New Road, New Soul


sable_icon.gif tamara_icon.gif

Scene Title New Road, New Soul
Synopsis Tamara finds Sable, as always, at just the right time.
Date June 29, 2010

Gun Hill - Rooftop

Situated atop the Gun Hill apartment building, five stories above street level, the rooftop of the tenement building overlooks the Bronx's gritty urban landscape. A single stair access leads out onto the smooth concrete rooftop surrounded by a three foot high red brick wall with a masoned top. Ventillation pipes and a chimney that connects to the singular fireplace down in the basement rises up from the concrete rooftop, though the chimney's old brick is crumbling and weathered.

A pair of old sun-bleached folding lawn chairs are situated out on the roof along with a plastic cooler, while white sacks of loam and soil are set next to large lengths of scrap wood, a box of nails and a few carpentry tools; a project in the works..

Sable was here last night. She's here again, on the roof of Gun Hill, lying spread eagled on a spread out towel, staring with squinted eyes up at the pre-noon sun. She's been here for a while, a fact evidenced by the tinge of red to her pale skin, the signs of a sunburn in progress, a familiar feeling from days roughing it. It's comforting in a weird sort of way. Mostly she's quiet, but on occasion a small sound rises from her, snatches of a mumbled tune, too indistinct and brief to be easily identified. The majority of the song is going on in her head.

Her view of the sun is abruptly interrupted, a feminine silhouette darkened by the fact of backlighting leaning over between Sable's eyes and her view of the sky. She's dressed in a light blue tanktop and khaki shorts, blonde hair swinging freely forward over her shoulders as she considers the musician's sprawled-out form. "You're not a flower," Tamara informs Sable, as if she needed to be told that little detail; the girl's tone conveys as much simple observation as it does mild rebuke.

Sable lifts a hand to shield her eyes from exterior glare, allowing Tamara's features to resolve in her vision. She smiles. "A divine fuckin' vision," she states, "And 'f an angel I was thinkin' 'f prayin' to." Her eyes cut down towards herself, visually verifying Tamara's contention. They lift back up. "Y' sure? Mebbe I just haven't bloomed yet, eh?"

The blonde drops to sit beside Sable's head, folding her legs beneath her. "Not so much," she remarks, an ambiguous answer that could apply to Sable's first remarks as much as her last. But maybe it's just an answer. Tamara cants her head, considering the younger girl. "Not a lobster either. Or not a very good one. Maybe you should stick to being a person."

Sable shakes her head vigorously. "Fuck that," is her thought on the matter, "Bein' a person is a shit job. I don't want it anymore." Her arm slides across her eyes, the sun seeming much too bright after Tamara's brief eclipse of it. "I wanna be… a tree. A big one. I never've got t' be big before. I'm owed it."

Folding her hands in her lap, Tamara peers down at Sable. She shakes her hair back, but it doesn't quite do the trick; one last lock has to be nudged behind her ear by hand. Then she can go back to regard the musician. "Are you?" she asks curiously.

Sable peeks out from under her arm, peering at Tamara with maybe something like suspicion. "What're you implyin'?" a pause, "'r do you even imply? Y' don't seem like an implyin' sort." Her arms slips back again. "Asked you 'bout surprise last we spoke, eh? Only… mebbe y' don't recall, seein' as it's not yet t' come. Boy, don't I fuckin' wish everyone was like you. Folk rememberin' what I do is just trouble 'pon trouble. 'course," now she peeks over her arm, "I can scarce imagine what you may see in what I'm gonna do."

Tamara tips her head the other way, her response to Sable's suspicion nothing more or less than mild curiosity. She doesn't respond otherwise, however, letting the query drift past. As the other girl continues, the seeress smiles slowly, amused acknowledgement of a point. Touche. "Only your shadows," she tells Sable. "Maybe you don't imagine them now."

"Fits 'n' bursts," Sable theorizes, "I get a thought in my head 'n' follow it heedless-like. Lookin' takes th' fun out of leapin', y'know?" She flashes a grin at this, though it's mostly concealed by her draped arm, and it fades slowly, bleached out by the sun, "Got another question, though, hon. Tryin' to think 'f how t' put it, though." She takes a moment, assembling this intended question in her mind.

The prescient lets Sable's thoughts meander over her question a while, her head tilted slightly in a listening pose; she is. Listening to the questions that might be asked as they coalesce from many options to just a few, to the point where Tamara can pick their subject clearly out. She doesn't have to let Sable resolve the several into her chosen one, after that; she usually does, but this time, the blonde chooses to interrupt — by sidestepping the general question altogether.

"Who do you want to be?" Tamara asks, dark eyes steady upon Sable.

"Pete Townshend," Sable replies, without a single moment's hesitation, and apparently almost no surprise that Tamara interrupted her thoughts. After the penny toss, she seems to have pretty much accepted Tamara's gift intuitively, though she may well make assumptions to broad about its nature, "But I'm too late 'n' too… not a dude." Her head turns towards Tamara, demanding a readjustment of her arm to continue to cast the necessary shade, "Only I know that you know that's mebbe not what I was meanin', 'n' damn but if you ain't a bit fuckin' rough with a delicate fuckin' subject, eh?" She takes a long inhale, followed by as long an exhale. "I wanna be me, but mebbe a bit less fuckin' crazy 'n' prone t' losin' m' temper. Just, like, off th' top 'f my head."

