Participants:
| Scene Title | Is There Anyone Happy In New York? |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Aaron is looking for Tamsine, the redhead he saw with the emotional black hole some nights back. Instead, he finds Veronica Sawyer. |
| Date | May 14, 2009 |
In a time that seems long ago, Greenwich Village was known for its bohemian vibe and culture, the supposed origin of the Beat movement, filled with apartment buildings, corner stores, pathways and even trees. There was a mix of upper class and lower, commercialism meeting a rich culture, and practically speaking, it was largely residential.
Now, it's a pale imitation of what it used to be. There is a sense of territory and foreboding, as if the streets aren't entirely safe to walk. It isn't taken care of, trash from past times and present littering the streets, cars that had been caught in the explosion lie like broken shells on the streets nearest the ground zero. Similarly, the buildings that took the brunt of the explosion are left in varying degrees of disarray. Some are entirely unusable, some have missing walls and partial roofs, and all of the abandoned complexes have been looted, home to squatters and poorer refugees.
As one walks through the Village, the damage becomes less and less obvious. There are stores and bars in service, and apartment buildings legitimately owned and run by landlords. People walk the streets a little freer, but like many places in this scarred city… anything can happen. Some of the damage done to buildings aren't all caused by the explosion from the past - bullet holes and bomb debris can be seen in some surfaces, and there is the distinct impression that Greenwich Village runs itself… whether people like it that way or not.
The fact that he slept for nearly twenty hours before waking was a surprise. More surprising was that, after tending to a few things, he managed to sleep twenty more. Apparently he was more exhausted than he thought after all that happened. But with a more rested mind, Aaron has managed to reconcile a few things. Yes, he's evolved, and he has to live with that. The only question then is how he intends to live. He hasn't quite gone back to Old Lucy's, still churning over things in his head. He wants to make a comeback worthy of Annie, something to show he's finally understood, or at least accepted, her death.
First and foremost in his mind, however, is what he saw some nights ago. There was a woman with red hair, with so much darkness around her. And then there was the black hole. And he needs answers. He needs to find out who that man was, and why he couldn't perceive him in any manner other than his ability. For that is what he has come to understand. All those times he thought something was wrong with him — that perhaps he was going crazy — was merely his evolved ability. And he thinks he knows what it all means.
Aaron stands in front of the cafe he busked at several days earlier, going over things in his head to see what he can remember. Which way had he been facing? He looks at the cafe and finds the lamp post he was leaning against. He leans back against it, setting his guitar case on the ground. He closes his eyes and thinks back to that night. Cat's In The Cradle. That was the song, and he had just finished. She passed him as he started playing something else. His eyes pop open and he turns too look in the direction she was headed in. But where was she going?
Instead of a redhead, facing him and walking toward him is a brunette. She's in a dark place as well — is there anyone happy in New York? She looks well enough. Her eyes are alert, flickering from here to there, keeping an account of her surroundings, like a New York native would. She walks with confident, long strides, the heels of her boots clicking on the pavement. No one would take her for a victim or easy prey — there's just something about her that suggests despite her small bone structure and scant weight that she's not an easy mark, if one were the kind to look for target to mug or attack. Not that Aaron's that type — for him, however, she's exactly the right kind of prey. There is sorrow, grief, and fear all hugging around the woman tightly, like the light spring trenchcoat she wears on this spring night.
The question is one he asked himself a number of times, and often answered himself — no. There's misery everywhere. At least, that's what Aaron told himself more than once. It wasn't really true, despite the large number of completely miserable people living in New York City. But he knows from experience working at Old Lucy's that even those who go to drink are not all miserable. He's seen people light up just from the sound of another's voice. Love wields the same power as he does. That sort of comparison, however dangerous it is, plays well to his own heart. It's with that idea in his mind that his eyes scan over the brunette as she comes near.
Although he hesitates to approach her, he does not start walking in that direction as he had originally intended. The redhead has been momentarily forgotten for a person suffering in his immediate vicinity. Since he has his guitar case resting in front of him, he decides to set up, and unzips the case. The sapphire blue polish on the face of the guitar matches his eyes, however darker they are in the dim evening light. It may seem unusual, since the street is not exactly packed, and he only has a very, very small audience.
