As necessary as these full-zip hoods and jackets were they were a mite inconvenient when it came to actually eating and heaven forbid Ignatio felt a little queazy whilst in full gear. Sometimes you couldn't disengage the maglock fast enough and suddenly you're stewing in your own stomach brew. Real delightful to a nose as sensitive as his. Though his visual acuity wasn't perfect given he had a full-face hood encompassing his head he could see the little cameras swiveling in their domed cases, panning the whole street. There weren't too many of those in Brooklyn, they tended to be trashed just as quickly as they were installed and it took weeks, sometimes months, for the city to get anyone ballsy enough to head out and actually do the job.
Ignatio ducked behind a street light adorned with multiple holo-ads pushing anything from new plasma razors to Mutt-B-Gone hybrid deterrents and slunk into a narrow alley between two buildings. There was a door inset into one of the buildings, utterly unremarkable to passersby and non-locals but inside it was brightly lit with all manner of colours and vibrating with electro music. A club, illegal technically, but there were bigger fish to fry than a few missing permits. It wasn't the safest of places for the less hominid folk at times given its proximity to Manhattan and the affluent humans there but it was the best the neighbourhood had to offer.
The bar was approached and the bartender leaned against the steel counter, leering at this hooded stranger. "Unzip, buddy." Ignatio lifted a hand which in natural lighting would be very obviously grey and clawed but in the multi-coloured strobe lighting of the club it was easier to overlook the oddity, "I'm chipped."
The bartender was stout and gruff-looking man who probably had had enough of people long before his shift even began did not budge. "No face, no service."
Well, shit. "I just want some soylent, man. You really need to see my face for something that costs you five bucks a pound to buy?" Apparently yes because the guy walked away from him in favour of a much less mysterious customer, leaving Ignatio hanging with an empty belly. "Prick." He muttered as he slunk away from the bar and back towards the exit which shut with a slam. The metal door might've cut his tail clean off if it wasn't hidden in one of his pant legs. Back onto the street he went, keeping out of the way of others, eyes peeled for some street meat. Hookers? No. Street vendors - they tended to be less selective over their clientele. Ig was hungry and he didn't have the luxury of being able to eat in public.
Another evening, another anonymous club -- although "club", in Toreth's opinion, was rather generous for the haze and gutter of this Brooklyn fleapit. The illicit venue presented itself as an intimate, no-frills establishment; the kind of place forgotten by most upstanding citizens, although he wagered it was a kind of willful ignorance. Everything seemed to emphasize an atmosphere of cheap anonymity -- smoke, strobes, and the deafening pulse of bass that drowned out any expectation of conversation. Thank god.
It wasn't one of Toreth's usual haunts: sticky floors and unsavoury ushers weren't quite his idea of a good time. Still, he had agreed to meet a friend nearby, which is how he found himself braving this pisspot of a club (in Brooklyn, no less -- Brooklyn!) for the sake of friendship. Wiping a stripe of grime from the elbows of his jacket, Toreth sighed theatrically and cursed his own good nature.
It didn't help, of course, that his friend was over an hour late. Toreth wasn't exactly a stickler for punctuality -- he knew the virtues of fashionable delay better than anyone -- but it wasn't quite so fashionable when he was on the waiting end.
He reached for his glass and noticed, with the resignation of someone about to waste more money on cheap scotch, that it was empty. Toreth motioned for the bartender, cheerfully noting the absurdity of being driven to alcoholism by ennui and flaky friends.
The bartender, however, seemed to be busy with another patron -- a man who stuck out like a sore thumb among the other denizens, chiefly because his face was completely hooded. No need for that sort of modesty, Toreth thought with some amusement; blacklight and cheap alcohol were quite sufficient, and far more affordable than cosmetic surgery. And far less suspicious than a hood.
He watched with blatant curiosity as the bartender exchanged a few words with the Needlessly Modest Stranger, noting the firm dismissal of the other patron before he turned his attention to Toreth. Watching with an absentminded interest as the other patron slunk out of the club, Toreth shrugged when the bartender asked for his order. The place suddenly felt stiflingly boring. An hour was long enough -- any longer, and he might start to resent his old friend. He quickly paid his tab with a credit chip, and walked briskly out of the club, following the other patron with the kind of interest that only boredom could cultivate.
Once he had caught up to the stranger, Toreth sidled up to him without any reserve or regard for personal space, and grinned. "Never met anyone too shy to show their face in that kind of pisshole," Toreth drawled, extending his hand amicably. "And tonight feels like a 'first time' kind of night. I'm Toreth."
It wasn't one of Toreth's usual haunts: sticky floors and unsavoury ushers weren't quite his idea of a good time. Still, he had agreed to meet a friend nearby, which is how he found himself braving this pisspot of a club (in Brooklyn, no less -- Brooklyn!) for the sake of friendship. Wiping a stripe of grime from the elbows of his jacket, Toreth sighed theatrically and cursed his own good nature.
It didn't help, of course, that his friend was over an hour late. Toreth wasn't exactly a stickler for punctuality -- he knew the virtues of fashionable delay better than anyone -- but it wasn't quite so fashionable when he was on the waiting end.
