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Log Title: Nothing Gold Stays

Log Setting: On Bourbon street, outside the Lost Raven. It is Tuesday, July 24th, 2001. It is night and the moon is full. There are 2 hours until sunrise. The temperature is 88 degrees. It is raining.

Log Cast (in order of appearance):
Mara
Trace
Lafayette
Regan
Jean-Batiste
Bailey
Abby
Grace
Catherine
Jason
Glass
Alisynde

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Mara stops a moment to regard the crying sky, and then with a liitle sigh, steps out into the rain.

Trace squatted down among the discarded tourist pamphlets, cans, broken cups, and general gutter trash that colors Bourban street. He's looking down at a picture he's sketched onto the walkway, a charcoal drawing, that's currently being blurred away and smeared by the falling rain.

Mara frowns and then walks over, to lean down, "Rain is bad for chalk," she observes, as if you wouldn't already know that.

Trace chuckles and peeks up at you through a droopy wet mop of blue braids that hang down and still obscure much of his face. "Yeh... But sidewalk drawins' ain't never fer keeps, anyway," he admits with a little smile. His eyes are bright, wet, with tiny pupils that get lost in misty hazel. "If it hadn't been rain, it'd'a been people's feet walkin, wearin it off..."

Lafayette comes out of The Raven, the sounds of a classic blues tune drifting out as she enters the world of the mundane.

Mara nods, "Of course. Do you ever think about it being more permenant?"

Lafayette steps outside, lighting up a cigarette as she alks next to the building carefully, favoring one foot. She glances over at those talking and smiles a little to Mara.

Mara looks at Faye, "Heygirl, what's up?"

Trace considers. "I draw on paper sometime, if that's what you mean." He reaches up and shoves a fall of sopping braids away. "An' I'm paintin' a mural for my friend, on his wall..." A tiny shrug. "But what's wrong with drawing on sidewalks? Nothin's ever really permenant."

Lafayette�s Desc:
Before you stands a young lady looking to be about 18 years old. Her eyes are a smokey green color, lined with a darker green rim. Her complexion is smooth and clear, with light rosy cheeks and a scattering of golden brown freckles across her small slightly pointed nose. Her full lips are painted a pretty rose color to go with her light complexion. She stands about five foot 8 inches and her slender figure can't weigh more than 100 lbs.

She is wearing a pink halftop with a "V" neckline that shows off her slender curves and flat stomach. A short, fullish, just above knee length black skirt swishes as she walks. Her longish slender legs are covered with stay up black stockings and black flats adorn her narrow feet. Her black leather cropped jacket completes the look. Her long wavy hair has been dyed a very dark brown to bring out the green of her eyes. The change looks rather drastic but not too bad.

She carries an expensive looking camera around her neck.

Mara smiles, "Never said there was anything wrong, and no, nothing ever stays the same."

Lafayette shrugs to Mara and wanders over without mentioning her limp or nothing. "Nuthin... just um... hanging out. You?"

Trace returns to looking down at his drawing and allowing himself to be thoroughly soaked by the rain. It looks as though the charcoal sketch was once a black pegasas, but it's just a mess now, bleeding into the cracks. He reaches out and dips a finger into the thick black muck and swirls it out. Hey, fingerpainting! A smile flickers onto his expression. He pulls a few more swirls out of the blotchy shape.

Mara nods at Faye "I'm doin' good, giving Scott a bad time, and jsut taking it easy."

Lafayette looks down at the guy paintin or whatever he's doing as she smokes her cigarette. "ooh... givin guys a bad time is a passtime of mine... You go Girl."

Vision blurs for just a moment, probably just the drizzle. A blink will clear it in no time. Softly, a hint of a whisper suggests, "Pretty pretty... we got any purple... ?"

Mara nods, "He laps it up I think. I just wish I could draw him out more."

The boy fingerpainting with the runny charcoal goes very still and withdraws his hand. He looks at his picture silently for several long moments, perhaps a full minute, with water dripping pooling and dripping off his chin. Finally, he verrry slowly straightens a little and reaches into his pocket, with a bit of a struggle getting his hand in on account of the wet denim, and comes up with a handful of chalk and black charcoal. He keeps them on his palm and picks through them with his other hand. At last he just shakes his head to himself and then picks out of the pile first red, then blue... With a trembly hand he draws a very hard, bold line of red, then scribbles over it in blue. The rain starts to melt the colors together quickly. "There...?" he says in a very small voice.

Lafayette says softly, 'I need to disappear, Mara... know any good places?" she looks to mara quth a quiet but almost scared look on her face.

Mara starts to respond, to Trace's query and then turns to face Faye, " What's wrong Faye?" her face taking on a concerned look.

Quiet delight in the little voice, tinged with hopefulness. Perhaps its simply your own mind-voice picking a new way to make suggestions. Who knows? Minds are funny that way. "Oh good... yes... red and blue together makes perfect. Mmmm, purple. Perfectpurple."

Lafayette looks down at the draing on the cement, kinda distracted again. She holds a thumb up to Trace, then looks back to mara. Sorta at her chin though instead of her eyes. "My pimps back... I'm so screwed... I keep hiding and he keeps finding me." she says really quiet.

Mara says, "Hell. I could maybe..." she frowns, "You talked to Mule? I'm sure he knows some safe places."

"It's a magic color, purple," Trace murmurs, and then chuckles nervously and swirls his finger in the purple, drawing out lines and swirls, so the streak is more a wobbly starburst now. He looks up and scans around the street, as though making sure he's not being watched, perhaps, or looking for someone he's expecting. Whatever's going through the blue-haired kid's head, anyway, he makes sure to examine the surrounding street pretty closely.

Lafayette shakes her head. 'I haven't talked to mule yet. he's been busy..."

Mara says, "That's a favorite color of mine, tho its hard to get leather to take it." she nods at Faye's. "Yeah, he is. Listen come back to the loft with me, and we'll think of something."

Lafayette nods a little and smokes some more of her cigarette. "Thanks... I dunno hat to do. i hate askin people for help."

Dancingly the whisper runs through your head, gaining in excitement. "Red and blue are the very best cause they make purple together. Let's draw more, something beautiful. Something magic!"

Mara nods, "i know the feeling...this guy got a name?"

Lafayette opens her mouth like she's gonna say it, then quickly shakes her head. 'Don't ask, k? its a death sentence if i tell ya."

Mara nods, "Okay." Oddly for her, she seems contnet to drop it. "Well i for one wold like to get out of this rain."

Lafayette nods a little and looks up. "oh yeah... rain." she's soaked and hadn't even noticed it. she drops her soggy cigarette and sighs softly. "I haven't seen Dillon cuz i didn't ant him askin questions..."

Mara shakes her head, "I wish..." she just sighs, and starts for the street. The streets are nearly deserted as all but a few bars close for the night.

Lafayette follows Mara quietly, alking gingerly on her foot. she stops to admire the wet drawing one more time. its good...

Elysia comes down Bourbon from uptown.

Elysia walks casually down the road.. her eyes on the goings on about her

Elysia carries an umbrella over her head to keep the rain off

Mara glances at the sensible person with the umbrella, and turns to wait for Faye.

Lafayette walks with Mara, behind her, limping a little. She catches up to her and continues on, holding her et jacket around her.

Trace is crouched over a rain-blurred charcoal drawing, and now holding red and blue chalk. His lips move, as though he's mumbling to himself, but it's all pretty quiet.

Elysia heads downtown.

Mara heads riverside.

Lafayette heads riverside.

"Okay..." Trace whispers timidly. He works the other bits of chalk back into his pocket and looks up. "Beautiful even with all this rain..? Well, could be... A thing 'kin be messy and beautiful too." He sits back on his heels and murmurs, glancing around again, "But... 'kin you come out? I mean... You're Different, aren't you? One of Them. But I can't see you..." Maybe he's starting to forget already? His heart is already beating pretty quickly for someone who's supposed to be sedated, but it speeds up even more. It's the only way he can explain all of this. He's not about to write it off to drugs or insanity just yet.

The little voice giggles, taking on a very different tone from your own. Girlish, verging on adulthood but still very much a little child. "Nothing of me to see, pretty blue-braids. Just to listen. Let's draw somewhere else? You have paper maybe? I have a place to go."

Jean-Batiste comes down St. Peter from riverside.

