Logs:In Which A Hand Is Returned, Some Rat Food Is Obtained, And Some Eyes Do Not (Quite) Fall Out Of Their Face

In Which A Hand Is Returned, Some Rat Food Is Obtained, And Some Eyes Do Not (Quite) Fall Out Of Their Face
Dramatis Personae Leslie, Scramble, Taylor
In Absentia	2020-09-08 “I, u-uhm, came to pick up... something?”
Location <NYC> Evolve Cafe - Lower East Side
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. The breakfast crowd has moved on, the lunch crowd isn't here yet, and the students are back in school, so Evolve is actually kind of quiet this balmy late summer's day. Scramble has pulled a chair up to the counter and is draped against it kind of casually, wearing her MMMC cut (the skull on the back has hypnotic spiral swirls for eyes and a halo of birds stars) over a red cropped top, black jeans that lace up the sides, and polished engineer boots. Her thoughts are thankfully fairly regulated today, her fears for Natalie never far from the forefront but not, at least right this moment, dragging her down. She's sipping from a large mocha and picking at the remnants of a bagel with lox, her eyes idling scanning the surrounds even as she chats with the barista. "...why every fucking body gotta assume I'm Ion's old lady, like please." << Goddamn, Nat where are you? >> "The fuck they think I wear this for, my health?" "Shiiit, na, if all you had to do to earn that patch was bang the guy I'd'a hopped in his bed a goddamn year ago." Leaning on the other side of the counter is Taylor. Just as casual, no drink; he has several of his serpentine limbs coiled into kind of a tangly jet-black knot on the countertop, several more draped loose behind him. He's in jeans, a black tee shirt (the text across his muscular chest reads 'WHITE LIVES MATTER TOO MUCH' in bold white capital letters) chin propped in one actually human-shaped hand. His eyes are turned down to the phone in his other hand, though he's no less vigilant for all that, telepathic senses habitually tuned in to the minds in or approaching the cafe. "The hell they think Tian-shin's doing, then?" is followed by, "... the hell we think Tian-shin's doing?" Leslie doesn’t walk in at first, he simply stands there with his hand-less wrist in his pocket. He was staring inside, eyes nervously darting over the few that were inside. His hand — the intact one, was drumming over his thigh. After a few minutes, he opens the door, taking a step inside although he stops himself from going any further. He’s wearing the only clothes he has, a dirty grey sweatshirt, torn and worn faded jeans, and dull red converse sneakers with holes at the toes and one has missing a sole. << I hope I don’t screw things up here too. >> Leslie’s eyes continue to dart between both of them, his already small stature shrinking with his shoulders. << In and out, that’s all. In and out. >> “I, u-uhm,” he drums his gloved fingers faster, avoiding contact with anyone, “came to pick up... something?” "They think she's his legal counsel is what," Scramble suggests. << The hell is Tian-shin doing, though? Gonna get fake married and raise some fake kids with him next? >> Her eyes fix on the figure hovering outside the cafe, zeroing in on the hand in the pocket -- vigilant but not alarmed. It's only when Leslie steps through the door that she recoils. << Jesus Christ, >> she barely manages to keep this inside, though the revulsion is clearly written on her face, << The fuck happened to this kid? >> "You don't sound too sure about that," is what she does say. << I'on know him. Yuh got no broughtupsy or what? Mind yuh face 'fore those eyes fall out it. >> Taylor's limbs writhe, a kind of Lovecraftian flex of muscle as several of his tentacle arms shift at once to extract one slender arm from the knot. It jabs towards the menu board behind him. "Menu's there," he offers, together with a quick smile. "First time here? Coffee? Food? I can walk you through it if you like." Leslie’s eyes linger on Scramble, examining her face. << Is she gonna hurt me...? >> He quickly turns to Taylor, putting his hoodie up hastily. “No, uhm,” he pauses and takes his wrist out of his pocket, revealing the absent hand. He had wrapped the stump in an old bandage held together with tape. He doesn’t keep it out long, stuffing it back in his pocket. “I was told that you have... it?” << I'm mindin', I'm mindin'. >> Scramble has just about managed to school her face to placidity when Leslie presents the stump of his wrist. << Oh God. >> She swallows. Puts her coffee down. Shifts slightly more upright. "Do you mean -- your hand?" This comes out only slightly choked. Her eyes slide aside toward Taylor. << You seriously got a severed hand back there? >> She does not, actually, think this very likely. << Hey, we cater to a lotta tastes. >> Taylor's smile doesn't drop off his face, but it does dim, thinner now, less bright. "Sorry, we look like a clinic, friend? Mendel's a few blocks away, if you need directions." He leans comfortably back on the counter, eyes locking on Leslie's face. "Who's it who sent you? You want to run this by me using, like, whole-ass sentences?" Leslie averts his eyes from Taylor’s gaze, head turned towards his shoes. << God, they’re gonna hate me. >> “Okay,” he turns his head back