Of Seastars And Family


huruma3_icon.gif russo2_icon.gif

Scene Title Of Seastars and Family
Synopsis Two people who are separated by far less than six degrees..
Date February 5, 2011

Biddy Flannigan's Irish Pub

Ambient lighting blankets the establishment in a soft luminescence, glowing in tones of appealing orange from the front face of the bar and low hanging light fixtures overhead. Old style brick walls given the pub an appealing depth, reflecting the tone of lights in a more amber hue down upon the lengths of the polished, wooden floors. The bar counter of lacquered dark wood stretches along the northern wall, the forefront for shelves of numerous liquors and the substantially sized LCD televisions spaced liberally behind it. The screens flicker with the latest games and news as the labeled spirit bottles wink from lighted shelves with a beckon of their own. Barstools and high tables welcome tipsy patrons to their support, scattered with throughout the barroom with a few wedge into the darker, quieter, and more secretive recesses. Over the bar are a few banners of sports teams, most notably one of English football club Manchester United.

// The thick wooden door to the west is fitted with a single neon sign sponsored by one of the brews on tap, glowing in the door's center window to shed its light onto the sidewalk outside and summoning in new customers when the bar is open for business.//

The Irish Pub is a scene of merriment for most. The lights are bright. The drinks are poured, and most people are enjoying the company of others. Bradley Russo, however, is on his third beer, sitting alone at the bar. His fingers tap impatiently against its wooden surface and his eyes focus expectantly on the drink in his hand.

"Nobody knows the trouble I've seen~" the song is off-key, terribly sung, and a little slurred. "Nobody knows my sorrow~"

Brad hasn't been here long enough to be three beers in and yet he is. Some people have no concept of moderation. With a heavy sigh he finishes off his glass and lowers it to the bar before lowering his head. "Fill 'er up~" he instructs with a charming smile before allowing it to disappear underneath his beer goggles. His arms fold and his head remains down. It's just been one of those months. Already.

There is some measure of confidence in knowing that you once owned a bar- while Huruma effectively signed the company off a long, long time ago, she still has dibs on an endless tab. And free parking. One of those things. She has been here quite a bit longer than Bradley has- she watched him come in from the back corner booth, peering up from a half-folded newspaper when she feels that raincloud of sheer and total misery settle in. Huruma came here primarily because it is free for her, which the Corinthian bar is decidedly not. She did not come to watch Ben's mystery son wallow in whatever it is that Bradleys wallow in. Huruma keeps an eye on him, off and on, but by the time he sucks down three and asks for a fourth, she decides that she has had enough with his black haze.

"Ohhhh, Zazu, do lighten up-" The tall, dark woman sits down on the stool beside his as she moves across the pub. The paper gets plopped down on the counter, and her voice is positively dripping with something similar to teasing. "Sing something with a little… bounce in it?"

The comment about Zazu is ignored momentarily with Brad convinced that Huruma is talking to some other drunk sitting at the bar. Oh wait! He gets it now. His hands press against the bar and he pushes himself up to a proper sit as he issues her a lopsided smirk through his beer-filled haze.

He holds up both of his pointer fingers like he intends to direct a choir. "I've got a lovely bunch of coconuts~ Diddly deeeee~" his smile broadens now. It's a better song, it puts him in a better mood until, "Big ones, small ones, some as big as your head~ Give 'em a twist a flick of your wrist— " a glance is given his hands now, the weapons that they are while he grasps the beer in his fingers.

She's promptly issued a two finger salute. "You know your Lion King, ma'am." His head tilts at her expectantly as his eyebrows knit together, "Wait a sssssecond. I've met you before!" a finger taps his chin as he attempts to recall the where.

"Somehow, yes. Th'Zulu version is not terribly different…" Huruma murmurs, pushing up the long sleeves of her fitted shirt. The black is only broken up from the presence of a gold chain with a curved pendant on it. Her coat is back at her booth. She watches him with those pale eyes, unsure of if she had the contacts back then or not. Probably. Her lips quirk just a little as he gets more intent on recognizing her.

