Logs:Less One

Less One
Dramatis Personae B, Jax, Ryan, Spencer
In Absentia Shane	2024-10-12 "He did."
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. In some small blessing, there is plenty of food for all, the feast prepared for break-fast multiplied tenfold so that the newcomers can be amply fed without the Ne'ilah gathering going hungry. Plenty of them are going hungry anyway, not for lack of food but lack of time, people running into their twenty-sixth hour of fasting but still pushing through to help evacuate the Genoshan battlefield and tend to the many wounded. B has not been assisting with any of this. She's dragged herself down the stairs with a large plate of ginger-lime salmon and proceeded to eat none of it. She is tucked into a corner booth in the closed cafe, staring blankly at her plate. Jax has been upstairs helping with the evacuation and triage efforts. It is probably only by dint of some serious badgering that he is trudging downstairs now, and folding himself onto the bench beside B. One of his arms is slung and swathed against his chest, but his other extends in a silent offer to B. Ryan has done some serious badgering. He's not long to follow Jax, emerging from the elevator with two laden plates of food in his lap. He wheels up to the table, setting one of the plates down in front of Jax and then the other at the end of the table. He swallows, and doesn't say anything. The sounds from the rest of the cafe, the quiet stress-hushed conversations and less quiet cries of pain and exuberant catching-ups and alien clicks and gargles and whistles, all fade into a bland background white noise. Spence has been too busy to break his fast, but the prospect of actually sitting down with his father and sister is enough to draw him away from his latest supply run and -- -- to the space that's been left for him at the table. He's shucked his jacket at some point, his face is pale, and his shirt is bloody. He looks down at the plate. Looks up at his family. Finally picks up a fork. Then puts it back down and just stares at his plate again. "Y'all don't have to talk about it or anything," he begins. "I mean there's probably way too much to talk about anyway and I'm so grateful to have you back but also. But." He swallows. "What happened to Shane." B tucks herself under Jax's outstretched arm. Her head presses against his side, her gills slowly fluttering. They press shut when the others arrive, her eyes closing. "I don't know. He's dead." Jax pulls B closer, arm snug around her shoulders. His other arm twitches slightly at the question, like he's trying to reach for something before the sling and a sharp twinge of pain get in the way. "The ship..." He shakes his head. "I don't. Know. It killed him." Ryan pulls his chair a little closer to the table. His elbows prop on top of it, forehead resting against his fingertips, his shoulders curling a little tighter. The silence closes more heavily around them. "The ship," Spence echoes this numbly, in a way that suggests he's going to follow it up with some kind of question, but he doesn't. Just mouths "ship" under his breath a few times, quiet but increasingly desperate, before falling silent entirely. "So he -- y'all got out --" He crosses his arms, shoulders hunching, hands pressed tight under his arms. "Sorry. I'm sorry it doesn't --" He sounds more than a little panicked to Ryan. His eyes squeeze shut and he looks very much like he's going to jump -- -- but doesn't. Or doesn't succeed, at any rate. He starts to rock back and forth. Stops himself vehemently. The tears, at least, he does not try to stop. B's eyes close tighter. Her gills press down harder. "I don't know." She's gone a little more tense, stiffening under Jax's arm until Spence quiets. She's pulling away, then, shaking her head as she squeezes out past him. Her "I'm sorry," is mumbled, quiet, numb and flat to Ryan's senses. She wraps her arms tight against her chest, head bowing as she hurries out the door. Jax presses his palm to his eye. He almost tries to stop B, almost tries to nudge her full plate after her. Doesn't; just slumps back against the bench and lets her pass. "I don't know." His voice sounds numb, too, though contrastingly it feels anything but to Ryan: guilty, sick, furious, annoyed, everything is annoying him at this moment. He swallows down the irritation and the exhaustion and tries again. "The slugs was -- some of their machines was..." This is as far as his attempt at coherent explanation gets. He picks up his fork, cuts a small crisp bite of falafel off one of his patties and swirls it through several dips. "I don't know. He was trying to get us. Home." Spence flinches when B gets up, and his "sorry" comes almost aligned with hers. His body tries to fold up smaller while he tries to keep still. He nods earnestly, if a bit stiffly. "He did," sounds as much like a question as a statement as an attempt to convince himself. He doesn't say anything more. Just picks up his fork and, however little he seems to be enjoying the experience, digs ravenously into his food. "He did." Ryan's voice is quiet, and he is not trying very hard to suppress the grief and exhaustion that spills over from it, lost as they are anyway in the mix of everyone else's. He lifts a hand, rubbing slowly at Spence's back and falling back into a heavy silence.