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Log Title: Overprotective Bat Hissyfit #895

Log setting: The porch of the Moss Street Chez.

Log Cast:
Jean-Batiste
Trace
Catherine
Puck

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Creeeak. Creeeak. No, there's no skeleton pawing at the picture window - instead, Batiste sits on the porch swing, rocking slowly as he ponders something held in his hands. His head is cocked just a little to the side, a mild frown upon his features - something troublesome? A clove dangles in the corner of his mouth, smouldering in the autumn air.

It's evening, and Trace shuffles down the familiar Moss Street all awash in autumn sunset, catching on the trees and sending their long shadows stretching languidly along the concrete. He's heading towards home. No more pirate swagger. The magic -- or extreme weirdness, whatever you want to call last night -- has passed and now he's just plain blue-braided Trace again. He's swinging a shopping bag from it's handle, and his beat up canvas bag is slung over his shoulder as well as he walks.

Jean-Batiste sighs quietly to himself, and sets the whatever-it-is down in his lap to pluck his clove from his mouth and ash it over the edge of the porch swing. He drags hard on it, holding it in for a heartbeat or two, then looks towards the street and exhales. The pensive expression melts a little, giving way to a fond, mildly muzzy smile as he waves to you and calls, "Ahoy, you!"

Trace directs his gaze up towards the porch at the call, and a somewhat distant but still affectionate smile touches his lips. He calls back, "Ho there, green one. Or did ya wash it all out already? And did ya keep yer promise bout lettin' me help put yer braids back..?" Impatient boy... A couple more steps and that willow will be out of the way so he can see for himself. He hops up the steps, the bag swinging and thumping once against his leg as he ascends. He moves over and takes a seat beside you on the porch swing, sitting gingerly perched at the edge, still hanging onto the bag.

Jean-Batiste shampooed his hair three times this morning, but it's still rather green-tinged. He -might- be able to pass for someone who spent their entire summer soaking in a chlorinated pool. Might. It's still pretty green-tinged. It's unbraided, though, hanging in the brittle curtain as it was when you first met. "Yeah, of course I did..." He shakes his head a little, enjoying the feel of wispy strands instead of heavy braids hitting his face. "I really think I'm going to go for braiding just a few behind my ear, or at my temple, you know? And do 'em with three colours, and put a bead at the end. It'll look really cool, I think." He picks up the corner of the unmarked envelope he was holding, rapping it lightly against his knuckles, then stops so he can drape an arm around you and invite you into a lean. "What's up?" he murmurs. "What'd you go get?"

Trace leans into you gratefully, quiet a moment, the set of his shoulders somewhat tense. The shirt beneath your arm is slightly damp, since it's awful hot even for the first of November, and in between bus rides he's walked quite a ways. Finally after taking his good time about it, he answers your question. "Presents. Want yers?" He glances down at the bag, then up at you. Curious, isn't it? First this unemployed kid somehow came up with the money for that fancy pirate get-up, and now he's out getting presents? Something hopeful lights his eyes as he looks up at you, but then drops his eyes to your envelope, with new curiousity. "What *you* got?"

Catherine comes down the street, from Esplanade.

Jean-Batiste looks down at the envelope, rapping it against his knee with a papery rustle. "It's..." he begins, musing over how to explain it. "I'll tell you after I see the present," he decides, tucking the envelope under his leg so a corner of it sticks out. "Promise," he assures you. Dark eyebrows lift a little, then, as he considers the grocery bag, then your expression. The pirate get-up he'd assumed was Walker's benevolence, but -presents-? He studies you oddly for a second, then grins, bumping shoulders with you. "Yeah, of course I want to see. Do I need to close my eyes and hold out my hand?"

Catherine comes walking at a slow pace along the street, looking at the houses as she passes them, pausing even from time to time to read names on the mailboxes. But as she comes closer to 613, she ignores the houses, and instead looks over to the one house. She smiles and waves as she sees two familiar persons standing outside and begins to walk up to them.

"Yer so stubborn, y'know?" Trace grins fondly, then shakes his head, gently tossing braids about his shoulders with the gesture. "Naw... It's kinda wrapped, you know? Well, not in wrapping paper, just in it's own bag, you know? But I mean.." Okay, so he's rambling. He shifts slightly where he's sitting on the porch swing, leaned against his friend in the shade of the willow tree outside house 613. Nestles his cheek against the boy for a moment. Then he pulls away reluctantly to lean forward and paw through the bag. But the footsteps approaching draws his attention, and he looks up. "Hey, Cathy..." He straightens, pulling out something wrapped in a Radio Shack bag and hands it over to his friend with the greenish-blonde hair. Attention rests back on Batiste as he murmurs softly, "Hope you like it."

