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Log Title: Spectre from the Past

Log setting: Early one cloudy evening, a bench outside the Weekly World Insider offices.

Log Cast:
Jason
Zachary
Dirty Bill

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Zachary is sitting on the bench, leg crossed over the other, smoking his way through a pack of Winston Reds. He seems preoccupied. Not exactly looking forward to this himself, but knowing he has to have this out, at long long last. He is watching the sidewalks, the streets, waiting for the familiar bob of red head. And when it comes, he watches your approach the whole way. "Half expected you to bail." He murmurs. And pats the bench. "Sit. Want a smoke?"

Jason, honestly, was seriously thinking of getting lost on the way here. The long bus-ride didn't help this urge at all, either, as all he had to do on the way was think about what you wanted to talk about. Jasons aren't supposed to stress over this stuff! A true Jason would just never call or show up and live life happily. But, no, this one gave in one night and called. And when you weren't there, he had to call again later. And then your work. Now look where he is. He swings off the streetcar at one corner of the park and pads slowly through it, looking for the building you said was... Oh, there you are. He freezes mid-step one instant, and then continues towards you. A very faint smile, both shy and apprehensive, is given your way, eyes not meeting yours through the mass of red hair. He nods a little at the offer as he settles himself next to you. "Guess one wouldn' hurt," he murmurs absently, bright eyes scouring the sidewalk beneath his feet.

Some swould call it corruption of a minor. Little would they know which minor they were talking about. The Immortal Jason! Bah, he corrupts nuns for breakfast! Zack slides the whole pack over, a blue Bic resting on top. "Knock yourself out." Somewhere, a distant irony emerges in his memory - that of long ago afternoons, and nights, spent on this very bench, with another very reluctant conversation partner. But that's what this is all about isn't it? All roads lead back to themselves, in time. Can't escape your past, can you? No matter how damned far you run. "Let's start this over. No judgments. No bullshit." He sticks out his hand, "Hi Jason. I'm Zack. Pleasure to meet you."

You catch Jason at a rather absurd moment. Cigarette between his lips and both hands cupped around a lighter as he tries to worth the stupid thing. You stick you hand out and he just blinks at it, still frozen in the 'lighting' position. Then, slowly, his eyes make their way to your hand. What the hell? The cigarette rolls a bit in his lips as he shifts his jaw a bit, uncertain. He glances over his shoulder. No, no camera. Then to you again, his hand tentatively placing itself in yours. Jason doesn't apparently catch the concept of a 'manly' shake. "Pleasure to meet you too," he say muffledly around the cig, uncertainty growing. See, he was sure that your reappearance meant that his past /had/ prevented escape. But now... now he doesn't know what the hell to think. So he just sits there with an unlit cigarette and waits for you to explain.

Zachary doesn't seem to really have a handle on it either, just sort of winging it, to geta sense of normality out of an extremely uncomfortable situation. "There." He says, as he sits back on the bench, "Something normal, done without any wondering of what he'll say, what memories does this rekindle? Answer: none. We now meet, on our own terms, Jason. So we can have a civil chat. Without that spectre over our heads." You know the one. And here comes the moment you no doubt dreaded since you saw this old coot again. "ZigZag."

Jason really does look baffled as you explain yourself. Congratulations, not many people do that to Jason. He blinks slowly, listening.. But you know he knows what you're talking about when he suddenly looks away at the mention of 'that spectre.' Obviously, 'spectre' wouldn't be the word he'd use to refer to his old... whatever Z was to him. But as soon as you say the name, he flinches, like someone just hucked a shoe at his head or something. "What did ya wanna talk 'bout then?" he asks miserably. He can't see any reason beyond the 'spectre' why you'd be interested in /him/. Of course, the fact that he hasn't aged a day hasn't really been something that Jason's thought about - 'sides, a lot of people skip a growth spurt or two... or three or four. Anyhow...

