ArchivedLogs:Strangers with Cand... er, Pretzels

Strangers with Cand... er, Pretzels
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Michael, Tag, Matt
In Absentia	26 February, 2013 '
Location <NYC> High Line - Chelsea
Built on a freight rail, the High Line once was a railroad and has been reclaimed as green space in the middle of the city. A park situated high above Manhattan, what was once a rusty industrial wasteland is now a stretch of peaceful space to lounge and relax among grass and flowers and plant life. There are restaurants, ice cream sandwich stands, a beer garden, and the view all along the elevated parkland is unbeatable. With the temperatures climbing up near fifty today it might be winter still nominally but it's a /mild/ one. Lunchtime found many people out in the park, enjoying walks on their work breaks, bringing lunch out to eat it outside or buying some from the vendors around. But lunch has passed, and the park is quieter. Not /quiet/, entirely, in Manhattan few places truly are, but the flow of traffic through has stemmed to a trickle. Lucien is in that trickle, today, dressed in crisp dark trousers, a deep red button-down, a leather jacket worn open over top. He is not in the park alone; he is pushing a wheelchair which bears another young man, much thinner, much paler, a green knit cap pulled down over his ears and a pair of blankets wrapping his legs snugly up in his chair. It might be mild, but he still has a sweater, a jacket, a scarf. The pair stop at one stand, picking up a pair of large soft pretzels, one salted, one dusted with cinnamon sugar, and Lucien wheels the chair over by a bench so that he can take a seat on the bench. They're conversing, quietly, though both the soft volume and the French they speak in make eavesdropping difficult for most passersby. Even if the weather is mild, that doesn't necessarily mean its pleasant without something to shield a person against the wind. Pulling his ragged cloak closer around him, Michael attempts to count out some of his remaining change. He has just enough for one of those pretzels. With a grunt, and a shiver against the cold, he walks over to the pretzel stand. << Just a regular soft one please, >> he says, protecting his thoughts into the other man's mind. "Don't serve muties!" yells another man, shoving Michael out of the way. There is a tense moment, and the mutant with claws for a moment looks like he is about to tear the other man's heart out...then with a visible sigh, he just turns and starts walking away. Lucien glances up and over at this, his eyes briefly narrowing on the stand, but then his lips compress and he -- ignores it, turning back to talk to his companion again. His companion, at least, is less dismissive. "What an asshole," he says, in English this time, and when Lucien fails to get up he just sets the as-yet-untouched pretzel carefully in his lap, slowly, starts wheeling his chair by inches towards the path; there's clearly not really enough strength in is arms to manage this task well. Lucien watches this pitiful show for a good few seconds before, disgruntled, standing to push the chair forward. The other man grins. "Hey. What kind did you want?" he says in greeting rather lively-cheerful in contrast to his wan appearance. Michael stops in his tracks, turning to this new person with an annoyed look on his face. << I don't need help from a... >> he says, then suddenly sees the man in the wheel chair. << Oh, sorry. >> If a gaunt face and glowing blue eyes could look embarassed, his definitely does. << I was just going to grab something for lunch. Just something small. Its nothing I can find something...better. Thank you, though... >> Lucien /tenses/, at the voice in his head, his fingers gripping tighter on the handles of the wheelchair. The other man doesn't seem particularly concerned, though; there's a brief puzzled frown and then a return of his easy smile. "Sorry. I just, I mean, that guy seems like a total asshole. But the pretzels are good, if you want --? Or, um, there's actually another stand not far where hopefully they're less of dicks." "Hopefully," Lucien says wryly; despite his initial clear discomfort with the telepathic voice he doesn't seem quite so bothered by Michael's /appearance/, past a brief curious inspection. "Though it's hard to tell, this city has no shortage of assholes." << You don't have to tell me twice, >> Michael says, a smile wrinkling his eyes. << I've been here for less than a week, and in that time I've run out of fingers and toes to count how many times