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Log Title: Queen’s Trial, the Second Attempt

Log setting: The porch outside 269 Bourbon, early afternoon.

Log Cast:
Walker
Trace

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Late morning. Where's Walker? Why... on his front porch. Cell phone cradled in both palms, elbows on his knees as he sits on the swing. Bent over so his goldenred spill of long hair hides alabaster features though the screen of lazily growing ivy helps to do that remarkably well too. Down the block someone's already set up their sprinkler and further down a dog roams free of leash or owner, marking random trees as he goes. The birds are trilling in the magnolia trees and the world seems almost perfect. Right?

So here's Trace coming to screw up another perfect world, or at least cloud it for Walker and himself. He comes trudging down the sidewalk, slightly damp from stepping through sprinklers on the way perhaps. He nears the porch as cautiously as last time, and doesn't approach yet at all, hanging back and just watching. Maybe he's politely waiting until you're done talking to whoever might be on the other end of that cell phone. Maybe he's just gathering courage.

Little chance of your interrupting a phone call given that he's not using the phone he's holding. Just has both hands wrapped around it, the cupped thing held in a midair hover as he stares down, presumably, at it. A few moments pass and the tapered chin lifts, parting the veil of coppery gold. He must be up way late or something because Walker looks pretty weary. Some of the tiredness drains away as he spots you, though, replaced by a cooler calm expression. Placid, to suit the day. Lips part but he doesn't speak immediately, needing to backtrack a half beat to clear his throat. Then: "Hey..." Despite the soft cough the word still manages to sound a little junky. But a smile contradicts any potential strain that might be imagined behind the tone. "S'up?"

Trace takes this recognition as his go ahead to approach the throne. Sure, the throne is technically that favorite armchair, but the bluecap is fairly certain this place of ivy and shade defaults to a throne when Walker chooses to lounge out of doors. He keeps his head down humbly, stepping with care up the walkway leading to the porch; it looks slightly like one picking his way across eggshells with care, or perhaps landmines. He takes a seat on the very edge of the porch, shoes still on the concrete path. Hands clasp uncomfortably on one knee, and he looks up at you. "Nammuch." Quiet words, and he seems to be putting effort into keeping his gaze on yours. Your porch is really interesting, see, that's why he wants to look away and roam it with his eyes rather than meet cool green. But he holds fast. "I jest... I come'd back, like I said I would. Try again to talk with you."

It's the outdoor Court, certainly. Every queen has one. Ask the European royalty. Jade slips away from you and back to the phone, the electronic device quickly set on the small table nearby. A long spell of silence follows -- seems to be his trend today, that silence -- before he speaks again, reaching for a clove as he does so. "Whatcha wanna tawk about?" The words follow a slow exhale of milky-blue sweet scented smoke. A gentle push against the porch sends him to swinging gently, the nearby rustle of leaves as the greenery responds to a tickle of breeze mingling with the soft squeak of new chain.

"Well..." Trace realizes that if this is going to be a long conversation at all, (and yes, that is what we're hoping for) he had best turn around, since this half-twisted position isn't too comfortably. He scoots back a little, so his back is to one of the porch's supporting pillars, and draws his knees up to his chest. "I did a whole lotta talkin' last time, but not so f'you. I guess I... I wanted to shut up a lil' more this time, hear more'a what you had to say." He goes silent, arms curling about his knees protectively, as he looks up at you. His face tries for that same calm neutral, but you're much better at it. His frame is tense in that huddle, a thread of anxiety that's pulled taut all through him.

Say... Just a month ago it was so important to the swinging beauty. He wanted so badly for everyone to just sit down and shut up for a minute. More than a month ago. Forever. Well. Since the world blew up, anyway. But now... he can't think of anything -to- say. This being without words thing has got to stop. But it's just... hard. To talk. Now should be the time where he gets to get up on his high horse and spout off about how unjust the whole situation was. How unfair. How senseless. But you've already expressed your regret for the matter. And he's never been one to rub anything in. Not intentionally anyway. There's only one thing on his thoughts right now regardless. And since he can't find any other words that would mean anything right now he simply stares at you, letting the pretend smile slip away. "Trace..." Don't you love it when sentences start that way? Just makes your stomach plummet to your toes, doesn't it? "Did Jason... Was Jason th' one that put Batty in th' hospital?" Slam. There it is. Question at point blank. Not much a way to dodge that one.

