A Siren Call
Roleplaying Log: A Siren Call
Participants
IC Details
Synopsis:

Jennifer Hayden hears a siren call and bumps into Priscilla Kitaen.

Other Characters Referenced:
IC Date: January 01, 2019
IC Location:
OOC Notes & Details
Posted On: 10 Mar 2019 22:35
Rating & Warnings: R for language
NPC & GM Credits:
Associated Plots

* OOC Time: Wed Mar 06 22:55:28 2019 *

* * *

It's 4:30 on a Wednesday morning in Suicide Slums, the seedy part of Metropolis that the S-chested crowd ignores because it offends their sensibilities or whatever. Salvation doesn't come if you're judged impure, apparently. Jennifer's walking down the street alone, because she's a tough, bristly little nut who doesn't crack under pressure, most nights. Tonight she's not feeling so great. It hit her out of the blue, a wave of barely articulable discontented loneliness that makes her scan around looking for some kind of human contact, stealing glances across the street again and again at the Whisper Lounge, a building whose pink neon tubing promises the best live girls in the world.

Jennifer actually stops on the sidewalk looking at the club, part of her wondering what the hell she's doing and part of her counting the money in her sock, both trains of thought distant and phantomous like in a dream compared to the immediacy of the simple unhappy need for companionship. It's that impulse that drives her across the deserted street before willpower reasserts itself like a splash of cold water to the face: 'what am I doing?' The bouncer is already looking at her like she might be a crazy person, so, to save face, she walks like that's what she meant to be doing, detouring through the alley behind the club. She can cut across a block or two over where Muscles McJudgyface can't see her. Get in her steps for the day.

The feeling of longing doesn't so much return in the parking lot behind the club as it intensifies. There, under a lonely streetlight, is a woman straddling a small Japanese motorcycle of some kind, helmet slung over one handlebar as she zips up the creaking leather of her jacket. Her chaps are purple and gold and shiny; her long hair is free under a lavender do-rag. She glances over Jennifer's direction when she spots the young woman, and her dark lips pull back in a wry smirk. "Watch out, kid," she warns from her place fifteen feet away, albeit friendly enough. "Hang out too long, people will think you're trying to stalk the talent."

* * *

Jen comes up short, blinking at Priscilla. Well— short-er. She's dressed like someone who's used to having a sock fund. Oversized double-breasted peacoat, suitable for all weather. Baggy jeans, heavily washed and used. Chucks with a little tape holding them together in places. Her hair's largely a tangled mess of mossy curls, though a close inspection would reveal clean and smooth skin and no dirt under her nails.

She hugs her stomach defensively, pointedly averting her eyes to look around the alley nonchalantly. But a bristling irritation tugs at her neck when the word 'kid' is thrown around.

"Hey look, it's Elizabeth Berkley's mom," Jade rebuts with a wry whipcrack of wit. She eyes the bike with the envy of someone stuck with public transportation. Green eyes return to Priscilla and she uplifts her chin in a valiant effort to maintain some semblance of the upper hand. "Hang out in alleys, people are gonna think you're selling or dealing, y'know. " She starts towards the back door of the club.

* * *

"I wouldn't, if I was you," the woman on the bike calls, one elbow resting casually on the handlebars, like she's ready to sit here all night and chat. Her accent makes her sound like she should be calling Jade (and everyone else in the world) 'sugar,' spelled with an H instead of an R at the end. Her tone is still friendly enough, as if she didn't catch the insult, which maybe she didn't. She looks about twenty years too young to know who Elizabeth Berkley is.

"The Whisper Club's nice if you're a boy, not so nice if you're a girl. You want a club that's nice for queer girls, I can recommend a few, though you won't get to 'em before they close. Unless you want to hop on and I can give you a ride, sugah."

Definitely has the accent for it.

* * *

Jen's hand is stayed on the doorknob, then she drops it and regards Pris with wary curiousity. "Yeah, well, I do a lot of shit that other people *wouldn't*," Jade tells Priscilla. For some reason her strong motivation to go inside has abruptly evaporated. Priscilla's easy confidence seems to prickle Jade's desire for banter and her snarky wit all at once.

