Pizza and Pixie Dust
| Pizza and Pixie Dust | |
|---|---|
Is Pixie Dust A Real Thing? | |
| Players |
Colt goes to find John after the incident at the community center. The pair of them talk, trading information about themselves and falling into an easy rapport. |
The staff offices of the Raby Community Center are an odd place. The large central office is a mess -- filled with boxes, file cabinets, three stacks of still-warm pizzas, all atop or around the several desks. Off that main office are several other offices, most with their doors closed, though one stands open to reveal John sitting behind a desk. A laptop computer is open in front of him, and his phone sits beside it, open to a photo. His brow is furrowed, his jaw clenched, as he works at whatever is on the screen. Today, at least, Colt isn't trying to be sneaky. The man comes in, wearing jeans and a plain white v-necked t-shirt and a pair of jeans old enough that they look as soft as pajama pants, plain black converse shoes not exactly drawing a ton of attention. He leans into the door frame, giving the thing a little rap of his knuckles for politeness. "Are you -- writing an angry review?" he asks, the furrowed-brow expression getting a playfully puzzled look, and a glance over to the stacks of pizza boxes. "Don't blame you. Extra pepperoni means *extra* pepperoni, not 'a conservative dusting of additional slices'." "Oh, hey," John looks up, a bit of the consternation fading. "Colt, right?" He gestures toward an empty seat across from him. Closing the latop, he chuckles. "No, insurance paperwork -- you know how that goes. Mind closing the door?" He picks up his phone, glances at it, and thumbs it off before putting it back down on the desktop. The Rahu is similarly dressed down today, in sweatpants and a worn 'White Sox' t-shirt. He stands as Colt enters, nodding a further greeting. "Thanks for jumping in like that, the other day." Colt wrinkles his nose a little bit, stepping in and closing the door behind him, taking a quick peek outside to make sure that nobody is lingering that might hear something that they were never meant to. Colt shoves his hands in his pockets -- a reflexive gesture, really, meant to look non-threatening in another's space. "No problem, man," say offers with a small smile. "Someone fucked with your stuff. You needed someone to have your back. Even if you're a magnet for creepy eyeball-goo-monsters, which, can I just say -- Jesus. That thing was *gross*." John laughs at that, soft, maybe a touch dark, but genuine. "Lucky us, right," he asks, gesturing at the empty chair. "Hey, real talk: if there's ever anything I can do to have your back, well... I owe you one, ok?" He settles back into his own seat -- a brown leather chair that clearly came here from a better-appointed law office -- and sighs. "That thing is... I don't think that's even the grossest we've seen from it, honestly." Colt spreads his hands to the side, smile widening until he's practically beaming as he takes a seat in the empty chair. "What," he asks, "you didn't sign up for this with the whole Blessing of Luna thing? Must not have read the fine print," he chuckles. "Be stronger. Faster. Hotter. Fight like you want to fight, fuck like you want to fuck. Side-effects may include having to deal with weird-ass alien gods that are hell-bent on wrecking your shit, fights to the death with some crazy religious zealots, and generally scaring the piss out of everyone around you." "Yeah, I missed the whole signup process, I guess," John says with a laugh. "I sort of walked backwards into it, right?" He stretches his legs out under the desk, settling in. "I don't think I did a great job of introducing myself, the other night. If not, I'm sorry about that. I'm John Bishop Butler III; Aziha Zuu, Rahu, Blood Talons." "Oooh. Yeah, the draft process can be a little rough," he agrees, giving a bit of a nod there as he streches out a bit too, looking more relaxed as he crosses his arms lazily over his chest. "Colt Sebastian Masters, the only," he introduces himself in turn. "Sometimes known as Fangbanger." A sheepish smile at that. "Kind of a long story." He reaches across the desk, offering a hand. "Nice to meet you, formally." Still, he's curious. "So. This is an interesting space you've chosen for law practice." A nod to John's outfit. "Gotta say, the dress code is a hell of a selling point, though." John leans forward to take Colt's hand in a firm