Logs:In Which Evolve Does Not Particularly Come Under Attack, No Food Is Eaten, and No Phone Calls Are Made

In Which Evolve Does Not Particularly Come Under Attack, No Food Is Eaten, and No Phone Calls Are Made
Dramatis Personae Polaris, Taylor
In Absentia	2020-10-17 "Get the fuck outta here." (In the wake of protests.)
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. It's very late, but there's still action in the streets of the Lower East Side. The 7th Precinct is in flames, which has drawn much of the attention of police and media alike, but there are still roving bands of bigots all over the neighborhood, some of them armed. Evolve has been temporarily converted to a safe space, stocked with medic supplies, snacks, bottled water and other various items -- somewhat chaotically, now, after so many hours and many more comings and goings. There is a small knot of young men milling around out front, some carrying crow bars and baseball bats. One of them has a spray can and is in the process of writing "GOOD RIDD--" on the outer wall while the others stand watch. Polaris is wired. Her steps are jangling and her hands trembling. Her eyes light as she sees the bigots. "Hey motherfuckers!" she shouts, quickening her steps. Her power reaches out and rips the steel weapons from their grasps. "Get the fuck outta here." The knives and crowbars turn in the air to menace their wielders. Evolve's door opens with a thud. Taylor looms in the doorway, black on black on black, Mongrels cut over a black tee reading '... until the last cop is strangled with the intestines of the last capitalist'. One of his longest arms whips out, twisting at the wrist of the man with the spraypaint. "Y'all do not want to try me tonight." The vandals appear plenty startled by Polaris's opening gambit, but the one not actively being menaced look happy enough to try their luck with her. When Taylor emerges, though, with his dark mass of writhing arms, they break and run. "Yeah and keep running!" Polaris hollers at their retreating backs, hurling one of the crowbars after them. The heavy length of steel goes tumbling end over end in the street. She continues toward Taylor. "Oh shit I am so glad to see you," she breathes. "I didn't know if anyone was gonna be here still." The remaining weapons clatter to the ground. She looks at the half-completed graffiti, then methodically screams into the crook of her elbow, stifling much of the noise. "Shit. I'm sorry, um..." She runs a hand through her hair, fingers catching where it's tangled. "You alright, man?" "Definitely came near to closing up early when shit started poppin' off, but --" Taylor shakes his head, holding the door open with a hand and beckoning Polaris in with one of his smaller arms. "This seemed necessary." His brows lift at her stifled scream, but he doesn't comment. His eyes flick one way and then the other up and down the street before he heads back inside, the cafe considerably lower-energy than it usually is this time on a Friday night; there's no nightclub-thump coming from above as there should be at this hour. Just a host of tired or frightened or angry or bedraggled people, decompressing or regrouping or licking their wounds. "Thought you was with Wendy and Winona." "Sorry," Polaris says, though more perfunctory than actually apologetic. "I'm just--having kind of a night, you know?" << The night is having kind of a me, >> her mind adds giddily as she slips inside and looks around. "Thanks for holding down the fort, man, you are a fucking badass." Her movements are still jerky and quick, but she relaxes fractionally. << Shit, they're not here, either. Fuck. >> "We got separated," she mumbles. "I've been looking for them all night." << Once you remembered you were supposed to be with them, you crazy fucking bitch. >> She digs the heels of her hands into her eyes. "You seen 'em at all? They haven't been picking up..." Her thoughts are racing now, frantic and barely coherent. << Well your phone died--I borrowed--only knew Wendy' number--God why are you such a shitty friend--fuck-- >> "The fuck else am I gonna do right now, go home?" Taylor shrugs, jerky, quick. "'least here feels like a direction." He shoves his hands into his pockets, skirting through the room back towards the counter. "Fuck. No. Sorry. They haven't been in since the gas started flying. Everyone's signal's been for shit, though. Lotta calls not getting through." "Yeah that's--I guess that's why I'm still out here." Polaris trails Taylor. << You should eat something. You should drink something. When was the last time you did either--must have been before you lost 'em--fuck. >> She picks up a glass from behind the counter and promptly forgets why she wanted it. "Yeah no, you're right. Their phones may have died, too. I mean Winona's probably got a spare battery but she was recording, you know?" << What if they got picked up? What if they got beat up--or shot oh God oh God-- >> She starts pacing, a short, agitated loop. "Um. Right. Shit--can you use a hand here?" The pause goes on just a touch too long. "I got. Hands." "C'mon. I'll get you a sandwich, yeah?" Taylor holds the counter gate for Polaris, starting back toward the kitchen. "I'unno what's the point of spinning about it. Jail support'll be on it if they got nabbed. Whole pack of comrades out there for the assholes trying to start trouble. They'll probably be in touch when they can." There's a hard tension in his shoulders, a ceaseless uneasy writhe to his arms, that doesn't really jive with the level calm of his voice. "Eat first. Then you can help me clean this place up, that'd be a fucking mercy." He smiles, crooked and short-lived. "I'm opening tomorrow." "Sandwich," Polaris echoes, as if she can't quite make sense of the word. "Oh, right, yeah, that'd be--great, thank you. She ducks back behind the counter and fills up the glass somewhat automatically, then gulps down a good third of it at once. << Yep, dehydrated as fuck--God, you are a grownass woman, you can live for one night without your bestie--Hive has to live the rest of his life without his--oh Flicker, oh Flicker, no no no no no no-- >> The pain that accompanies this is deep and visceral. She leans heavily on the counter. "Yeah. No. You're right. They'll--yeah." Her breath comes deep and shaky. "I'm down. Beats the shit out of wandering around alone out there. If they did get picked up...I'd rather be here than home by myself, anyway." The writhing of Taylor's arms only grows. Several of them coil tight around his body, squeeze, release to continue their squirm. His eyes and hands are both very fixated on the methodical task of sandwich assembly, though. "S'why we ain't going anywhere."