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abcudefgee · 7 months ago

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Say Nothing at All

(thanks for the inspiration, @enquiringangel lol I hope I did it justice)

One would think that between the pier, the town, the bluffs and their hiking trails, surfing and the beach, the tall, beautiful cliffs, and the Boardwalk itself, a place like Santa Carla would have more than enough for a thirteen year old to occupy themself for two short months of responsibility-less summer.

Idle hands, and all that. Maybe if Sam had been interested in any one of those other things, he wouldn't be here.

Arms hooked over the railing outside the Boardwalk main drag, staring out over the populace with listless eyes while the only two people in the town he could even classify as something close to 'friends' argued like nothing else in this world about....well, it had been fifteen minutes, and Sam still wasn't rightly sure.

"-which is why Luna was actually a better addition at that point than when they tried introducing her in the reboot-" Alan is explaining, but Edgar is hearing none of it.

"She is not! They completely mauled her character arc-"

"What character arc?" Alan scoffs. "they completely cut out the part about her Dad being devoured in front of her by the Red Crescent Pack, and turned everything into a soppy story about her boyfriend almost being turned into one of them and she has to save him with 'the power of love over the beast', which is not how it works-"

"I mean yeah sure, once you've got the tail, it's all over. We all know those comics are bullshit when it comes to the reality, but she-"

Sam's head slowly came down on the rail, forehead thunking against the wooded beam.

Anywhere else, and Sam chose to be here. Granted, he thinks sullenly, eyes darting over to a rack where various bikes (in particular, motorized ones) were parked, he doesn't exactly have the wheels to do much else. The Boardwalk was close enough to peddle, but he'd need something with a lot more power to actually get around town.

"Hey, listen, we've got a third party here. Sam!" Alan turns to him.

He's already warming up his eye rolls.

"Regardless of the shitty writing that ignores so much of how werewolves actually are, do you think it's a better story that Luna Greenfern acts on her own to get vengeance for her father and slaughters the rabid pack of killer werewolves with her bare hands as one of their own, or crying over her boyfriend's passed out body and her tears magically make him all better?" Asks Alan.

Edgar makes an indignant noise. "That's not what happened!"

"It's basically what happened."

"What kind of name is Luna Greenfern?" Sam comments.

Both brothers open their mouths, likely to begin explaining (or admonishing) even further, but they don't get the chance. The sound of high-pitched revving comes their way, and in an instant, both Alan and Edgar cut off their own words, look at each other, and then turn as a unit to face the noise. Sam blinks, and looks with them.

What comes down the way, parting the crowd around them with annoyed glares and grumbles thrown their way, is a group of kids on dirtbikes. None of which looked very new, but certainly imposing enough to command their space against plain bikes and scooters. Astride them was a group of boys. Sam and the Frog's age. they all seemed to share the same style - California mini-punk. Their shirts were sleeveless, de-armed at home with kitchen scissors, pants worn and distressed, their hair was long, or spiked, or made choppy with those same scissors. (If Sam had ever had the inclination and then dared acted upon it, Mom would have had a shit-fit to see him.)

The one in the front, with the best-taken care of bike, with the shortest hair spiked in the front, wore a jean jacket. It had one sleeve, the other purposefully torn off. The sleeve side had a long, black snake twisting around it, terminating in a cobra's spread hood and bared fangs. His eyes were dark, to match his hair, and he looked over Sam and the Frogs with a happy sort of disdain.

How many punks on bikes could one town take?

"Freddy," Alan says, doing his best to square his shoulders. Same recognizes the look on his face, the same he had the first night they met a couple weeks ago. Head tilted back, lips prepare to sneer.

Edgar, with his actually square shoulders, stood silently by his brother, arms crossed, boots at shoulder width, jaw set. Sending back the glare as good as he was given.

The lead boy, Freddy, apparently, scoffed. "Did your folks finally get sober enough to realize they owned a business?"

Alan shoots back, "Did yours finally get drunk enough to forget they have a son who still owes community service?"

There are a couple of gasps that are quickly muffled in the group of rival boys at Alan's accusation, but it's quickly cut off, almost with an understanding of what their leader will do if he chooses to rise to the taunt. Luckily, it seems he's got a little more brains that pride. Or maybe this just happened that regularly, but he doesn't react overmuch. Just continues to glare.

Sam makes the mistake of shifting his footing.

Eyes shoot to him instead.

Freddy twitches his chin towards him. "Who the fuck is this? Cindy Lauper's disowned cousin?"