grip, holding it briefly, meeting the other Uratha's eyes before he lets go. "Yeah, it sort of all came together in a weird way," he admits, now leaning forward, elbows on the desk. "I had the practice, you know, but then the opportunity came along to start this place up, and..." He shrugs. "I guess I couldn't quite let go of the other work I was doing, though, you know? So... You see the mess, you know? But I think I'm sort of starting to catch up." Tone souring a bit, he adds, "Or, I was." Colt returns the firm grip, meeting John's eyes easily. "Well. Good to know. Chances are I'll need a lawyer in the not-too-distant future, if my track record so far is to be believed. That's what smart money says, anyway. The boys in blue kind of have a thing for me." That grin brightens again. "Pretty sure it's my eyes. They just can't stay away." And not his extensive criminal record, of which John could easily access with the other Uratha's full name. Giving the office one quick glance around, he asks, "So... is the office the mess? Or were you referring to yourself?" He cocks a head to one side. "Pretty sure that in either case, I've seen worse." "You cut me deep," John claims with a wry smile. "I meant the office, but I can see how you'd take it the other way. A year ago, I knew fuck-all about non-profit organizations, or runnign a community center. Today..." He shrugs, shaking his head, "I still know fuck-all about either of those things, but I'm doing both, and trying to shift the spiritual mess that is this part of Chicago, and trying to run down a pack of Pure that were our neighbors until a month ago, and chasing the Goominator..." He trails off, snorting a soft laugh. "Pretty sure that the best kept secret of being a grown-up is that everyone just makes this shit up as they go. We just get better at making it *look good*," he assures the other man. "You have to have *confidence* when you're just bullshitting your way through it." His nose wrinkles at the mention of Pure and the Goominator though. "Yeah. Landscape here looks -- well. Pretty fucked. Wasn't entirely unsurprising, given that things on this side are *likewise* pretty fucked." He spreads his hands in a 'what can you do' kind of way. "But keeping some slimy sumbitch from snacking on your people while you give them a place to live is a pretty good start. I can respect that." "The landscape is why I parked the center here," John explains. "I knew it was a hot spot, and I knew it was a place where, if I drew a line against the ~Anshega~," he says, sneering as he mentions the Pure, "I would matter, you know? I've already run up against -- and killed -- one of them. There are more, though, and maybe more than a few." Colt frowns a little at the mention of the killing of the *anshega*. It's hardly a comfortable subject for any of them, after all, even if that's what John specializes in. A necessary evil, at best. "Though if you were looking to *matter*, I think you're in the right line of work. Maybe not so much if you're in it for the *money* though," he admits. "Are you still practicing? How do you even pay for this stuff? Or is this like a -- you decided that group living and communal showers were your true spiritual calling sort of sitch?" "I still practice," John says, nodding. "I'm mostly in immigration court, these days, so yeah... Not getting rich that way," he agrees. "Don't worry for me, though -- I'm not missing any meals. This," he says, gesturing broadly around them, "Is a big family scandal. I endowed the Albert Anderson Raby Community Center Foundation mostly with a trust that was left to me. A personal fortune, I guess, right? And... I mean, I'm not sleeping in the gym or anything, but I've definitely spent some nights in that nurse's office, next door." "Ahh," Colt nods, seeming to understand. "So what I'm hearing is that you're actually loaded for fucking *bear*, but you've decided to use all of that to help the poor and downtrodden and so you work in a gym office eating --" He squints... "several pizzas at a time because you're self-budgeting." A glance back to John, meeting the man's eyes. "Well. There's only one thing to do about that," he muses. "I'm gonna have to take you out and have some fun on someone else's dime, for a change." The smile changes to a bit of a smirk. "You can even keep the sweat pants on. I'll just avoid any strip clubs so as not to cause a *scene*, or whatever." John answers that with a hearty laugh -- he's aware of his privilege, but apparently not self-conscious about it. "The kitchen is down for the day," he explains, "The sprinkler system fucked something up. The pizzas are lunch for everybody. Maybe we should grab one, though, before they move across to the cafeteria, huh?" He's still chuckling, shaking his head. "I do *own* jeans, you know. Slacks, khakis, I might even have a pair of those banana bucket capris left somewhere, from an ill-advised fashion phase." He stretches out again, leaning back into his chair, and asks, "So what about you? That's a lot about me, but what's your story?" "I'll never say no to pizza," Colt agrees, looking over at the boxes. "Which one do you think they'll miss the least? Of the ones that don't suck?" he quickly corrects. "Everyone gets to live their own life or whatever, but I'm not sure what appeals to anyone about crust made from gluten free vegan grass clippings or whatever. It's Chicago, you'd think there'd be a law or something..." The question about the kitchen, though, has him raising an eyebrow. "Any idea on what's fucked up?" At the question of his own story, though, Colt gives a shrug. "Not sure how much you wanna hear," he starts. "Grew up in New York. Rough neighborhood, poor mom. Dad split. Made some bad decisions. Fell in with the wrong people. Shit went south, and the Change came. Tables got turned. Decided I wanted a change of scenery, and now I'm here. The rest of it is either tragic backstory or a real page-turner, depending on your preferences, but you get to decide how much you wanna know, I guess." "Rudy's never made a bad pie in his life," John objects. "You ever had Pizano's?" The Rahu shakes his head, grinning. "If you like Chicago-style, you're gonna love it. I do tend to lean toward meat, these days," he agrees. "My vegetarian phase was... Short." He shakes his head at the electrical problem, at a loss. "I have no idea what's going on in the kitchen -- there's a contractor coming after lunch. Like a lot of things, it is not my area of expertise." He listents through the abbreviated version of Colt's story, quiet, thoughtful. When it's finished, he nods. "I want to hear as much as you want to tell, but not a word more than you're comfortable with. I know how shit gets -- I get sort of tangled up in my own head, sometimes. I imagine that's not just a me thing." "Well, I suppose I'll just have to trust in your superior judgment in pizza until you show me that your judgment can't be trusted. Hopefully you've got a better idea about it than I do." He nods toward the stack of boxes. "Which do you recommend?" The comment about the kitchen is noted, but the contractor coming seems to solve that particular issue, so he lets it go for now in favor of the other. "Well. Started off simple enough, I guess. Just some minor stuff. Drugs runs. A little B&E. Boosted a few cars. Whatever made money, you know? The people paid well. Not the Gangland style gangs you might think of. This was more like -- low-rent mafia, I guess." He gives a shrug. "The obvious ones are obvious. That's a bad career move." He continues, not wanting to get too lost in the weeds. "Didn't take long before we were all partying on the same stuff we were selling. You just -- ride the high, man. You feel untouchable. Drugs, booze. Hell, even sex was on offer for basically the asking. And when you're high as a kite, you don't notice the little things. Like how good it feels when the boss decides to take you to bed one night... or that they're a little bit too into biting. And you're a little bit too into it when they bite you... It. Uh." He clears his throat, shiftng a bit in his chair. "It was a hell of a persuasive sales pitch. Words kind of won't do it justice. Guess you just kind of have to take it on faith that it was real hard to say 'no'." John listens, nodding, his brow furrowing. He only breaks his silence to say, softly, "Maybe meat-lover's?" His brow arches at the ends, and he seems to understand -- or perhaps misunderstand, badly. "I... Can't imagine," he admits. "I haven't dealt with them a lot, you know? Just a little, just lately, but it's been... They're really something, right? Not like us at all." Colt shrugs. "I mean I wasn't actually ... objecting," he admits. "Not sure I would have even if I had really understood what was going on. Tradeoff seemed pretty straightforward. Feel the best you've ever felt in exchange for little pieces of your dignity