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Log title: The Trouble with Trouble

Setting: Jackson Square

Log Cast:
Roderigo
Trace
Alisynde
Tiens
Mara
Batte
Jean-Batiste
Glass

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Roderigo wanders along listlessly from the street, hands stuffed in coat pockets. A cigarette is caught between his lips, letting smoke drift up and over his head. And very rarely--too rarely for him to be a serious smoker--similar smoke puffs from his nostrils. He hums a disjointed tune, being that he can't whistle with a cigarette in his mouth.

Hunched down on the ironically circular walkway of Jackson Square, Trace has dirty jeans and elbows to the concrete amid the windblown, urban tumbleweed of old newspapers, beignet wrappers, and discarded go-cups. He makes a small effort to push himself up, but fails and bows his head a moment. Still and silent. He gets the occasional, curious glance from tourist and local alike, the former concerned and wary, the latter perhaps wondering why the little artist has no chalk out, but the result is the same, averted eyes, hurrying on their way. He doesn't give them notice, a rock parting the water of a fast-paced, pedestrian river.

Alisynde comes into the square from St. Ann.

Alisynde would be just casually strolling down the street, not a care in the world...except that she's just stubbed her toe on something or other. Virulent muttered curses eminate from her general direction.

Roderigo lifts a hand to catch his cigarette between two knuckles as he watches the pedestrians shy away. "Leper?" he wonders, aloud, before moving to investigate. Upon seeing the bundle that is Trace, the cigarette falls from his fingers and he picks up his pace, shoving his way past tourists and locals alike. He doesn't even let himself enjoy knocking down a particularly opulently rain-coated tourist. He drops to one knee right beside Trace, "Hey," he mutters, as he gently knudges the boy.

Alisynde hops around for a moment, then recovers enough to continue walking. She approaches the sidewalk where Trace sits, not quite having seen either him or Roderigo yet.

Trace flinches at the nudge. Reality, blech. He stirs with infinite slowness, turning his head a little to squint up at the older man. "Mmm.." He murmurs. No witty banter from the boy, not today. He drags a hand up to rub at his eyes briefly and yawn before managing a half-focus on the man. Something occurs to him. He's being noticed by an almost-friend, and with faint hope asks in a soft rasp, "I need... will you... get me home?" Not like Roderigo knows where this home is, but the boy doesn't clarify.

A brow climbs Roderigo's forehead, high. It wishes to reach the hairline by nightfall. "What," he wonders, "Have you done to yourself, kid?" He rises to his feet, and takes Trace's elbow. Gently and oh-so-slowly he drags the younger man to his feet. "And where's home?" For a moment, he's content to just stare contemplatively, before he repeats, "What +have+ you done to yourself?"

Alisynde seems about to continue on, for a moment. But then her steps slow as she spots her friend with the nudging man. Softly, she calls over, "Trace?"

"M'nn trouble..." the blue-haired boy slurs softly, slumping and needing assistance if you really are serious about keeping him upright. He looks plaintive at this standing business, which really isn't all that pleasant. But then, getting home does entail some small amount of standing, he figures. "Gotta... do bad stuff, 'r she'll hurt me... But I d'wanna, 'm scar'd..." Yes, we're making so much sense tonight. If Ali's calling softly, Trace isn't going to respond or notice her yet. Roderigo, with his nudging and dragging, knows how to get himself inside the warm, hazy bubble that is the whole of Trace's reality right now.

Alisynde blinks, and hurries over, the confusion on her features coalescing into concern. "Trace," she calls, a bit louder. Then, "Trace!" She snaps her fingers at him, trying to get his attention.

Roderigo rolls his eyes heavenward, "Ojole!" he mutters. Then, "Fuckin' kid..." yes, the weary martyr. That's him. He hooks one arm under Trave's arm, and the other around his shoulders, propping the kid against him. "Do you," he asks of Alisynde, "Know where he lives? He needs to get out of this rain. If not to detox." Again he rolls his eyes heavnward, and gives a brief, muttered prayer. "And I was starting to like this kid," he mutters, mournfully.

Tiens slips across the square, step light but directed in the fashion of somebody who has a place to go but no particular time he needs to be there.

Alisynde nods. "I know where he's staying, yeah." She moves closer, ready to slip her other arm into Trace's free one. "But my place is closer. An' he looks like he may not make it to his. Unless y'got cab fare."

"More like 'nless you wanna reach into my pocket," Roderigo notes. Whether he's joking or not is not plainly evident. "D'you have any idea what he's done, or had done to him?"

Trace blinks and looks at Ali with a fleeting, startled expression. Jesus, more of that reality stuff, this snappy-loud, annoying kind no less. It quickly slumps away just like the rest of him and he looks at Ali, then lifts his head with effort back to Roderigo. "I... detox. M'gonna. Mural first though, we gotta..." A little more blinking at Ali. Her place? Wherezat? Cab fare? These fragments of the conversation drift in and out of his reality and he grasps at those he can. Cab fare. "I'dun got money anymore..."