That breaks Trace's gaze away from yours, skittering out to some of the twining ivy and lingering there without really seeing the delicately curling green hearts. If there ever was a night that Trace put a padlock on, and a big sign that says 'Do Not Enter', it was that one. Just doesn't wanna go there. Ever again. "It was..." he tries to begin softly, but already his voice is all choked up. His hands unwind from about his knees and he rubs at his eyes gently, willing away the sting, then shifting his hands to cup his brow and keep his thick ropes of hair pushed way back. "It was the... the hardest thing I ever hadda watch," he says softly. "They were both.. so vicious to each other. And it all happened so fast. They-they're my best friends!" His voice is young and plaintive at the unfairness of it. "You don't know how hard it was to see..." He shakes his head a little, arms collapsing in a protective fold while his braids all sweep down to curtain his face. "Happened so fast. All I could do was stand there, and, and then it was done, and he was crying there, and.." His ramble had started to pick up speed, but now he takes a moment to pull it all back together and compose himself. Give it out in short, simple truths. "I... looked Bat over, but it jest looked like some cuts and bruises. Jason tried ta..." A glance up, self-conscious. Dammit. This part's tricky to explain. "He-he tried this, um. First aid thing he knows. But it weren't working. So we runned to call fer an ambulance, and I couldn't go back when they got there, coz I'd get arrested and sent home, but I watched as the ambulance got there, and Ryan and Doug showed up, and made sure he was okay." A shiver takes his shoulders briefly, and he looks down at his folded hands.

The heels of pale palms move to grind into Walker's eyes, a motion meant subconciously to grind away the reality. You were supposed to say no. No. NO! Ankles slide close, hooking together to anchor support for the swing, effectively stilling its sway. For just a moment pain slices through the numbness inside. Just a heartbeat of nearly mind-killing internal eruption and then all is quiet inside once more. It was the hardest thing you had to watch. A couple of cuts and bruises. His spleen was ruptured. Vicious... words. Lies and truths and whispered secrets concealed behind veiled eyes -- does everyone truly think he's omniscient? And from all the inner turmoil of half-thought ideas... a laugh. Soft as the breeze whispering through the vines shielding the porch and dry as a desert day. No humor there. But it's a laugh. Why? Why not? Makes as much sense as any other reaction he might could have. "Well. S'good ta know some thin's're consistant." Words no louder than the laugh and no less papery-thin. "Jus' gotta wondah what else I'll get ta hear that evrabody thinks I already know. Ya fuckin' anybody I like?" The last question's more rhetorical than anything. Just there to reinforce previous words. A last pull off the clove finds it being pitched clear across the porch toward the far rail, never mind the ashtray near at hand. "I gotta go." This time it's not you trying to run off, it's him. It's been ages since he ran from his own home but now seems the time for that streak to end. 'Course he has to get past you first seeing as you're on the low steps and unless he wants to leap into the bushes he's got to go that way. Since he's in shorts he rather -needs- to go past you. And that's just what he plans to do.

Trace shakily stands up in a remarkable show of bravery. Wanna jump some bushes now? "Wait!" the boy yelps, features pinched. "I thought y'was sayin how you never got to speak yer side'a things! Doan' you want me to unnerstand?" A shrill and desperate plea, perhaps aimed at your back if you have pushed past him anyway. "N'you asked me and I tell'd ya everythin honest as I could... Walker, Bat still loves me in spite'a all this. I don't unnerstan' you! I mean, I-I kinda do, but I mean, I come and apologize, I try to give back all I took, I come back to lissen even though these talks always tear me up... What'm I poseta do, Walker?"

