1965-02-07 - It's a 1988 World After All
Summary: And regardless of what anyone says, the song still sucks.
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
rosemarie jp lucifer 


1988. New York. East Village.

The Village, gaining spillover from The Other Village, practically gleams under scudding grey clouds. Bonhomie keeps the pedestrians' spirits bright. Storefronts compete for their attention, gaily coloured posters announcing this show or that act or that sale from every billboard, power pole, and glass shop window. The people are no less brightly dressed under black umbrellas and black or camel coats, the rule of all individuality.

Not more than a street from Lux's entrance — and yes, the club is still there — the world is vastly different from twenty-three years in the past.

Remember Locomotion guy, Rosemarie? He's still dancing to the ghetto blaster plunked down on a clear spot of cement among the snow. Still February, still sinfully chilly for those who would rather wear coloured nets over lycra jumpsuits and other excuses for 'clothes' that are, in fact, little better than produce aisle findings.


Oh yes, Locomotion guy. The brunette continues to stare, her arm still interlocked with Lucian's elbow. Her cinnamon-brown eyes take in the utter oddity of his actions. This is no dance she's seen before and the music, it's…aggressive in its beat in comparison to what she knows of popular music. It's certainly nothing like the more dulcet sounds of the Beatles.

"L-Lucifer…? W-W-W-What's g-g-going on?" Her body is still nearly completely pressed to him, line of leg to leg, hip to hip, though she's also very ready to dart away if something else startles her. Well…at least until the Warbird decides the latest rage in ragged clothing needs another notch or two…or three.


They say the clothing makes the man. 'They' are short-sighted fools little comprehending the nature of humanity or civilisation. That said, black pants and black boots always look good. Within a few moments of surveying his whereabouts, Lucian has the measure of the zeitgeist. Give him a few moments more and he literally embodies the bleeding edge of the cultural phenomenon, his shock of wild blond hair swept in a point forward, bangs streaked in darker hints of gold and white. His is an atrociously cool ease, swept clean to the sides, so very not-1965. "Do you believe I would drug you, Ms. Falcroft?" he asks as a purr, voice burred, dipping a hint lower on his natural octave.

The nearest pigeon is going to get it, provided any birb gets too close. Failing that, he gently nudges her aside to avoid the chance collision on the snow-rustled streets.

C'mon, baby, do the locomotion!
No, Kylie, he won't, no matter how adorable a tart you are.


JP was having a bad trip right? A really… really bad trip. Man someone was going retro or literally just fell out of the 60's. Gearhead looked around trying to assess his surroundings andtook the moment to rub one eye withthe palm of his hand. The world was very loud, very bright, and very strange. Step one, guy, find out where the fuck you are. Step two? Get back to what you know which… was… Lux. Of course it was. He wandered into teh street and nearly got biffed with a front fender. Well at least they had cars and were groovy enough to bring them over and show him right? Yeah let's not get hit by traffic, JP. Oddly, or perhaps appropriately, he found Lucien and some bird giving the world the eye. He murmured pulling a small pocket comb out and combing his hair back, "Need some help say she. How much time you got say she? I'm guessin… that weren' no come on." Giving the street one more look he asked, "This you' bartender's doin?"


No pigeons to fly into their path, only to alight upon a nearby power line and flick the scuts of their tails in time to the music. Because everyone's doing the Locomotion! Damn flying city rats. Someone's parked car makes a convenient target.

The timbre of the barkeeps voice elicits a quiver from the librarian and she swallows carefully. "N-N-No." The one on the bleeding edge of fashion will know that reply is not a lie. Fear does have the off-chance of making one's logic erratic at best. Clinging to him like a burr in her peach-colored peacoat, she looks over at the arrival of JP. Lucian does know everyone! The perks of tending bar are many. She ends up giving JP the once over, silently, and it definitely extends into that socially-awkward stare that folks never realize they're doing until called out on it.


The power lines hum with throbbing electricity, the heartbeat of capitalism. Say what you like but everything can be reduced to electrical impulses — thoughts, banking data, transmissions of culture and science. Lucian spends a moment orienting himself further, already the coolest dude in his vicinity, and ignores the itchy prickle between his shoulder blades that says so much. Fuck you, Dad is spared for a moment, the celestial inbox routed straight through and onwards til morning. He runs his tongue across his teeth and then snaps to attention, smirk colouring the angular planes of his face. "Of course, blame me. Nothing new to that except this?" He waves his hand at the cheerful crowds accumulating under the awnings or going about their business, all smiles and laughter and warm notes to the ear. "Hardly my style. An abundance of restless, mindless smiling is a veneer over terror, soul-shriven despair, or far, far worse."

