Who The Bad People Are


boxer_icon.gif shard_icon.gif

Scene Title Who The Bad People Are
Synopsis Shard summons Boxer in hopes of learning more about what is going on with Norman and other bad people. Boxer is less certain they are bad people to begin with but Shard touched his bottom once so he is owed favors.
Date August 22, 2009

Staten Island Boat Graveyard

Exactly where land gives way to water at this point of the island's edge is uncertain - first because of the saltgrass growing everywhere, both on dry earth and in the shallows, giving the illusion of solidarity; second for the structures visible in the distance, drawing the eye away from the deceptive ground, suggesting its reach extends beyond its grasp. Even if the structures are still recognizable as ships, and nothing that ever belonged on land.

There are a multitude of them, abandoned hulls of salt-stained wood and rust-pitted steel, dying slow and ungraceful deaths as wind and water claim their dues. Some still appear to rest upright, braced upon the debris of older, lost relics below; others list to one side, canted at an odd angle like someone who just struggled to the surface in search of a desperate breath. There are no hands to pull these hulks from the water, no ropes to save them from drowning; each has been surrendered to the sea, left to the ravages of unmerciful time.

At low tide, some of the closer ships can be reached - not without getting soaked, but such is the price of daring. Never mind that the rotting metal and splintered wood are the stuff of nightmares for any germophobe, definite hazards to the unwary. The more distant ships are distant indeed, beyond the reach of all but the most bold - and are all but submerged besides.

Crackle. Crackle.

Blue and white tongues of electricity dance, crackle, and dart along Shard's bare arms. His arms are held in front of him, his eyes simply watching the show of lightening playing over his forearms. Holding one hand up, the lightening plays along hi s elbow to his fingers, before surging back down.
It's late. And a lot of the light being produced between two old rusty yacht's is from Vincent's arm. Besides the crackling buzz of electricity the area is mostly silent. The waves lapping against the shore, disturbing the old boats set to rest.

A deep breath is taken.

The electricity stops, Shard's attention is stolen downward. His brow arching a bit at a small rat appearing oddly curious at him.

"Box. You there?" Comes the deep voice of the rapper, looking around for said 'box'.

One lean rat stretches up like an unwound slinky, fur glistening brackish black with sea scum and bilge water, all damp in painted shades of neon blue under the crackling force of electricity until it stops. Shard looks down; the rat snuffles, sniffs — stretches still further, the brunt of its nose finicky in whiskery twitching side to side before it balls up in on itself and scampers off.

Somewhere in the surrounding shadows, there's a shift of a black mass over lighter sand, simultaneously one and many. Leaves on the wind, for all low light defines, rustling in a surge until there are only a few left peering back in wicked glimpses of glassy eyeshine.

Then there is the crunch of a boot. And another boots. Two boots! Moving in tandem, right before left and back again as boots should. Boxer is a large man, made moreso by the dark, thinning hair bristled up purposefully into all manner of improbable vertical directions as if to call attention away from the fact that there is less of it than there used to be. Black overcoat all asweep and appropriately gangster over an equally black shirt and dark slacks, he is already offering a hand before he reaches Vincent from his approach around a grounded ship, teeth bared wide in a grin that most would be wise not to trust. "Heeey! Hallo! I am sorry — I was taking a piss. I am here."

"Box." Shard says, a touch of reproach in his voice. As if trying to remind the other man of something. The rapper's eyes go to Boxer's hands. Then his own.

A tiny jolt of electricity sizzles on his fingertip.

After that friendly reminder is given, Shard brings up his hand and gives a pat to Boxer's shoulder. Pat pat. Taking a step back, he shoves his hands into his hoodie pockets, where they are safe from Boxer's grubby fingers. "I'm sorry I haven't talked to you sooner." He sounds genuinely apologetic. After all, Boxer has become a friend to him. "White caught up with me and.." He lowers his head. "All that craziness at that end of the island." A jerk of his chin towards the rookery. "I just got away from him. But.. I think I've found some people who will help us."

He pauses looking apologetic again. "Are you doin' alright brother? Gettin' on okay?"

"I am agreeable." Does Boxer intentionally choose as many words with hard 'r's in them as possible to trip up his own rolling accent? Perhaps! His fingers twitch against the show of sizzling electricity, then wiggle once and retract. Yes, alright, Shard still does not want rats. One day he will see the light.
"New coat for me — very sharp — and today I have had two tacos and one…sub sandwich." Hesitation there is a side-effect of distraction. A rat somewhat cleaner than the majority has wound its way up onto his shoulder from its previous store in one of his new coat pockets and immediately sets to touching its nose into his ear. "I am glad you have escaped. And that you have made friends; friends are good for you to have."

"You look fly, Box. Very sharp." Vincent agrees smoothly, his eyes moving over Boxer's shoulder, making sure no one is looming behind him. He's gotten more paranoid in his past few months. Looking intently for something or someone, his attention returns to the conversation mid-sub sandwich. "Eatin' good. That's good."

"If you need more food, let me know Box. I can find you somethin'." He hesitates, eyeing the rat. "I have a place I'm going to be stayin at for a little bit I think. I want to get people together. Friends. We're going to talk about how we can stop Norman." Speaking of that. "You have anything new?"