Alisynde chews on her lip. "Trace? Hon? Y'want to go back to my apartment or to Walker's?"

Tiens glances at the trio, though he doesn't devote them too much attention because he's pretty fairly sure, on even a quick glance, that whatever trouble they're rumbling through he either doesn't want to be part of or can't help with anyhow. His beads clack a bit, softly, as he moves across the park, courting shadows a bit.

"Forget the mural," Roderigo mutters, and hauls Trace around to face him. With one hand, he cups the boy's chin, and tilts his head back. His eyes seek out Trace's. "You there," he says to Alisynde, "Pry his eyelids back. I want a look at his eyes." Steel is his grip on the boy's shoulder and chin. He's not falling down, but neither is he turning away.

Alisynde says, a touch snarkily, "A Doctor, are we?" But it can be forgiven. This is her friend, after all. And she's plainly worried about him. She reaches out to gently pry Trace's eyelids back.

Tiens glances over as he passes, the two friends and their wacked companion -- it's like watching a group of sober folks trying to figure out their friend is drunk. His lips are compressed into a gently flat line, thoughtful.

Trace's head is drooping forward a little, braids sweeping down to curtain his face. Since Ali's out of his line of sight now, he tells his black sneakers, "I.. yer place, till..." And suddenly a hand is yanking his head back. Uck, how not comfortable. If he's going to participate in this standing, at least let him droop a little! But Roderigo seems stubborn about this, and not much of a mind-reader to boot, so since he isn't sure how to vocalize his protest he stays quiet and supple in the man's arms. Yikes! His eyes! He struggles just a little now, but not enough to stop her from her task. He has eyes of glass, with pupils so small they're swallowed up by hazel. Really gone. He whimpers softly, "Don'...hey..!"

Alisynde shhs, being as gentle as she can. "Shh. It's okay. It'll be just a moment, honest.

Roderigo snorts, "Doctor, no." Then he rolls his shoulders, "Saw my brother oh dee on crack, a few times. I know the signs." He shakes his head with a grunt of disgust, "Madre! You don't have to be a doctor to know that +that+ is bad, chica." He lets Trace's head drop, and sighs, "We got to get him out of the rain. Preferably to a hospital, I'd say."

Tiens squints at Roderigo, thoughtfully. Street kids high on the latest dose and hospitals. Yep. good mix. He shrugs his shoulders, loose, and slips on.

Tiens heads towards the riverfront.

Alisynde blinks. Man. Trace'd be sucked up by social workers before you could say 'high'. So...she tries to play it down. "Well, y'know. He's not all that bad, really. I've seen worse.." Which she has. Not on Trace, though. "An' if we just take him back to my place, an' talk him down, it'll be cool.."

More words floating down the confuse him. Crack, hmf. Nasty stuff. He blinks his eyes irritably, made wet and watery by the abuse. But how nice that they're not being tortured anymore. The boy agrees with Ali somewhat incoherantly, "Mm.. yeah. Yeh, talk'n...mebbe coffee, n'then home. B'tiste. Gotta... mm."

"Really?" Roderigo scoffs. "Sure, I'll bet it's better for him." He shakes his head, sending off cascades of droplets, "Better yet, let's just leave him out here. Oh, I know! We could give him some acid, too. I'm sure that'll be a nice chaser to whatever he's fucked up on, now." Somehow, he manages to sound entirely serious. "Instead of all that trouble, let's dump him in the river."

Alisynde nods. "Coffee, yah. Coffee's good."
Alisynde snaps, "He's stoned. Not unconscious. And he'll be in a lot worse shape if we /do/ take him to the hospital. Trust me."

"No doct'rrs.." Trace sighs, dropping his chin close to his chest again. "N'... no rivers. Jest... Ll'be okay, I jest... this ain' the trouble, th' troubles th' girl..."

Roderigo nods slowly, "Sure. This time he's just a little high." Then he shakes his head again. "Hey, whatever you want, chica." He rolls his shoulders, and if shrugging out of the responsibility, like a jacket. "We'll take him to your place. Whatever."

Alisynde narrows her eyes at the other man. "If he gets much worse, I'll take him. But there's more than just drugs working here, and I don't expect you to understand that. In fact, I release you. Let his fate be on my shoulders. Of course, you could manhandle me out of the way and take him. But then /you/ can explain to his friends what's happen when he's taken away, never to be seen again. I don't think they'll be pleased."

Mara enters the square from the riverfront.

Starlight comes into the Square from Decatur, uptown.

Alisynde wraps her arms protectively around Trace, giving Roderigo a fierce look. Mother hen protecting her chicks, perhaps?

"Drop it," Roderigo snaps, "Don't give me that 'you wouldn't understand' shit, don't give me the tortured martyr. And don't try to threaten me through +his+ friends." His eyes roll again, "Here's a suggestion: why don't we +both+ get off our self-righteous kicks, and haul him out of the rain, at least."

Mara pauses, intersting tableau.

