Logs:Unquiet Quitting

Unquiet Quitting
cn: brief/joking fosse don't look mention in round 1 of poses
Dramatis Personae Hive, Regina
In Absentia	2023-07-15 "But, uh, yeah? They’re hiring? No bullshit?"
Location <NYC> Rise & Grind Coffee - East Village
Midtown called, they want their coffee shop back. The sort of sleek, modern, inoffensive coffee shop designed to caffeinate white collar workers, disoriented tourists, and exhausted travelers. The service is friendly, the coffee is good, the selection of pre-made pastries and sandwiches are palatable. It has a good vibe...for Midtown. Here, in quirky, colorful East Village, its clean lines and brushed steel everything doesn't quite fit. This coffee shop isn't made for lingering, really; comfortable-enough, sure, but there are only hard chairs and no couches, no armchairs, no places to sit and ensconce yourself for ages dragging out One Single Black Coffee while working on the next great novel or frantically finishing a term paper. Nevertheless, Hive -- looking remarkably unremarkable in faded old jeans, workboots, a lightweight black work shirt -- has managed to camp out, occupying a table near the door for the better part of this entire afternoon. He's held onto it fast through the crowded lunch rush and returned glare for glare with people who have designs on the empty seats at his table, and now that it is creeping along towards the end of a work day he's still settled. He has, at least, bought several drinks in the meantime. No food. Aside from the steady stream of coffee his table has largely been taken up with a glowing and, apparently, fully manipulable, holographic display -- certainly far from an unheard of piece of tech but not a very common one to see in personal use. It has had the skeleton of a large building, heavily marked up with dimensions and doodles and occasionally irritable notes that he adds every so often with a stylus that etches the new glowing letters right into midair. It has been quite a long time now, though, since he actually added any work to his work -- he's just been sitting, evidently lost in thought, stylus bobbing idly between his bony fingers and his latest cup empty. He goes to take another sip, frowns at the empty mug for its transgressions, and, reluctantly, pulls himself to his feet again to set the empty cup in the self-service bussing tray and go order another. The person in front of him is chattering on their phone as they step up to the counter -- still chattering while they should be giving an order, a rubbernecking-breathless excitement to their tone ("Did you see that documentary, it was horrible, oh my God the things they were doing in there --") that makes it sound more like they have watched an exciting horror movie than a Real Piece Of News about Real Actual People. By the time they finish and Hive has reached the counter, his frown has cemented itself firmly into a scowl. “Patience is bitter, but its’ fruit is sweet.” Aristotle might have been one of the wisest men of his time, but he knew jack shit about patience. Of one thing he was right about: patience was as bitter as it could get. Patience tasted like cheap vodka mixed with cigarette ash and old mouthwash, like a bad kiss from a worse one-night stand. It colored her tongue black and blue from the number of times she had to bite it, to keep it from lashing out at every gossiping and gasping yuppie that decided to present themselves in front of her today. And for what? Just to keep a shitty job and keep a shittier apartment with the shittiest roommates on this side of the coast? She would better the very last dollar stuffed toward the back of her underwear drawer that Aristotle never worked a day in retail in his damn life. He probably ate fruit and lounged around teaching his students scraps of his wisdom without having to go through the personal hell of psychologically taking the dick of every brainless idiot’s half-baked opinion. He did not have to smile and kept his lips shut for the sake of losing the fragile illusion of home that he had. Motherfucker probably lived in some big Hellenistic temple. As she chewed her thoughts into angered oblivion, Regina continued to operate on semi-autopilot, a polite but slight smile on blackberry-tinted lips. Cordial but not big enough to be anything stark or something to comment on. She prided herself on constructing an image of being vague and unapproachable, someone you could forget but not quite. This job did not deserve the fullest of her attention or self-esteem, nor did she have the emotional energy to expend on an eight-hour road trip to neural dissipation. All she had to do was put on her uniform, clock in, and mentally clock out. Most days, she could “grin and bear it,” so to speak. Sure, there was the occasional day whether she would let the intrusive thoughts win and just walk out. Those days come and go, and she would forget about it. Today? Oh, today was