A thoroughly drenched Trace nods, and glances over to the canvas satchel sheltered by the overhang of the Raven. It isn't rainproof, so it's stashed there for safe keeping. He lugs himself up, still clutching the red and blue chalk in one hand, and strides over to scoop it up by the strap and sling it onto his shoulder. "Awright..." So she doesn't want to show herself, or can't, maybe. He doesn't question Different people. That's just how they are, they're magic. They can talk in your head if they like, sure! "But where to?" All this is said very quietly, and to passerbys he probably looks like a drowned gutter rat mumbling to himself.

Jean-Batiste hurries up the street from riverside, hands dug into his pockets, one of his flannels draped over his shoulders to keep him moderately unsoaked. His head is bowed a little, ballcap brim shadowing his face somewhat.

Ponderously. "Everywhere... it's all dusty, everywhere we go. Not nice for my prettiest little artist. You're a work of art yourself, you know?" Another little giggle, and thoughtful quiet for a few moments. "My room is in the Projects... it isn't nice, but... it's safe. Empty. Promise."

"Projects do me jest fine. More at home there'n fancy places..." Trace grins, blushing. But a familiar shape catches his eye and he squints into the rain and takes a few steps forward, landing himself right in the middle of the now fully blurred and incoherant charcoal pegasas. "Is that...?" In a pool of lamplight, the boy tries to be certain and rakes sopping wet braids out of his eyes.

With the braids tucked up under his ballcap, and the jeans-boots-flannel ensemble of much of the streetlife, it's a little difficult to pick Batiste out at first, this is true. Thankfully, he's got blue braids to notice, and so as soon as he looks up and around, he spots them within seconds and speeds up to a jog. "Hey, what're you doing out in the rain...?" he asks, flashing a worried grin. Like he's not soaked, too. Honest.

Utter delight! "My doe-eyes, too! Hug him for me?" So little and sweet, an innocent request from a girl with no body to hug for herself.

Meilyan comes out of The Raven, the sounds of a classic blues tune drifting out as she enters the world of the mundane.

Meilyan comes wandering out of the Raven, stretching and sighing softly as she hangs her bookbag over her shoulder, unbalanced just a tad by the weight.

Trace gives a big I'm-so-happy-to-see-you grin, but looks a little torn, because he's not allowed to explain! Batte drove that in pretty hard, about it not being his secret to tell... But then he leaps forward and wraps Batiste in a big unexpected hug and says brightly, "A friend tole' me to hug ya, so that's from her." A second squeeze. "And that from me. What's up?"

Meilyan grins at the happy niceness going on before her, then heads towards the river.

Meilyan heads riverside.

Jean-Batiste locates his softpack of cigarettes in his pocket, and sighs quietly, the sound of a nicotene junkie impatiently waiting out the downpour. He stumbles back slightly, and pulls his hands from his pockets, hugging Trace back. His fond grin wavers though, confused. "Friend?" he replies, glancing sidelong at a panorama of wet blue braids. "Uh. Okay. I was just...looking around for someone." Vagueness generates vagueness, if undeliberately - Batiste's off thinking again.

Tsk tsk! No being sad when the disembodied girl in your head wants art and beauty and magic. "I'd say he found someone! Come, let's go make pretties. Or... or! Are you sleepy?"

Trace licks his lips. Hmm. How to do this without looking like a nut in front of Batiste. Er... "I just... I was going to go to this one place to draw, but.. I don't know if you'd like it there. Like if it'd scare you." Then he blinks once and adds, "Not the Crossroads. Kept my promise 'bout that place. It's jest, um, my friend may scare you. But she's harmless." See, this is most confusing. Usually a Different person doesn't *want* someone who's thinking normal to know anything. But she wants Batiste to come? That's very odd. But he wants Batiste to come too, so he just looks hopeful.

David comes down Bourbon from uptown.

David staggers down the street. He seems.. well, inordinately happy; despite the fact that he's soaking wet.

David staggers past the Raven on his way down the street.

Jean-Batiste gently unwinds from Trace's hug, looking inordinately confused. Well, okay. He's not -that- confused. He glances around, frowning to himself, then gives his friend's face a very intent scrutiny. "Why would someone harmless scare me?" he asks, a little petulantly. Maybe it's stinging him a little to be reminded of recent times he's been scared.

David heads downtown.

Gently, she slips into a warm sort of mothering tone, tender and wistful. "So much that's scary out there for you, when you should only have dreams and joy and magic."

Jean-Batiste digs his hands back into his pockets, curling his fingers around his cigarette pack. "Is it one of Jason's friends?" he asks, glancing around again before looking steadily over at Trace. His mouth purses, and he glances down, shrugging. "Nevermind. It...whatever. Sure, I'll come along, if you want."

For no reason, a soft sob. Just one.

"Oh, don't... don't look like that," Trace pouts, chewing his lip a moment, before tugging at his friend's soggy sleeve with affection. "All ya gotta do is draw with me. She wants ta see us draw. But we won't see her back, coz... Coz she won't let us. She'll watch us through...." Trace goes silent, an expression both surprised and puzzled slipping onto his features. He keeps his teeth clenched tight to keep from speaking and sounding like a looney. Hey... What happened to his Cheery One? He trains his gaze back to Batiste, but the confusion lingers in his eyes. "So I mean... would that weird you out? Drawin' for someone who wouldn't show 'emselves to ya?"

A quick recovery. "It's all right. Once I knew a boy named Jason, he was the prettiest..."

The sky begins to lighten as dawn approaches.

Bailey wanders up the street, looking around curiously.

Trace is standing near Batiste, talking with him. On the ground nearby is a charcoal drawing that is badly blurred and disfigured to obscurity by the rain.

Bailey�s Desc:
Lanky but graceful, this young man has the piercing eyes and strong features that should have destined him for fame and fortune. His skin is tanned and dark, and his hair is black, cut close to his head. His eyes a re crystal blue, standingout all the more for his weathered skin. His age is difficult to guess, but he can't be much older than eighteen. He has broad shoulders and stands straight and proud. His station in life is easily read on his clothes and his hands, both of which are worn and permanently paint and dirt stained. He's wearing a pair of olive cargo-pants, pockets bulging, a white t-shirt, and an aging leather jacket. Over one shoulder is slung an army surplus backpack, which probably holds mostof his worldly possessions. His feet are clad in a pair of new-looking combat boots, and when he speaks, it is with a strong Cajun accent.

Jean-Batiste shrugs his shoulders, hitching his flannel up higher, and looks up at Trace from the corner of his eye, mouth still pursed crookedly. He's got a wary determination in his eyes, beneath the frustrated confusion. "Invisible people," he says, as if those two words should sum everything up nicely. He turns his face more, examining Trace's eyes again, then looks away, turning his face up towards the sky, this time. "Nah, I'm okay. C'mon, let's go draw." Friends don't let friends trip alone.

Abby comes down St. Peter from riverside.

Abby heads down the street with a decisive bounce to her step that seems to, oddly enough, fit with the rest of her demeanor. A grin rests widely on her lips, spreading them to reveal even, white teeth. She cocks her head to the side, coming upon the three gathered outside the Raven. "Hi." It couldn't -get- anymore cheerful than that.

Bailey reaches the other two at about the same time, then glances over at Abby, blinking a few times as if tyring to place her. "Um.. hi."

Jean-Batiste is anti-cheer to Abby's cheer - he looks quickly towards the new voice, wariness and suspicion plain in his eyes as he looks her over. "Hello," he says simply, and pulls a hand out of his pocket to use the back of his flannel to rub the rain off his neck.

Abby lets out a bonafied giggle, one would expect to see her twirling her hair, though she doesn't - for now. "I'm Abby. You all look about my age, so I thought I'd say hi." As though anyone really gave a shit. "Cause, well, I'm new here, and my dad said that I should start making friends. So, here I am."

Bailey just chuckles, enjoying Abby's bubbling entirely too much. He looks over at Trace and nods, "'ey, man.' He looks at Abby, "Coo. Ah'm Bailey."

Ohh, *that's* it! He's tripping! That will explain why Trace is hearing things tonight. Oh, thank you Batiste. "So we'll jest head on down to the projects where..." What? People. "Er. Hi..." His hazel eyes flicker between the two newcomers nervously. "Make friends, huh?" He eyes the girl up. "Well, I.. I can't make friends with people who giggle and melt on me. Let's go, Batiste..." He tugs at the sleeve of his friend, but his eyes catch again on Bailey with a look like 'hey wait... haven't I seen you?'

Bailey chuckles, shaking his head. He nods to Jean-Batiste, "'ave a safe trip."

