Ripples In The Water


griffin_icon.gif monica_icon.gif mynama_icon.gif

Scene Title Ripples in the Water
Synopsis The girls are amazed to find the man across the hall speaks! And then they're all emo together.
Date November 12, 2010

Prison cells!

Days have passed with nothing. Nothing but a cell to sit around in and a lot of thinking to do. That and one angry teenager to try to keep calm, and considering what's going on, there's a lot to be not… calm about. But Monica has kept a rein on her own temper, perhaps to serve as an example. In truth, however, she's really just waiting for the part where this gets worse.

Tonight the mimic seems to be practicing the standard ballet positions, using the bars of their cell when the ballet bar would be in use. It's a sort of strange mix of hard and soft, but that's sort of Monica in a nutshell.

If they hadn't have taken her bag, Mynama would at least have her iPod to listen to. Then again, she'd also have her phone and the ability to call Oscar, who would either get a lawyer or one of his co-workers at the U.N. or even the embassy to help get them both out. Alas, she doesn't have anything she came here with, save for the clothes on her back.

Mynama has balled up her coat to use as an extra pillow, but rather than lie on the cot like a normal person, she has arranged herself perpendicular to the mattress, her long legs against the wall so that, from a different perspective, it may look like she's sitting on the wall with her hands folded in her lap.

She hums, providing a tune for Monica to dance to. It's simple, and though Monica may not know it, a melody that Mynama grew up with. But she doesn't share it's origins, or even the fact that the Fado is a sad song.

Then again, if she had a harmonica and knew how to play it, there's a chance she'd be making equally appropriate music.

The man in the cell across from the two has been eerily silent since they threw him in here, reverting back to the silence he once offered during his time in Moab. It's what Griffin does best. He's done his own of course, even going so far as to work out using his surroundings for assistance. At the very least, he can work on his muscle tone again; it was getting difficult to find the time for a while.

He's occasionally regarded the ladies in the cell across from him, but he hasn't said a single word to either of them. When private moments were needed, he offered them. He's been so silent, save for the sounds of movement, that sometimes it is easy to forget he's there.

Currently, he has stripped off his shirt, leaving him bare-chested as he performs pull-ups using the jail bars. Upon his chest is what appears to be a black handprint, slightly raised from his skin. While pulled up to the bar with a grunt, he chances a glance toward Monica, arching a brow quiet. Ballet? Interesting.

Finally, for the first time in days, he speaks. "Do you dance?"

The music is appreciated. It helps to give her focus, something to center on. Not that she explains that. It's Griffin's sudden voice that pulls her out of whatever internal monologue she's got going on, her leg up on the bars as she glances over his way.

"Are you asking me for a spin?" It is possible the shirtlessness is also appreciated. And hey, if you can't flirt in jail, when can you? Bringing her leg down, Monica leans her hip against the bars instead. "Not professionally," she says in a more informative answer, "But I enjoy it."

"Makes it sound like you just do amateur night at Burlesque," Mynama snorts, cutting off her humming at the same time Monica stops her dancing. She doesn't get up, but she does turn her head toward the man across the hallway. "She's a bodyguard," the younger of the two women offers, raising her thin eyebrows for a moment as if to add now ain't that something to the end of the informative declaration.

"Perhaps I am." Griffin chuckles softly toward Monica. "Perhaps if we get out of this, I'll dance with you. I'm not much of a dancer, though. Bad knee." He drops down from the bars, swinging his arms a few times as if to loosen his muscles. He pauses, then, glancing toward Mynama as he sits on his cot. A faint smile forms on his face. "I'm what you could call a terrorist, I suppose."

"Please, I could swing poles around the girls at amateur night. Not that I'd be there, but really." Of course, Mynama is missing the key peace of information to discern why 'amateur' would offend Monica. Oops.

Looking back over to Griffin, she chuckles a little, "Don't think I won't hold you to that." But then, as he offers his occupation, of sorts, Monica can't help but look amused. "Hey, Myn! An actual terrorist." And then, to Griffin, "Independent or are you with one of the groups?"

If any word could get Mynama off her cot, terrorist is one of them.

Her eyes widen, and she's soon swinging her legs down and striding across the cell to join Monica at the bars, clutching them to stick her face close to get a look at Griffin, as if he were an animal in a zoo instead of just another prisoner - just like her.

"Yeah?" she says, a grin growing on her face to match her wide eyes. "Is that why you're in here? Did you do something at the riots? Start a fire? Or - I know! You were at that building that got blown up!" Because of all the 16 year-olds in New York City, Mynama Barros-Nunes is probably one of a handful that follows the local Evolved-terrorist activity in the media as closely as possible.

