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Log Title: Assult with a Deadly Danish

Log setting: Jackson Square, an ungodly hour of the morning, the day after Valentine’s Day.

Log Cast:
Nelson
Trace
Corporal Styles
Alisynde
Goose

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Nelson sits at the bus station, engrossed in the morning paper. Whatever he's reading there, it's riveting - world-shattering.

Nelson, engrossed in his paper as he is, reaches for his coffee clumsy - one of those paper-cup deals with the plastic lid. Good thing about the lid, his hand sweeps it over on its side. This stirs him from his reading and he drops the paper, both hands scrambling to save the precious caffeine.

Gee. Life sucks when you're a grubby punk kid who couldn't get laid on Valentine's Day. The giddy high of sleep dep has worn off, or at least he's still waiting for that second (or third, or fourth) wind, so Trace is wandering Jackson Square in that zombie oblivion. Ugggghhhh. Neeeeed. Braiiins. Or coffeeee. Eh, whichever gets to him first. Trudge, trudge. Bleary eyes don't even register the pre-Carnival tourists loitering about, but finally one nearly bumps into him (or the other way around, who knows in that state). He glares. What are you people doing UP AT THIS HOUR? Go... look at the pretty houses or marvel at Poppy Z. Brite's genius or something. You sheep. Geez. Hands are shoved down into his pockets.

Nelson fusses over his coffee cup, righting it and rummaging free a kerchief from a pocket to dab at the spilt coffee around the sides. Oh, great. And you think *you* can't get any on Valentine's Day. He frowns deeply. This morning is not going well. Forget the paper. It was just the comics anyway. He gets up from the bus station and stalks unhappily into the square proper, weaving around people without so much as a 'pardon me'.

Trace likes Jackson Square. Okay, so it's full of tourists, and the beignet vendors' shouting can get annoying, but what's cool about it is how it's actually, well, round. He surveys the grounds with half-awake thoughtfulness. Yeah, bet the city planners were pulling hard on that j, and all, 'Okay, okay, I GOT it, maaaan. It's like. Get this, right? The concrete goes around in a big circle. Like round, y'know? And we call it Jackson *Square*, man! Hehehe.' Whatever. Trace chuckles at himself. Weird shit you think of at six in the morning. He stoops to pick up a half-eaten danish of the ground, still half-wrapped in its wax paper. He brushes at it with fumbling fingers, rubbing at the grit and dirt, not quite succeeding in his attempt to rub it OFF the pastry rather than grind further into the flakey mess. He's not looking at all where he's going, but his feet haven't quite let his brain know that they've decided they wanna be on the move again, so he ends up stumbling right into you. Yay, pastry on your shirt! Just goes so well with the coffee. Dude, you're coordinated. He looks up at you, blinking without comprehension. Hey. Your shirt got on my danish!

It's early (or late, depending), and some of us haven't had our coffee yet. And OH! It would figure the one day he wears a *nice* shirt, too! He snarls. Yes, the geeky chemist snarls, and it is not a happy sound. It's barely a human sound, come to think of it, except somewhere in the midst of the free-form voicings of displeasure he manages to toss the words in "Look what you've done!" Do you hear me, young man? You're grounded. Er, or something. He gestures to the ruined silk, just in case the ranting weren't enough to draw your attention. "Just look at this!"

Nelson’s Desc:
Greeting the world with a bearing that says "Please don't hurt me.", the life's path of this young man stumbles, if briefly, upon yours. He's an awkward and self-conscious man poured into a charcoal gray suit that almost looks good on him, even if the tailored fit shows off just how slender his body is; a far cry from scrawny, but nothing about his form passes for intimidating - or overly masculine, while we're on the subject. His washed out pale skin is offset mercifully by a touch of color. The silk shirt beneath his gray jacket is a rich shade of burgundy, accented with the narrow black slice of a tie. The way he carries himself, withdrawn and uneasy, undoes promptly any sense of flair or style this ensemble might have given him. Even so, his short dark hair, always looking like someone has just ruffled it, hesitant gait, and vaguely lost expression render him almost cute, in a geeky sort of way. He'd do much better if he lost the glasses, though; coke bottle lenses and dark wire frames that do him no justice magnifying those long lashes and already large sea blue eyes beneath. Clasped close to him is a briefcase, which he doesn't carry so much as hides behind.

Corporal Styles enters the square from St. Peter.

Corporal Styles wanders slowly through the square, keeping an eye on things as ne moves.

