4/22/08 - Diego, Northstar, Jackson
The sign in the window says 'No Mutants.'
Det. Rossi is annoyed.
The sun is out, if fading, the last slipping grip of afternoon giving way to a sullen evening. For all the sunlight, the day has been cold, and the evening -- with wind tunnels routing a sharp-toothed breeze straight from the harbor into the pockets of New Yorkers -- bids fair to drop further. It is not winter again, but there is a chill, not that city dwellers would care. Wrapped in a black leather overcoat, his hands shoved in his own pockets, the cop beetles his brow at the sign in Bad Ass's window with a brooding blankness of expression that states quite unequivocally: what the /fuck/?
Northstar is on the sidewalk across the street from the Autumn Lights. He looks scruffy and is obviously uncomfortable with that. The cuffs of a pair of weathered jeans break over black leather boots and a dark blue t-shirt is tucked into those jeans. A black motorcycle racing jacket, gray and weathered about the shoulders, hangs open and he carries a duffel bag with him. Moving with a casual and slow pace, he walks down the street, watching the apartment building without trying to look like he's watching it. He apparently doesn't see the detective standing there as his attention is captured by the sign. He shakes his head and mutters something decidedly scatological and unfriendly under his breath.
Diego is speeding. He is impressed that he has found little enough traffic to go more than 5 miles over the speed limit. But he has. His motorcycle roaring, he weaves back and forth in his lane, having a bit of fun. He looks up from the road, and sees an interestingly named cafe off the street. He slows a bit, signals properly, and pulls into a metered spot right in front of it. "Wow. Lucky day." He frowns at the parking job, so he picks up the back end of the bike and pushes it until the motorcycle looks as though he had done a good job. Proud of his work, and sets his helmet onto the handlebars, locks it up, and heads toward the cafe. He stops to peer at the man looking at the shop as though it owes him money. "Something wrong?"
City-dweller though he may be, Jackson is still a Southerner at core, and the slight chill still prompts a return of his jacket (layered over a sweatshirt) (layered over a long-sleeved shirt.) as he heads back towards his apartment. His hands are shoved into jacket pockets, but though long sleeves and long pants neatly hide his plethora of tattoos, the glowing red light around him brands him much more clearly Freak than all his ink ever could. He knows the sign is there, knows it well -- and yet as he passes, he still pauses to grimace. Briefly. The pause is lengthened only by familiarity in the face of the man looking at the sign -- his brows crease with recognition as he glances from sign to Rossi. "They put that up yesterday, sir," he says, nose wrinkling slightly.
"Fucking 'A," says Rossi, answering the tone of the Diego's question rather than the words themselves. He runs a starfished hand through silvering black hair, rumpling it still further from its already wind-tousled state. Jackson's voice cuts his glance askance; impatience, already twisting the detective's mouth, tightens his eyes further at -- if not recognition of the young man, at least of his glowing. The cop needs no aura to indicate his mood. Physical irritation rides his stiff back and shoulders. "What the hell. Did I fall into some kind of time machine and wake up in the goddamn '50s?"
Northstar blinks as he hears Jackson's voice and turns, a faint smile forming and then freezes when he sees Rossi. The stiffness is there and gone in an instant. The third person he doesn't recognize, but his expression goes a bit grim and he doesn't say anything just yet, though he does sling his bag up a bit on his shoulder, as though getting a firmer grip on it and looks up briefly.
Diego peers a little more intently. "50's?" Diego was not in the 50's of the USA. He was not even in the 05's of the USA. Thus, he is confused. "Did they have mutants in the 50's?" He scratches the back of head, and raises his eyebrows. Again. This is the second time today he has seen that glow. ""
"They're popping up all over," Jackson says with a jerky shrug. His brow creases further as he notices Diego. "Oh. Hey. Your pants recovered yet?" He does not see Northstar as yet, attention more focused on the closer two men.
"No blacks, no Japs, no mutants," Rossi provides for Diego's benefit, his baritone grating, and he exhales a sharp breath, frowning at their wavering reflections in the window of the coffee shop before turning away abruptly. For all the signs, the business in the store is bustling, though the demographic is, perhaps, a little more upscale than is customary for the establishment. Suits and ties and dresses, rather than Bohemian chic. Hard green eyes glance at Diego, measuring him critically. Northstar, what? "/Goddammit/. I liked their coffee."
Diego has been peering at the man, so looking right back isn't hard. "Ah." He shrugs, and scratches the back of his head again. Diego glances over at Jackson. "Nah, I changed em. My crotch has forgiven me, though."
Northstar relaxes slightly as the conversation progresses and he walks a little closer. His expression is flatly angry when he looks at the 'No Mutants' sign and then he blinks as the stranger mentions his ... what? He looks sideways at Diego and takes a long step off to the left, putting him near Jackson.
