[closed action] -- [backdated to April 10th]

[twopercent]

WHO: Jack and Ayden
WHAT: Fashion swap!
WHERE: Near the Dead District.
WHEN: April 10th


Jack's breathing hard -- he's just run a full gauntlet of obstacles, including an ill-advised dash across a couple rooftops that almost ended badly when he barely made a jump. If he'd been forced to try to pull himself up off the rooftop's edge alone, with one arm... Jack doesn't like the thought, and it serves as another unfortunate reminder as to why he's now out of action and of all the things that are just that much more difficult to manage in his life.

But he figures he should have lost any pursuit, if anyone had been watching Casval's apartment. Jack had rushed through a few bombed-out buildings in his time, and minus a few locks he's had to shoot out, cutting a zig-zag path along the edge of the Dead District isn't much different. He presses himself against the wall inside the old abandoned building and peeks out through the broken window into the alley, checking both directions. Typical low-rent alley, dumpsters and piled-up garbage, but quiet and dark. A good place to scavenge something a little less... Casval-y (pleated pants? Really?) and more in line with the vagrant population. Try to blend in, at least as much as a man with one sleeve flapping free can.

Shoving his own gun into the waistband of his pants for now, Jack taps out the last couple glass shards as quietly as he can, and heaves himself out into the alley proper.

Comments

[twopercent]

"Could say that," Jack mutters before adding, "I wouldn't go around telling everyone you saw me here, if you know what I mean. Other than that, nothing that'll get you in any trouble. Just hoping to make a trade and I'll be out of here before you know it."

It doesn't look real great, he admits, so he's real slow and easy about taking the gun he borrowed out of his coat pocket by the barrel, making it clear he's not even thinking about moving to fire, and sets it on the nearby window ledge. Jack waits to see his reaction first; he doesn't want to spook the kid off before the transaction is complete, but he's still got the other gun and a six-inch combat knife tucked into his belt and those have to be set down one at a time too, given he can only do so much at a time with one hand.

[misgives]

Though the weapon gets a slightly tense look out of Ayden, Jack's words only cause him to shrug. He watches as the gun is set aside, chewing one of his nails nervously as he waits for the rest of those weapons to go.

"Got no one to tell anyway. 'sides, strange stuff is always happening around here." He pauses at that, craning his neck to better see that empty sleeve flap of Jack's.

"...looks like you've had a rough time."

[twopercent]

"Wrong place, wrong time," he grinds out as his only explanation. It's been a bit more than a year, it's well-healed by now, but that doesn't mean he's still bitter as hell about his disability. And he thought the prosthetic was bad enough... well, at least on the run he wasn't planning on staying anywhere that people could stare at him, he thinks, clearly a little uncomfortable.

Jack divests himself of his weapons -- those, he's keeping, obviously -- and shrugs off the jacket, tossing it over at Ayden and starting on the shirt buttons. Better get this over with. "Here."

[misgives]

For the first few moments it completely slips Ayden's mind that he ought to be undressing and he just stands there feeling the fabric of the jacket in his hands. It's so soft and strangely heavy and he thinks that Father must have had something like this. He might have glimpsed it in the back of the closet once or twice while he was putting away the laundry. He pulls it up against his chest and buries his nose against the soft folds, breathing in deep.

It smells... nice. Like late fall. And garages. And a little bit like home.

...if-- If a creature like Ayden's even allowed to call that place home anymore, that is.

Then he abruptly realizes that Jack's gone on to taking off his shirt and he suddenly ducks his gaze like he's been caught doing something wrong, setting the jacket aside for now to keep his stuffed dog company while he starts shedding his own worn, muddy, threadbare clothes. They're mismatched and none of them are the same size, most of them varying degrees of 'too big.' He strips off his ratty and torn coat first, scooting just close enough to place that at Jack's feet. Then he pulls off his moth-eaten sweater, followed shortly by the baggy off-white t-shirt that he wears underneath. As the layers come off, a much scrawnier version of Ayden emerges.

Once those shirts are off, it becomes exceedingly apparent that Jack's not the only party here who's had a rough time of it, as the skin that's stretched taut over Ayden's too-visible ribs is scored with scars. Cigarette burns and long, ragged cuts, splotches left by hot liquids-- There's even one dark spiraling mark that wraps around his hip that looks like the top of an old electric stove.

Ayden doesn't pay them any mind. It's been so long since he's had to worry about anyone caring about the state of him that he forgets they're even really there most of the time. Over the past few months he's gotten fairly used to the idea that the only time he'll matter to anyone ever again will be when he becomes a corpse that the city'll have to send someone to clean up.

[twopercent]

Jack's got the shirt off, showing the rounded nub at the shoulder where his arm used to be and a couple broad irregularly-shaped scars on his left side to go with it... and a few more recent injuries from his capture a few days ago, black bruises, scabbed-over minor cuts and scrapes and a few small residual marks that, as it turns out, are probably familiar to Ayden as cigarette burns. He bundles up the shirt in his hand, prepared to throw it over to Ayden, but pauses at the sobering signs of long-standing abuse. Jack doesn't say anything, but past that brief hesitation there's a definite change in his demeanor, far less businesslike as he hands over the shirt to Ayden rather than just tossing it.

