Well, he wasn't sure how connected it was to Haven, but he'd found some people who had formed a group to pick up trash in Central Park. It wasn't political, had little to do with a lot of the humanitarian things he'd heard about from general chatter, but... hey, it was a Saturday morning, and what better use did he have for his time? Plus, it actually made a difference.

They all met at a Starbucks near the park. There were about ten people, overall. They discussed the plan, to clean, and where they would meet inside the park, and who was going to hand out trash spears. Who was going to hold plastic bags. Also, they discussed areas to avoid. From there, they rolled out.

Elliott stood near spear-man, who was handing out spears. He had a bunch of plastic bags. He was sack-man, master of the plastic sacks. Thankfully, spear stocks and sack stocks were getting low. Nearly everyone had their stuff. Once he was done, he could snag a spear and get to stabbing! 

Only two sacks were left in his hands. One for him, one for the next person in line. 

of course, they had extra sack stocks stashed behind spear man in a plastic bag box pyramid. Well, really, it was in a Radio Flyer red wagon, stacked high with cardboard boxes full of plastic bags and tools, but... for him, what he had was what he had. Someone else could take over bag duty. He wanted to spear some trash! 

They met at one of the thousands of Starbucks in New York City, which was a hop, skip and a jump away from the park. Some people came with friends, others came alone-- Gina was among those few solo-fliers. Of course, she'd signed-up with a few friends from the outreach club on-campus, but they'd somehow been sorted into different groups that would be cleaning other parks or public attractions.

Roles were delegated, tools were handed-out, and the group drew lines of where to clean and where to avoid. A faint smile quirked on the gargoyles' lips-- places to avoid? In a park? In the light of day?? How strange. One of the last assignments people were given, was that (if they decided to part from the group), they needed to use the buddy-system.

The gargoyle hummed. At least she'd get the opportunity to meet people. She nodded to a green guy.

"Wanna work together?"

She was dressed rather practically, for the weather and the task at-hand: jean shorts, a tank top, and a pair of over-sized sunglasses. While the weather was mild, she imagined that a few hours outside would push it to that "uncomfortably hot" temperature. As such, Gina had dressed pragmatically, and had also wrangled her hair into a bun.

"I'm Gina," she extended her hand, unabashed.

The next person in line had gray skin, horns, and wings. She reminded Elliott of those stone figures you sometimes see on old buildings and churches, hunched against the rain. Gargoyles, he thought they were called. They always looked so fierce, like they were protecting the buildings from the dark. Perfect perches to brood if one could climb up there, but he'd never been so gauche. The main difference between hunched fierce gargoyles and this gargoyle gal was that she was cute. And Elliott wasn't one to call ladies with obvious physical mutations cute very often, so that was saying something.

Maybe she wasn't a mutant, but she probably was. Nobody with physical mutations made crazy claims like him, of being out of this world... maybe not all physical mutants were born into it. The circumstances of ones birth could change how one viewed the world... though really, it was what one did with that life that determined who they were. But being born gray was entirely different than being pink, then turning gray.. or being human, then becoming a human fly. Hmmm... well. It was just a passing thought. He moved on from his momentary musing, to listen to what the gargoyle girl wanted to say.

She asked if he wanted to work with her, and extended a hand. Her shades made him realize his were still stuffed in the pockets of his slate gray cargo shorts. With the heat, he hadn't been able to wear his usual leather jacket. And black was a bad color for heat, so he'd gone with a tank top in red.

"Sure," Elliott answered her question. "I'm fine with that." How weird would it have been if he hadn't been 'fine with that'? He shook the thought off as he shook her hand.

It isn't hard to shake hands with a three fingered hand, but it feels different. Fingers don't grasp quite the same way. It's more spread out, and the grip is weaker. Her hand was gray, but it didn't feel like stone. Not too different at all.

He smiled at her, briefly revealing his pearly white set of teeth. They were a little jagged, like a zipper, but they were nice teeth.

"Here," he said as if in afterthought, holding out the plastic bag. "Guess you'll need this. Gina." He added the name on the end, after a slight pause, then realized he hadn't given his own name. Why, oh why, was he being an idiot?

"I'm Elliott," Elliott said. "By the way. Nice to meet you."

((OOC: feel free to grab us some spears and move to trash picking if you want!))

>> "Sure, I'm fine with that."

