11507/June, Jake, and Buster, Part 2

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June, Jake, and Buster, Part 2
Date of Scene: 08 June 2022
Location: Long Night Bar
Synopsis: Like calls to like.
Cast of Characters: Cheyenne Brawley, Jacob Walker




Cheyenne Brawley has posed:
     Buster clears his throat. "Seems to me, sug," as in sugar, "that the way to master any type o' demon is to focus on what's good and true." He offers a hand, palm up, for June to take if she chooses. "My daddy always used to say that a whole legion of the very worst of devils would run away in terror from just a glance from a single angel..." His words fizzle out as the woman skidaddles like a lizard on a hot skillet, but he finds her broken wristband and reads it before passing it Jacob's way; something about Cheyenne's expression implies that the statement was meant as much for him as for the woman.

Jacob Walker has posed:
Jake takes it, turns it over silently in his hand, then looks back to the door June has exited by. He tucks it away, an absented gesture, and notes, voice a little dry, "I think that depends on the angel in question...."

But that moment of sardonic humor is swiftly gone, and while he's not quite as relaxed as before, that air of strain has faded. "You already got a place to stay? I mean, from what little you've said, this venture is sounding kinda spontaneous."

Cheyenne Brawley has posed:
     "I have a hotel room," Buster replies with a chuckle. "Not so much spontaneous, as, uh, clueless." He shrugs and savors the frost on his new glass of coke before sluicing some into his mouth and biting down on the ice with a crunch. "What about you, pard? What are you doing around these parts?"

Jacob Walker has posed:
"Well, that's something," Jake allows. "I came up here to get some treatments in the VA system that weren't offered any closer to home. Even Atlanta didn't have 'em. And honestly just to see what it'd be like to live here for a while. I've passed through a number of times, but never stayed."

He's settled back, propping himself comfortably on his elbow. "It's a strange place," he adds, tone gone reflective. "As we just had proved."

Cheyenne Brawley has posed:
     Buster traces the outline of a dried water droplet on the bartop with a fingertip, hesitating, then asks in a hushed tone: "Call me country bumpkin, but can you explain what in the world happened there?" He indicates the broken mirror with the pinkie of the hand he has curled around his glass.

Jacob Walker has posed:
"I'm not in much better position than you are," Far from the truth, but perhaps as much as he can admit now. The bartender's still busy with the clean-up, looking aggrieved. "What I understood was...she's got a possession. Not a demon, but a witch's spirit? And it's that spirit that had the power to do that, and I guess the whim to do so."

Jake takes a last swig of his drink and sets it down. "I've only been here a few weeks and seen some strange things. That's got to be the weirdest so far, but it's also the first night I wasn't at work that I actually went out rather than going straight home and staying in."

Cheyenne Brawley has posed:
     "A possession," Buster repeats, not skeptically, but pensively. "Well, I hope I run into her again." He looks to the door, almost as if she might suddenly reappear. "And you as well, m'friend. I'd ask for your number, but I don't have a cell - I don't like to give my clients a way to reach me any time they want to." He grins, "If the spirits of the cosmos brought us together once, maybe they'll do so again."

Jacob Walker has posed:
There Jake grins, a quick flash of teeth. "I understand that. I'm without one for the moment myself. Best way to reach me is to call another bar, ironically enough. Sister Margaret's is the name for it, and that I can give you." Old-fashioned enough to have a scrap of paper in a pocket, which he scribbles the name and number on.

Pushing it down the bar with a fingertip, he goes on, "Just tell 'em you're calling for Jake and leave your message. I'm in touch with them most evenings, it'll get to me sooner rather than later."

Cheyenne Brawley has posed:
     Buster takes the slip of paper with a titter of laughter. "Don't tell me: a bar run by a nun? I wouldn't put anything past this city." He squirrels the note into a pocket hidden on the inside of his jacket and in the same motion produces his wallet. He counts out ten crisp $100 bills, folds them in half, and pins them under his empty glass. "Sorry about the mess," he says to the barkeep, replacing his billfold and swiveling to face Jacob, similarly relaxed as to his demeanor. "What other strange things have you seen?"

Jacob Walker has posed:
That grin turns feral. "No, not run by a nun. Quite the reverse. The ....discontinuity between the name and the clientele amuses the owner, I suppose." Not even a glance for the little stack of bills, though the bartender has gone round-eyed.

"People flying under their own power. No aids, no aircraft. Saw it only from a distance, but I did see it. Makes me envious, truth be told. I've no abilities of my own." Technically true.

Cheyenne Brawley has posed:
     Buster purses his lips. "Sounds like a happenin' place. I'll definitely swing by sometime." At the mention of powers, he idly diddles a diamond cufflink glittering on his wrist. "I don't know about flying," he says timidly, "but the Lord has given all manner of gifts to each of us. I bet you DO have powers, Jake, and you can do amazing things with them, even if they're not anything ordinary folk would call remarkable."

Jacob Walker has posed:
"Free piece of advice," Jake says, eyes drawn by the glitter of that diamond. "Be very careful what you wear in this city. It's full of thieves. Especially if you decide to visit Sister Margaret's. It's a pretty rough place."

With that, he's slipping from his stool, landing with a barely concealed wince. "Perhaps so," he concedes, but he does not sound convinced. Cash for him as well, though it's from a worn wallet and counted out far more carefully. At least he tips well. "Good to meet you, Buster. I wish you luck finding a school here. God knows there are plenty of 'em."

Cheyenne Brawley has posed:
     Buster rises in the same motion and reaches to clout Jake's shoulder, gently. "It was a pleasure, Bud. I'll make sure we meet again." As they head toward the door together, boots thumping on the wooden floor in lockstep, he adds: "Any other advice, uh, as to a school for, well, you know?" His tone is just low enough for Jacob to hear, but no one else.

Jacob Walker has posed:
A shake of the head for that one. "Two strangers in a strange land, here," Jake notes, as he lets the other man precede him out the door. Already pulling a little black leather pouch from a pocket, one that proves to have neither money nor cards, but rolling papers and sweetly fragrant tobacco. He doesn't even glance at his hands; it's a trick they've done many a time.

Once it's complete, he holds it up before Buster in silent inquiry. You want one?

Cheyenne Brawley has posed:
     With a grateful nod, Buster makes a doorstop of himself long enough for Jake to follow. "Well, maybe you have an inkling as to who might have a roadmap, so to speak?"

Jacob Walker has posed:
Jacob Walker's expression is rueful. "Not a clue," he says, quietly. He produces a book of matches from the same pocket, pops one alight with a thumbnail. "I don't even know where you'd start," He's got enough manners to refrain from blowing smoke in Buster's face, at least, once he's got the cigarette lit. "Sorry I can't be more useful there."

Cheyenne Brawley has posed:
     Buster smiles. "Don't sweat it, cuz. If I learn anything, I'll holler at ya, and trust you to do the same." He walks up to the curb and lifts an arm, replete with dazzling platinum watch studded with countless small diamonds, as if a taxi would magically appear upon such a motion like they do in the movies. "Wanna split a cab?"

Jacob Walker has posed:
"Not this time, I think, but thank you. You have a good evening." He makes a motion somewhat suggestive of a bow, and then he's turning neatly to go ambling down the sidewalk. Heading for what's presumably the nearest subway entrance.