Abby�s Desc:
Ever hear the song "Shiny Happy People?" Well, maybe that's what would come to your mind when you first lay eyes on Abby. She's looks to be around 5'7", maybe 120lbs. Her hair is a dark brown color, with small strands of highlighted blonde in the front. It hangs to about mid-shoulder, and is so shiny as to seem liquid; with just a small wave to break up the monotony of straight tendrils. Her eyes are hidden behind wire-rimmed glasses; though if you look closely enough, you'll notice their color to be turquoise-blue. Her nose is pert, turned up slightly at the end; proportionate to her lips which, though unremarkable, are usually spread in a bright grin showing even, white teeth. She looks as though she may be on a volleyball team, or some such 'girly' sport, as her body has a toned look to it.

Today, she's wearing a pair of plain blue-jeans with a "CK" label on the back, and a black ribbed long-sleeved T-shirt. On her feet she wears a pair of black heeled loafers in a thick leather. Abby seems to be constantly in motion, even when she's sitting still. A restless cheer permeates the air around her, giving her an oddly, though very profound measure of innocence.

Abby seems somewhat oblivious to the rain, though she doesn't seem the 'only happy when it rains' type, either. She probably just doesn't notice. "Nice to meet you, Bailey." Yet another dimpled-grin, though soon fading as she notices the lack of enthusiasm displayed by the other two. "Oh, melt.. " A couple of blinks move her lids, though most impressive is the way her features fall. "Okay.." Nodding a bit. "Sure.." She turns towards the door of the Raven, cheeks blooming with embarassed color.

Jean-Batiste looks back at Abby and offers this advice: "You're new? Stay out of the alleys. Stay out of Jackson Square at night. Don't walk around alone." And have a nice day. Isn't he cheerful? He falls obediently into stride beside Trace, playing loyal guard-dog without conscious effort.

Gently urging now, eager to get the two of you all to herself. "Yes, come home with me, please? I can tell you stories and... you can draw for me. Your friends, yes?"

Abby's brow furrows into a frown as she turns her attention back to the two very-mean-people. "You've been a lot of help, thanks." Forced cheer interrupts the forming scowl on her features. "I'll, uh.. take that into account." Aw, well, she gets an "E" for effort, at least.

Bailey just sits down on the steps to the Raven, barely avoiding a deep puddle.

Trace gives Bailey a nod of farewell. "Well, thanks. Y'know, maybe some other time, but s'like, um. This sidewalk's moving too much, so I'm gonna find one that's not. Have fun!" Que a cheery smile that won't rivel Abby's, but gets an E for effort. He tugs again. "Come on, she's waiting, Batiste." He starts off down the street.

"Hell, shit, fuck, and dammit." Well, that's what you'll hear before you actually see Grace tromping down the street. Sopping wet, and mad as hell because of it. Something like a disgruntled chihuahua.

Bailey is sitting on the steps of the Raven, already soaking wet. He leans up against the railing, watching as Abby disappears inside.

Bourbon and St. Peter -- Vieux Carre
A cacophanous din greets whomever ventures out onto this intersection, as the press of flesh makes it nearly impossible to move during the busiest times, and the various street personalities and garbage underfoot offer exciting obstacles to the club goer. Towards the river is Preservation Hall, where tourists and locals alike are drawn for real, traditional jazz, while on each corner of the intersection itself is a club devoted to different clientele and interpretations of the style.

Abby folds her arms over her chest, only looking up in surprise as she hears the spew of curses come from Grace. Her head shakes a little, the already-fragile smile falling completely upon hearing the littany.

Bailey chuckles, turning and looking back at Grace, "Amen, sista..."

Grace shoves her fingers through the wet tendrils of hair spackled against her cheeks, both arms folded over her chest in an effort to avoid her bra from showing itself to the general viewing audience. She turns to look at Bailey, shooting him a glower. Why? Well, we'll never know.

Bailey just keeps grinning, leaning back on his elbows and looking up into the rain, eyes closed.

You head downtown, on Bourbon.

Bourbon and Orleans -- Vieux Carre The loud music and the smell of urine and beer permeating the air indicates the beginning of this lively street's busiest section. Underfoot is the refuse of those passing, as there are no garbage cans, and bums, street performers, tap dancers, and vendors make passing to and fro even more difficult. Towards the lake is the Orleans Ballroom and further uptown are the clubs drawing the largest crowds.

Sometime in the middle of the still parts of the night, in one corner, someone has created a A piece of talented grafitti. In construction orange and large, serpentlike letters, "SET IS COMING!" The letters are rounded slightly, to fit in a circle, similar in size to those one uses to mark power lines or gas and sewer lines on the ground, except the effect is a bit eye-catching. Celtic knotwork circle around the letters.

Jean-Batiste has arrived.

Much happier now that we're out of range of the Downers. "I'll direct you. You know how to get to Florida street?"

Jean-Batiste scans the street with the very highest level of restless wariness that a streetrat can muster. A hundred questions march around in his head, sympathetic as Nazi soldiers...and the echoing jackboots are giving him a headache. "So who's place are we going to?" he asks, boots splashing and splurching through the puddles on the sidewalk.

John Smith comes down Bourbon from downtown.

John Smith walks through the pouring rain looking halfway in a good mood. Surprising, if you know him and how much he hates being wet.

Jean-Batiste walks alongside Trace, seeming rather protective of his blue-haired friend. He plays anti-boy, again - this time, the anti-good-mood to John's good mood.

Catherine comes down Bourbon from downtown.

Catherine is slowly walking up along Bourbon, one hand resting on the strap of her backpack where it's slung over her shoulder, then other hand repeatedly tossing a yo-yo down, and catching it when it comes back up.

Trace is quickly heading down the street with Jean-Batiste close in tow, and murmurs, "A place in the projects... We gotta hurry." He picks up his pace, seeming fairly distracted. "It's... it's not such a nice place, but it's safe, y'know? Ya don't gotta worry 're nothin'."

Jean-Batiste splashes wordlessly through the puddles, keeping up to Trace. He looks over at his blue-haired friend and frowns again, then turns his attention out to the street. His expression is neatly blanked, eyes darker than usual. "Yeah, okay," he murmurs. "Maybe it's an invisible room."

Jason comes down Bourbon from downtown.

"What're you talking about, an invisible room?" Trace wonders, glancing over. "No such thing. Anyway." He stops in his tracks as an idea occurs to him and he looks down and fishes about in the canvas bag for a moment and comes up with a plastic bag which gets pressed into Batiste's palm. "Here, want?" Three little white squares of paper are in the bag. Maybe it'll help make him look less looney if Batiste is seeing things too.

Rather curious. "Why's my doe-eyes so sad tonight?" Quick surge of confident joy. "He'll feel better once you're making magic, won't he?"

"Hope so," Trace agrees to nothing at all.

Catherine hears the sounds of some people walking quickly, the splashing of water hard to overhear, and she looks up to see two people walk quickly away. It's not easy to recognise them from behind, but blue hair does seem ot be rather unique. She stops to watch the two, stepping out of the way of the people passing up and down the street.

Catherine�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.

Jason�s Desc:
Dark-furred tips of red fox ears stand out amongst the deeper red waves of hair that, even tied back with a forest green velvet ribbon, fall nearly to his slender waist. With the appearance of no more than sixteen mortal years, this wilder's demeanor promises trouble. Sparkling emerald eyes mirror the almost unconscious impish grin that curls the corners of his lips while freckles scatter across high cheekbones and over his slender nose to lend to his deceptively boyish charms. The long, white-tipped tail of a red fox escapes from the rear of his pants to curl about the wiry five-six frame, almost always in a motion mimicking his thoughts and moods.

A long, hooded black cloak, slit up the back for his tail, drapes from his narrow shoulders to engulf his slight form. Beneath, a pentagram curled with leaves dangles by a fine silver chain atop a loose black silk shirt whose collar-strings dangle untied to reveal a glimpse of the fair-skinned chest underneath. A crimson sash hangs at an angle across the comfortable black cotton breeches which are in turn swallowed by the supple black calf-length travelling boots. Barely seen beneath the cloak, the silver fox-headed hilt of a dagger emerges from the sash.

Jean-Batiste looks over sharply at Trace, and retorts, "No such thing as invisible people, either." He looks angry for a second, as if he feels like he's being made a fool of, then looks down the street as a car horn echoes through the watery streets, just shaking his head a little. "Don't feel like tripping right now. Wouldn't be any good." He pushes the baggie back into his friends hands and mumbles, "Thanks."

Catherine sees the two stand still, and now she begins to walk over to them, expecially currious now that they seem to be playing a pass around game with a plastic bag. She walks a little faster than before, and waits to be in earshot, before she waves and calls out, "Hiya!" Still behind them, her wave probably won't get much attention, but her voice might.