"Well..." Trace blinkblinks at Nelson, as though not sure what to make of this snarler. He pulls a sulk, looking down at his half-eaten danish. "Well... oh yeah? I mean, coz you kin' afford silk shirts, but you jest ruined my danish." So there. Yeah, he can pick it up off the ground, but man, keep those silk shirts away from the food! Heh, well, hopefully you didn't see that. Yeah, he bought it. "I think you owe me a new danish," he murmurs, and looks as though he's considering this logic even as he says it. Finally a nod to himself. Yep. Definitely needs a new danish for this. His is just RUINED.

Nelson squints at Trace, pushing his glasses up further on his nose to peer closer. He studies the blue-braided youth without a word, which might or might not be juuuuuuust a little eerie. Grammar teacher gone bad or space alien? You be the judge. Absently, he flicks bits of danish off his shirt, onto the ground from wence it came. "Tell me something." he says, at length, directed to the pastry ninja who's assaulted him.

Alisynde comes into the square from St. Ann.

Alisynde ambles along, whistling a bright and sprightly tune, sure to annoy people who are just getting to bed.

Trace shifts slightly beneath that intensive gaze, one thumb hooking in his pocket. The other clings faithfully to the silk-soiled danish. "What," he pushes out, too blunt to really warrent a question mark at the end. Snotty punk this morning. The bluecap is typically more friendly than this, but when you catch him at sunrise, yikes. He lifts his chin to regard the walking breakfast trey.

Nelson looms over Trace, in as much as a skinny not-very-tall man can loom. He flicks another bit of danish off his shirt and asks in a quipped, crisp tone, "Where on my person does it say "Idiot."? Am I wearing an invisible sign only you can see? Is it blinking in neon letters over my head only for your eyes? I'm curious what part of that intensely flawed logic you've just fed me I'm supposed to swallow. I mean, really. If you want a danish you didn't pick up off the ground, can't you at least humor me and pan-handle?" He sips at his coffee as his little speech concludes. What's left of his coffee, that is.

Corporal Styles wanders over to get a better look at the food fight, though he stays far enough back to avoid anything but a serious glance around the area.

Alisynde's whistle dies as she takes in a sullen Trace and a...danish-sporting Nelson? Her eyebrows quirk, and she comes to a stop a short ways away, watching curiously.

Pan-handle? PAN-HANDLE? Trace's eyes widen at your insolence. "I don't fuckin' pan-handle!" he protests, and adds for good measure, "Motherfucker." Not too tough, though. Like a quickly added last minute addition to counter that looming thing you're trying to pull off. We probably both look pitiful in this stare-down, to be honest. A five foot two pipsqueak and well, heh, you. "Fine, know what?" The danish is tossed down without a thought as he roots around in the other pocket with his sticky hand, finally coming up with a black magic marker. He uncaps it and starts to scribble on his left hand. The very tip of his tongue pokes out of the corner of his lip as he works, putting some concentration into it. He's carefully not to show you what he's writing just yet.

Alisynde bites her lip. Not good. Nope. She sidles her way over a little closer towards Trace, specifically.

Nelson sighs and 'stands down', as it were, or at least relaxes a little. He glances around with the paranoia of the terminally self-conscious, raking a hand through his hair in a nervous, agitated gesture. All that righteous indignation drains away, leaving his features looking almost guilty. "What." he says sullently. "Now what. What are you doing?"

Trace finishes up his work on his left palm and gives a very slight nod of approval. Then a flash of wickedness in a very quick smile before it tightens and he steps forward and slaps his hand right against your chest very quickly. The marker was thick and black, still very wet, and when he draws his hand back there's a faded message, the word 'IDIOT' now stamped onto your shirt. Not like it shows too well against burgandy, but he makes his point anyway. The concentration he displayed earlier was to write it properly backwards on his palm. He skitters out of reach and stands two feet off or so to smirk triumphantly.

Nelson isn't the world's stealthiest chemist. The deed is done and Trace skittered before he even gets out the squawk of outrage. He scowls down at the handiwork, eyes narrowing behind coke-bottled specs that choose this moment to slip down his nose. He pushes them back into place firmly and darts Trace a withering look. He tugs the jacket of his suit over the shirt as best he can, shoulders sagging. Not a great conversationalist at the best of times, now; he doesn't say a word.

Corporal Styles chooses this time to move up behind Trace. "Alright, people. I believe that will be enough." He positions himself directly behind Trace, something like a wall. "Sir, do you want to press charges?"

