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Log Title: Defeat Most Brutal
Log setting: Starts in the Raven, winds up in the alley next to it and then in Walker’s home.
Log Cast:
Catherine
Arthur
Nimue
Marilyn
Franklin
Peyotr
Hillary
Tyler
Joey
Officer Castor
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The Lost Raven
The colors of the main room are dark, intense shades of blues and purples, all shadows of its former glory. To the left of the room is a long mahogany bar, its wood scarred and blackened in places, which, with fresh varnish is kept to a high sheen. To the right is a stage, its dark purple curtains drawn back with bright red sashes. Tables are scattered about the room, each bearing a small centerpiece of candles and various playful little brass statuettes depicting clowns and satyrs, acrobats and unicorns. Toward the back corner of the room, connected to the bar, is a grill area, a fire pit from which tantalizing scents arise. The music that is usually playing comes from a juke box in the opposite corner as well as small speakers set at various points around the room; the sounds of classic blues or jazz surround you.
Slow steps. Trudge. Trudge. This huddled figure makes his way slowly through the crowd, head down, hidden by the hood of his sweatshirt. Just a few scraggly blue braids have wormed their way out of the black hood, a clue to the downcast boy's identity. He is aiming himself for the bar. He doesn't look up, doesn't take in any of his surroundings. Eyes on the floor.
Trace’s Desc:
He is a quiet boy: humbled. Trace keeps his head down, and has found a sweatshirt jacket with a hood to hide in, used thrift-store quality and ten times too big, and keeps the hood pulled up. It throws his face into shadow, hides him. A few unruly blue braids escape the hood, bound at the ends in brightly colored rubber bands. The zipper is left open, and beneath that he wears a plain black t-shirt, the cheap Hanes three-pack type, and while the bloodstains don't show much, the fabric is no longer soft in places. His jeans are a ratty, tattered mess, thoroughly stained with chalk and charcoal and fresh-looking paint -- paint that matches the new stains on his small hands. He is a disturbingly slender, slight child, sixteen at most, and only 5'3" in height.
And if he does happen to look up, some light catching on gaunt, angled features..? Poor child. Someone's really worked him over. Both eyes have been blackened, dark purple-yellow and swollen. An ugly scrape decorates the bridge of his nose, angry red and mauve, like it's been rubbed to the concrete until the skin has come away. His lips are a pulpy, swollen mess, still some dried blood caked at the corners of his mouth. Bleakness haunts his bloodshot eyes. Defeat most brutal.
Arthur smiles gently. "But can you imagine the poor Abbot and Abbess?"
Trace’s Desc:
He is a quiet boy: humbled. Trace keeps his head down, and has found a sweatshirt jacket with a hood to hide in, used thrift-store quality and ten times too big, and keeps the hood pulled up. It throws his face into shadow, hides him. A few unruly blue braids escape the hood, bound at the ends in brightly colored rubber bands. The zipper is left open, and beneath that he wears a plain black t-shirt, the cheap Hanes three-pack type, and while the bloodstains don't show much, the fabric is no longer soft in places. His jeans are a ratty, tattered mess, thoroughly stained with chalk and charcoal and fresh-looking paint -- paint that matches the new stains on his small hands. He is a disturbingly slender, slight child, sixteen at most, and only 5'3" in height.
And if he does happen to look up, some light catching on gaunt, angled features..? Poor child. Someone's really worked him over. Both eyes have been blackened, dark purple-yellow and swollen. An ugly scrape decorates the bridge of his nose, angry red and mauve, like it's been rubbed to the concrete until the skin has come away. His lips are a pulpy, swollen mess, still some dried blood caked at the corners of his mouth. Bleakness haunts his bloodshot eyes. Defeat most brutal.
Franklin looks at the newest arrival, and he palms his face a moment, letting his hand fall down to rub his chin, sighing inaudibly. He turns around in his stool, and sets his sketch pad on the bar, taking a moment to glance over at Catherine, smiling and nodding politely.
Marilyn says, "They would most likely come to regret the church's prohibition against suicide."
Catherine takes a slight sip from her drink, and turns somewhat to see the newcomer that is walking in. She looks curiously at the boy entering, ducking her head somewhat as if she could look more clearly at the face under the hood that way.
Arthur grins at Marilyn. "Or against homicide."
Hillary walks inside with a bit of a lag to her step, a faint smile tugging at her lips, but her hands remain tucked -- as ever -- into the deep pockets of her cords. A quick glance to her left, and then the right, shows a terribly small amount of familiar faces, but one in particular; Peyotr's, gets a big grin.
Marilyn gives Arthur an innocent fluttering of the lashes.
Trace finally pushes his way up to the bar, the slightest glance up at Nate to catch his eye, before dropping his head again. "Jest... water, please," he rasps softly. "Nothin' else. Won't drink it here, don' worry." Last thing he needs is to be kicked out of some bar because he couldn't buy anything.
Franklin gets a closer look at Trace and blinks, "You ok?" He asks, concern going over the fear of being pestered by the tenderized youngster.
Hillary's brow furrows as she notices Trace from the corner of her eye, a careful perusal of the boys features and then once more as she hears him speak. Both arms wind around her chest as she leans back against the edge of Peyotr's booth, watching the back of Trace with a low sigh.
Catherine blinks a moment surprised, then smiles as she recognises Trace, and she says softly, "Hiya.." She waits to see if there's any recognition from him.
Arthur frowns at Trace, not disapproval but concern. He nods, fractionally, at Nate.
And suddenly there's all this attention on him. Trace flushes with shame beneath the bruises, ducking his head down further. Strangers... The guy who was trying to read 'The Sun Also Rises.' God, what an ass he'd been to that guy. He could blame it on drugs, but suspects the scholorly reader guy wouldn't appreciate such an apology. He just licks swollen lips and creaks out, "Yeah. M'okay." More people looking at him. Strangers... Except Cathy. He lifts his eyes to her once, so briefly, but he's ashamed and can't hold her gaze. "Hi Catherine," he says softly. He shifts a glance to the door. Has to get out of here. But then Nate's handing him... coke, instead of water? Huh? Brows furrow beneath the hood. Someone's kindness filled that cup. But... how can you wash away blood with cola? He wraps tiny hands around the glass and looks at it confusedly.
Arthur sips his beer, and smokes quietly.
Hillary turns with a sigh and plops down in Peyotr's booth, her arms folding over her chest in something of a petulant gesture. Angling her head back a bit, she shifts her gaze towards Arthur for a moment, before finally sliding her attention forward to the one across from her, who seems to be in a trance of some sort.
Hillary sits down at Quiet booth in the corner.
Tyler enters from the mundane world
Tyler has arrived.