Those dark eyes flicker over to the busker, brows knitting together for a moment as the strangeness of the situation registers. "You'd probably get better tips in a busier part of town," she says. Her voice is quiet, but still manages to travel the several feet of distance still between them, a space quickly shortened as she walks closer. She stops and leans against the wall across from his lampost, reaching into a pocket and pulling out a cell phone. One foot rests on the wall behind her as she glances and scrolls through something on the small device, typing something in a moment later. After that's done, she lifts her chin to look up at him once more.
"You're probably right," Aaron says as he tweaks the tuning knobs, working out all the delicate intricacies of pitch. He leans in close to the guitar as he plucks each string, adjusting the knobs until they sound just right to him. "I'm more of an intimate player. I prefer small audiences." It's not a complete lie. Particularly now, people who are closer to him, physically closer, are far more interesting than those beyond. But then, how large an audience can you really get on a sidewalk?
"I see," Veronica says. "I never played anything musical, myself," she adds, before pushing off from the wall, and beginning to walk again. She flips a dollar into the case, having to come rather near him to do so, before heading past him once more. Not in a talkative mood, it seems. It might not be hard to tell why, the closer she is to him — all those emotions thick around her.
"Thanks." Aaron's fingers play over the strings — a soft arpeggio of two chords, followed by a slow chord. "Do you have any songs in mind you might like to hear me play, or should I pick something?" he asks. He almost adds 'to cheer you up' to the end of his question, since he's almost certain, if she remains close, it should very well have that effect on her.
"The tip was just to be nice, kid. I wasn't planning on staying for the concert," Vee murmurs in that tough girl tone. She has that bad habit of calling anyone who looks younger than she is "kid," even though she has no idea of their real age, and even though she herself often looks younger than she is. "I'm not really into personal serenades." Still, she's paused in her march down the street.
"Well, don't stop now," Aaron says with unnecessary sarcasm. Then he snaps his finger, "I know just the song." He fishes a pick out of his case and stands, finally slipping the strap of his guitar over his shoulder. He nods his head to a silent beat and begins to strum.
I'm staring out into the night,
Trying to hide the pain.
I'm going to the place where love
And feeling good don't ever cost a thing.
And the pain you feel's a different kind of pain.
Well I'm going home,
Back to the place where I belong,
And where your love has always been enough for me.
I'm not running from.
No, I think you got me all wrong.
I don't regret this life I chose for me.
But these places and these faces are getting old,
So I'm going home.
I'm going home.
The miles are getting longer, it seems,
The closer I get to you.
I've not always been the best man or friend for you.
But your love, remains true.
And I don't know why.
You always seem to give me another try.
So I'm going home,
Back to the place where I belong,
And where your love has always been enough for me.
I'm not running from.
No, I think you got me all wrong.
I don't regret this life I chose for me.
But these places and these faces are getting old,
Be careful what you wish for,
'Cause you just might get it all.
You just might get it all,
And then some you don't want.
Be careful what you wish for,
'Cause you just might get it all.
You just might get it all, yeah.
Oh, well I'm going home,
Back to the place where I belong,
And where your love has always been enough for me.
I'm not running from.
No, I think you got me all wrong.
I don't regret this life I chose for me.
But these places and these faces are getting old.
I said these places and these faces are getting old,
So I'm going home.
I'm going home.
Like most of the songs Aaron plays, he ends the song on a slow chord. It just seems to be the proper way to end a song. As he plays, his ability has functioned, as it always does when he plays. If Veronica's within fifteen feet of him, she may find her own pain slipping away from her — sucked right out. If she's observant enough, she may attribute it to more than just a feelgood song.
Vee stands with her arms crossed, looking a bit skeptical as he begins singing. She hasn't been in New York long, though she has the walk and swagger of a native, but she's seen plenty of mediocre buskers. Any man with a guitar thinks he's a step above a bum when he plays Stairway to Heaven or Dust in the Wind. When the lyrics start up, she gives a roll of her eyes. "Sappy song," she says with a shake of her head and a roll of her eyes. She begins to walk away once more. But suddenly things don't seem so bleak. Her annoyance at the busker starts to ease. That brings another frown and she turns to watch him through narrowed eyes, just a few feet away now.
