ArchivedLogs:Shades of Blue

Shades of Blue
Dramatis Personae Melinda, Shane, Siddhartha
In Absentia	16 January, 2013 Serving (coffee) and protecting.
Location <NYC> Montague's - SoHo
Montagues harkens back to the day when SoHo was filled to the brim with artists, with its mismatched furniture, all plush and decorated heavily with carved wood, but remains trendy enough to keep its newer patrons by making sure that furniture is clean, in good repair and inviting. The antique tables all have been reinforced to seem less creaky. The real draw of the cafe is the smell: fresh roasted coffee mingles with perfectly steeped teas. Spices from crisp pastries mingle with the tang of clotted cream and but doesn't overwhelm too much the scent of chalk on the menu boards. It's early enough that it is, though morning, still /dark/ out. The city is waking up, but only just, streets filled with sleepy-eyed people making their way to their morning goingson or home from their night ones. Shane is jittery enough it's likely he's in that latter category, pacing the misty cold morning street restlessly just outside a coffeeshop that is not, quite, yet open. The small blue teenager has hands shoved into the pockets of his slim black peacoat, and beneath it his silver-dusted black jeans have gotten a bit misty-damp in the morning not-quite-rain. His black eyes are a little too wide, his pacing a little too figety, and he is /eying/ the door to Montague's like maybe wishing hard enough will make it open. Occasionally he pulls a phone from his pocket, checking as the minutes slooooowly tick closer to six. Or trying to check. One time he fumbles the phone and drops it to the damp ground. But /mostly/ he just watches the time. And sidesteps out of the way of passersby who are only too eager to get out of /his/ way, as well. (For the most part; one young man flips him off, another mutters something darkly as he shoulder-checks the mutant teen. Both of those earn a quick baring of sharp teeth. The rest of the morning crowd passes by with little attention from Shane, though.) While the rest of the world is bleary eyed and sleep sluggish, Melinda has been up for an hour and a half and well caffeinated. She's no where near as jittery as Shane, but definitely has energy that the rest of the world may envy. She wanders into the front of the store with a tray full of recently baked goods and is filling the display with them, carefully, her hand glove covered for ease and cleanliness. She sets the tray down and glances up toward the clock over the door to check the time. While there are still a few minutes until the shop opens, her eyes pick out the form of someone waiting outside in the winter chill. She takes off her glove and tosses it, fishing her keys out from her apron and making her way to the door. Her professional demeanor cracks a little when she recognizes the figure on the other side. She unlocks the door and pushes it open. "Shane, Hi. Come on in. I won't open the register for a little bit, but you're welcome to the warmth." Striding down the street with purpose, Siddhartha himself was barely visible inside his array of foul weather defenses: black fedora pulled low over his eyes, black trenchcoat collar turned up against the wind, and beige scarf filling the gap between chin and chest. The leather-clad fingers of his left hand grip the handle of the aged brown attache case more tightly than was entirely necessary. His other hand holds a smartphone to his ear. "What do you mean you don't need me now?" A pause while the person on the other end talks. "It was-- Ah, I see. Thank you very much, but the next time a 'concerned citizen' tells you that, please make sure there's something to /investigate/ before you call SID. Good bye." He taps 'end call'--not as satisfying as slamming a receiver back down onto its cradle, which is what he really wants to do. A coffee shop with its lights on draws his attention, and he makes for it like a whale for a crack in the ice only to find it still closed. Shane /bounces/ onto his toes the moment the door opens, his teeth flashing bright in a wide grin. "/God/ you're a lifesaver. I've been walking a mile and everywhere's closed and the two places that /were/ open wouldn't let me in and -- what's SID?" This he asks with a sudden swivel of gaze to land on Siddhartha, head tilting slightly in his blatant eavesdropping. And then back to COFFEE; he scoots in the open door with a relieved sigh and a removal of webbed fingers from their warm hiding place in his pockets. "How are you /doing/?" he finally asks Melinda. "Pa said you were serving food with him the other day when dude got shot." "Yeah - and that was the most fun a girl could have on a Friday night." Melinda replies, tone heavily laced with sarcasm. It fades as synapses begin to fire off. "Was that a Friday? I mostly said Friday because it sounded like a fun night." She continues to hold the door open even after Shane enters, looking to Siddhartha with a modicum of recognition. She flashes him a smile and nods him in before releasing the door and striding inward toward the register. "Come on, let me save your life with some hot liquids and sugary substances." She does not remain at the counter but ducks her head into the door in the back and fetches more staff. She returns alone. "What