Logs:⌇⏃⎎⟒?

⌇⏃⎎⟒?
Dramatis Personae DJ, Ren
In Absentia	2024-05-28 << I bet Dinosaur Reality Me doesn’t have to deal with this shit. >>
Location <NYC> Montagues - 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 but don't overwhelm too much the scent of chalk on the menu boards. It’s a cloudy day today, a grey overcast with occasional drizzles and occasional moments of sun. The cafe is full, maybe more so than normal, most of the tables filled with people taking calls, catching up with friends, or people writing their magnum opus. Despite the amount of people, the volume is bearable, but provide enough of a white noise that you’re unlikely to pick out any specific conversations out. Ren enters the cafe with measured step, a well trained ear might hear the soft rhythmic click that accompanies his entrance, if it weren’t quickly swallowed in the white noise of conversation. He’s using his forearm crutches today, which…maybe he was starting to regret with how he was feeling. But this place was new, and he hadn’t called ahead. He wears a plain shirt under a long dark coat, much too warm for the current humid early summer weather. His pants rise slightly when he sits, enough that you could potentially catch a glint of metal from his left leg. He wears a fabric mask as well, one the same color as his coat, and his hair is messy, and maybe not exactly in a fashionable way. He carries a plastic bag, a vague shape of a book and a receipt in it. He takes one of the last available tables, a table for two, unfortunately by the window. Luckily, it was overcast, one of the reasons he chose today to be his “Touch grass” day instead of the sunnier days before. He sends an accusatory glance towards the potted plants by the window, as if they had insulted his mother, and shifts so he’s no longer facing them. He goes to rest his crutches against the wall, and they of course, skid to the ground with a clatter. He props them back up, annoyance ringing in his mind. Speaking of, his mind seems…full. Full of noises and pings and signals, that maybe is almost similar to a telepaths, if all the noise wasn’t completely indecipherable. It's not long after Ren has taken his seat that there's a sharp pressure against his mind, squeezing in like the onset of what is planning to be a Very Bad Headache. At this exact moment, at least, it's just a run of the mill headache with grand ambitions. The man a few tables over who has been sitting and chatting with a few other men doesn't look at all striking -- generic, white, blandly dressed in jeans and a denim work shirt; the very colorful and very high tech arm he wears on his left side is the most eye catching thing about him, painted in striking iridescent tones that look quite realistically like the plumage of a ruby-throated hummingbird. The fact that he's seated at a table with two extraordinarily earnest young LDS missionaries means that most of the cafe is trying hard not to make eye contact or even look in their general direction. It's over his next sip of lemonade that he glances over at Ren -- brief, too, not particularly noteworthy. What is noteworthy is the way the cafe, for just a moment, gets extraordinarily louder -- like an entirely different set of conversations has just been layered jangling and discordant over top of the ongoing ones. It's a noisy and confusing blend of errands and intrusive thoughts, work stress and absurdity, juggling five coffee orders and trying not to snap at the customer whining about their cappuccino, irritation over being stuck in traffic and -- -- on, and on, a chaotic mess but over all of it, most prominently, is a sharp press of curiosity twined with a sudden, intuitive understanding of the alien mind that's been joined to Ren's. Little indecipherable signals ping erratically in Ren’s mind from surrounding plants. Some, Ren has seemingly associated with certain words or phrases. <<Water. Light Light.>> <<It’s raining. Can’t have both.>> <<Light light light light.>> <<Can’t help you there.>> <<Uh oh! Uh oh! Uh oh! Dying. Dying. Uh oh!>> <<Aren’t we all.>> His responses seem like they’d hold a certain fondness, and maybe under some layers they do, but it’s buried under many, many layers of annoyance. There’s a…larger presence within his mind as well, its signals clearly something Ren hasn’t managed to decode at all. It’s insistent, however, and its pings crash against the metaphorical brick wall Ren has set up in his mind. Its signals seem almost… incompatible with Ren’s own mind, like they weren’t built to fit together. Like putting a cd on a record player. <<Stop it.