If it weren't for the way that Tyler moved, one would assume that a grand entrance was trying to be made; however the lazy stride coupled with the ensemble chosen to cover this lanky body leaves you with the impression that perhaps this individual was simply too lazy to catch the door before it slammed into the opposite wall. Damned rockstars.
Marilyn crosses her legs and returns to the quiet perusal of her list, adding some new items. Join a nunnery? Nah.
Arthur considers. "I have it, Doctor."
Tyler’s Desc:
Tall, too thin to be fashionable, and androgynous. That's the way Tyler appears to the outside (and most of the inside) world. Hair the color of wheat is closely cropped in the back, left to hang in wispy strands in the front of Tyler's face, nearly obscuring the black lined green eyes, and lavender-glossed, too-pouty lips. The upper torso of this individual yields nothing that would possibly satisfy your curiousity as to the gender of whatever it is that stands before you, usually hunched and usually sneering at something. Whether or not those lips have twisted into a horrific look of scorn because of you, or not.. well, it's difficult to discern.
Fishnet covers the torso of Tyler, though too closely knit to give any indication of breasts, be they in place or not. Black satin covers the delicate hands, all the way up to the bony elbows joining two skinny componants of long arms. Painted-on latex appears to have been poured over the second half of Tyler, though the length is impossible to determine, as knee-high black boots cover average-sized feet, with a heel that Cher would have a hard time walking in, boosting Tyler to a height of roughly 6'2" tall.
Ah, yes, what else would compliment Tyler more than a few piercings? Maybe a tattoo or two, but it's pretty much a given that those are in place as well. The left eyebrow of this pale, perfectly proportioned face is pierced once, while the right has three rings that hang through one hole. That lower lip always covered in the same lavender gloss is punctured once with a steel hoop, while a beauty mark (ala Marilyn Monroe) has been put into place, and now yields a silver stud. A tattoo of a purple ankh is stiched into the back of the swan-like neck, while a band of thorny roses encircle the left wrist - visible only when Tyler's gloves are removed.
Marilyn looks up again. "You have what?"
Arthur says, "The answer."
Arthur says, "I'd imagine we'd both look -fetching- in saffron.""
Catherine looks with a bit of worry now at Trace, noticing obviously something is going on, but she doesn't seem to be in on it. All she can really do is try to catch Trace's gaze again, leaning slightly over the bar towards Trace to see what might be wrong, but all she can think of to say is, "Uhmm.. you got a new sweatshirt?"
Joey enters from the mundane world
Joey has arrived.
Marilyn says, "And passing out daisies in airports as well?"
Arthur mmms. "Either that or playing tambourine. Can you keep a beat?"
Arthur grins.
Tyler's head tips back just fractionally to survey the room from atop the four inch pedastal provided by the soapbox of heels on the boots. Thin arms slide over the equally gaunt, fishnetted chest to provide yet another layer of protection against the outside world - if the perpetual sneer wasn't enough to give the hint. Those same lazy; nearing noncomittal strides carry this figure towards the bar, halfheartedly weaving out of the patrons already inside.
Trace bobs his head a little, a shy nod. He shifts the cola to one hand, and with the other, delivers a pensive tug to make sure the hood isn't about to abandon him. "Yeah, I... jest picked it up at this Salvation Army place..." He looks down at the drink again, then holds it out to Catherine hesitently. "You want..?" He's almost whispering. "I-I jest need water n' some napkins..."
Marilyn waggles a few fingers, having caught a glimpse of a vaguely familiar lanky form slinking across the bar. She just shakes her head at Arthur. "I think I could manage a tamborine, but I look horrible in orange."
Joey shivers slightly as she ducks out of the drizzle...putting hands on her two bare arms. Does it ever -not- rain? She shakes her head, sadly wiping drops of water out of her hair while heading over to the bar.
Tyler toes out the empty stool beside Marilyn at the bar, features approaching comatose blandness as the lanky form slides into the selected seat. "Marilyn, right?" It's enough to give you shiver. An odd blending of contralto purr and bass rumble lends this particular person a voice that could either give you a chill, or make you cringe; all laced with a rather thick french accent.
Tyler takes a stool at The mahogany bar.
Catherine smiles as Trace at least seems to be in a mood to answer, and she shakes her head quickly as she says, "I don't really like cola that much, and besides, I think it was a gift to you from someone here.." She turns somewhat, and reaches over to grab a small stack of paper napkins, which she holds out to Trace, then she turns to Nate to ask for a glass of water.
Peyotr shifts in his seat, coming out of his daze
A hand that trembles a little accepts the napkins from Catherine. The cola gets a tentative sip, but the straw hurts his bruised lips and he winces and sets it down on the bar counter. Trace regretfully admits to himself that whoever gave it to him is probably being offended, but he just has no use for it, and glances around, a vague apology to the room in general. Then his head bows again. He shifts his weight to the other foot, paint-stained hands fidgeting with the little stack of napkins.
Arthur murmurs to himself, sipping his beer.
Marilyn nods at Tyler. "Yes, I am. How do you do?" She seems to know who Tyler is, despite having never been properly introduced.
Sniff, sniff. Tyler's gaze slides from Marilyn for a moment to rest heavily on Trace; features still proclaiming no emotion. The heavily-lined green eyes scour the form of this young boy for at least ten seconds, before looking back to Marilyn. "I'm doin' rather shitty, actually. My best friend has recently died. How are -you- doing?"
Joey stares at nothing across the bar for a full moment before she comes around. The kind of dazed look that suggests she really wasn't thinking about anything...just zoning out. "Coffee, OK Nate?" She mumbles quietly, giving him a sweet but definetly fatigued smile. Now, with that out of the way...who's here? She surveys the immediate bar, giving Marilyn a little wave and a "Hi Doc!"..but turning away quickly..don't really want to disturb her if she's in conversation. Then across Trace and Cathy to..Wait a second. "Trace?" Joey asks, questioningly. He's all beat up. "Trace?!" More alarm as she gets up off her stool.
Catherine's slight worry turns into a big one when the light finally catches Trace's face enough for her to clearly see the way he looks, and with a slight gasp, she leans a little over to him and asks, "What happened to you? Did someone do that to you?"
Arthur finishes his beer, and considers the mug quietly.
Peyotr writes a note to Hillary
Marilyn says, "I am surviving. What else is there to do?" She looks as if she's about to give Tyler a supremely nasty look, but manages to reign it in before it's fully developed. So it's just a bit of a glare. "It's been difficult, to say the least, for everyone"
Oh no, this is all too much. He only wanted to get some water and get out of here. Trace glances from Catherine to Joey, and back to the younger girl with trapped, pensive eyes. "Naw, I fell," he says with a strange, mirthless giggle, and flicks his tongue out to wash away that metallic-tangy clear wet stuff that won't stop returning to slick his cut up lips. Nate sets his water down, a simple go-cup with the Raven logo on the side, and he casts them both more nervous glances. "I-I oughta go..."