"Good," Jackson says, a faint hint of a smile briefly dispelling irritation at the sign. "They have a tendency to hold grudges." The smile is fleeting; his glance skips back to the coffee shop, and then down to the ground. "Yeah. Me too, sir. Been going here practically every day for --" He shakes his head, words breaking off into an annoyed huff. "Oh -- hey." This last, for Northstar, as he comes closer; Jackson sounds somewhat surprised to see him.
Some conversations the cop does not want to be involved in. His harsh face wipes itself clean of expression, clamping down into an unreadable mask that disassociates him from further intimacies between Diego and Jackson. "Right," Rossi says, shifting his weight away to the heterosexual portion of the sidewalk, and his glance skims to Northstar -- a flicker of recognition, vague at best, digs a trench between his eyebrows -- before he jerks his chin at Jackson. "You're one of Ororo's kids, right?"
Diego's ears perk at the 'sir'. He looks to where the man was. Then to where the man is now. "Wha.." , then looks back to Jackson. Then to his bike. Then to his crotch. Then to the sign again. Then his mind wanders, and he shuffles his feet a bit and drops his phone on the ground. He picks it back up, and scratches the back of his head for the third time today. Then his mind returns to where it was before, and he suddenly feels very embarrassed. "No, the crotch thing, not what you think. Inside joke between me and Norah and Jackson and someone I dunno the name of."
Northstar nods gravely to Jackson and says, "Hey." He shrugs faintly and murmurs, "I need a shower." His gaze flicks over to Rossi and then back to Jackson and he arches an eyebrow at the fact that the two of them seem to know one another. Even with being obviously slightly nervous, his grin is purely sardonic and arch as he says, very dryly, "I ... see."
"Yessir," Jackson affirms. Diego's explanation makes him blink, and then blush, and then shake his head. "Spilled coffee accident," is his own explanation, nose wrinkling again as he shifts awkwardly from one foot to another. His head turns slightly, gaze flickering appraisingly over Northstar. "-- yeah, you kind of do."
"Right," Rossi says again towards Diego, still expressionless but amiable enough, given who is speaking. "No need to explain, man. It's the city. Live and let live." He shoves his hands back into his pockets again, sparing one final, annoyed glance for the coffee shop's sign, and shakes his head at Jackson. "Chuck didn't teach you how not to glow? Don't remember you doing that before." His gaze follows Jackson's to Northstar, faintly frowning.
Diego is hit with a thought. He reaches into his pocket, and fails to find what he is looking for. He steps over to his bike, and fishes around in the storage compartment below the seat. "Ah ha!" Diego shouts, vitorious, and pulls out a felt tip Sharpie permanent marker. He steps over to the sign, shrugging between the man and the other man who is significantly more scruffy, and writes in an apostrophe over the 's' in Mutants, and writes in the addition, careful to copy the original font as best he could, 'Giraffes,' taking care to write over the period with the 'G.' "Ah. That's better."
Northstar blushes at that confirmation from Jackson and unconsciously takes a step back, as though to move out of 'offensive' range. He arches an eyebrow as he adds 'Chuck' to "Ororo' in the ask file and glances at Rossi in time to catch Rossi looking back at him. He pauses a second and then nods, fractionally to the man. "Detective." His voice is cool and polite. Diego's shout and subsequent actions cause him to lift his eyebrows and his voice is entirely bemused as he says, "Very Dadaist."
"I didn't do it before, sir. I mean, yes, he taught -- I mean. It was after the -- after the --" But Jackson is spared further explanation by Diego's alteration of the sign, and he glances at it, equally bemused. "Huh. That's -- but I don't want to get coffee at some place that won't let my giraffe come, too," he decides with a mock-glower. "Speciesist." The glower fades into simple irritation once more as he adds, "-- somehow I don't think they'd serve me anyway, if I went in now an' explained I left my giraffe curbed outside."
What the fuck. Vandalism. Of, it must be admitted, a sign that is not in any way valuable property beyond the 5 cents paid at the local copy store for the privilege. Rossi quirks an eyebrow, following Diego with the slightly incredulous, cynically weary gaze of a veteran who has seen the gamut of human stupidity. "You forgot the penis," he says, adding (not unkindly) "Giraffes is a nice touch. At least you got the punctuation right." Northstar's recognition of him is not noticeably reciprocated, and the frown swings back to him as the detective dredges through memory. "Central Park," he says at last, slowly. "Photographs."
Diego frowns deeply at the remark from Jackson. "Don't be stupid, man." He shakes his head, and tosses the pen back into the bike. Then, he stands up abruptly, realizing what his ears had heard. "Detective?" He says, turning to the man. "You mean...you're not gonna report me or give me a ticket for that, are you?" Diego is suddenly very nervous at finding out he is in the presence of a cop.