"Grocery store, from last month. You told m'about your food fetish, dear." Oh, Right, That. Her gaze trails down to examine his hands, fully knowing what has changed in them. "A flick of th'wrist, hm?"

"Is there muse-ick in it?" Brad's eyebrows arch high on his forehead. "Or nooooooot? Maybe. Oy." His head is spinning. He presses his palm firmly to his forehead as he rests his elbow on the bar to help prop it up. "Right. Grocery store. I love food. Loved food." He pouts a little. "No reason to cook~ Cooking for yourself isn't worth it. All of the effort. All of the colours and punches and flairs of beauty made for some far off distant island fall victim tot he nothing at the chef's table! Why? Whyyyyyyy." He frowns. And then takes a swig of his beer.

Huruma's eyebrows lift quietly to watch him, noting the stark differences between last time, and between his gene pool. She almost wonders if coming over was a good idea after all; she wasn't quite ready to actually field a drunk, just get him to stop making her field cloudy. It won't be that easy. "Of course there is music." It is a Disney movie, they always do.

"Maybe you should do a cooking show instead. Less stress, more delicious." Huruma offers, leaning in a bit to say so. She might be right! Who knows. He might be better at a cooking show. "Politics irritate me, food not so much."

Russo wags a finger with every syllable he utters, "Politicssss make a difference even if you're a tooool of the man, man. People have power! Votes for women!" he raises his glass in the air. "Anyone with me? Anyone? Come oooooon! Wait. That's not what I mean…" hmm. The thought is lost again as he lowers the glass to the bar. "Sorry. Where was I?" he issues her a soft smile and a shake of his head.

"Do you have any siblings?" He hiccups once. "If so— would you take a friggin bullet for 'em?"

Huruma clears her throat when he is raising his glass and proclaiming women's suffrage. He's gonna hurt himself at this rate. Or she might hurt him. While he is doing this, she does manage to flag the bartender for a small glass of wine. "Go t'Madagascar and try that, why don'you?"

"I have two siblings. I have not seen them since I was about- eight or nine- so… no, I wouldn't." Huruma inspects the glass of wine she is handed before sipping at it. "I have taken bullets for other people, however. Including your family members, in a sense." But, she doesn't really look at him when she says this, so it isn't as pointed as it could be. He may just miss it altogether if he isn't careful in his listening.

"Hey! I have two siblings too! Both sisters. Sea-stars. Seeeea-stars. But without the extra limb. Unless you count the fifth leg as a neck and head. They were born with those," Brad nods sagely at this fact while his hands grip the bar again. He lets a breath slowly release from his lungs.

But he does catch the comment about his family members. "Waaaaait. Which family members?" That leaves his semi-unsettled, he's so good at keeping secrets. Like having sisters. Whoops.

Huruma stifles a laugh, her lips slowly forcing one down when she peers at him again. Wow. She should probably just tell him now, as he already ousted himself in… some… manner of speaking. Ah, Bradley. Not your father's son, no, just your own make and model. Huruma sets her glass down and folds one elbow onto the bar so she can look at him better.

"Your sisters. Your father. Et cetera." Maybe not take a bullet, but there was some getting shot involved in these so-called relationships.

His sisters. His father. Hmmm. Brad clears his throat as his fingers tighten around his glass. "I don't think he likes me much— that's because I have death touch. Can't blame 'em." He waves a hand rather flippantly as he shuffles on his bar stool. "Everything I touch dies. Or. Wilts. Or.. disappears." He waggles a finger again, "Never care about anything because if you do— everything will poooooof."

His lips press together. "Just for me though. You," he points at her directly, "You can care about thiiiings. And stuff. If I care I lose it. Just break things around me~ Broooookened."

With a vague frown he lowers his head back to the table, "Like Carrots."