He reached for his glass and noticed, with the resignation of someone about to waste more money on cheap scotch, that it was empty. Toreth motioned for the bartender, cheerfully noting the absurdity of being driven to alcoholism by ennui and flaky friends.
The bartender, however, seemed to be busy with another patron -- a man who stuck out like a sore thumb among the other denizens, chiefly because his face was completely hooded. No need for that sort of modesty, Toreth thought with some amusement; blacklight and cheap alcohol were quite sufficient, and far more affordable than cosmetic surgery. And far less suspicious than a hood.
He watched with blatant curiosity as the bartender exchanged a few words with the Needlessly Modest Stranger, noting the firm dismissal of the other patron before he turned his attention to Toreth. Watching with an absentminded interest as the other patron slunk out of the club, Toreth shrugged when the bartender asked for his order. The place suddenly felt stiflingly boring. An hour was long enough -- any longer, and he might start to resent his old friend. He quickly paid his tab with a credit chip, and walked briskly out of the club, following the other patron with the kind of interest that only boredom could cultivate.
Once he had caught up to the stranger, Toreth sidled up to him without any reserve or regard for personal space, and grinned. "Never met anyone too shy to show their face in that kind of pisshole," Toreth drawled, extending his hand amicably. "And tonight feels like a 'first time' kind of night. I'm Toreth."
In Brooklyn, someone as needlessly modest as Ignatio wasn't terribly uncommon but it still drew eyes. Usually eyes of the suspicious kind because only a criminal would be so keen on hiding their identity. That, or someone immensely self-conscious about their less than attractive appearance. Being inhuman was one strike against him, being an unattractive non-human was second.
At long last Ignatio found his oasis, an old fashioned steel cart fixed with a canopy and a neon sign rather than a holo one attached to the side that served as the 'front':
Millenium Dogs
A flimsy attempt at recreating the cuisine of the 21st century no doubt, and the 'dogs' were probably made out of the same stuff all the other meat came from - lab-grown genetically engineered... things. It was rare for meat to come from actual animals anymore. Whatever, Ig didn't care. It was better than soylent. A handful of crumpled bills and a few tarnished coins were slapped on the metal counter and the cart operator - a synthetic maybe, from the smell, but maybe that was the cart itself - took it in silence. Moments later she produced an enormous hot dog and gestured to the tiny side table of condiments: ketchup, mustard, and questionable relish. The onions were no longer onions but well on their way to being evolved life forms.
Condiments forgone, Ignatio turned away from the cart so that he may slink into the shadows and scarf that fucker down and instead came face to face with what he assumed to be a human with some moderate body mods. Unseen behind the hood Ig looked down at the offered hand, then to his hot dog. God damn it. He outstretched his own, taking Toreth's hand in his own off-colour and slightly velvety one. "Uh, Ignatio. I don't show my face anywhere."
At long last Ignatio found his oasis, an old fashioned steel cart fixed with a canopy and a neon sign rather than a holo one attached to the side that served as the 'front':
Millenium Dogs
A flimsy attempt at recreating the cuisine of the 21st century no doubt, and the 'dogs' were probably made out of the same stuff all the other meat came from - lab-grown genetically engineered... things. It was rare for meat to come from actual animals anymore. Whatever, Ig didn't care. It was better than soylent. A handful of crumpled bills and a few tarnished coins were slapped on the metal counter and the cart operator - a synthetic maybe, from the smell, but maybe that was the cart itself - took it in silence. Moments later she produced an enormous hot dog and gestured to the tiny side table of condiments: ketchup, mustard, and questionable relish. The onions were no longer onions but well on their way to being evolved life forms.
Condiments forgone, Ignatio turned away from the cart so that he may slink into the shadows and scarf that fucker down and instead came face to face with what he assumed to be a human with some moderate body mods. Unseen behind the hood Ig looked down at the offered hand, then to his hot dog. God damn it. He outstretched his own, taking Toreth's hand in his own off-colour and slightly velvety one. "Uh, Ignatio. I don't show my face anywhere."
Judging by Ignatio's earlier reticence, Toreth figured the man might have been a hybrid. He expected fur, scales, a paw, or even synthetica -- so the touch of a velvety-smooth hand, slightly clawed and off-gray in colour, earned an expression of surprised delight from him. He gave Ignatio's hand two playful, exaggerated shakes, entertained by their smooth-skinned solidarity. "That's cool; I don't need to see your face to know that we're kindred souls," Toreth said cheerfully, only half-joking.
Toreth gestured to Ignatio's hand. "The most important lesson I've learned in life? People with soft hands are always trustworthy. You got yours from good genes, and I got mine from dedicated skincare." He glanced at the uneaten hot dog in Ignatio's hand, realized he was being rude, and turned around to face the colourful streets. "So don't mind me," Toreth said over his shoulder, flipping his wrist nonchalantly as if to say it wasn't a big deal. "You go ahead and swallow that, er, Brooklyn delicacy, and I'll just look this way and picture what your face looks like."
There was a brief pause as Toreth waited for a nosy stranger to walk by. Toreth was rather conspicuous on the Brooklyn streets in his red, ostentatious blazer; almost as much as Ignatio had been in the club. As soon as the passerby was out of earshot, Toreth continued blithely: "Fair warning, though. I've seen squidbeastian horrors with tentacles for tongues -- it was a documentary -- so if I hear loud slurping behind me, that's automatically going to be my mental image of you."