A low sigh seeps from between the lavender lips on Tyler's face, eyes closing for a moment. "Where is the body? Gideon didn't know, but he told me I should get in touch with you about it. We want it to stay here for burial."
Catherine gets a deep frown, obviously not buying the falling story, but she still seems to be in a bit of doubt whether or not to push the subject. She reaches with a hand into her pocket, fumbling a little around with the change there, and she mutters, "Uhmm.. perhaps you should have someone look at that for you?" Marilyn says, "The coroner's office has it, nothing's been worked out yet. They have their investigations to do, and even then, I'm not certain if they've decided to whom it will be released, as there is no next of kin that anyone knows of."
Arthur stands and leaves Table near the kitchen.
Arthur nods. "Take care, Doctor."
Joey widens her eyes, reaching out to the boy. "Trace.." At a loss for words, for once in her life...but not for long. Of course. "Trace, wha' happened ta ya? Who did dis?" 'He fell', yeah...right. "How did dis happen? Who did dis?" She demands again, shocked eyes taking in the unnatural yellow and purple on Trace's visage. She just can't believe it...glancing over at Catherine for a moment before she's back to the human punching bag. "Are ya OK?"
Marilyn waggles a few fingers at Arthur, as he exits, still rather focused on Tyler and their conversation.
Arthur leaves, stepping into the mundane world.
Peyotr stands and leaves Quiet booth in the corner.
Tyler stats flatly, "We would be his next of kin. The only real family he had." Another glance is sent to the commotion with the bruised boy, lips pressing together tightly in perhaps the first show of emotion since entering the place. The blonde head shakes a little, and attention is sent back to Marilyn. "Some say that it wasn't as it seemed. I'm wondering how much you know."
Hillary stands and leaves Quiet booth in the corner.
Hillary looks up to Peyotr with a grin, her head angling towards the door. "Wanna go?"
Peyotr stands and nods to Hillary, gesturing
Trace whimpers softly in the back of his throat and reaches for his water, holding it close and taking a few retreating steps backwards, fearful. "Naw, s'okay.. I'll be okay. It's over now, see? I owed somebody, but now it's all done with an' I don' gotta be scared no more..." He ducks his head low, and shakes his head a little. "I'll be fine. I jest.. I gotta get home to my family."
Hillary slides her hands back into their resting place within her pockets, her gaze shifting back towards the girls and Trace, before landing on Tyler. Eyes widening a bit, she shakes her head. "There are always famous people in here," the words muttered to Peyotr before she steps out.
Marilyn considers things for a moment. "So I've been told. I assume the police have called you as well?"
Tyler's head shakes a bit, consternation clear on the pale features. "No," is stated flatly, "they haven't. For some reason unbeknownst to me."
Well, that certainly didn't help a lot. If possible, Cathy now seems to be even more suspicious and worried about what happened to Trace, and she shows it as she puts a handfull of change on the bartop, and slips down the stool, to walks over to Trace, asking him, "Uhmm.. you'd mind if I walked you home then? I mean.. I'd really like to make sure you're alright and nothing happens along the way.."
Joey isn't really going for that. But she doesn't move in anymore...just drops her hand and stays by the bar. "Trace," she says softly, looking almost as pained as the boy himself. "Yer hurt, OK? I mean...I won' ask ya any questions, OK? Can I loo' at it? Please? Jus'..." A collapse of fatigue and stress and all the things that make Jo's life really wonderful are coming to a head, and she glances at Catherine wearily again. "God, Trace.." she says softly, falling into her stool and staring at him.
Trace looks to both girls, and then just sighs softly, a breath of air hushing past purpled lips. "Outside then. I gotta... clean it up some, 'fore I go home anyway. Else everyone'll flip." He lifts the water and napkins up a little. That's what these are for, see? Then lowers them and glances to Catherine, a tentative, very small smile because it would hurt to stretch it more. "Y'sure y'wanna come? S'a long walk."
Tyler nods a bit to Marilyn's whispered question, the lank body uncoiling from the stool with a low sigh; as though the effort were too much to bear. Because, well, getting up is so hard sometimes. "Lead the way, chick." So, Tyler's not very polite.
Marilyn stands and leaves The mahogany bar.
Marilyn gets over Tyler's manners, or lack there of. She gathers her things and leads him to a table.
Catherine looks a moment at Joey now, as if for the first time noticing her, and offers a weak smile as in greeting, anything more doesn't seeming to fit in the current situation. But then to Trace, she nods quickly and says, "Sure, outside is fine, and I'm used to long walks.. I don't mind.. It'll be a lot better than the sitting still in the classroom which I already did all day.."
Marilyn sits down at Quiet booth in the corner.
Tyler stands and leaves The mahogany bar.
Tyler sits down at Quiet booth in the corner.
Catherine stands and leaves The mahogany bar.
Joey shoves up off her seat...giving Nate an apologetic look about her drink order. Looks like she won't be staying to drink it...but she throws a few quarters down anyways as she departs. "Yea', outside," a suddenly firm voice. You have to let her see it, now....There's no escape.
Joey stands and leaves The mahogany bar.
Trace gives the bar a final glance-over, then a fleeting look to both girls, before ducking his head and leading the procession out towards the street.
You leave the club behind, stepping into the mundane world.
Bourbon and St. Peter -- Vieux Carre
Trace leads the both of you towards the alley by the Raven. This isn't the sort of thing he wants to do in front of gawking tourists, after all...
You duck into the dark alley.
Alleyway off of Bourbon
A narrow alleyway, between a small eating establishment which rarely sees any business, and a costuming store in a state of disrepair. The half of the alley nearest to the street is relitively clean, but the shadows of the buildings lies between keep the area in a state of more or less constant darkness. The combination of cleanliness and privacy makes this particular alley a popular place for late night meetings between those prostitutes fortunate enough to work such choice turf and their, often drunken, clients. The latter half of the alley, however, is far more cluttered. A rusted fire-escape leads to the second floor of the restaurant, the owner's residence, apparently, though anyone weighing much more than a child would be hard pressed to trust the structure enough to escape from a blaze. A large, blue dumpster, which is emptied far less frequently than one would expect of such things, and a number of cardboard boxes litter the back half of the alley, providing a great deal of cover and hiding space.
From the street, Catherine follows Trace in, a pensive look, but she seems quiet for now, waiting for the explanation first.
