Time Crisis 3

Penny stumbles into the arcade over cans of red bull. They put the garbage cans by the door in places like this; garbage cans, zines, local pennysavers and japanese candies. It doesn't fly off the shelves, the candy, but it's colorful and definitely something to look at. It attracts attention, sterile and neat; super-plastic. So Penny pauses, eyeing the lime green wrappers and the bright red kanji. She kicks another crushed can of red bull from underfoot and throws down some change on the only counter in the place, picks up something brown. Could be chocolate, offers some to Daisy. "So when is it?"

Kaching! Ching-ching-ching-ching-ching! Flashing lights and noisy
coin-drops are the hallmark of a winner in this place, and lo it seems
Mark has struck gold. Or silver, at least, earning himself a payout
comprising mostly of dimes and quarters. It's probably only a couple bucks worth. Better than losing it /all/ straight away, right? He seems
embaressed by the noise and fuss his particular machine makes, pulling
away from it as soon as he's done scooping up his ill-gotten loot. How is that people like Hiro always seem to be loitering in arcades? Strung out, collar up, shoulders forward, head down. He's gnawing on a thumbnail, feet fixed on the ground a foot (maybe two - well inside her personal bubble) from Daisy, lackluster eyes fixed on the lurid luminescence of a flickering street-fighting game.

Daisy Inscrutable. Veteran job-hunter.

Having been fired from a job as a nurse's assistant, a supervisory position at McDonalds, a non-supervisory position at Hardees, a telemarketing job in Newark, as well as having been kicked out of half a dozen homeless shelters, Daisy has considerable experience at applying for things, from which she's clearly learned nothing at all.

Holding a dirt-smudged set of application papers and a dot-matrix resume, she's standing by the counter, attempting to apply. The oily teen behind the counter with the 2nd Edition Dungeon Masters' Guide doesn't seem to be interested in taking the application.
Daisy, over her shoulder, shouts, "It's, like, on the cusp. Which means it should work like it worked before. You got a magick marker?"
Somehow, you can hear the 'k'.

Daisy senses "Penny sticks the candy in her back pocket, sweeps the change back off the counter. "Course I do." Easy, fast. But not even the noise gets 'The Manager's attention. "Seriously - early or late century 'cause I think she really fucked with us this time. When was the last time you saw actual MONEY coming out of a game? Nine-teen-eighty, that's when." She looks left then right, nudges Hiro "Even if he can't hear us or see us," indicating the kid behind the counter "..maybe that kid can," indicating Mark.

Penny brings Daisy with her, half hooked by the elbow.

"Hey," they all kind of hover."

He can't hear nuffin'. Mark is far too busy trying to look innocuous to be
listening to talk about magick markers and the 80s, stuffing change into
his pocket and trying to find a safer game that doesn't spit coins at him. That's just embaressing. He settles on Time Crisis 3, picking up one of the two pistols out of habit and racking up a line of quarters to keep him 'alive'.

Hiro is picking his teeth with the edge of a prepaid calling card. There's no other explanation or description that befits the behavior -- the corner of the cheap plastic rectangle wedged between two of his front teeth. He's still staring at that arcade game - Tekken, or Mortal Kombat 387, or whatever the fuck it is. "Erin's Vale," he mumbles, quietly. "Crash and I were out last night." He inspects the calling card with the wordless intensity of a artist examining his work. Some kind of yellow caked material - he hasn't flossed recently. "No subway system. We lost six."
Having not quite noticed Hiro out of the corner of her eye -- but
expecting him to be in a place like this -- Daisy turns back toward Mark.

"Hi," she says, hand shooting out. "'m Daisy Inscrutable. You got, like, a pen or something, 'cause I gotta sign something real quicklike."
Already, Penny's tagging the side of the machine Mark's playing on. Whatever she's writing, clearly she's involved otherwise Daisy would've asked to borrow her marker, right?

Right?

Squeak-squeak. Idgy-idgy-squeak. Circle circle. Dot dot. "I'm gonna try
something. Remember that thing with the stop-signs? Daze?" Penny peeks around the corner of the side of the machine "Daze, if I'm not back in an hour, get Jesse."

It's a pretty drastic thing to say, if you know Jesse. Even if you don't,
it's still a pretty drastic thing to say. She waits for a nod, any kind of
affirmation.
He barely glances aside, busy picking off the "bad guys" who plague Time Crisis 3. Mark fumbles a hand into his duster coat pockets, fishing out a bright green felt-tipped pen and offering sidelong to Daisy. "Nice t'meet you," he murmurs halfheartedly, still working on killing off the enemy. Blammo, and all that.