He doesn't speak of his time in Hell, but nor does he need to when thousands of artists interpret the place for him. They might never believe him if he said he had a nice parlour with a friendly couch and somewhere to read, preferably with a spot of greenery. After all, Michael supplied the energy. He spun the creations. Something from nothing is not within his purview, even then, even now. Rosemarie he remains within arm's reach of, outright offering his arm, though the static charge is mildly telling. What is he doing?


JP passivly waited for an answer fromt eh taller man which was not, apparently forthcoming. He didn't seem like he overly expected it to. Dark brown eyes drift from Lucian to Rosemarie. Wordlessly one heel slid behind the other and he did a slow, balanced turn for her on teh pivot. There ya go, chere. There was a faint, frienly wink that replaces the general 'hey, sup?' to her. No he went to the man with more answers than he had and said, "Some dove say she need help. Place don' look like anyhitn needin fixin."


Realizing that she's been caught staring by JP himself, Rosemarie blushes to her ears. The reddening of skin makes the freckles darker still. Her grandmother would tut at her for staring, tsk! Averting her eyes to her shoes momentarily, she then risks another quick look around this technicolor world of effervescent delight in the chill of late winter. It doesn't look like someone's version of hell….okay, maybe the crotchety Mrs. Ketch, head librarian would consider this chaotic bedlam.

"It-t-t d-d-doesn't, n-no," she agrees in a voice just a little louder than the nearby boombox. An offered arm is something taken and she does get zapped lightly. It's enough to tease the fans of feathers into slowly unfurling from behind her ears. Oh look, now she really fits in! Feathery accountrements are all the rage here, though she does look more like an apple-cheeked city-born valkyrie minus a sword and flying steed.


"I question the dove that claimed to need help and bring you to a place like this." The two of them wearing odd, odd clothes stand out more than not. JP and Rosemarie are likely to earn their side-effects looks from the passersby. It counts for something to stick out among the Individuality Crowd, although their cheerfulness rubs fur backwards to anyone considering negative emotions. Are there any negative emotions? They will see that; they might start whispering or edging on. Negative is not allowed, surely.

Please do not let the woman slide behind him like a scared child, that might bring out the friendly police in a friendly city without the stars and stripes anywhere to be seen. Why do you need a country when all are harmonized? Feathery accoutrements don't actually make Rosemarie stand out. See, over there is a girl with a tail and someone with lizard scales on their face, another silvery bright as a piranha but wearing a bright coral t-shirt under his coat. "Whatever this place is, I assure you this is not the city we live in. You believe it is quite so welcoming as it appears? Perhaps it passes the sniff test, and possibly not. Might want to scratch the surface before passing judgment." Oh, he's had pretty corners of Hell under demon lords that looked plenty appealing. "Psychotropic Stepford, anyone?"


JP has always been and always will likely be shameless. Without shame, or apology for beng himself. Stares at him met with idle interest back and a faint grin. Looking back to Rosemarie watching the world warily the crazy Cajun assured, "Hey it' be fine. We won' let nothin happen to you, chere." If only he had better mastery of the double negative. Still it was curious, "I dunno, Mutants lettin them freak flags fly? We win somethin?" It was what he wanted someday, but he didn't actually know what to do with it looking at it. Hrmmm. It was jut as likelythe other two had jsut as few answers as he had.


A faint nod and attempt at a smile is Rosemarie's reply to JP's assertion. Now that statement? That she well and truly believes here. According to what she can tell, nothing bad will happen…perhaps even at all. With a tinge of gold about her irises, she watches the inhabitants here go about their business. Scales and extra appendages mean nothing. That's enough to trigger her suspicious radar a hundred times over.

"C-C-Could ask s-someone w-where w-w-we are?" She looks from gearhead to archangel and back, desperately not wanting to be the one to reach out first. She feels safe enough in Lucian's shadow. No nose goes!