Once he's certain this alley isn't occupied at the moment except for one harmless old sleeping bum curled up among the cardboard way in the back, Trace finally, hesitantly, tugs the hood off. Immediately, his gaze falls to the water, which he holds away from himself and starts splashing all over the napkins.
Joey walks into the alley uncertainly...her eyes trying to adjust to the dimmer shadows. Oh, bums...wonderful. She gives the..less reputable..member of society a jittery glance, hoping he won't wake up, no doubt. She approaches Trace, sighing.."I've go' some stuff betteh den water in muh backpack...OK? Dey use it fer surgery, I tink. Lemme use it, OK?"
Catherine holds out her hand to Trace, and she says softly, "Here.. let me..", offering to hold the cup for him so he can dip the napkins in the water. She looks him over, less light, but at least the hood isn't in the way. She looks at Joey, but doesn't question, instead turns to Trace again while Joey gets her things, and asks softly, "You think you'll be okay?"
And what a sight he is now, with the hood removed. Trace's forehead is scraped up a little too, probably from the same heinous act that roughed up his nose. Some blood is caked in some of the braids, up close to his scalp. There's angry scratches on his neck. He looks up at Joey, then to Catherine. "Yeah... yeah, okay," he agrees softly. "Joey's got doctor clothes n' everythin'. I trust her stuff."
Joey’s Desc:
Joey, although she has a boyish name, is quite clearly a young woman. She stands around 5'10", with a lean body and moderate curves that are covered today by uniform green doctor scrubs. The basic plain V-neck, coupled with equally as plain pants that don't do much for her slender body type. White Keds peek out from under the ensemble, used and abused, but basically in good shape. Joey's face is oval, with a wide mouth and small, non-descript nose. Her kind, dark brown eyes are rather big and gazing though, with a far-off and innocent quality, not unlike that of a small child's. There are a few lines around her eyes, suggesting a fitful night of sleep or just alot of stress. Her straight hair is the same dark brown color, and is held off her neck with a purple ribbon. It hangs down her neck to the middle of her back, tangled and unkept. And of course, she has lightly tanned skin. The kind that seems to stay that way no matter what time of year it is, suggesting her heritage and background. Overall, this 20 something woman's appearance is above average...but very fragile and vunerable, too. Like a porcelain doll that might might shatter if you dropped her. Even in her quick smile and laugh, she seems wholly innocent and naive.
Cathy’s Desc:
A young girl, looking about fourteen or fifteen years of age and not reaching much higher than five foot and an inch stands before you with a somewhat cheeky expression on her face. Her coppery red hair reached just past her shoulderblades on her back, but in front it's cropped short over her forehead, letting her deep green eyes look very clearly out into the world. Half hidden by bangs of hair are her ears, with a small golden ring through each lobe. Around her neck is a thin silver necklace, the pendant on it a silver cross, looking fairly old. Her expression and her entire attitude speaks of self confidence and of sharply formed own opinions.
She is wearing an oversized t-shirt, the entire front covered by a huge grinning Garfield, pointy teeth showing. On the back of it is writing, though that was obviously done later by hand, which reads, "Tomboy, and proud of it." It seems to be her motto. The shirt is tucked into blue faded jeans, the legs cut off just above her knees, the edge frazled with threads hanging from it. She wears plain white socks, resting in flat shoes tied close with laces.
As you look her over, you can't help but notice she might be quite cute, if she only were to care about it. Right now, she seems a little smudgy as if she's been playing outside.
Joey digs around in her backpack...muttering to herself...Where did she put that stuff? "Dey gave it ta me ta practice preppin'" she explains...probably not wanting to seem weird because she totes surgery scrub soap around. She digs down a little further..crinkling of papers being heard..before she pulls out a little blue bottle with no label. She straightens up, holding her hand out for the napkins..."Lemme have dose, OK?" Well, at least she doesn't carry sponges around in there.
Catherine looks at Joey rooting around in her backpack, a bit surprised, but then she turns to Trace. She keeps holding up some of the napkins, though now offers them to Joey, without looking. The look of Trace's face, even in the faint light makes her wince for a moment, but it seems she has enough of a stomach to keep looking, while asking, "Is.. is it really bad? It looks that way.. but.. I don't know.. You think he'll be alright?", the last obvious to Joey.
Officer Castor comes out of the diagonal alley.
Officer Castor emerges from the dim gloom of the alleyway suddenly and without prior notice.
Joey takes the napkins, looking thin lipped and pale..even in the wan light. She flips the cap to the bottle open, spraying a strangely red liquid onto the napkins. "S'no' gonna sting.." she promises, approaching Trace and holding the back of his head delicately. "At leas' it neveh did fo' me.." and with that she's cleaning. Gentle brushes carry blood and dirt and whatever the hell else might be in the wounds onto the napkins. When she's done...she backs up, admiring her handiwork and crumpling the napkins into a ball before tossing them on the already littered ground. "He'll be OK," she finally replies to Cathy, quietly.
Trace fidgets a little, but holds still, flinching just a little before realizing that she's right and it's not stinging. Really, looking at those terrible, dripping scrapes and tender, fresh bruises, there really isn't much to be done, aesthetically speaking. It's going to keep on looking terrible. But thanks to Joey, it's not going to pick up infection. He smiles another one of those faint, aching but needing to express himself smiles, then blinks in surprise as the officer appears out of nowhere. A nervous glance to Joey and Cathy. But he's not doing anything wrong... he tells himself to relax.
Officer Castor’s Desc:
He's a fairly young man of above average height with a jockish build (easily over 200 lbs) but little of the same kind of attitude. Gone is the hair on his head, a very thin fuzz the only proof that the follicles are still active underneath. He wears a neatly trimmed beard, brown, from his upper lip down to his chin--sort of like a Steve Austin look. He's wearing a black New Orleans Police Department's officer's uniform, a small name tag displaying his last name, Castor, mounted on his breast. Upon his belt hang a smattering of tools, including a gleaming set of handcuffs, compact portable radio, a good old skull-cracker of a baton, and a pistol and automatic pistol, one at both sides. The weapon at the left is a hammerless matte-black automatic that seems relatively kosher in usage by city police, but when looking at his belt your attention is drawn automatically to the large frame revolver at his right hip, its chromed figure both tempting and taunting you at the same time.
Officer Castor steps up looking a little concerned. Just a little. "What happened here?"
Trace blinkblinks and squints at the officer for a moment before his eyes widen. "You..." he murmurs, and then looks down plaintively. "I jest fell, okay? S'nuthin'." Then, perhaps sullenly, "Didn't know you wuz a cop."
Joey looks surprised...a voice. A guy's voice. She whirls around, clutching her fist into a ball. Might be the guy that hurt Trace...boy, she'd love to get her hands on...but of course, it's just the officer. "Connel!" she says, in surprise...dropping her hands. "Uhh..nah. We're OK." Glance at Trace and Cathy. We're OK. See, see how OK we are? "Hey..Trace. Ya betteh be gettin' home."