a whole other bag of unshaven testicles. “Oh my god, you saw the documentary, right? I tried to catch it on Youtube, but it got taken down in, like, a half hour? I had to find some clips on Tiktok and get my roomie to put it together, and it’s soooo nastyyyyy. Like, I can’t believe anybody would do something like that. I mean, I can watch Saw and all that and totally be fine, but-“ Her teeth pinched her tongue as she watched this twenty-something girl make the “mind blown” gesture with her hands, trying to resist the urge to make a sarcastic quip about how she sincerely doubted the range of her empathy. Instead, Regina simply nodded her head as she poured the sickly-sweet pink substance into the plastic cup and set the empty blender into the sink. The girl prattled on and on, only pausing every so often to send a quick text, giving her a brief respite from the nonstop verbal barrage of banal bullshit. She finished the beverage off with a spiral of whip cream and a dash of powdered desiccated strawberry, placed a domed lid upon it before presenting it to the chattery young thing. “What do you think about it? I mean, they totally deserved it, right? They’re freaks and probably eat babies or something.” Had someone seen her face, they might have been worried about the sudden smile on Regina’s lips. She turned around and gave a light laugh, locking eyes with her as she gently pushed the nasty pink drink toward her customer. Her demeanor had changed, her shoulders relaxed and her aura as warm as a spring afternoon. It was as if someone had flipped a switch; this mode, however, was reserved for extra special customers, the ones that had the sheer misfortune to slide on her radar. “Oh yeah, absolutely!” She responded with a sparkling smile, her voice sweet like honey and soft like kittens. “I mean, if I knew a mutant was near me, I would completely freak out. Can you imagine it? Having to hide who you are, camouflage every aspect of your being, and making sure no one knows about it? Not your family, not your friends. Not even the guy mows your lawn for you. Nobody. You gotta wake up, get dressed, and hope you can keep your anxiety from eating you alive from the inside out. Could you do it for one day? One hour? Not me, no way! Can you imagine doing it every day? It would be horrible. It would be hell. Lonely, too. Wouldn’t you just…wanna die?” By the time she was finished speaking, the poor woman looked miserable, like someone had sucked the color out of her entire being. Regina, on the other hand, had resumed her quiet and polite mannerisms, tapping a few buttons on her register. “Cash or Credit?” << We prefer coffee, but could make an exception just for you. >> This voice definitely doesn't come aloud -- it thuds blunt and heavy into the minds nearby, a sledgehammer of a voice that comes with the rustling-undercurrent sense of amusement so dry it's about to be set ablaze. Hive has straightened up just a little from his stoop-shouldered posture, eyes flicking between the strawberry-whipped-cream customer and the blackberry-sour barista. "You can freak out, now," he says aloud, though it's directed to the customer and not to the barista -- and aloud, it's clear that the mental voice was his, same dry tone, same bastardized mongrel of an accent (definitely not New York, but mangled too far from distinctive roots to easily place), though spoken, his words are just smoker-gruff and not a commanding mental bludgeon. He doesn't look particularly commanding, either, raccoon-eyed and far too skinny. His scowl's lightened, though, as the customer slaps down Too Much Cash and flees without waiting for her change. "Sorry," and this time it is to Regina; Hive doesn't actually sound sorry at all. "Kinda gave up on hiding long time back. Felt horrible. Got lonely." Regina did not respond at first. At most, she could only give an arched eyebrow in his direction. She did not want to admit that she was rattled to her core and was struggling to handle the multiple revelations that had just stumbled into her lap. While the thought that she had been the only mutant in the area had never crossed her mind, she did believe that there were not enough of them around to feel comfortable. To have one in her café right now felt…exciting? Terrifying? And a telepath, no less! She had no idea what telepathy was supposed to feel like, but she did not expect it to be this tangible. Visceral but on an auditory level, like someone had opened her skull and spoken into the auditorium of her mind. In short, he had managed to shock her. Well, shock her and make her want to laugh at the same time. Her features smoothed over, and she quickly added the money to the till, murmuring to her coworker that she was going to take her lunch. Like a machine, someone else took her place and she left the kiosk, dipping into the back to hang up her apron. She ordered two cups of coffee, piping hot and black, before she