No, that explanation didn't make much sense. But then, Zack figured he had this all worked out. Kid comes along, kid pushes every single little button he's got, kid romps round with his best bud - yon redhead foxboy. Then kid and said fox vamoose. Just like that. Not something easily forgotten. Maybe two years put some distance there. But then, like a shot out of a cannon, here comes the Laurel to Z's Hardy. Looking ... exactly the damn same. And don't think for a man who has his memories like polaroids etched on his brain, that this goes unnoticed. But he'll get to it in time. Now, he's got an old burr to wear down. Spectre? Maybe. That's all Z is at this point, a ghost, a memory. Haunting this man like the boy had been his own - maybe that's how he felt at the time. So what's that make Jason, a nephew? Cousin? Dunno. Maybe that's part of this meeting's purpose. Zack's voice is dry, quiet. "Well. You two never said goodbye. I was hoping you'd fill in some blanks for me, Jason. You know how I hate not knowing."

See, these are the things Jason hates about living around mortals. Weirdness follows him like a loyal hound and people usually don't handle it so well. And, worse yet, Jason has this /really bad/ habit of caring about certain people. The ones that usually don't handle Jason's hound so well, see? Makes things complicated. Jason did his best to stay away from where his old stomping grounds were, to come here and be a different Jason. But you can't plan for circumstances sometimes. And now here he is, with one of those few people he (possibly unknowingly) cared about. The cigarette's something to be rolled around in his mouth right now, not smoked apparently. He scuffs one foot slowly across the concrete, caught up in these thoughts that he's thought far too much on the way here. And when you finally speak... Jason winces again. God. This has only happened once before, this... guilt thing. Jason's a wanderer, and he usually never has to deal with the people he's left before. He plucks the cig from his lips and proceeds to chew on the inside of his lip. Quick, say something, Jason, before you start thinking some more. "We... was... We meant to call," he finally comes up with, lamely. Still not going to look at you. "Things jus'... came up, 'guess." Please, PLEASE don't ask where Z is now.

At least you know the next question. Been down roads like this before, haven't you? Zachary has seen much of your kind since you left, hell he's marrying one, and his eyes have been opened, as he looks back on previously unexplained acts. You, there's almost a sick reason for. But Z. There lies the rub. Zack's got a problem. Has had one for some time. He gives too much of a damn. And sometimes steps out on a limb for causes he deems worthy. Seems you and Z were one of those worthy causes. Then you leave. And the limb breaks off. He's still recovering from that fall, bruises and scratches rising anew every second. He takes a slow breath, exhaling a thin wisp of smoke, knowing somewhere deep down this isn't wise, this is only for his own gratification, but feeling that for once, he's going to demand it. "You called Jamie." He murmurs. But then, there's THAT whole aspect to the bizarre relationship he just isn't about to venture into right now. "So where is he." Comes the inevitable. No sugarcoating. Just take your medicine.

Jason winces yet again as you point out Jamie. God. You wouldn't understand. Back then, he thought that... that... But he knows better now. When it's staring him in the face like this. But then he lifts his eyes, pleading to you as he realizes all of a sudden, with an instinct that he can't explain, what will be your next question. No, please, don't ask it. Pleasepleaseplea-... The last glimmers of hope that he can avoid this shatter in his bright green eyes, the shockwaves going throughout his being. He had a wall being built. Just a few more years... But now it's dust, like the walls of Jericho and Troy. He hasn't hurt this much since that time... It all comes rushing back to him, flowing through the breach. "I..." he starts, not really a reference to self as much as just a sound to be made with a voice useless to his thoughts. "I... We..." Silence as he works his mouth dumbly, trying to form words, /any/ words. And all that comes out is, "I..." You may have had your suspicions that something was seriously wrong with this kid in the past, but this should be confirmation. From the suddenly broken look in his eyes, you sense you could probably get a psychiatrist to come here and before three questions get Jason committed.

Okay, maybe Zack had his suspicions as to exactly how screwed up you were. How that constant flippancy was just ... unnatural. There was always something lingering beneath the surface there, no one could care so little about so much, and yet ... well. That brings us to uncomfortable realization number two. Somewhere deep down, Zachary had realized how 'close' of a relationship the two boys had. He just played it off as teenaged best friends. But best friends who run off together? Who spend every waking moment together? Who have some ... breakup? That affects the other like this, reduced to definite articles as his only means of speech? Add to that observing your interactions with Jean-Batiste - the man IS paid to be observant - and he is forced to admit what he always really knew. So. This isn't all about how Zack's feelings got rolled over by a steamroller. Look old man, the kid got hurt too. Badly. But we've come this far, let's move on into Tortured Psyche Theater. "Jason." He says, quietly. Offering some lifeline, so that you are spared the torture of speech. "Slowly. What happened, ... best you can recollect?" Or retell.