Starlight comes out of the apartment complex looking rather happy, really. Kid doesn't seem to have a care in the world. Talk about character shifting. Trace in trouble, Star happy? Anyway, the child seems to have a destination and heads that way, not really looking around much.

Starlight heads out to St. Peter.

Alisynde growls, "/I'm/ his friend. And I wouldn't be happy. But you're right about one thing. Let's get him out of the rain."

Trace is slumped against Roderigo, but Ali's quite close-by, with her arms around him. He slowly shifts his head up to peer at the man, and it's an effort, lifting his head, but he manages it and mumbles, "Dun' fight... M'sorry." Sudden guilt. They're shouting because of him. "M'sorry, I didn' mean it..." Didn't mean what? Who knows. "S'jest, I was scar'd.."

Mara hesitates a moment longer and then shakes her head, before starting across the square, oblivious to the rain.

Roderigo nods graciously, "I'm +so+ pleased you can see that." Truly, the man has a talent for sounding anything but sarcastic. "Because I know that you're next to omniscient. I can tell just from looking at you. You have that air about you. So," he hooks Trace's arm over his shoulder, "If you'd maybe move a little bit. And take his other arm, we can move him." Then, as an addendum, "And honestly, I don't give two craps about your happiness, at this moment."

Mara heads out to St. Peter.

Alisynde murmurs, "It's okay, Trace." She already has the boy's other arm. Well. Sort of. But she doesn't move. Not quite yet. "I'm not omniscient. But I know him. And you don't. So stuff that snotty attitude, and help me, or get lost." Then she does move, taking Trace's arm, and looking at Roderigo like she'd love to see him speared on a flagpole.

Roderigo laughs, humourlessly, "Ooh, feisty!" And then he does sound sarcastic, overly so. "I know him well enough." He shakes his head as he starts moving, "'Snotty attitude,'" he mutters caustically, "Said the pot to the kettle." Whether that's supposed to be overheard or not is entirely debatable.

Trace tries again to stop these bad vibes in his bubble-reality, mumbling, "Please don' fight..." Ooh. His feet are moving. Check that out. He watches them quite curiously, chin to his chest as he's hauled along. Walking. Floating. Yeah...

Alisynde mutters, "Black." Then she falls silent, continuing to help Trace move.

Alisynde heads out to St. Ann.

Roderigo enters the dark alleyway from Bourbon Street.

What was that? Roderigo's gaze slides across Trace, and narrows at the woman. Was that wit he just heard? It is, perhaps the last thing he expected. He gives a snort, that's barely heard. Besides, he was probably just blowing wet hair from his face.

Alisynde pauses for just a moment. She's got a rock in her shoe, and it's damn hard to get it out when she walks.

Trace can deal with pausing. He's going with the flow, yeah. Completely voluntary, this obedience, honest.

Roderigo, on the other hand, chooses to appear nothing except impatient. His booted foot taps, making small splashes in the accumulating puddles.

Alisynde steers - gently - towards the narrow alleyway near Cafe Lafitte. Either the rock's out, or she's given up.

Alisynde shifts herself so she can pull her key out...of her ear? Ok-ay...but however she's done it, it's in her hand and she's able to unlock the door - although she's got to trust Trace to Roderigo long enough to tug it open. She eyes the man suspiciously, as if he's going to pick Trace off and bodily haul him to the hospital.

Roderigo takes Trace, and gives a sickly-sweet smile over the boy's head. He even frees up a hand briefly to make a 'hurry up' motion.

A bell jangles tunelessly as you open the steel door and step through.

Up in the hallway outside Ali�s apartment.

Trace lifts his head just a little as he's hauled along. Hey... This place is familiar! He smiles with drowsy affection at the bizarrely painted door of apartment 1. "S'gonna be mine. Utopia."

Alisynde smiles to Trace. "Utopia." She unlocks the door to number 2. "But we're going to mine, for now. Okay?"

"Utopia," Roderigo repeats blandly, and once again takes Trace into his sole care, while waiting for then ext door to be opened. He doesn't look much like he's going to make a mad dash. butl ooks can be deceiving.

Alisynde opens the door and enters the second apartment.

Apartment 2 -- Lafitte Apartments

The first thing that greets you as you step inside is not visual: instead, it is a combination of noise and smell. The cooing of a dove can be heard, mixed with occasional bouts of plastic hitting metal. And the distinctive scents of sandalwood and vanilla permeate the air. A little 'entranceway' has been created with the aid of two man-sized cabinets and a bamboo curtain. The flat itself suffers from age and neglect, but an a concerted effort made to spruce the place up. Posters cover cracks in the walls, colorful throws cover dilapidated furniture, rag rugs cover the slightly warped and permanently stained floor, and flowers abound. Scattered around the flat are various props, cups and balls, linking rings, various lengths of rope, silk scarves, cards...if a magician would have it, it's likely to be here somewhere. A hand-built loft claims one corner of the flat, the bed barely visible through thick black velvet curtains hung from the ceiling. There is a tiny, tiny kitchen through an archway, and a dark blue sheet covers the entrance to the bathroom. Only two windows in the flat make it a bit gloomy: while you see a lamp or two, the preferred method of lighting seems to be candles. And there is only one door - the one leading outside.