No, he doesn't shove past you. It takes a lot to get Walker riled enough to actually use physical force and you simply don't represent something to drive him to that edge. "Give me back what ya took.." he echoes without inflection, pacing back a couple of steps like a caged panther might on charging the gate as the zookeeper exits only to find it swung closed at the last minute. "Ain't nobody can give me that. Ya wanna give me back m'peace-a mind? M'sense-a security..?" Slender arms fold around his midsection to hide the tiny belly-dragon, hands cupping his elbows. There's nothing accusatory in the desolate tone. There's only a hollow ache, like an echo at the back of a deep, deep cave. "Take... take away th' dreams... an' th'--" A sharp lift and shake of the head cuts him off. "What y'all took from me that night went beyond th' broken keepsakes an' bullet holes an' hundreds-a dollahs-a drugs ya trashed. Ya-- there ain't nothin' ta give back, Trace. Ya can't rewind th' clock. But it don' mattah. It don' fuckin' mattah anyways." Abruptly he sits down. Yes, right there in the middle of the porch, arms hugging slendercurvy legs close. "I jus' wanna get real high... I jus' wanna rush again an' f'get ev'rathin'." Soft and pitiable. Just wants to forget -everything- for a while...

Trace listens as you speak, almost interrupting in parts with staccato bursts of sentances that die in infancy, the occasional aborted "Wait, I--" and "But--" and "I din'--" But they always fall silent. He's got to let you speak, and he isn't quite sure how to respond properly just yet anyway. Finally, at your last confession he sighs softly and drops down into a crouch before you, elbows on his knees. He looks down at his hands. Finally, in soft monotone, "I did, a few days ago with Bat. But I'm off it now. Hopefully f'good this time." A sigh. He shakes his head a little, tossing blue ropes gently about his shoulders. "I don't got... no piece of mind, nor any security. It were all wrapped up in my Triangle, and in our Family. But that's all gone, and I got no food, and no shelter, and no nothin'. So we both lose. Alright?" One hands reaches up to shove dreds out of his eyes. His next words are quiet and bleak, knowing there's still no excuse, but he's going to clear up what he can. "We din' break nothin' in yer house. Jest tossed it onna floor, made a mess. I don't know nothin' bout no drugs. I was gonna take from ya hockey puck, but it were empty when I found it. I'm sorry f'the bullet holes. One'a them was mine, but I'll 'pologize f'both. I really feel bad about alla it. It were all a mistake. And I guess I'll be 'pologizin' fer it fer the rest'a my life, coz alla it DID matter t'me. It were all in the heat of a moment. I never thought things'd be broken f'good. Jest... a horrible mistake."

He just looks at you, face a blank slate over a pair of infinite green gems that seep jade juice of pain and frustration. The only emotive window on the pristine face. "It cost us five thousand dollahs ta fix th' house an' get a new bed, Trace. Wartah plays hell on wood floorin'. So does paint." The bullet holes couldn't have hurt the price either. Though one was his fault. "It don' mattah... it don' mattah..." Head goes down on his knees. Almost felt good enough to do again but he holds pose in a near-fetal upright curl rather than testing which will give first: skull or knees. Already knows the answer. "Don' mattah..." Didn't he already cover that? "S'Batty got anymore tar?" Say yes this time, dammit.

Five thousand dollars. God. Trace reels at the sum, falling back into a sitting position. After a surprised moment, he pulls his legs crosslegged as though he meant to fall like that, and was just finding a more comfortable position. He's quiet before he finally says numbly, "No." Whoops. Not what you wanted to hear? But-- "He's got somethin' better. Some real fine brown sugar. Rocked my world." All this prattled off without feeling. Finally he looks up, focussing on you. "Most I can get is two-thousand," he says with meek apology, and immediately looks down again with shame. "Think I kin' get it anyway. Someone owes me... from a long time ago." He shudders a little, for some reason, but still stands firm on the idea of repayment. "I didn't... think about the water. Walker, I'm so sorry." What do you expect? They may walk tall and talk tough, but these are children. It's all so immediate. The bullet hole, he figured, you'd pay for. Maybe the plastic cover of the bed. But no, he didn't think of that slow creep of liquid that would spread across the wooden floors... And apparantly all the 'It don' mattahs' in the world aren't going to sink in into his skull, or come back with a stubborn 'But it does to me'.