Gina cracked a small smile at the green guy’s nonchalant response. He had a limp-fish handshake, but she supposed that couldn’t be helped when you only had three fingers. Gina’s handshake subconsciously loosened so that it didn’t seem as though she was crushing his hand into submission. Gina’s own grip was self-assured and warm from the sunlight.

>> "Here. Guess you'll need this. Gina."

The guy fumbled a bit, and Gina graciously accepted the garbage bag. She was used to a little bit of fumbling. Some people stumbled over themselves because she was cute and they thought of her as such—others stumbled because she was a mutant and they were anxious around her. Given that this guy was green, she assumed it was the former.

“Thanks,” she said evenly, still smiling.

>> "I'm Elliott, by the way. Nice to meet you."

“Elliot,” she repeated, “The pleasure’s mine.”

The gargoyle retrieved a few spears and hastily returned, offering one to her partner-in-crime.

“So fancy,” she commented, “The only other time I did a clean-up like this, we had to use our hands. They didn’t give us spears or anything like that.” She was really moving-up in the world, if the presence of spears for trash was anything to go by.

“Let’s go stab some trash,” Gina said chipperly to her new compatriot.

Gracious. That was a good word to describe how she handled the whole situation. A guy acts a bit like an idiot, most women take it as a sign and run for the hills. He wasn't usually an idiot. Far from it, actually. It was quite gracious of her to give him the benefit of the doubt. Unless she was just being polite.

He took the proffered spear, and rested it butt-first on the grass, holding it like a walking stick. The bags had already been unfurled. No need to juggle here. He thanked her, with a nod.

>>"So fancy," Gina commented.

Elliott's right brow quirked up slightly at the curious descriptor. He listened. Gina continued. Her commentary left him mildly amused, but sober.

"Picking up trash by hand?" He asked. He didn't laugh at her. She was being serious. He could tell. "Well I'm real glad our people packed spears for this. Much fancier." He agreed with a nod. "And it makes things a lot easier." No bending to break your back, picking up plastic bags and soda cans.

Elliott knew where they were supposed to go next. He remembered the area from the group's outline, and was familiar with Central Park. It was about five minutes of walking from where they were, maybe eight, if they were slow. A nice patch of green by some trees and a path. Maybe close to some statue or fountain or something? He couldn't recall it down to that much exacting detail. Her chipper call to action had him glancing towards their destination out of reflex.

He turned back towards her, and nodded. "This way," Elliott said. A mild smile slipped across his face as he started the trek.

He knew it might not be the best idea, carrying the trash spear resting against his right shoulder like a weapon, but it felt right. It made him feel like a badass with a quarterstaff, or, well, a spear. The only thing cooler would have been a buckler and sheathe on his back, like some sort of warrior. A primitive barbarian. A slayer. However, the only thing he was slaying with his spear was litter.

As they walked, he spoke to her, musing. "You know, this is actually my first time doing something like this." Elliott said. "Lately, I've been trying to get more active with these sorts of things.. but so far it's really just been helping the homeless." There was no dismissive shrug at the thought, though it might've come off a little bit like downplaying what he did. He wasn't saying it to brag... but despite his best attempts at modesty, it might have come off as a humble brag.

>> "This way."

Gina followed Elliot down the trail, her spear bobbing as she walked. She drank in the surrounding park, gaze trailing over other people meandering about, preoccupied with their own lives. Gina felt similarly empowered by the spear, pretending it was some sort of sword.

>> "You know, this is actually my first time doing something like this. Lately, I've been trying to get more active with these sorts of things.. but so far it's really just been helping the homeless."

"How wonderful," the gargoyle commented genuinely, "I'd almost think it would be more rewarding, working with people... instead of picking-up trash..."

Not that picking-up trash wasn't rewarding, but Gina would take working with people any day.

"I don't do this kind of thing nearly as often as I would like..." the gargoyle trailed, "This was kind-of a... spur of the moment for thing for me."

They were reaching their zone for clean-up, so Gina speared a wrapper that was within reach.

Well, maybe it was more rewarding working with people rather than garbage. He nodded. "Yeah." He said. "It definitely can be."

If she asked, he'd give more details about what he'd done, but for the moment, he was happy listening.

She didn't do this sort of thing often. It had been spur of the moment? "Spur of the moment?" He asked, interested. It sounded like there was more there she had left unsaid.