Trace looks at Batiste like his hand has been slapped. "Wh... what'd I do?" he asks softly, with big hazel eyes that are just a little pinned, though not completely. He takes back the plastic bag gets balled up into his fist and then he hugs his arms tight around his chest and looks plaintive. "I only wanted ya ta get t'draw with me," he points out. "I like it best when you're around..." He turns at the sound of the new voice, and waves a little. "Oh... Hi Catherine."

Jason has a knack for disappearing. He also has a knack for appearing again out of nowhere. Like now. He comes trotting out of an alleyway a little ways down the street, wearing a dirty brown duster and that green t-shirt he's taken a liking to lately. He too can't miss the two familiar voices and the forms that go with them. A bright grin takes over his face and he starts trotting down the sidewalk, hands stuffed in his coat's pockets. He doesn't say anything yet. Likes to sneak up, he does.

The little voice goes quiet, though she does hum softly to let you know she isn't gone. 'Puff the Magic Dragon', if you recognize it.

Jean-Batiste looks, for a moment, like he's about to actually yell at Trace, or at least say something very heated. His eyes go flinty, and his jaw sets, and he takes in a deep breath to fuel the words...but it doesn't come out. He jabs his hands down into his pockets and frowns up at the rainclouds, letting the muggy rain pelt his face for a while before looking towards Catherine and mumbling a quiet, "Hey..."

Catherine blinks a little, then giggles and shrugs, saying, "Well, don't get all excited.. Uhmm.." She stops, a few steps away from Trace and Batiste, looking from one to the other, and she suddenly doesn't seem too sure about what else she wanted to say. Batiste's greeting doesn't bring out a big s m ile either, and she mutters softly, "Uhmm.. guess you both are busy.." She keeps close to the houses to stay out of the pouring rain, and adds, ".. and I guess it's not really weather to draw things with chalk.."

Trace is Scolded right now, see. It's a very serious thing, and he can't come out to play, sadly. He looks to Catherine, then down at his toes, and says to *both* of the two who wanted him to draw, "I can't... draw magic right now after all. I'm sorry." His cheeks flush hotly. The worst way to be Scolded, too, is when you have no idea what you did wrong. Maybe you didn't do anything wrong. Maybe ma's just real drunk, or maybe Batiste is seeing too normal, and is that his fault? No. So he looks at his toes.

Quickly coming to your defense, tender and gentle. "Shhh, little one. Don't be sad. Don't you know that you're magic no matter what? It's -in- you... magic in you... always held inside."

Jason tilts his head as he gets closer. Trace /looks/ Scolded too. Yeesh. He comes up beside Batiste and watches silently for a few moments, as if he were a bystander who just wandered in. But then he looks up to Batiste and tugs on the older boy's sleeve gently, murmuring, "What'd he do /this/ time? Do we gotta get out the hot irons again?" He /looks/ serious, but that gleam is, as almost always, in his eyes.

Jean-Batiste looks back sharply at Trace and demands, "Why the hell not? We're going to an invisible room that doesn't exist, to draw for an invisible person that doesn't exist. Maybe she'll have invisible markerss that don't exist for us to draw with, too." His jaw sets, eyes flashing like sullen coals in a gust of wind. He jumps slightly as his sleeve is tugged, and looks around the other way to see Jason. There's a long moment of blank shock, then hurt annoyance. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah. Hot irons and thumbscrews." He shrugs his arm away, and starts off down the street, muttering as he goes. "You two go compare secrets, or something. I don't need this right now."

Catherine blinks again, as she notices the way she seems to be making Trace feel, and she shakes her head quickly, making a smile appear on her lips, when she says, "It's okay.. I mean.. it's not.. Well, I do like your drawings a lot, but it doesn't mean that's all you ever should do... Uhmm.." She looks over Batiste, then at Jason, who she needs a moment for to recognise. She keeps the smile, but it falters a little when she looks back at Trace, and she says softly, "It's really alright.." She gets a slight frown at Batiste's words, then says, "I.. guess I better leave you guys alone.."

Trace's eyes blink wide at the arrival of Jason, and for a moment there's something bright and relieved and joyful in his eyes, but his head jerks quickly back to Batiste. He tries to speak, but just manages a whimper in the back of his throat, and stares at the boy's back. Wow. Check that out, he's *really* Scolded. He gives Jason a torn look and mumbles, "Missed you, Jason." Then he shoves the plastic bag back into his canvas satchel quickly as he takes hesitant steps to follow the angry, hurt older boy. "Batiste, it's not invisable!" he insists. Dammit, his ruse of pretending to trip didn't work at all, obviously. Well, he never was good at that lying thing. "It's.. I mean, it's a real room and everything... I don't know what yer talking about..."

The moment you look at Jason, a breath: "Oh my god."

Trace halts and touches his chest. He looks back to Jason and mumbles something softly. Quickly the distracted lad looks back to the retreating Batiste.

You whisper "He... he's yer Jason too, isn't he." to Regan.

Breathless. "Yes."

Jason takes a small, surprised step backwards at the look Batiste gives him, wounded as well. Brows furrowed, he turns a confused look towards Trace, trying on a hopeful smile (the 'I'm not in trouble with /everyone/, right?' smile), but that quickly dies as Trace hurries past him. Well... at least he got a 'missed you' out of all of that. He lets out a low sigh and shrugs to Catherine, murmuring, "They get a little excitable when I come home. They're like puppies, y'know?" He smirks crookedly, then starts to trot after his two rather baffling friends. But Trace stops and mumbles and all of that and Jason's head tilts again. "What?"

Jason's ears go through the entire gamut of emotions. Happiness to be back and see you two, then confusion, then hurt, then some more confusion. They end up in the 'curious' forward position at the end though, as he peers at the mumbling Trace, with his tail sort of swaying behind him in a neutral manner, as if not quite sure how to react yet.

Regan senses "Trace says very softly, the kind of whisper that barely reaches one's own ears, let alone another's, "He's one of my best friends. And yer right, he's... beautiful." But the boy's so distracted. All he has going for him in the world right now is good friendships, and one of them is shaky right now.."

Jean-Batiste stops short, and whirls around to stare back at Trace. His expression would be mocking, if his face was able to handle winks and smirking and such sharp expressions better - instead, it simply comes out exasperated and hurt. "You don't know what I'm talking about," he says, finding a goodly amount of disbelief to infuse his voice with. "You don't know what I'm talking about. Right." He seems rather certain that Trace isn't unsure at all. "-I- don't know what I'm talking about, because you don't give me a straight answer! What the fuck is that about? No secrets? Yeah. -Right-. Tell your 'invisible friend' to stick it." The quotes are poisonously audible. He turns to continue stalking off down the street, angry, confused and disgusted at once. INvisible friends. To him, that's like blaming the disappearance of the last muffin in the fridge on Purple Spotted Snorklewackers.

Shaking, trembling, thrown completely by the appearance of this boy that once meant the world to her. "Mine... my best friend, once. Don't... say anything about me. Your... your doe-eyes needs you." Torn, terribly torn, wanting to cry but needing to be strong for you.

Catherine doesn't really have to bother with walking away as Trace does that for her, hurrying off after Batiste. She sighs softly and just watches them walks away, looks down into her hand, and smirks at the yo-yo there, as if it is to blame for whatever she is thinking. She tosses it down and catches it again, making sure something still works out the way she likes it. She looks up at Jason at his words, and the first genuine smile appears, then she watches him walk after the two, remaining standing where she is. The little shouting Batiste does to Trace makes her frown a little, and she shakes her head, staring down at her feet. She mutters something, but since she's standing alone by now, nobody can hear it anyway.

All Jason can really figure out is that he's being talked about by Trace... to no one in particular. And then Batiste just goes off over there. Jason takes another step back, looking actually a little surprised. This isn't exactly the happy-go-lucky, only slightly screwed-up pair of friends he up and disappeared on recently. It appears that /someone/ chose the exact /wrong/ moment to show up out of nowhere. In fact, he's feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, it's so weird. Ah, yes, here's the mistake. See, he took the wrong bus and ended up in the /Twilight Zone/. That would explain this all. He'd ask Batiste, but everyone seems to be on the older kid's shitlist right now, so that would be a mistake. Jason's face screws up in thought. There's /got/ to be /something/ to do that would make this better.

Glass comes down Bourbon from uptown.