As Jack picks up Ayden's baggy old shirt and wrangles it on one-handed, he's silent. It's a good thing the shirt is so baggy on Ayden -- Jack's a couple inches taller, and much more well filled-out -- it fits, at least, a little large even for Jack.

"You doing okay out here, kid?" he finally asks, picking up the sweater too.

[misgives]

The question catches Ayden so off guard that for a moment he can only turn his gaze up at Jack and stare.

"I--"

It's an automated response by now, for him. Flash the person who's asking a smile. Reassure them. Make a joke to disperse the tension in the air. They don't actually care, after all. Not really. They just have to ask, because it makes them feel better if they do. And Ayden doesn't mind that. He never did. He likes to make people feel better.

...

But now isn't really then. He's not at school or in the library or at the clinic. He's in a dingy back alley trading clothes with an one-armed man who has guns and is apparently in some kind of trouble.

So maybe he can just say what he thinks for a change. Besides, he's been homeless for long enough to know that the things homeless people say are really of no consequence to anybody.

Finally, he manages something of a bright, almost too-giddy smile as he gives Jack a little shrug, accepting the shirt to hug awkwardly to his chest.

"Dunno. Is anybody ever doing okay?" Maybe it sounds silly, but he's been wondering that one for a while. The whole world seems to be sad whenever he looks around, and--

Well, Jack doesn't seem to be like any exception. Ayden wonders what stories are behind those scars of his, and... At least Ayden still has all his various parts. It must be really hard to have just the one arm, but then again Jack looks really, really tough.

Like a superhero, maybe.

[twopercent]

A superhero is a long way from what Jack feels like right now.

"Heh. Good question," Jack replies. He's not really the kind of guy who smiles a lot, but the corner of his mouth does turn upward in the faintest hint of one in return.

Still, he doesn't feel like he has a lot of time to waste here, no matter how sorry he feels for the kid. And what is he going to be able to do anyway? He's a wanted man, on the run. Not much he can do to help. Doesn't have much to offer.

...oh. Right. Pants. "'Scuse me," Jack mutters, and for modesty's sake at least turns around to shimmy out of Casval's pants. The oversized t-shirt helps cover things but it's not really enough.

[misgives]

Not exactly a poster boy for being well adjusted or even terribly sane, Ayden stares over at Jack undressing for a moment or three more than strictly appropriate before taking the cue to take off his pants as well. He sets down the shirt on top of where he set the jacket, then undoes the bit of twine he's been using for a belt to get out of his sweat pants. Before he takes it off, however, he fishes out a few wrapped hard candies out of his pocket. They're the last of the fistful he stole out of a jar in some waiting room he was in a few weeks ago. He stares at them a second, then strips out of his pants so that he can hold them out to Jack in offering.

When Jack reaches to take them, Ayden also offers him two of the wrapped candies, keeping just one for himself.

"...hope your day gets better."

[twopercent]

In the awkward exchange of pants, Jack shakes his head a little "...thanks. But you keep 'em. Besides, where would I put them? My pockets are gona be full," he says, nodding over at the guns. ...Jack's never been great at cracking jokes.

Jack shuffles into his new and slightly crusty clothes, trying not to wrinkle his nose. There's a difference between between being covered in your own sweat and dirt in some godforsaken corner of the world, and living in someone else's very-well-lived-in outfit, but he'll manage. Guns go into pockets, knife held in place by the twine belt, hidden under the sweater... yep, this'll do for now.

He briefly entertains the idea of giving the kid a weapon... but that won't solve anything, now will it? Probably not. "Look after yourself, okay?" he suggests instead, giving Ayden a careful look.

[misgives]

"In your mouth." But Ayden doesn't press the issue. He just shrugs and draws back with his new clothes, not precisely getting dressed himself just yet. He watches a bit absently as Jack puts all his clothes on and gets all his weapons tucked away, then shrugs a little as he's spoken to again.

"You too. ...oh! Um-- ... If you get in any bad trouble, if it's really bad I mean... Dr. Strider's good at helping people. It's somewhere to go if you've got nowhere else." He rattles off the street corners where the clinic is, then hunches back down as he wrings his wrists.

The first nights out on the streets are always the hardest, after all. Not that it ever stops being hard, but...

[twopercent]

Isn't the kid going to... well, nope, apparently not. Jack just tries not to look. Abuse, maybe some mental problems... Jack didn't have it as bad as this kid, but Ayden probably has no idea how deep Jack's sympathies run.

"Oh... yeah. Thanks. I bet he's a really good guy to go to." Jack says, sincerely. Despite personal differences that he's not going to bring up, from what he remembers back in the day, Doc Strider was good at his job. A good guy. Just one Jack didn't want to talk to.

He sighs. "Sorry, wish I could talk more, but I've gotta keep moving. Good luck," Jack says, nodding at Ayden.

[misgives]

"Yeah, take care. Don't let them get you," Ayden mumbles in return, giving Jack a little wave goodbye. He has no idea who 'they' are supposed to be, but he figures it's some kind of 'them' that Jack's in trouble with.

He waits until Jack takes off this time, then remembers what he's even doing in this alley. Right, dinner. Sometimes his stomach forgets to tell him he's hungry, but he hasn't eaten almost all day so...

He sticks his candies back in the pocket of his new pants, then shuffles back to the garbage to see about some burgers.