An extremely loud clanging noise comes from one of the alleys down the ways, the edge of the street, between a tiny resturant now closed for business and one of the other buildings on the side, maybe one of those office building.

Zachary is sitting on a park bench in front of the Weekly World Insider offices, Jason next to him. The two seem embroiled in an intense discussion, if you could call it that, since it's mostly wordless. An intent stare from the elder man. No small amount of dodging from the youth.

A figure staggers out of the alley where the noise came from, leaning heavily against the slick brick-faced wall of the resturant. He hangs his head forwards and you can, even from that distance, hear the sound of something liquid hitting the pavement with the appropriate accompanying heaving sounds. It stops, after a moment, followed by a low and pathetic sounding moan.

Dirty Bill reaches his arm up and wipes the back of his mouth with it. He takes a shuffling step forward, blinking against the harsh light of the streetlamp above. Bob yawns and then turns slowly to his right, shuffling down the street in your general direction, his boots making heavy scuffle sounds on the pavement.

Of course, if Jason's off the hook for the running off thing, then he doesn't realize it. The Major Problem of this whole meeting's kinda occuping more of him than he can spare. He just stares up at the older man beside him, trying hard to say something. And the lifeline Zack throws out is probably all that he can grab onto. Tell Zack something. Tell Zack /anything/. "I... we..." he begins again, but this time with more purpose. "We went to LA, f-for the winter. T-they got good soup places 'n.. 'n I been there. I mean..." Well, shit, what did you expect? To have another nice, warm home waiting for them just like the one they left? But it seems as if it was all known beforehand. Both of them weren't strangers to the street anyhow. "We... jus'... kinda... wen' 'round, really. I think." He gets a little frown. It /is/ getting a little fuzzy on him. You try hard enough to forget things, you start to succeed after awhile. "I..." Cripes, here comes the 'I' thing again. He lowers his eyes, hiding them behind a curtain of hair. Fingers pick hard at a worn boot that's brought up into his lap, peeling at the tape and laces. "Was gettin' kinda cold up 'roun' the bay an.. an.. We were runnin' low on..." He starts to choke up again, voice constricting as he continues. "Runnin' low on money. So... I..." The picking fingers become positively fierce, tearing at the tape. "I got money. An' he... he..." He frowns at himself, as if outside his own monologue and disapproving of how it's progressing. What came next? Oh yeah... The tape's torn off, revealing a rather large hole in the side of his boot. "He freaked," he says simply. As if that were all that needed to be said.

Quite frankly, the rest of the world is just not relevant to Zachary at the moment. You try following the meandering narration of Jason Riley, and focus on anything else. Even if you have experience in these matters, it requires full attention. Each start and stop, each pause and fluctuation in tone, as doubt creeps in, as that unseeable, unknowable lasso rears him back from just -saying- what needs to be said, dammit. Endless frustration, and not about to lift anytime soon. He nods along where appropriate, mainly to encourage the boy to keep along. He doesn't seem to even want to know -how- you got money. Or what on earth needed to be done. Dear god, after that last soul-renching episode with Z... but that's another twisted memory, and aside from the point. That last comment from Jason stops him dead. Brow furrowing into worry, concern. And deep pain. "Freaked." He repeats. "What happened." He says, quietly. Almost dreading if Jason can manage to tell him.

Softly, Dirty Bill mumbles to himself, moving along at the slow shuffling gait seemingly without any sort of care at in the entire world. He pauses about a hundred feet off as he passes one of those public trashcanes. A soft 'oooh' of delight and he turns to it, leaning forwards a bit to peer inside. He shoves trash aside with one hand while the other hand absently rakes through the thick black mass of his beard. Several moments of this treasure hunting occurs before Dirty Bill finally holds his hand up in triumph, a small glass bottle of Absolute with about a quarter of an inch of clear liquid still in the bottom. He opens it up and raises the mouth of the bottle of to his nose, inhaling the scent deeply before taking a sip from it.