Alisynde sighs, rubbing at her nose. Then she affects a forced air of utter cheer, and strolls directly towards the pair, with a sunnily chirped, "Morning!" Let's see if Ali can get Trace mad at her and away from Nelson. She halts, however, at the Officer's approach.

Nelson glances up vaguely. He blinks a few times at the officer and says quietly "What?" A glance goes to Alisynde, then Trace. He shakes his head and witdhraws a few steps, warily, and says "No, no it's no big deal."

Corporal Styles nods and sidesteps out of Trace's way. "Alright then, why don't we just break it up before it gets any worse?"

Trace's eyes widen in surprise and mild, not-quite-clearheaded outrage. He can be cocky now that Nelson's not doing anything about it. "What the fuck, man!" he demands of the cop. "Whatchya gonna get me on? Assult with a deadly danish? Jesus christ, he spoiled my freakin' breakfast, and I ain't poseta get mad at all?" He grumps and stuffs the marker away in his pocket, arms crossing defensively. Hiding the TOIDI printed on his palm. A glance over, and brows lift a little. What's this? A drudged smile for Ali. Okay, even at 6am she gets a smile. "Hey, Ali." A glance back to the others, just brief. You believe these guys?

Corporal Styles smiles faintly. "Assault with a danish? That's a good one...but no. Try battery and destruction of property."

"Destruction of property?!" Trace erupts hotly. "He destructed my fuckin' danish!" A dark scowl, and he looks to Nelson. "He don't look so battered t'me, anyway."

Nelson sighs and says "Officer, really. I mean, it's nothing. Think about all the people getting stabbed and shot right now." He pauses, and his eyes widen with vague horror - obviously, this is something he thinks about, maybe a little too much. He stammers a little, then says quietly "He's just being a kid. It's nothing."

Alisynde offers Trace a gentle and warm smile, even as she adjusts the strap on her carrycase slung over one shoulder. "C'mon, Trace. I'll buy you another danish. And you can help me get set up..." She says to the officer, mildly, "I'm sure it was just a misunderstanding, Officer. I'll pay for the cleaning of the shirt." Trace gets a sharp look, but her tone is still quite mild. "Trace...everything's fine. Right?"

Corporal Styles gives Trace an even but none too friendly glance. "Relax, son. And watch your language."

Okay, so the punk's scowl does soften at Nelson's words, and grows confused too. Why's he sticking up for him? That's kinda weird. So his features smooth into neutral finally. Corporal Styles' words barely register. Watch my language? Yeah, watch my fuckin' finger, bud. But no, Trace doesn't do that. He's getting away fine as it is. Best not to rock the boat. He sighs and rubs at his eyes.. God, long night. A glance to Ali. "Things're sorta fine, cept I'm hungry and lonely and I have no danish. So.. so yeah. Les' get a danish. You don't buy me one, I might hafta go an' PANHANDLE or somethin'. Such a desperate soul." Grumblemutter.

Nelson crosses his arms over his chest, further hiding his newly acquired label. He glances to Alisynde apologetically and says, tone low and defeated, "Forget the shirt. I'm just going to go home or something. I didn't want to go to work today anyway."

Corporal Styles folds his arms, some kind of sentry, and he watches the parties involved...just in case.

Alisynde says, "If you're sure, Nelson...try club soda. It might get that out. Or a SHOUT! stick, although that's better on protein. Youwant a coffee? Maybe we should talk things out? Make sure there's no hard feelings or anything." Trace gets a rather oblique look at that last statement."

Again Trace and Nelson are probably comical mimics, both huddled at the shoulders, arms crossed tight, hiding their repective 'IDIOT's. "They got... club soda at Cafe du Monde, betchya." Yeah, so Ali gets to by him a *gourmet* danish now. "Anyway, ahh..." the bluecap looks down, a frown on his lips, feeling the flush spread through his cheeks as he mumbles under his breath, "..jest, well. Ah, thanks fer tellin' that cop that." A glance up. Cop, you still here? "He SAID he weren't pressin' no charges. Seriously, I think I see a litterbug over there. You prolly oughta call in the swat team."

Corporal Styles remains stone-faced at the comments from both Trace and earlier from Nelson. Guess he's used to that kind of stuff.

Nelson scuffs his foot against the ground sullenly, not looking to grown up himself at the moment. "If I go in there looking like this, people are going to laugh." he explains to Alisynde.

Alisynde shakes her head. "They will not. Hold th'case in front of it." She glances down. He is carrying his case, right? Ali's got hers, after all. "Talk t'the server, get th'bottle, and go t'the men's room. Simple. Y'gotta at least try, unless y'just want to write th'shirt off alttogetha.."