>> <<⍙⏃⏁⟒⍀. ⍙⟒⟟⍀⎅ ⌇⍜⟟⌰. ⟒⏃⏁?>> <<Quiet.>> <<⌇⎍⋏. ⍙⊑⟒⍀⟒ ⌇⎍⋏. ⎅⏃⍀☍. ⎅⏃⍀☍. ⎅⏃rk. Dark. Where. Sun. Dark! Water. Humid. Humid good. Humid good. Warm.>> Ren full on flinches in his chair at the sudden pressure, timed perfectly with the pestering Alien signals suddenly managing to catch in his mind, along with the sudden noise of everything that comes to a peak. <<Oh god. Shit. It’s eating my brain. It’s laying eggs in my brain. This is it. I’m dying.>> <<Dying? Danger? Where? Where? Who?>> Ren picks up on the sudden curiosity, and mentally, clumsily, latches onto it, anything to help block out the sea of noise that was bombarding his brain. “Quiet.” He mutters out loud, eyes crushed shut, no room in his own brain for his own thoughts, “What the hell is this.” <<Ouchy! Ouchy! Hurting. Who? Who? Intruder! Intruder! Hurting. Danger?>> Ren processes a vine growing down his sleeve almost too late, distracted by all the external stimulation. He quickly grabs at his sleeve and pulls on it, gritting his teeth, “Wait- stop. No Danger.” The flood of noise shuts off again, almost as sudden as it came. Maybe latching on to that curiosity worked, who knows. The cafe returns to its usual level of Buzz; the alien signals return to their usual level of Alien. The eldest of the Mormons, alas, is getting up from his table, bidding his companions farewell, and ambling nearer to Ren's table, glass of lemonade in his prosthetic hand and a cup of water in his other. Kind of casually he's tipping the water into one of the nearby windowsill plants that had been griping about its thirst. "Does that hurt?" The man's eyes are flicking unerringly to the sleeve Ren was tugging on, the vine hidden beneath. Ren slumps in relief at the sudden quiet and he takes a long, deep breath. He revels in the quiet for a long time. <<⌇⏃⎎⟒?>> Ren sighs. His eyes dart up to DJ at his approach, first latching onto the decorated high tech arm, something like interest sparking in his mind, and then following his movements to the plant. Something quiets in Ren’s mind. <<….The hell does this guy want?>> At DJ’s question, his eyes twitch into a narrow, shoulders stiffening. <<Did he see? Shit shit. Wait->> His eyes flick downwards to his where his hand pulls down on his sleeve, one of which is missing a finger. Relief floods through him. <<He’s asking about the hand. He must be.>> “Oh. This? Sometimes.” He seems to debate something for a long time. He seems to be considering if he has the energy for this. Eventually, he nudges the second chair out a little with a leg, and jerks his head towards it, a silent offer, “What about yours?” He asks, gesturing to the high tech arm. "Oh, nah, I had a blast when this got blown off. Right there in the scrapbook next to wedding day and my kids' birthdays." DJ sounds cheerful enough as he transfers his lemonade into his factory-issued hand, freeing up the prosthetic to wiggle his more colorful fingers. He is taking the offered seat, together with another sip of his lemonade. "I definitely meant the thing growing out of your arm, though. Kind of figured amputation probably was not your favorite experience ever." Ren can’t help the smile that tugs at the edge of his mouth at the pun. Any remnants of the smile, however, immediately drops at the clarification. And the implications. A sharp panic spikes in his mind. <<He knows. How does he know?>> <<⟟⋏⏁⍀⎍⎅⟒⍀!>> The vine suddenly continues its spread down his arm and hand, maybe in reaction to his panic. He quickly claps his other hand down on top of. He stares at DJ, and accepts defeat, “…Nah. Doesn’t hurt. This thing yours? Come to take it back or something?” Ren tilts his head, then, “Wait-Do I know you from somewhere?” His mind flickers through various celebrities, then coworkers, then starts flicking through all other potential sources. "Just have one of those faces." DJ sets his glass down. His eyes are fixed on Ren's face now, thoughtful. "Do you want it gone? Probably know some people. Thing seems to have a mind of its own, though. If it's giving you problems, listening might help?" To be fair he doesn't sound immensely confident about this guess. Ren narrows his eyes, skepticism ringing in his mind. “…You know people huh? And how much would something like that cost me? Eh? Got enough bills to deal with.” He glances around and leans forward, “And how do you know so much about it?” DJ doesn't narrow his eyes; he's looking at Ren with a frank contemplation. "I'm a doctor," he finally answers, quiet but even, "at a clinic for mutants in the Lower East Side. Knowing about some pretty wild stuff is part of the job description." Ren nods and leans back in his chair. "Sure. Why not." <<Mutant. Of course. It's always Mutants nowadays isn't it? Get used to it I guess.