his power, but if I'm right you might've absorbed it at least. Mimiced it." There's many reasons she thinks this is possible… mostly because up until she was created, she had mimiced abilities. A whole dozen or more. Including the one she'd been created with, and the one she currently possesses.
"I was put into Moab for good reason." Shard explains. Those reasons are tattooed along his left arm. Jason Williams. Katrina Williams. He watches Agnes for a moment, before nodding. Then he looks back to Gillian. He frowns lightly as she speaks, before going to step up.
"I don't want to be rude. But I think I'm going to step out and get some air." Shard says in response to questions and statement that he is not so inclined to answer. And so he hikes the blanket up and starts a march for the door.
Agnes isn't too terribly hard to read, and as Shard mentions good reason for him being locked up, her wariness and curiosity and pretty much right there for all to see. He certainly doesn't seem like he needs to be locked away, but then there's that idea of what he could do, and Gillian's guessing about his ability isn't helping with that worry any. "Sure, yeah." She watches as he begins to head for the door, and then glances sidelong to Gillian, offering a bit of a shrug. "I should … lie in bed and stare at the wall and try to sleep," she mutters, as she tips back the rest of her drink. Maybe this will make more sense in the morning, because right now, she's clearly a bit lost.
Well, fuck. Gillian watches him go, no plan, no answers, just a guy who said he had a good reason to get put away. A guy who refused to kill even a jerkweed in the ring who was damn deteremined to kill him. "Free part of the city. Enjoy your air. I'll be in here when you get back, though," she adds in an almost sing-song raspy style tone, even waving her fingers in the air behind him. He won't get away as long as he comes back in. Course that could make him run off, but she's still a little cocky. And Aggies fear isn't helping with that. "Sleep well, Aggie-dear," she adds in a too familiar farewell, as she moves to find a place to settle in that's more comfortable than the floor.