will it be? You can pay cash now or credit in ten minutes." Siddhartha reflexively removes his hat upon entering and tucks it in the crook of his left arm. "Thank you kindly, and good morning--" He wrinkles his brows slightly, trawling his sleep-addled mind for the name that went with the barista's face. "Mel, was it? I would like a red eye--or black eye, or whatever you call coffee with a shot of espresso." He fishes a battered Habitat for Humanity travel mug out of his case. "I should have enough cash, unless your coffee is liquid gold," he add, and looks over at Shane, up and down. "SID stands for Special Investigations Divison, in this case anyway," he replies at last. "It's not as exciting as 'NYPD Blue' might lead you to think." "What about hot liquids that /are/ sugary substances? Like a caramel mocha. With an extra espresso shot and -- heeyyy, do you guys have anything for breakfast? With bacon. Or ham. I have cash," Shane chatters cheerfully, following Melinda up to the counter. "I /heard/ it was terrible I'm glad you're okay. Pa brought the guy -- I mean it looked bad. Um." He is looking Siddhartha right back over as the man looks him up and down, and his toothy smile fades in a heartbeat, not under the inspection but under the answer given. He blinks, first one clear set of eyelids and then the blue one. "Oh." Another blink. "You're a cop. What. Do you investigate?" Less cheery in his chatter now, he is no less /fidgety/, claws taptaptapping against the countertop restlessly. "One red eye and one caramel mocha with extra espresso." Melinda replies. She ducks behind the machines and works her magic, reaching a hand out at one point to snag Sid's beverage vessel of choice. "I... was mostly fine. Still edgy, but what can you do, you know? This flu thing hasn't been very helpful in giving me a day off to recover." There's a definite note of frazzle in her tone as she finishes her work before combining the drinks into cups. "Oh, well, there's a couple omelette sandwiches if you're interested. Ham and cheese and a bacon, sausage monstrosity with just a little spinach to give it color." "I mostly investigate paperwork, to be honest." Sid's tone is casual, though he stands ramrod straight with his wallet in one hand while watching Melinda work. "Every once in a while I get frantic phone calls at o-dark-thirty about some minor mystery that's already solved by the time I get on the subway." He examines the food in the case. "You know, since my doctor's not here to get after me about it, I can probably use one of those bacon and sausage monstrosities." He glances at the teenager again, then back at Mel. "You talking about what went down in Tomkins Square? Not my case, you don't have go into it if you're still shakey about it," he adds quickly. "In the park, yeah," Shane agrees, weight drifting back onto his rear foot in a slow step away from the counter. "Um. What kind of mysteries? Subway, don't you have a -- car?" His ridged brow furrows, hand lifting to rub at the back of his neck. "Did you get the flu?" He says this more to the counter than to Melinda, hand slipping back down into his pocket. "Cuz that sucks more. Um. Can I get. The bacon -- sausage. Without the -- sandwich part." "There was only one shooting this week? Strangely enough, I find that hard to believe." Melinda replies, setting the cups out for the patrons to grab hold of. "No. I didn't get the flu. I've just been stuck covering for everyone else who has, both here and at Helping Hands." Drinks deposited, Mel turns away and heads to the back, ordering two monstrosities, but one no carb. She returns, but pauses this time by the register. She unlocks the machine and signs in before ringing up Siddhartha's order. "Okay, Sid, it'll be six twenty nine. We've wasted enough time. You can ring out however you like." "How'd a MacGuffin disappear from a locked vault with no signs of having been opened, that sort of thing," Sid replies vaguely. "Driving may seem cool to you now, but the subway's a lot cheaper and less frustrating. Usually faster, too. Here you go." This last to Mel, as he hands her a ten. "Not that many shootings in Manhattan most days--knock on wood--and that was the only one I'd heard about this weekend. I don't have a magical APB in my head, thank goodness." "Ohhh. Do you need help? Maybe not here. Like. At the -- hands. Cuz I don't /get/ flu," Shane informs Melinda, "and I have hands. I guess they're not hands most people would /want/ helping but --" But! He spreads his webbed hands in front of him helplessly. Helpfully? "I got stabbed on the subway," he tells Siddhartha with a sharp flash of teeth. "Twice. I'll be glad to be old enough to drive. I know a person who does," he adds, waggling fingers towards his head. "I think it'd get annoying as fuck. Nonstop chatter in there. Apparently there's a /lot/ of signals bouncing through the air all the time." "Honey, we could use help at Hands any time you felt like it, but most definitely during flu season." Melinda smiles at Shane as she makes change. "I could maybe also swing you a dishwashing job here, maybe. The owner is desperate enough to hire a trained octopus, so long as it was health code safe. Being human, you have an advantage." Also, there are few trained octopuses. The change is presented to Siddhartha, singles on the bottom, coins on top. She doesn't rush him away from the register, but keeps leaning there while they converse. Shane's story about getting stabbed -- twice -- gives the barista cause for more lip pursing and displeasure. Siddhartha sucks in a breath. "You got stabbed, /twice?