hcneybone

[hcneybone]

closed starter for juniper thorne at moomoo's ice cream ( @crimenmortis )

"This is the third week in a row that they've had the same special flavor. Is that code for the shipping times have been delayed again?" Brett pokes her little wooden spoon - a performative switch, in her opinion - into the small cup of plain strawberry she holds. "I wouldn't usually complain, I know importing is fucked forever, it's just why did they have to get stuck on pear and blue cheese?"

[hcneybone]

closed starter for robin numali at paper moon ( @debtdealt )

"No, seriously, take mine. I don't want it." Brett pushes her plate across the table, the remains of her mapo tofu still singing to her with its spicy siren call. She's stuffed, though, and sits back in the booth with a huff. "I'm going to have a stomachache for three days."

[hcneybone]

closed starter for sade adeyemi at white swallow ( @hurriccnes )

"Some twerp approached me about cutting a deal today. Something about doing infused drinks - weed stuff, right? Locally grown, whatever - and I said I'd think about it." Brett scrubs at the bartop, the shitty towel doing its best (which isnt saying much) to pick up the remaining grenadine. "What do you think? Worth it?"

[hcneybone]

closed starter for sol segura at king's bowling alley ( @mothborn )

"Okay, fine. How about..." Jelly taps his chin, bowling ball curled under his other arm as he looks around the room. It's all for show - it always is. There's only ever one thing they bet on. "Loser of the next game buys beers at PNWs? Every round."

[hcneybone]

After a moment, Brett makes a noise of disgust and stands up, dusts the dirt off her already dirty jeans. Alan looks pitiful. The last thing he needs from her is a bruise, even if he deserves it.

"I wish you had," she spits. A lie, though her stony face gives away nothing. She's hurt, is the thing, and fuck if she lets anyone see her as anything but infallible. There aren't too many people out and about yet, not too many strangers around to see her burst of emotion, but Alan's here, and that's enough. He's practically a stranger now. Brett looks over and checks on her abandoned groceries before focusing back on the man below her.

"So what? You came back for your little girlfriend? Didn't even bother to clue me in?"

it's a fate he should see coming, all things considered... but that doesn't stop the flash of surprise in his face when it immediately comes to blows. again, he should know better. he's the one who left, for better or for worse. seems like mostly for worse. bringing his hands up to shield his face and little else, alan is fully prepared, expecting, an attack. thankfully, it's less of a fight and more of a tackle—the ground is his biggest opponent here. sitting up—he swallows a wince as she stabs him with an elbow—it's the least of what he deserves. "i know," he croaks, rubbing his side. "but after..." he trails off, lips pulled tight. "i couldn't stay gone."

[hcneybone]

Lying isn't Jelly's strong suit. Never has been. Lying is more his sister's speed, and thank god for that, because it kept the two of them out of a lot of trouble when they were younger. Now, all of the shit Jelly steps in is his problem. He gives a weak shrug, a half-laugh, and a hard swallow.

"Just, um, well, it was nothin', really. I think I made it all up in my head that I dropped something." Oh yeah, smooth. Truth is, the alcove has been the latest hot spot for moving the local cocaine - little baggies tucked into the space between the carpet and the wood flooring means safe, reliable deals for those unable to meet up in person. Unfortunately, it seems that Jelly's order has been compromised. He's out a fat hundo, and worse than that, he's got the head librarian going full Sniffer on the safe zone. Jelly hops up, only briefly woozy from the sudden height, and checks a watch he's not actually wearing.

"Damn. It's late. The library usually open this late? Feels late. Don't you have, uh, library duties?"

Meyers likes to think he knows and trusts Jelly well enough, but he also knows well enough not to trust Jelly wouldn’t bring something stupid into the library. And this– Jelly huddled behind the table, guilty grin on his face, carpet coming up at the edges– this is not a good look. 

Meyers narrows his eyes. “What exactly did you drop?”

[hcneybone]

The feeling of defeat had been so strong it had blinded Duckie - he'd completely missed the brazen slogan across the man's chest. His eyes light up, eager at meeting someone who actually cares. Other than the radicalists, that is.

