Frenemies 4ever


ethan_icon.gif sacha_icon.gif

Scene Title Frenemies 4ever
Synopsis Sacha learns never to be curious, ever.
Date February 10, 2009

The Rookery

After the bomb, Staten Island grew to become a haven for undesirables. If the Island is their home, then the Rookery is their playplace. Equal parts gritty and decadent, it boasts dark alleys, bright lights, and every pleasure that one could imagine. Provided you know where to ask, of course.

Some areas have fared better than the rest of the island; some have fared far worse. For each well-tended brothel or gaming house, there's at least one creaky, crumbling structure left over from the days of pre-bomb suburban glory.

The population is considered universally distasteful, even by much of the rest of Staten Island. Criminals, refugees, victims of radiation poisoning… Those who have nowhere else to go often end up here. The most common method of getting out is to have your body dropped in the river, followed closely by being left wherever it is you got killed.

Good luck.

The thing is, Sacha isn't really the sort of person who draws attention to himself. Hanging out in unsavory places, he does know better than to get people to notice him. But the boy has such a penchant for mingling with the huddled masses, and as noticed the other day, this does tend to get him into trouble.

Anyway, he isn't walking around with a CAMERA or anything. Mostly, he's skulking around buildings and looking around, curious like a tiny, frenemy kitten. Plus nobody has any reason to notice him, it isn't like he knows anybody here.

As Sacha nears a corner, a certain special someone is lingering around it, his shoulder resting against the wall. The Wolf is leaning casually, his arms folded over his chest, his hand at his mouth holding a cigarette. Little puffs are let out, mostly the man seems to be minding his own business. But those who know Ethan, know he is never minding his own business.

"«All dressed up with nowhere to go.»" Comes the French from behind the corner. Somehow it seemed like the man was waiting for Sacha. "«Do you speak English, or do you enjoy being hated by the american population?»" The man asks, eyes hidden behind a dark pair of aviators. He seems as calm and as casual as ever.

Sacha stiffens as he hears the voice, his shoulders raising a bit, hands in his jacket pockets balling into fists. Eyes widen, the whole fight-or-flight response package. However, he suppresses it, and turns to look at Ethan with a bit of a glare. He glances around the area a moment and steps sideways around the corner, walking to stand against a wall across from the Wolf. Standing against it, though he doesn't lean. Too relaxed, that.
"«If you are asking if I am able to speak English, the answer is yes.»" He suspects that the question was deliberately worded, though. "«I do not waste the effort when it isn't necessary. Do you have something to say to me?»"

The eyes behind the glasses study the man and finally a thinly veiled smirk tugs at his lips. "You like money." It's a half question-half statement. "If you want to make some of it, you can follow me down this scary dimly-lit alley. Or you can wake up in a ditch, dead." It sounds like it could be a joke, maybe. Ethan goes to shove off of the corner, turning his back on the man. He starts to make his way down said alley, whether or not Sacha follows him.

An eyebrow is raised at that comment. "«Who doesn't?»" He looks at Ethan quizzically, shrugs. Apparently, he doesn't think the effort to speak English is required, though he doesn't object to the Wolf's use of it. The ultimatum is taken with a somewhat less amused posture, however, and France looks around the alley and bites his lip, finally letting out an exasperated sigh and trotting a bit to catch up with Ethan. "When you put it that way, how can I refuse?" Okay, a little slip of the language.

"Whot's your name, girl?" Ethan asks as he walks, bringing up his hand to tug the cigarette away from his mouth. Letting out a long puff, he puts it back where it belongs. "Ah, doesn't really matter. Whot does matter, is my name. Ethan Holden." A little glance is cast over to Sacha, before he looks straight ahead again. "I want you to use that name as much as you fuckin' can, go' it? Five 'undred American dollars for you to do what you little 'ens do best." Another puff.


Sacha slows his gait for a moment, frowning. "«I'm not sure—»" He shakes his head, starts again. "I think maybe that you have me mistaken for somebody else." He speeds up again assuming that Ethan doesn't slow to match his own slowing, and continues. "For one thing, I am not a woman." He's aware that Ethan knows that, of course, but does have to point it out as a matter of pride. He also decides not to offer his own name up, given the protest. "In any case, I believe that you do not know who I am. I think maybe you are assuming things that are not true. I do not mean to say bad things about yourself, but I am not a chicken. I do not. … What is the word gossip?"

