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It was a hell of a turbulent summer. 2 days ago the 1st Minuteman II ICBM was tested as tensions were heating up in SE Asia, and Gilligan's Island was about to premiere tonight on television. TV Guide did not disappoint.
Presently the long late summer afternoons in the park of Greenwitch Village the Sounds of Silence were disturbed with the sound of a disturbance. Hot Rod greasers were giving the Hippies some shit again. This was not new, and as a new school year came around there were more kids feeling there was more to prove. In the end there was more bickering than there was music. Several local tenants were nosy enough by this to come outside and idly observe what may become of it. The day needed entertainment, and if there wasn't going to be a rumble? Well the cars were pretty enough to keep someone gawking all day.
|ROLL| Rogue +rolls 1d100 for: 46
A few weeks ago, the Soviets lost not one, but two nuclear subs. The North Atlantic was shaking uncontrollably for weeks, to the point the submerged sailors had plenty to say about the end of the world. Scarlett just wants a damn ice cream cone.
Flavour, irrelevant. The resident bohemienne, among the first wave of whomever will be called hippies, has her cone. There's someone in a truck doling out ice cream to those who wants in the last likely week he'll make a good profit. Redheads like that are responsible for providing materiel to his bank account, and she hands over a few coins, eyeing up Washington Square Park. Always something going on, there, and half the protests she's featured at, prominently or not. Still, any green space haunted by gear heads is an issue. The simmering presence in her veins settles, a little. The reason for that cone, after all. "Thank you," she sings, and turns.
Robbie Reyes had been hearing of world events in newspapers and over the radio for weeks, and boy did it please him none. There's been enough fighting, or so he thought. Bright side, that show his little brothers been waiting to see on television would be airing, so there's a ray of sunshine.
Riding down towards Greenwich Village in his Dodge Charger, Robbie would be glancing about at the more than one possibly explosive conversation between people, and so, he pulls in, giving his engine a loud revv as he made his way to a parking spot. Getting out of his car, Robbie would spot Scarlett, and gave her a wave in greeting as he approached, hands in his jacket pockets.
Kaleb was in the square looking entirely out of place. In a time of Greasers v. Hippies he was a Suit. Echo was sitting under a tree witha lap desk that was little more than a square with a handle at one end and a slide rule arm that was attached to it with his current creation on paper taped to its surface.
He was…
…annoyed.
Looking up Echo glowered at both sides. the music stopped and that wans't okay, but still he sighed and greeted her from where he was, unneeding to raise his voice. "Scarlett…and…company?"
"Am I a company now?" This is news. "When did I incorporate? I hope someone has not trademarked me, for that would be inconvenient and a business exercise in chattel." Trust the redhead to know the big words that matter. The rest of her voice fades out under the rattling rumble of pistons possessed, then the tapering murmur. She knows her motorcycles from her muscle cars, so at least there's a hope for her to recognize the general pitch. But not until Robbie is closer does she spot him, turning, waving cheerfully to him.
"Afternoon!" The sunshine, the warm weather, and her ice cream cone are all things of magic. See how she munches. Nomnom. Conflict? What's the problem with that?
Robbie did look around a bit when the music stopped…oh dear, the gearheads and the hippies are still likely duking it out. Robbie was unamused. He did turn his head to Scarlett with a fairly warm smile on his face. "Hello Scarlett. How are you?" he asks curiously, before looking over to Echo. "Haven't met you yet. I'm Robbie." he greets the man wearing a suit for some particular reason in a place filled with hippies and gearheads. "I take it you two know each other?" he looks between Scarlett and Kaleb.
Kaleb did not fit in and had no humor about him to be groovy enough to a gearhead or far out enough to be that chill. As Scarlett carried her mood on whimsical bent he arched an eyebrow. Evenly he course corrected, "I met him. Thoughif you want to enterprise don't let me stop you. Warren might be a better consult than I." He looked to Robbie like he grew a second head for a moment, but he wasn't one to be rude for-okay he wa soften curt and rude for no reason. For whatever reason it wasn't today in its entirety.
"Kaleb. And… yes. Through the University."
"Amazing the contacts you gain that way," remarks Scarlett merrily, the ice cream cone concealing her mouth. Little white lies in the balance, but it's mostly shades of a truth rather than the utmost. Her shattered personae sing in their crystalline cages, the boundless infinity of her mental palace briefly gone alight with chatter and song. She ignores it, as much as one can. The day is young; she is not frail, for all the sonnets of madness creep after her. "Robbie likes motorcycles. Consultations on business, I am afraid I wouldn't know. Though should anyone try to make a company for me, or of me, I think that might be a bit surprising. I'm trademarked." Is she? How does one trademark an individual? The Beatles would like to know…
Robbie nods a few times to Kaleb "Duly noted." though he does sigh faintly, looking to the people still conversing in the street. He seems to be thinking of something, before his attention turns back to Scarlett as she speaks, nodding when she says that he likes motorcycles. "And really anything that happens to have an engine. I've always been a bit of a motorhead." he shrugs faintly at that. Sadly, his mind wasn't as interesting as theres! so he doesn't really have anythign interesting going on in there.
Robbie goes home.
Rogue happens to see what constitutes a golden kirin /and/ a phoenix over there. "Is that — Paul! Paul! You said you had my record!"
…. and that is how Paul Simon gets ambushed by the Soul-Thief.