Jean-Batiste grins right back at Trace, just as fondly, and murmurs, "You like it better that way. Admit it." He reaches over, affectionately tousling blue braids as his younger friend rummages for presents, curiousity and anticipation brightening dark eyes. "So how come you're getting presents?" he wonders, leaning back a bit so the porch swing doesn't tip them both out. "Did you win the lottery and didn't tell the rest of us?" He takes the Radio Shack bag, puzzling at the logo for a second, then looks up and over at Cathy, waving shyly to her and greeting with a soft, "Hey." Pressies distract him again, though, and he starts to open it, peeking inside.

Trace isn't going to answer those questions if he can help it. "Jest, y'know, I saw 'em an' felt like it..." As Jean-Batiste pulls out the box labled 'Sony' inside that bag, the bluecap starts up his ramble again with a sheepish smile. "I 'memberd how once you tole' me you useta have a walkman but you hocked it, or didn't take it with you, or something..." He looks down at his lap. "So I mean -- well -- and you jog all the time, right? So I thought... Maybe you could use one'a them discmans, the kind what never skip, y'know? So you could have somethin' t'listen to..."

Catherine smiles brightly as Trace notices her, and she waves again, even more enthousiastic, as she turns up the path over the lawn, approaching the house now. Just before she is on the porch, she considers it to be close enough to be heard, and she says, "Hi..". She blinks a moment as she sees Trace hand Batiste something, and with those words.. "Uhmm, did I miss someone's birthday?" She looks questioningly at Batiste, but as it seems he doesn't know it either, she just shrugs, but then blinks as she sees what is taken out of the package.

Blink. Blinkblink. Batiste peers at the Discman box, turning it over a couple times in his fingers. Perhaps he at first thought there was something else bundled inside, but following Trace's sheepish explanation, he holds it still and just stares at it for a few seconds. "Yeah," he murmurs. "Yeah. I...it was something I left home with. I pawned it out on the coast. It..." He looks up again, smiling this amazingly radiant smile at Trace. "Blood brother," he murmurs, tousling his friend's braids again. "You're so good to me. Thanks." Radiant smile gives way to foolish grin - he's not too old to indulge in the simple, shiny pleasure of a new 'toy'. He starts to open the box, answering Cathy distractedly, "No, birthday's in December..."

Trace's smile brightens up considerably as his present is well-received, and he reaches out and squeezes the older boy's arm affectionately. "Gonna have a big party for you too, y'know... It'll be the greatest, you'll see." He almost looks relieved. There's more in the bigger shopping bag, just one more package it seems, but shaped differently. The blue-haired boy watches with a grin as Batiste works to get his toy free of the pesky cardboard, and then smiles up at Cathy. "Don't gotta be a birthday t'give presents, though. I jest felt like it... Maybe I can say it's a late Halloween present, I dunno." He rolls his shoulders in a light shrug. "How you doin'?" he asks the girl.

Catherine looks a little puzzled at Trace, smiling slightly, but not too convincingly, and she keeps looking back at the Discman in Batiste's hands. She says softly, "Well.. uhmm.. wow..", then giggles, and shakes her head slowly, "I guess you don't need birthdays to give presents, no.. It's just.. well, what people usually do.." Still a little confused, she looks at Trace and asks, "I guess it was a good Halloween then? Mine wasn't too great, but I'm doing pretty okay.." She looks back again at Batiste, and the thing in his hands, it keeps amazing her.

Jean-Batiste wrestles with the super-polymer packing tape they use to seal packages like this, his short nails completely useless against it. Finally, after a sheepish grin to the both of you, he discreetly (as possible) produces a straight-razor with a plain black plastic handle, and makes short work of the tape. He draws out the package, setting the styrofoam aside. And...oh. Almost, -almost- better than the Discman itself - bubble wrap! He grins slyly at Trace then, in a moment of supreme generousity, hands it over to Trace to be ritually popped. Warranty, instructions, those are set aside as well, in order to get to the Discman itself. "Damn," he murmurs, and actually giggles once. "Shit, Trace. This is awesome." He smiles up at his friend again, leaning into him a moment, then adds, "My birthday will be great, no matter what. I know it."

Trace is unfazed by the knife Batiste produces. Seen it, probably. And hey, if she didn't already, it's time Cathy learned that most street kids arm themselves. The boy beams as the bubble wrap is handed over, and dexterous little fingers go to work. Pop-poppita-pop-pop! He frowns as one doesn't make a satisfying noise between his fingers. Just kinda hisses. Gotta hate coming across duds in bubble wrap. A few more sharp snaps and then he realizes he's being greedy and grins, passing it back. "We just stayed here for Halloween," he murmurs, and then nudges at Batiste's leg with his black sneaker and giggles, "Well, most of us. Some people snuck off and came back all mussed." Sure, he was too tripped out to say much last night, but you *had* to know you'd take some ribbing for that eventually, right?