"I'm in," Duckie says, gung-ho. "I didn't even know this club existed. You must have just founded, right? My friends and I, there's about ten or so of us, we have our own group, and we go out every few weeks. They'll be thrilled."

Duckie eyes the overstuffed garbage bag. "You're sorting what you find, right? You're not just mixing recyclables and trash?"

"Which is why you gotta pick it up instead of moanin' about it," says Sol. He adjusts his shirt: a green t-shirt with LITTER PICKING CLUB written in white chalk on the front. "If you joined my club," he says, "you'd have all the fulfillment of pickin' garbage with friends." If he's being honest, they kid just looks spry. His back is starting to hurt, on account of the bending and all that. Fuck. Why'd he do this again? Oh, right, goodness. The bulging garbage bag beside him rattles as he waits for a response.

If the kid joins, that'd bring his illustrious new club up to...two members. Himself included.

[hcneybone]

"Every two weeks there's a few of us who get together in a small area to really clean things up. Last week we went into the woods and hard-focused a stream that seems to have recovered pretty well without as much interference from humanity, but we still found three full bags of trash." A thrum of hope feeds into the small smile Duckie offers. "I could let you know about the next one if you'd like? If you're serious, that is."

"it's depressing," gus spoke softly, his tone melancholy as he turned his head to look at duckie beside him. "maybe we could organize a trash clean up?" he suggested, though he didn't sound too enthusiastic. "i don't know how much interest we'd get, but i' would be willing to help but i'll be there with gloves and trash bags."

[hcneybone]

"I'm used to the disappointment. That doesn't make it any less disappointing." Duckie shakes his head as though that might clear away the trash dotted across the grass. The world does look better, for the most part. Summer's coming and he's yet to hear a single ugly roar of a lawn mower. Most of the town has given up on scraping the ivy from the buildings, and the pond is the clearest it's been since Duckie moved here two years ago.

That, of course, only makes the fact that people still have the gall to drop their crap on their ground without a second thought even more frustrating.

"Why doesn't everyone else reconsider their actions? Why can't they think critically? Or care? At least a little bit."

in theory, a shift like the one caused by the departure -a would-be sign of the end of days, if you're inclined to believe in that sort of stuff- could have two, primary effects. one, for the optimistic: the kickstart to a new beginning, somewhat of a clean slate for a planet long on the verge of collapse. the other, a more pragmatic (if fatalistic) point of view: the decline of it all.

as a matter of fact they stand in the middle, balancing between hope and resignation. on a good day, something may reignite one's fate in humanity until the next one brings with it an undeniable realization: people still suck. maybe not all of them but a great part.

in the wake of such a colossal loss, the predictability of human behavior is almost laughable. after all, mankind is selfish by desing. most didn't care for pollution before, why do it now? some might have even found freedom in the current state of things. a way to deresponsibilize: the less people around, the more room to litter... and the longer before everyone drowns in garbage. (aren't they lucky!)

"i think you might want to reconsider your definition of bare minimum. unless you like getting disappointed, that is."

[hcneybone]

"Nothing is anyone's problem anymore," Duckie says, bitterness and sarcasm laced delicately into his words. Restrained. He's never been an emotional person, but the Departure changed him. It changed everyone. His features relax again, frustration passing through him like water through a sieve. The passion stays, though, and he nods in hearty agreement.

"I know other places have it worse. My roommate, she's from LA, she said the trash pile-up there is disgusting. They have to work twice as hard to clean everything up because there's too many people gone and no one cares. At least here some people care. Or, at least, the right ones."

she leaned into her palm, eyes fixed on him with a soft, thoughtful look — not surprised, just familiar with the feeling. “it’s true,” she murmured. “once you start seeing it, it’s everywhere. not just the litter, but how easy it is for people to ignore it. like it’s not their problem.” she glanced out the window, her mouth pulling into a faint, tired smile. “i used to think picking up one cup didn’t matter. now i think… maybe one thing does matter.” her gaze returned to him, sharper now, tinged with dry humor. “still. getting it in the trash to begin with? that’s not asking a lot.”