Toreth wondered if Ignatio would just walk away and ditch him. It was a distinct possibility, and an unpleasant one, as Toreth was genuinely curious about the hybrid.
Toreth gestured to Ignatio's hand. "The most important lesson I've learned in life? People with soft hands are always trustworthy. You got yours from good genes, and I got mine from dedicated skincare." He glanced at the uneaten hot dog in Ignatio's hand, realized he was being rude, and turned around to face the colourful streets. "So don't mind me," Toreth said over his shoulder, flipping his wrist nonchalantly as if to say it wasn't a big deal. "You go ahead and swallow that, er, Brooklyn delicacy, and I'll just look this way and picture what your face looks like."
There was a brief pause as Toreth waited for a nosy stranger to walk by. Toreth was rather conspicuous on the Brooklyn streets in his red, ostentatious blazer; almost as much as Ignatio had been in the club. As soon as the passerby was out of earshot, Toreth continued blithely: "Fair warning, though. I've seen squidbeastian horrors with tentacles for tongues -- it was a documentary -- so if I hear loud slurping behind me, that's automatically going to be my mental image of you."
Toreth wondered if Ignatio would just walk away and ditch him. It was a distinct possibility, and an unpleasant one, as Toreth was genuinely curious about the hybrid.
Perhaps it was a good thing Toreth couldn't see Ignatio's face because it was highly expressive and it would be so plainfully obvious he was rather perturbed by the ostensibly human fellow. Oh, it wasn't like there was no such thing as friendly folk it was just a little rare in these parts, and it wasn't often strangers thought to approach the weirdo in the bank robber getup for idle chit chat.
Ignatio looked at his own hand, the one shaken, when its softness was mentioned and its correlation with his trustworthiness. He snorted quietly, the sound muffled by the black fabric pressed against his nose. "Do you live your life by that? Anyone with nice skin is a friend of yours?" He sounded a mite incredulous but he was doing his best to be polite about it. It wouldn't do to be rude to someone who thus far had been nothing but polite to him.
It wasn't immediately clear to him why Toreth was turning away from him until he clarified it himself. Oh, he was letting him eat, and in relative privacy. Well that was... considerate. Most people would be chomping at the bit by now to unmask him. Just a peek, just to see the 'man' behind it. The few that managed to do so generally regretted it. Ignatio took pause as a nosy passerby strolled on by, leering at them through the corner of his enormous eyes until they were well on their way.
The hot dog switched hands so that the sleeve with the maglock chip embedded in it was free to disengage the maglock and unsip the hood, "No tentacles, and nothing insectoid either." Ig assured Toreth before cramming the dog in his maw, snapping it down in a few massive bites. The benefits of having such a big mouth. Still a bit noisy, however, just nothing... Lovecraftian in nature. After drawing his tongue across his lips and wiping his hands on his pants, Ig zipped himself up again, maglock engaged.
"Do you usually approach randoms on the street? Or is it only the ones dressed like dusters?" He'd been told numerous times before he looked like a duster. Alas, he was nothing so exciting as that - just an accessory to crime.
Ignatio looked at his own hand, the one shaken, when its softness was mentioned and its correlation with his trustworthiness. He snorted quietly, the sound muffled by the black fabric pressed against his nose. "Do you live your life by that? Anyone with nice skin is a friend of yours?" He sounded a mite incredulous but he was doing his best to be polite about it. It wouldn't do to be rude to someone who thus far had been nothing but polite to him.
It wasn't immediately clear to him why Toreth was turning away from him until he clarified it himself. Oh, he was letting him eat, and in relative privacy. Well that was... considerate. Most people would be chomping at the bit by now to unmask him. Just a peek, just to see the 'man' behind it. The few that managed to do so generally regretted it. Ignatio took pause as a nosy passerby strolled on by, leering at them through the corner of his enormous eyes until they were well on their way.
The hot dog switched hands so that the sleeve with the maglock chip embedded in it was free to disengage the maglock and unsip the hood, "No tentacles, and nothing insectoid either." Ig assured Toreth before cramming the dog in his maw, snapping it down in a few massive bites. The benefits of having such a big mouth. Still a bit noisy, however, just nothing... Lovecraftian in nature. After drawing his tongue across his lips and wiping his hands on his pants, Ig zipped himself up again, maglock engaged.
"Do you usually approach randoms on the street? Or is it only the ones dressed like dusters?" He'd been told numerous times before he looked like a duster. Alas, he was nothing so exciting as that - just an accessory to crime.
Toreth stood idly by, absentmindedly massaging his neck as he gave Ignatio some privacy to enjoy (engulf?) dinner. He watched the bustle of the colourful city, the city bathed in neon; the city that came alive at night. Quartz-halogen flooded the streets, illuminating people and objects of interest, while grime and gutter receded into shadow. In a way, it was the magic of the night: even this tired neighbourhood could be transformed into a world of wonders by artful complements of light and shadow.
As a bonus, it made Toreth's hair look good.
His smile turned a shade indulgent when he heard Ignatio's question, though he was still facing the street. It was the kind of smile that suggested Toreth was tempted to answer, "I live life by living life" -- which was to say, cheerfully and irreverently, with a penchant for deflection that didn't so much imply as it announced, in bright flashing neon, that Toreth preferred to take reality with a grain of salt.