walked over to the Scary Samaritan’s table. “Do you accept gratitude in caffeine?” Her expression was neutral, yet the corners of her lips were ever-so-elevated. Minus the hat, her “otherness” was more apparent. Black hair shaven close to the skull and eyeliner smoked via an abused brush, she looked more like a bored ghoul than a lock-stepping barista. By the time Hive gets back to his table, by the time Regina gets back to his table, he's just slouched once more in his chair, forefinger batting slowly at the holographic blueprints in front of him to set it lazily spinning like the display is a particularly high-tech fidget toy. He doesn't look up when Regina comes over, but he does extend a foot, nudging the brushed-steel chair opposite him out away from the table. His hand tips out -- in invitation to the seat? Or maybe he's just reaching for the second coffee. "Forget wanting to die," comes his reply, "I'd be ready for murder after the first hour of absolute bullshit comments on this week's news. By law you should get a one-arsenic-per-day exemption." She simply takes the (hopefully) implied offer and sits down, setting the second cup close to his hand as she makes herself comfortable. She manages to smother a laugh with a sip from her cup. Black liquid splashes her tongue and delights her to the simultaneous sensations of hot, bitter, and juicy, sending what little bits of serotonin she could absorb. As a sort of gift-but-not-a-gift, she had served them both the best dark roast they had in stock. They both needed it after that god-awful conversation, though it had not been the first she had been subjected to. Just the one that broke the straw on the metaphorical camel’s back. She takes another sip, jade-green irises glancing at Hive in a mixture of curiosity and amusement. Not at him, no. His world-weariness could give her a run for her money. “Ah, but where is the fun in that?” Regina intoned drily as she set her cup down. “You know they would set fees down, slap a ridiculously high pharmaceutical insurance policy down at it. Not to mention that you would probably have to get it through your primary care doctor, if you even have one, who will give you a lecture on how you have a moral responsibility to, you know, NOT murder anyone. That’s even IF there is not federal committee made to just debate placing such a dangerous weapon in our hands. We should be like every other responsible American and spends fifty bucks buying a military-grade weapon at our local Walmart. Help the economy.” "Hippocratic Oath jamming up all your fun. I'd say sounds like you need a new doctor, but in this country I'll make no assumptions you can find one. Maybe a new job, instead, with less flatscans around." Hive's eyebrows lift -- at Regina's first sip of coffee rather than his own. Even before he's lifted his mug there's already a secondhand trickle of pleasant relaxation easing the set of his shoulders and the hard line of his jaw, but his hands curl around it gratefully, with a small nod of thanks tipping his chin up. He takes a slow sip and savors it, and he's watching Regina with half-lidded eyes as he huffs out a small laugh. "Shit, there's my problem. Not American. Totally shirking my civic duty to fund the gun companies by growing my own firepower." He taps a finger at his temple significantly. "That's the real problem with mutie scum, you know. We're fucking it up for capitalism." There was an easy flow with Hive. A sense of comfort was found in the trading of razor-edged statements and dripping sarcasm. She had missed this. Not many people in her life could handle her kind of acerbic dialogue. Those who could were either too far away or would be gone from her life before Regina could comfortably cement herself in her connection with them. Part of it was due to the discrimination and active violence against mutantkind. The other part was because she could not invest herself in people at a lightning-fast pace, even if a small part of her wanted to. But it was better this was, safer. No connections meant no emotional scars to fester over. “Capitalism might as well pay me reparations for the infinite number of times it has fucked me over, before and after we got in its’ peripheral vision. I would have enough money to pay off my credit card debt, get myself a house up in Maine, and find a therapist that would give a shit about what I have to say. By the way-“She leaned back in her chair, a small quirk of a smirk on her lips. “Do you always casually admit you’re a hardened criminal to someone you just met?” "I'm a very soft criminal," Hive objects with a mock-defensiveness. "Hard crimes would interfere with my grueling video game schedule." He takes another sip of coffee, and there's a small tug at the side of his mouth -- it doesn't really amount to a full-on smile, but his voice is amused all the same. "And no. I only admit it to the freaks. Are you serious about getting