Officer Castor says, "Must have been one hell of a fall. What did you hit on the way down and how far was it?"
Trace scowls a little. Tough guy, yeah. "A hundred zillion feet, okay? Hit trees and airplanes on the way down. Les' go, Cathy." He tugs nervously at her sleeve before backing out towards the alley. The hood gets tugged back up to hide his condition.
Officer Castor doesn't say anything, just laughs loudly, shakes his head, and steps out into the street.
Officer Castor steps out of the dark alley.
Joey squats down to her backpack, watching Trace leave despairingly. "Bye..." she says softly, dropping her bottle of miracles into the pack. "Jus' please come back ta me if ya need it cleaned again, OK? Please Trace?" A beg, almost pathetic...but she cuts it off, sighing heavily. "Tell Ben and everyone I said hi, kay?" Trace bobs his head. "I will. Promise." He pulls his hazel eyes up off the concrete to catch on Joey, and another teensy smile as he murmurs, "I... well, I mean... Thanks Joey." He looks down again. "I 'preciate all this." Seems the battering didn't knock the shy politeness out of the boy.
The bum in the back stirs a little, newspapers rattling against cardboard before going quiet again.
Hmm..don't need to be attacked by a feral bum today. Jo starts to zip up her pack, picking it up off the discard on the ground...before she has a second thought. "Here.." she jogs over to Trace, taking out the blue bottle of soap. "Use dis, OK? I mean...not everyday because s'really strong stuff...but like once every two weeks. Yea, that'll be OK. Jus' keep it clean til it heals up." Boy, she -really- seems worried about him. "OK? I mean..God.." A sigh before she presses on..."Jus use it," she thrusts the bottle into Trace's hands forcefully before darting out of the alley.
Trace blinks down at the bottle of soap in his hands. But doesn't she need this for prepping or something...? But she's already darting out of the alley, so all he can do is blink after her and mumble, "G'bye..."
Catherine blinks a little and frowns as she sees Castor leave and nods to Trace, "Uhmm.. sure, I'll walk you home.. Let's go.." You step out of the dark alley.
Bourbon and St. Peter -- Vieux Carre
Donovan’s Desc:
Donovan Williams cant possibly be older than his mid teens. Standing at 5'5, he usually finds himself looking up to people. He looks out at the world with light blue eyes, which seem to be acually luminescent in contrast to his tan skin and hair that has been dyed a bright yellow. his normally short-cut hair has been allowed to grow, now the dark roots betraying the guise of blond, although the cheap dye pretty much gave it away even when his hair was short. He is fairly skinny, but on closer inspection it dosnt look like theres an once of fat on this boy, he dosnt seem to eat enough to gain a lot of weight, but he is looking a lot better then he was a few months ago.
Nowadays he acually looks.....healthy. Overall, this boy is very attractive, especially now that he somehow has gotten all the grime off him. His clothes are acually clean, and he is looking more and more like a regular kid each passing day. His shirt is a earth green tone, with a pseudo 60's cartoon drawing of a mans facface with a graduation cap on. Under the drawing, in tan letters, prints 'College: the best 7 years of my life!'. He also wears a big baggy pair of JNCO jeans, with a red stripe down each of the legs, and a pair of totally worn Airwalk sneakers. The little bit of jewlery he wears seems to be the only things clean on this boy, a chain hanging from a belt loop to (what you guess to be) his wallet in his back pocket. He also has a silver ring around his right middle finger, and a beautiful new addition to his collection being a black steel hoop going through his right eyebrow. When he notices you looking he glances at you appraisingly, giving off a 'devil may care' look.
Donovan is sitting on the steps of the Raven, looking out at the street quietly.
Trace walks quickly with Catherine, his head down and his gaze on the sidewalk, expression and most of his face shrouded by his hood pulled down low.
Catherine comes walking out of the alley, following Trace, a bit of a worried look on her face and she doesn't seem to notice much as she is half lost in thought, and the other half seems on following the boy with the hood.
Donovan looks to the two, nodding towards Catherine with a smile, then looking to trace for a moment.
[Travel spam snipped]
Moss Street -- Bayou St. John
With hurried steps, Trace leads you up the wooden steps and onto the porch of the reknowned Holly Windholm Walker. He tugs the door right open as though he owns the place, and motions you on inside.
You open the door and step inside.
613 Moss Street - First Floor
The little house is ringing with the sounds of a Gin Blossoms CD on the downstairs stereo, and the smell of something soup-like cooking in the kitchen. That's where Ben is, singing along quietly (and none too well) to the CD, soup cooking on the stove.
Catherine steps inside as Trace holds open the door, and looks curiously around the moment she enters, then turns slightly back to make sure Trace is coming in as well. All the way over, it doesn't seem her worry has lessened much, and she still seems a bit concerned as she waits for Trace to lead the way inside.
The door opens, and Trace's steps slow noticeably. Shy again. Another little tug on the hood of his new black sweatshirt (well, not new... it even still has that thrift store smell to it that most folks try to wash out before wearing). Cooking? Hope threads into his chest, making breathing a little easier in spite of sore ribs, and he calls out raspily, "Batiste...?" Tentative steps towards the kitchen, with a glance back at Catherine, as though assuring her she's allowed to follow.
Catherine follows only slowly, as if not at all sure what to expect once she enters whatever room lies behind the hallway. Still, it seems following Trace is the best thing coming to mind right now, so she heads for the kitchen as well.
Benjamin calls lightly into the entry, "Sorry to disappoint, but it's just me. There'll be plenty of soup if you want... oh my God." He'd turned after the first sentence, smiling curiously at Catherine as he wandered out to the hall, nodding a little to her. The lighthearted mood falls as soon as he sees Trace, and he stops dead. "Trace?" Dark eyes large and sorrowful he holds out an arm: maybe the young man will want comforting even if it isn't cool to hug other guys when girls are around. "What happened?"
A little whimper, and Trace hovers still for just one moment, then surges into Ben's arms to hide there. Who cares that there's a girl around? That's not it. Trace just doesn't usually hug as a rule. But this isn't your typical Trace. He stays there, quiet and shivering a little.
Benjamin settles gentle arms around the shivering shoulders, quietly petting the blue braids. Curiously, he looks over the young man's head to Catherine, brows quirked. "What happened? Did you get in a fight?" That obviously to Trace though he's looking to the young woman.
Catherine looks over to Benjamin, a moment startled, but then watching Trace walk into his arms, she manages a slight smile again, at least something seems to be going right. If Ben looks for any explanation, the expression with which Cathy looks up at him shows she doesn't have any to give, and she seems curious, but mostly worried.