"That's not the only maxim I live life by," Toreth went on blithely. "I've also learned that you should never let a camel put its nose in your tent." He paused. "Though I forget why." He was piqued by the chewing sounds behind him. Nothing eldritch, then. Well, at least he could eliminate that possibility. Nothing insectoid either, which -- thank god, because that would have been unusual given Ignatio's velvety-smooth hands. Throughout the meal, short-lived as it was, Toreth didn't turn around once. Although the temptation to sneak a peek was certainly there, it was more fun to figure it out on his own.
Listening for the telltale sound of a hood being re-zipped, Toreth spun around, a smile wide on his face. "To answer your question: absolutely," he said in a tone so serious, it was abundantly clear that it was anything but. "They say to live every day as if it were your last. I'm just following sound advice."
Toreth gestured to his smartwatch and checked it with an air of exaggeration. "Also, I was bored. Stood up by a friend who was probably murdered in his own home. Does that happen often around here?"
As a bonus, it made Toreth's hair look good.
His smile turned a shade indulgent when he heard Ignatio's question, though he was still facing the street. It was the kind of smile that suggested Toreth was tempted to answer, "I live life by living life" -- which was to say, cheerfully and irreverently, with a penchant for deflection that didn't so much imply as it announced, in bright flashing neon, that Toreth preferred to take reality with a grain of salt.
"That's not the only maxim I live life by," Toreth went on blithely. "I've also learned that you should never let a camel put its nose in your tent." He paused. "Though I forget why." He was piqued by the chewing sounds behind him. Nothing eldritch, then. Well, at least he could eliminate that possibility. Nothing insectoid either, which -- thank god, because that would have been unusual given Ignatio's velvety-smooth hands. Throughout the meal, short-lived as it was, Toreth didn't turn around once. Although the temptation to sneak a peek was certainly there, it was more fun to figure it out on his own.
Listening for the telltale sound of a hood being re-zipped, Toreth spun around, a smile wide on his face. "To answer your question: absolutely," he said in a tone so serious, it was abundantly clear that it was anything but. "They say to live every day as if it were your last. I'm just following sound advice."
Toreth gestured to his smartwatch and checked it with an air of exaggeration. "Also, I was bored. Stood up by a friend who was probably murdered in his own home. Does that happen often around here?"
It wasn't as though the city was exceptionally cut-throat or the likelihood of a person being genuine was minuscule, it was just the significant chance that a person could be making a move to swindle you. Toreth was friendly and evidently charismatic which was a little alarming. Fortunately any valuables of Ignatio's were buried in maglock-protected pockets or in his backpack which sported a very useful, and very illegal, Zero-Space generator.
"Uh-huh," Ig grunted as he slid his hands into the pockets of his jacket, "Wait, what's a camel?" He'd never actually gone to school given the circumstances of his existence so there were a great many things he was oblivious to. Things like the number of states in the country, the capitol cities, or what a kangaroo was. "Why would a camel put its nose in your tent? ... What's a tent?" Camping and other outdoor activities weren't extinct by any means but it was something reserved only for the rich who could afford to travel to the few national parks left and the fees to gain entry. That, and the poor sods that lived in the boonies outside the cities. For Ignatio, someone who had never left New York and never associated with affluent humans, it wasn't a concept he'd ever been exposed to.
"A lot of people here live like that, but not the same way you do. Most end up trying to get themselves killed." Without asking if Toreth would like to come along, Ig strode past him at a rather leisurely pace, the soles of his faux sneakers slapping on the concrete. They were just sneakers cleverly modified to fit over his very obvious paw-like feet to complete the illusion of human likeness. Ignatio really did go all out with his disguises but it was a mix of incredible self-consciousness and knowing all too well how others treated hybrids and dimensional aliens. "What? Murder? Depends on who you piss off. Keep your nose clean or at least be smart about what you do and you're not any more likely to get dusted here than in Manhattan." After a pause, he made an addendum, "Usually."
Ignatio sidestepped a pair of what could be assumed to be men dressed not unlike himself skulking down the sidewalk. Really, his getup wasn't that unusual, if a little bit over the top. "I take it you're not from Brooklyn. Not a whole lot of reason to come to Brooklyn if you don't live here," All assuming Toreth was actually following him, he'd look over at him, "Unless you're shopping." Wink wink, nudge nudge.
"Uh-huh," Ig grunted as he slid his hands into the pockets of his jacket, "Wait, what's a camel?" He'd never actually gone to school given the circumstances of his existence so there were a great many things he was oblivious to. Things like the number of states in the country, the capitol cities, or what a kangaroo was. "Why would a camel put its nose in your tent? ... What's a tent?" Camping and other outdoor activities weren't extinct by any means but it was something reserved only for the rich who could afford to travel to the few national parks left and the fees to gain entry. That, and the poor sods that lived in the boonies outside the cities. For Ignatio, someone who had never left New York and never associated with affluent humans, it wasn't a concept he'd ever been exposed to.