Roderigo can be seen through the bamboo curtain.
Roderigo has arrived.

"Christ," Roderigo breathes. "I see one more damned candlelit artist's flat, or loft, or apartment, or commune, I'll puke. I swear." It sounds a serious threat.

Alisynde steers Trace to the couch. "Couch." Her eyes flick up for a moment, to one of the tiny windows. There's a wild daisy on the outside windowsill. For a moment, her mouth curls into a smile, then she sobers up. Now is not a happy time. Even less so at Roderigo's comment. "Well, don't do it in here. My rabbit'd eat it, and I don't want her poisoned."

The blue-haired boy doesn't seem too upset about leaving Utopia behind, but does lift one hand slightly off Ali's shoulder to wiggle his fingers at it. Just a tiny wave. Goodbye, lovely soon-to-be apartment! He lifts his heavy head and blinks at the strange new surroundings. Bird sounds? Strange colors. He gives the couch a longing look. I'm coming! I love you, couch. You look so comfortable. Once released, he slumps, pleased. Yes, he and this couch could be very good friends.

Roderigo deposits Trace gently on the couch. At the implied toxicity of his bodily waste he gives a momentary, ostentatious wince. "Your wit, dear lady!" he moans, as if in physical pain, "It's razor sharp edge has cut me to the bone! I fear I shall bleed to death." And then the look is gone, "I said one more. That's in addition to this one." His eyes search the room, and then his shoulders roll. "I, uhm." For a moment, he struggles with words. Then, he mutters something. Three syllables, no more.

Alisynde smiles sweetly. "I can add, thank you." And then she bustles off, to fetch cool cloth and a bucket. For a moment, she looks as if she's going to offer it to Roderigo. But, instead, she sets it down in front of Trace.

Roderigo mutters the syllables again, then clears his throat, and amplifies and enunciates, "I'm sorry," he says, mouth twisting grimly. "About the attitude." Grudging, but, at least it +is+ an apology.

You hear a knock on the door. (from Hallway -- Lafitte Apartments)

Alisynde nods, accepting the apology. "And I'm sorry. For the sniping." She looks up, sharply, at the knock. "Who the hell could /that/ be?" She puts the cloth in easy reach of Trace, if he wants it, and goes to answer the door.

Alisynde peers through the peephole at the hallway's occupant.

Alisynde blinks, then unlocks the door and holds it open a crack.

Roderigo looks down at Trace and shakes his head. "+She+ is your friend?" he mutters, jerking a thumb Alisynde's way. "Well," he sniffs, "At least she does have some manners."

Alisynde's hand flys to her mouth, and she steps back, a black-eyed susan held in her other hand.

A cloth has entered Trace's world. Clumsy hands grope for it. Er. Cold. Hmm. Nope, he has no use he can conceive of for this cloth. He tosses it back down on the cusion beside him and shifts his head to look up at Roderigo. "Mm.. yeah. Yeah, thass Ali. She gave me purple silk f'my birthday. Nnn... n'this glass. Ta hang. Makes rainbows.." He curls his arms around his thin chest, a loose self-hug.

Alisynde nods mutely, tugging the door open.

Roderigo puts his hands in the pockets of his dripping coat, and turns to try to catch sight of who's at the door. He glances down at Trace and nods sagely, "Oh, indeed. That's super. Muy bueno, indeed."

Batte can be seen through the bamboo curtain.
Batte has arrived.

Batte steps in, "Ah, you have guests. Mayhaps I should be away, then."

Alisynde says softly, to Batte. "Trace isn't...feeling well." She still looks worried, but shakes her head. "No. I.." She cuts off, abruptly, and goes back to the couch. Taking the now room-temperature cloth, she starts gently mopping Trace's forehead. It really looks like the gesture is covering up something else, especially given the way her other hand is shaking.

Roderigo removes one of the hands from his coat pocket to toss a wave at Batte. But he doesn't know this fellow, so his interest in him wanes quickly. He drops a cursory glance on Trace, to make sure the boy hasn't somehow found a way to kill himself with some couch cushions and a wet cloth, in the brief space he looked away.

Batte takes in the details quickly, "Is he overdosed?"

Trace plucks at his shirt. This new, drier world is in stark contrast to his sopping clothing, which means he can actually notice it, and the discomfort it causes. He tugs at it and shifts again, very slowly, to bat at Ali's hand bonelessly. "No, s'okay... s'okay, m' clean 'nuff." He sighs softly, dropping his hands. "Hey, gotta..." He thinks. What was that discomfort again? Oh, right. "Gotta.. shirt? Mine's wet."

Batte scans mildly for needles and such.

Trace doesn't have visable needles out, just marks up his arms, and the obvious demeanor of a very fucked up kid.