"I don't know that I want to go in *at all*. I'm bored and cold and it seemed like better than getting mugged for my subway card," she tells Priscilla. Fingers brush her tumbling curls away from her face. "This looks like the kind of place where the dancers have bullet wounds," she adds, dismissively. Just to prove it, she steps away from the door a meandering few paces. "Why'd you assume I'm gay?" she asks, temper making her voice cold. "You don't know me. Just 'cause I'm a mutant doesn't mean I'm automatically every other minority out there, you know."

* * *

"Cause I ain't known so many straight girls wanna go inside a strip club," biker girl says comfortably. "Not less they with they boyfriend, tryina buy him a birthday present. Anyway, this how you always act when someone try to warn you bout a bad time, or somethin particular bout me piss you off? You wanna go in and look at all those girls you mad at cause they ain't pretty enough, then go in and look."

* * *

Jen's mouth twitches in an abortive attempt at a smile. "Well. Fuck, okay, you got me there," she concedes, her tone begrudging. "Something about everyone *always* pisses me off. Weirdo hotties with a leather fetish handing out unsolicited advice behind a strip club is just weird icing on a very shitty cake."

She drifts closer to Pris, almost unconsciously. Eyes flicker to the bike again. "Nice bike," she ventures. She clearly has no idea if it's nice or trash. "So what's your deal anyway? You just hanging out back here hoping some other green-skinned les chick is wandering into the wrong bar? Or am I just lucky you've got good timding?"

* * *

"I'm here because my shift's over. Can't say as I was waitin for any color of chick to come along, or a lesbian, not that every woman ain't a little gay for me anyway," biker chick says matter of factly. Her tone turns to curiosity so deadpan it surely must be sarcastic when she asks, "Why? You feel lucky?"

* * *

Jen gives Pris a look that's mildly affronted, mostly because it's expected that she'd be mildly affronted. "Lucky? Picking up a biker chick in the dirty alley behind a strip club?" Brows sketch a line of skepticism over her emerald eyes. "Correction, a *stripper* who… rides a bike," she amends. "Lucky would be getting hit by a Cadillac on 45th and then finding out a newly single Amber Heard had knocked me down and wanted to take me out to dinner."

She gestures at the club behind her with a shoulder, hands still nestled in her pockets. "So what, you work there even if it's a dive, and then you use your off-shift time to… warm off customers?"

* * *

The biker laughs, sounding like she's actually amused. "Pickin me up? Really? You get mad at me when I try to help you out, you insult my coworkers, you insult my job, you neg on me for not bein Amber Heard, you don't so much as ask my name, and that's pickin me up? Kid, you got a funny damn waya showin you like someone."

* * *

Jade's skin turns a darker shade of emerald at Priscilla's brassy laugh and intimidating social presence. The allegations don't help, either, and the span of years between them gives Priscilla an edge over Jade's feisty defensiveness and acid wit.

"Hey I neg on *eveyone* for not being Amber Heard," she says, trying to match Priscilla's lazily confident tone. "I'm an equal opportunity offender."

Still, she dithers for a moment, trying to suss out if she's actually offended Priscilla. "I'm Jen," she tells Pris.

* * *

"They call me Voodoo," Voodoo (apparently) responds, still comfortably. None of this has seemed to knock her off her stride, and she's still straddling her bike like she could take off at any moment or stay there all night. "Gonna have to work on your game if you want more than that, but I'll give you one free tip: admittin you're mean to everyone ain't the turn-on you think." Her right cheek lifts in something like a speculative smirk. "Might be I know someone who could help teach you how to behave, but I dunno you could meet her dress code."

* * *

"Pass." Jen's nose wrinkles and she shakes her head. Her path detours a few paces away from Pris' position, unconsciously keeping the woman at the center of an invisible circle she is walking. "I don't need no lecture on 'behaving'," she tells Pris. "Rules and manners are ways for rich assholes to be shitty to your face. Clothes, too. My shit's warm and it was cheap. Spending fifty bucks on a Gucci t-shirt that some kid in India made for a dollar a day? No thanks."