Catherine's eyes widen slightly at the knife produced, but she doesn't say anything, she just walks to the edge of the porch, and finds a bannister to lean against, to watch the two boys on the bench. She grins as Trace starts to pop the bubblewrap, but then looks back at the unwrapping of the actual gift. Still a little amazed, she just nods as Trace says they stayed for Halloween, and only after a moment blinks, and then asks with a grin, "Don't tell me.. Those people who sneaked off... they were all blue?"

Jean-Batiste checks the Discman over thoroughly, taking the little paper liner out of the inside of the player itself, then carefully puts it back in its styrofoam wrapping and back inside the box. Once it's bundled away between himself and the edge of the porch-swing, he takes the bubble wrap back and does his share of wrap-destruction. Blap! Blap! "Yeah, we..." he starts to say, and then is teased and nudged by Trace. Man, can Batiste blush. See? All nice and pink like that. He mumbles something, head ducked, concentrating on the bubble-wrap. BLAP! BLAP! "I didn't sneak, I got dragged..." he insists, once the blush eases a little. He peeks up through his green-tinged hair, then, and asks Cathy, "Blue? What do you mean?"

"Yeah, whatchya talkin' bout?" Trace shakes his head. "Nobody was blue. They were such a purrrrty green." He giggles and ruffles at Batiste's hair, still tinted faintly from the dye that hasn't washed all the way out, despite Bat's efforts. Then he gives the boy a nudge and demands, "Ain't shared yer mysterious envelope yet. That was the deal, 'member?"

Catherine carefully sits down on the bannister now, and finds a pole behind her back to support her, keeping her upright. She grins as she says, "Green? Ohh, I thought it said blue in the newspaper, but I guess I misread it then.. Or perhaps they didn't see it too clearly.." She giggles softly, and swings her feet slightly, then says, "I mean.. it did sort of have your names written all over it.." She then ohhs softly, and looks towards Batiste, at the mention of an envelope.

"Huh?" Batiste says, looking up from the Discman box to Trace's face. Mystery env-oh. Right. He glances down at it, and looks mildly discomfited, not picking it up. "Well..." he murmurs, fidgeting a bit. He stalls for time, lighting up one of his licorice cloves and taking a long drag off of it. "It's...it's nothing special," he insists. "Just..." Squirm. Evade, evade, evade. "It's nothing," he repeats. "Boring," he adds. He nods towards Cathy a little, and valiantly tries to change the subject. "What are you talking about, what was in the newspaper?"

Trace's brow furrows slightly as Batiste deflects his inquiries, but then casts a glance at Catherine. Oh. Private family matter? Okay. He can wait. Not long, but he can wait. He looks to Cathy and chimes in, "Yeah, what's going on? I mean, I heard something about pumpkins..." Sigh. See how out of touch he's getting, holed up at Walkers? Not that he'd trade the love and comfort found in the Windholm home just to be well informed. "Guess they got kinda near the Garden District, but nothin' near our streets. Did they get near where you live?"

Catherine looks a little more curious at Batiste as the more he says the envelope isn't interesting, the more interesting it becomes. She giggles softly, as she says, "Ohh, I just thought.. well.. those pumpkins and the blue paint and all.. I just thought you might have been somewhat involved.. I mean, it's such a typical prank.. though I guess it was a bit over the top.." She looks back at Trace and nods, then says with a slight shrug, "Yeah, they kinda hit the courtyard, but they are painting over it again, so it should be cleaned up in not too long.." A slight frown as she looks from Trace to Batiste and back, then says with a smile, "Uhmm.. I think I should get going, I was only sort of looking.. You know of any Lukas living in this street? I don't know a last name, really.."

Jean-Batiste gives Cathy a bit of an odd look through his clove smoke as she says 'typical prank', then glances away to exhale and shakes his head. "No," he murmurs. "Wasn't a part of it. I'm not much of a vandalist." Now, -Jason-, on the other hand, he might have to ask... "Lukas?" he echoes, giving Trace a thoughtful look. "No, I don't know anyone named Lukas, but...I could ask Walker, maybe he knows. He's lived here a while, I think...you know anything about him?"

"I live here," Trace grins, "But these ain't my neighbors, y'know? S'like, this here's the nice part'a town, and I jest' don't got much t'say to 'em, nor them t'me." He shrugs, unable help out more. An unoffended grin to Cathy and he admits easily, "Y'know, I see where ya was comin' from with the pumpkins, coz if I *were* gonna do some halloween 'decoratin' in the streets, blue paint's what I woulda used..." He grins, then shakes it off. Ah well. But whoever did it has his respect. "I'll see ya 'round, okay Cathy? Hope you find yer Lukas guy.."