Ben’s Desc:
Wandering through the world with foggy eyes and a furrowed if curious brow, this twenty-something young man bears the slightly dazed half-smile of one foreign to his environment. Although his thick, floppy brown hair is supposed to be styled out of his eyes, it often breaks free and settles impertinently arbout his forehead and temples. Thin brows frame large, girlish brown eyes, set in a face that could almost be feminine if the jaw wasn't a little too strong. Perhaps in an attempt to age his youthful face, a carefully-kept mustache and goatee cling close about his mouth and chin.
A plain white undershirt clings to his torso. Though not indecently thin, the material is a bit worn, having seen plenty of washings and wearings, making it soft and supple around his upper body. Light, comfortable flannel pants circle his waist and hang loosely from his hipbones. The drawstring waist is cinced only tight enough to keep them from falling off. While in private, his feet are bare.
Trace? Fight? He peeks up a little, but quickly burrows again and shakes his head into the older man's arm. Then it occurs to him that, cut up as he is, he might be getting pus or blood or both on the man's shirt. He draws away timidly and rubs a hand against his nose with a sniffle. "M'sorry," he mumbles shakily. "Naw, I jest... Some guys. But s'okay, m'okay..." Survived it perhaps, but on the verge of tears nonetheless.
Catherine sighs softly, and frowns a little, then suddenly blinks and she steps a little to the side, so she can see Trace's face, when he isn't hiding it against Benjamin. She still seems to wince a little at seeing the way it is beaten up, when she asks softly, "It.. did it happen as you were making a drawing or something? Was it some streetpunks that did this to you?"
Benjamin is far more concerned for his young friend right now that for the status of his t-shirt. Hey, these things come in three-packs for ten bucks, he can afford to sacrafice one. "Hey," he murmurs, softspoken, reaching to tuck braids behind Trace's ear. "Shh, don't apologize. Let's go upstairs and get you cleaned up, all right?" He tries a little smile to Catherine. "I'm Ben, by the way. Thanks for brining Trace home." Nope, it's not a dismissal. Indeed, there's a quiet note of request there, that Trace's friend stick around.
Trace sniffs again and shakes his head faintly. "Naw... naw, weren't nothin' like that," he answers Cathy softly, glancing over at her. "I owed someone. They weren't happy with how I repaid 'em..." He flinches, perhaps remembering a blow, and tugs his hood off. No more hiding. He then looks back up at Ben as he fusses to tuck some of the braids away, and nods, "Kay. Upstairs... But Joey cleaned me. Look." It's one of those sweatshirts with the two big pockets in the front, and from there he pulls a little bottle of surgical cleanser. "She said wash it with this every day... an' come t'her if it gets real bad." Sniffle. "Joey's real nice."
Catherine looks up at Benjamin as he speaks to her, and only now seems to realize she is talking to someone she doesn't really know. She manages another little smile, and she nods, saying, "I'm Cathy.. Uhmm.. well.. I mean.. I couldn't let him alone.. I know I might be nagging, but, I wanted to be sure he was okay and got home and nothing happened along the way.." Looking back at Trace she frowns deeply and says softly, "They.. won't be bothering you again, I hope? I mean.. it's.. it's over?" She smiles again when Trace takes out the little bottle, and she nods quickly when she says, "Yeah, she did that really good.. But I guess you still might like a clean shirt or something.."
"Joey helped you?" Immediate relief from Ben, and tense arms and shoulders relax somewhat. He turns, hiding his flare anger and worry as he turns down the soup to warm and sets the lid on the pot. Food will be necessary soon, he's sure, but for right now it can wait. He draws in a long breath, bringing calm along with it, and turns back to the younger folks. "Well, you need... bandages, or painkillers, or anything? I have a topical painkiller for scratches and cuts," he offers quietly, nodding toward the upstairs. "If you don't have your clean clothes here you can borrow a shirt of mine or Holly's. Whatever you want, Trace, just... put me to task." That's what he's here for. See these hands? They're at your service.
Trace lets a tiny wan smile creep onto purpled lips as he shakes his head a little. "Painkillers... won't work on me, less' they're real strong like perscription. I got tolerance, 'member..?" No, there'll be time to numb this pain away later. "Les' jest get upstairs, see what bandages Walker's got." But where to put them? On his lips? Maybe one for the bridge of his nose... Well, that can be taken care of upstairs. He starts for the winding stairway and climbs each step slowly, wincing at the stabbing pain in his ribs that each tiny climb causes him.
You head up the steep stairs.
Upstairs - Grey House
Trace leads the procession up the stairs, climbing them so slowly, infinite care. He's got a bottle of surgical cleanser in one hand, and the other clings tightly to the railing as he ascends. Despite the desc, his hood has been pulled back for all to see. He takes a few steps towards the water bed but stops, aimless, waiting for his friends for direction.
Catherine is the last to come up along the stairs, a somewhat weird mixture of emotions on her face, curiosity of the new surroundings, surprise, but most of all worry, when she looks at Trace before her. She's pretty silent, and fidgets a little with her hands pushed in the pockets of her jacket, anything better than just letting them hang along her sides. She seems to be waiting and following, to see whatever happens.
Jason is... in a really odd state, right now. Curled up on a beanbag in the corner... with a /book/. Seeing it might be like... y'know, like seeing what cockroaches do before you turn the lights on and they break and run. The book in question is Trace's Big Book O' Western Lit, and he's only a few pages in. Starting from the beginning rather than select a random page? Who are you and what'd you do with Jason??? Anyhow, he's a little too intent on trying to make sense of all of these words (that don't include pictures
Benjamin follows fast on Trace's heels, touching his shoulder to guide him toward the waterbed. "Stretch out and get comfortable, all right? The water mattress won't hurt your ribs." Spoken from simple experience, that. He smiles a little toward Jason, deciding best to let Trace himself answer the question. Ben has Things to attend to. For one, getting Catherine comfortable. "Have a seat wherever, Cathy. This is Jason. I'll be right back." Now he's off to his second duty: hunting down Walker's first-aid supplies. Damn box is in a different place every time he has to come look for it. Now is not a time for Ben to be over-emotional: now is a time for precise efficiency, and so that's what he is.
Let's take that back. So Jason's slow to process, but he's not fucking /blind/. After a few moments of confusion (his friend didn't look like that when he left.....), he's suddenly to his feet and scrambling over. "Jesus fuckin'... Trace, what the hell... Who..." Anger, fear, concern, fear... Anger. All at the same time. It's hard to figure out which one's on top here.
