2019-08-06 - The Word Of The Bird
Carver pays off a debt to cheer himself up after his mild disaster back at the Bayside Margarita night.
IC Date: 2019-08-06
OOC Date: 2019-05-30
Location: The Veil/The City
Related Scenes: 2019-08-05 - Monday Night Margaritas
Plot: None
Scene Number: 1053
Such chaos, these streets! They're constantly shifting and rearranging themselves. Sometimes, it's clearly Elm Street with its rundown shadow-houses limning the road. Others, the silhouettes are homes on Oak and Spruce or businesses on Maple. The churning, morphing, changeable view is hard on the eyes and harder on the brain, no tangible purchase to be found. Dark, shadow-faces peek out of the lighted windows of the constantly changing houses, their unseen eyes felt more than seen, prying and questioning and wondering at who comes-and-goes in their neighborhood.
One certain route has coalesced into the side alleys of downtown, whitewash walls drifting back and forth like a pregnant pause.
<FS3> Carver rolls Athletics: Good Success (8 7 7 6 2 1)
Carver's footballs are heavy, his breath is short but controlled, and sweat runs in beaded rivulets down and along the features of his face. He's still in the same waistcoat he was wearing the night before, the tie tucked in to one of the pockets to flap slightly loose like a lolling tongue as he runs. His shoes slip slightly on the slightly unstable surface of the ground beneath as he makes a sharp right into the alleyway, and has to plant his shoulder against the opposite wall, bouncing off with a heavyset whump and surprised exhale of air in an effort to keep driving his momentum forward and not lose too much of the advantage he gained in the sprint to get here. He had to use his shoulder, of course. His left arm is occupied with a shiny silver toaster he's carrying under his armpit. The right hand? Well, that's the vodka bottle hand. That's busy too.
Trash cans and dumpsters litter the alley, even here. Some are avoided with little darts left and right. One has Carver slamming his back up against a wall with a shimmy and a grunt to squeeze through the gap between it and the wall, hands held aloft with his two prizes above him to free up enough space.
At the entrance to the alley comes a soft noise, slowly growing in intensity as Carver makes his way through the littered debris.
It's a gaggle of voices and footstomps, not quite finding unison no matter how hard they try.
> "Hup." "Hup." "Hup." "Hup." "Hup." "Hup." "Hup." "Hup." "Hup." "Hup."
> > "Hup." "Hup." "Hup." "Hup." "Hup." "Hup." "Hup." "Hup." "Hup." "Hup."
>
> "Hup." "Hup." "Hup." "Hup." "Hup." "Hup." "Hup." "Hup." "Hup." "Hup."
Just as he's sliding between wall and dumpster, the sources come into sight. Three men, mountains of muscle, broad shouldered and dressed in the finest police finery of the 1890's, with their keystone hats pulled so low they actually cover their eyes to sit halfway down the bridge of their noses, leaving only their mouth and jaw easily visible. They all have batons, they're all held aloft, and they're all used on the first dumpster they come across, forgoing simply moving around it for bringing heavy slams down on to the already dented metal.
Which crumples by matter of feet every time a strike lands home.
Carver's head glances their way when the forms Hup Hup their way into the alley, slipping free over the small gap between dumpster and wall at roughly the same time. Sure, his smile is one that seems slightly resigned, a little tired, but it's one that redoubles its efforts when his erstwhile pursuers seem to be making headway against an inanimate object. The toaster and the bottle are lowered once more, the latter of the two getting a hefty swig taken from it as it goes, those fingers grasping firmly around the neck before, during, and after he wipes his lips clear with the back of his knuckles.
And for a moment, Carver just watches. The goal occupying his mind pushed aside to watch a bunch of cops beat down on a dumpster. That is, until that dumpster is crumbled into a small remnant of what it used to be. There's only three or four of left between them, and a tiny bit of mostly-inebriated headmath puts the timing on his escape at 'Run, you prat.'
Which Carver does, spinning on his heel with a quickly laughed "Fuckin' hell!" and resuming his larcenous escape, throwing his head back with more than the standard level of glee, drawing in a deep breath to bellow as hard as he can.
