Amid the raucous laughter of the summer-drunken crowd they move, laughing among themselves, apart from, though among, the mobs of tourists. Like a dark vertex of the sinister handful of youth, she centers the universe and the group, and she slides a deceptively warm smile at the world about her. From her waist to about three inches above her knees twirl sheaths of rich coloured light cottons and rough black silks. Above she wears a simple white camisole of a predictable cotton blend, which has been decoratively stitched by hand with thick colourful cords, and she forgoes an over shirt. Slung about her hips, a chain of a thousand, tiny glittering metal chimes sparkles and dances; bells and black ribbons are knotted at seeming random amid the wild, dark curls that fly from her head. The striking ensemble is completed by a brief leather jacket, rich with buckles, straps, and zippers, which comes down midway between her breasts and her hips, and sharp heeled black boots which came up to the middle of her calves.
Her companions, well, it barely matters what her companions are like, as the eye is drawn to her; and they trail like a trio of demonic shadows behind her.
She sends a restless eye meandering over the faces about her, she pays her train little mind; she does not even notice when they become involved in the altercation. She has moved on; her eye caught by a flash of brilliant blonde hair, and swirling suede, she now pursues a young man, who wanders listlessly through the crowds. Assured that her boys are right behind, she follows him down off the carousel, soaking up his motions, arrogant with youth, but timid, too, a youth far from home. There are patches of wear on the long suede coat that trails behind him, revealing, from the back, the occasional glimpse of slim, denim clad legs. She licks her lip, there is something fascinatingly fresh about this boy; a startling naïveté in the way he neglects to watch his back (a standard survival tactic in Santa Carla). Without ever seeing him fully, she has decided she wants him.
The boys are not behind her, though, they are circling round the idiot who had laid hands on one of their own. In his spitting contempt for youth, he has shoved his way through their ranks, nearly flooring the dark haired boy who was their most recently acquired companion.
Smiling wolfishly, they pushed him back and forth between them; slowly, deliberately they added mark after mark to the face. The violence was controlled, passionless, a point of law. A matter of fact. The man cried aloud, attracting the attention of a nearby security officer.
He broke their circle, wading in with a nightstick, grunting a few gruff threats. At the center of attention, he rounds on the small blonde who is noticeably at the head of the threesome. "I told you to stay off the boardwalk." The curly headed boy turned eyes away, murmured, "Did you?" "Go!" The blonde shook his head, jerked a gesture to his friends, "We'll go." They drift off in a menacing, mocking manner, regrouping into a casual line.
Following the blonde they pass again amid the throng, dismissing glimpse after glimpse of lone dark haired women, until the fourth, and the "youngest" lets out a low, startled sound halfway between a gasp and a groan.
"What's your problem?" The third, Paul, chuckles at the pitiful sound, and he and Marco turn to look at their companion. He jabs a shaking finger in the direction of his stare, indicating two forms half-hidden (though not from their eyes) by the shadows of the funhouse wall. Lovers they look from afar tucked together in a comforting embrace.
Their eyes widen in wonder, for they have found her, holding against her a pale young man, a stranger to them, whose sharp blue eyes are distant as she strokes his blonde hair.
"Fashion disaster," Marco sneers, in an effort to recover himself. The blonde in their leader's arms wears a long coat of that specifically bizarre brown suede that had been ubiquitous in the sixties; somewhere about two inches above his ankles its sweeping hem brakes off into fringe. Its collar, continuing along its split, is lined in a thin rope of darker, braided leather. To match the fringe at his feet, the sleeves break off into fringe about the palms of his hands, and there is an inoffensive pattern of shorter fringe across the back of his shoulders. The soft cotton shirt below it screams "'70s!" in its pattern and cut, bright (though faded) reds, and oranges, with browns and black, belled at the waist, sleeves floating down over his hands, and susceptible to the slightest puff of a breeze. The jeans had been of medium colour once, but are now pale and frayed with years of wear. They are flares, which look to be three inches shorter than they had once been, and show a good deal of the decrepit construction boots he wears. The uniting theme of his dress seems to be extreme age, and the coat and shirt were most likely intended for a slightly taller man.
"Yeh," Paul scoffs, "and a runaway, or I'm a virgin."
"You aren't?" Asks the young one slyly, startling his blonde companions.
"He must be," Marco laughs, "runaways are dependants, this kid's got to be at least 18."
"Fuck you two!"
She has been watching them throughout this exchange, now she shoots them a dangerous smile, and with the hand that is not resting against her companion's head she beckons to them, sharply.
They come, of course. "And where exactly have you boys been?"
They shift, guiltily under her glaring (black? brown?) eyes.
"Gee, Star…" The youngest starts, but she waves him to silence.
"Marco?" She tilts her head, inquisitively, and, as she presses her cheek against her companion's, it becomes clear that he must be entranced or drugged, for he is reactionless.
"Got in a fight," her sidekick mutters, sullenly, resentful of the demanding manner.
"Cause much trouble?" She smiles, intrigued.
"Yeah!" Paul interjected, glad to pass the blame, "Got us kicked off the board walk!"
"Izzat so?" She purses her lips, slightly, "Was it important, Marco?"
"Naw, just some asshole thinks he can push our Danyel around." Marco's reply is carefully laced with just the right amount of sarcasm.
"Izzat so?" She nods, and waves a hand, dismissing the tension. "Nobody messes with ours, man. Good call. Let's get home."
They gape at her.
"That's it?" Paul demands, "Let's get home? No explanation, no introduction? Just, 'let's get home'?"
"Hey, if you missed it, you missed." She turns, guiding the stranger firmly, but Marco lays a hand on her arm.
"C'mon, Star, enlighten us."
"Alright, alright. Boys, this is David, he's coming home with us."
"He's what?"
"You heard me, so let's go."
Not far away, in a brightly-lit shop stuffed with bright newsprint, two teenage boys are suddenly troubled.
The younger, darker-haired of the two frowns, and turning to his brother mutters,
"Am I alone, or did you just get a
chill down your spine?"
His brother nods grunting assent, "Indeed, the sound man of the universe just
played an ominous bar."
"Opening of Beethoven's Fifth?"
"Or darker."
The dark haired boy shudders, and his older brother lays a reassuring hand on his shoulder,
"Hang in there; there are only six hours 'til dawn."
He grunts assent, and they return to their previous occupations: stalking prospective recruits, and glaring at prospective shoplifters, respectively.