Catherine shrugs slightly as she says, "Well, the only thing I know about him is that supposedly he'd be willing to sell his house.." She giggles, and makes a dismissive gesture with her hand, as she says, "Not that I'm goin g to buy a house or anything.. But.. well, someone I know was kinda thinking about moving here, so I was curious.." She smiles at Trace, and hops down from the bannister, then says, "Yeah, uhmm.. guess I'll see you.. Ohh, one other thing.. How are Ain and Star doing? I mean.. I haven't seen those in a while, and I just wanted to make sure.. Everything is okay, right?"

Ah, a happy topic - Batiste smiles rather fondly, settling back comfortably in his half of the porch-swing, and murmurs, "They're doing better. Ain is, for sure. And Star seemed to be in a pretty good mood last night...maybe things are looking up." He grins crookedly, then, and raps the wooden armrest of the swing three times. "As long as we can keep Ain sleeping somewhere warm, and Star out of trouble..." Yeah, yeah. Dream a little dream, Batiste.

"Yeah..." Trace agrees. "Yeah, Walker and Ben rescued Ain and brought him back home, and now he's gettin' taken care of... At Halloween he wore a neat costume and he was havin' a good time. Star was even better..." He can't quite stifle a soft snicker. "He went as a tree. He had a big green afro wig. It was..." he gropes for a kinder word. "It was original." Another laugh. "He still got his cowgirl chick though, tree 'r not."

Catherine nods quickly and she says softly, "That's great to hear.. Uhmm, give them both my best wishes when you see them.." She looks from Batiste to Trace once more, lingering there for a moment and giggles as he describes Star's Halloween costume, then with a wave of her hand, she says goodbye, and turns around, heading down the path across the lawn. She begins to walk back in the direction she came from, and looks at the first few houses again, but then hurries down the street, when she passes the ones she already saw.

Catherine heads riverside, toward Esplanade.

Jean-Batiste watches Cathy walk away down the street as he finishes off his clove. Leaning forward, he flicks the filter off into the flowerbed, letting it smoulder to death in the rain-damp earth - on the way back, he sneaks his arm around you again, drawing you in for a lazy snuggle-hug. "Thanks," he repeats softly, smiling gently at you. "It's...thanks. It means a lot, Trace." He's silent for a few seconds, then reaches over and picks up the envelope, handing it over to you. "Open it?" he offers. "I can't do it with one hand." It's just your average white envelope with the wavy blue lining, securely shut from corner to corner.

Trace takes the envelope, but glances up at you with faint surprise. It's sealed? So he already knows what's inside without opening it? Now that *is* strange. He studies it and then gives you one last curious glance before tearing it open. He's even a little careful about it, trying to keep the tear in a somewhat straight line. If it had been his envelope, he'd probably just shred it. Once he's got it open at the top, he pulls the sides apart and peers down into it before reaching inside.

Inside the envelope are bills. Lots of bills. Twenties, tens, and fives totalling two-hundred and thirty-five dollars. No note, no nothing. Just the money. Batiste leans back, rubbing your shoulder absently, as you open the envelope. "How much is it?" he asks softly, watching. His expression is wary but curious, as if there's something very important about the total amount.

Trace blinks. He looks to you for some kind of explanation, but all he gets is an order to count it, so he obediently throws himself into the task. He keeps it in the envelope but thumbs over the green sheafs, and his lips move and twitch faintly as he concentrates on not losing his place. Maybe he can remember poems memorized three or four years ago, but the kid eats it at math, really. A few times he does lose his place and have to back up a little, but finally he gets through it and announces, "Two-hundred thirty-five." His gaze locks on you again, and he holds the envelope back out to you. "So what's this all about?"

Jean-Batiste's eyes lose focus for a second, thinking over the amount. "Fourty..." he murmurs to himself. "No, fifty." He nods, once, then smiles a little. "Cool." He takes the envelope back, folding it in half and sticking it into his pocket. "A guy came to me, and wanted me to find something out for him. He asked me what I wanted for payment, and I told him I wanted the rest of the rent money I needed. He gave me fifty extra, I guess."

"Our rent was due again..?" Trace murmurs softly. How odd, to be paying rent for this place they're not even living in yet. "Are we gettin' tight for that?" It's yet another rhetorical question, as he nestles in close next to you. Guilt haunts his eyes, and while the nestle is probably hiding it, it doesn't help his body language any. Here Batiste is doing possibly dangerous things to make rent, and he's blowing his money on what? Gifts and junk and pirate outfits. That's just great. "What... did the guy want you to find out? What'd you hear?" He peeks up at you.