"KNACKERS!"
<FS3> Carver rolls Veil Info: Great Success (8 7 7 7 6 5 4 2 2 1)
That dumpster didn't last long, did it? Where once stood a six foot wide trash receptacle, now lies a six foot wide flat-pack assembly version of a trash receptacle. The trio of HupHups stomp over it as they pass, starting to make short work of the next obstruction in their way. And the third. Fourth. It's almost as though with each hit they rain down, either they become stronger, or the dumpsters just give up on life. The fifth one was three days from retirement, Carver slipping around it being the most exciting experience it had had in years.
But it crumbles like the rest, HupHup boots stamping down on its twisted form as they start to make the clear beeline to....
Carver? Where the FUCK is Carver?
"Hup Hup?"
"Hup Hup Hup!"
"Huuuuuuuuuup."
Good question. Where the fuck is Carver? He's no longer in that Alley, the door behind him swinging shut to fit seamlessly with the wall outside, his feet swinging free in the air as he's held aloft by a heavily feathered hand around his neck, the edge of a palm putting all 168lbs of the man's weight on the underside of his jaw as he just dangles there.
He has to blink a few times to get his sight accustomed to the low level of light in here, the room and all the scattered contents of knick-knacks, electrical equipment, expired vending machine food and expired vending machines taking up most of the available floor space. And the wall space. Shelves line every one of the four, items in the middle of obvious repair jobs, items in the middle of obvious cannibalizing for parts jobs, items in the middle of- No, wait, that one's just a half-eaten sandwich.
The creature holding Carver aloft doesn't really need to try. A multitudinous covering of feathers and rags that easily clears seven feet in stature barely has to lift the arm to take his feet from the floor. Side-lit from the single hanging lightbulb, the crow-like features that can be seen under the hood of multiple rags and cloth tilt left. Tilt right. The beak, long and slightly curved to the tip, chitters and clacks for a moment. It takes a few steps back, bringing him along for the ride until there's enough light to really examine the human intruder it had to pull through a door for yelling his name incorrectly.
The head turns to the left, appraising him with one dark eye. The head turns to the right, appraising him with the other.
Clack. Chitter.
Carver's feet touch the floor once more, one of the bird's hands slipping back inside a bundling of rags as the clearly visible three-toed claw feet click on the hard cement below. The height difference meaning that even if it did not intend to, it looms. It looms by pure nature of being.
"ᴋᴀʀɪɴᴋᴀ." The feathered palm that lands on top of Carver's head has fingers that touch the base of his neck, looking at him from left to right during the entirety of speech. "ɴᴀᴍᴇ ᴡʀᴏɴɢ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴛɪᴍᴇ. ᴡʜʏ?"
Carver's eyes roll up to watch the hand that alights atop his head as he's given a question, smile creeping out at the relief of still possessing an unbroken neck. "Karinka." He corrects, reaching up to tentatively push a forearm against the wrist that hovers above him, plucking the hand from his head. He does this with the vodka-bottle holding hand, which means he can Indiana-Jones-Style replace the top of his skull with a new prize. That shiny silver toaster. "My first rarity to give you was a nickname, love. And now you have a toaster, too."
He beams. Swigs from the bottle. Wobbles a little. Beams more.
Karinka clacks her beak at the gift placed in her hand, holding it up to the lightbulb as her head continues tilting from side to side. They're jerky little motions, inquisitive little chirrups escaping as she sizes up the item that shines ever-bright in the glow of the single dim bulb.
There's some more chittering, one more clack of her beak, and then her head begins to bob, drawing back into her robes as an unintended little hop of both feet lifts her from the ground. Twice. The full-on squawk that escapes her is loud enough to almost deafen the human.
"ᴛᴏᴀꜱᴛᴇʀ! ꜱʜɪɴʏ. ᴘʀᴇᴛᴛʏ." The first word comes out with a little tone of unfamiliarity. The other two come out with a joy unmatched, as she grasps the prize with both hands now, the claws of her feet making pinpoint noises against the floor as she heads over to a shelf with a half hop, half walk bob that only ends when she's placed the toaster up on the highest shelf, turning it here and there until she's satisfied with how it catches the light.