Daisy sidles around to obstruct the geek's view of Penny. The latter being considerably taller than the former, this requires advanced sidling
technique. Still, she manages to block out most of Penny's scribble-hand.

"Right. Call Jesse. Will do. He still got that tarot number?", she asks.

"Yeah." (says Penny)

And then she runs out.

Welcome to... where are we again?

The dirty air and stench particular to bad hoods are the same all around the world. Certain cities spice their poverty with a missmash of borrowed or imported culture. Not this one. It's purely American trash-lash. So it's not suprising to find two genuine pieces of American trash patroling the lands of their ilk. Here come Cash and Hiro. Cash a few paces behind, wrinkleing his nose at the dwindling contents of his bottle in a bag.

"Fuck man. 'm low... You got... you a couple bucks?" Cash asks the pig boy and stumbles to catch up.

Dale, on the other hand, walks along at a good clip, eyeing the streetsigns carefully at every intersection. She looks about as out of place here as does the Audi -- no doubt stolen -- parked in front of the army surplus store halfway up the block.

Hiro runs a grimy knuckle across his soup strainer, giving a single, sharp sniff. It is not, per se, that the half-asian mutt -- nothing is more ameritrash than racial mish-mashes such as he -- is dirty. It is merely his hands. Dirty, grimy... these words are mere abstractions. His hands are the pinnacle of filth. He looks like he's been giving prostate exams to the local homeless population. "...it's just, that. It's not enough. You know?" He looks back, eyes gleaming. "We don't have enough energy, enough vis, enough spunk. Things need to be done. You know? We're walking all over the place, and we're just not GETTING anywhere. Do you understand me? Do you dig?" He gets that out fast. Not fast enough, perhaps.

"I dig… I dig that I still dunno where the fuck I am. Thas' what I dig, man.... 'n, 'm a half quart empty." Leaning back in his swaggering gate, he downs the last of the harsh liquid. Crash. Glass shatters as Cash tosses the bottle into the open maw of a metal trash bin when he passes the mouth of an alley. "I was tellin' P, we outta get some peanuts 'r airplane food for her, ya know. Make these random stops more bearable. Every time she drops us off... I'm jus'.. I really want fried chicken." Eyes that have seldom seen sobriety, drift in Dale's direction. "Mebbe she knows..."

"Hey. Ya. You. Cin I ask ya... what city's this?" Cash asks of the flannel girl upon their approach.

On a slightly closer inspection, the yuppie-ish chick doesn't look quite up to snuff for casual day at the office, either. The edges of her boots are caked with cracking mud, her pockets are bulging with who-knows-what, and a few winglike maple seeds are caught up in her hair. She starts, abruptly, when addressed, and one hand goes to the hair over her right ear, dislodging a couple of the seeds. "Uhm. Erin's Vale, it's called, unless they have different names for the 'burbs in this town." She lets out a weak chuckle, the sort which typically displays nervousness rather than humour. "I'm kinda not from around here." She's probably not lying, given that her accent's so acrid as to make vinegar jealous.
Hiro shifts his attention towards Dale. Squinting, suspicious eyes. Black coal piggy eyes. Fingertips curl, rubbing together at his sides. And that -- not Dale's response -- is what solicits his -- "Dear venerable judge whopner. Someone has covered my hands in filth," this screamed in a 'sweet holy jesus look at the bats' kinda tone. "Observe my digits. This is disgusting. Who the fuck in responsible for this shit?"

Piggy eyes dart. Dale. Cash. Back

The screams startles Cash's lazy eyes and he woozily turns back to lock his focus on the screaming Asian. His tone is even and pleading. "Holy mackerel.... man. Ya know. No one's responsible for like... yer own dirt karma.... man. Thas'... thas' all you. Thas the dirt /within/ you." To emphasize it's location, Cash pokes a dirty finger of his own back at the open swine mits. With a 'so there' type swipe, the denim wonder points and shuffles back.

Dale flinches as Hiro begins screaming, as if the grating volley of sound is something she can physically duck away from. She edges away up the street, keeping to the edge of the sidewalk that's closest to the buildings, the wary hint of a crouch insinuated into her posture. Still, she doesn't sneer or stalk away in your typical not-in-my-backyard huff; something keeps her hanging back a bit, just keeping an eye out, watching.