He stabbed a soda can someone had left out carelessly, and spun the spear around so he could snag it off the spears tip and stuff it in his sack. The can still had a dribble of orange soda in it. It got on his hand. People. Hopefully, he didn't accidentally wind up tasting it thanks to his mutation. Days old soda left in the sun. Gross. But it was a hazard of the task. He didn't even make a face. What was a little stickiness in the grand scheme of things?

>> "Spur of the moment?"

Gina felt an eyebrow raising in response to the inquiry. There really wasn't much more to it than that. Unless he was skeptical that anyone could choose to do such a thing spontaneously? As if electing to pick up garbage in your spare time was unthinkable? Gina couldn't really read what his interpretation was.

"Yeah," the gargoyle confirmed, "Just wanted to... you know. Get outside. And do some good. For the environment? Randomly."

Honest to god, there were no ulterior motives there. Gina speared a chip bag, and then a plastic bottle, before dropping it into the trash bag. Gross. Just because she was picking-up trash didn't make it any less gross. She frowned slightly.

"What else have you done?" Gina inquired, "You sound like you've had experience with volunteering... like with helping the homeless! What does that entail?"

She couldn't very well ask about school or work-- she didn't know the guy, and his appearance made it difficult to gauge how old he was. Maybe he had neither a job nor did he go to school, and that would just make things rocky. Asking about volunteer experience was a safe question.

"Ah," Elliott replied, to the randomness. See, he'd read too much into that. His humanitarian efforts did have an ulterior motive, even if he didn't want to flat out admit it. A righting of wrongs. A little bit of good karma to balance the universe.

He stabbed a soda bottle someone had filled with ketchup, and instantly regretted it. Into the bag it went. Elliott bent to wipe the blood red sauce off his spear, onto the dying grass. He grabbed a chip bag and a fry container while he was down there. What a bunch of slobs.

As he got back up from his efforts, Gina asked him what sorts of things he'd done with his helping the homeless, and all of that. He stuffed the things he'd picked up away before he looked her way and answered.

"I helped organize a safe house where they could stay for a while," he said. "And gathered up some food and sleeping stuff. Made a lot of donations."

It had been a short term thing, ultimately, but he'd used money for it. Maybe not his own money. Well if he stole it, that made it his, no? If so, then yes, his own money. But it wasn't something to take much pride in, because in the grand scheme of things, it sort of balanced out to a neutral gray endeavor. Steal from the better off to help the less fortunate, making the better off more fortunate? Hardly Robin Hood.

"I also donated to a mutant halfway house." The Sanctuary, actually. But you don't just name drop the Sanctuary. Even if Devon did good.

The spear still smelled like hot ketchup. Gah!

Elliot explained his sundry of volunteer efforts to help the homeless… He organized a place for them to stay, collected and made donations… standard stuff. Not exactly the hands-on, getting-to-know-you kind of volunteering that the gargoyle was interested in. But still, commendable, at the very least.

Gina methodically speared more garbage as she listened. Perhaps she was mildly disappointed, but she didn’t betray that disappointment. She’d been looking for recommendations for other things to try, the next time she wanted to volunteer. She wasn’t interested in collecting donations.

Elliot speared a soda bottle which spewed congealed ketchup.

“Eeewwww,” the gargoyle groaned, half-smiling, half-grimacing. Better it wasn’t her.

The two worked in silence, for a few minutes—stab, deposit, stab, deposit.

“What do you do when you aren’t volunteering?” the gargoyle pressed. Was he a student? A working man? The green complexion made it difficult to gauge his age.

The question, as always, is how much does one share with a complete stranger about ones personal life. Too much overwhelms, too little disappoints.

He'd shared about helping the homeless, but not the full story. Elliott reckoned he had nothing to hide about his current working status.

"I used to work at Jaager Worldwide, as an intern, but I left them. Working on finding something better right now. Maybe delivery work?"

And as for fun..." For fun? I like music concerts, and watching MMA bouts. And helping out at the mansion. How about you?" He got a paper fast food bag and stuffed it away. He smiled briefly at her. "What do you do for fun?"

"It's a tough market," Gina agreed, her tone sympathetic. She still hadn't managed to get a paying job yet-- though a double major and her work with Xavier's kept her plenty busy. Every now and again she'd drop a job application, when the commissions got slow, but otherwise she made due.

