View source for ArchivedLogs:In Which Some Assistance Is Given In The Matter Of Reopening Evolve, Among Other Things

{{ Logs
| cast = [[Flicker]], [[Taylor]]
| summary = "I guess there's some cleaning to do."
| gamedate = 2017-01-06
| gamedatename = 
| subtitle = 
| location = <NYC> [[Evolve Cafe]] - Lower East Side
| categories = Xavier's, Mutants, Evolve Cafe, Flicker, Taylor, 8
| log =
Spacious and open, this coffeeshop has a somewhat industrial feel to it, grey resin floors below and exposed-beam ceilings that have been painted up in a dancing swirl of abstract whorls and starbursts, a riot of colour splashed against a white background. The walls alternate between brick and cheerfully lime-green painted wood that extends to the paneling beneath the brushed-steel countertops. There's an abundance of light, though rather than windows (which are scarce) it comes from plentiful hanging steel lamps. The walls here are home to artwork available for sale; though the roster of prints and paintings and drawings and photographs changes on a regular basis it has one thing in common -- all the artists displayed are mutants.

The seating spaced around the room is spread out enough to keep the room from feeling cluttered. Black chairs, square black tables that mostly seat two or four though they're frequently pushed around and rearranged to make space for larger parties. In the back corner of the room is more comfortable seating, a few large black-corduroy sofas and armchairs with wide tables between them. There's a shelf of card and board games back here available for customers to sit and play.

The chalkboard menus hanging behind the counter change frequently, always home to a wide variety of drinks (with an impressive roster of fair-trade coffees and teas largely featured) though their sandwiches and wraps and soups and snacks of the day change often. An often-changing variety of baked goods sit behind the display case at the counter halfway back in the room, and the opposite side of the counter holds a small selection of homemade ice creams. A pair of single-user bathrooms flanks the stairway in back of the cafe; at night, the thump of music can be heard from above, coming from the adjoining nightclub of the same name that sits up the stairs above the coffeehouse.

It's quiet, in the cafe. None of the overhead lights currently on, the only illumination coming from the streetlamps in the alley outside where they shine in a swath through the open door. Still boarded up, the planks of wood hammered over it like so many scabs raw and healing.

The lean shaft of light throws a long shadow where it falls, too. Taller by far than he even actually stands, his multitude of limbs twisting in eerie serpentine coils along the floor: in distorted silhouette Taylor looks still more monstrous. In the doorway where he stands, shoulders hunched, scabs (blue-black, raw, still healing) fresh on one long and looping arm, grey eyes cast warily at the dim and smoke-stained room, he manages to make his impressive frame look somehow small.

There aren't any footsteps to announce Flicker. Not that that's surprising. His mind is perceptible to Taylor shortly before he is, in fits and starts. Familiar and unfamiliar at once. Overclocked methodical whir of Flicker's thoughts -- underneath more remote, a constantly shifting hum of myriad overlapping minds. Some recognizable. Most not, especially not catching choppy erratic bursts as Flicker blips in and out of phase.

It snaps into clarity when the teleporter comes to a final stop just behind Taylor. Coalesces into a single word, warm and unweighted (layered though it may be): << Ready? >> Flicker's claw hand has clapped down, squeezed down, on one of those slumped shoulders.

Taylor presses back into the squeeze. His shoulders straighten under it, though! Firm up, square up, several arms plucking up into a less droopy configuration. His mind touches up against the other men's, familiar in feel if not in shape, his welcome soft and wordless. His eyes stay where they are, though. "What if I'm not?"

"Then you're not."

Taylor's amusement ripples out through the others mentally a moment before he actually laughs aloud. In mental space it comes like a soft release of held breath, an easing of tension, a warm unclenching of pressure that is relief and gratitude all at once. Aloud: a ragged bark of sound, barely a laugh at all without the mental feel to contextualize it. "And what if I am?"

The space that stretches between question and answer can't be called silence. Not really. It's filled with a rapid ticking of thoughts. Tesselated in snapshot memories, sounds and flutter-by images. Glaring bright overhead operating lights and crinkling white paper stretched over a cold table -- A hall lined with locked cell doors, the air too thick with a fog of smoke and acid spray to clearly see. The pale white facade of a church -- the dingier one of a Greyhound station. The low droning hum of some far-advanced Sentinel sweeping by -- Hive's face, tired and resolute, staring down the closed door to Cerebro.

In the space of these rapidfire recollections, Flicker has just sucked his cheeks between his teeth. Chewed at them pensively. "Then," he says, "I guess there's some cleaning to do. Shane'll be here soon. You'll have a hand."

Now, Taylor looks at Flicker. A quick smile has replaced the heavy hang of his expression. One rubbery limb coils around the older man, pulls him closer for a brief tight squeeze. Letting go, he pulls in a breath and steps through the doorway into the cold darkened cafe.

Flicker returns the hug with one arm. Tight, too. Behind Taylor he flicks the light switch on. Drops his bag to the floor with a soft huff of laugh in the brighter room as he starts to pull out tape to measure the door frame:

"When I remake this, I'm ordering ballistic glass."
}}