/" he echoes. "Jesus, sometimes it seems like we're living in the Dark Ages." He looks at Shane more closely now. The boy couldn't be much older than he looked if he wasn't allowed to drive yet. Sid deposits a dollar bill and the coins in the tip jar, pocketing the rest. "That is the kind of s--stuff I joined the police hoping to change." He tips the travel mug carefully and sips the coffee. "I don't suppose they caught your assailants, that you know of?" "I could try training an octopus," Shane offers to Melinda, leaning his weight back against the counter with palms against its edge and nails jittery-tapping again; for all his restlessness he at least seems to be less /tense/, no longer backing away from Siddhartha. "Cool! Give me a. Number? Do I have your number? I think I do. I'll come. Do you need help /today/?" He still has rather a lot of teeth to his grin when he looks back at Siddhartha. "Twice on the subway," he clarifies, black eyes fixing on the man. "That's not getting into what happens other places. /Do/ you change it? Cuz one time a cop just laughed. And once I got arrested. For. Getting beat up. But I got off easy." "If you don't have it, your pa does." Melinda notes to Shane, considering quietly before stating, "Yeaaaah, actually, if you had free time, that'd be magnificent. You could at least meet with the owner and get whatever paperwork is necessary for the government - you know, if you have other engagements today." She punches a couple codes into the register. The drawer pops open and she slides it closed, moving away from the register and fishing a hair band from her pocket. She pulls out the barrette keeping her long hair up and swaps it for the elastic. "Oh, Sid. How did things go with Alex? I didn't mean to ditch you both like that, but you two seemed to have plenty to talk about and this place is a bit, well, you heard." "Any cop that'd stand by and let that happen doesn't deserve to wear the badge." Siddhartha meets Shane's eyes unflinchingly. "We're not angels, but we sure as hell need to do better than hanging citizens out to dry for the color of their skin." He shakes his head. "I thought I was making a difference, but it's damned hard to tell some days." Sid attacks his sandwich--delicious, though his doctor might have a heart attack if he knew--while Mel discusses employment with Shane, which he found reassurring. Teens with too much time on their hands tended to be bad news, and mutants were grossly underemployed. "Alex? Yeah, we had a nice chat, no worries. I realize you need more hands around here, but I sure hope her interview went well."" "I've got free time," Shane assures Melinda, "I guess eventually I should /sleep/ but I could go by first. Before home. I can wash dishes like a pro. Just do we have to tell Pa? If I work here. Cuz I know he could /use/ some help but he doesn't like to /say/. He gets awkward if we notice. Should I be giving you money? I have money." Somewhere. He is digging his hands in various pockets fruitlessly. Or maybe the same pockets over and over again. A little mollified, now: "It's a big city. It can be hard to tell. As one person. About making a difference. But trying is good. What do you /do/? Is it /important/ paperwork?" "Oh, I guess. I don't know. I'm not familiar with the hiring process." Melinda moves away from the counter to find the food and bring it forward. She hands Shane an omelette on a plate, where as Sid's come in the middle of a sliced open ciabatta. She waves off Shane's concern about money. "Nah. We always buy something for a person interviewing." She leaves things where they are and takes another step back. "Well, you guys enjoy. I have some more set up to do before the place gets really busy." She finds an apron to tie on before disappearing the back. A young, thin tall boy appears in her place, to watch the registers. Siddhartha chuckles, shrugging. "They /tell/ me it's important paperwork, but who knows. Sometimes it seems like I'm just filing reams of forms that say 'Nobody knows what happened there' in different ways. Then, every few months, the Feds show up and confiscate half of it. Not all police work is like that, though. You've had bad experiences, and I'd like to have some /words/ with those individuals, but there's plenty of patrol officers who really are out there to serve and protect." He dares to take a gulp of his coffee now--hot, liquid alertness. "Now, as for /your/ work," he says, raising your eyebrows at the teen, "are you going to have enough time for studies?" "Woah thanks!" Shane has no compunctions about taking Free Food, snagging the eggs-and-meat together with his drink and flashing Melinda a bright smile. He finally moves away from the counter, looking back to Siddhartha as he leans against a chair without actually seating himself at the table it accompanies. "So your department is like the X-Files. Except. Actually nothing's out there." The smile drops off his face just as quick at the mention of studies, shoulders tensing up and hitching in