"You're a lying fucking swine," hisses Hiro. Dale's departure doesn't cause him to so much as bat an eye. The screaming has stopped, at least -- leaving him with a quiet, manic intensity. Like he's breathing through his eyes. "Someone has done this," he replies, quietly. "And when I find out who, I'm going to eat their fucking liver." Pause. "Not that I'd really. Uh. Eat someone's liver. Just like joshin you around, man. You need money?" His voice takes a dangerous turn for the high-decibel again. "TAKE the fucking money." And just like that, a crumpled wad dredged up from a pocket, all pennies and dimes and dollar bills. Hurled at the sidewalk.

"Easy... EASY... man. Thas' almost six dollars." Concern follows the falling bills that threaten to run off on their own. Cash does need the money, and he stoops low to get his prize. So low. But by fuck, he's got it. And he's smiling. Fun with booze, more of it.

"See? Now we cin.. ya know. Go drink. And you cin stop with yer... sss'''bullshit." Cash walks past the raging mess that's Hiro, grinning a bit and running his fingers over the discarded green. "Erin's Vale. Wha' kinda shit is this place..."

Sure, it's probably a rhetorical question, but Dale volunteers an answer anyway. "Just your average small town going corporate." Whatever else she was about to say gets cut off in a garbled noise that might very well be "Fuck!" as fat raindrops splatter onto the sidewalk, the cars, and her. She fumbles with the zipper of her rain jacket and yanks the hood over her head, shadowing the top third of her face.

Hiro holds his hands out, so the drizzling rain might cleanse the filth from them. He power-walks behind Cash: a slum Jesus in nutjob clothes, offering his revolting boon to the heavens. "Who the fuck is Erin Vale?" he demands of the dime-bag cowboy, as whatever is coating his hands begins to liquify in the rain. This does not make the spectacle more attractive; his fingertips now drift with a material the consistency and colour of something you find under your elderly aunt's sink.

"Aeahhhgg." If you listen closely, that's the sound of god shitting on a homeless man's parade. The heavens open to drop a deuce on Cash's head, in acid rain form. "I dunno man. Mebbe... ya know, she was like an explorer. Who... explored... this place." The side swaggering is curtailed to the side of the buildings to offer some shelter from the downpour.

"Is there a... a liquor store or.. bar 'round here?" It's often really hard to escape from drunk ramblings in the middle of the day, somehow the offending drunkard always seems to corner you for a few questions past smelly. Yes, Dale's downwind. She can smell the old whiskey slightly muddied by the weather clinging to Cash.

Now that beak Dale calls a nose does wrinkle up, in response to both the piss-reek of whiskey coming off Cash and the stench, whether real or imagined, of whatever foulness is rinsing off Hiro's hands and re-exposing itself to the world. Shifting from one foot to another as the mud on her boots re-liquefies, she peers out from under the awning of her hood, casting about for something that might fit the bill. "Got me," she answers at last, then cinches the hood tighter, presenting an effect oddly reminiscent of a bright green snowman.

Hiro flicks his hands at the ground, limply, dislodging several small chunks of particulate matter. He looks off to the side, squinting through the fractal distortion of raindrops spattering his spectacles. "Back this way, wandering jew." The power-walk diverts. Reorients. A goal is now in sight, infusing Hiro with purpose and clarity of direction.

"Later, sheyner ponim..." Cash's off balance smile slurs that out at Dale as she tightens up her face hole. His course wanders, indeed, wherever the tides take him. Today, they lead through drizzling streets towards an unknown destination. Backing Hiro, the denim kid follows the loud pig towards Nirvana.

And we're back.. (to the future?)

You turn up the side street, as the businesses gather together; just past a dry cleaning store and just before a four-story apartment building, the courtyard opens up and you step in.

Tourist District - Courtyard of Shrines

This small courtyard is perhaps twenty feet by thirty feet, open to the street on one side and blocked by buildings on the other three. A dry cleaner is on the first floor of one building, but its upper stories and the other two buildings appear to be residential. The one that forms the back of the courtyard even has small balconies on the upper two stories, and first-floor windows peering right into the courtyard. Near the street are two stone benches, freestanding, and a discreet stone-exterior trash can.
The courtyard itself is mostly paved in cobblestone-style, the stones a diverse lot of shapes, but set well and pleasing enough to look at. Between the paths and the wide central areas are a few flower beds with flowers or even small bushes, and set against the walls along the courtyard are a variety of shrines, all constructed to survive the weather since they will be exposed to it. Here is a stone Buddha statue, and there a figure of Kwan Yin; each shrine occupies a small area, leaving space for the diversity of its neighbors, though they are spaced so that it is possible to face any one without facing its neighbors, at least if you are close.