"New York." Somewhere, on a street corner, must be one of those ubiquitous newspaper boxes that sells papers for… a whole damn dollar? What the hell, inflation. Lucian calmly extracts quarters from his pocket, either pulling them along or leaving JP to loiter uncool and alone on his patch of sidewalk. Them's the breaks, man, sorry. Plunk, the change lands on another pile of change even though he could pull open the door easily and snap whatever plastic locking mechanism goes on good faith. The springs creak and he withdraws the New York Bulletin, a fresh, fat paper chock-full of advertisements galore. Those objects offered up for sale include everything from Macy's Valentine's Day sales to 'sunshine deals' for various pickup trucks and import cars the likes of which will dazzle Sixties eyes. Can they really be so economical and small? Yes, Matilda, they can. He thumbs through the detritus without pause, and states, "Sunday, February the Seventh, in the one thousand nine hundred eighty-eighth year since the common era calendar." Artful appreciation, no wonder the thing has so many ads.

"Perhaps they have the cartoon section in here still." The whole middle chunk he pulls out and holds out to JP, wherever the fellow is. The banner above the fold and the marks down the fold all have a similar tune of stories. Fresh new construction in Gravesend! School science fairs for New York districts to showcase best and brightest. City Hall proud to announce new flower-planting drives in Central Park: "All natural, and inspired by native plants!"


JP took the adverts and the - ooh teh funny papers. It did not fail to draw amusement from him, "Oh hey, Snoopy's still kickin aroun'." The important things. He turned the paper to the side and showed Rosemarie, "Hey look, Woodstock still doin' alright too." Hooray for commonalities. He sniffed and looked to lucian and she, but chieflythe known unknown quotient. "Well, one way t'find out. Let's stress test the political machine." He was good at a few things, almost all of which started with an F, including fly fishing. It's how he do. One of which was felonies! You want to find out what's going to bend some bumpers you send a very uncommon crook. Boldly, like a leather clad USS Enterprise, he went off where they hadn't yet; among the people.


Rosemarie follows along beside Lucian, his own personal reticent and be-plumaged tugboat attached at his elbow. As he's procuring one of the local newspapers, in a city that's supposedly still New York, she attempts to suss out more of the locals. God, their clothing is so bright! Her own pale-peachy peacoat had been a daring eyesore earlier today, at least. Now it's drab in comparison to the caution-yellows and oranges splashed liberally amongst the torn jeans and puffy jackets. The reading of the current date is enough to make her utter a squeak of shock. 1988?! But that's —

"The future…?" she breathes, momentarily tugging a little on Lucian's arm as her knees threaten mutiny. Eyes gone purely raptor gold now flick to JP, offering up familiarity in the papers. Ah, yes, Woodstock, she remembers hearing about this. Still, how are people so calm?! The fans of feathers lay flat alongside her skull, indicative that the Warbird is displeased with the state of its host. Brave JP, walking off to speak with the natives, garners a linging observation from the librarian. "I still d-d-don't understand," she confesses to Lucian in a wavering voice.


Does Rosemarie meep-meep when she reverses, or obtain a large float of logs on her tail feathers when she hauls through the pedestrian crowd? These questions matter considerably, and he'll ask the hard-hitting inquiries as necessary. "Do you fancy a new shirt, Ms. Falcroft? I imagine we will have little trouble obtaining that, unless they've completely changed the currency values. When last I remembered…" Remembered? The man in black and white, all he needs to be extra cool is a cigarette — never gonna happen — and a microphone. His teeth grit together slightly. "Yes, my dear, we appear to be in your future. A future."

A future. That matters. "We have come to a future. One that purports to be New York. You should understand that time is particularly splintered and malleable, rather than a single superhighway leading you forward." He's picked up the slang, yes, in parts. Or maybe it was always there. The daft gift of the Firstborn: he /always/ sounds right. "Every moment splinters into countless possibilities, and this is but one of countless ones. The specific scientific means this time around, I have yet to ascertain, though given the ubiquity of common features and buildings, it superficially appears similar. The world hasn't gone into a pure meltdown or an apocalypse, which speaks to the planet's relative resilience. Though who knows, five minutes from now may be different."


|ROLL| JP +rolls 1d20 for: 7


|ROLL| Lucian +rolls 1d20 for: 5


JP rubbed a hand on his stubble jaw. He looked around and eyes Lucian, "Look somethin happen I need to know now, you got my back or non?" His tongue ran across his lower lip slowly and there was already a subtle change shifting in the air to ruffle literal or proverbial feathers. He was thinking of ideas and something, everything seemed to respond. He contemplated that heavily, "Somethin happen t'me can you look out for someone? 'S all I ask." It was a weirdly selfless consideration from teh thief.