at a time. Always a slightly bigger ask. Always a nice payoff." He offers a wan smile. "It was pretty much the fantasy." "Anyway. Can't keep that shit up forever. Eventually it starts to take its toll. And, like any drug, the downward spiral starts." He makes a little circling motion with his hand, which then abruptly reaches for the indicated meat lover's box. Not so tragic a backstory that he can't multi-task. "You fuck up a job, and they give you the cold shoulder. Going cold turkey off of anything is bad enough. Going cold turkey off of -them- is..." He gives a little shudder, closing his eyes. "Anyway. You don't do so well. You fuck up more jobs. They push you further away, starting taking more than they give. By the time it was over, I was hallucinating, sweating in a cell, seeing shit come out of the walls, taunting me, watching me. Except... I wasn't hallucinating." A little shake of his head. "I don't know if it was the stress, or like -- Luna taking pity, like the Shamans say. But I'd started to Change." "Don't really remember much of what happened next. I got out. Obviously. Wrecked the place. Woke up naked in a park, this stern-faced cop standing over me. Except he wasn't gonna bust me. I could tell. He *smelled* different. Gave me one look, already knew what had happened." Colt grabs a piece of sausage, stuffing into his mouth. "Cop knew me, anyway. I'd gotten a reputation. The idiot gangbanger kid who got himself turned into the plaything of a monster. And thus was 'Fangbanger' born." A beast. "Asshole." John listens to the story, sympathy -- maybe empathy -- clear in his eyes. He nods slowly at various points, and at the end repeats, "Fangbanger," softly. He smiles, and says, "Asshole," too. "But you're stuck with it, now, I guess. What can you do?" The Blood Talon leans forward to reach for a piece of the pizza himself, pauses as he takes a bite, chews a second, then talks around the rest of it. "So are you still into... I mean not vampires, obviously, but... Drugs, stolen cars, and that?" Colt gives a little grin. "I mean, I made it work for me. It's a nickname. And I got a reputation from it. Turned it back around. Good thing about already being inside the organization is -- it wasn't hard to turn some of them over to *my* side. Earned a brand or two from being a general pain in the ass, even if nobody trusted that I wasn't some kind of fuckin' plant for the vamps. Waging a one-man war isn't really what we were built to do, but. I made it work for as long as I could." Colt starts in on his pizza in earnest, then, considering the second half of the question. "Yeah. Some of it," he admits. "Good thing about the change is that you get to ride the high without worrying about any of the nasty side-effects. And like -- really, all I did was replace one weird-ass set of cravings and urges and quirks with another set of weird-ass cravings and urges and quirks." A one-shoulder shrug, like it's not even enough to register as a big deal. "And if you're asking if it's still my main source of income -- no. I don't need drugs or any of that to live. But if you're asking if I can still pick a lock if I need to get through a door, or lift a wallet if I need more info about some Prey, then -- yeah. Not gonna let that skillset go to waste." Turning it back around on John, he asks, "You?" A brief upnod to the other man. "You seem like a man with some particularly refined vices. Most rich guys are, in my experience. But I could be wrong." "This isn't enough of a vice," John asks, spreading his hands to indicate the center -- and flapping a slice of pizza around dangerously in the process. "Man, I... I mean, I think my big vice was confrontation, right? That was what drove me, as a kid. The big 'fuck you' to whoever, you know? And by 'whoever' I guess I mostly mean to my parents, right?" He grins, maybe a touch abashed. "They had expectations, and I was all middle-fingers for that. Join the Navy? Fuck you. Sign on with that firm? Fuck you, you know? Buy a Gold Coast condo and start golfing? Fuck you, too." He takes another bite, and shakes his head. "Now, I *feel* like I planted a flag, and the right ~Uratha~ will rally around it, and we'll make a difference here." He smiles that wry smile again, though, and admits, "But maybe self-delusion and big, impractical gestures are my vices, huh?" Colt raises an eyebrow, expression amused. "That's the worst you got?" he asks. "You have a problem with