Harshing The Zen


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Scene Title Harshing the Zen
Synopsis Monica is just trying to do some yoga! But Mynama has to get all bent out of shape because they're in prison. Sheesh.
Date November 09, 2010

An Undisclosed Location

Bars, concrete walls and some cots.

What she wouldn't give for a baseball right now.

Monica Dawson has been having a rough few weeks, with time traveling and wounds and arrests and now… apparently being locked away with the key thrown out. She is pretty calm about it, though, if only for the girl's sake. She's not really sure how long they've been here, or where they are… but they're alive for now! And not being tortured or experimented on, so things could definitely be worse.

Currently, she's using what space they do have in this cell to run through some yoga. Gotta fill the hours somehow.

But Mynama isn't helping with the whole meditative state aspect of Monica's workout.

Her thin, long-fingered hands gripping the bars of their cell, Mynama is shaking them. Or rather, given her frame, she's shaking herself against them. "I know my rights!" she screams down the hall, her eyes blazing with anger. "I want a fucking lawyer you assholes!"

She's been at it for some time now, and it's only exhausted her more. Giving the bars a final, rage-filled push, she moves away from them only to do a belly flop onto one of the cots. Oscar is going to kill her, if she ever gets out of here.

"I hate to tell you," comes Monica's soft, calm, very zen voice, "But I think we're past lawyers at this point." It's somewhat odd, conversing with a woman who is currently upside down, her weight on one bend leg and her elbows, her hands wrapped around her ankle as the other leg straightens in the air. She's flexible!

"I'm sorry I couldn't get you away from this," she adds, and that she really does mean. Her frown is upside down at the moment, but it's still very much a frown. "And I know it's frustrating to wait, but we need more information before we can do anything about this." She says that like she really thinks there's something she can do from inside here.

Mynama's answer is a string of swear words fed into the thin mattress, and even the muffled version sounds like something other than English. "I am so boned," she finally says, turning her head to look at the human pretzel in the middle of the small concrete box. Her thin eyebrows furrow, and her lips pull into a sickened frown.

"What do you mean more information? I don't think they're going to be delivering the Times." With a sigh, Mynama pushes herself up to sit on the cot, her back against the wall and her knees pulled against her chest. "So unless you can do some remote viewing shit, we're boned."

"I didn't mean about out there, I meant about us," Monica says as she slowly starts to right herself. "Our situation. I can't do remote viewing, but I have some friends out there. They'll be looking." She hopes they'll be looking. Come on Pey.

"We might be boned. We might not be. We don't know what's going on yet. But you're not in this alone. Whatever happens, I'll do what I can for you." This would be a really good time for D.L. to suddenly come to her rescue again. A really good time. But she knows not to hope for a miracle.

"Thanks," Mynama scoffs, shaking her head before she burries her face against her knees. "But for all I know, your ninja-shit kicking a cop is what landed me here instead of on my fucking front porch." Which is what she's more accustomed to. She could handle that. Lie her way out of it. But in a situation like this, where the truth is what will more than likely do her the best good, Mynama is at a loss.

Mynama doesn't lift her head, but she does turn it to one side, her eyes toward the back wall of the cell. "Look, I appreciate it. Whatever. But you don't know me. And I don't know you. But… but if it means getting out of here faster," and alive, "I'll do what you say."

"Hunny, you were already in cuffs when I got there, if you remember," Monica says with a crooked smile. "If you think you were going anywhere near home after that riot, you're more naive than you look." And this is Monica Dawson saying this.

"You're right, I don't know you. And you don't know me. And it's up to you, what you want to do. I mean… I have no idea what they're plans are in here. Maybe you will end up back on your front porch. Which is why we need information. Just… if they start asking you questions, pay attention to what they're asking. Knowing what they want to know can help us figure out what's going on here." The Times would probably help put the whole… martial law thing in her head, though. Ah well.

Mynama is silent for a moment after Monica finishes her little pep talk, her eyes slowly narrowing. "You've…done this before." She has to have, to be this calm and be able to plan. It's like something out of a movie. Mynama's eyes slowly grow wider, and then she's gaping at her cellmate. "Holy shit, you're like a terrorist or something, aren't you? With all the strategy and planning and blowing stuff up?"

Clearly that's why Monica was there at the bridge on Roosevelt.