I've been spit on. >> He holds up his hand, showing off the three claws instead of fingers. << Then again, that isn't so hard. >> He laughs, and then gets serious again. << Sorry, didn't mean to ramble. Just, haven't seen seen a relatively friendly face in quite awhile. So, the other stand is where? >> "Jesus," the man in the wheelchair says, grimacing, "wow, that's totally shitty." When Michael lifts his clawed hand, the man leans forward with a grin to offer his own, for a handshake. "I'm Matt, by the way. The man at the helm," with a jerk of his head upwards towards where Lucien is steering his wheelchair, "s'my brother Luci. I'm sorry, you sound like you've had a terrible welcome to town. I don't think a pretzel can balance it out but it's a start, maybe. C'mon, it's this way." He nods down the path, with a command of, "Mush!" that brings a wry smile to Lucien's lips. Lucien starts pushing the chair, off the grass and back onto the walkway. "There are some friendly places," Lucien says, a little quieter, "but they can be hard to find." Michael takes Matt's hand gingerly, attempting not the cut or crush it. << Michael, >> he says with a nod. << Michael Bell. Good to meet you. Glad to meet someone who isn't against people with blue skin and missing vocal cords. >> He turns to the man pushing the chair. << Michael, good to meet you. >> He offers the same hand. Struggling up over the rail, Tag drops down to the winter-dead grass of the elevated park. The hood of his sweater--which depicts some kind of abstract kelp forest teeming with monstrous fish--slips off to reveal a mop of golden blond hair that looked pale pink just a moment ago. He is panting hard, but trying to look casual as he rises and trots over to the footpath as if he belonged there. Then he gasps and bounds ahead, a grin brightening both face and outfit. "Hello, Matt and Lucien!" Stopping just short of them, he cocks his head. "Are you okay?" This last is directed at Matt. Lucien takes the clawed hand, shaking once quick and firm. "And you," he says, and a little dry, "I imagine it would be. My brother and I --" He waves absently towards Matt, "have abilities as well, though not the sort to --" He glances back towards the pretzel stand behind them. "cause us quite the same troubles." "I wish there were more people who weren't," Matt says, wryly, "but. Actually my sister's got a few friends who /also/ have blue skin and claws. They don't --" He flutters fingers towards his head, like this clearly means TELEPATHTALK, "though. But if you're new to the city maybe I can talk to them about -- I mean, if you want. Like, safe places? Friendly places? Cuz I know they have a world of trouble out in public too." He cannot stop at the sound of his name, being as he is being pushed in a wheelchair, but he does squirm around, chapped lips curling in a bright smile to Tag. "Me? Oh, I --" He shrugs one bony shoulder, smoothing his hands against the blankets in his lap. "Some days just aren't walking days," he says, with no noticeable diminishing of his cheer. "I guess I can't really say /bad/ days, you'd have to see me on chemo days for /that/. Do you like pretzels? We're --" He gestures between him and Lucien and Michael, "getting pretzels." Okay, Lucien and Matt already /have/ pretzels, but who's counting? << Well, its better than sleeping on a park bench, >> Michael says with a shrug. << Or a shelter that will actually allows mutants. Just something warm for a change. >> He jumps at the other person approaching, tense for a moment, but this new guys seems friendly enough. He gives a small wave to Tag. << Hello. >> He broadcasts awkwardly. Tag seems to grow suddenly dimmer, as if a passing cloud has obscured the sun from only him. "I'm sorry to hear that. I hope it isn't too bad, even on chemo days," he says softly, tugging at the knotted cords trailing from the threadbare hem of his hoodie. Rallying just a bit, he smiles again and adds, "Oh, I love pretzels, but I've just eaten. Also, exercised. Probably not the best idea I've ever had and..." He tilts his head--in the other direction now--at Michael. "Hi, I'm Tag! Did you just say stuff without saying stuff? That is really neat!" Matt just shrugs, at Tag's soft comment, shrugging it off as if it was No Big Deal. "Well, /we're/ getting pretzels," he says, as Lucien continues pushing him down the path, "and you can just stand there and /smell/ the pretzels and imagine how delicious they are. -- Michael's new to the city," he adds, to Tag. "And the city has not yet been all that kind to