Not All Caged Birds Sing


diogenes_icon.gif isis_icon.gif

Scene Title Not All Caged Birds Sing
Synopsis A short scene about how Isis is dealing with the mess she's currently in.
Date August 9, 2009

Diogenes's apartment

What an eerie apartment, scarcely lit by a lone bare lightbulb, screwed into its socket embedded in the scarred ceiling which seems as though it is about to collapse. The walls share a similar amount of cracks, marred by veins of the old sickly green paint that's reluctantly dying and falling off to reveal the ugly cement underneath it. The apartment itself is quite small. There is no hallway; the door opens up directly into the living room that serves as both the kitchen and the dining room as well, and to the left of this room is the ridiculously undersized bathroom, sporting both the bathtub and the toilet that, while unsavory, were made a little bit more hygienic than the two initially were by the flat's owner. The bedroom is situated to the right of the living room, and it's a small one, with a sizeable dresser against the wall opposite of the door-less entrance to the room, a window to the left, and the bed to the right. Cheap bed sheets are left as they were when the man woke up and rose out of it.

A bit farther away from the bedroom was the desk, pushed against the wall. It's amazing it hasn't fallen apart yet, albeit the same could be said about everything in this flat and the apartment itself. Atop the rough, horribly aged wooden surface lies the Bible, a few crumpled up sheets of paper (plenty written on them) and the philosopher's bag. The chair is missing. Well, not exactly; it is broken into useless pieces, lying at the foot of the Eastern wall, paint missing in huge chunks on it. Presumably, the chair flew in the midst of a fit of rage. The old fridge can be found in the left corner next to the exit, with a small table nearby and two chairs pushed up to it. Another noteworthy detail is the large detailed map of New York City above the desk. It has X's, and numerous, differently coloured lines were drawn on the streets, denoting certain routes that connected said marked locations. Some locales have notes attached to them. Finally, this apartment actually has old-fashioned windows. Two of them, at both sides of the desk.

It's the end of yet another day. The sun has hidden behind the horizon, and the sisters Silence and Darkness have spread across New York City. It's definitely not the sort of city to die at night; or it wasn't, at the very least. With the curfew in place, only the homeless, the bold and perhaps the insane are out on the streets. Diogenes would fit the last category; as usual, he returns home right after the curfew takes effect, as if testing his luck.

When he appears in the doorway of his shabby apartment, he is dressed in a manner that would suggest he's living in a penthouse in Upper East Side. A snug suit tailored specifically for him clings to his form nicely - a pitch black suit, contrasted by a white silk shirt, the top buttons of which were parted open. Stepping into the apartment, the dark-haired, grey-eyed youngster closes the door behind him, and seems to be in a better mood than usual… even if by everyone's standards, that meant his mood wasn't soaring in the skies. "Isis?"

Isis, for her part, appears to be in the midst of going stir-crazy. Because she wasn't unstable enough beforehand, yeah? She sits in the center of the 'living room', a pair of denim skinny jeans tucked into tall black boots that match the same ebon hue of her comfortable, baggy tee-shirt. Papers are sprawled around her, some baring sketches, others phrases. A deck of cards is sprawled out. Dice. And a bottle of vodka she'd found hidden on the highest shelf - a pain in the ass of her tiny self to reach, but by god she'd managed.
The tiny redhead peaks up from her nest o' mess with a lofted brow. "D-…" A pause, given in order to better take in the man's attire. "Thomas? Who the hell did you kill to get that?" She wrinkles her nose at the suit and wraps her fingers around the bottle as she unfolds from her place on the floor, straightening unsteadily to her feet and stepping nearer to the young man.

The door is locked, although it's nearly a subconscious motion as Diogenes focuses on Isis, who is understandably perplexed. He suspected that she would not approve of his methods, but to him, it hardly mattered. What did matter is that he has brought home quite the amount of food, which he hurries to place in the fridge. On his trek over to that old refrigerator, he tosses the keys onto the table situated not so far from his side; when he's there, he opens up the door and starts placing all that he's bought inside. As he does, he finally responds to the woman's worries cheerfully: "You people assume the worst. I did not kill anyone. Blackmail? Oh, that I did."