Jean-Batiste, of course, hugs you close and shakes his head, promising you, "No, it's fine. I could've made the money easy. This was just even easier." He smiles a little, reassuringly. "Serious." He rubs your shoulder again, leaning his temple against the crown of your head, and murmurs, "I'm not sure what it was all about. I'm still trying to find out. But...far as I can tell, it was some guy who's trying to impress Kae, trying to find out where Star was. This was back when he was beat up..." A pause to frown here. Super T-cells. Boggles the mind. "And nobody except us knew where he was. I don't know all the details, but it looks like Kae mentioned to this guy that she wanted to know where Star was, and so he asked me. So I told him I'd need a day to find out, and went to talk to Star about it."

"Ohh..." Trace nods a little, and he's still somewhat huddled but he smiles. "I see. An' yer right, that was a great way t'make easy cash... Lucky it was us who Star came to." He curls an arm around you in a loose hug and is quiet for a few moments, noticing how the sky has darkened since he first came onto the porch. "Hey Batiste?" he asks after awhile. "When you saw Jason the other night, and he didn't come in, was he... I mean, did he have stuff to do? I mean, did he seem..." He pulls in some courage in the form of a deep breath, and says, "Was he still mad at me?"

"Yeah," Batiste says, very seriously. "He's lucky it was." He frowns to himself for a moment, then hugs you closer, murmuring, "If you ever run across a guy with a cane and freaky-ass eyes by the name of Hamlin, steer clear of him, okay? He's big trouble. Glass's told me all about him, and...just...stay away. Gabriel Hamlin, I think. Or Gideon Hamlin. I can't remember. But...he's trouble in a big way. I wouldn't have had anything to do with him, but I...didn't want to tell him no, you know?" He kisses your braids, then relaxes a little - at least, until you mention Jason being mad at you. He draws back a little, to try and look at your face, and shakes his head. "No, he...didn't say anything about that. Not at all." Didn't say much of anything, not even 'How's this undo?' Fear amourous Pooka. "He didn't come in because he said he had other things to do, at least that's what he told me..." Ruffling your hair lightly, he asks, "Why would he be mad at you?"

Hmmmm.... Wheels turning in the bluecap's mind. Bat meets spooky person. Bat realizes person is spooky, but does what spooky person wants for the sake of easy cash. Can he use this? Ohh.. Maybe he can't get yelled at after all. He licks his lips and looks up at you. "Be-because..." Apprehension chokes up his words and he falls silent again, looking down at the shopping bag that still holds Jason's gift. Okay. Try again. New angle. "Batiste...." He braves your gaze again, timidly. "What would you do for two thousand dollars? You'd do a lot, right? I mean, I would. I think I'd suck cock for two thousand dollars." He giggles nervously. Not serious? Who knows. He nudges at you. "So I mean, y'know, it's just a lot of money, y'know? It could... we could furnish our whole apartment easy on that, don't you think?"

Oh-ho, this is sounding -so- not good already... Batiste looks from your face, to the shopping bag, to his Discman, then back to your face. He's got his Serious Face on, now, braingears whirring. Is he supposed to be noble and deny your claim? Murals aside, he's no knight in shining armour - he nods a little to you and softly admits, "Yeah. Yeah, there's a lot I'd do for two grand." He doesn't comment on what -you'd- do, simply looking down at your hands for a second as he lets his little mental accountant come out and play. "Four months' rent and our entire apartment furnished, long as we didn't get too fancy, yeah," he finally decides. "Or six months' rent and the basics." Or no months' rent and a kickass apartment, but he's too practical to mention -that-. He has to ask, though - he's too curious-concerned not to. "Why?" he murmurs. "What's up? Who wants to give you two grand?"

Oh no, don't ask the 'who' question yet. Gotta work up to that. Trace is still trying to convey the what. He holds up his hands. "Okay. Okay, here's what's up. If.. if I'd do... stuff like that for two-thousand dollars, but that's not what they wanted, they wanted me to do what I do every day, what I love best, I'd be, like, *insane* to say no, don't you see?" He sighs, shoulders slumping a little. He's probably already given it away, hasn't he? He looks down and swallows, then looks back up and says, "The deal's changed, Bat. I called her... here's how I can do it. I paint the painting *here*, at Walker's. Even when it's time to deliver it, I could do it someplace public, Cafe du Monde, and I could bring as many people as I liked." Which means you, obviously, the way he reaches out to touch your arm. "No danger, see? No chance for me to get hurt at all. The front money's two thousand.... And if she gets it, and she likes it, it's two thousand more, Bat. How many months' rent is *that*?" He looks at you, full of fear and hope, with eyes that beg pleasepleasePLEASE don't explode.

As the details of the money go from curious to wary to suspicious to worse, Batiste's eyes darken and dull by grades. Finally, at the end, he sighs quietly and glances away, closing his eyes. -Her-. Shoulders slump - there's just nothing he can do to keep the family -away- from that creature, is there? If you can't charm them, guilt them - if you can't guilt them, bribe them. He snorts to himself, bitter amusement - at least you haven't come down with pneumonia yet - then murmurs, "That's why Jason's angry with you? Because you accepted her offer?" He doesn't look at you. He's trying, -trying- to stay calm. Grabbing you by the throat and throttling you while howling, 'You promised me, you promised me,' wouldn't be a positive bonding experience, after all.