"It's not my fault!" Trace finally finds his voice, and it rings out over Bourbon Street, sharp and plaintive. "It's not my fault, Batiste, she forced it on me, remember? She forced us both..." But of course Batiste doesn't remember. He throws up his hands. "Go read yer fucking note, alright? Here, read mine!" He digs into his pocket -- the other one, not the one full of chalk -- and flings a piece of sketchbook paper at Batiste. He turns then, moving to stand in front of Jason. He has the courtesy to scrub his charcoal-covered hands on his jeans before he reaches up to ruffle at his younger friend's hair. "I'm sorry... Help me please? I don't know how to explain anything. I don't want to keep secrets. But she forced me..." A laugh that brings his guard down enough to let tears spill over his cheeks. "She forced us both, that Bonnie girl did. I... I wanna hurt her for this. She-she shouldn't be allowed to, to force it on people. She was so *scary*, Jason..."

Maybe it looks as though Trace ruffles Jason�s hair to other people, but at the receiving end it's obvious. He scritches at your ears with sad affection.

Glass comes walking from uptown, smoking a cigarette and looking very wet from the rain that just stopped.

Jean-Batiste is on an intercept course for Glass, then. He's storming away from Trace and Jason - and indirectly Catherine - looking to be very angry, confused, disgusted, hurt, etcetera. No happy, shiny Batiste today, no. He's also soaked, his steps throwing up puddles to further soak his ankles and calves.

Glass pauses, looking suprised. A question rises to his lips but is left unspoken. He steps toward Batiste again, and glances over the assembly, frowning with concern.

Catherine looks up at Trace's outburst, and with Jason stepping back, she now seems to be standing close to the both again, when Trace walks up to Jason. She has a slight frown, confused and a look of worry in her eyes, she looks at Trace, almost as if she hoped to understand what is going on by looking into his eyes. All she can really do is listen to what he says, getting a slight blush as she feels as if she's eavesdropping, but still she can't get herself to leave, not now.

Jason looks... at the start, happy, ducking his head into the ruffling fingers. But then a little light goes on, a realization dawning. He straightens up suddenly, looking... not just angry, but downright furious, a dark flash behind his bright eyes. EvilJason has arrived. "/Bonnie?/" Jason hisses the name as if marking it down on a list. His eyes go to Batiste as the boy storms away. His voice, clear and, well... cold (very un-Jason-like cold too), calls out down the street, "Bat! C'mere... Wanna show you sumthin'."

Choked with emotion at being this close to her long-lost friend, touching him again through your hands, it's nearly impossible for the girl who's only a whisper to come up with anything coherent. "Don't.. don't cry, sweetest, shhhh. There. There. You should... you need to go with them both. Explain what.. whatever it is." Sadness, sorrow threatening to burst, but not here, not now. Fierce: "Friendship is the most important thing ever, don't forget it. Make it right."

Jason's ears plaster back against his head at the realization, his tail snapping about one side of him once before curling tightly about his legs. As he calls out to Batiste, you can see those sharp little canines flash in the snarl.

Glass looks at Batiste and strides over to him rapidly. He slips an arm around the blonde-braided boy's shoulders and murmurs to him, "Hey, hey. It's cool. You wanna go someplace else now?" His tone is reassuring. He ignores Jason's call, not looking away from Batiste to notice the change in the redhead's demeanor.

Trace sinks down onto the curb and feels sorry for himself. His lips move as though he's mumbling to himself again, and he scrubs at his eyes. Hard to reseal burst dams. He huddles his legs up close to his chest, and doesn't seem to mind that his sneakers are resting in gutter puddles.

Regan senses "Trace realizes it now. The sorrow in your voice, the wistfulness brings it back to him. "Yer the girl from the house... The artist.""

Jean-Batiste shoulders past a couple people loitering on the edge of the street, getting muttered curses and glares in return. His steps go jerky, as if he was about to stop then decided against it - two steps later, he -does- stop, and turns slightly, just enough to be able to look back at the sketchbook paper drowning in a puddle, then Jason. He doesn't move towards the pair, though, and hunches his shoulders against Glass's arm as the young man nears. "I don't know. I...no. I don't know." He rubs hard at his eyes and stares back blankly at Jason, unmoving. "What is it?" he calls towards the redhead.

Catherine blinks a little, not really seeing Jason's expression as his back is towards her, but she can certainly hear the tone of his voice. She looks at Trave the moment she hears Jason call out, and seeing him sit down on the curb she walks slowly over to him, and does the same she saw him do to Jason, ruffle a hand through his hair, probably to try and cheer him up, but she doesn't really know for sure herself why she's doing it. She looks down and says softly, "It's not your fault.." She no longer really notices what else is going on, but looks down at Trace, hoping to see him cheer up a little.

Fighting for calm, fighting for serenity against something much bigger than her. "Yes. It was mine... it was me. He helped, like he helps you... helped me see things and... oh, sweetest, does he still have his tail?"

Regan senses "Trace responds with just the slightest nod and murmurs simply, "Ears too."

Ohhh, bad. EvilJason blinks, then /glares/ as Glass puts his arm around Batiste. Jason prolly would be a lot more subtle about his reaction, but, well, this is EvilJason, remember. Eyes go between Glass and Batiste, fingers unconciously clenching, but Jason calls back, keeping his voice controlled, "Jus' wanna show you sumthin'..." And then, after a deep breath, he adds a "Please."

Glass glances at Jason, and a wary, nervous look crosses his features. He murmurs to Batiste, "You gonna go talk to him, then?" He looks like he doesn't much care for that idea, really. He looks like he'd much rather be somewhere else.

Trace sniffles and shifts uncomfortably as Catherine ruffles his hair. Needs dinner and a movie before ya can get that close. Okay, not really, but he just isn't used to affection from anyone, with two big exceptions. He looks up at her and nods again, just a little nod as he murmurs, "I know... I know, I couldn't help it. But I, I always wind up hurting him this way..."

Jean-Batiste sighs, and stares down at the sidewalk, as if his tangle of emotions had tripped his eyes up as well. He shrugs weakly, listlessly, as his anger runs out of fuel and the steam turns to water, dribbling uselessly away. "Yeah," he mumbles. "Yeah, okay. Whatever." He looks up at Glass for a moment, then starts to head back towards Jason, feet dragging through the puddles. He's the family dog, after all. Stomp on his tail and let him slink away, then whistle him back and he'll come, on the off chance there's a Milkbone in it for him.

Jason's tail, though, despite all the EvilJason-ness, brushes up against Trace's arm and shoulder as the redhead stands beside the sitting boy. At least there's some sympathy there. If unconcious at the moment.

Glass hesitates, letting Batiste slip out from under his arm. He seems to make up his mind as Batiste slogs away; he trails after Batiste, his hand still on the other boy's shoulder. Doug watches Jason warily from behind Batiste as they approach the redhead. This can come to no good.

Soft sobs, desperately wishing for a time that will never ever come again, deeply longing for half-grasped memories. "He gave me a tail, once.. in a.. a little tin ring. I wish... I wish I could cry. I wish I could still cry. Please, please, make it all right. Make it right because I never got to. Please?"

Catherine pulls her hand away, making Trace wince being the last thing on her mind as she did what she did. Better clasp her hands together behind her back, that's safest. She looks down at him, and tries a little smile, as she says softly, "You both can talk it out.. I mean, I'm sure he knows you don't mean to hurt him and if you do it's because there's a misunderstand in g and you only need to talk those out.." She looks over to Jason now, and the Batiste as he comes walking back. Then turning back at Trace, she smiles and says softly, "See? It's going to be okay.."

Jean-Batiste has a backbone of wet toilet paper when it comes to defying (or what counts as defying to him) Jason, this much is patently clear. He trudges back obediently to stand in front of Jason, hands lost in the very bottoms of his pockets, eyes listlessly on the sidewalk. Waiting.

The black wings of Glass' eyebrows sink and he frowns at Jason, the expression still marked by wariness. This is an aspect of the relationship he hasn't seen before, and he doesn't like the look of it. He keeps his hand on Batiste's shoulder and waits, silent.

Jason does bear an uncomfortable resemblance to a master about to scold his dog, doesn't he? What a great return he's managing so far. One hand pulls an item from a coat pocket as Batiste and Glass approach. His expression starts to soften as Batiste pulls up, but... Jason's eyes go to the hand on Bat's shoulder, then follow the arm up to Glass. Nooo, not soft, definitely. It's like Glass just wandered in where he was most definitely not invited. He murmurs quietly, "S'for Bat." The 'and Bat alone' is left unspoken, but the message is conveyed quite clearly in Jason's storming green eyes.

Alisynde comes down Bourbon from downtown.