Nelson shrugs and says "It's just a shirt. Then again, come to think of it - it's just my ego." He starts to warm to this coffee idea, then hesitates, glancing over at Trace. "Except I don't think the kid likes me very much."

Trace purses his lips. He didn't want to admit this, because he was really trying for mortification on Nelson's part earlier, but he heaves a great sigh and says, "It weren't permanent marker, alright? Jest magic marker. Might's well been crayola, but it weren't, it were a Mr. Sniffy. It smells. Like, well... like black." Might not be what the lable proclaims, but hey, HE never did get a whiff of any Twizzler that smelled like that. His folded arms tighten and he looks away, vaguely towards a patch of crowd, admitting, "I was only pissed about loosin' my breakfast is all. N'I'm jest... tired. Or something."

Corporal Styles checks his watch before heading off to finish his patrol.

Alisynde shakes her head. "I doubt that Trace dislikes you. He's probably just tired. We're all grumpy when we're tired. " Ali 's most decidedly untired, and at Trace's words, she nods her hea d vigourously. Want some of the magician's energy, Trace? She's got ample to spare this morning. "I'd offer y'a a spare shirt, but I don't have one on me. I got m'scarves, if you want to drape that around y'neck. Might be an interestin' look.." And Ali grins widely

Nelson shrugs and says "I don't care." Apparently, certain engineers are grumpy and tired, too. He's practically pouting. "I just don't care. I want more coffee. People are going to laugh anyway, and even if it was permanent marker, it's just a stupid shirt." Sullen and sulking as it may be, it's his round about way of saying 'sure, Ali, I'd love to have coffee'.

Corporal Styles crosses St. Ann to Pontalbo Apartments.
Corporal Styles has left.

Alisynde nods. "Well, then. Let's go to Cafe Du Monde and I'll buy everyone breakfast." She does, however, pull out a plain handkerchief and pops over to one of the street vendors. She buys a bottle of spring water, and hands both to Nelson. "If y'want it."

"Alright then," Trace decides, steps turning in the direction of Cafe du Monde now, even as he continues to speak. "Les' get goin' and get some coffee already, an' not stand 'round mopin' bout people laughin'. Coz firstly, people tend mostly t'not notice or to not give a shit, or at least pretend at one'a the two. And second, if ya didn't notice, I got a big..." He pauses to peer at his left palm, before pronouncing the mirror letters, "A big 'toy-dee' on my hand, which ain't too much cooler."

Nelson takes the kerchief with a murmured "Thanks." and dabs at his shirt. He comments to Trace absently "Yeah, I know. That's why I didn't press charges. I figured you looked just as dumb as I did. Hell, at least on my shirt "Idiot" is spelled right." He wanders in the direction of the cafe, on that note.

Goose has arrived.

Trace keeps pacing steadily, but does look over to spare Nelson a glance and a quirk of a grin as he says, "Yeah, well. It spells toy-dee just fine, cept fer the backwards D." A chuckle, looking ahead again. "Guess I could jest say Jason wrote it there." His lips twitch, frown swallowed. Hey, alright. That's going too far. Don't crack on your illiterate best friend, that's not cool. He clears his throat. "Anyway. Yeah. Coffee'd do me good too. I think I got enough t'cover that, Ali. Don't gotta pay fer it all." He shoves a hand down into the pocket not holding the marker and god knows what else, this time coming up with a handful of change. He picks through silver and bronze alike, lips stirring as he counts.

Goose whistles a strange, jazzy tune as he comes up the street with his long-legged walking style. He flips some sort of gold-chained item around on his fingers, keeping time with his tune. What a strange-looking man. No, he doesn't blend well with the tourists, though of course, he's proud of that fact.

Goose’s Desc:
Long and lanky, black and bold. Dreds on his head. Goose should have been a pimp. Maybe he is. His dark eyes peer over the top of rectangular, rose-colored sunglasses. At least he's tall enough that he doesn't have to wear platform boots. His features show a touch of pretty-boy mixed with street tough. Long face, wide nose, full lips, strong chin and high cheekbones. He's undeniably attractive in a freaky sort of way. Not much jewelry adorns him, just a silver ear-cuff and a couple silver studs in his left ear and a single stud in his right.

You can almost hear the tribal drums when you look at Goose's shirt. It's Caribbean: short-sleeved and bright, with Colors (capital C). Goose wears it open at the chest, revealing his smooth skin. Baggy, khaki shorts cover down to his knees, but no, his pants-crotch doesn't hang down to his knees. They're normal safari shorts with a patch on the back-pocket, a pair of lips that read, "Right here, baby." And yup, those are red Keds on his feet, half-tied, with turquoise socks.