Roderigo rakes that hand he removed from his pocket through his hair, and manages to look as if he doesn't feel completely superfluous. "Need help?" he asks of the person he now knows as 'Ali.' She doesn't look like she does. But one never knows. "Or, d'you have this situation firmly in hand?"

From the corner of one's eye, Batte's clothes seem to writhe almost with an alive quality. On full view the motion is banished.

Alisynde nods - although it's hard to tell who to. Wordlessly, she gets to her feet and opens a trunk under the loft bed. She pulls out an oversized t-shirt which'll likely swallow poor Trace, and a pair of dry pants, as well as a thin blanket. She turns to Roderigo and says, "Um. I think I'm okay. Thank you."

Batte looks to have been enjoying the rain. His hair is plastered to his head.

Batte looks to claim a seat. He doesn't seem too worried about the boy.

Trace's brow furrows faintly. Sounds something like the prelude to departure to him. He tries to raise his head a little, but nope, that ain't happening. So instead a hand gets lifted, a vague point to Roderigo's general direction, wiggling his fingers a little. "Stay." A fond smile lights on his lips momentarily before drifting back towards listlessness.

Alisynde returns to the Trace-claimed couch, and sets the pile down on the table. She holds the t-shirt out to Trace, although her eyes dart from the windowsill, with today's uncollected daisy, to the black-susan set gently down on one of the trunks, to Batte. "Was that..?"

Roderigo's head bobs in response. "Well, good." Once again his eyes shoot around the room, his glance bouncing off the walls, and off of Batte and Ali. It lands squarely on Trace, and his mouth twists in... something. Disgust, discomfort, unease. Something. "Uhm, yeah. Sure, kid. Whatever." Then, to no one in particular, "At least +he's+ enjoying this."

Batte lifts a brow, "You have other men courting you?" Batte's eyes twinkle with affection and humor, belieing the accusing words.

Trace gropes for the t-shirt, and on the second try, manages to clench fingers around it. Mm. He brings soft cotton close and hugs it to his chest. Not sure what else to do with it anymore. He bites at his lip as something unpleasant touches the fringes of his thought, and he starts to put more effort into the struggle to get upright. "I gotta..." He peers around, once his head is up. "M'in trouble. I... Batiste."

Alisynde opens her mouth, shuts it again. Then she shakes her head. "No. I thought maybe it was one of my friends." Her glance flickers down to Trace, who's likely the number one person likely to give Ali flowers to cheer her up. "Trace...there's a shirt. Need help, or you okay? Here.." She bends down to help him peel the wet one he's wearing off. That worried look that's been hovering around her since she found Trace on the street returns in full force. "What sort of trouble?" And.. "I can try and call Jean, if you want."

Batte crosses his legs and sits on the floor. He watches Ali with a slight smile and s light gaze.

Alisynde looks over at Batte. "They were from you?"

Trace gasps softly as Ali pulls at his shirt, and makes a vague effort to tug it back, but whoosh, it's already over his head. Damp braids flop down once it's pulled away, thumping gently against his shoulders again. Damn. It hadn't really occurred to him that getting a new shirt would require removing the old one. He lowers his chin shamefully and curls his arms around himself, a dazed shadow of modesty and embarrassment. Scars on his too-slender chest, along the bony ripple of his ribcage, his stomach, his hips. Little scars, all of them old by at least two years. Burn scars, tiny and round, cigarette shaped. Little incisions. All placed around where a shirt would hide them.... purposeful. A faint blush has a brief affair with the humbled boy's cheeks as murmurs softly, "Gimme that shirt."

Batte nods, "At least some of them. I have been dealing with my own addiction, and have had difficulty emerging from my attic."

Alisynde is already slipping it over his head. Those scars could easily be imagined, couldn't they? And Ali's not even looking. She seems to be rather enamoured of Batte, there.

Roderigo produces his pack of cigarettes and removes one. Which is odd, for him two in one day. He tosses between his lips, "Well, seeing as you have things so firmly in hand," he shrugs, "I, unlike the kid,t here, have a job." He frowns concernedly at Trace, then says to Ali, "You'll take care of him, right?"

Alisynde looks up at Roderigo, and nods solemnly. "I will. And that includes taking him to the hospital, if needs be."

Batte wonders, "Are there complications beyond his being high?"

Roderigo nods and turns on his heel, then he stops, and turns around again, a frown creasing his brow. "Oh, yeah. I almost forgot." He jerks a thumb at his chest and says, "I'm Roderigo. And thanks for helping with the kid. Or, rather, for taking care of him."

Trace sniffs. Well, he can't keep Roderigo here. The world is full of powerful forces right now, sweeping him this way, hauling him that. Stealing his shirt. "G'bye," he says softly, readjusting the huge shirt around himself with clumsy fingers.

Batte chuckles, "Oh yes quite. Piroshki, Batte Pirishki."

Alisynde has Trace's wet shirt. "I'll let it dry, Trace. You'll get it back." To Roderigo, she says, "Ali."