him," Lucien adds with a thin twitch of lips. "Tag," he adds, by way of /helpfully/ continuing the introductions, "has a terrible surplus of energy. I think it is possible his heart pumps amphetamines instead of blood." << Yep, totally awesome, >> Michael says with a raised eyebrow. << Totally awesome that whatever happened to me also destroyed my vocal cords to the point that I can't speak. >> He shakes his head. << Sorry, just a sore subject. So, he runs on speed? I can think of worse things to have running through your blood stream. >> He follows after Lucien and Matt. << I've been to New York before with my parents, but...generally we had more fun in the process. And money to actually see the sights. I do have to admit though, the gutters her are rather scenic and have such a lovely odor. >> "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know..." Tag mumbles, dimming again as he falls into step beside Lucien. "I grew up here, and there's a lot of terrible people in the city, but a lot of nice people, too. There's this cafe called Evolution in Lower East Side, I like to hang out there and they don't care if you don't have...if you look unusual. But anyway, I don't run on speed." He pauses, scrunches his face up, and shrugs. "Well, not right now, at any rate. And I don't really like amphetamines, although I used to do 'em because...clubs, I guess?" His enthusiasm returns by increments, and blond hair starts creeping back toward pale glossy pink. "And I'll help you find somewhere to stay! I know some people, and maybe Mel would be willing to--that's my housemate--let you sleep on the couch for a while? It's too cold to sleep in a gutter..." "It is never quite pleasant to sleep in the gutter, but there are far better places for sleeping if you -- have no place for sleeping," Lucien says, a little bit wry. "Rooftops were chilly, but safer. The subway tunnels have a good few niches. Brooklyn is packed with squattable buildings." "Some parts of parking garages," Matt pipes up, leaning back in his chair, "though I'd bet Tag's couch beats any of those. Oh, here!" Lucien stops pushing him as they come up on another pretzel stand. "What kind did you say you wanted?" Matt asks, though it's Lucien who's already getting out his wallet. "I was never overly fond of amphetamines," Lucien agrees in absent musing, "though they were surely healthier than the habits I /did/ fall into." << Just a regular pretzel, nothing fancy, >> Michael says, offering Matt his change. << That should be enough for now. >> He turns back to Tag. << That would be much better, but I don't want to put anyone out...and I have a tendency to tear things apart unknowingly. >> He points down at his clawed toes. << Unless we want to re-enact that famous couch scene from Chapelle show. >> He shivers and pulls his jacket closer. << Not a fan of drugs really. My parents were uber-strict and REALLY not into well...mutants. >> "I think Mel /would/ be pretty mad if you tore up the couch," Tag agrees, rubbing the pink stubble on his chin. "Still, I'm sure we could work something out. I mean, I still don't have a bed, just a lot of blankets." He eyes the pretzels, then shakes his head emphatically. "I used to live with punks, and Mel's a lot more organized, but she's one of the nicest people ever. I know what you mean about parents--well, not /exactly/ what you mean, because...obviously, everyone's life is different." Scratching his head, he allows a shy and sheepish smile. "Well, your parents can't tell you what to do now! Nor mine." Lucien is paying for the pretzel as Michael offers the change to Matt, and Matt just looks at the money for a moment, puzzled. "Oh, no, s'ok, it's just a pretzel," he says with a quick smile. The vendor hands a pretzel across to Michael, with, at least, no insults, though he does /eye/ those claws with a quiet note of concern in his expression that doesn't carry through to his polite, "Have a nice day, sir." Lucien makes no comment on the subject of parents, though his jaw does tighten slightly; he exchanges a quiet look with Matt as he pulls the chair back away from the pretzel stand. "Melinda is quite a lovely person. Perhaps something might be worked out, until you find a place more -- settled." Michael looks at Matt and Lucien as the man hands him a pretzel. << Are you serious? >> He says, wide eyed. << You barely know me...Then again, I barely know me, but that is beside the point. >> He doesn't look a gift horse in the mouth though, and barely half a second goes by before he pulls down his mask and goes to