a quick shrug. "Um. Yeah. Sure. I've got plenty of time." "The Feds who come and take our cases sure seem to /think/ they're working on X-Files," Sid agrees. "But if there _are_ aliens out there, they probably have better things to do than vandalizing crops and tipping cows." He munches on his sandwich. "Don't like school, huh? Me, neither. I worked hard because my parents demanded it, but I just hated every second." He lowers his voice a bit. "Just don't tell NYPD's community outreach people I said that. I'm supposed to be a 'positive role model for the City's youth'." Shane eschews cutlery, skewering a piece of sausage on one long black claw and chomping it down as he listens to Sid. For a moment he is quiet, his lips twitching up slightly at their corners. "Are there a lot of cows to tip in Manhattan?" he wants to know, and then his smile fades into something more pensive. For a moment he just eats, quiet, focused down on his baconeggsausagefest, but then he shrugs abruptly. "I like learning just fine," he says, hovers on the verge of something else, shrugs again. "Are you a positive role model? I can feel myself wanting to be a cop already. Uniform. Beating stick. Looks like a fun gig." "Not a lot of cows /or/ crops around here, no," Sid replies. "Though have hear about people seeing UFOs out on Long Island, all the same." He takes a large bite of the sandwich and chews slowly, washing it down with more coffee. "Now, you see, it wasn't the /learning/ I had a problem with--just schools. But the great thing about schooling is you only have to do but so much of it. As for being a cop..." Sid looks down at himself. "I'm not wearing a uniform _or_ carrying a stick, though I did for a while. It's not that much fun, but it's important work that needs good people--people who can use power responsibly." "If there /were/ UFOs, they'd go to Staten Island," Shane says with /firm/ conviction. "That place is practically /like/ the middle of nowhere. And you know it isn't even that school's terrible it's just what's the fucking /point/?" He gulps at his coffee, looking over Sid again. "Guess you aren't," he allows, "s'almost sad I mean if you /are/ one of the good ones, better you with a beating stick than --" Another frown. Another shrug. "There could be crops," he adds, brighter, "I was looking at plans for vertical farming in the city. I don't know about cows they kind of need more space." "The way I see it--and this is just me--the most important thing you can learn from school is /how/ to learn," Sid says. "It's practice for learning stuff on your own when you grow up." He finishes his sandwich and wipes his hands off on a napkin. "Man, that's good. Maybe those urban farms can keep some pigs so we can have local bacon and sausage." He grins. "Here," Sid says, palming a business card out of his pocket and setting it down on the counter beside Shane. It was plain white, printed with only his name and a phone number in black. "I'm Detective Sid Ashanti. I don't patrol anymore, but if you're ever in trouble with the police and they give you crap on account of how you look, you call me or try dropping my name. It'll not a 'Get Out of Jail Free' card, but they should at least take you a bit more seriously, because I out-rank them and can get them in trouble." Shane flashes a quick grin at Sid. "There's already indoor fish farms in Brooklyn. Tasty /and/ it doesn't ravage the ocean like regular fishing. I guess pigs are more demanding than tilapia but you never know." He eyes the card for a moment, then sets his food down to pick it up with fingers still bacon-greasy. "Oh. Um." He frowns down at the card, pocketing it with another smile. "Ashanti. Like the Black Panther. Cool. Can I call you if I have ghosts haunting my apartment?" Siddhartha raises both eyebrows and makes a 'Not bad' face. "Yeah, just like that. Some of my ancestors come from a place in Africa called Ashanti, and I guess some of his, too. My grandfather loved to tell stories about how our people, armed only with sharp sticks, almost defeated the great British army in the ninetheen century." He grins at the boy's question. "You /could,/ but I don't think there's a whole lot I can do about ghosts, unless they're afraid of fines or jail time. Speaking of time..." He pushes up his coat sleeve and glances at the old tank watch on his wrist. "I should get to the office and see if I can't get some /actual/ work done before the tide of paperwork comes in for the day." "Almost," Shane echoes this with a wry curl of lips. "Hey, if I were a ghost I wouldn't want a fine. I bet it's /hard/ to get jobs after you're dead. Lot of under-the-table work." His chin jerks upward, a quick curt nod to the man. "Sounds, uh, fun. Cool. Enjoy your --" He frowns, and drops down finally to sit in the chair, turning his attention to his food. "Bureaucracy." Siddhartha rolls his eyes. "Well, then, my new strategy for removing ghosts will be offering them part-time work haunting Staten Island, where no one will notice!" He puts his scarf and gloves back on. "Thanks, but one thing I have never learned to do is /enjoy/ bureaucracy," he replies, picking up his hat, case, and coffee, "and if I ever do, I'll know it's time for a new career!" That said, he braces himself for the wind and presses out into the dank, cold dawn.