Roderigo's lips stretch in a brief smile, "G'bye," he echoes, and then disappears out the door, without even the ostentatious wretching he'd planned, before.

Roderigo opens the door and exits the flat.

Alisynde looks at Batte, and smiles shyly. "Thank you for the flowers, then. I thought.." Well. Never mind what she thought.

Batte realizes the fellow and Ali are not old friends. Ah. He turns back to Ali, "Yes? May I ask what you thought, moonlight?"

Alisynde takes a deep breath. "That you had changed your mind." She chews on her lip a moment, then looks at Trace. "Trace..want some juice? Or coffee?"

"Coffee," Trace decides sagely, nodding a little. "Gotta wake up some. Call Bat." He does look a *little* more alert already, though, as he scans the room for a telephone. More alert than out on the street, anyway.

Batte stands and walks to Ali. He looks warmly at her and runs the back of his fingers along her hair, "How, I am the world's greatest fool, then?"

Alisynde says, "I..." But whatever Ali's going to say is completely forgotten as fingers stroke her hair. There is a silence - probably while Ali turns into a large puddle on the floor. "No, not at all. Just doubt..." She breaks off, blinks, mutters, "Coffee."

Batte looks affection at the girl, "Speaking of my Master, my type writer calls. May I see you later?" He nods at Trace on his way to the door.

Alisynde blinks, and bites her lip. Disappointment floods her features as Batte mentions that infernal typewriter, but is quickly gone as he mentions seeing her again. She nods, then manages to vocalize, "I'd like that a lot."

Trace sighs. Well, the phone's not in this room, obviously. And in the rooms of Lafitte's apartments, there's just not that many rooms to choose from, so while Ali is in puddle mode, he decides to try something very brave. Stand up. Clinging hard to the couch's arm rest, he slips one foot down onto the floor, then the other. Then pushes off hard as he can. Umph. Trace goes up, Trace goes down. Plop. But that's alright by him, and he starts a crawl towards the kitchen. The quest is on.

Batte is glad, "It fills my heart to know it." turns and leaves.

Alisynde looks after Batte for a moment, smiling like a fool, then turns back to Trace, who isn't there. She looks around for a moment, then spots him crawling towards the kitchen. Her eyes open wide, and she makes a dash for the room. "Wait! Stop! I'll get you the phone." She darts into the kitchen, and pulls the reciever off the hook. The extension cord's easily long enough to reach back to the couch, if a certain crawling someone wants to haul his tuckus back there.

Nope, this tuckus is content with the floor. Trace stays right where he is, peering down at the buttons once the phone is placed into his hands. Ooh. Perfect. He stabs at the phone until it starts ringing, then brings it up to his ear. "H'lo..? Um....Who? Oh." A pause. "Oh. Okay. Sorry." He shakes his head a little. Pushes the hang-up button, then jabs at it some more. There. He lifts it to his ear and waits hopefully. Waits. Hmm. Then a smile lights up his face and he mumbles, "Hi, Bat."

The phone rings several times before it's answered...and dropped. Fumblefumble. Sleepy-Batiste-voice: "H'lo...?"

Alisynde sidesteps his Royal Tuckusness and heads into the kitchen. The smell of brewing coffee fills the air a minute or so later, and there's faint sounds of doors opening and closing, and plates clinking.

You paged Jean-Batiste with 'A short pause follows your greeting. Then finally, breathed like a soft, satisfied sigh, "Hi, Bat."'.

Jean-Batiste pages: Pause. "Trace? S'at you?" Another pause. "Everything okay? Where are you?"

You paged Jean-Batiste with 'Yeah, um. Yeah. S'me." Another soft silence. "Batiste, um. S'good to hear you. S'good. C'mere... Miss you. So, uh." He faulteringly rambles, obviously out of it to the point of near incoherancy. "I jest... want you t'c'mere.'.

Trace mumbles softly into the phone: 'Yeah, um. Yeah. S'me." Another soft silence. "Batiste, um. S'good to hear you. S'good. C'mere... Miss you. So, uh." He faulteringly rambles. "I jest... want you t'c'mere.'.

Jean-Batiste pages: A shorter pause this time, his voice more coherent. "Where are you? I'll be right there." Worried, of course - it shows so quickly in his voice. Quiet noises in the background, another voice. Glass, maybe?

Trace pauses thoughtfully. Considering. He pulls the phone away and sets it down in his lap to call out into the kitchen, "Ali?"

You paged Jean-Batiste with 'Um." A soft sniffle into the phone. Then a rustle, and Trace's voice muffled, his voice no longer directed through the phone as he calls, "Ali?" Apparantly he needs help with this question.'.

Alisynde calls back, "Yeah?"

Jean-Batiste pages: Quiet noises in the background again - you can hear your name being said. "Mmn," Batiste says, louder, though away from the mouthpiece. A few seconds later: "Ali's place? She's in apartment 2, above Lafitte's, isn't she?"