"A lot of people here live like that, but not the same way you do. Most end up trying to get themselves killed." Without asking if Toreth would like to come along, Ig strode past him at a rather leisurely pace, the soles of his faux sneakers slapping on the concrete. They were just sneakers cleverly modified to fit over his very obvious paw-like feet to complete the illusion of human likeness. Ignatio really did go all out with his disguises but it was a mix of incredible self-consciousness and knowing all too well how others treated hybrids and dimensional aliens. "What? Murder? Depends on who you piss off. Keep your nose clean or at least be smart about what you do and you're not any more likely to get dusted here than in Manhattan." After a pause, he made an addendum, "Usually."
Ignatio sidestepped a pair of what could be assumed to be men dressed not unlike himself skulking down the sidewalk. Really, his getup wasn't that unusual, if a little bit over the top. "I take it you're not from Brooklyn. Not a whole lot of reason to come to Brooklyn if you don't live here," All assuming Toreth was actually following him, he'd look over at him, "Unless you're shopping." Wink wink, nudge nudge.
Since moving to New York, Toreth had acquired his fair share of new experiences -- snow, 'gourmet' soylent, and the disturbing discovery that most bars served watered-down liquor, to name a few. However, he couldn't ever remember having to explain what a camel was. Contemplating the question with a sincerity that lasted all of two seconds, Toreth made a quick wave-like gesture with his hand that approximated a deformed mountain.
"Camels are the shuttlecabs of the desert," He explained in that take-me-seriously-at-your-own-peril tone of voice. "Except they have these humps on the back that dig into your crotch. Rather uncomfortable, really -- I'm glad New York isn't a desert."
He paused when Ignatio moved to walk past him, leaving behind a faint whiff of barbecued meat. There was a split second of hesitation before he fell into step with the hooded hybrid, inviting himself along with a nonchalance that implied Toreth had a habit of making himself welcome unless he was explicitly instructed to fuck off -- typically facing the barrel of a gun.
As they made their way down the street, his gaze flicked over to two strangers dressed rather similarly to Ignatio. Remembering their conversation earlier, Toreth shifted his gaze downward, the corners of his mouth twitching when he saw that the men had rough hands. A daily dose of confirmation bias was good for the soul.
His smile grew when he heard Ignatio's question. "Nah, I live in Manhattan: also the center of the universe." His tone implied a mild contempt for the city-within-a-city, although it was easy to snub the rich and refined when you were privileged enough to live amongst them. "I was supposed to meet a friend here, he's a hybrid like you." Toreth looked over and smirked. "Although not quite so secretive." He absentmindedly checked his smartwatch again, noting that he hadn't heard from his friend for a couple of hours now. Maybe he ought to be worried. On the other hand -- "And I'm always happy to shop. Why, are you selling?"
"Camels are the shuttlecabs of the desert," He explained in that take-me-seriously-at-your-own-peril tone of voice. "Except they have these humps on the back that dig into your crotch. Rather uncomfortable, really -- I'm glad New York isn't a desert."
He paused when Ignatio moved to walk past him, leaving behind a faint whiff of barbecued meat. There was a split second of hesitation before he fell into step with the hooded hybrid, inviting himself along with a nonchalance that implied Toreth had a habit of making himself welcome unless he was explicitly instructed to fuck off -- typically facing the barrel of a gun.
As they made their way down the street, his gaze flicked over to two strangers dressed rather similarly to Ignatio. Remembering their conversation earlier, Toreth shifted his gaze downward, the corners of his mouth twitching when he saw that the men had rough hands. A daily dose of confirmation bias was good for the soul.
His smile grew when he heard Ignatio's question. "Nah, I live in Manhattan: also the center of the universe." His tone implied a mild contempt for the city-within-a-city, although it was easy to snub the rich and refined when you were privileged enough to live amongst them. "I was supposed to meet a friend here, he's a hybrid like you." Toreth looked over and smirked. "Although not quite so secretive." He absentmindedly checked his smartwatch again, noting that he hadn't heard from his friend for a couple of hours now. Maybe he ought to be worried. On the other hand -- "And I'm always happy to shop. Why, are you selling?"
Ignatio continued to stare at Toreth, especially when he began his explanation of what a camel was. He didn't quite understand what he was trying to illustrate other than it was supposed to be a camel. Not knowing what one looked like it wasn't particularly helpful. After several moments of trying to process what was being communicated to him he just reached into one of his pockets that until now had seemed to only be a design feature sewn into the jacket and pulled out a cellular phone. It appeared to be a piece of rectangular glass or a material that resembled it, one side darkened so that the images displayed were visible. Either end was capped with stylish polished steel where the less attractive components were housed. Gone were the days of bulky batteries - micro-cells and graphene were in.
Ignatio turned the screen on, which was basically the entirety of the glass itself, and meandered his way to his search engine of choice to pull up pictures of this fabled camel himself. Sure, he had the world at his fingertips but it never really occurred to him to search for things he didn't need to know or hadn't heard of. After a couple moments he showed the phone to Toreth, a camel filling the screen, "This?" If it was confirmed he'd return to fiddling with his phone, bringing up a gallery of tents. "Oh. This shit looks prehistoric. Is the whole camel in a tent thing a proverb from like 200 years ago or something?"