authority, a penchant for spending money, and you're still young enough --" In terms of the urges that drive them, anyway, " -- to have a craving for fatty, salty flatbread carbs?" Colt just shakes his head. "John. Dude. It's now my mission to be a terrible influence on you. We need to get you some better vices. Real ones." Still, he does take another look around the office. "You did a good thing here," he continues, quickly. "You built a place where people could rally. You sacrificed for it." A look back at John, meeting his eyes. "If anyone's earned having a real vice or two, I'd say it's you." "Maybe once we put the Goominator to bed, I'll take you up on that, huh? A night on the town; you, me, Nick, Raven, your guy from the other day..." John shrugs, nodding. "You met Nick and Raven? They're..." He looks aside, out the window, and laughs. "I'm never sure what the etiquette is, you know?" His eyes find Colt again, and he shrugs. "We're putting together a pack, the three of us. I don't know if you came to town with people I don't know if you're even looking. I *damned sure* don't want this to be a 'we like your vibe, and were wondering if we could buy you a drink' pitch -- I'll let you know, if it's ever that," he snorts, "But, just so you know where I'm at, where we're at." "Gloominator," Colt snorts, giving a good-natured roll of his eyes. "I guess it's fitting. WHen you're fighting something that looks like it was shat out of the bowels of hell, you gotta give it a cartoon villain nickname if you want to have any chance of not completely losing your shit around it. Good tactic." At the question of who runs with who, he simply offers, "We always used 'crew'. Crew sounds a lot better than 'Pack' when you're on a bluetooth in the subway, and gets the same message across. And it's pretty damn hard to make an argument that it's a breach of etiquette that way." Though he does smile at the mention of the other man. "Moon Moon?" A little shake of his head. "He's not my guy. He's a stray I found not too long ago. Kind of showed him the ropes. We've been running together for a minute, but it's not like that. We just have each other's backs." Still, the last comment gets an almost impish grin. "Johnnn," Colt drawls in that way that suggests he isn't at all serious. "You comin' on to me? I'm flattered." A few playful bats of his eyelashes before he dives back into the pizza. "Never where I work," John retorts, his banter every bit as playful. "My first case was a harassment settlement, which probably helped put me on the right path." With a nod at the business cards on his desk, he adds, "Before I settled into immigration law, I bounced around some." He's amused by 'Goominator' himself, though, and explains with a faint smile. "That name, Goominator, comes from Karmen. You might meet her, she helps out around here. She was there at Fireside, the first time I ran into it, and it was controlling some dead rats, sort of, I guess?" He shrugs. "Anyway, someone suggested 'puppet slime', and she froze up. Turns out puppets, marionettes, that kind of thing is super triggering for her." "Either way," he adds, "I was just trying to let you know that you and Moon Moon," he smirks, "Are welcome here. We all worked well together, so feel free to make yourself at home, yeah?" Colt looks at the business cards, picking one up and examining it with his non-greasy hand before sliding it away into his pocket. Given the story he just told, it seems likely John will get one of 'those' calls eventually. "Dude. Puppets are creepy," he agrees. "The whole Uncanny Valley thing. I've seen more than one musclebound macho lose their shit in a room full of faceless mannequins. It's like a scene from Silent Hill. No judgment to Karmen here. I'd veto that shit too." A small shudder from the werewolf. "Give me the Goominator any day." The more formal offer, though, gets a more serious reaction from him. He's quiet a second, just letting that sink in. "Thanks, man," he finally offers. "It's. Ah. It's nice to know that someone out there is willing to have our backs. And, you know. We've got yours, too." A solemn nod, there. "Next time something comes and fucks up your kitchen, give me a call. I'll send Moon Moon over. He's a whiz with all that maintenance and repair shit." A beat. "And, you know..." A look around. "I don't wanna, like -- make assumptions or whatever. But you ever get it in your head that you wanna sleep somewhere