No, *technically* Trace didn't promise he wouldn't paint for her. Well, he said he wouldn't, and meant it at the time, but the *promise* was only attached to his agreement not to let himself get into a mess. A promise he's sure he's kept. Of course, what does the heart care about technicalities. He's doing it, when he said he wouldn't, and so he's understandably guilt-ridden. "Yeah," he says hoarsely. "Yeah, day before the party he said... he *snarled* somethin' 'bout money bein' a leash and he stormed out. And ain't talked t'me since." He sighs softly, bony shoulders hunched to the point where it almost looks painful. If wildmen had tails, his would be tucked. "Batiste," he says in a small, plaintive tone, "I don't understand. I made it so safe. And-and our apartment -- all we could buy with that -- I don't understand!"

No, *technically* Trace didn't promise he wouldn't paint for her. Well, he said he wouldn't, and meant it at the time, but the *promise* was only attached to his agreement not to let himself get into a mess. A promise he's sure he's kept. Of course, what does the heart care about technicalities? He's doing it, when he said he wouldn't, and so he's understandably guilt-ridden. "Yeah," he says hoarsely. "Yeah, day before the party he said... he *snarled* somethin' 'bout money bein' a leash and he stormed out. And ain't talked t'me since." He sighs softly, bony shoulders hunched to the point where it almost looks painful. If wildmen had tails, his would be tucked. "Batiste," he says in a small, plaintive tone, "I don't understand. I made it so safe. And-and our apartment -- all we could buy with that -- I don't understand!"

Another bitter chuckle from Batiste. Jason sure picked two kids to fall in with - one who's heavily addicted to a costly drug, the other who's sold himself for money - if he thinks that way. "He...he probably thinks you're going to spend it on junk," he murmurs, glancing back to you. Defeat shines there, dully - he doesn't know how to try and dissuade you. Not this time. "He's right," he murmurs, looking away. He rummages up another clove, lights it up, drags hard upon it. As he exhales, he continues. "It's the same for me. I wouldn't run drugs to sickoes if it wasn't for the money. I couldn't do a lot of things, if it wasn't for the money. It's just..." He shrugs a little, eyes hard. Just the way it is. A glance back at you: "I like sex. But if I do it for money, it's whoring. Unless you'd paint this picture for her for free, you're doing the same thing." His mouth quirks ruefully - two grand a throw is a -wee- bit up the financial ladder of prostitution from where Batiste was.

Trace looks down throughout the first of your words. No way to defend himself from that. I mean, the stuff's in his canvas bag as we speak. But he had dreams of other purchases... The apartment, for one. Really let his imagination run away with that one. But the second half of your argument makes him look up, first with surprise, then wounded offense. He curls his arms around his chest and just hears you out, staring down at the concrete of the porch beneath him. "Whoring," he finally repeats, softly. "Then ah'm a fuckin' whore, Bat." He looks up, liquid hazel locking on dark, bitter chocolate. "My donation cup goes out every day. Wrote the word out so many times, I could do that arsty swirl 'a letters blindfolded. Donation. Fuck." He looks away. "Such a joke. Half the time they don't look at the art; they see the cup, the boy, they go ohh how sad, put in a dollah. So." He steels his jaw for a moment, and pushes the words out through them, but halfway through the sentance the tightened muscles have relaxed again. "If I'm gonna be a whore, why not f'once work outta my own home, y'know? Ain't that safer? Ain't that more respectable 'n scrapin' out yer work for the tourist sympathy? N'sure as fuck looks t'be payin' better.." He sighs and shakes his head. Shut up, Trace. Sure, Bat rubbed a raw spot, but he knows he's mixing up one bitterness with another now, one that has nothing to do with the topic at hand, or Batiste.

Jean-Batiste sighs heavily, and glances at you through green-tinged hair. "Because..." Another sigh, and a frustrated drag off his clove. "Because working for -her- is like...is like me sleeping with that chicken-hawk I deal to, the one that bruised me up that time because I told him no. You -said- that-" He stops himself, shaking his head. Doesn't make a difference what you said. You already agreed to do it. "Two grand, Trace. Four grand, maybe. Why's she paying you so much? She can't be that rich. There's a reason behind it, and it -sucks-." And it sucks more that he can't tell what it is, yet.