Enough with being educated on the outside world. The phone was slipped back into that pocket that didn't look like a pocket and the pair continued their impromptu friendly stroll. It made sense for Toreth to be in Brooklyn if he was waiting on a hybrid or synthetic, or even a trans-dimensional, rather than just 'seeing the sights'. There wasn't much to see in Brooklyn once you've seen Manhattan. There was no place else like Manhattan. "It's... about comfort. Brooklyn's hybrid friendly for the most part but I've seen enough to find my extensive... costuming necessary." That and he liked to avoid having his face on record, and with Big Brother's eyes all over the place it was easier to just never show his face in public. It was dangerous for even unassuming, non-offending citizens, nevermind criminals and Squidnet employees like himself.
"I don't sell anything. This is just the place you want to be if you want to buy something you can't get in that disco ball of a city." In other words if you wanted something illegal Brooklyn was where you went. Of course Ignatio wasn't going to be the one to divulge to Toreth where he might find these brokers and dealers because the guy was a mite too friendly and shiny to trust that far.
Ignatio turned the screen on, which was basically the entirety of the glass itself, and meandered his way to his search engine of choice to pull up pictures of this fabled camel himself. Sure, he had the world at his fingertips but it never really occurred to him to search for things he didn't need to know or hadn't heard of. After a couple moments he showed the phone to Toreth, a camel filling the screen, "This?" If it was confirmed he'd return to fiddling with his phone, bringing up a gallery of tents. "Oh. This shit looks prehistoric. Is the whole camel in a tent thing a proverb from like 200 years ago or something?"
Enough with being educated on the outside world. The phone was slipped back into that pocket that didn't look like a pocket and the pair continued their impromptu friendly stroll. It made sense for Toreth to be in Brooklyn if he was waiting on a hybrid or synthetic, or even a trans-dimensional, rather than just 'seeing the sights'. There wasn't much to see in Brooklyn once you've seen Manhattan. There was no place else like Manhattan. "It's... about comfort. Brooklyn's hybrid friendly for the most part but I've seen enough to find my extensive... costuming necessary." That and he liked to avoid having his face on record, and with Big Brother's eyes all over the place it was easier to just never show his face in public. It was dangerous for even unassuming, non-offending citizens, nevermind criminals and Squidnet employees like himself.
"I don't sell anything. This is just the place you want to be if you want to buy something you can't get in that disco ball of a city." In other words if you wanted something illegal Brooklyn was where you went. Of course Ignatio wasn't going to be the one to divulge to Toreth where he might find these brokers and dealers because the guy was a mite too friendly and shiny to trust that far.
Toreth stared unabashedly as Ignatio conducted a search on a tech'd-up cell for camels and tents. Apparently his explanation was less than sufficient, which had a surprise factor of minus several million. When a photo of a camel popped up on the display, Toreth hummed his confirmation. "What did I tell you? Shuttlecab of the desert."
He observed with some amusement as Ignatio went on to flip through images of tents. Some were more modern models, spacious and self-assembling, while others had that early-millennial aesthetic and required manual assembly. How perfectly passé. When Ignatio questioned the relevance of his proverb, Toreth put a hand to his chest and made an expression of mock-indignation. "Of course not!" He exclaimed, scandalized to the point of parody. "It makes perfect sense today. Would you let a camel into your tent?"
Toreth was almost certain there was a second part to the proverb. Oh well; he wasn't one to dwell on lost logic.
Satisfied that the conversation had reached a respectable level of absurdity, Toreth cheerfully followed along as the motley pair made their evening stroll. "Have you lived in Brooklyn your whole life, then?" Ignatio looked like the type of person who knew his way around this district.
A small buzz on his wrist signaled to Toreth that it was almost curfew -- not strictly enforced, but it served as a recommendation to most citizens that street-level promenades at this hour were highly likely to be hazardous to one's health. As he did with most other reasonable advice, including the doctors' recommendations to smoke less, exercise more, and eat healthy, Toreth ignored it with ease.
He shrugged when Ignatio claimed not to be a dealer. Toreth supposed there was some possibility that he might come off as a narc, though if that were true, he'd probably be the worst L7 in Manhattan.
He observed with some amusement as Ignatio went on to flip through images of tents. Some were more modern models, spacious and self-assembling, while others had that early-millennial aesthetic and required manual assembly. How perfectly passé. When Ignatio questioned the relevance of his proverb, Toreth put a hand to his chest and made an expression of mock-indignation. "Of course not!" He exclaimed, scandalized to the point of parody. "It makes perfect sense today. Would you let a camel into your tent?"
Toreth was almost certain there was a second part to the proverb. Oh well; he wasn't one to dwell on lost logic.
Satisfied that the conversation had reached a respectable level of absurdity, Toreth cheerfully followed along as the motley pair made their evening stroll. "Have you lived in Brooklyn your whole life, then?" Ignatio looked like the type of person who knew his way around this district.
A small buzz on his wrist signaled to Toreth that it was almost curfew -- not strictly enforced, but it served as a recommendation to most citizens that street-level promenades at this hour were highly likely to be hazardous to one's health. As he did with most other reasonable advice, including the doctors' recommendations to smoke less, exercise more, and eat healthy, Toreth ignored it with ease.