up, “okay, s-so, I, uhm — I need stitches, right? So, so I tried to swipe some cash from this shark guy, and — I know — I know it was wrong, okay? I know, but, I was desperate, so — I try, and he catches me—“ A pause. “—I mean, he catches my hand and says I can pick it up here, at Evolve. Can I please have it?” His large sad eyes finally make eye contact with Taylor. “I won’t pickpocket mutants no more, promise.” << Ain't usually what people mean by a knuckle sandwich. >> Scramble is recovering her composure for real now, only to slowly lose it again over the course of Leslie's story. At 'shark guy' she silently 'ahs', as if this already explained everything. But now she's thinking of Shane, her lips pressed tight. << Hang in there, brother. >> She makes an effort to stop that train of thought from barrelling on to Natalie again. Fails. "Yeah that was a pretty terrible choice," she agrees. "Don't know if it's necessarily about stealing from mutants, though." Taylor's chin digs harder into his palm through Leslie's story, but by the end his smile has stretched broader again. "Shit, when I tell you I fully expected some whole entire story but you were straight up with us, good on you." His tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth and he straightens, tentacles unfurling, from where he's been leaning against the counter. "Psh, all skinfolk ain't kinfolk and that's as true of mutants as anyone. Genes don't make a community -- but damn if Shane don't spill his blood for us on the regular. You want to pickpocket some rich-ass fucking mutant lawyer who doesn't give us the time of day, nobody's gonna give you any trouble." Leslie looks to the side, reflecting upon what Shane had said to him. << I guess I am kinda a jerk... >> The guilt racking his brain was visible as his shoulders slouch, but his eyes widen suddenly and he puts his hand on his left shoulder, and abruptly -- pop! He rolls his shoulder once it's back in the slot before straightening his posture. "I just want my hand back, okay? I promise I-I wont bother anyone anymore." << I wont bother you or that shark guy. >> Scramble winces at the audible pop. << How you gon' act like you don't need nobody? >> "I...still don't think that was the point, but. You do you." She shrugs, sipping at her mocha again. << Some real white-people shit, >> Taylor answers back, dry. Out loud, though, only a shrug, an easygoing: "Aiite," as he disappears off into the back. He returns in short order, holding a heavy duty locking toolbox. Clicks it open, extends it in two of his arms; inside the hand is nestled in a bed of soft chamois padding. "Funny enough, not the weirdest thing I ever been asked to do around this place. Guess that's all then?" Leslie nervously taps his foot on the ground while he waits for Taylor, taking a moment to observe the place closer. His tenseness begins to fade and when Taylor comes back, he smiles wide and walks to it. Cautiously, he takes out his hand, wiggling the severed hand's fingers. "Thank you so much!" He sets the hand in his pocket while he undoes his bandages, exchanging them for his hand. With another pop, this time from his wrist, his hand is finally attached. << I missed you, little buddy! >> He doesn't hide his excitement, flexing his bony, stitched fingers. "Thank you, again -- really." Leslie continues to gawk at his hand. He stops -- embarrassed -- putting both hands back in his pocket. "The shark guy -- I-I don't know his name -- he said that, that you help mutants. Here." << Should also visit that Mendel Clinic he mentioned... >> For all that she mentally prepares herself for the box Taylor brings in, Scramble still recoils when she sees the severed hand. She hastily sets down her coffee, narrowly avoiding spillage. "Shane," she supplies, easier now that Leslie has put the offending hand away. "His name is Shane." Taylor clicks the box back shut. "We're a cafe, man. We feed freaks who can't afford to eat. Menu up there," he points again as he settles back against the counter, "and if you want directions to the Clinic I can write it down for yuh. I think maybe, all that --" His slimmest arm is waggling towards Leslie's pockets, "take a little more than soup at this point." "Shane..." He whispers to himself, confirming the name. His attention is back to Taylor when he talks. "Ohh -- uhh, I don't eat." Leslie smiles politely. "But the rats do. If you have any bread I could have, it'll help." << No more freakin' stitch thieves. Hate those stupid rats. >> "And, I-I would really appreciate those directions." The short kid makes his way to the counter, making his ghoulish appearance more clear to both of them. "Would the Clinic have stitches I could borrow?" Scramble blinks, leaning back in her seat slightly. << Yeeeah, I needed a drink before this but now? Shit. >> "I got you, with the directions." She pulls a fresh napkin from the dispenser and a pen from the side of the register and starts scribbling. "It's a clinic, I'm sure they got sutures if that's what you need." Slides the napkin down the counter toward Leslie. "Ain't far. Nice walk, in this weather." Taylor boxes up some of the day-old pastries, tucking them under the napkin to slide to Leslie. "Pretty damn sure they won't want their stitches back. Stay safe, yo."