"Yeah, Bat," Trace sighs, deflated from his huff now as he pulls his legs up to hug them to his chest. "Yeah, maybe yer right. Maybe she's the wicked witch, y'know? The troll under the bridge. Or maybe there's a fifteen percent chance she can live through this pregnancy. Chances are she gonna die. So who cares if she's careful with her money, y'know? Maybe she wants somethin' t'stay behind, maybe she thinks I'm worth it, that I can capture that, or something." He leans his head forward and presses his brow to his knobby knees. Flat words. "Though I guess that makes ya happy. She won't be around t'mess with us, y'know?" A low blo w. He knows it, and doesn't look up. With a sigh, his muffled words reach you almost wearily. "And maybe she's feedin' me bullshit. An' if she is, who *cares*? If I'm doin' it at home, and there's no danger in gettin' it to her, what's the worst that can happen? She lied about her intentions, but I made some money, and we get an awesome apartment. Bat..." Now he looks up. "Would it help if I cross my heart and hope t'die promise you that I'll never have nothin' t'do with her after this?"

Jean-Batiste's lips tighten, and he flicks a cool glance at you. "You promised me you'd stay away from her -last- time. Why promise it again?" His eyes go flinty, his voice acidic. "Boo-hoo-hoo, she's poisoned herself with absinthe, and now it's coming back to haunt her. Everyone should feel -so- sorry for her. Wah, wah." There is -no- sympathy in Batiste for this creature. None. There's anti-sympathy, even. "She's crying the rest of you a fucking river, and you're drinking it up. 'Make this for me, as a gift to a dying woman'... Did she put her hand to her forehead and sigh when she said it, Trace? Give me a break. She's been here -how- long? For all we know she does this song-and-dance every time her and that freak of a big brother move to a new town." Cold, colder, coldest: "I want her -gone-. I want her out of our lives, I want her to crawl away and die, for all I care."

Trace shudders and unfolds slender legs clumsily, like a falling jacob's ladder, until black rubber soles hit the concrete. "You're so cold, when you wanna be," he says softly, picking himself up off the porch swing. "And you never even met her. All this from your theories, your judgements, and what you've heard... Hatred without knowin' someone, that's like how nazis and homophobes think. How kin ya say such things, an' never once seen her, spoke with her?" He shakes his head and bends to sweep up both the canvas bag and the white one. "I ain't sayin' I know everythin' bout her. I don't even know what she says is real. But shit, Bat... Powerful curse f'someone y'ain't never met."

Jean-Batiste stares at you for a second, then makes a face and glances away. Maybe he's not cold when he wants to be - maybe he's -nice- when he wants to be. "If my friend jumps off a cliff, does that mean I have to do it?" he replies to you. "She shows up, and has Walker and Ben breaking down within, what, two weeks? Ain gets hospitalized with pneumonia. She turns Walker's friend against him, so much that he tries to -kill- Walker, and at the same time she's doing this, she's acting all sweet and lovely with you. You tell me why I need to meet this person for myself to realize we're better off far, far away from her, Trace. You tell me one reason why."

A pause. Disbelieving, baffled. Then, "Because listen t'yerself!" snaps the bluecap's one reason. "Slow the fuck down and listen to yerself. Walker got her *pregnant*. Of course he'n Ben'r gonna break down and be a lil' troubled by it. An... Ain? What? How the fuck she gonna give Ain pneumonia, eh? Y'really *do* think she's the wicked witch? Jesus Chrahst!" He shakes his head. "Look, Bat. Maybe y'ain't memberin' things too good, but Ain was coughin' 'fore Ligeia even came here, ah swear t'God 'e was." Okay. Calm down. Deep breaths. Then, smoothly, "I think you need to meet her... coz yer reasonin's a bit... weird, y'know? It's jest..." He shakes his head again. 'It's like oh, I gotta tummy ache, damn that Ligeia! Now look. Again, I don't know shit. M'first to admit that. But yer not makin' sense!"

Point one. "They -both- got her pregnant. She could've asked him to use something, same as he could have done." Should have done. For want of a rubber the family was lost. Point two. "Ain was just fine until he started hanging out with her. It wasn't until he started staying at her place that he got sick." He shakes his head, laughing once, bitter and soft. "I'm so mean. If only I knew her like you do. I just need to get to know her, and then I'll -see-..." The sarcasm doth drip. "Have I missed anything? Does she have tits that sit up and beg, or something? If you don't want to remember what crap she's been putting us through because she's smiling at you, fine. But -I- won't forget."

Trace's eyes flash dangerously and he growls, "Fuck you, y'ain't listenin'! I *said* I don't know ever'thin. M'jest tryin' t'get ya t'step back an' lissen a sec t'how nutty you sound, goin' on bout how she gave Ain pneumonia. That's crazy talk, Bat! Jest lissen t'me, alright? Coz yer right, we prolly cain't trust 'er. I never did completely. But I'm jest tryin' ta get ya t'see how yer goin' a little overboard with this! It's jest really jacked up that yer gonna run drugs t'them creepy guys and do errands fer the Ham guy an all these people *you* don't think is safe, but you won't let me paint a paintin' in my own home fer two grand, maybe four, no contact to the wicked witch Ligeia at all. Now *that's* fucked, Bat."

