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Log Title: Eighth Day Kicking
Log setting: Afternoon, Lafitte’s apartment 1.
Log Cast:
Grace
Trace
Jason, spoofed poorly by me (Trace).
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A thudding/dragging noise could probably be heard outside in the hall before Grace's knuckles actually move to rap on the door. Though, when they do, they do so with a fervor. No nifty jingles, or cute patterns; just the kind of knocking you'd hear a cleaning lady use at a hotel when she's tryin' to get your ass outta bed.
There was silence behind the door; a heavy silence, like the quiet that echoes footsteps off long, empty hallways. Your knock seems to startled those behind the door, however, and there is a moment of brief hushed words passed between the two held captive there, and then tentative footfalls approaching the door. "Bat...?" A voice calls softly, hopefully.
A low, ragged sigh can be heard, as well as a bump against the door, as though whomever is behind it has decided to rest their full weight on the barrier. "No, it isn't Bat," Grace mutters, though loud enough to reach the ears of the two inside. "It's Grace. Look, I just wanna see Trace. Okay?"
A pause, then a voice from further back in the room, definitely Trace's, though haggard: "Grace!" Then more hissed exchanges, and he calls, "Just one second, hang on!" They seem to be arguing softly, though the words are too soft to carry. Finally the steps return to the door, and there's a pause, then a rattle near the knob. Soft, rattle noises of several locks being undone before the door is opened a crack and Jason peers out at you warily. A flat, "Hey." He turns with a soft sigh, allowing you to push your way into the room on your own if you like.
"Well, thank you," Grace murmurs dryly to Jason as she passes him to get further into the room. It doesn't matter, though, she's not here to see him. She's here to see Trace, and see him she does. So enthralled is she with his appearance, that she doesn't bother to curtail the limp that pulls on her left leg. Just kinda seems as though her leg has decided to rebel against the other limbs of her body, lagging back in protest. Features remain carefully neutral, though her lips curl in a quick grin. "Hey sweetie," she murmurs once reaching Trace's side, a little unsure of herself as to how the kid's gonna react to any sort of physical contact, so she just hangs back a little. "How are ya?"
As you move away from the door, the locks are quickly slid back into place and then Jason scoops to pick up his PSX. He moves to drape himself backwards into a chair and immerse himself in some mindless hack-and-slash game. Of course his ears are perked to our every word, but by appearance alone, he seems thoroughly distracted with the toy.
Trace gives a shaky smile as you approach, somewhat needy, and ultimately glad for a new face, someone from the 'outside world'. He's sitting up on a pile of damp blankets. Near the window, some of the wall has been etched upon with mindless charcoal doodles, and a glimpse into the kitchen area shows even more detailed work, though the majority is hidden from where you stand. The blue-haired artist brushes away perspiration-dampened braids self-consciously and murmurs, "Good to see you, Grace. I, um. I'm better than I have been." A slightly embarrassed, soft laugh. "Ain't seen eight days clean in two years."
Grace's previously hesitant smile grows a bit as she struggles to find a seated position on the ground. As pathetic as it looks, she finally makes it with her left leg stuck out straight before her. "I'm so incredibly happy for you," she murmurs, leaning closer. "I mean, my God. I am so proud. I know it sounds stupid, but.." That trails as she shakes her head, veritably beaming at the blue-haired one. "I can imagine it's been a pain in the ass, but you're still alive, and that counts for something." A firm not to emphasize this very salient point. "You don't even look as bad as I thought ya would," she admits with a teasing grin, one hand raising to lightly tug on a braid; fingers gentle. "So when're they lettin' ya out? Cause I'm gonna buy ya dinner."
Grace’s desc:
What an insignificant imp, sent straight from the hallowed halls of waifdom. Not so awful as to seem insalubrious, though enough to ponder her eating habits. Reaching only 5'4" or thereabouts, in a pair of combat-style, tattered and ragged, boots. Shiny hair is a dyed amalgamation of black and dark plum; though the purple only shades the front section of the shoulder-length mass, while the rest retains a bluish-black sheen. Pale skin is stretched over her bones, so much as to seem translucent, with a thin mapping of blue veins on her inner wrists. Her eyes are a light green, swirling with fragmented strips of orange that burgeon out from her iris. Full lips are, more often than not, being consumed by idle teeth that rake torture over the paperfine flesh. She's pretty though, in the 'gothic-chic' that seems all the rage. On second glance, yeah, she's very pretty.