[hcneybone]

Duckie squints. With the stranger's face turned toward him now, he can see little flecks of powdered sugar dotting the skin around their mouth. While his statement had been a general one, it had been prompted by the suspicious pile a few yards away - a pile including a bag of powdered donuts. He's no Sniffer, but it's pretty clear that this kid is the culprit.

"Glad to find a fellow Earth-lover. You wouldn't, uh, happen to know who might've left that pile of trash over there, would you?" Duckie rocks slightly on his feet, a permanent anxiety keeping him from stillness. "You seem like you've been here awhile, didn't know if maybe you caught a glance at the litterer."

honest, she'd meant to pick that shit up. that shit in question is the pile of trash she'd left about ten feet back under the tree she was sitting under before moving closer to the lake — a bag of powdered donuts, can of redbull, cup of coffee. all things mikey had forgotten in favor of rolling this close to the water and laying in the sunlight, and then was too fuckin' high to be worried about when she had all this beautiful sun to soak in. now she's sitting up, propped up on her palm behind her, head shaking, expression guilty. worse: mouth powdered. she doesn't know that though, not when she starts running her mouth. "oh, god, yeah. totally, man. i mean, come on. do your part, right? some people, man..." her head shakes, eyes shifting awkwardly.

[hcneybone]

"Ahh, shit. Come on!" Jelly glances toward the alcove entrance, his cursing muttered but still too loud by library standards. Every second that passes makes this a little stupider - makes the odds of getting caught larger. His fingers pick and rip at the carpet, desperately searching. He isn't fast enough, though. Footsteps tread toward the alcove, and Jelly knocks his head softly against the wall with a defeated thump.

This isn't an ideal position to be caught in. Hands and knees on the floor, a corner of the carpet peeled up and forced back down in a hastily done hack job. Jelly sits up a little, peers over the table he's managed to squeeze himself behind, and offers a stilted smile to the familiar librarian staring him down.

Of course. As though it would be anyone else.

"Heeeeey, man." Jelly clears his throat, knocking the squeak out of his voice. "Didn't mean to cause no scene. I, uh, dropped something. Looking for it. Here. So." He forces a smile, so laughably unbelievable it almost turns the corner and flips to genuine. "What's up?"

open starter for ANYONE at the REDFORD PUBLIC LIBRARY

Meyers isn’t particularly worried as he treads lightly across the carpeted floors of the library. The woman at the desk had been vague when she complained about someone in the back corner who was up to something, but Meyers figures it’s one of the usual situations.

The little alcove in the back of the library has been a mild headache ever since it appeared in the 1987 remodel. It’s secluded from the rest of the library, and it can be a cozy, private space to unwind, or to avoid unwanted attention. Meyers’ predecessor had tried to stuff it full of book carts to discourage horny teenagers or “unseemly” people lurking in the shadows, and the efforts weren’t necessarily successful. But Meyers remembers before then, when it was the nicest seat in the building. So he’s put in a cozy chair, a warm lamp, and a small table, trying to emulate that quiet, comfortable spot he nearly fought other kids for on multiple occasions. 

For the most part, it’s fine, which is the way it goes in all public libraries. Every once in a while he gently breaks up a makeout session. He’s had to remove a member of the Silent from that spot more than once– he won’t tolerate smoking in the library. And every now and then, a patron complains about someone sleeping back there, but Meyers always lets them lie until closing (or perhaps a little longer). 

He doesn’t hear anything unusual as he makes his way over, nodding and waving at a few of his regulars as he goes. He doesn’t always rely on his hearing, but the library is quiet for the moment, and he’s sure he would have been able to pick out anything strange. But when he rounds the corner, he’s surprised at what he finds.

[hcneybone]

Duckie's eyes, once trained on the serene stillness of the lake, slide over to Lusa, but he passes over the sister comment. "People stopped coming to those a long time ago. It's only ten or fifteen of us now who show up." Another pause. While Duckie likes to pride himself on his good listener skills, he's not all that good at saying the right thing when it comes to supporting people emotionally. He's more of a shut up and cuddle-r, which... doesn't super apply to this situation.

"Are... Are you worried about your missing sister?"