Sappy song though it may be viewed to some, Aaron feels the meaning of it. At least he's a few rungs up from mediocre buskers, having been in a band at some point that may have had more potential had he not had other plans for himself. He didn't even think about the lyrics as he sang the song, but when he finishes, there is a moment of reflection. Something he has struggled with since the bomb was the topic of home, and no matter where he's found himself living, he hasn't felt at home. "I don't always do sappy, but what can I say? I'm a bleeding heart." He can see more colour in Veronica, and that tells him that he did precisely what he expected. "Besides, sappy can be uplifting."
"I guess. It can also be depressing. Remind a person that they don't have all that much to go home to," she says quietly, her dark eyes flickering across his face to see if there's any change in his emotions… does he feel her pain, now that he's taken it? Or is he like those oh-so-lucky healers who don't have to feel the injuries of those they heal, unlike some of those who do? Abilities are like everything else in this unfair world — flat out unfair sometimes. "So what do you get out of playing them? Are they uplifting for you?" she asks, leaning against the wall of the building nearby.
"A sad truth," Aaron admits. There's a slight change, but it's only because he's thought about the words he just sang. "Not always. Sometimes they're downright depressing, as you so rightly said," he says, fingering some nameless melody or another. Some are his own creations, others are just arpeggios of various chords. "But sometimes they're uplifting. Sometimes they can touch you in unexpected ways. I know they've gotten me out of some pretty dark places in the past."
"I guess that's the point of art," Vee says with a shrug of her shoulders that draws from her a sudden wince. One hand goes up to her shoulder to massage it lightly. Maybe because her emotional burden has been lifted a bit, the physical, visceral pain is all the more apparent. "I'm sort of more the fan of hard driving music I can run to and pound out my frustrations on the pavement or something," she adds. "You do have a nice voice. What's your name, kid?"
"Art has so many reasons for being," Aaron says, "And I don't pretend to know them all." He stops playing, his eyes flitting to his left wrist and the watch wrapped around it upside down, so the face is on the inside of his wrist. "I should. I've been singing for twenty years, but I'm afraid I don't do hard rock. Sorry," he says. He lets his left arm cradle the base of the guitar as he offers his hand. "Aaron Michaels, only surviving member of the Lightbringers."
She takes his hand and nods. "Veronica Sawyer," she says. "The Lightbringers? I've heard the name, maybe, but I'm not sure I've heard the music. New to New York and all," she says with a smile and a dip of her head. Now that she's smiling, he can see the two dimples on either side of her full lips. "Pretty guitar. Reminds me of Picasso for some reason. That blue period painting… though the guitar in that picture isn't blue." So she knows something of art after all.
"I don't suppose you would have," Aaron says with a bit of a chuckle, "I think a radio station or two still plays some of our unplugged stuff, but we sort of dissolved in two thousand four. Our reunion show in December of oh-six didn't exactly happen." There's a bit of bitterness there as he says it as he fights back what also didn't happen. He's grateful for the out. "I was told it matches my eyes. Annie, one of my bandmates, picked it out. Spent most of my time with music to have more than an appreciation for visual art. Can't say I'm familiar with Picasso."
"It's a sad painting. 'The Old Guitarist' or something like that. But maybe you like darker stuff anyway," she says, watching him carefully as she prods a little with that comment, her dark eyes moving to his blue gaze, flicking from left to right as if she would read what's behind them. "Glad no one matches stuff to my eyes. Brown's not my favorite color."
"I like sad songs, but only those that can still leave you feeling good afterwards. Outright depressings songs are … well, depressing," Aaron says. He starts to pack his guitar up. "Red and blue. I can never quite decide which I favour more. I'm rather lucky that way, though, since many things look good either or." The single dollar Veronica contributed is collected before he zips the case up and carefully lifts its so that it's carrying strap is over his shoulder. "Well, it was nice to meet you Veronica, but I should probably be heading back to my apartment."
Vee glances at the single dollar being gathered up, and reaches into her snug jeans to find another bill, coming up with a twenty. She hands it to him, as he speaks, nodding to show she's listening. "Yep. Curfew o'clock," she says, with a nod toward a clock on a building nearby. "You take care of youself, Aaron. Thanks for the song."