Jean-Batiste's eyes flash right back at you, sullen as lightning in a winter storm. "You're not trying to get me to 'step back and listen'. You're trying to make me like her, so there's someone -else- in the family she can fuck over." His teeth set for a second, and he goes to drag off his clove, and finds it to be ash and filter - he mutters venomously to himself and flicks it away, going for another. "Last I checked," he comments, far too lightly, "I didn't -tell- you that you -couldn't- do it. You're doing it already. You took the money -already-." He glances down at the Discman, then away. Bought with -her- money. "What's it matter if I find out in a week that she's worse trouble than that Hamlin guy? You've -done- it already." He drags too hard on his clove, trying to calm himself, and chokes once, then forces the burning smoke to stay in his lungs before exhaling harshly towards the street.

"Just what I need," he mutters, voice scratched by the smoke. "To live in an apartment full of crap we bought thanks to her. Oh, thank you, Ligeia, we owe it all to you." He scowls blackly at the street and drags off his clove again, spewing smoke like the ill-tempered cousin of his costume last night.

A few long moments are spent silent and sullen, as you mutter darkly and abuse your delicate lungs. "Alright," Trace finally says very quietly. "Alright, I'll give the money back to her. I mean, I thought... it would be nice, but if none of it makes either of you happy there's no point." He lowers his eyes and reshifts his canvas bag on his shoulder. "Hock the discman. Don't keep it if the music's sour to you." He drops the white shopping bag on the porch, to be found by Jason, taken in by Batiste, or gathered up with the trash come Monday and carted out to the sidewalk. (If Batiste does ever look, it's a PSX Handheld, Sony Playstation's version of a gameboy which came out last year, with mini game CDs inserted in the side, full 256 color, the works.) "Anyway, see ya round." He doesn't head for the front door. Instead he moves back down the porch steps and aims down the street in a slow shuffle-trudge, opposite direction in which he came. Towards the park.

Puck has connected.

Puck staggers down the street, his hands shoved in his pockets, whistling merrily to himself

"Oh, fuck that," Batiste mutters irritably, scowling at Trace as he starts to trudge away. "What's the point? You already -spent- some of it, and you'll just tell her no and then tell her yes again in a fucking week." He glares at the street. God, if only he was violent, he could...get turned into a grease spot on the floor by her big psycho-brother? And then it starts to drizzle. Joy of joys. "Don't mope about it now, you already did it," he mutters hotly, pushing himself up off the porch-swing with enough effort to make the chains jangle. He stuffs the Discman into the white mall-bag with angry gestures and swivels towards the door to #613, shoving his way inside, bag in hand.

Puck looks up at Trace as he approaches ths street and gives him a reverse nod, "sup, kid?" He looks towards the porch where Jen-Batiste is heading inside the house, then back to Trace, "everything alright, yo?"

But it's Trace's nature to waffle, to mope, to run away, to fill his veins with Ligeia's money and apathy for tonight. Puck approaches, but he keeps his head down because there's too much tear-bright emotion in his features to face him. "Naw..." He says softly. "Naw, things're real fucked up." One hand holds the strap of the canvas bag to his shoulder, the other hangs at his side.

There's a soft hail of greeting from inside as #613's door open, followed by Batiste's angry, terse, "Nothing's wrong," and the sharp bang! of the door being slammed behind him.

Jean-Batiste opens the door to the grey house marked 613 and steps inside.

Puck pauses, his expression turning from his normal dulled, drugged-up grin, so something approximating genuine concern... Hey, he likes the kid, reminds him of himself at that age. He furrows his brow and tries to look the kid in the eyes, "what's up? Anything I can do to help, yo?"

Trace sighs and braves a glance up, peeking through an uneven curtain of blue braids. He smiles briefly, weakly, and pats his bag. "Got my comfort f'tonight." He lowers his eyes again. "Jest need t'be alone, y'know? But thanks..." His voice trails off and he hunches his shoulders, hooking his thumbs in his pockets, and takes a step in the direction he'd been heading.

Epilogue:
Batiste arrives home in quite the fit of anger, carrying a white mall-bag holding two boxes. If asked what's up, he replies tersely/snappishly that 'Nothing's wrong,' and heads upstairs. He's up there for about five minutes, then returns downstairs, backpack over his shoulder, bag left upstairs by the beanbags, and heads out. Following that, Batiste's not around for the next few days. He's sleeping somewhere else, apparently.

Trace is staying at the fort in the park for a few days. He comes by once, after determining none of the triangle is around, and gathers up a set of oil paints and brushes before leaving again, stubbornly refusing to give explanation or speak much at all, really.

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