Northstar continues to grin at Jackson, obscurely amused until Rossi recognizes him. His expression becomes elaborately amused and his tone is exaggerated inquiry as he replies, "Fish. Unicycle." A pause. "Sorry, we aren't still playing at being absurdists?" The expression and tone are classic 'give the cops a hard time' standards. When Diego mentions being ticketed, he looks between Rossi and Diego inquiringly, honestly interested to see what happens.
Jackson's eyes narrow slightly at Northstar's tone, but he says nothing past, "Y'all have met, too?"
Rossi hunches his shoulders in an indifferent shrug. "It's not property damage," he says, the Brooklyn accent dragging across his voice. While Diego beats a hasty retreat, the cop tracks his attention back to the other two. Northstar's attempt is rewarded with an indifferent glance; the detective is NYPD, bred to the bone, and his skin is correspondingly thick. "Small world," he answers Jackson, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in something that is not really a smile. "Like running into one of Ororo's gang released into the wild outside my coffee shop."
Northstar looks between Jackson and Rossi and his features betray a faint bafflement at that narrow-eyed glance from Jackson. He looks back to the policeman with a patiently attentive and angelically polite expression. He inquires, "Ororo's gang?"
"She was a teacher at my old high school," Jackson explains. "An' this is definitely /my/ coffeeshop, sir. Hardly coincidence when I live --" A thumb jerks back towards the Autumn Lights building nearby. "-- and go here every --" He cuts off with another frown for the now-defaced sign. "/Went/ here," he amends.
Rossi is outstandingly unhelpful: he sees Northstar's attentive and angelic, and raises him an NYPD knowing and mocking. "Must have different schedules then," he tells Jackson, again running a hand through his hair with the same noticeably detrimental results as before. "Never seen you in there, I don't think. Fuckin' A. Between this and the goddamn bar--" Under the heavy black lashes, green eyes glitter with sudden amusement. "She'll shit a brick."
Northstar's slightly pursed lips give away his lack of enthusiasm at having his nosiness thwarted, but he shrugs faintly. He looks back at the sign and his eyes are very, very cold as he says, "I can't help but think this decision is going to be very bad for business in the long run."
"Have," Jackson corrects absently, head shaking. "Didn't glow, then." He squints through the window at the bustling shop inside. "I 'unno. Don't seem to be hurting much. Signs like this -- they might keep us away, but m'sure there's plenty of others they attract."
"Can't really blame them," Rossi says with resignation, pausing with his hand tangled in his short hair, his frowning gaze directed through the window at the patrons inside. "Bad Ass has been torn by mutants. People got hurt. Couple of their servers ended up in the hospital, and the owner covered them out of pocket. They kept an open door policy to mutants for a long time, and it hurt business bad for a while. Eventually, everybody's got a limit."
Northstar nods to Jackson. "As long as they last." He looks over to Rossi and says, "This shop wasn't 'torn up by mutants'. It was torn up by /vandals/ who may have been mutants. No other minority would have to put up with being lumped together like that in the 21st century." His voice is icy cold as he makes his point.
Jackson's lips purse, considering, and eventually he shrugs a shoulder. "Maybe so, sir," he says slowly, but --" His hand lifts, points not far down the street to a grocery store. "How about them? Or the bookstore three blocks over? Or the pet store half a mile down the street? Mutants haven't hurt them, or nine-tenths of the rest of places with --" His head tilts towards the sign. "Those." Glowing shoulders slump, his hands slipping back into his pockets, and his lips quirk into a wry smile. "Thank God for the internet. Vendors there don't hardly care, s'long as your credit card's good.""
Rossi says without heat, "Vandals who could throw fire, rip out the electricity, and control the wind. Mutants with -- get this -- mutant issues. Demographics, statistics and insurance. Not to mention staying in business. A place gets hit with lightning once, it's a fluke. It gets hit with lightning five times, that's a pattern." His glance at Jackson does not lack in sympathy, but the cop is, after all, a pragmatist. "Eventually it'll hit the courts. In the meantime, spend your money at places that're friendly."
Northstar nods at Jackson's words, his expression indicating agreement and then when Rossi speaks, he gives the cop a long, level look and then shrugs. "Hey, I'm sure it will prove just as moral and useful as racial profiling." He looks towards the window of the shop again and catching him own partial reflection, grimaces and tries to smooth his hair with one hand.
"M'trying to make a list," Jackson says, brightening. "Places that suck, places that don't. -- My problem is all my friends are hippies." His nose wrinkles, sheepish. "So, you know, it's really easy to convince them not to go to places like this, but, uh. None of us have any money! So I doubt they'll /care/ much."
"Find people who have money and convince them," Rossi suggests, turning away from the store at last to squint up at the skyline. The sky is beginning to take on a blazing red and gold hue, the most attractive symptom of endemic smog. "Famous people works too. Fuck, the number of actors and socialites in this city -- they're running out of causes anyway. You might have a tough time competing with Tibet though. That's the in thing."