A smile trickles onto Trace's battered visage as he catches Jason with his poetry book. And you can tell, by the little flinch to it, that it's a smile that really hurts, but he can't stop it. And it blinks away as Jason leaps up, and he cringes a little, like it's all his fault. Maybe it is. He straightens again and reaches out a tentative hand to brush one of Jason's anger-flushed cheeks and rasp, "Hey, fireheart.." Not an answer, just a timid greeting.
Catherine looks over towards the corner, hard not to notice Jason as he jumps up and speaks up, but then turning to Trace again. Still lost for words, she is more than happy to finally take Benjamin up on his word, finding herself a place to sit and then actually sitting down means she'll be doing something else then standing around clueless and useless. She finds a beanbag chair and slowly sinks into it, but then lifts her head once more to see what is going on.
Rustlings and bumpings in the bathroom as Ben hunts around. First thing to be straightened and cleaned up will be this damn bathroom, despite the fact that Walker will have it a national disaster area again in a day or two. In a few moments he returns with the small square first-aid box, poking through it fruitlessly. "Can't hurt to put some Neosporin on your lip and nose," he murmurs to himself, glancing up. Uhoh, Jason's pissed. Should've remembered that the redhead was up here. "You have any scrapes on your shoulders or chest or anything?" First, the bandaging-up, -then- we can kill those responsible.
Jason is a scrawny one, only large when compared to, oh, /Trace/. But he certainly can get fierce sometimes. Fists clench, eyes narrow... Yes, anger is a big one... But not the biggest. He suddenly lets it go and sighs softly. A gentle hand goes to Trace's back and another takes the other boy's hand. He slowly guides Trace to the bed, asking quietly, "What happened? Where's Bat? Can ya lay down..?"
Trace sets down the surgical cleanser shrugs out of the sweatshirt entirely, letting it drop into a black puddle on the floor. The only point of wearing the damn thing was to hide in it, but there's no hiding anymore. His elbows are scraped up, again that skin on rough concrete look to them. Plus he's got a scrape on the forhead to match the one on his nose, a wound that wasn't visable with the hood up. Red scratches and hand-shaped bruises decorate his neck, like someone grabbed him there and he struggled. "Jest bruises an' aches under m'clothes," he says softly. "Nothin' open." He lets himself be led over to the bed and lies down on it *very* carefully, such slow movements. Finally he settles himself down on top of it and sighs, rasping out a lame explanation. "Dunno where Bat is. I... the other's a long story. I... pissed somebody off. She went and sicced her goony friends on me..."
Catherine has pulled her hands from her pockets and instead is leaning back deeply into the beanchair, a touch of relief now breaking through her worry, as it is more than obvious everyone here wants to take care of Trace. She lets out a soft sigh, relaxing a little as she sees Trace do it, though she never even knew she was tense, but as finally the explanation comes, or at least some part of it, she frowns. She looks over to the stairs next, as she hears someone coming up and that stops her from asking from probably an obvious question.
Distantly, the front door can be heard opening and closing, followed by quick footsteps and light panting. Out for a run again, was our Batiste. He coughs quietly as his breathing slows, and velcro ripping-sounds can be heard as he kicks off his sport sandals. "Hello..?" he calls. "Anyone home?" He heads for the stairs, jogging quietly up them. He ought to shower, anyways. Dark eyes are bright with exertion, content - until he ascends the stairs. Then it all just dribbles away. Frozen, at least temporarily, staring towards Trace.
Benjamin finds a space on the frame of the waterbed, perching lightly there. Close enough to Trace that he can administer, but out of the way enough so that the rest of the triangle can cluster nearby. He looks up a bit as Batiste arrives, momentary pain tightening his features. Poor kids... none of them deserve this sort of physical and emotional abuse. Ben concentrates on uncapping the healing agent and finding proper-sized Band-Aids.
Jason can be smooth sometimes. Even with his friends, with whom he usually has an open heart. He shifts a couple of pillows beneath Trace's head so that he lays more comfortably and murmurs softly, no hint of the anger that flashed earlier, "Gotta be careful of the goonies..." A gentle smile. "Who was it? Y'know?" He added the last part as either an out or as a test. Hard to tell with Jason. His eyes go over the injured boy slowly as he talks, assessing the wounds. He's no doctor, but, well... He's seen enough beat-up kids. "How many of 'em, y'know?" he asks after a moment, tone still soft. No, guess the anger's gone for the moment. Only concern right now. Feather-light fingers go to the shirt and lift it up a little, to check, and then he grimaces slightly. Tried not to, but... A deep breath, and he returns the soft smile to Trace again. "Y'want anything?"
Jason looks back over his shoulder to Bat from where he's trying to accomidate the wounded boy. The expression that flashes across his face is by no means the calm, gentle one he was giving Trace. It's rather hard, actually. Promisory. But then back to Trace with the smile. Always gotta show the smile to him.
Another smile that hurts his face, as Trace mumbles wryly, "M'lookin' real pretty now, huh..?" He reaches up to touch battered lips, lips that keep going slick with strange-tasting metallic clear liquid that seeps from the purpled flesh there. But it hurts to touch, so he licks at it tentatively before murmuring, "Four guys. Dunno 'em. One black, the rest creole. Local boys. Could draw 'em, 'specially the one that held me down and got up in my face." Slight anger now, flashing past the bleakness in his eyes and lighting them up for a moment, but it fades and he settles back. "I hate that one the most." And it's not til' now that he looks over and notices Batiste standing there silently. Lips part with surprise and relief, and he extends a hand to the boy. Hey you, come here.
Fury, worry, fear, guilt - it's hard to tell for certain what Batiste is feeling by looking at the stormy-stony dark eyes. He looks to Trace as he reaches his hand out, but doesn't move until after he's taken a deep breath and swallowed repeatedly - then he's to the bedside in a flash, one hand against Jason's shoulder, the other reaching to delicately push back a blue braid from Trace's battered face. "Oh, God, Trace..." He can't muster up a smile yet - his stomach is still writhing and flopping like a drowning earthworm.
Benjamin turns toward Trace now, with a determined expression. He has Neosporin on a cotton swab, dammit, and he knows how to use it. He -will- do something useful this afternoon, just see if he don't. "Hold still," demanded quietly, and Ben daubs the clear gel-ish stuff over the cuts on Trace's forehead and nose. He uses enough that the cotton never gets to actually touch the wounds and so doesn't incite -too- much more pain. The cuts around the boy's mouth are more difficult, and require first a light dabbing with the warm damp washcloth that's draped over one wrist.