Jason was really hoping 'freaked' would be enough. It was a nice, generalized slang-type term that could mean any number of things, and is easy enough to say without visualizing what 'freaked' might entail. But the older man HAD to go and dig for details. Goddamn journalists. Goddamn Zack. Jason's features twist in a sudden pain as a memory comes back to him, fresh and crisp, untouched almost since its creation. Tears almost threaten, but he takes a deep breath and shivers, then proceeds to absolutely destroy the few bits holding his boot together. "I.. promised 'im... that..." Another deep breath, one wasn't enough. "That I wouldn' do that kinda thing. But... was cold 'n I thought jus'.. a little bit'd do. Mean, ain' like it takes much." His voice takes on a numb sort of monotone as he rambles on. "I guess he saw... sumthin'. 'N I thought he didn', so I said it was sumthin' else, but he knew 'n I didn' know he knew. He.. he..." Jason's brows furrow, like he was confused about what he was saying. "He wouldn' let me touch 'im." The confusion grows: Why wouldn't he let me touch him? "'N when I woke up, he wasn' 'roun' 'n the other kids said he left right after I fell 'sleep." And then he adds, almost petulantly, like he truly didn't understand all of a sudden, "He was supposed ta watch our stuff..."

See, that generation gap thing is here. "freaked" doesn't mean a damn thing to an old fart like Zack. And yes, he must know details. the devil is in the details, and Ol' Scratch can only hide for so long. And here they come, more than he really wanted to know, yet things he had to know. Still vague in that Jasonesque manner, but a bit of reading between the lines, and you get the full picture. It's not pleasant, nor pretty. Nor is it easy to look at the sad little redhead with venom and vigor for running off like self-absorbed ninnies. Which they were, don't get me wrong. Zack sighs, head hanging lowly. "Yeah. I can imagine." He doesn't even have to imagine. He heard, and saw, Z's personal opinions on such matters, in frightening clarity. "I'm sorry. For what that's worth." He says, quietly. Knowing now that the chances of having true closure lie wandering the globe somewhere in the person of a, what, seventeen year old boy by now? Could be across the street, peering into his office window, like he did so many times before. Or could be halfway around the world. Or.... well we don't like to think those things. And now he looks to Jason in a whole new light. Here's a kid with more depth than he'd given him credit for, sure he's a shiftless layabout, and sure, he's fallen into much the same pattern with Bat and Trace. And could blow himself out again with it. But it's not for superficial gains, that the boy gives of himself. It's not for just freedom and fun. Down deep, even so far that the kid may not know himself, he cares. And is just as scarred, if not more, than a self-pitying old reporter.

The bottle flashes in the incandescent light of the streetlamp overhead, briefly reflecting it as Dirty Bill upends it in to his mouth, swallowing greedily as the harsh clear liquid pours out of the bottle and down his throat, some of it spilling over the edges and dribbling down on to his collar. He grunts and follows with a loud, rolling belch before he drops the bottle back in to the trash can. A homeless man understands the nessecity for clean streets, surely. He wipes his mouth and then begins scratching his nose as he turns, stagger/shuffling slowly towards Jason and Zachary. When he's within about twenty feet of the chatty pair, his gravelly and tired sounding voice says, "Hey... fellas... can ya spare a guy some change?" His voice tries to sound ingraciating and pleading but it doesn't come off quite right, this obviously is not a man who doesn't like but beg but seems to have to. "Just some... man, I'm so damn hungry... tired a eatin' trash?" The last part coming off as a question as he staggers closer to the pair, the stench of his body and his breath precede him, like a heinous cloud.

For what it's worth... All of a sudden, the concept of opening up to someone and spilling out all those problems he's hidden so well all this time... It's not so bad when you can trust someone further than they can throw you (when you're little, you have to alter sayings a bit). Closure for him, well, it's wandering alongside Zack's closure, stepping in the same footsteps. He's small, he's young, but a bond something fierce was formed awhile ago, and now it's broken. Before he can help it, a tear escapes and travels down his cheek, dripping off his chin to splatter unceremoniously on the boot. But that's all. He'll do his bawling later, when he has the dignity of privacy. He lifts his head and starts to say something, but the sensation of someone moving closer catches him. Distracted, but not oblivious. He sniffles and wipes quickly at his eye with the back of his hand, and then looks back over his shoulder. Sure 'nuff, a bum. Competetor for space, usually, sometimes even predator. But he's got an Adult here. So he just looks over the guy and stays quiet, nose wrinkling a bit. Zack can handle him. Jason'll just handle the customary stench.