He shrugged when Ignatio claimed not to be a dealer. Toreth supposed there was some possibility that he might come off as a narc, though if that were true, he'd probably be the worst L7 in Manhattan.
Ignatio cocked his head a little like a chicken as he stared at the picture of the camel, "People ride these? Like horses?" People didn't really own horses anymore since the space needed to house them wasn't really available in the city, and he couldn't remember where he learned about horses, but he had. "They look like they can't be assed to do fuck all."
It really was unfortunate Toreth couldn't see Ig's face because the expressions he gave the guy were just priceless. He stared at the flashy fellow, brows knitted together in a mix of confusion and incredulity. "I don't even have a tent and I've never seen a camel so I don't really know if I'd let it in or not."
The idea that Toreth was hopped up on some kind of designer drug was floating into Ignatio's head by this point. The guy was a little off the wall, not alarmingly so, but just enough. Still he humoured him because the fact of the matter was Ig didn't mind the company. "Uh, yep." A lie, he'd spent several years on Staten Island when he first... arrived but admitting he'd spent any length of time there would likely plant the seeds of doubt in the mind of an L7 - though Toreth didn't quite strike him as a square. A parallelogram, more like.
"Did you grow up in Manhattan? You don't sound like it." Ignatio suddenly started crossing the street with little warning other than the swarm of synthetics and hybrids crowding around the entrance of The Farm, a night club that catered specifically to hybrids and similar social outcasts. It was easier to side step them than try to wade through them.
It really was unfortunate Toreth couldn't see Ig's face because the expressions he gave the guy were just priceless. He stared at the flashy fellow, brows knitted together in a mix of confusion and incredulity. "I don't even have a tent and I've never seen a camel so I don't really know if I'd let it in or not."
The idea that Toreth was hopped up on some kind of designer drug was floating into Ignatio's head by this point. The guy was a little off the wall, not alarmingly so, but just enough. Still he humoured him because the fact of the matter was Ig didn't mind the company. "Uh, yep." A lie, he'd spent several years on Staten Island when he first... arrived but admitting he'd spent any length of time there would likely plant the seeds of doubt in the mind of an L7 - though Toreth didn't quite strike him as a square. A parallelogram, more like.
"Did you grow up in Manhattan? You don't sound like it." Ignatio suddenly started crossing the street with little warning other than the swarm of synthetics and hybrids crowding around the entrance of The Farm, a night club that catered specifically to hybrids and similar social outcasts. It was easier to side step them than try to wade through them.
As the serendipitous pair continued on their evening promenade, rounding street corners and wandering off to god-knows-where, Toreth gave his new friend a lopsided smile and contemplated what he'd learned about this peculiar individual. Despite Ignatio's earlier reticence, the man had a straightforward manner that made him refreshingly fun to talk to -- which was a merciful departure from Manhattan's usual fare of sycophants and upper-class wageslaves.
Toreth sniggered when Ignatio made a remark about the camels' hilariously lazy appearance. "It's a survival strategy," He explained blithely, talking out of his ass with not a trace of shame. "They evolved to look like that, to deter humans from riding them." The jovial smile on Toreth's face seemed to be a permanent feature by now. "Too bad they underestimated man's propensity for exploitation. Who cares what it looks like? If it has four legs and a solid back, someone will see it as a piggyback."
That probably had unfortunate implications for some of the more...quadrupedal hybrids in NYC. Toreth would give them his utmost sympathy, if he didn't secretly find it rather entertaining. Parents gave their kids piggyback rides all the time -- not his, of course -- and he imagined it was fun to occasionally play "horsey".
His smile fluttered when he heard Ignatio's next question. To tell a lie, or simply some approximation of the truth? It took all of two seconds for Toreth to decide that deception at this time of night (and with two shots of cheap liquor in his bloodstream) was simply too much effort. "I'm from California, actually," he said in his usual cheerful tone, devoid of any nostalgic underpinnings. "No camels there, but it's pretty much a desert." The region had essentially dried up, and relied solely on water imported from Canada to remain hospitable. As such, housing tended to err on the expensive side.
His response was cut short when he noticed a swarm of Brooklyn denizens, crowding around the entrance of some decrepit establishment called The Farm. Huh. Interesting choice for a name, but considering the demographics of the crowd, Toreth supposed they knew their audience. Struck by the same spontaneity that had initially inspired him to talk to Ignatio, Toreth leaned in towards the other man and smiled conspiratorially. It was the kind of smile that promised excitement and wholesome fun -- although Toreth had a rather liberal definition of 'wholesome'.
"The Farm." Toreth rolled the words on his tongue, sampling it like an unusual dish. "Never heard of this place before -- I wonder if they have a 'petting zoo'." Quick flash of a grin. "Want to check it out?"
Toreth sniggered when Ignatio made a remark about the camels' hilariously lazy appearance. "It's a survival strategy," He explained blithely, talking out of his ass with not a trace of shame. "They evolved to look like that, to deter humans from riding them." The jovial smile on Toreth's face seemed to be a permanent feature by now. "Too bad they underestimated man's propensity for exploitation. Who cares what it looks like? If it has four legs and a solid back, someone will see it as a piggyback."
That probably had unfortunate implications for some of the more...quadrupedal hybrids in NYC. Toreth would give them his utmost sympathy, if he didn't secretly find it rather entertaining. Parents gave their kids piggyback rides all the time -- not his, of course -- and he imagined it was fun to occasionally play "horsey".