He worked at the Mansion? The gargoyle's attention perked. How hadn't they met before? She'd certainly remember another physical mutant... weird. Maybe they'd cross paths at some point?

"What sort of music?" the gargoyle pressed. She was always looking for something new to listen to. Perhaps he could recommend some groups to her.

"I sew a lot," the gargoyle said cheerfully, spearing a few wrappers and letting a collection gather at the tip of her spear, "I also like to go out dancing."

And shopping, but that seemed like a pretty basic hobby. She'd managed to collect a fair stack of wrappers and old receipts before depositing them all into the plastic garbage bag.

The music he listened to interested her. It was eclectic, that was for certain. "All sorts," Elliott said. "Though, mainly Indie, Alternative, and punk. You got your more mainstream stuff, like pixies and the offspring, the ramones. Then you got your dead kennedys and bad religion. Your indie and alternative stuff, like Steam-powered Giraffe and Deerhoof. The Shins, Milky Chance. Sonic Youth. Elliott Smith. The Smiths. Aaaand-- I've probably lost you. That was a big list. I like some classic rock, too, like Aerosmith and the rolling stones."

Verbal diarrhea. That's what that was. Just unedited listing of bands. Doofy as hell. Could he pass it off as being authoritative and passionate about his music? Nah. He was just a nerd.

She sewed. Fantastic. He latched onto that as an out from the disaster he assumed his list of musical tastes had become. "Sewing. Awesome." He wanted to haul back and lob his trash spear through a drifting chip bag, but that could likely be considered an act of aggression that would start off Chip War III. Or trash pigeon war II, at the very least. Elliott chased off a group of birds that had cordoned off an area full of all sorts of goodies. He started picking through the trash for gems.

The dancing caught his attention. Elliott looked up from his endeavor approvingly. "I like dancing," he agreed. "I kind of, uh, also do capoeira." Capoeira qualified as dancing, he decided. It had motion. It had moves. And it was kind of beautiful. Maybe not whiskey tango foxtrot dancing beautiful, but it was close to his heart. Like the grease from his last hamburger. Toxic, but good.

Gina wasn't exactly a music afficianado, though she did enjoy some acoustic guitar and mellow, 80's-nostalgic techno every now and again. Elliot was right in his assumption that he'd lost the young gargoyle, though his proclamation of loving "indie and alternative" as well as "classic rock" gave the gargoyle a vague idea of his preferences.

"That's quite the variety," Gina said encouragingly, her gaze trained-on the tall grass and bushes along the trail, where trash seemed to accumulate. Methodically stabbing a wrapper here, a wrapper there, a wadded up napkin. She was falling into a pattern of hunting and spearing trash. Gina laughed and lifted her gaze as Elliot took-on a flock of pigeons, declaring that he like dancing, particularly capoeira.

"What's capoeira?" the gargoyle inquired, intrigued. It had the appeal of sounding foreign, and the gargoyle had never heard of it before.

>>"That's quite the variety," Gina commented.

"Yes, quite." He agreed sheepishly.

Capoeira caught her interest. What's capoeira? Now, his voice took on a passionate tone that was more real than when he'd listed garage bands and hipsters and punks. "Capoeira is a martial art that's more like dancing than anything else. People don't really use it to fight. You can. But mostly, it's like breakdancing with multiple people. They flip, and they spin, and they leap over each other. Legs fly everywhere. Like so--"

Elliott punctuated the abrupt end to his commentary by setting his trash bag and his spear down, and surging forward into an acrobatic cartwheel that turned into a front flip. From there, he combined into a brief flurry of circular movements that brought his arms to the ground and his leg in the air, turning in on himself, and actually slowing down at one point to support himself in some capoeira techniques using a large amount of core strength. Altogether, it took about 20 seconds to show off. When he landed at the end, Elliott dusted his hands off and concluded.

"It's a Brazilian martial art that combines dance, music, and acrobatics. Sometimes, people practice together in a sort of sparring dance... kind of like that." He bit his thumb thoughtfully. "The games more about skill than winning a fight. Like a dance off, I guess?"

Hmmm. Maybe pausing community service to bust a move was kind of thoughtless? But if it were goofy, he didn't care. What wasn't cool about backflips?

"I like other kinds of dancing, too. In clubs. Went to one with a jumbo shrimp recently. Had good music." Elliott finished lamely.