other than a nurse's station, we have a building. It's kind of a -shit- building, but we've got enough places that you could have your own space. If that's a thing you need." It's John's turn to be startled by an offer, and he takes a second, genuinely touched. "I appreciate that, Colt," he finally manages. "I might take you up on it, sometime. I still keep an apartment, but it's on the North side, and..." He shakes his head, eyes wide, "I keep weird hours, you know? Two jobs, plus a whole lifestyle that jumps in front of both of them, from time to time." "You let Moon-Moon know that if he's ever looking for work, most of this place is from 1965. There's no end of work that needs doing, here. And, I don't know, but sometimes it feels like it matters. Not the most important thing, maybe, but *an* important thing. I can introduce you to the gang, sometime. There are a few others that hang out here, not Uratha, but... Changelings, I guess? Is that a word you know? It was new on me. Fairies?" Colt wrinkles his brow. "That's a real thing?" A shake of his head. "No. I mean, you hear the rumors or whatever, but I don't think I've ever actually met one. Like -- little buzzy Tinkerbell sort of fairy?" A thought. "Dude. Is pixie dust a real thing? I mean, not like -- my -- you know what? Nevermind." He gives a little cough at that, just letting the topic and all of its connotations slide. He does give a nod about Nick and Raven though. "Don't think Moon Moon was too impressed with Nick," Colt muses. "But he's young. He's probably not impressed with anyone. Still thinks that his is the biggest dick in the room, and I haven't had the heart to give him the harder lessons about that. Storm Lords," he says, like that should explain it all. "Remarkably sensitive to that kind of thing." "Nick is..." John shrugs, finishing off the last of his slice of pizza, "Well, a Storm Lord, yeah," he agrees. "But he seems to have his shit together, and if it ever comes down to it? He'll be your biggest cheerleader, when you need him." "Fairies, though? No, they're... Not what I expected. I don't know. Some of them seem a lot like us, I guess. I know a handful, these days, and it's not anything I ever expected. Hell, some of them are probably as scary as some of us, push comes to shove. You'll see some at the Allthing. You're going?" Colt listens. Right up until the point where he clearly gives a little laugh, almost choking on the bite of pizza in the process. He was unprepared for this. It takes him a second to recover, holding a hand over his mouth for a second before he gives John a good natured *glare*. "Warn a guy before you go talking about *scary fairies* next time," he says, voice tight, tapping his chest with a fist. Still, that lasts long enough to start talking about Nick. "Oh, good. Two Storm Lord rock stars." A solid nod. "That'll go great. Maybe we just have them go piss in a corner they can call their own?" And then, a slower blink. "The fuck is an all-thing?" That would apparently be a 'no' for the moment. "They can use a corner of the mens' locker room -- it's closed for repairs, anyway," John laughs, shaking his head. "Have it all to themselves, and sort out who ought to be in charge, right?" "Shit, I forgot you were new to Chicago. The Allthing is how they keep the Accord going, I guess? It's a big meeting, every month. The Blue Moon is there, they're the pack that oversees the Protectorate. All three vampire Princes, or whatever, and representatives of the Faerie court. Last time I had to speak in front of everyone, and it was a fucking trip, Man. But it's not a bad place to be, you know? It... Might help recognize faces, when you run into them again." "Cahalith locker room fight?" Colt asks with a laugh. "That'd be something to see. Not sure that everyone would wanna *see* it..." Still, there's mischief in the Irraka's eyes, an inchoate plan already forming. It's short-lived, though. There are other important matters. He gives a curt nod. "Alright," he says. "So. Here's what I suggest. Why do you and I get out of here. Go grab a case of beer. We'll go back to my place, and you can fill me in on all the shit that I should probably know and don't, so that I don't look like a total fucking noob. We can bring the kid in too." The 'kid' is only a couple of years younger than Colt, naturally, and has been old enough to drink for a decade. "We'll call it bonding. Or something. Werewolf education night." | |