"You people?" This comment, more than the idea that her friend had blackmailed another individual to make a fortune, is what seems to bother her - that she had been lumped in with a number of predictable and unnamed strangers. She scoffs and turns away. "It does nothing for you," she comments on the matter of the suit as she folds back into her lotus-like way of sitting at the epicenter of her chaotic mess in the living room. She purses her lips and presses them to the head of the bottle, blowing until a pleasant, deep, hollow whistle filters through the apartment while she looks over the array of papers.

Diogenes furrows his brows and instantly ceases his activity of stuffin the fridge with food. Looking over his shoulder at Isis, he looks her over with confusion apparent in both his eyes and tone as he would note, "You don't look black enough to feel insulted by 'you people', Isis." He would resume filling up the fridge until it pretty much would be completely full. The plastic bag would be folded as though it were a sheet of paper, and then tied into a knot, making it look like a small ball of ribbon. Pretty neat.

"It might do nothing for me, but I feel much better in this thing than my old clothes, which I have been wearing since May, if you recall." The doors of the fridge are closed, and the young pimp turns around to face Isis with a soft sigh. "Being a fugitive isn't as fun, yes, I can imagine. Is there anything else I can do for you?.."

"You look like a butthead." Her tone is half-hearted, but still Isis looks up with a bit of surprise. Was that her outside voice? She grunts and lifts a hand, showing her palm for a minute. "That's not what I meant," she offers. "It's different. Stuffy. Stuck up. Couldn't you have bought something… normal to wear?" She shrugs and looks down, shuffling a few papers before picking up the cards and beginning to shuffle them.
"I'm going crazy," she remarks to the matter of her hiding out in the man's apartment, her words a whining groan.

A shrug is offered in return. "It is this appearance that certain people prefer. In fact, I daresay the majority in this city prefer a presentable imagine to that of a college student. It is haughty and arrogant, but… who's to say I'm not that?" As he speaks, Diogenes steps closer to Isis, to drop down to the floor, ignoring the unimaginably high price of his suit that touched the not-so-clean floor. He felt sympathy for Isis, for she was stuck in a cage that imprisoned him not too long ago. Stuck in limbo of repetition, stuck in one location, and completely helpless. And he knew that few like to talk about it. "Know any good card games?"

Helplessness - yes, that was something better left unspoken about with the fiery little redhead. She glances up from the cards, a quick glimmer of appreciation shining in her gaze before it's snuffed out behind her usual mask. "Your arrogant, but not the sort to flaunt it. You know you're better than most, but you don't need to waste your time in proving it to unworthy people." She smiles, a softer sort of expression as Diogenes's company seems to ease her frayed nerves and thoughts alike. "Can you pick up some puzzles next time you're out?" Yes, apparently the 'wild' little femme enjoyed jigsaw puzzles. Whoda thunk it? "Do you know how to play Rummy?"

Diogenes chortles softly, and for once, he didn't have to feign that particular gesture. He momentarily tucks his smile away, replacing it with the tell-tale expression of a child who is aiming to convince his parents otherwise. "But can I keep it, mom? Please, can I, can I?" Seamlessly, his almost puppy-esque facial expression fades into a playful, if not downright teasing smirk. "Quite like I don't need to flaunt my arrogance, I don't need to try to prove my real identity. I know who I am, that's what matters." He gestures towards the deck of cards with a free hand. "I don't — Can you teach me? And I'll make sure to bring you some Disney-related puzzles next time."

"I like the Lion King," Isis quips in turn, the sincerity of her smile visible just beneath the flirty contours of a teasing, sly smirk. She slides the bottle of vodka across the floor and begins to dish out the cards, seven each, preparing for quiet night of drinking and card lessons with her host.

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