Nelson says "I can buy my own damned coffee." Touchy, touchy, this morning. Someone's Valentine's Day must not have gone too well, or something. He dabs a good deal of the ink off his shirt. Of course, now it just looks like someone's drooled on it.

"Nelson, old buddy." Goose eases right up next to Nelson, giving Trace and Alisynde a close-lipped smile and a waggle of eyebrows. How friendly. Back to Nelson, he grins, without showing any teeth---a bit disturbing that a man's mouth can go that wide without opening and showing teeth. He holds out his hand for a 'five' slap from Nelson.

Drool's acceptible. Who knows, maybe Nelson's got a friend with a handy baby? Well. Maybe not. Ali just smiles beatifically at her friend and acquaintance, and offers each of them an elbow. "C'mon, guys. Let's go walk the yellow brick road. I'll be Dorothy..." She trails off to look at this strange new person who wants to have his hand slapped. Hey, you? Wanna be the Tin Man?

Nelson eyes Goose sideways - how does he do it, looking simultaneously mortified and delighted? "Hi." He says, commiting the damp and ink-stained kerchief to a pocket before slapping a 'five' to that offered hand. It's an awkward attempt, but he's learning. "We're going to have coffee. Wanna come?" Does he check with his companions if this is okay? Hellll, no.

Trace's eyes widen a little as the man siddles up, especially when he does that freaky eyebrow thing. But grudgingly he wins a grin. Probably the outfit. 'Bright' and 'loud' are definitely cool concepts in the eyes of the blue-haired boy, no matter the subject. But how odd that these two are friends. Such a colorful character... and then, well. Nelson. His brows furrow a little with confusion and interest.

Goose clutches his hands behind his back and leans forward a bit. He will gladly be the tin-man, if it means he gets oiled. Lions and tigers and bears, oh my. But that's been overdone, hasn't it? Somewheeeeere over the tall skinny black guy.... Goose sends his dark, walnut eyes bouncing around the circle of three. He pauses on Trace, smiles, and the impression is that he sees all the boy's secrets. "Coffee, huh? Sure, I could do that. I don't have any pressing board meetings today. No major clients coming to call. Assuming I wouldn't be interrupting. Where's Toto?" He speaks just like that, sort of stream of conscience.

Alisynde grins a little, although her expression speaks volumes. Trace isn't the only one who's curious, here. But Ali merely popens the side of her vest, patting the inner pocket on one side. "In here."

Nelson shakes his head and says "Woof." Then pauses and glances around. He frowns. "I, um. I don't really know where I'm going."

Trace gives Ali a curious look. She's got Toto? He looks to her expectantly for a moment, but then changes his mind and turns, assuming wagonleader for this cafe-bound bunch. "This way." The cafe certainly isn't far from the Square, and it should come into sight just a few minutes from his speaking, should the group continue on their path.

Goose points a long, skinny, wiggly finger at Alisynde's pocket. "Ahhhhh. Then, we're set. Let's go find the wiz, shall we?" He drapes an arm around Nelson's shoulders. It hangs there loose and limp, thin and serpenty. Nelson now looks like he has a long chocolate snake around his neck.

Nelson comments drily to Goose "You're chipper, this morning." Not that he seems to mind the decoration, odd as it must look replete with suit and briefcase. He even smiles a little and seems to relax.

Alisynde tosses a playful grin at Trace. "What? Don't you think I couldn't fit a small dog in my pocket? Y'should know bettah."

Goose takes a moment to give a spooky, New Orleans greeting to a passing tourist, but otherwise keeps up with everyone. He laughs for a half a block after the reaction he got from the young college girls. Most reasonable people will screech when they suddenly find themselves with a bug-eyed, snake-haired man in their faces. "Of course, mon beau. I'm always in a good mood. New job. Old shoes. What could make a man happier?"

"Coffee?" Trace wonders. He's rather hoping it will make HIM happier. He's just slightly ahead of the group, so when he reaches the cafe's entrance he holds the door. So maybe he was a rude little monster to Nelson earlier, but there's clearly some shred of politeness in the boy.

Alisynde inclines her head to Trace as she passes through. "Thank you."

Goose bows and passes through with a "Merci, petit bleu." And he's across the threshold.

Nelson starts to say something in reply, then he stares at Trace. Hey, no synching allowed - chemists and blue-haired anyone aren't supposed to have things in common.

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