Then Ethan slows to a stop, slowly going to turn and face Sacha. A slow stream of smoke is exhaled into Sacha's face, quite rudely. "«Gossip.»" He repeats, albeit in a different language. He looks the man up and down. "You are a woman." He insists. A little grin pulling up on his lips. "Now let's cut the shit about the semantics and get down to it. Do you want me to 'elp you, or not?" He asks, tilting his head in exasperation as if waiting impatiently for the man, as if he was the one approached rather than the other way around.

Sacha narrows his eyes as he gets a faceful of smoke, but nonetheless, doesn't particularly react. He did grow up in Paris, after all, cigarette smoke is practically his native atmosphere. The 'gossip' translation is mentally filed somewhere in the subconscious bits of his mind that fail to take into account the Matter At Hand, and Sacha looks up at Ethan with that same defiant expression. "«I am /not/ a woman, and I don't get why you keep saying I am.»" He shakes his head dismissively, though, and removes a hand from his pocket long enough to run it through his hair with exasperation. "You were the one who was asking me for help. Unless if this is another one of your threats."

"Are you going to be an idiot all day?" Ethan asks, boredly. "Five 'undred American dollars. And if you prove not to be a complete idiot there may be work for you in the future. So, 'ows bout it my little puff? Do you want the work or not?" The man take a deep breath on his cigarette as he watches the man through his glasses.

Lowering his head, Sacha pinches the bridge of his nose, frowning. He grits his teeth for a moment, and finally replies, "«If I was an idiot, I would have thrown a punch just then.»" With a long, exasperated sigh, he continues. "You are wanting me to advertise your name. What I am saying is that I do not in general associate with the sort of people who I am imagining would be people who you would want to know your name." There is a pause, there, as he runs that sentence through his head. Probably could have made it shorter. "During the days I work at a store that caters to people with money and during the evenings I am at clubs or at home. I know what you are asking for, it is that— «I don't mingle with what I figure is your target audience.»"

There is a long exasperated sigh, as the man takes the cigarette out of his mouth. It is flicked casually to the side. "I know whot you are. I know 'oo you associate wit'. That's why you're going to do this for me." Ethan informs roughly. "I want you to wander around, get into conversations wit' people. Tell 'em Ethan 'olden beat you up, looking for people fished out of the water after the explosion. Find the biggest, beefiest boys you can 'round 'ere, and tell 'em Ethan 'olden 'as been beatin' the shit out of some boys you know for information. That 'e's been raising 'ell."

"Five 'undred now, and five 'undred when you do a satisfactory job of it. A grand, to change your fuckin' associations for a few days." Ethan rumbles, watching the man.

Running a hand over his hair, Sacha shakes his head for a moment. "«I had you pegged more for an arms dealer.»" He scratches the back of his neck and ultimately shrugs. "'Whatever'." The quotemarks are audible. "I do not really understand why you want me to be saying this to «a bunch of fags and queens», since that is what you seem to think that is who I spend my free time with. There are websites that are cheaper, so I assume this is not an alternative-living match-making service that you are asking me for." He shakes his head, putting his hands back in his pockets. It probably says something about him that that's a phrase he actually does know in English. "If it does change anything, I am not a homosexual, and I do not visit gay bars. Let us be clear on that. I would not want to spread your message to an inappropriate clientele."

"Girl. You are getting close to making me impatient, love. I want you to 'ang around 'ere. In Staten fucking Island. In this area. And spread my name, say I've been lookin' for people fished out of the 'udson. Say I'm raisin' 'ell, say I'm dropping a lot of money to find out about missing persons. Am I clear enough, yet?" The Brit asks, going to take his sunglasses off slowly. "If you don't understand this time, I'm just going to kick the shit out of you."

Face flushing, Sacha takes a step back, once again removing that hand to run over his hair. Nervous habit. "…You had not made that part clear," he replies. "After tonight, I do not have a place to stay on the island. Do you plan to provide me a place to stay so that I can do this?" He cocks his head, raising an eyebrow. "I suppose that you do plan to continue calling me a girl. «Do you just think I'm pretty and figure it makes you feel better to pretend a girl so that you don't have to admit you like guys?»" A smirk, at that, and again the hands go in the pockets.