A collar of ink has been stiched into the bluevein skin of her throat, a twisted meld of chainlinks and thorny bramble which seems to nearly constrict her breath, so realistically are they tattooed.
A black long-sleeved T-shirt made of some sort of shiny, stretchy material skims over her curves (wherever they're hiding), molding to the thin form carefully. Her jeans are black, slung low at the hip, leaving just the hint of a pair of blue plaid boxer shorts beneath. All ten fingers are laden with silver rings of varying size and design, and her labret is pierced with a surgical steel barbell.
The artist gives a big grin tinted with pink-cheeked shyness at your words, averting his eyes to look down at the ratty carpet. "Yeah...? Thanks, Grace. I mean.. really." A glance up. "Can't 'magine what ya thought I'd be like though, coz I'm sure I look like hell." His eyes trail down to the leg that had set you to limping, and while he looks as though he's about to comment on it, he says instead when he meets your gaze again, "You been okay?"
"Naw," Grace drawls with a quirked grin, one side of her lips kicking up while the other sorta twitches. Gotta love painkillers, no? "I mean, you're always a cutie. You just look a little peaked right now, cause ya been inside for so long." A quick glance is sent to Jason, before she leans over towards you, a slender arm snaking around your waist. "Me? I've been fine. I mean, yeah. Pretty much status quo with l'il ol me." A dismissive hand waves at that. She's not going to go into the laundry list of Fucked Up Things in her life right now . She's not the important one. "So how they been treatin' ya?" She asks in a mock conspiratal whisper. "I mean, you got food and water, right?"
"Unfortunately," Trace giggles softly, and casts a glance to Jason as well, though it's unsurprisingly more fond than the one you favored him. "M'keeper insists 'pon me chokin' down water alla time. Handin' me a glass a water every five minutes, I swear." This elicits a soft, amused snort from the redhead, but he makes no further comment and doesn't look up. "Not a lot I can keep down sometimes..." Trace continues with a little shrug, looking back to you. "Mostly jest instant soup with mosta the noodles taken out, an' I won' eat no peanut butter 'n jelly, but sometimes he lets me eat jest the jelly." He wipes at his brow discreetly as possible, which is not very since you're close enough to make it impossible, but the effort's there. "Anyway, I should only be another two days or so. Hopefully by then I can eat a real dinner."
Almost too sensitized to your actions and reactions, Grace leans back a little once noticing your attempt at brow wiping. "That'll be cool, I guess Jason's taking good care of you." Dammit, and she -so- wanted to keep on disliking the kid. Well, she's not all that splendiforous at holding grudges, so that's right out the window. "When my brother was detoxing, he didn't go to a clinic either -- he did it at his girlfriends apartment. He used to make me bring him plain white bread. Like, the Wonderbread kind? But he would only eat it when it was rolled up into little balls without the crust." Eyes roll skyward at that, though a softening of her smile does show at the mention of the memory. "It was silly, but now he doesn't stop eating that shit. I mean, he got addicted to white-bread-balls." A pause as she blinks, looking up to you with a laugh. "Uh. Well, you know what I mean." A hand raises to absently scratch at her cheek as she watches you for a few moments, before remarking, "This is the best thing you coulda done for yourself, Trace. Really."
Trace smiles with amusement at the tale of Gracie's brother the Wonderbread-ball junkie. "What was his name?" he ventues cautiously. "Yer brother's, I mean." As he speaks, he reaches out to drag a small glass ashtray closer. There are no cigarette butts inside; just several roaches and the stamped black butt of a clove, just yet another reminder of the mysteriously absent Batiste. Clever little fingers pick through the collection of roaches until he finds one with at least a few flakes of green still packed into the twisted, burnt paper. It's still a pitiful find; christ, he's really been sucking these things dry.