Trace gives a soft sob and crosses his arms over his knees and buries much of his face there. He peeks up to watch his friends anxiously and murmurs, "Don't worry, Jason'll make things alright... N-Nothin' I kin' do. I'm the one w-what fucked things up..." Well, if Invisiable people can't cry, Trace sure can.

Glass studies Jason's face for a time, his eyes dark as the space between the stars, and as cold. Not threatening, just cold and lonely and very black. A moment later he turns a little, stepping forward a touch so he can look at the side of Batiste's face. He murmurs softly, "You want me to go, ami?"

Alisynde strolls quietly up the street, looking down at the curb 'neath her feet.

Catherine squats down a little, holding her hands on her knees to remain balanced on her toes, as she now sits about just as high as Trace is, sitting on the curb. She looks at him, and shakes her head quickly, then says softly, "You're his friend.. That means there is lots of things you can do, and if you did something bad, you just have to try to make up.. Helping eachother is what being friends is all about, right?" Well, if not everyone, at least Cathy is in a slightly better mood, and she hopes she can convey something of it to Trace.

Jason darts a look down at Trace at the soft sound, expression going suddenly gentle... and then confused, as Jason can't quite figure why Trace is telling Catherine this. Or Bat. Or maybe Glass? Oh, hell. But, well, that gentle look is gone in a flash as he looks back up at Glass. If looks could kill... Daggers in his eyes... All those cliche's don't quite match up to the look of just pure unwelcome Jason gives Glass. "How many triangles..." he murmurs, low. "How many ya know got four points?" Ouch.

Oh, no. Batiste has to come up with an answer on his -own-? He looks at Jason's hand and sighs quietly, rubbing at his eyes again before lifting them to Glass's face. "No," he replies, in all honesty. But in all honesty he continues, "But I think Jason needs to talk to me alone." He drops his eyes away from Glass's face and looks back to Jason's hand, before holding his own out. Did Trace slip the baggie to Jason, perhaps? He doesn't know. A deep flinch, almost too deep to surface, passes through him. He doesn't look up.

Alisynde glances up for a moment, and sees the rather unhappy lot just down the street. She stops, for the moment, watching quietly, unwilling to intrude, just yet.

Shuddering still, but under somewhat more control for the brief silence she took for herself. "Shhhhh. Don't feel guilty, little one. We'll make everything well again. They.." The voice falters a little, and drops to an even softer whisper. "They love you so much. And you love them. And that's.. that's where I came from. From love, it's what I'm all made out of. And I know it'll be well. You just don't despair, now."

Glass looks back at Jason when he speaks. The comment registers in his eyes. A killing frost. He nods slowly at Bastiste's reply and lets his hand slide from the bonde boy's shoulder as he steps back. He turns his gaze slowly, looking at Trace for a moment, then at Catherine. Nothing warm there. His glance drops to the pavement a yard or so before him. He hunches his shoulders and makes to move away.

Alisynde chews on her lip for a moment, then slowly walks down the street, looking as if she's going to pass the group and continue on.

Trace sniffles again, scrubbing at his runny nose with the back of his hand, then rubbing said hand against his jeans. Poor abused jeans! "Thanks, Catherine," he mumbles softly, grateful for her words, but also slightly flushed with embarrassment. Crying in front of girls, geez, he's such a loser. He hauls himself up off the pavement and murmurs, "Well... I... I better be... part've this. I *am* part of this, so I oughta get off my ass and be with 'em..." He trudges in their direction shyly.

Jason probably just burned a bridge with that question, but... EvilJason does rash things and makes messes that GoodJason has to clean up later. But as it is... Jason looks back to Batiste as Glass looks suitably abused and starts to move away. His hand comes up and opens, revealing to Bat a plastic keychain with something written on it. Just one of those cheesy things you pick up in a convenience store or gas station or something, but.. he holds it out to the blond boy, obviously wishing for the other to take it.

Trace stops as he realizes what's happening. Ohh... He reaches into his pocket and takes something out and looks down at it in his palm for a moment before closing it up in a fist and squeezing it reassuringly as he looks on at Jason and Batiste.

Tired, but proud, very proud. "You're so strong, little one... you survive. Keep on, hold up your chin... don't ever forget you're magic inside."

Catherine smiles as she sees Trace get up, waiting a moment to watch him go over to Jason and Batiste, then she gets up as well. She looks at the little group a moment, but then turns and starts uptown, where she was heading a long while ago, before all these things just happened. From her pocket she pulls her yo-yo and tosses it down, where it remains spinning a while, then a tug and it climbs back up to her hand. A good one. Watching it move up and down a few more times, she walks off.

Alisynde says softly, as she passes, "Hi guys."

Alisynde heads uptown.

Regan senses "Trace is holding a little battered matchbook, btw. I suppose Regan would know that. :)"

Catherine heads uptown.

Jean-Batiste swallows hard, and murmurs - whispers, really, "I'm...sorry..." He doesn't sound certain of what he's even apologizing for. He looks towards Glass (or his feet, at least) then lifts his eyes to Jason's face. He stares at the redhead for a second, then looks down at the plastic keychain. His eyelids close, eyes rolling behind them. This /must/ be the Twilight Zone. "Jason..." he starts to say, a complaint that falls away as he sighs and reaches out for the bit of cheap metal and plastic, ready to glance at it negligently and pocket it.

Glass pauses and looks back once he's limped a few tens of yards away. Jason. Catherine's retreating form. Jason. Too much. He lowers his head and starts to run, darting through the crowd with blind grace.

Trace looks down at the soggy note he'd thrown to Batiste and with a sigh, stoops to retrieve it. He shifts whatever he's squeezing to the other hand and puts the note back into his pocket. Then he looks back to Batiste intently, watching with hopeful whipping boy eyes through clingy wet lashes.

Jason's eyes narrow slightly, his voice snapping out softly as the keychain makes its move towards Batiste's pocket. "/Read/ it..." But by now, the 'side-effect' of the keychain should have taken hold. Jason lets out a soft sigh, taking a step back and regarding Batiste with his head tilted, eyes gone soft now. Affectionate. He really /didn't/ want to be EvilJason, but... maybe this will explain things to Batiste. At least for tonight. At least until whatever this is blows over. Jason whispers something softly, too softly to be heard, but he looks to Batiste hopefully.

Jean-Batiste's fingers close around the cheap keychain, hand stabbing back into his pocket. Somewhere along the way he shudders, and makes a soft groaning sound, reaching his free hand up to dig at the inner corners of his eyes. He just stands there for thirty seconds or more, swaying slightly as people do when they think they're trying to hold still, then takes a deep breath and looks up at Jason. More silence, and slow blinking. The brain-gears are whirring slowly. He simply nods, and pulls the keychain back out again, to look down at it.

Comfort verging right on motherly tenderness. "No triangle's got four sides... I should let you 'lone. You're so strong... thankyou. Thank you for showing me Jason. Our secret?"

Trace nods very faintly, eyes flickering briefly to Jason, and then he looks down at his toes and murmurs under his breath, "Our secret."

A gentle feeling against the back of your neck, like a protective hand resting there for a moment. And she lets you in on the secret, "Nature's first green is gold, it's hardest hue to hold." And then on a whisper, the girl slips away and your mind falls silent again.

Secret. Batiste is rapidly developing a pavlovian response to the word. He looks over at Trace as he mumbles, 'Our secret...' and his jaw sets again - the flaring in his eyes is weak and fitful compared to the earlier anger, though. He's running out of energy to care. He forces his eyes back to the keychain, trying to tune out the sudden, intense chaos around him, and concentrate on the words. A poem. At least it's a short poem. He reads to himself - by the time he reaches the end, he has to squeezes his eyes shut to deny a few tears. He raises bright, confused eyes to Jason.

Jason gives Batiste a soft smile and a slight shrug... then steps forward and reaches a hand up to brush his fingers along the taller boy's cheek, just in case any of those tears escape. "Her early leaf's a flower; but only so an hour..." He laughs softly, sadly, and lowers his eyes again. "Every memory given has to be taken away again, seems..."

Oh god, it didn't work at all...Trace takes one look at the continued anger in his older friend and turns away partly to look on down Bourbon Street. "Then leaf subsides to leaf....So Eden sank to grief.." He chokes on a sob an closes his eyes. The rain returns, quite on que in his opinion. How can he still be angry knowing Trace didn't choose this? It was forced on him. Forced! And he tried so hard to be rid of it last time... Doesn't he remember? His thoughts turn the Frost poem over in his mind...