"I'm not a terrorist, for goodness sakes," Monica says, lifting one foot off the floor to press against her leg, her hands going up over her head, palm to palm. "I'm a bodyguard. I work for a firm called Redbird Security. You learn a few things, on a job like that." She'll leave off trying to explain what Endgame is, though.

"And I haven't done this, specifically, but it's just common sense. Raging against the bars isn't going to get us out. Listening and paying attention, that's what's going to get us out." If they can get out. "And I definitely do not go around blowing things up. I am not that flashy."

Okay, so she isn't a blowing-stuff-up kind of person, but Monica is definitely more interesting than Mynama had previously thought. She lowers one knee and leans forward slightly, watching the progression of one twisted pose after another. "So what do you do? Shoot people? Crazy ninja shit?" Kicking the cop, though a really bad idea, was admittedly kind of cool.

"I wish I could do something that cool." Being a teenager sucks. Being a non-manifested teenager? Double-suck.

"A little of both. On occasion." Monica looks over at the girl and drops out of her pose to sit on the cot opposite Mynama. "When it's part of the job. But you can always learn martial arts. And all sorts of cool stuff. It's a lot of work, but it's doable." Well… it's a lot of work for most people, anyway. "Even at your age, any dojo would take you. And frankly, the earlier you start, the better."

"I know my way around a knife," Mynama offers with a somewhat humble shrug. She knows people who've joined dojos, and from what she's heard, they aren't really her style. More like a social club than anything. Now if she had the opportunity to say, go off into the mountains in China and train with some sort of Shou-Lin master? She snatch that up in a second.

There's a moment of silence before Mynama leans back and nods to her de facto companion. "My name's Mynama." And for all the lilt to her voice marking her as a non-native English speaker, the name is more "Back to Africa" than anything.

"Handy. I like to keep a knife around, myself." Not that… she has one on her now. But she normally would! If it wasn't for the prison situation. "I'm Monica," she replies, a friendly smile on her face. "Where're you from?" That accent doesn't sound like Queens to her. Or Brooklyn. Not that Monica's fits either of those, either. "And how long've you been in New York? I hope long enough to know it didn't used to be this crazy. I mean, it was always crazy, but it wasn't always… curfews and such."

"Since I was eleven." The girl's eyes go down at that, remembering what happened not too long after they made the move. "I'm from Portugal." It isn't entirely true, but the peninsula is the only other home Mynama has ever known. "I've always had a curfew," she offers with a wan smile, "But I haven't always followed it."

She nods again, tilting her head to one side. "What about you? You sound like you aren't from New York either." But Mynama's ability to pin any given southern accent to a specific state is lacking.

"Portugal, wow. That must have been something else. I've never been outside the US. Vegas. Here. And home to N'awlins." Nevermind that she probably can't actually go back there without trouble. It's still home to her. "And I haven't always followed curfews, either. I think it's part of the whole rite of passage, breaking the rules a little when you're young."

Of course… she breaks them… even now. It only lands her in jail sometimes, apparently.

"Kinda different when stayin' out late means the cops are draggin' you home and slappin' you with a fine," Mynama points out. It must have been way easier for people Monica's age, whether in the city or in Louisiana, to be a rebellious teenager. "I know way too much about pickin' locks, all because my pansy-assed stepdad thinks he has to be all high and mighty." She sighs again. "He's going to kill me."

"Well, you're right there. The times, they are a'changin'," Monica says, with an exaggeration of her natural accent. "I guess it wouldn't help to explain you got caught in the middle of a Persuasionist-fueled riot? That wasn't… rebellion or madness. I mean, it was, but it wasn't by choice."

"He's not really reasonable," Mynama says with a sigh, unfolding her legs so that she can stretch out on the cot, her eyes pointed toward the ceiling. "I mean, I told him I'd be at the Center. To help out and shit, since there were all those rumors that it was gonna go down, you know? So…yeah. I guess it depends on how much they tell him."

Then again, depending on how crazy it is out there - wherever they are - There's a good chance that Oscar Nunes has no idea where his adoptive daughter is.

"Well. I know it's not much comfort… but for now, we hope for the best, and we listen and pay attention. And we'll figure out where to go from there." Monica sits back, too, but it's only for a moment. The side effect of her ability is, after all, that emotions make it hard for her to sit still. The yoga really only gets more complicated at this point.

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