"I don' want yer money." It was meant to have more fire than that but somewhere between mind and tongue the fire petered out. "I ain't gonna take no money. Don' want money." You know from experience he won't take it if you bring it. At least it's a pretty solid conclusion to jump to after the bong. A rough shove propells him up to his feet once more, an agitated sweep brushing long hair off his shoulder. "Jus' want it all ta stop f'awhile..." Everything. The nightmares. The memories. The apologies and still-surfacing secrets. All of it. It's so much easier to drift on autopilot. Easier to not think and just go.

Well, he didn't know, really. Ben took the fifty dollars. But then again, you'er not Ben. Trace doesn't try to stop you this time. He picks himself up off the concrete and looks at you, at a loss now. Finally, "Alright." It takes an effort to get the word out, but to enforce it, he says it again. "Alright. I'll... let you be. I only come by because I d'wanna... let go, and I won't." He's mumbling towards the sidewalk now, head lowered. "But I'll let you be and stop... stop botherin' you." A hand lifts to scrub his knuckles over his eyes. "Least I kin do, I guess. Be well, Walker. If ya... if ya ever do wanna splain stuff like you said you did, then tell Bat and I'll be here."

From the viewer's position it looks like he's manually forcing his head up, fingers sliding up through long hair as his head lifts. "I don'..." Want to let go either. Gawd. This is so confusing. But he really just wants to retreat to that happy time from way-back-when. But there's so much shit. And it keeps pouring on. Every week, it seems. Don't be angry at Bat, Glass said. Angry isn't part of the equation anymore. Not really. Everything's so confused. He just wants to sleep. But you'll never hear him say that more than once. Ben worries too much. He doesn't want you to go despite his own attempt to run moments ago but by the same token he's not sure he wants to stay either. Frustrating to feel so many different ways at once. "Yer not botherin' me... s'jus' a shitty mornin'." He hasn't been up long and it's already a bad day. Yet another good reason to sleep. Start a new day. "Tawk ta Jason... he knows m'side-a thin's. Mostly. I jus'... don' wanna think about nothin' right now." Stop saying that, Holly. He knows.

Wait. You... don't want him to go? Or at least, he's not bothering you, anyway. Gosh, you can confuse a boy. Trace blinks, throughly thrown now and looking pained with the effort of trying to figure out where to go now. "I can't... talk t'Jason. Y'know how he is." Well, no, you clearly don't. We established that a bit ago. So he pulls in a sigh and clarifies, "Jason donn't... splain nothin. He doan' like to, and when he do, he's bad at it. Even if he tries real hard. Dunno, he ain't so good at talkin' stuff out..." Definitely an 'actions speak louder than words' sort of boy. Batiste's opposite, in that respect. "So doan' spect he'll share what he learned with me. If you doan' tell me, I stay clueless. But if it hurts f'you ta tell me..." He shakes his head a little. "I d'wanna hurt you no more than I have."

Don't worry, Trace. Walker confuses himself before he confuses anyone so you're not alone in your bafflement. "Ain't about... Gawd, m'head hurts." He sighs softly, smudging a hand over his cheek. Not that the action helps him think any clearer. Jason seemed perfectly apt at explaining when he talked to him last. But he wasn't thinking real clearly then so maybe he was wrong. "S'jus'... ya nevva knew all-a it. An' nobody nevva stopped ta tawk ta me 'bout nothin'." Where anger once fed and fueled him with those words now there's only soft, tired resignation. "Batty an' me... we been close since we met. Literally. I made him promises back when we were still hangin' at 'yita's place an' he nevva tol' me nothin' changed. I figga'd he an' Jason were sleepin' tagetha but I figga'd... figga'd evrathin' was square all around. Didn't lie... nevva would lie about love..." He moves then, heading over to the small table to grab a cigarette. "If y'all woulda jus' tawked ta -me- I coulda... coulda stopped it all b'fore it got here. B'fore evrathin' stawted really. But y'all didn't give me chance. An' evrabody always thinks I know evrathin'. I don' know shit." That last is put out with a tone bordering near disgust. I. Don't. Know. Shit. Nothing. "Didn't know y'all pushed Jordan. Didn't know Jason didn't know about me an' Bat... I mean -gawd- we were jus' sleepin' tagetha since we fuckin' -met-." A sharp pull sucks clove smoke down deep as he addresses the porch at large, pacing back to the rail again. "Didn't know Jason's th' one what trashed Bat... evrabody expects me ta jus' -know- these thin's an' I DON'T." There. You heard his say. The grumpy, unembellished core of it.