Northstar glances to Jackson with a bit of a surprised, appraising glance, obviously taken a bit by surprise at his reply for some reason. He looks back to Rossi and says, "Except that celebrities don't have to worry about their next movie flopping if a rumor starts circulating that they are from Tibet."
"Seems about as risky as rumors that they're shoving hamsters up their rectums," Rossi says dryly. "Haven't noticed it makes a difference."
"Hm. I think I'll try --" Jackson pauses, blushes, grins lopsidedly at Rossi's remark. "-- that," he finishes. "I mean. T'ain't like /I/ got much to lose, going around trying to get people's support for mutant-friendly business. If you ain't noticed," he says, solemnly, "I am not particularly -- in the closet."
Rossi says deadpan, "Better use dwarf hamsters." He breathes out through his mouth, chews idly on a piece of imaginary gum, then grimaces. "Scratch that. There are statutes about cruelty to animals. Try something wind-up."
Northstar winces faintly for some reason and shoots Jackson a heated glance. He looks back to Rossi as the detective's suggestion and both eyebrows raise. "Wow. Something tells me they don't serve vanilla in your pie shop."
Jackson's eye widen, and his blush deepens furiously. His hands emerge from his pockets to scrub at his cheeks. "I -- uh. M'vegan anyway. We don't -- don't --" His fingers flutter, vague. "Cruelty. Animals."
"I'll remember to tell Ororo," Rossi says, seriously. "Kojak must be so proud."
Northstar glances sideways at Jackson. His expression is entirely too thoughtful, "Really? Vegans have rules about /that/ kind of thing, too? Why would you even /think/ of stuff like that?" He shakes his head, disbelieving. Rossi's 'Kojack' reference goes right over his head and he looks baffled.
"We don't -- explicitly -- there's not /rules/ -- there's --" Jackson's blush really cannot get any deeper, but his hand half-covers his face in a splay of (three) fingers. "Not like vegan police come -- check up on -- if we're --" His head shakes, expression rather too embarassed to be amused.
Rossi says, "The shit you learn," and then grins, a flash of humor that has -- like most of his expressions -- its cynical edge, for all it warms the hard face and offers a glimpse of an actual human being. "You stay on this job, you eventually see a lot of weird shit," he tells Northstar, amending after a thoughtful pause, "--for that matter, you live in this city long enough, you eventually see a lot of weird shit. Pond as old and as big as New York City ends up with a lot of wacky scum on the bottom."
Northstar rather awkwardly reaches out to try to pat Jackson on the shoulder at the sight of his continued embarrassment. "Ah. It's cool." He looks back to Rossi and sighs faintly, "I'd be a good deal more comfortable, Detective, if I could just tell who the 'scum' are by police definition. The real one, not the one for press releases."
Jackson peeks out from between his fingers. "They define scum in press releases?"
"One PP has a press department," Rossi tells Jackson, and regards Northstar with the smallest lift of one eyebrow, the grin fading to leave his face unreadable again. His eyes darken under heavy eyelids. "Scum's got a pretty broad definition, kid. And sometimes it can be useful."
Northstar glances at Jackson and arches an eyebrow. "Metaphorically." His tone is lofty. He looks back to Rossi and nods. "Yea. That's what I'm afraid of, Detective." He sighs and hefts his duffel bag again. "And I really need to grab a shower. A long, really hot shower." He glances at Jackson and says, "I'll be home this evening. Drop by, if you get the time." He looks back to Rossi and inclines his head fractionally. "Detective."
"I got nothin' but time," Jackson says, with a faint flicker of a smile. "If you're lucky, I'll even bring food." His hands drop, slip back into his pockets once more. He regards the coffee shop's sign again, lips pressing together into a thin line, and then glances back to his building. "I s'pose I'll have to go do the un-lazy thing and make my /own/ coffee," he decides, with an exaggerated sigh. Life is v. tough.
Rossi nods back to Northstar, his gaze glinting. He does not comment on Jackson and Northstar's follow-up date, though there is something like amusement again in the line of his mouth. "Folger's," he tells Jackson, digging into his pocket to produce a cell phone. He flips it open, checking the display. "The best part of waking up. If you're sleeping alone, anyway. --Later, glowbug."
Northstar's stomach rumbles at the mention of food and he blinks. "Food. Good." With that he waves to Jackson and nods to Rossi, heading across the street towards his building, dodging traffic with a certain casual disregard that may not be native New Yorker, but is fluid enough, none the less.
Jackson's smile widens into a proper one, his blush /almost/ totally faded now, and he waves to Rossi. "Later, sir." Whatever lingering distaste the sign might have left, there is still a hint of bounce in his steps as he heads towards his building as well. (He does not dodge traffic. He takes the crosswalk, and waits for the light.)
[Log ends]