Contents:
Cash
Rai
Obvious exits:
Out

Rai sits cross-legged in front of a statue of the Indian God Hanuman, and nearby Cash leans against a statue of Buddha. The boy gives the older man a disappointed look, though gets distracted by the sparklers in the statue's stomach going out. "Perhaps placing them in the rain was not wise," he opines quietly.

"Well... shit. Yeah, thanks for that. Nobody likes.. a smart asss... fuckin'... smart ass." Take that Asian youth, Cash stands open arrived before the fat man's statue looking into the rain with scrunched features.

To his left, the sogging remains of what once was an offering straight from T.J. "Nobody makes sparklers like Mexicans. They use dog shit ya know."

Under the hood of a large, dark golf umbrella are a pair of long, skinny legs swishing open the sash of a wrapped raincoat. Moving fast through the courtyard, she's sure-footed - clearly a she - the umbrella hefted by the wind. This way. That way. Can see her face. She touches the bronze of a statue, an absent gesture of balance coming up slow behind Cash. He'll notice the shade and she'll say "De nada" quietly then if it's possible to take that down a notch "Supposed to make ourselves scarce til Piggy gets the gr-" Penny looks at the boy "dogs settled in."

Rai blinks slowly at Cash, and doesn't look like he's quite sure how to respond to that. An uncertain, "Oh," is the eventual reply. "Does that burn well?" He looks about to add something else, but promptly goes quiet as Penny comes into his field of vision, looking at her curiously.

This young Chinese boy stands at four foot two, a little under average for his age, and whipcord thin. A strong breeze probably wouldn't blow him over though, there's sinewy muscle there, but it's a highly athletic figure with no excess muscle or fat on him at all. Even as the slimmer average builds of Asians tend to be, this boy is exceptionally lean, lending him an almost starved look. His features are typical of his race, hair so dark a brown it may as well be called black and slanted brown eyes in a flat face. Though not much of a looker, he really does exude a hefty amount of 'cute' in that way kids often do, despite - or perhaps because of - his usually quiet, withdrawn manner.

His clothing shows that he likely comes from a poor household. Baggy, worn black cargo pants that look like they belong on a kid a year or two older than him, dirty old black sneakers and a dark gray zip-up hoodie that's also starting to look worn. He's usually got that layer of general dirt and grime on him that children accumulate, as well as frequently sporting the various bumps, bruises and scrapes of an active kid. When he talks, though his pronunciation is clear, he has a heavy Hong Kong accent that marks him as foreign-born.

"Where are we... again?" The question for miss come lately. Cash shakes his head, nose squinting to match his eyes. "I dunno where the hell we got off." He wields no protection from the rains, his hair smelling like a wet sofa as it soaks in. The answer's not waited upon; Cash gestures back towards Rai with his nightly liquor thermos. "Thasss... Wha' was yer name again? Said it's bedder I dunno."
Penny tilts the umbrella into the rain, the noise and bounce echoing in a way that makes Cash a little bit hard to hear. Or did she do that on purpose? She spins it again, repositioning herself to Cash's right, "You know," a look on her face - ponderous "I have no idea. Eva just gets these," picking fallen leaves off her coat, irritated - taking the weather personally "ideas. She get's these great big ideas and runs with them and never tells us anything. She's probably still pissed off at us. Did you see any signs?"

Rai offers Cash a small, almost patronizing smile at the question, but apparently takes Penny's replying to the man as an excuse not to actually respond himself. He reaches up long enough to slick his wet hair back out of his face, but otherwise continues to watch the two of you quietly and as unobtrusively as one can when sitting, well, right there.

"Well, wha' whas' the... thee, uhhh." Cash's thoughts get lost in the rain for some time, though he's sure to cover the neck of his bottle to guard against contaminant. "Fuggit." He waves it off and lifts his haggard form the wet fat man. "I dunno. I don' care. But... I kinda want some chicken. This rain sucks azz...anywayzz." Back into the pouring weather, he peers up a single eye.