Jean-Batiste frowns down at the keychain again, swallowing hard, eyes closed against the touch of Jason's fingertips. "Maybe for me," he replies, sounding a bit distant. "Not for the two of you." He looks up sharply, suddenly, as something clicks in his head. He scours the nearby surroundings for weirdness, then demands of Trace, "Where the -hell- is this friend of yours? What the fuck gives with that?" It's rather like the look Jason gave Glass, the look that Batiste gives Trace - only instead of cold crispness, it's edgy and sharp.

Jean-Batiste continues, because now - he thinks - this makes sense. "What the hell am I supposed to think, with you talking about invisible friends when I'm not remembering dick? C'mon, Batiste, let's go somewhere we've never been. No, I won't tell you with who. Wandering around mumbling to yourself, and you wonder why I get paranoid? Christ." He irritably thumbs the keychain, looking down at it again.

Whoah, see, Batiste is supposed to be okay now. Jason showed him what happened. He should remember Bonnie, right? And so he'll... Jason takes a step back, from out between his two friends, looking between the both with confusion. This invisible friend thing, he thought it had to do with... Now Jason just looks confused. He pulls something else out of his pocket and starts fingering it. Everything was supposed to be fixed now...

"She told me to fix things," Trace says softly. "And she went away. But I'm no good at fixing things..." He shakes his head. He's just as lost now too, and had believed it would work. How disheartening... "She's not here anymore. Look, I..." His breath hitches. "I'm no good at hiding things, okay? It's not fair to yell at me 'bout it, I-I can't *lie* to you... What am I supposed to do? Make you think I'm nuts? It-it's probably what I'll do next time. Better that then you yellin' at me..."

Jason looks down at the thing in his hand, running his thumb over it. His tail twitches slightly as he does so, his ears back. He's so... Things shoulda been right now, see? /Jason/ fixes things. That's what he does. Breaks most stuff, but fixes what counts. He stares at the object in his hand... then, not knowing what else to do, he pads over to Trace and presses it into the smaller boy's hand. Here. It's another keychain, but this one's attatched to a tiny stuffed fox.

Jean-Batiste rolls his eyes, and stuffs the keychain into his pocket. "How convenient," he mutters. He looks around again, as if he doesn't buy it, but doesn't see any boneless goths or were-critters, and so he -has- to buy it. "No, you can't lie to me. But you can dance around somewhere in between until I don't know who's coming or going. Christ." He kicks softly but peevishly at the concrete, scowling down at a piece of grit that doesn't roll away like he wanted. "I might not remember sweet fuck all about this 'great magic place'-" Oh, the sarcasm doth drip. "-when I'm clueless, but I -feel- it, you know? Like knowing someone told a joke behind your back. And soon as I ask anything, either of you, you get shifty or you smile and it's pat-the-moron-on-the-head time. Fuck." He paces away, and glares up at the drizzle again, sighing heavily.

Jason is suddenly a villian here. When'd that happen? All he did was come back! Or, well, leave... But still. This is stuff that everyone talked about ages ago. What the HELL happened this past week that he's gone awol? And... Jason's eyes pry away from the stalking Batiste to go to Trace, brows furrowing. Who's this 'she' he keeps referring to. And the place? Jason shifts and steps back again, away from both of you. Who are you and what'd you do with my friends???

"But-but I'm already seein' you..." Trace protests mournfully, and Jason can see he's already squeezing a matchbook, but that gets stuffed back into his pocket as he takes the little keychain and holds it. "Thank you," he mumbles. To Batiste, he lifts his voice more to cast his plea out above the drizzle and distance. "I didn't choose this. Please stop bein' like this, it's just not fair... I love you. Makes yer words like knives, an' you oughta know I wouldn't keep no secrets I wasn't forced to.."

"Not fair," Batiste echoes, scowling at the sky until a drop gets past the cap's brim and his lashes and splatters on his eye. He rubs his face and looks back towards the two of you. He's angry, yes, but in the bristly, defensive way an animal might get if they were trying to bluff their way out of the corner they were backed into. And then the metaphorical hackles raise even more as he glares at Trace and says, "Well, thanks, Trace. It's good to finally know where I am on the pecking order as far as secrets go. Remind me to knock you down a notch or two, okay?" His neck flinches, as teeth try to grind together even tighter. He stares down at the sidewalk, not caring if his eyes tear up anymore. "Blood brothers," he mutters, and starts to laugh, more than a little hysterically.

Nonono, things aren't supposed to fall apart without Jason. He has to be there too when... bad stuff happens. So he can at least know what to do to fix them. A week. It was only a /week/. Helpless, he looks between the both of you, eyes wide. Tears join the spatter of rainwater on his cheek as the poem goes through his mind again, the sadly sweet omen of a possible future that he brought back. "It hasn't been an hour yet, though..." he whimpers, and then repeats, louder. "It hasn't been an hour yet!" He steps back up, bringing himself once more between the both of you, his eyes darting from face to beloved face. "There aren't anymore secrets... We stopped that, remember?" It's a soft plea, either that it be true or, if it isn't, someone tell him that.

Historically Trace stands and takes abuse from his family, but eventually it's just too much and he runs away. He proves true to the pattern tonight. Slapped quite sharply with Batiste's sarcasm, which never should have gone near those last two sacred words, he stares a moment, stunned to immobility. "We tried," he whispers. "You're both... all I have." But oh, how could he say it like that? Those words were too special to be used as weapons. His face contorts sharply. He turns with a sob and flings himself off down Bourban street, running as fast as his skinny little legs will carry him. Tearblind and running into startled pedestrians, and he doesn't stop, even after he's well out of sight.

You head uptown, on Bourbon.

Jean-Batiste makes a noise as close to a growl as he can get, and calls in exasperation, "If we're all you have, then-" Way too late. He's already gone. "Oh, fuck it," And then he takes off after Trace, sprinting to try and keep from losing him in the Bourbon Street crowds. He really doesn't need Trace to run into traffic right about now.

Trace's sob brings with it a crack, to Jason's mind. A crack that, really, started when Batiste, well, used those words like that. That's what brought Jason forward. But now... He just watches in stunned disbelief as Trace disappears into the Bourbon street crowds. It doesn't even register that Batiste gives chase. Just the fact that it happened... "I just wanted to surprise you..." he whispers, blinking away rain and tears.

Trace's ultimate destination is the fort, because that was his safe and comforting place he knew before meeting the both of you. So cannon Trace takes aim and he's off, not quite big enough to bowl people over in his path, but he bumps them about, anyway.

"Trace!" Batiste shouts as he dodges through the crowds, trying to keep track of lashing blue braids. He's not as fast as he used to be, though, and Trace is smaller and probably more agile. Still, Batiste's run from cops enough to know how to work through a crowd as fast as possible. "Trace! Stop! Goddammit, get out of the-" He shoves through a knot of people who'd just stepped out of a streetside bar, stumbling a little before he's running again. "Trace, stop!" People look over, and see...what? A thieving in process? A love-quarrel? Two bratty streetkids? Batiste doesn't know, nor does he care.

Love-quarrel sounds the most correct. But Trace doesn't look as though he's going to stop on his own. He keeps on going full speed, and probably would have kept right at it until he was pounced on or abandonned by his persuer. But fate steps in and Trace, all sharp elbows and knees, runs hard into the *wrong* guy. A fist that seems, to Trace, larger than his own entire head, grabs the kid by the scruff of the t-shirt and yanks up sharply, and Trace's breath is cut off in an awkward 'ugk!"

Twist this way, dodge that way, calling Trace's name all the while. Batiste loses sight of blue hair, and tries to dodge through the crowds even faster, almost growling as he shoves through another knot of bargoers. "Trace! Trace, wai-" He stumble-skids to a halt, wild, too-bright eyes going even wider. He's stunned for a second or five, then moves forward again, shouting at the stranger this time. "Hey! -Hey-! Put him down, he didn't mean to run into you. If you got a problem, it's with me."

"Tried fer m'wallet, him," The man points out in a rumble, rattling Trace about a bit when he playfully shakes his fist, as though it will shake said wallet to the ground like bringing apples off a tree. But after a moment, the blue-haired kid is lowered so that his sneakers touch the concrete again and the big man reaches down with his free hand to feel for it. Huh. Still in place. Trace is dropped in an ungrateful heap, and the man insists, "Tried fer it though. Know how ya roaches do it, me. Seen it."

"Yeah?" Batiste says, stepping forward to crouch down and help Trace to his feet, trying to keep a good hold on him in the process. Not by the arm, or the scruff of the neck or anything. Just a spot of clothing, or contact in general. "You're pretty sharp, then. Most people never notice. Thanks for letting him go." It's all rattled off speedily - prattle, really. Practiced. His real attention's on Trace.