Trace nods very faintly, looking at you with a sad, silent calm as you speak. And as you finish, there's a few more heartbeats of silence and gentle wind in the ivy before he nods very faintly. "And f'that... yer innocent," he whispers. "F'all that, ya got no shame t'hold in ya heart." He sighs softly, breaking his strange gaze to look down to the concrete. "Took me awhile to get that, Walker. Maybe s'jest I know Jason so well, I forget sometimes that he's more mysterious t'other folks than t'me." Which is saying a lot, because after all this Trace still thinks Jason is pretty damned mysterious. "I guess... I didn't see how someone could *not* realize jest how territorial he is. Y'all broke his heart, Walker. He couldn' deal with it. Him and me, we're different than the lot'a you. If a girl t'me did what Bat did, slept around knowin' it'd kill a parta me, an' try t'hide it..." He shakes his head a little and sighs. "I understand a lot more now. I tole' ya before I wish I hadn't run that one night, when I gave Ben back the money, an' gived him my poem. I'd planned t'hear ya both out that night. But I was a fuckin' coward and I runned off, and afta that it all fell t'pieces." He sighs softly.

"I didn't mean fer /anythin'/ ta get broken!" Walker turns then, just enough to fix you with the full of his tragedy-mask expression. Only this mask is tinted with anger diluted by days and talking (wow... talking -can- help...) to something little more than irritation. "Nobody nevva tells me shit! Nobody. Nobody evva does." A bit all-inclusive, yes. "An' I'm jus' so tired-a all-a it." He swallows a bit to quickly, a soft sound akin to a hiccup forcing him to stop there. Nope. No one's getting in the side door and inside. Not if he's the one opening the door. He's complaining so bitterly about not being told anything and every day he lives out half his life behind a jail of thick lashes and plastic smiles. But that's his perogative. Take in but don't let out. He forces a deep breath and exhale followed up with a drag off his cigarette. "I needa... vacation. 'R somethin'."

Trace flinches back a little at your first defensive cry, but stays quiet for a few moments, lips pursed and thoughtful. Finally, "Y'din' break it. Batiste did, and less directly Jason, by feedin' into Bat's insecurities with his silences and his disappearin'. Bat's...I dunno. I'm comin' to realize that strong as he kin' be, he's also real insecure." He shrugs, though not lightly or with dismissal. "Now I realize they prolly... never were perfect for eachotha' from the start. Bat puts a lotta stock in words, and hardly any in actions, and Jason ain't no good with words. Bat couldn't trust enough. And Jason ain't the type to reassure, or even realize he gotta." He sighs and rubs at his eyes, definitely weary with the mess too. "Dunno. I try to stay outta it these days. I d'wanna be in between their heartache no more."

You never knew Bat was insecure? That earns several blinks. He always knew that. But then he has a knack for identifying weakness in people and, interestingly enough, covering it. Soothing it. "I don' wanna be... I don'..." He fumbles over the words. No, he's not really sure what it is he wants aside from release and relief from the downward spiral without end. "I think I'm gonna..." A vague motion toward the barred door. Yeah. That. Sleep or take aspirin or hunt up some valium. Something. Maybe a bottle of something strong will do the trick but lately all that does is make him irritable. Maybe alcohol's not what he needs. "I jus' wish..." A pause. He wishes so many things. "It was all jus' a bad dream." He grabs his cloves up and heads toward the front door.

"The worst I known," Trace agrees quietly, arms folding around his stomach protectively. "Thanks f'stickin' round to say ya piece, Walker. Maybe when ya get some sleep, you'll get better dreams, eh?" He turns to leave, tucking some dreds back behind one ear. One glance back, brief, but then he's padding back down the walkway and up Bourbon, towards a place that isn't home, but for now, will have to do.

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