Hm. Nose twitches a little at the musky smell of old weed, and she reaches a hand into the pocket of her jeans, pulling out a pack of Kamel Reds. But, oh. No, a cigarette is not offered, but a relatively thin, though firmly packed joint. Fingers fiddle with the thing before handing it over. "Knock yourself out," she intones with a grin. Well, at least she was able to help with -something- right? "Anyway, his name is Tyler." A faint frown marrs her brow as she pauses, "Well, I think he changed it when he started modelling. Though I don't even know what it is now," Her wrist flicks, offering up an airy wave of dismissal. "Doesn't matter. I haven't spoken to him since I was sixteen." She carefully adjusts her position, extending her right leg to joint he left, ankles crossing gingerly.
The silent redhead gives the joint a very brief, displeased look when it passes hands. Dammit, handing out the relief is *his* department, and Grace is stepping on his territory. And yet... he's not one to make someone turn down free weed, even in spite, and hell, he agreed not to interfere. Do. Not. Interfere. So he forces his attention back to the game. Take *that*, tentacle-boss-thing. Hah.
Trace abandons the pathetic roach and takes the one you offer with a grateful smile. "Thanks. Only if you share it with me, though." He glances around for the lighter; hmm, it was here *somewhere*... The boy pokes around and finally finds it beneath the corner of one of the stale sheets that had been tossed off, and snatches it up, firing up the blunt and taking a pull. Good thing he's holding his smoke when you admit that you don't speak to your brother anymore, since he hadn't realized he'd been stirring up bad blood, and he's not sure what to say. Instead he just nods very slightly and holds the joint out to you.
Grace shakes her head a little, nose wrinkling up. "I would, but I can't. I'm taking some, um --" A thoughtful pause as she considers, "--medication, so like.. I don't think it would mix well." Head bobs in a jerky not to reaffirm her point as she settles back against the wall. "Thanks, though." Slender, pale hand moves to lightly pat an equally slender Trace knee, fingers curling warmly against it. "I'll tell ya, though, you're not missing much out there," She jerks her head back a little, indicating the 'outside world' from which you've been banned the past few days. "I mean, it's just all stupid shit, and people are mostly bored. You've prolly had a better time in here with your friends than any of us have had out there." Okay, so she's not wonderful at cheering people up, but she's trying dammit.
While the ammendment is appreciated, Trace is fully aware that whatever ache you're currently suffering has probably gotten you a script of something good. You're on *something*, anyway. Rather like bats and gay people, junkies seriously get a radar for this sort of thing. It's a necessity, knowing who needs it, who's got it. Survival skills. He quirks a grin and says, "Um, Grace, I'd rather be bored... I totally would. This is hell, y'know? It's fuckin' hell." But there's no real admonishment in his tone, just something stated semi-casual, like complaining about the temperature. "I'll be glad to get back to all my favorite people, livin' their lives super-melodramatic an' bein' more depressed than me. I liked it better that way." He grins.
Grace lets out a laugh at that, head nodding. "Oh, tell me about it. I mean, I could dish you the dirt if you want." One leg, the uninjured one, draws towards her chest, arms winding around it casually. "I mean, there's been all kinds of drama. So if you want the scoop, just lemme know." A pause as she qualifies that statement with: "I mean, from what I know, at least. Apparently, people have begun to think that I can't handle the truth." Her nose wrinkles at that, and another laugh escapes, unbidden. "I didn't mean to quote, I really didn't. It's just that everyone and their Dog Spot thinks that I'm so incredibly fragile that I can't deal with reality." Liquid green disappears behind her lids as her eyes roll, lips quirking. "So, if you want the dirt, you've come to the right place. Or, well - the right place has come to you."
The joint hisses and crackles as Trace gives it a hard pull as you speak, and then draws it away from his pursed lips, nodding a little. He says in a voice that's turned to a croak from held pot smoke, "Yeah, tell me what's goin' on." He holds it a few more moments before blowing it out, politely to the side so as not to blow smoke in your face, and then adds with a smile, "Ya kin' be my own N'orlins Streetkid Tribune."