>> <<Light ouch. Light ouch.>> Ren's attention is briefly drawn to the snake plant sitting directly in the middle of the window. He huffs, and grabs it, moving it onto the table and less out of where it would be in direct sunlight. "Seriously think you can get rid of it then?" Ren asks, tiredly. "I don't know. I think if you don't really know what's going on with it yet, it could be worth getting checked out. It --" Here DJ hesitates, fingers drumming once idly against the table before he continues a little more delicately, "-- seems like the kind of thing that's important to know more about. In my experience Just Ignoring It doesn't make things much less weird, long-term." Ren lets out a very long sigh. <<⌇⎍⋏? ⍙⏃⍀⋔.>> <<Quiet>> "You said you treat mutants." He says slowly, carefully, "Does that mean you take care of ah...Mutant things? Or do you just treat mutants for many things? Are parasites even on that list?" He rubs at his temple, willing the remnants of his headache to go away. "Seems a little niche." "We treat people. For whatever the things are that are interfering with their ability to live their lives. Maybe that's strep throat, maybe it's uncontrolled pyrokinesis. Maybe it's a parasite. Maybe it's a lot of things. Mutants get sick just like anyone else, but --" DJ's shoulder hitches up in a small shrug. "Sometimes there's a whole world of other considerations regular clinics aren't always great at handling." His mouth twitches, just a small smile. "We do see a lot of pretty unique cases, but it takes a lot to surprise us. I -- get the feeling you haven't been like this all that long?" Ren is watching for DJ's reaction, and thought is jotted down hastily in his mind, <<This isn't adding up.>> "Long enough. Too long in my opinion." This time, he doesn't stop the tiny vines that grow further past his fingers. They tap around, almost curiously, at the coffee cup he hasn't drank from yet. "Few months. Then I picked up this...dirty freeloader last week when everything went to hell." He tilts his head as he takes DJ in, "How long for you?" "Freeloader," DJ echoes, more curious here than anything else. "During the attack? It is -- common enough for mutations to present differently during times of heightened stress. Heightened danger." His eyes flick down, curious, toward the vines that are curling out. "I was just through middle school when my mutation kind of turned life upside down. Had a bit longer to get used to it." His brows lift after this, and there's only a small lilt of amusement in his voice when he says, "The whole mutant thing. Not the -- plant? My standard-issue freeloading mutant parasite is a lot less green." A few memories slide through Ren's mind, quick, blurry, painful. He lets out a breath. "Heightened stress. Yeah, that checks out." A few more memories pass through, some more recent, an alien about to each his face off, bleeding out, vines constricting around his body. A slight smile makes it's way onto his face, the vines creeping slowly forwards towards his coffee, "Middle school? Long ass time then." His brows lift in amusement, "You got one too? Maybe my parasite and your parasite can be friends then. Is your standard-issue freeloading mutant parasite trying to eat your brain too?" "Long time," DJ agrees easily. "And mine's pretty much only eating my brain --" His eyes scrunches up here, very briefly, "-- and I don't want to encourage him." He picks up his lemonade and drains the rest of it. He does not set the glass back down, this time; it vanishes from his hand (only to reappear several feet away with a very quiet clink, neatly dropping into place beside other used dishes at the busing station.) "Here. Whatever you want to do with your life -- even if it's try to forget this ever happened -- it's going to be a lot easier to do if you know what you're dealing with." He's slipping a small card case from a pocket, pulling one of its cards out to offer it across the table. The Mendel Clinic's logo and information -- a website, a New York phone number, an address in the Lower East Side -- are most prominent on the card, though it also says Dr. DJ Allred, together with an extension