town on the soft baked confection. << That is one interesting thing, >> He says while munching down. << I don't have to worry about talking with my mouth full. Thank you so much! >> He turns to Tag. << And all I require is a roof over my head really. Not even a pillow...Though I could do with a shave. >> He rubs his face. Grinning widely now, Tag waves his hand. "Pillows are overrated anyway! If nothing else, you can at least stay with us tonight. Hell, you can have my room!" Then, by way of explanation, he adds, "It's game night. I don't sleep on game nights. At most I pass out on Hive's couch for an hour or two." Behind them, out of Tag's line of sight, a pair of police officers have appeared on the path and are scanning the long stretch of the park. "You spend time with Hive?" Lucien asks this with absent curiosity, wheeling Matt across the path from the stand so that he can sit down on a bench and finally start in on his own pretzel. "He's kinda scary," Matt opines, before a quick nibbling bite of his own pretzel. And to Michael, "Psh, it's a pretzel. Not gonna quite break the bank. We ever get you, like, a lobster dinner or something, maybe we can talk reimbursement." "It is not quite the best season for lobster, yet," Lucien says, as though this was an entirely serious suggestion. << Just as long as I'm not on the menu, >> Michael thinks holding the pretzel in his mouth and clicking his hands together like lobster claws. << Always thought that if everything else fails, I could just try to pass myself off as a crustacean. >> He munches and looks at the police officer. << Maybe I should make myself scarce... >> "He doesn't seem /that/ crazy to me..." Tag looks thoughtful as he plops down on the bench, pulling his knees up to his chest against the wind. "Though I guess I'm not the best judge of sanity ever. Either way, he's really nice--/scary/, but nice. Besides, his game nights are the best." A fond smile spreads across his face, and he sighs, his mind clearly drifting elsewhere. Michael's mention of making himself scarce jerks him back to reality. "What? Why?" He perks up, prairie dog-like, and peers around. Neither officer has seen him yet, but they are working their way along the elevated platform. "Oh, /gan!/" he mutters, pulling his hood up in a hurry. His hair suddenly turns blond again. "Yeah, they're looking for me. Not anything serious. Just...um...art." He smiles nervously, then meets Michael's eyes, his sincerity as abrupt as every other emotion he expresses. "Lucien has my house number. I'm serious about letting you stay in my room tonight. I've been where you are, and it blows. Now...I'm gonna wander off like nothing's wrong, and you guys don't know me, okay?" "Art," Lucien says, quietly amused, while Matt reaches up to steal Lucien's cellphone out of his pocket. It takes him a moment to produce a pen from some pocket of his own, scrolling through Lucien's address book to write a number, marked, 'Tag', on one of the napkins received with his pretzel. As an afterthought, he adds a second beneath it, this one labelled 'Matt'. "Here," he says, offering the napkin to Michael. "They're /probably/ not also looking for you unless you've already been joining Tag in his, um, arting, but the cops around here lately have been /super/ twitchy writing up mutants for, uh, being mutants. You might want to not be around them, too. We could even make a distraction," he says, tilting his head back to look up at Lucien. "They all trip all over themselves to be super helpful when you've got /cancer/ it's like a /trump/ card." Michael can't help but snicker as 'Art' is brought up as well as the Cancer trump card. << Thank you, >> he says to all three of them, graciously accepting the piece of paper. << I may call on you soon then. Anything to get off the damn streets... >> He sighs and looks back at the cops moving in. << No, you've already gone to enough trouble on my account. I can't speak for Tag though. I'll just slip away and climb a skyscraper. I mean, I already look like a gargoyle. Shouldn't be too hard to blend in. >> He turns to leave. << If you need anything, just let me know. >> He pulls up his mask and collar, carefully picking his way through the crowds with a downcast face. "Bye, Michael!" Tag rises as casually as he could manage and nods to the Tessier brothers. "Nice seeing you again, guys." He shoves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and makes for the nearest railing. With a backward glance to ensure neither officer is watching, he flips over the rail and vanishes.