"Well," Grace begins, leaning forward a little as she gets prepared to give a summary of the recent events that she knows of. Well, from one of the two 'families,' at least. Hm. Wait. A faint frown as she reconsiders. She doesn't wanna upset you, not when you're this fragile. "Flaggy and Nadine?" There's a good, safe topic. Well, for you at least. "They been gettin' it on behind my back, but they don't think I know. Like, they've been spending time at Gideon's house, and Star told me that something happened between them. So when I talked to them about it? They tried to deny it, but then I got Flagg to admit it. He claims it was just cause he was high, but I don't buy it." Head shakes at that, emitting a low sigh. "They think I'm so incredibly stupid. Okay, then there's the whole thing with Star and Ligeia. Apparently, Ligeia has decided to adopt him." Eyes widen at that. See? She's being honest. This is serious, too. "And it's pissing me off. Cause I don't like that woman one damned bit. I mean, not at all. But, I don't know if it's happened or not. Star was freaked out about it, too."
And what an interesting Tribune this turned out to be. Hot damn. No urge at all to delve into the funnies; let's sink our teeth into these articles. "Flagg got Nadine, eh..?" Poor girl, his expression seems to say. Oh, this is fabulous news, though. He's trying awfully hard not to show it, but can't help his little grin. "Well, a piercer fer th' piercin' guy. Guess it makes sense in some fucked up way." He shakes his head a little. "An... I'm kinda confused 'bout this bit with Ligeia an' Star. I mean. Star's freaked out? Like, someone who's not even yer relative kin' go an' adopt you without yer consent? That's pretty messed up. I mean... *I* don' think he's in such bad hands. Coz... Well, even if Ligeia got her faults, she's good fer her kid. I jest think it's kinda stupid, since she's dyin' an all, that she's gonna go takin' on kids. Don' make no sense, y'know?"
Grace's shoulders lift at that. She's as clueless as you are about the Ligeia situation. "I mean, I don't know if it's gonna happen or not, but since Star is so young, I don't think the courts would really pay much attention to his opinion on on the whole thing -- not if they deem her a decent guardian." A faint frown furrows her brow. "I hate it, though. I mean, I don't know. I guess I always considered Star -mine-. It sounds stupid," A shrug as she leans back again, "But I don't know. Though, now that he's living at Gideon's, I can't even see him." But we won't get into -that-. "Flagg swears that the thing with Nadine was just a one time thing, but I don't buy it." Her head shakes a little. "I don't think anything is ever gonna happen between us. Like, ever." And she doesn't look too thrilled about that admission, either. But, there it is. Flat out and honest.
"He always did kinda seem to be playin' with ya..." The bluecap admits with a twitch of a shrug. "But I mean..." Oh, shut up now Trace. Honesty is not always the best policy. Certainly doesn't help you out in THIS situation. But he's just a transparant dumbass or something, because after taking a hit from the joint and holding the smoke just briefly, he blows it out and does speak frankly. "I was never sure though.... Coz he always..." He swallows back something foul-tasting and straggles on with clumsy words. "I mean, that's why we fought. Coz he knew... I liked you. And it pissed him off. So he fucked with me. I mean, it didn't make any sense, coz if he wanted you..." That makes him flinch. God. Don't say that, not out loud. "He coulda said something. To let you know." There, that's a little better. "But instead he just... fucked around and took every chance he could to torture me. Maybe some people always gotta do things backwards."
"Well, there are a lot of things that Flagg and I just didn't have. And chemistry was one of them." Lips twist wryly as she looks up to you, head cocking to the side. "Like, there were all the other important elements, but there was absolutely no chemistry." Shoulders hitch in a faint shrug as she straightens her leg, letting out a low sigh. "As for him being such a cocksucker to you, well, that was another point of contention with us. Like, there was no reason for it." Her head shakes at that, eyes rolling yet again. Seems a new habit she's picked up somewhere. "Sometimes I don't know if I even wanna stay around anymore. Things are so screwy, ya know?"
[Log incomplete]
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