There are snickers from the gathered, and Alan and Edgar glance back at Sam. Eyebrows raised.

He's on his own.

Sam shrugs, leaning back against the railing. It was a fine, breezy night, the 'Walk was hopping, the sights were seizure-inducing. What could bother him?

"Is everyone in Cali this complementary, or is there something about me specifically?" He smiles, placing a hand on his chest.

Freddy grips the handles of his bike, knuckles white as his glare turns actually quite angry. "Watch it, baby fag."

Suddenly, the air feels a lot thicker, and Sam is hard pressed not to so much as twitch his face. Edgar and Alan are standing at attention, focused on the little gang, who look equally prepared to make the leap forward at a moment's notice. This is neutral territory, outside any shop or home. All's fair, and it's anyone's game. Who will strike first...

"Well that wasn't a very nice word."

And suddenly the air seems too thin.

All eyes, regardless of affiliation or prior engagement, now fly over to the voice. Up, towards the top of the fake cabana at the end of the 'Walk they're all gathered near. Smiling down at them from his perch, like some grinning bird of prey. His jacket shines in a smeared, muted rainbow of colors and beadwork, violent, pornographic patches and embroidery that any of the boys on the ground's parents would beat them black and blue for daring to wear on their persons.

He stands and without taking so much as a second to even look down, jumps and lets himself fall the nearly eight feet from the roof to the ground. He lands with only a small jingle from his belt and the colorful fishing lures on his shoulder, feet firmly on the ground and rising from the crouch as though he'd just taken a step.

Marko raises a leather clad hand, holding a drink from some food joint, and takes a long, slow sip. He looks out, over the gathered group of young teens, lingering on the ones on the bikes. Sam watches each of them look away, down, to the side, anywhere else.

Marko's eyes land on Freddy.

Freddy is silent.

Marko's grin is wide and white. "How's your sis?"

Freddy jerks a little, like Marko's words were something like a knife, being toyed with close by, but not quite used. Not yet.

Alan and Edgar remained motionless, watching Marko's every move. Sam glanced at them for a moment, and their faces were emotionless.

In a voice that struggles to find its footing, Freddy answers, "She's fine. Um. Yeah."

Marko clicks his tongue. "Good."

His gaze suddenly flicks over, to the other side. (Sam can see Freddy actually slump a little in his seat on the bike, as though released from some kind of hold.)

Marko nods his head to Sam. "Sup."

"Hi," Sam says, a little awkwardly. "Where's uh. Everyone?"

Marko shrugs. "I know Mike went with David out past the pier. Not sure about anyone else."

Sam sighs. "If he comes back after three again without calling, Mom's gonna go praying mantis on him."

Marko smirks. "I'll pass it on."

He turns back to the young gang. In his shadow, his measured, careless steps as he comes in close to them, one hand in his pocket, the other still holding his drink, they look a lot less...less. A gaggle of teenagers barely old enough to be worthy of the title, leaning into each other as he comes close, trying to give him space to pass without making it look like they were frightened. It was honestly a little bit funny...if it also wasn't so weird.

They acted like Marko would murk them if they so much as breathed wrong.

He paused at Freddy, smile gone flat, eyes half-lidded. His hand comes out, a single finger pointed to the young punk, who looks at it like it's a loaded gun.

"...I'd watch your mouth. After all, you're so young," he says in a simpering, mocking tone, "and we wouldn't want you to say something you'll regret. Yeah?"

Freddy doesn't speak. He just nods.

Marko's hand shoots forward. The whole gang recoils, Edgar and Alan jolting in their stances, prepared to rush forward, though to do what Sam has no earthly idea-

and Marko's fingers, in an incredibly short, violent motion, ruffle Freddy's spiny hair, mussing the gelled spikes into disarray. Little joviality in the action. He finishes by shoving his head away, almost tilting the kid off his bike entirely. Forcing him back.

Freddy doesn't react to shit.

Marko's grin is back full force, bringing his drink back up to clench teeth around the red straw that darkens with a pull.

"Tell Shelly we say hi, huh?"

Freddy just sullenly nods in silence again.

Marko casts a last glance to Sam, and then is off. Slipping into the ebb and flow of the crowds.

The sounds around them slowly come back into focus, the people, the scents and lights. Like it was all suspended under Marko's encompassing presence. People passed the silent two groups, knowing nothing of what just happened, what almost happened, what...could happen.

In any case, Alan seems to shake it first, stepping forward with a hard stare and a thumb thrown over his shoulder.