"I have had my years of fulfilling desiccation already, Bradley." Huruma is very careful with how she words this, watching him not only physically, but now keeping deep tabs on his mood. "I used to be in the same position. Not so much anymore…" Sort of. She's not lying, but she isn't being totally truthful about it. The dark woman scoffs loudly. "You didn'lose Delia, we just moved her. You're being awfully self-deprecating about it, aren't you? She will b'fine, stop bellyaching. So maybe you can't see her right now-"

"You have years t'make up for it. How old are you, anyway? Thirty? Thirty-one? You don'have it so bad."

"He," Him. Ryans. Dad. Father. "He told me to look out for her. He did. In a voicemail. I don't even know where he moved her— meanwhile the Dome. And poor Sport on the other side— poor kid. He lost everything and I got to tell him— go me!" he grins sardonically while bringing the beer to the lips.

"I'm… thirty-one. Wait!" he chuckles ironically while his head shakes a stitch, "Nooooo. Make that thirty-two. Didn't celebrate the last like four birthdays." Since Lina died. Yeah, the man lives a ghost's life.

"We can't tell you yet. Soon. Probably when th'heat is more off of you. I would take you m'self, b'cause I don'care, but I promised t'keep her away." Huruma frowns at him now, looking decidedly unimpressed with his …bitching. "He told me t'look after her from now, while he's unable to." A finger gestures at herself, sharply.

"He-" Her voice is a bit more bristly, her gaze slightly more venomous. There is a dangerous look that flits around in her face. "-is stuck in there too. You know you are not th'only one with problems, stop acting like it. My son almost got his head blown off in Madagascar, but you don'see me drowning m'self. I have better things t'do, and so d'you."

"I'm watching over Delia, like I have for almost a year now. Don'worry about her. If you want, I can give her an e-mail address or something so that you two can communicate. Jus'don'tell your father, he might punch me in th'throat." Huruma says this as if it has happened before. Maybe not that, but similar things.

"I'm more than aware that he's stuck somewhere in there with all of 'em. The kid though— the kid lost his last guardian." Brad rubs his face. "It was baaaaad taste." And getting judged by a sensational news personality as bad taste means it was probably extreme. "But yeah. Since he's stuck he told me to like talk to friends or something and watch over Delia all careful-like."

His face contorts, "And for the record? She— Carrots— I… " the thought is lost somewhere. "I can't remember." He shakes his head slightly.

"Children are resilient. If you are worried for him, all that you can do is be there for him." She pauses, lifting a hand to her neck and giving a slow blink, eyes closed a moment longer. "That is because you are drunk, Bradley." Huruma offers, helpfully. She might be a little- ah- lubricated as well, but not to the same degree as Russo might be. "Sh'does miss you. I think that she would like it if she had some way t'contact you personally…"

Fuck it. Huruma purses her lips and scowls at nothing. "She is staying at th'Corinthian." Don't tell. Throat punching. "For th'moment."

"Corinthian?" Russo frowns now. "Last time I was there this little peon tried to rearrange my face but I caught his cane with my hand instead— " and hurt his hand. But less expensive than his face. "I will go see her and she will talk to me when I am completely and totally sane. Er. Sober." Whichever. If he's ever sane.

"How'd you know them allll anyways?"

"Don'let yourself be followed. If you want me to come get you somewhere, I could." At this point, he'll go whether or not she helps- but frankly, she does not have a reason to have lots of faith in his ability to go anywhere privately. "An'don't tell anyone that I told you. Or I will punch you in th'throat." Given what Huruma looks like, nobody should risk that. She smiles when he finally asks what he might have asked earlier, if he had been, well- sober.

"I tried t'kill your father once. Back in- ah- th'late nineties." Huruma can't quite remember the date these days. She is trying to forget. "We met up again last year, an'long story short, I met his family-" Even you! "-an'now, he and I are friends. Delia and Lucille seem t'like me well enough too."

"I won't be followed. Besides… I can go to the Corinthian without suspicion— my fiancee works there. Or something." Right now there's no clarity as to what Nicole actually does there. "That's why the guy tried to rearrange my face. He fancied her or something. And she— well, it's complicated." That's all Brad can say to that. It's complicated.