"«Right, I get it. I have a hard time with actual discussions in English, if I knew you weren't going to be superficial, I would've said so. My friend's /husband/ gets back tomorrow afternoon, so I'll need a place to stay if you want me to hang around past then.»"

Giving a little sigh, Ethan tilts his head at the man. "I'm giving you a thousand dollars, you cunt. Find a fucking place." The man responds with a little irritation in his voice. At his last words the man looks up for a moment. Dealing with people who don't know your reputation, can be very tiring indeed. How did he ever live back in the day before building a reputation? It's not a huge bother, just a minor annoyance. Not something that needed to be dealt with really. It's not like he ran around hitting, or shooting people willy nilly. "Can you 'old these please?" The aviators are offered up to the other man.

And as soon as the glasses change hands, the now free hands of Holden are grabbing the man by the shirt. Bringing him forward the attack is most commonly called a headbutt. Ethan's forehead colliding //powerfully/ with Sacha's face, the attack is supplemented by a downward shove of the hands. Once the man is down on the ground where he belongs, Ethan reaches for his back pocket. Pulling out a black wallet. "Give me your wallet."

Really, if he'd thought about it for a second longer, Sacha would have suspected something when offered the sunglasses - but spend a couple years selling jewelry and holding things for people becomes second nature. So, holding the glasses, he starts to protest — and then just looks at the Wolf as his shirt is grabbed, and—

—lets out a shriek of pain as the headbutt meets his face. A window shatters nearby, though that's obviously a coincidence. Throwing the glasses as he collapses to the ground, Sacha holds a hand to his nose, shrieking, "My nose! My fucking—" Blood drips on the ground, and he looks — entirely ill-equipped to deal with this particular injury. He does, however, hurriedly pull his scarf off from around his neck, holding it up to the bleeding extremity. "That was my fucking nose, you Cockney piece of shit!" He does stay on the ground, though — hands and knees, even, though only one hand is on the ground, while the other keeps the scarf held up to his face. "Everyone wants my fucking wallet this week, what the hell is it— THAT'S WHERE I KNEW THAT GUY FROM. Jesus Christ!" He ultimately pushes himself up to his knees, digging in his pocket with his free hand, and throwing his wallet to Ethan's feet. "Shit, you want my wallet, take my fucking wallet, fucking.. keep your money, I don't even want it, fuck. Fucking.. fuck you!"

Swearing in English would seem to be where Sacha is a linguistic viking.

"Tha' language is quite unbecoming of a lady." Ethan murmurs softly bending to take the wallet. The wallet is opened, and sorted through. No ID. Just a credit card. "Sacha Rousseau. Certainly shouldn't be 'ard to find you, eh lovely? So you do what I ask, and we can be good friends, alright? Now listen, girl, you want to be my friend. I'm no arms dealer. Unless you mean actually cutting off arms and that type of thing. I suppose I could do tha'." From his own wallet, five hundred dollars in cash is removed then placed into the second wallet which is casually flung back at Sacha. "Don't fuck this up and I can better jobs for you, 'igher pay. Easier for you to woo the boys, innit?" A pair of twenties are taken out which are dropped in front of him. "Get your nose looked at you fuckin' puff." With that, the man makes his way away from the bleeding boygirl.

When the wallet is tossed back at him, Sacha scrabbles at the ground for it before grabbing it and returning it to his pocket. Somewhat relieved to get it back - it's FANCY after all. And foreign. Hard to replace. Either way, he just stares at Ethan as he goes on talking as if nothing had happened, shakes his head and replies, "I will do this thing for you, but when I am done I am done with this.. this /fucking/ Island." He spits the curse out as he pushes himself to his feet, gently dabbing at his face with his now rather stained scarf.

"I do not need your jobs, have your friend do them. The old one whose number you gave me." Shaking his head a bit, he thinks a moment, and adds, "I would not fuck him, either, you can tell him that!"

February 10th: Fe-Fe
February 10th: A Courteous Lowlife
Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License