and email. "And don't worry," he's adding just a little wryly, "we're a nonprofit. Sliding scale. Most mutants aren't exactly rolling in cash." Ren watches the glass vanish, intrigue lighting up his mind again. "That's a neat trick you've got there." Ren goes to take the card, but the vines are already curiously nabbing at it, and dragging it closer. With his other hand, he pulls it out of it's grasp like you would something from an unruly child. The Plant makes some pings in Ren's mind, which he promptly ignores. He looks over the card, and nods, "....Alright. I'll consider it." He promises, "Thank you....DJ..." He frowns. Something clicks in his mind. "DJ Allred." He scans DJ's face one more time, "Hm. Correct me if I'm wrong, but...Aren't you supposed to be dead?" He asks, casually. "Different Allred. There was a whole thing with a portal to another dimension --" DJ exhales a quiet puff, the twitch of his mouth pulling even more wry. "Like I said, we see a lot of weird stuff." "No kidding. I remember reading about that." Ren is looking at DJ in a new light, like he's one of his machines that's he has to figure out how to piece back together. "I'm gonna have to hear about that next time we meet." He inspects the card again, "Not sure how soon I'll be able to...Come in for this though...Maybe in a few month- motherfu-" His hand suddenly flinches, the vines having inquisitively stuck directly into the hot coffee it had been investigating earlier. <<Really?>> <<⊑⍜⏁!⊑⍜⏁!>> Ren sighs, "Never mind. When's the earliest appointment?" DJ winces kind of sympathetically at the flinching. "-- some coffee grounds are good for plants but probably not so, uh, hot. Fresh." He blinks at the question but only looks taken aback for a very brief moment before he says, a little apologetic, "I -- don't do scheduling. You'll have to call our office about that. Hopefully --" He's looking very brief at the vines. "Soon." In Ren’s mind, the run down ‘mutant clinic’ he’d been subconsciously picturing that had just one guy running it shifts into an actual establishment at the mention of an actual office to call. Ren nods, “Makes sense, I’ll give them a call.” He inspects the card one more time, before sliding it into his coat pocket. <<DJ Allred.>> Memories of articles and news stories pop up in his mind. DJ’s voice from earlier in the conversation floats in his mind. ‘Right there in the scrapbook next to wedding day and my kids' birthdays.’ <<Did the original guy have kids?…are they the same ones?>> “Aliens ever attack where you’re from?” Ren asks instead. DJ's eyes go very briefly wider, slight but surprised a moment before Ren's question. Ultimately though, he just gives a small laugh. "Where I'm from was -- mostly just like this world, honestly. Except for the dinosaurs. Been kind of a disappointment on that front." He pushes himself to his feet, dipping his head in a small nod. "Hope I'll see you around," sounds just as distressingly genuine as, "-- Have a blessed day." Ren’s eyebrows shoot up, looking maybe the most awake since the start of the conversation. “Dinosaurs. Right. Good one.” He says, but in his mind he definitely believes it, or desperately wants to believe it at the very least. He waves a hand, “Yeah, I’ll see you around. Uh… sure. Blessed day and all that.” He says clumsily, “Thanks for the chat—I’m Ren, by the way. Never said that.” <<Way to go. Killing it in the ‘making friends’ department huh? Almost didn’t even give the guy your name.>> "Ren. I'll remember that." DJ's warm voice sounds like he means it. "Stay safe." As he slips back to join the younger missionaries and head out together, a person at an adjacent table is giving Ren a sympathetic look, like maybe they consider this some kind of Mormon Threat. “You too.” Once DJ leaves, Ren sags a little in his chair, exhaustion from the headache, the weird Brain Explosion, the conversation, and everything else all weighing down all at once. <<There. Did it.>> He slides off one of the ear loops of his mask, and finally drinks some of his forgotten coffee. <<That guy was weird>> <<⌇⎍⋏ ⋏⍜⍙? ⌇⎍⋏.>> <<Yeah you’re tellin’ me.>> He responds mentally, despite not understanding. He quickly taps the yellowing snake plant in front of him, and it immediately begins perking up as pushes himself up and out of the chair. He grabs his crutches, and makes his way out. <<Now quiet down. My heads still killing me.>> <<⋔⍜⎐⟟⋏☌. ⋔⍜⎐⟟⋏☌. ⍙⏃⍀⋔.>> <<Bastard. I bet Dinosaur Reality Me doesn’t have to deal with this shit.>>