From afar, Alisynde nods. That sounds good. And you know Ali'd let you two have free run of the place. For some reason, she trusts you. :)

Trace murmurs, "Ali? How, um. Batiste needs ta c'mere. So, um... oh, wait." He looks at the phone. "Nevermind." He goes back to mumbling into the receiver.

Long distance to Jean-Batiste: Trace mumbles briefly as well, away from the receiver, but at your words, he comes back to you. "Oh. Um. Yeah. Yeah, thass'it. Nexta Utopia. C'mere, kay? Promise?"

Jean-Batiste pages: No pause, now. Prompt, and earnest. "I'm on my way. Promise. You need me to bring anything?"

Alisynde mms, putting a plate of fruit on the coffee table. "Okay. Coffee's in th' kitchen, an'..." She yawns a little. "I trust y'guys. Y'break it, clean it up. Leave Ritzy in her cage, though. She's been biting again. I need t'sit down for a moment..." She settles into a chair, and murmurs, "If y'go out, just push the button an' the door'll lock. Worry 'bout the deadbolt later..." She closes her eyes and is gone, just like that. Thank goodness she doesn't snore.

You paged Jean-Batiste with 'Jesss... you," he finally decides softly, a voice hushed and child-like. "Love you."'.

From afar, Jean-Batiste sighs softly - the sound of a smile. "Love you too," he murmurs. "I'm on my way. You listen for us, okay? Bye." He hangs up.

[Twenty minutes or so later, Jean-Batiste and Glass arrive at Ali's apartment.]

Jean-Batiste can be seen through the bamboo curtain. Glass can be seen through the bamboo curtain. Jean-Batiste raps three times on the door, then opens it - or tries to, at least. "H'lo...?" he calls tentatively, walking in, hand-in-hand with Glass.

As you enter, the aroma of coffee permeates the small, cluttered room, belied by a lingering scent of Ali's sandlewood and vanilla incense. Ali is asleep in her chair, exhausted, and Trace is curled on the floor near the couch. The phone's cord extends across the room from the kitchen, leading to where the phone is pressed to the place where Trace clings to it still, held loosely, touching his cheek. It gives a muffled beep-beep-beep persistantly, very softy but audible in the silent room.

Glass frowns and releases Batiste's hand, crossing the room to Trace in a few quick strides. He looks down at the blue-haired boy for a moment, then crouches beside him. "Trace? You okay, man?"

Jean-Batiste's stomach does a twisting half-flip at the smell of coffee. Coffee. He just knows what it was for, just -knows- it, after the way Trace sounded on the phone. He's a quarter-step behind Glass, stumble-hopping over some magician's gear on the way, crouching down opposite Glass to stroke blue braids and ease the phone away. "Hey, you," he murmurs, trying to sound teasing. "Rise and shine, we're here."

Indeed, the caffeine awaits, but allll the way in the kitchen, and Trace doesn't feel up to the trek. The unconscious boy stirs, calm features twisting into a faint flinch as his phone is stolen away and voices filter in through the hazy, warm bubble that is his reality right now. "Mmmph... givva back," he reaches out bindly to get the phone back. "Needa call..." Oh, wait. He squints, and finally manages a half-focus. A tiny, innocent smile, and the slightest widening of heavy lids. "Ohh. Hi. You came."

Glass nods and murmurs quietly, "We did." He stands, satisfied that Trace is okay, and heads into the kitchen. He can be heard in there, opening cupboards and shutting them, looking for something. Further sounds come, Glass pouring coffee, and the tap running.

"You feeling pretty good, huh?" Batiste murmurs, moving around to sit cross-legged behind Trace, then helping - or mostly hauling - Trace upright to sprawl in his lap and lean into the circle of one arm. Between dead-drugged weight and hampered reflexes, it might take a bit of struggling. Batiste smells like hazelnuts, by the way, and his eyes have a glassy sheen to them. A little drunk, though not enough to slur his words or anything. His eyes track the sounds of Glass in the kitchen for a few seconds, then turn back to Trace. "So where you been?"

"Mmmn. Naw," Trace answers with quiet honesty. "S'too much, 'n m'scar'd." He makes no protest at all to being lugged somewhat upright, and curls against Batiste gratefully, nestling a cheek until he's perfectly comfortable. "I... Keri. She tole' me... what I gotta do. M'scar'd." He speaks without fear though, just a soft, numb mumble. He's wearing one of Ali's oversized shirts, with his own Demon Boy shirt in a damp green wad on the edge of the couch. There's a small plate of untouched fruit on the endtable.

Glass returns from the kitchen, a cup of coffee in one hand, a glass of water in the other. He crouches down next to Trace again and says, "Yeah? What was it?" Trace isn't given much chance to answer, though; Glass lifts the water glass to his lips and orders, "Drink," in a soft voice, as if it is not a command but the most reasonable suggestion in the world.