The devil does a fine job of explaining an aspect of the intricacies of time-space paradox and Rosemarie is silent at first. Those fans droop a little further still, but she rallies after itching at the base of one set of plumes, not thinking much of the action itself.

"Oh." The single word suffices in its rainbow of emotional tones. JP's question makes her glance over to him. "W-W-Why w-w-w-would something happen? Everyone…l-l-looks n-nice." It's true, no one appears to be frowning or acting threateningly. Death by the tune "It's A Small World" on repeat?


"So do cherubim shortly before ramming a blade into the chest of a sinner," murmurs the blond seraph. The call for those feathers hasn't happened yet, but determining what has called him requires venturing past a paper. "Fancy a walk and some breakfast? It seems this is a perfectly safe place, as has never appeared in the long course of your people's history before." He buttons the top part of his collar rather than dressing down, gathered next to Rosemarie and giving JP a long look from those fathomless searing blue eyes.

What's this now? He really has no idea, does this mortal, of whom and what. "It would not be the first time. I acknowledge the debt. Whom am I looking out for?"


JP took a deep breath and acepted whatever else was about to happen offering a hand out like proper deals. No one did old fashioned quite like Lucian, true, but it was traditional and binding enough where JP came from and men of their word shook on things. "I have a lil girl in New Orleans." Though spoken in the French and not 'N'awlins' as he does when trying to Anclicize things "5 years old. Amalie Margurite Delacroix… should be Bonaventure. Long story. I don' wan anythin bad happenin t'her is all I ask." The mutant chewed on the inside of his cheek. "She' a good kid. Her mama's parents…" His head tilted and he definitely had an opinion on that but it wasn't the topic at hand. He looked to Rosemarie politely, "'Moiselle." And if that pans? Well the car thief started looking for a group of 'like' minds and started to suss out what 'like' was defined as.


Her heart jumps a little into her throat when JP does, in fact, make a deal with the Devil. She can't tell precisely what he's saying, always having been a better reader of French than speaker, but she glances to Lucian once the gearheard finishes speaking. Maybe she's waiting for some specially significant sign from the barkeep. After all, she's only seen Lucian at his Devilish best once, in a back hallway of Lux, after the Shi'ar Warbird attempted to pick a fight.

Breakfast, however, does sound good. She opens her mouth to reply and then the words die. Wait. What about her shift?! …but wait, what about it. Her lips make a whitened rosebud briefly as the realization that it probably doesn't matter now twists a guilty knife to her innards. Oh well…?

"I am st-t-till a l-little hungry," she admits quietly. "If y-y-you f-find out anything, p-p-please c-come find us?" The question is for JP.


A deal done without a handshake or a flaming contract. For one moment, just the brilliant, fraught perfection of his gaze seals tight to something deeper in JP than his exterior visage or the storm of concerns around a girl named Amalie. "Amalie Delacroix. I will see to her until her majority, when she decides for herself to be done or maintain the arrangement." So spaketh He and it might as well be drawn on a gold contract with a soul-limned pen. Though he makes it sound courteous and brief, a rock star in agreement with the request. Man to man, nothing odd there. Except he practically scours the bottom of the barrel, slicing deep and fast into the remaining residue of a man's utmost being. Flyspeck in the eye of nearest to the Almighty, even now, defining the stretches of creation. And. And. And.

"Let's be done on this front. You clearly have a plan in mind; do whatever you will. Ms. Falcroft, let's give the man his privacy and space. He can meet up with us at the first diner we spot. Shouldn't be hard, all things considered." See, nice appointment made, struck on a deal. All those happy souls wait to see.


JP was working on that atonement thing, okay, everyone? Yeesh. Satisfied the young man nodded. "Well… a'ight then." And on he went on heel to find someone with a tail or gills or whiskers. Something telling. Swooshy tail dame it was! Jp though could and would talk to anyone, and he also had a distinct social advantage over the local masses that prized individuality by being very retro by their standard, though still passibly punk in an odd way with the jeans, boots and leather jacket, but also having as out of town non-commercialized accent as one was apt to find. THat? That he could capitolize on and opted to not start with stealing a cop car but inquire in complinent, "Hey yous can call me jerk an' that's fine. I gotta say tha's a damn fine tail and wanted t' know if that's genetic or you have someone do that up for ya." God JP jsut asked a mutant 'are those real?' That just happened but earnestly he waited for an answer ot a nice right cross he might have to duck.


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