a house up in East Quebec? You think it's lonely here I feel like having only lobsters and some human blueberry farmers for neighbors would make the winters a slog." He bats with one hand at the still-spinning projected display of his computer, and the whole thing collapses out of sight. "For real, though -- it probably won't help your credit card debt but if you ever feel like a break from shitty human customers all day, Evolve Cafe in the Lower East Side is hiring." This time a thin slice of smile does cut across his face before he adds: "-- over there, you'll get to deal with shitty mutant customers all day." A mutant café existed, and she did not know about it? Regina’s smirk dropped but not in an unfriendly fashion. She lowered her head slightly and stared at his cup, using it as a focal point to get her thoughts in order. Not only had she completely missed the signs of a thriving (if you can call it that) mutant community, but the fact that there was even a single mutant-based business present meant that she had deeply buried her head in the sand. Far, far too deeply. For years, probably. The notion sent a wave of nausea through her chest, making her inhale through her nose. All the years, and she hadn’t even bothered to try and look. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to. Rolling her jaw, she rubbed the back of her neck and looked back at Hive’s face, a glint in her eyes. “So what you’re saying is I could walk outta here…and not look back? Don’t deprive me of my precious dopamine. Hard enough to even get it going through my own system. But, uh, yeah? They’re hiring? No bullshit?” "Oh, it's pretty much just the one single business," Hive offers in answer to Regina's unspoken thoughts. "Which is something to consider, like, they put a big target on themselves for bigots -- place gets graffiti'd up every other fucking week, a lot of called-in bomb scares, I can't say whether it's a worthwhile trade-off for having a boss who'll kick any bigots out of the place and have your back if you chew out an asshole customer. But if you want to find other freaks, that place or Freaktown are mostly the go-to spots." He lifts his mug, taking a slow drink. "-- and I'd say it's more of a highly dysfunctional mutant community. But, yeah. We're out here. And no bullshit, they're hiring. I know the owner. Real good guy. Used to sling coffee down the street from my office before deciding -- well. You'll understand the second you see him why he wanted a place like Evolve around." “Normally, I would be pretty pissed at having someone know my thoughts, but- “She pressed her cup to her lips and tipped her head back, draining the rest of her coffee like it was a precious breath of air. “-it’s nice not having to try and correct myself every other sentence. Word of advice, my mind tends to wander onto some fucked up shit, so do not be surprised if, y’know, I start thinking about what kind of spice rack I want to use when it comes to some, uh, illegal forms of protein. The less questions you ask, the better. “She rattled off as she stood up, noticing her boss had come towards her table. By the looks of it, Clarice was fifty shades of ticked off and ready to chew her out in the (conveniently camera-less) backroom. Mouthing a quick “One sec,” she followed her into the back and leaned against the wall, staring at her manager with a neutral expression. Hell, it didn’t take long at all. “You want to explain to me why I have you mouthing off a customer on camera? Or is there another supposed case where they deserved it? You know, you’re lucky I gave you a job,” the fatigued redhead snarled at her, giving a great impression of a disgruntled bulldog. “You could have ended up like those poor people on the documentary. I-I could have reported you in! The reward money alone would have paid off my mortgage, my car, my kids’ college. But I’m not that person! Out of the charity of my heart, I took you in when no one else would. You know how I know? Because the entire street talks, Regina. Everyone talks. They told me I would have trouble employing the likes of you, and I should’ve listened. Now get your ass back- “ “No.” Clarice paused, not used to be interrupted or denied. She closed her mouth once, twice before sputtering, “E-Excuse me? Are you out of- “ “I said no, Clarice.” Regina replied calmly, a look of peace having settled over her. “I’m done. Done. Now we can do this one of two ways: you don’t say another word, I grab my stuff out of my locker, and that’s it. Or…if you want to make this harder than it needs to be?” Her lips pulled into an unnervingly large smile. “I will make you do things that make the streaker on 7th street look tame. And you KNOW I can.” Ten minutes later, Regina came walking out of the backroom alone, in street clothes, and whistling an aimless tune. She glided over to Hive’s table and stood there, asking nonchalantly, “Wanna show me where Evolve is?”