The blond smiles faintly and shakes her head at Sable. She lowers herself to lay on the rooftop, legs stretched out behind, arms crossed and braced against the concrete to prop up her torso. Her eyes are still dark, pupils dilated despite the near-noon light; perhaps fortunately, the sun's shining on the back of her head rather than her face. "You have to make the road," Tamara points out. "See it and walk it and leave the rest to be dust even though they don't have mountains. It's not a wide road," she concludes. "But it's your shadow as long as you cast it."

Tamara's shift in position precipitates a like move for Sable. The rocker gal turns over onto her side, exposing the side of her arm and her neck to the sun, giving them a chance to cook for a little bit. "That'd be a whole lot easier, hon," she says, "If I knew what direction t' start walkin' in. Usually I tend t'wards just… somewhere else. I ain't never walked t'wards someone else. Only time that happened…" a pause, "Well, that was a call. It wasn't me who decided. I just followed."

Tamara shakes her head a bit, blonde hair dancing back and forth. "Roads are easy," she tells Sable. "Even crossroads; they have shape. But whys," she continues, leaning over onto one elbow so she can press her fingertips against the curve of the other girl's skull, "are like ghosts: they don't leave reflections." Folding her arms again, the girl tips her head, chewing idly on a lip; it takes a little while for her to parse whatever thoughts she's working thorugh, after which Tamara abruptly scrambles up to her feet — and leans to offer Sable a hand up.

Sable's eyes sweep up to Tamara's hand, trying to chart a course to the point of contact. Impossible, but problems of possibility have never been something Sable's felt the need to try and respect. She doesn't reply to Tamara's words, but there is recognition in her face, and when the hand is offered, she takes it, pulling herself to her feet with a little help. She needs it. Her time in the sun leaves her dizzy and blotchy-visioned from a headrush upon becoming upright.

The precog is content to provide support until Sable's balance is steady; and then she runs. Runs to the door inside, holding it briefly for Sable; and down to the fourth floor, knowing that the other girl will follow in tow as she slips into the apartment shared with Colette and Tasha. Leaving that door ajar in her wake (which earns it a contemplative study from the puppy drowing where sunlight used to filter through the window, before the hour got later), she fishes out of Tasha's things the distinctive shape of an iPod and brings it over to Sable, held on flattened palm as if it were an offering. "Was there something here that said it for you?" she prompts.

Sable follows Tamara closely, up until they reach the hallway of floor 4, and Tamara's destination becomes more evident she starts to trail a bit further behind, as if her feet were encountering some sort of resistance. When Tamara goes so far as to open the door, Sable remains by the next door down, shifting from foot to foot but making no steps towards 404. Her expression is undisguisedly apprehensive. Tamara's disappearances occasions a scowl, remarkably black with something very much like anger, but the expression fades when Tamara reappears, bearing… what's that?

The yellow eyed girl takes the iPod, taking a moment to acclimate to the controls, before beginning to browse artists. The Kinks. Sure, sure. The Smiths. Arright. The Ramones. Wait a second. Green Day? Sable gives a snort, unmistakably derisive. "I dunno that I wanna hold ont' this," she mumbles, "Don't wanna give reason t' think I was rootin' around in 'er things 'r…" She shakes her head. "This 's so fuckin' her. Fuckin' punk pedigree. Fightin' without havin' t' fight." Her lip actually curls for a moment, but then something like realization dawns on her face, followed by the lift of her hand to her face, clapping over her eyes. "'n' I'm so fuckin' me…" A beat, and then she speaks in a tone of recitation, "I went back to my mother - I said, 'I'm crazy, ma, help me'…"

"Not hold," Tamara says quietly, as she leans a shoulder against the doorframe, beginning to look a little weary. "Just to listen." There are of course headphones also; but like most such things, applying them is Sable's choice. Resting her head against the post, the blonde observes; and listens as well, letting Sable talk through her own thoughts. Sometimes that's far superior to the seeress trying to find suitable words. It also means she's free to smile at Sable's expressed realization.

"One more night," Sable says, with sudden firmness, a single finger lifted in adamant representation. "One more night t' let th' soul I've taken such pains t' make f'r myself have it's fuckin' way. Then I do what I can t' trade it f'r a less troublesome one," she casts a scowl at the apartment doorway, "I ain't gonna live like this. No more Dr. Jimmy 'n' Mr. Jim." She offers the iPod back to Tamara. "But this ain't the way I'll go next. Dunno what road I'm choosin', but this ain't it. Y' gotta have somethin' t' lose b'fore y' start acting like y' can throw it all away."

Tamara takes it back, stepping forward and peering at Sable with her head slightly tilted. She reaches out to set a hand on the other girl's shoulder. "Then maybe there's another. To look. Sometimes all it took was remembering what you're looking for." The girl's smile quirks to one side rueful, wistful. "Sometimes that was harder than it sounds." Her fingers squeeze briefly on Sable's shoulder, then fall away, Tamara closing the door behind her and stepping down the hall.

"Well, ain't it always?" Sable poses to the widening gap between them. Her hands slip into her pockets, and she glances towards the ascending stairs. If one last night it's to be, she'll need the appropriate libations. And that means a deeper debt.

She swears she's good for it.

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