Well. Sure looks like these two took a long walk off a short pier called Angst, and are wallowing in its depths right now. Just the perfect time for a bum to arrive, eau de trash aflow in the air, and request money. Zack looks up, momentarily distracted by the odor, and even moreso by the foruitous respite from ... well this. And obligated to deal with it because Jason has so dodgily evaded it, being a kid and all. He lets a hand drop to his pocket, a handful of green folded pieces of paper - mostly singles, a five in there someplace, maybe a hidden ten. Coupla bucks. He hands it over, without much of a word, or even demanding an entertaining story of down-on-his-luckness from the bum. "There'sa good deli up the street, they'll make you something huge to eat, and even throw in free coffee. Tell 'em Zack sent you, the cook there knows me pretty well." His tone is tired, very tired, one of an utter fatigue brought about less by exertion than the phsyical workout of remembrance. Tae Bo? Right. Let's go for dredged up memories, and see who's more beat at the end of the day. Zack glances down to the kid again, and takes in a slow, quiet breath. Yes, more questions than answers, some of which he already had in his grasp, just now... seeing things right for the first time. Damn hindsight.

The dirty old man stares at the money for a long moment, then to Zachary's face, disbelief filling his grime coated features. "Hey man!" He says, his slightly trembling fingers reaching out and snatching the money from Zach's offering hand, having experienced people playing the keep away game with him before. "Yer a real stand up fella!" He cries, swaying a bit where he stands, grinning and revealing several ruined and blackened teeth. "I kin eat with this for a while... yeah..." He quickly hides the money somewhere on his personage and he smiles some more just shaking his head, as in amazement. "Yer both real good guys." He turns slightly, to face the kid and then he says, "It ain' never bad as it seems, man... trus me, I seen a lotta awful stuff an I'm still around..." He chuckles to himself, as if he told a joke. Then he lets rip a fart, a rather loud sounding bit of flatulance, profane for the obvious pleasure on his face at the release. He obviously doesn't feel abashed at it, perhaps descending past all pretense of caring on some issues. Afterall, the rats never minded the smell before but it is rather foul, almost like rotting eggs.

Jason glances down at the digging hand and pieces of green. Sorry, natural reaction. Money gets his attention. But then back up to the bum, bright eyes slightly red from the previous emotional overload. Two bucks is good. Take it. And so he does. Good, now back off. But no. Jason grimaces slightly from his little 'I'm not here' situation. It gets worse though. As the stinky bum turns his attention /his/ way. Jason cringes towards Zack Bum-Wisdom is bestowed upon him, trying really hard not to... snarl? The look in his eyes is hard, all that vunerability that escaped for Zack is shoved back behind doors that are solidly locked behind it. At the fart, Jason just turns his head to look at Zack and murmur, softly, "If ya ever see me out here like that... Shoot me." Because I'm still immortal, you see, and I WILL be out of this sitation someday. And, by way of comparison, this one... won't. Hard to tell how much of this is genuine dislike, though, and how much is just covering for what Bill just walked in on.

Zachary is less offended by Bum Wisdom, and the fart releases a bit of tension from his own visage. Guys just plain like flatulence, and find it insanely funny for no reason whatsoever. He shakes his head despite himself, and gets up from the bench, stretching his legs, as he does. He nods absently to Jason, agreeing to possibly shoot him should he Bum Out? Nah. Maybe. Who knows. He steps away from the bench, and the bum. A good natured man, he helps out because he can, and because it serves a distraction. And because he can't think of a good reason not to. "You do that, go eat, go take care of yourself." Go takea shower, but that's not spoken aloud. He's got tact, for gods' sake. He nods a bit at BumWisdom. "Things get better. But you gotta know where they stand first." To Jason, he inclines his head towards the office. "Let's take this inside, okay?" Nothing rude about it, but this scene just illustrated exactly how damn public the square is. And how damn unpublic this dirty laundry being aired is.

And with that, Dirty Bill turns around and shuffles away from the pair, unoffended and probably uncaring. He's got his money, maybe a meal or two and some alcohol. That's enough. He is soon engulfed by what remains of the night as he walks down the street.

Epilogue: Jason and Zack go inside to talk, but Jason has clammed up from the interruption - the most that the man gets out of him is the number where Jason is staying for the most part. It coincidentally happens to be Holly Walker's number, but our intrepid reporter doesn't know this yet.

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