Why not? It's not like there is much else to do. He'll go silent again when the guards are around, but for now, it's nice to talk. "Well then, consider it a promise that I will dance with you, miss." He tilts his head to one side, watching the two women for a moment. "I'm with one of the groups." That's what's offered up, and for a moment, it seems as if that's all he's going to say.

"There was a raid on a safe house during the riots. I protected those trying to escape. I killed men." He shrugs quietly, leaning back against the wall and rubbing at that black handprint on his left pectoral muscle.

"You are some sort of terrorist fangirl, aren't you?" Monica says with a crooked, amused smile. She doesn't ask for more information than Griffin notes about his affiliations, probably for her own privacy as well as his. "Just all the more incentive to get out, then," is what she ends up replying with, before she looks over to the girl again.

"What did you do to get cuffed, anyway?" Her own misadventures aren't noted, because Monica's a modest gal, and she doesn't want to sound too excited about kicking the crap out of Stillwater Security.

The laugh that escapes Mynama is half snort, half breath, and is accompanied by a shake of her head. "What the hell kind of terrorist has a fan club? That's just fucked up." The other question is easier to answer, and while Mynama regards Griffin with a speculative squint at his own boasting, she leans away from the bars, leaving one hand gripped around the dark metal.

"I didn't do a damn thing. Some asshole on a horse hit me with his club, and then some other asshole pushed me, and I fell down. Next thing I know, I'm getting my hands pulled behind my back and cuffed." She pouts, and she even huffs, one sneakered foot tapping the concrete floor. "Believe me. If I could have done something? I would have."

"Indeed, quite good incentive." Griffin smiles faintly toward Monica, nodding toward the woman. Surely Nadira won't mind a single dance with another woman, especially since he'll likely be stepping on the woman's toes quite unintentionally. Then, he turns his eyes toward Mynama, his head tilting to the side. "Probably wrong place at the wrong time— a lot of that seems to have happened." He frowns.

"Yeah, seems they were just taking down anyone in the crowd. After everyone went nuts… That message," Monica says with a bit of a growl. "It seemed to set everybody off." And that troubles her. It's not how it was supposed to go, as she understood things.

"Oh, don't worry," Monica says, leaning back and folding her arms as she looks at the girl, "That wasn't the last bit of crazy this city will see." And then she looks away again, a sort of gloom coming over her.

Mynama's eyes go wide again as she looks at Monica, then they narrow in a conspiratorial fashion as she leans toward her, the one hand still grasping the bars. "What? Do you know about something? Cause if you do, you gotta tell me." She looks across the hall to Griffin again, and when she looks back to Monica again, she drops her voice to a whisper. "Fuck mister 'I killed people.' Tell me. What is it?"

Griffin tilts his head toward Monica, not seeming the least bit surprised by her words. "Oh, this will certainly cause more insanity in the future. We'll see the ripples from the eighth for years to come, just as we still see the ripples of the bomb, and of the announcement of Evolved, and of the Linderman act." He leans his head back against the wall, closing his eyes.

"What he said. It isn't that I know something specific is coming… it's just, the fall out from this is going to be harsh. Just like the 'bomb'." Yeah, she can't help the quotes around that word in her voice. But Monica looks over at Mynama, her head shaking some. "People went totally nuts. And every time we thought it might calm down, ease out… something else would happen. And this? This is ugly. This was a setup." And this time, it's Monica that slams a palm against the bars. And it's hard enough that she has to pull it back and shake it out some. "Anyway… like he said. The ripples."

The only ripple that Mynama felt when the bomb hit was the inability to find her mother - the mother that Oscar has already grieved for, and who Mynama refuses to believe is gone forever. Her expression becomes more somber as she leans away from Monica, backing toward the corner where the bars meet the wall, letting her fingers flip from one metal rod to the next along the way. "Ripples," she repeats, her eyebrows raising before she folds her arms across her chest and leans her temple against the metal. "Right."

Griffin takes a few deep breaths, lapsing back into the silence he's become so good at maintaining. It's almost instinctive in a setting like this, really. His vocal moments were always very rare in Moab. But then, he at least had things to do when he was there. With a faint sigh, the man raises to his feet once more, lifting his arms and catching hold of the top bar. His pull-ups are restarted, the man airily counting off how many he has done as he occupies himself.

Where normally Monica might step up and be the voice to cheer everyone up, or at least be a distraction. But she, too, lapses into silence, withdrawing back to her cot to sit and think. Or brood. There's been too many ripples from too many disasters already.

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