"Well, most're sharp 'nuff not t'try fer me. And s'better. Didn't like yer mouth before, you." the man suggests roughly. Yes, he's one of those N'awliners with that annoying dilect where they stick a pronoun at the end of every other sentance for no good reason. But he backs down at least, moving on his way and reaching down to feel for his wallet reassuringly one last time. Trace, in the meantime, accepts the help up humbly, but he's silent. The scare has dried up his tears at least. Once standing, he lets himself be led numbly and finally mumbles to his toes, "Thanks."

"Yeah. Sorry," Batiste replies, looking up at the man a moment to imply some level of contrition that's not really there. As the man moves off, he moves around a little, putting himself between the guy and Trace, to try and look down at his friend's eyes. "You okay?" he asks. He looks over his shoulder for a second, back the way he came from, to see if he can see any fiery red hair approaching. "Listen," he continues, stumbling over his own words. "Listen. I'm sorry. I'm confused and freaked and probably jealous, and I'm just...nothing's coming out right. I'm sorry. Please don't run away. Let's find Jason and talk all this over?" He waits only a heartbeat before adding another, "Please."

Trace's eyes are raw with hurt, and he looks like he still wants to run in case any more word-weapons are going to be launched his way, but he nods obediently. "Yeah. Yeah, okay." He trudges on back towards where the fight had broken out.

Jean-Batiste's eyes are...muddled. Determination is about the only thing showing through clearly. He will do everything he can, right now, to get the three of you all together and talking, and that's all he's letting himself think about. "Okay," he replies, and gently releases Trace, hands digging back into his pockets as he twists through the crowds, looking now for Jason.

Jason isn't far from where you both left him. He wandered aimlessly for a few minutes before just flopping down. So now he's on the opposite side of the street, a little ways down from where this all began, sitting on the curb and staring at the asphalt between his worn (well, nearly tattered) old shoes.

"There he is," Batiste murmurs, mostly to himself, as he spots Jason sitting on the curb across the street. He unnecessarily points the redhead out to Trace, pausing on the opposite side of the street to rub the back of his neck for a while. Several slow, deep breaths are taken, and even more small eternities of watching pass before he works up the courage to cross the street and slowly settle on the other side of Jason, down on the curb. Silence. He picks at some polish on his fingernails, worrying a hangnail until it starts to bleed.

Trudge, trudge. "Hi," Trace addresses his red-haired friend quietly. He is faintly embarrassed on top of everything now, because he didn't even do a good job of running away. He moves over and drops down on the curb and huddle up on himself, skinny arms hugging skinny legs close to his chest. After a moment he snakes his hand out of the little bundle of Trace to pet Jason's tail wistfully.

Jason doesn't respond to the greeting, nor the fact that you both sit down on either side of him. But when Trace starts to pet his tail... Jason's tail slides a little away from where it was pressed tightly along one leg, closer to Trace to be pet. The boy then slowly lifts his head and looks to the both of you, swallowing. Well, it's obvious /something's/ been worked out between you two and he's the problem left to be dealt with. Or something to that effect. His gaze finally comes to rest on Batiste, the corner of his lower lip caught and currently being gnawed on. Bat was the one freaking out earlier, so...

Trace pets the tail in silence. Nothing's been worked out at all, actually, except that Batiste still does care about him at least since he saved him from He with the Giant Fists. "So what now..?" he asks softly, eyes downcast and damp blue braids swinging down to hide much of his face.

Jean-Batiste sucks on the edge of his finger for a couple seconds, until the bleeding stops, then folds his arms on his knees and leans forward. He watches Trace pet Jason's tail for a while, blinking solemnly at it, as if it was a picture he was studying for a test, then looks away and concentrates on the street, trying not to notice how even asphalt isn't really mundane and ignorable anymore. He tries to collect his thoughts, then carefully speaks, very slowly, very calmly. "I thought...we agreed. No more secrets. I..." Deep breaths, Batiste. "I...can't be this close to someone, I can't...-love- someone, like this...if you're hiding things from me. It hurts too much."

Jason frowns softly, lowering his gaze to the street again. He starts to say something, then stops himself, then starts again and stops again. Honestly, he can't tell if he's the one being scolded. He's /used/ to it, that's for sure, but still. Finally the fact that he doesn't know what the hell this is all about asserts itself in his mind and he just stays silent, eyes downcast, hoping that the details will reveal themselves soon. At least enough details that he can start prying. Cause right now he's /completely/ in the dark.

"No more secrets," Trace repeats softly, and nods. "Them's my words. And like I said, I didn't choose this. I tried to be rid of it, 'member? And then Bonnie came, and I said *no* to her fuckin' candy, 'member? Told her no, and she blew a kiss 'n *forced* it on me. I-I didn't even know that could be done. No one's ever... done it to me like that." He shakes his head. "I'm sorry it wears off you quicker. I'm sorry you feel left out. I *didn't* choose it, or want it, but when you're seeing different it's a secret you have to keep. It just, it is. Every Different person I ever knew told me so." He looks to Jason now, and implores, "Kin' you 'splain that to him? I jest, I would tell him if I could, but..." He shakes his head. "It's jest.." He nudges Jason gently. "'Splain it."

So -that's- what black is supposed to look like. Batiste stares at the asphalt beneath a small puddle, wondering how he ever thought the dull, un-lustrous colour he normally sees could count as black after seeing -this-. Even the oilslicks are prettier, the smell of Bourbon Street like a complicated tapestry for his nose to wonder over. "Yeah, I remember," he murmurs softly. "I remember trying to get you out of there, and she...did whatever, anyways. It didn't matter what we thought." He looks up a little, over at Jason. "She said she was your friend...said she lost a bet with you, over me." Even if these things are true, he doesn't have the energy to be upset about them.

Jason's expression... well, it's not a pleasant expression as he hears what Bonnie did. If either of you have figured him out at least a little bit, you can tell that he's just marking things for later in that situation. But then he lets out a soft sigh as he's nudged and looks up sidelong at Trace through his hair, looking hurt that the buck was passed to him. And then to Batiste as he speaks. "Ain' my frien' no more." Nothing about any bet, but, well, he probably doesn't even see that as worth paying attention to. He looks back to Trace, silent a few moments, tail twitching beneath the other's hand. Then another soft sigh and back to Batiste. "If I could letcha both see every day, don' you think I would? But... Would rather ya never saw then ta keep havin' ta take it 'way 'soon as yer hour's up." Another look between the both of you. "Jus'... some hours're longer 'n others. Ain' nuthin' but blood ta decide that..." He shrugs slightly, then lowers his head. This conversation's been had before, he doesn't want to go through it all again.

Jason's voice is soft, his tone sad as he speaks. He's genuinely sorry that this has to happen. And that it happens so fucking much.

"It's lonely, when you forget," Trace admits, glancing to Batiste. "It's like... fun we had, and things I said to you... They all go away. Or get changed, or rationalized, y'know? Like we never even shared it. So it hurts me too, when you forget and I still remember..." He sighs and shakes his head. "Let's get food, okay?" A very abrupt change of topic. "Let's get Jason a humongous gigantic chocolate sundae or something coz we're glad he's back home and this's prolly' been one fucked up welcome he's gotten." He drudges up a grin. "Ice cream sounds good, don't it? And I won't even put no pineapple cream cheese 'n syrup on it."

Jean-Batiste's mouth quirks up ruefully, and he sighs, peering down at a bit of streetgrit that's the greyest grey he's ever seen. "Yeah, well," he murmurs, not looking up. "I'll be forgetting all this right away anyways, so." Why enjoy it, why savour it, when you know it'll be gone and twisted in a few short hours? He looks across the street, still not looking at the two of you, and murmurs, "Maybe...maybe one time...maybe if it happens enough...maybe I won't forget. I'd...like to stop thinking I'm going crazy." He pushes himself upright, and looks down at the two of you, smiling faintly. "Yeah. Let's...go have ice cream or something. We really missed you." He offers a hand out to both of you, to help you up. "Besides, I bet the ice cream will taste different, right now, too."

Epilogue:
(OOC) Jean-Batiste says "It's really damned late, yeah. Can we decide on an ending before we all go? :)"
(OOC) Jason just knows that Jason was gonna pull out a postcard from Devil's Rock in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Or something.
(OOC) Trace says "They go for ice cream, things get lighter, they accidently put peanuts on top of Trace's sundae, blech, so he uses his spoon catapault style and flicks them at people... :)"

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