* * *

Voodoo laughs again. "T-shirt, right," she agrees ironically, lounging astride the bike while Jennifer circles her. She makes no effort to follow the green woman with her gaze. She's used to being circled around, checked out from every angle, and she's fine with being silent while it happens. When Jennifer circles back around to the front, Voodoo's waiting with an amused smirk and a raised eyebrow. "So? Like what you saw?"

* * *

Jade's shoulders twitch in different directions, an overexaggerated attempt at indifference. "Not bad," she concedes. "Cute outfit anyway. Is that your stage costume? Or do you rock the custom leather just to flex on the other bikers out there?" she inquires. Her path ends up with her a half-step closer to Priscilla, and the height difference becomes more apparent. Even with Pris straddling her bike, Jade is *tiny*. Bare inches over five feet and she looks like she might weigh a hundred and ten pounds with rocks in her pockets.

* * *

"The world ain't ready for me in my costume," Voodoo says, another one of her statements that reads like a brag but sounds like she's stating a not especially interesting fact before turning wry as she adds, "Nice try fishin for me to offer to show you, though."

* * *

Jade narrows her eyes minutely at Priscilla. It's hard to say if she's angry or amused. Probably both. "Cagey way of trying to get me to fork over bucks for a private show," she counters, saucily. "I'm still trying to get a read on your angle here. You work here but it sucks. You don't want to be here but you're just… hanging on your bike. I'm a bitch for negging you but you wanna hook me up with the strippers at some other, better club?" Brows dance at Priscilla. "If I'm a freak for hanging out in dark alleys with strangers, you're right there with me."

* * *

"Don't remember callin you a freak," Voodoo observes calmly as she slings one leg over her bike to no longer straddle it, to slink over toward Jennifer. Her boot heels are wide and very loud in the deserted parking lot.

* * *

Jen's a flightly little thing. She skitters backwards rather quickly when Voodoo swings off the bike seat, her ratty Chucks scraping asphalt in a cheap echo of the sharp click that Priscilla's heels make on the weathered old surface. "Woah, hey, okay, I didn't mean it," she mumbles. Her reaction has shifted from amused intrigue to sudden, panicky anxiety. A hand emerges from her pocket and lifts with fingers splayed in a universal sign of 'stop'. "Don't get mad, okay? I'm just messing with you, this is… haha, this is all fun, right?"

* * *

"Calm down, kid," Voodoo advises as she continues her rolling, tidal walk toward Jennifer. "You wanna know my angle, right?" She closes the distance slowly, inexorably, and reaches up to cup Jennifer's chin in her hand, ball of her thumb moving slightly against the green skin as if testing its feel even through the kid leather of her gloves. Her gaze is unblinking on Jen's eyes. Her mouth is twisted slightly in a wry, teasing moue. "What do you think my angle is?"

* * *

Jen's mouth moves a few times, but words don't come out. Priscilla's presence is a force of nature, like gravity. She doesn't react at first, gaping at Priscilla.

Then abruptly a white-hot rod of angry fear stiffens her backbone and she pushes Priscilla's hand away. "D-don't touch me," she stammers, and backpedals out of reach. Fear, painful memories, self-loathing all hit Priscilla's senses like a nauseating tidal wave. That alone might be relatively insignificant— but then there's a flash of a wholly alien intelligence responding to Jen's blurted admonition. Green energy flickers in her emerald eyes as some terrific *force* takes up a looming guard that she seems totally unaware of, as if summoned by hear panicked fear.

* * *

Voodoo's eyebrows lift in muffled surprise. This close, Jen can not only smell the baby powder under Voodoo's leather, she can also see the reflection of green light flashing across Voodoo's cheeks and lips, turning the mocha a sickly, bilious color. She lets go of Jennifer's chin easily enough, though. She can understand looking without touching. "Alright, kid," she says mildly as she turns her back on Jennifer, sauntering back to her bike. She seems totally unworried about anything Jen might do. "I'd say see you round, but." She straddles her bike, straps on her helmet, and switches it on. Mostly electric, it avoids the obnoxious revving a lot of American bikes make, and then she's off into the night.

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