Catherine seems to recognise at least the person coming up, and more than a faint smile she can't really give, but it shows that at least she is glad to see Batiste here, as it's hard not to notice his care for Trace. She watches him move over, and suddenly she gets up from the chair she was in, and looks at Trace lying on the bed. Still no good words coming to mind, all she can really say is, "I'm glad you got home safe and.. Well. I hope it'll be better soon.." She shrugs slightly, finding herself sounding kind of lame, "Uhmm.. you all.. take good care of him.." With a soft sigh she says what it's really about, "I.. really have to go.."
Catherine looks back before she starts to walk down the stairs, catching a last glimpse of Trace, but then looks to where her feet are going, and a pensive look comes to her face once again. After about a turn of the stairs, she disappears from sight, and a little later, the front door opens and closes.
So, the big girl needed her four big boys to beat up... Trace. Only the second 'peer' Jason's met that made him not feel like the local punching bag. But, yes, he's smooth. Just a nod and a little bit of a wry smile. But way back behind his conjured up face, an evil little pleasure spawns. Trace hates. Oh, and did we say perceptive? Jason's always perceptive. Trace didn't answer something. "Who was she though? D'ja know 'er?" His hand slips down to take Trace's as the smaller boy's attended to by Ben. Something to hold on to. Another look is shared with Batiste, then back to Trace, expectantly. Don't avoid the question. You wouldn't want to do that. Honest.
Trace is trying to obey Ben's command; honest, he is. But he has to lift his head a little and wiggle his fingers towards the retreating Catherine in a weak wave. She was lots of help getting him here, after all. Then he settles back down, flinching a little as his lips sting at the touch of the washcloth. Ooch, whimper, stop. But it's over soon, and lets a little relieved sigh whistle past pulpy lips. And Batiste is nearby. He lifts a hand up to touch the older boy's chest, rub at a shoulder reassuringly. And Jason catches his other hand, twining their fingers together. He squeezes gently. No, he's not going to deny you the culprit's name. "Keri. M'friend Jack's girl. But..." Well, it's all got to be known, right? "But I mean, I owed her. She helped me out with somethin', a debt of mine, but didn' like how I paid 'er back.... We jest brough her the money t'make it even. But what she wanted wasn't money, it was a favor, 'n I wouldn't do it..."
Once Trace is properly swabbed, Ben makes short work of band-aids for nose and forehead, frowning to himself that he can't do more for the boy's eyes. Or for the rest of him. But he's done as much as he can, and so quietly sneaks away from the bedside, leaving Bat and Jason more room. There will be plenty enough righteous indignation from those two, and even more when Walker gets home. Ben himself will be around later for any comforting and feeding that needs to be done. For now he steals back downstairs to let revenge be plotted and argued.
Keri. She Who -Definately- Should Be A Pink Throw-Rug, right about now. Batiste gently takes Trace's hand, twining fingers together, bowing his head to nuzzle them with his cheek. "Keri," he murmurs. A look to Jason, promisory as well. They'll work out just how to make the little brat pay later, though. Not in front of Trace. "She wanted Trace to help her mug people at ATMs." He shakes his head a little. So stupid. So -completely- stupid. "They both would have been caught, she didn't think it out at all. She-" Pause. Deep breath. "Anything else you need?" he murmurs, turning a carefully-calmed face to Trace.
Jason runs his thumb slowly over Trace's fingers, listening quietly. There /should/ be some sort of gut-level emotional reaction to this. So that might be the first sign that Jason isn't quite showing everything right now. Or maybe... Anyhow, Jason cocks his head a little at the last bit. He starts to ask, but, hey... Bat spills it. Ooh, a font of information! Brows furrow as he listens, and then he makes a disgusted face and shakes his head as well. "So she gets her punk friends ta do it fer her? When they coulda been busy bein' hauled in fer muggin' ATMs?" Okay, there's the anger and disgust and all of that. He takes a deep breath to calm himself and looks back to Trace. Okay, priorities here. "Yeah, 'nythin?"
The forced smiles aimed his way don't fool Trace entirely. He licks again at his lips very carefully and then shakes his head. Nope. Only thing left is to numb this fucking pain, but that can wait, so he just looks at the both of them gratefully and is quiet a moment. You know, Trace is a gentle kid, his daddy's boy. He could never exact the proper revenge for this -- he's small, he's weak, lacks courage, and knows all of this *so* acutely.... But in spite of all this, Trace did have two parents, and maybe having the sidewalk used to pulp his lips and scrape his nose to shit brings out something of mommy dearest as his eyes light up with a gleam and he looks to the two of you. Finally murmurs softly, (eagerly?) "You gonna... do somethin'..?"
Do something? Yes. Oh, yes. Batiste didn't want to get into any discussion of it in front of Trace, figuring that the bluecap might ask them not to retaliate at all. But...with that look...and that question...Batiste can't hide his answer away. "Yeah," he murmurs simply, looking up at Jason to check for affirmation, sure that the redhead is feeling a...teensy...bit vengeful as well. "Yeah. She won't get away with this. I promise. Don't worry." He considers the waterbed, then squeezes Trace's fingers again and asks, "Will it hurt too much if I climb on? Make the mattress move too much?" Sitting at the edge of the bed like this makes it feel hospital-ish - definately something to avoid at all costs.
Jason gets a small smile at the question. Pleased in ways that are both pleasant and unpleasant. But he doesn't want to show /too/ much of that to his friends, no matter how sanctioned it is. It reminds him uncomfortably just how uncontrolled he can get at times. He lifts his head and gives Bat a 'you caught me' shrug, then looks back to Trace. Quiet. Plotting. The Hows and Wheres and Whens of revenge can be figured out later. Just /what/ to do to this /bitch/ is something to think on. Something to mull over as he sits here with his friend who looks like an abused rag doll. Always the danger with these...
"Naw..." Trace breathes it like a sigh, torn lips barely stirring. "Naw, c'mere. Both of ya?" He gently tugs at the two hands he's holding. His body tenses, bracing himself for the shift and stir of the mattress beneath him. But if he could make it up those stairs, he can handle that. "M'sorry," he says softly with an averted glance to the ceiling, once Batiste and maybe Jason is situated. That gleam has submerged once more, and he's wimping out again. "None'a this shit woulda happened... if I didn't get myself in that damn debt in the first place."
Jean-Batiste squeezes Trace's fingers carefully before releasing them, then stands and takes a few seconds to tug off his windbreaker. His bruised wrist is nearly healed, only a few yellowish smudges standing out on the skin, the welt on his shoulder faded to a spot or two of reddened skin. He pads around the bed, climbs onto the frame, then carefully, oh-so-carefully, climbs onto the mattress. There's a limit to how little the mattres will shift and sway, but he tries to keep from jostling Trace around regardless. "Don't apologize," he murmurs as he carefully settles down, half-curled towards Trace. "It'll be okay."
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Catherine heads down the steep stairs.