It takes Boxer longer than it should for him to follow Shard's look over his shoulder. His head swings around and the rat ducks, soft back snaking sleek under the coarser bristle of Ryabov's beard growth on its way to clambering across his collar for the opposite shoulder. "Pretty fly for a white guy eh? Many thank yous to you. You are also looking very fly. One hundred percent." One hundred percent fly. Maybe even more than that, though his enthusiasm falls a little flat with the fact that he is still peering around looking for what might have been behind him. There is nothing behind and nothing to the left, so he goes with 'up' as another potential option.

Unfortunately, there are a few choked stars twinkling around up there in the universe to hold his attention. His head does not tilt back down again.

"I am not hungry."

A few minutes later, when it seems like he might have forgotten that Shard was actually trying to talk to him about something important, he scratches at the thick of his neck and shifts pale eyes over onto the muted sliver of the moon. "He is having club meetings at a place of dead animals. Ten or twelve with him. I do not care for the smell — it remains in my nose for days but is good for the rats."

Shard also looks up, sighing softly his attention is brought back down to earth abruptly when Boxer claims how hungry he isn't. "I mean, in general, not just right now. I have some ideas, I'm going to try and put together." His hands go into his pockets while his eyes pierce into Boxer's face as if trying to figure out the true meaning of his dumb words.

"Dead animals." A hunting club. A pet graveyard. Taxidermy place… Where else do dead animals go. "Like a slaughter house or butcher shop or something?" Vincent asks quietly, "What kind of dead animals Boxer? Can you show me how to get to this place? And ten or twelve with him? Of us?" Moab escapees. "Anyone we know?"

"Moo cows." Moo cows. Moo cows are the kind of dead animals that live in a meat packing facility. Idiot hair ruffled by a breeze spiraling in off the still of harbor, Boxer gives the moon greater study than he spared Shard. Meanwhile, one at a time rats are winding furtive out of the shadows around his boots, like cockroaches scuffling back into kitchen after the lights have been turned on and then off again.

"Pigs. Goats. Maybe they are small cows." These are the questions Boxer concerns himself with in retrospect of his investigations. Were they goats or miniature cows? Sheep, perhaps?

"Yes, yes and also yes. Many dangerous insane people — potentially terrible disaster for New York City. But hey, you are the better dresser so there is that for you, good job.”

"So it's some kind of meat processing place." Shard cuts into the talk of what size cows there may be. "Goats aren't small cows, Box." Well he needs to make sure Boxer doesn't go away with that tagic misconception, at least. "Thanks Box, I appreciate that." He wins the fashion battle against Norman. "Well Box I have a few things on the agenda… Think you can do me a few more favors?"

Shard takes a step back, turning looking back over the water. Peering over the dead boats he gives a soft sigh. "He has a lot more people. With a lot more abilities. I'm going to have to get creative."

The suggestion of favors in probable opposition of the team that Norman has assembled…gives Boxer a moment's pause. There's something subtle in the furrow of his brow that gives him away for all that he might otherwise have fallen innocently out of paying attention again. He has seen what is going on over there, and with who. The moon loses his focus. The ship yard stretching off to their side absorbs it instead, less because he is actually interested in it and more because he is not interested in looking at Shard.

"…I owe you more favors for fixing my bottom." He decides as much after several long beats of silence, chin dipped hazily after his collar when he lifts a hand for the rat on his shoulder to step carefully out onto. "Favors are no problem."

"You don't owe me any favors, Box." Shard assures him, his hands coming out of his hoodie pockets. Clasping them together, one thumb goes to knead the knuckles of the other hand as if trying to soothe himself. "But thank you for choosing to help me out. I promise this is the right thing to do." Isn't it? "Try to watch the whole island man. I need to find good people. People who want to help me and save this island. And I need to know who the bad people are.. Who would help Norman."

"I'm going to have a lot of people delivering food here soon. Packages, crates, boxes. Norman might try to interfere. Keep you ears to the ground and tell me if they're planning an attack. I'm going to get people to help out to protect it."

Boxer's reaction on the subject of rightness is rather disappointingly non-committal. His brows tip up in unenthusiastic acknowledgement in tandem with a vague tilt of his head. Accepting the possibility that it is the mmmaybe right thing even if he does not necessarily agree with it being the right thing. He evidently does not entirely disagree either.

"I will keep eyes out, and ears. In…" his fingers count out, three four five, "five days he is having a meet here on our island. Very big — plans for attack, or. Recruitment. I do not know.

"At his special club house?" Shard asks, sighing turning towards the water placing his back to Boxer. Bringing his hands out in frustration, making clawing motions with his hands, electricity jumps in bursts from one hand to the other then back, before he ultimately drops his hands.

Bzzt. Bzzt.

"I'll have to go there, then."

Tiny claws scrabble away from Shard's buzzing and crackling in every direction. Some even go so far as to slip into the water, taking cover under and upon the bump and knock of debris drifting dark against the rocky shoreline. Even the grime spiked lump of rodent in Boxer's palm skirts up into hiding in the hollow of his sleeve, where it proceeds to make spasms of nervous progress back up his arm towards his shoulder.

"At his special club house, yes. I do not know names. There is one who sees things — a woman. Maybe with an 'R.' The others you will know, maybe."

Alone, evidently – or without Boxer's company, at the very least. He is already sinking back into the shadows of the boat yard, too uneasy at the prospect and plugged into the baser fear of his filthy little friends to linger any longer than he has to. “If you call I will come. …Maybe next time find a magic power that is friendlier to rats. Yes? …Okay?”

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