"Trying to kill people equals friendship ten years later. Who knew? I'll have to try that one sometime. Or unless I'm the one being killed. Then I'll have to try to live through it, right?"

Brad is getting kind of- out of Huruma's areas of expertise here. She isn't the one to tell about love triangles, even if she is technically in one herself. It's complicated, he is totally right.

"Exactly. But I think it only works if the attacking party is regretting that part." She picks up her glass, smirking and putting it to her lips. "I advise t'not let it happen in th'first place. At all. It will save you th'trouble of going through the efforts of making it up. I think he broke something when admitting I was his friend."

"I'll remember that one~" Russo salutes her. He clears his throat as he lays his head down on the bar, choosing not to finish his drink, he rests a cheek against it to peek up at Huruma still. "Alright. Avoid getting killed and making friends with my potential murderer. Got it."

Brad takes a deep breath as his grey-blue eyes (which are so similar to Delia's) stare up at her. "Is he okay? Like… actually? My mother hated him. Apparently." He shrugs a little from that position along the bar. "She really did. I only know from the letter she never sent to him telling him he'd never know about me." There's a pause as he plays with the condensation forming on his glass. "Yeah… she had a temper…"

"I don'know much about his wife, or your mother. I know that when he speaks about your mother, there is a considerable sadness, and I think it is because he never was able t'find out where that life would go. But he feels as okay as he should, considering th'situation." Imagine if it had happened to you- Huruma's implications are clear. She folds her fingers around the stem of the glass, mouth crooked as she peers at it.

"He lost Mary too." It feels strange saying her name out loud, and somehow it comes easily enough. "But I think his feelings about his fiancee from b'fore are more of regrets than loss. He manages his regret, I think."

"Yeah… well…" the words just hang implicitly while his cheek still rests against the bar. "She died." The sentence is hollow. "Along with Lina," he actually sighs around his dead-fiancee's name. "My grandfather shortly thereafter. And my grandmother has been institutionalized since." He sits up and rubs his face.

"I suppose a person can't feel any loss or real regret for something they couldn't control anyways," he murmurs quietly as he considers the drink again only to push it away a little further. "Well. It's fine. I've managed well enough on my own." Four years. As a lone wolf.

"I had decades of that, before I came t'New York. It is very overrated in th'end. Save yourself th'trouble, hm?" Huruma finishes the bit of wine left before setting out the empty glass. "Get it while you can, and where you can." Get what, she isn't specific. Love? Family? Something like that. People that give a shit.

"You have people around you. Don'make th'same mistake as your father and push them all away without meaning to." Huruma knows Brad better than Brad knows Brad, apparently! So wise. So wined up. So not liable if this goes wrong.

"They…" his thought is lost again. Perhaps purposely this time. Brad shoots a flicker of a smile to Huruma. "I don't… well… I don't push people away. I take them in and feed them. That's my talent. Feeding everyone. Everyone." He sighs heavily while he allows his arms cross over his chest.

He slowly slides off the stool. "I don't know if our worlds go together— " he sighs as he shoulders slump forward. He takes a single shuffling step towards the door. "But I can try or something…"

"So feed yourself and everyone. Don'feed me though, I eat people." Huruma is passive with such jokes at most points, and he probably won't think that she is being serious. Well, she doesn't eat them currently. But. "My name is Huruma, by th'way. If you've drunken yourself to forgetfulness. You will see me again, I have no doubt. Should I call you a cab?"

She swivels on the stool to look after him, chin tall and shoulders relaxed. "Every world goes with th'next in some form or another. You shall see."

"I… can walk," Brad shrugs at the question. "It's not far from here!" Wherever he's going. Probably not home. "I didn't drive anyways— " so there's no concerns there. With that he's shooting her a wave without looking over his shoulder, throwing a single hand up in the air before making a prompt exit.

Time to go collapse somewhere. And sleep. And then look up his family later.

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