Keri. She Who Should Be A Pink Throw-Rug. Batiste grinds his teeth together a little and hugs Trace protectively close, giving Glass a warm, grateful look over the blue braids as he returns with the water and coffee. "Yeah," he murmurs, once Glass has offered the water and Trace has (hopefully) drank some. "What did she tell you you had to do? You remember the plan, right? If you don't like it, then you pay her back in front of..." Damn. What was the name? "Jake?" And so a glass of water enters Trace's bubble world. He blinks at it blankly for a moment, then slowly shifts to peer up at Glass. Drink, huh? Well, okay. He's in the mood to be obedient. Clumsy hands curl around the cool glass and manage to get it to his lips as he slurps a tiny sip. He lowers it then and murmurs over the rim, looking down as though he's explaining all this to the water, 'Gotta... rob an' ATM machine. She gonna wait f'th'guy ta put 'is card in, an' she gonna... knock 'im out, an' I dash t'th'machine 'n.. get out what I can. Dumb bitch. Doesn't know how'ta work an ATM." He sighs mournfully and lifts his eyes. "We-we gotta do the plan you said, we gotta..."

Glass rolls his eyes, "Christ, what a stupid plan. You can't get more than five hundred bucks out of an ATM machine anyway. And you'll get caught. They have video cameras on them, they'll see you and the cops will come and get you." He hasn't released his own grip on the glass and he tilts it again, adding, "Drink more. You'll feel better later if you do. Do you want the coffee? I didn't know how you like it so I made it like I do." He glances at the cup, which he had set on the floor beside him as Trace was speaking.

Jean-Batiste just nods to the both of you. What more is there to say? His free hand pets through blue braids, fussing them just -so-, smoothing them back from Trace's cheeks and ears and a hundred other little unnecessary worried, loving affections. "There's always cameras," he finally murmurs, cuddling Trace close, making sure he's upright so he doesn't choke on the water. "So when are you supposed to do this? We'll just go with you to Jake's place, so she doesn't try anything on you." A decisive nod, there.

Trace bobs his head faintly and sets his water down. "She said t'wear a mask, y'know? Not come out til... til' he was down." He gives a gentle shudder and settles back against Batiste's chest. "She... she showed me the one she wanted ta.. ta hit. Showed me the sock 'a coins she'd use t'take 'im down. I.. weighed it in m'hand. Heard it crack almost. M'scared I'll get the dream t'night..." He sighs softly and closes his eyes. But it matters less now, see? His features are smooth, fear and intimidation rolling off him to puddle on the floor. Just warm friends in his bubble.

Glass sighs gently, murmurs, "You won't do it. That's all. It's stupid. It's a fuck up. Besides, she might kill him." He closes his eyes a moment, then adds, "Drink."

Jean-Batiste reaches out his free hand to touch Glass's near shoulder, smiling a little at him. He gently nudges Trace with his shoulder and murmurs, "C'mon, you. Drink up, so we can get some coffee into you and get you home to sleep. There's a new guy crashing at Walker's place that you have to meet, anyways."

Trace sighs and lifts the warm mug to his lips, taking as long a drink as his quick-to-protest stomach will allow. Then he sets it down. "M'sorry," he says softly. "Bout all this." A thin finger circles the rim of the mug before he finally braves another sip and then murmurs, "So tell me 'bout the new guy."

Glass shakes his head and smiles a little to Trace. He murmurs, "You don't have to be sorry. It's all okay." He sighs a little, "Do you think you can get up? Or do you want to stay here?" A faint and questioning smile, "I'll walk back to Walker's and get my car, give you a ride home if that's what you want."

Jean-Batiste steals a swallow of water from the glass, then puts it down again within easy reach. "His name's...Ain," he murmurs, fumbling over the word. "He's from London, he used to be in a British goth band, I guess. I don't know for sure. But he's pretty cool once he gets over being spooky. He might get one of the apartments up here once he's got some money to his name." He jostles Trace's shoulders gently and murmurs, "We should walk, maybe. Get you moving around?"

Trace licks his lips. Oh joy, more of that unpleasant walking business. Sure, it's been a good while since Roderigo first lugged him up off the concrete and got him moving, but even so, he'd much rather lie down someplace close by. He shakes his head faintly and then looks from Glass to Batiste. "Could we... like maybe crash at our place?" he asks quietly. "S'all close, 'n it's safe there..." The faintest lifting of his shoulders. "But if ya need t'go home, we'll go home. I kin' make it. Jest need shoulders t'hang onto maybe."

Jean-Batiste blinks, having quite forgotten -that- option. "Sure. Let's just crash at our place." He starts to get up, smiling gently at Glass. "You want to stay with us a while? There's a big pile of blankets and pillows, it's pretty cozy. Puppy-pile." He tousles Trace's braids affectionately.

Glass smiles at Batiste, "Mm. Sounds nice. But I can't stay all night. I should go back to Tachete, or she might worry. She told me, her old lover is back in town. She was so happy. I don't want her to think I have gone away because of it." He shrugs a little, "But I will stay a few hours, if you like." His dark gaze leaves Batiste's face and falls to Trace, "You will probably want to sleep." He rises, taking Trace's arm in a gentle grip, preparing to help him to his feet.

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