The road weary marks of foot traffic have left their stains on this man. An aura of abandonment radiates in a ten foot circle around Cash. It is perhaps the strongest sensational quality about him. His unkempt hair and attire enforce this visage. The man himself stands no more than five foot seven, and that's generous. But a wide little bugger he proves to be. Shoulders set squarely apart from one another. And arms decently adorned with a squat brutish quality. Though his modest beer gut says this isn't a formed build. It's probably genetic. Cash's eyes are usually obscured by wavy dark locks; he's been growing that mop for at least a year or so. In no particular style, really. One day he just stopped going to Super Cuts and it grew with an alien will all its own. Muddy brown eyes peek out occasionally from below the curtain of hair that falls barely below them. This man's a Caucasian, that's obvious. Probably in his late twenties. He's got a large nose to, most probably Jewish or Italian in origin. There's bowed lips below that and a cleft chin. Cash is sporting a good three or four days worth of facial hair, with badly groomed 'burns reaching down ether side of his jaw line sharply.

His clothes are a tad low end. It's typically referred to as a 'Puerto-Rican' suit. Really though, it's just a lot of denim. Faded blue jeans frayed at the cuffs, and a spiked rocker belt with a metal buckle. It's inscribed with flowing letters that read 'Grandpa'. He walks on Chuck Tailors, a pair that've seen better days. They were probably 'white' at some point. Though now they're more of a dingy off-white, showing off black socks through the holes in their heels. To complete the suit he wears a denim jacket. Beneath it, there's a white T-shirt with a picture of Alice Cooper's face. A small golden Star of David about in his neck dangles from a modestly thin necklace. The last notable detail pertaining to Cash, a smell associated with whiskey if you happen to be downwind.

Penny mutters to Cash, "... so... saw... place?... artery-hardening slop... in... then as an aside, lower... we in Michigan?... I... I knew.." she links arms with Cash - her's across his back and vice versa - "..used to know... guy... Nods.... a... you... there's... seven... jails... like... go... Says something,... it." Penny looks over her shoulder at Rai... friend?""
You whisper ""Wait so you saw a chicken place? I seriously doubt it's that artery-hardening slop you found back in Michigan," then as an aside, lower "..are we in Michigan? Fuck I wish I knew.." she links arms with Cash - her's across his back and vice versa - "..used to know this guy Frankee Nods. Heard he did a stretch and a half up around there. Did you know there's eighty seven county jails in Michigan? It's like they expect half the population to go bad. Says something, doesn't it." Penny looks over her shoulder at Rai "Who's yer friend?"" to Cash.

Rai shifts his feet under him, standing up and giving himself a small shake to lose the excess water. Rather ambitious, since more just falls on him again. The two of you are presented with a small bob that's a bit much for a nod, but not quite enough to be a bow, and then he turns and takes off quickly towards the street without another look back.

"Yeah." Cash nods, ducking for a slight reprieve from the rain. "No." Then immediately he denies it. "I dunno who tha' kid is." The bottle that's helping him make a mess of himself, is nudged into Penny's chest for her benefit. She could use some dirt. "Weird though. Lil'... weird lil' freaky monkey boy." The pitch of his voice is raised so he may shout a departing word over the downfall. "Later... man...."

Cash waves.

Penny finally catches on, trades Cash the umbrella for the bottle "Fuck me, what day is it? Tuesday already?" Penny swigs and immediately gets confused "When is it? I need a watch or something. Something Eva won't like enough to steal. I always thought those cushions had no seams, but there's a lot of loose change," sloshing through puddles, she waves to Rai too.

"A lot of loose change."

There's no response from Rai, he doesn't even look back, and is soon out of view as he leaves the courtyard and hangs a sharp left.
Rai leaves the courtyard, heading back down the street and out of sight.
Rai has left.

"Drink tha' 'n less get outta here. I don't wanna get all dunked by Bhudda. I'm all... farblondzhet." The exchange is forced again, Cash takes the whiskey bottle back for a damp jacket and starts down the path.

Each collar propped like the Fonz, he'll cool it all the way down to the little people. "I cou' /really/ use some chicken though. We gotta get some kinda airline food up in her or somethin'. Maybe... a... a lil' thing a' peanuts. Salted, ya know."

"Salt peanuts? With Eva?" Penny keeps walking, but unevenly - as strangely poised as her words "Not unless you get fat, turn black and start playing the trumpet." She swipes at the corner of her mouth, phantom alcohol and the damp making her fingers twitch.

That's it for a while from her. She's entering her s.o.p. for new places - easy to catch once you know what to look for - a long walk, loaded to the gills, for as far as she can go until the roads divide the landscape into well-groomed and doomed.

"Find me somewhere quiet - I need to," trails off.