She doesn't turn around fully to look at Carver, but her head twists to watch him with a singular eye. That narrows. "ᴡʜʏ?"
Carver's got a cigarette out by the time an eye settles back on him, having seemed pretty pleased with himself at Karinka's reaction to the gift. Maybe it's the first thing today that's gone right. Maybe he's far more at home here than in someone else's kitchen making small talk over margaritas. The little memory of that summons an instant wince. First Lilith had mentioned Ruiz. That means Byron had probably spoken to him as well. Sutton was just the icing on the cake. Carver hadn't really managed to stay out of secure institutions by making a regular habit of hanging around people who invited cops for dinner, after all.
But what did he expect? His first day in town he'd seen how close the departments were. You dropped the ball, buddy.
"Because I owe you." The words come on the heels of her question, lighting up and taking a drag that threatens to cave in his cheeks completely, speech accompanied by smoke, the Carver specialty. "I don't know what happened. Exactly. But I know you helped. I know you helped Mels." The smile as he shifts his feet and glances off to another shelf comes earnestly, but with a bit of a twitch that catches his mouth by surprise. "I know you threw me back into... that other place. The painted door? That was clever."
"ᴍᴇʟᴀɴᴄʜᴏʟʏ ᴘʀᴇᴛᴛʏ. ꜱʜɪɴʏ. ʟɪᴋᴇ ʏᴏᴜ." Karinka's rags and robes drag across the floor when she turns, stooping low in a way that brings her beak-to-face with the man, flapping the smoke away with a wave of her hand. Unsurprisingly, it's a very efficient move, what with the feathers. The head tilts once more so she can focus, beak clacking a little as she considers something.
It's a very slow tilt, rolling from one shoulder to the other, the motion followed only by a short little huff of breath from her nostrils.
And then she straightens once more to her full height, the sounds of feathers and rags and intent almost overwhelming. For something with hollow bones, she's got a lot of mass. She snatches the bottle from his hand without hesitation, not even giving him the chance of resisting. Overall, very little of her intentions give him a chance to resist. She's very tall and can bite his head off. That's a fantastic negotiating position. "ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ." Shiny bottle is hers now, Carver. wanna argue about it?
"Melancholy can be, yeah, but not when you're the one stuck in it, I guess." Carver pulls the cigarette from his mouth when a feathered hand flaps, seeming to remember his manners only a touch too late. His mouth is open to thank her once more when she straightens, which... Well, Carver's used to it, but it still has him leaning back in a mixture of disquiet uncomfortable. When she stoops, it's ever-so-easy to forget quite how tall she stretches. That's the opening to take his bottle, and it's easily slipped from his fingers.
The change is instant, The cigarette is thrown into the corner of his mouth, clamped down upon with teeth that clench as he dares take a few steps forward. "Hey! That's mine! You can't just ta-MRPH."
Carver's speech is interrupted by a giant feathered hand that covers his face, knocking the cigarette to the floor, fingers pressing down atop his head and around his jaw at the same time. And there's he's held. There's no crushing pressure, but those bones are locked, Karinka's feathers ruffling as she outstretches her other arm to place the bottle on a shelf. The clack of her beak is almost rhythmic as she takes all the time in the world to get it positioned, spinning and rotating it until... yes. The light pattern on the wall that passes through it? Perfect.
"ꜱʜɪɴʏ ᴍᴇᴀɴ ʜᴀᴘᴘʏ." That's either a definition or a life philosophy right there, her hand releasing his face to let him gain some semblance of control back. When his vision's cleared, the side of her head is inches from his, watching him closely through an eye the size of his fist, her feathered arm pointing towards the bottle. "ꜱʜɪɴʏ ꜰᴏʀ ᴍᴇ. ᴅᴜʟʟ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ."
And the ear-bleeding squawk comes as a warning to soften the blow of advice.
It would be like Carver to get advice from something that verges on eight feet tall, is a damn bird, and probably isn't entirely sure how humans work.
"ꜰɪɴᴅ ʙᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ ꜱʜɪɴʏ."
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