His smile fluttered when he heard Ignatio's next question. To tell a lie, or simply some approximation of the truth? It took all of two seconds for Toreth to decide that deception at this time of night (and with two shots of cheap liquor in his bloodstream) was simply too much effort. "I'm from California, actually," he said in his usual cheerful tone, devoid of any nostalgic underpinnings. "No camels there, but it's pretty much a desert." The region had essentially dried up, and relied solely on water imported from Canada to remain hospitable. As such, housing tended to err on the expensive side.
His response was cut short when he noticed a swarm of Brooklyn denizens, crowding around the entrance of some decrepit establishment called The Farm. Huh. Interesting choice for a name, but considering the demographics of the crowd, Toreth supposed they knew their audience. Struck by the same spontaneity that had initially inspired him to talk to Ignatio, Toreth leaned in towards the other man and smiled conspiratorially. It was the kind of smile that promised excitement and wholesome fun -- although Toreth had a rather liberal definition of 'wholesome'.
"The Farm." Toreth rolled the words on his tongue, sampling it like an unusual dish. "Never heard of this place before -- I wonder if they have a 'petting zoo'." Quick flash of a grin. "Want to check it out?"
Ignatio didn't buy Toreth's explanation on the evolution of camels, but it didn't become evident until he snorted derisively. "Oh, yeah, and I'm an eccentric millionaire." Sarcasm was extremely original. "Why would they bother now anyway? I can make something more reliable than an animal with the scrap parts in my apartment." His apartment which was more like a basement furnace room that he commandeered and toiled to make homey.
"I think most of that part of the country is desert. I'm not surprised you moved here." Toreth had the luxury to do so but a lot of... undesirables like Ignatio found relocation troublesome. A lot of avenues were closed to them. Upon the suggestion that they venture into the mutt club across the street Ig looked at Toreth, arched brow unseen. "I wouldn't say that in earshot of them. I dare you to pet them, though." Someone would probably take the guy's arm off and Ig would admittedly enjoy seeing that. "You have cover money? It's 20 bucks." Inflation was a bitch - that was cheap cover. He took pause, snorting, "Of course you do, you live in Manhattan."
Assuming Toreth would be in tow Ig crossed the street to join the crowd of people, almost entirely hybrids, waiting in line for entry. There were hybrids of all types, from the nearly human to practically animals on two legs. The line was long but moving relatively quickly, the bouncers really only checked for trouble-making types, namely humans. Poor Toreth. When it was their turn to fall under the bouncer's scrutiny, a burly vaguely reptilian woman, she narrowed her yellow eyes at both of them and wordlessly motioned for Ignatio to unzip his mask. He wasn't particularly thrilled by that but with any hope Toreth would stick behind him while he unzipped to reveal his face to the bouncer without pulling the hood down.
"He's with me," He pointed his thumb over his shoulder at Toreth. The bouncer didn't seem to be particularly thrilled, "He starts shit, we end it. And probably him too." She grunted before holding out her hand for the cover money, Ig relinquishing his before slinking through the entrance. He looked over his shoulder to make sure Toreth was allowed entry. As soon as his considerably less exotic acquaintance gained admittance all eyes were on him. While in Manhattan it was the hybrids that earned stares - some of distrust and many of disgust - Toreth was on the receiving end here. One step out of line and he was dog chow.
"Don't be an ass."
"I think most of that part of the country is desert. I'm not surprised you moved here." Toreth had the luxury to do so but a lot of... undesirables like Ignatio found relocation troublesome. A lot of avenues were closed to them. Upon the suggestion that they venture into the mutt club across the street Ig looked at Toreth, arched brow unseen. "I wouldn't say that in earshot of them. I dare you to pet them, though." Someone would probably take the guy's arm off and Ig would admittedly enjoy seeing that. "You have cover money? It's 20 bucks." Inflation was a bitch - that was cheap cover. He took pause, snorting, "Of course you do, you live in Manhattan."
Assuming Toreth would be in tow Ig crossed the street to join the crowd of people, almost entirely hybrids, waiting in line for entry. There were hybrids of all types, from the nearly human to practically animals on two legs. The line was long but moving relatively quickly, the bouncers really only checked for trouble-making types, namely humans. Poor Toreth. When it was their turn to fall under the bouncer's scrutiny, a burly vaguely reptilian woman, she narrowed her yellow eyes at both of them and wordlessly motioned for Ignatio to unzip his mask. He wasn't particularly thrilled by that but with any hope Toreth would stick behind him while he unzipped to reveal his face to the bouncer without pulling the hood down.
"He's with me," He pointed his thumb over his shoulder at Toreth. The bouncer didn't seem to be particularly thrilled, "He starts shit, we end it. And probably him too." She grunted before holding out her hand for the cover money, Ig relinquishing his before slinking through the entrance. He looked over his shoulder to make sure Toreth was allowed entry. As soon as his considerably less exotic acquaintance gained admittance all eyes were on him. While in Manhattan it was the hybrids that earned stares - some of distrust and many of disgust - Toreth was on the receiving end here. One step out of line and he was dog chow.
"Don't be an ass."