"I guess," Lusa looked around trying to pay attention to the amount of litter that was around. Maybe there was extra litter around, but she didn't pay attention to things like that. Her brain going a million miles per hour, trying to think of something to keep herself entertained. "I donno, I guess if you're worried about your missing sister, you'd also probably be too preoccupied to make sure your garbage is in the trashcan or not." Lusa shrugged. "Maybe you should organize a community pick up day?"

[hcneybone]

Duckie's never smoked cigarettes - couldn't handle the flavor, or the nicotine, or the stomachache that came after a few puffs - but the scent is familiar. A little off, not the same brand that used to sneak its way into the glove box, but reminiscent of Mallory all the same. There's a pang of nostalgia, still sharp all these months later, but it dissipates easier now. He nods halfheartedly, agreeing with some of the sentiment.

"Just... Hoping for something more, I guess. It's a dual-edged sword; the population dips, the amount of trash we produce dips with it. But losing part of the population means we lose the people who pick up the trash." Duckie hums and leans back on the bench, away from the drifting smoke that lingers between them.

"I'm not even trying to pretend that society has any sort of... pristine-ness left. The people who get all dressed up and go to Hidden Pearl are kidding themselves. I just..." There he goes, searching for the words he doesn't have again. He thinks of the pamphlets on his nightstand, the ones that get harder and harder to ignore, and tries not to repeat them verbatim. "You'd think that with how well the Earth is bouncing back, we'd be eager to help it with its journey, not make it harder. "

sloane  barely  flicked  her  eyes  over  at  him,  letting  the  cigarette  dangle  loose  between  her  fingers.  the  lake  spread  out  behind  them,  a  mess  of  gray  water  and  dying  weeds,  looking  just  as  tired  as  the  rest  of  the  town.  “bare  minimum  went  out  with  common  sense,”  she  said,  voice  dry  as  the  dust  under  their  boots.

she  tapped  ash  off  the  cigarette,  watching  it  catch  the  breeze.  “people  barely  hold  it  together  for  themselves  these  days.  you  really  think  they’re  gonna  worry  about  a  coffee  cup?”

there  was  no  malice  in  it  —  just  a  kind  of  tired  honesty,  like  she’d  already  made  peace  with  the  fact  that  nobody  was  cleaning  up  the  mess,  not  the  big  ones  and  definitely  not  the  small  ones.

she  shrugged  one  shoulder,  tossed  him  a  sideways  glance  that  almost  passed  for  a  smile.  “besides,”  sloane  added,  “maybe  a  little  trash  makes  the  place  look  more  lived-in.  better  than  pretending  we’re  still  pristine.”

[hcneybone]

open starter for anyone at dove lake

"Litter is so much more noticeable these days. I think my eyes always glazed over before. It was part of the landscape. Now, when I see an empty coffee cup on the sidewalk, it's all I pay attention to." Duckie shakes his head, disappointment in humanity imbued in his expression. "Getting it in the trash can is kind of the bare minimum, don't you think?"

[hcneybone]

closed starter for alan weaver ( @rootsrotted )

Tuesdays aren't anything special in Redford. There is always something going on in this town of freaks, whether it be a new Mute joining the ranks of the Silemce and stunning their co-workers, or old, bony-wristed Marlene Parker threatening to use brute force on another grifter trying to lowball her on some vintage spoon set, but never on Tuesdays. Nothing happens on Tuesdays.

Which is why it's so weird that on this nothing of a Tuesday, Brett's staring head-on at the awkward, lanky frame of the dipshit who ditched her for greener pastures two fucking years ago. No way in hell that's Alan Weaver. No way in hell he came back and didn't even bother swinging by the club. Has to be, though. Brett knows that pathetic dork anywhere - even if it looks like he hasn't had a decent barber since he left.

Brett's bag of groceries - the ones she'd walked her ass all the way to Cherry Park to get - hits the ground with a soft thump: one that mimics the thump Alan makes when he hits the dirt moments later after Brett tackles him.

"The fuck is wrong with you?" Brett digs her elbow into his side and then sits up, her fist cocked back. There's dirt on her forearm that flecks into the wind. She isn't going to hit him for real. Probably. "Got a lot of nerve coming back here, Weaver."

[hcneybone]

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