"I think you should get lost. They don't like bikes up here. Wouldn't wanna get in trouble again, yeah?"

Freddy hasn't really recovered from whatever the hell scare Marko had instilled in him, because he doesn't even bother throwing a last comment at Alan as he revs up his ride, and his gang of equally silent follows trail away after him.

As they pass, the look he throws Sam's way is...it's hard to say.

It's so fast, but it looks almost sorry.

"What the hell was that about?" Sam asks when they're gone, around the corner, and the sound of their bikes is faded into the normal din.

Alan breathes out, long and hissing through his teeth, and Edgar...well, he hasn't really changed, looking exactly his usual perma-Rambo self, but he is looking to Alan, like he can explain this better.

"...So, you and your brother hang out with those guys, right?" He starts, and Sam shrugs.

"Mike more than me. They don't mind me being around when he doesn't, but uh, you know. Stupid little brother spoiling the real fun, type shit," Sam grumbles. "Why?"

The brothers exchange yet another inscrutable look.

"There are...rumors," Edgar says, leading.

"...Okay?" Sam responds, as he so clearly wants. "I mean. I. I think I figured with the whole..."

He reaches up, and pinches his own ear piercing. It's not like they really tried to hide it, he doesn't think, but when you could defend yourself as well as the quartet could, then he didn't think it was really an issue. Being open.

Alan, however, actually waves that aside. "No. Not to do with that. It's other stuff."

Sam spits out an exasperated noise. "Like what, then?"

"They like to ride dangerously," Edgar says, voice low and really putting on the gruff edge now. "Really fast on the back roads, and they play hopscotch with big-rigs on the highway out of town sometimes."

"Someone said they caught them playing chicken on the railroad tracks with an actual train coming, once. They swear they had to have been hit," Alan adds.

Here it comes. The first big eye roll of the night. Edgar leans in close.

"...Some say they had their accidents years ago, and just forgot to stay dead."

And, there is it. Sam lets 'em roll.

Not that it has any great effect on the pair. Never does. If anything, skepticism seemed to encourage their efforts to convince the civilian plebeians of the town that the world of the night was ever-more populated with ever-more spooky beings.

"I mean, obviously it's bullshit," Alan states, clearly agreeing with Sam. "Ghosts are created from violent deaths yes, but they can't speak to humans."

...Or not agreeing quite as such. Fucking hell.

"Whatever," Sams says with a shake of his head. "Anything else? Are they also responsible for they guy who fell off the pier Grandpa mentioned, who also happened to be off his face drunk? Did they steal the First Street street sign? Should you feed them after midnight or should we be worried about revealing their true forms?"

Sam laughs a little at the last one. It's actually kinda funny, thinking of someone like Marko, small and a little bitey, going Gremlin on someone's ass. Complete with the white hair bit and sharp teeth, cackling laughter.

Edgar and Alan don't laugh.

Not that Sam really expected them to, but they don't even relax at seeing his nonchalant attitude. If anything, they look...more tense.

"...So, a couple years ago, there was this cop," Alan starts.

"No one liked him. He was the sort that gave you a ticket for going a single digit above the speed limit, and around here they don't last long because the home office doesn't like dealing with all the legal tape they end up making," Edgar grumbles.

"Well," Alan continues, "No one...really knows what happened, but you know how the...those guys, don't really have. You know. Plates? Or tags, or anything?"

"Yeah," Sam nods. He'd noticed, but it's not like he could comment. No one around here seemed to care.

"Apparently this cop cared. And they didn't like that."

...Oh no.

Something drops in Sam's stomach. Something real, since Freddy's rude remark.

"He went missing for three days, and they found him in his patrol car, really dazed and sick and insisting that he'd been driving home but couldn't seem to remember where all the right roads were, said they kept changing. He was also pretty beat up, so they figured it was a concussion that did it. He kept like. Flinching when people would touch him, it was fucking weird."

Sam's lips are thin. He doesn't feel so jokey now.

"How old was this guy?" he asks.

"Thirty-something, I think," Alan says, knowing what Sam was trying to insinuate.

"...And they think it was-?" Sam says, gesturing off to the crowds. The people of note somewhere out there, in them.

Edgar and Alan look at each other, and shrug. "It's just a rumor."

Sam look away from the pair again, out over the railing of the balcony. The shoreline was an endless black wall beyond, the stars and moon blotted out by the lights of the town.

In the distance, the sound of motors rose and fell with the acceleration of their riders.

Maybe he'd ask Mike if he wanted to stay in, tomorrow night.

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