ArchivedLogs:Back on Track

Back on Track
Dramatis Personae Murphy, Melinda	2013-03-07 '
Location <NYC> Melinda's Apartment - Lower East Side
The apartment is composed of four bedrooms, two baths, a living room and an entry space attached to the kitchen, near the door. That kitchen is covered in tile, from floor to countertop to back splash on the wall, all white, with light, thin blue stems and flowers. The cabinets are newish, with blond wood kept meticulously clean of fingerprints. It is also outfitted with an excellent coffee maker, or two, with all the accoutrement to go with it. The living room is mainly furnished by found pieces, two chairs and a couch. None of it was constructed at the same time, but it all has been reupholstered with the same cloth, the surfaces colored similarly and with a regular weave. The wood has all been refinished as well, dark and able to hide stains well. The walls are colorful, but that goes with the territory of having a mutant roommate with Tag's ability. Today, it is a sage green with some abstract blue and orange intermingling in different places. Tomorrow it will be different. A cursory inspection shows that five people live in this four bedroom apartment, so it's difficult to pick out what belongs to any one person. Murphy's arrival is foretold by the stomp of heavy boots somewhere outside the apartment; it is further reinforced by the sound of the thick, harsh WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP of a clenched fist against Melinda's door. It might also be hinted at by the thunder of stormclouds outside, and the slow, steady crawl of horror music somewhere in the background -- but probably not. "Open up," a gruff, grouchy voice grumbles from the other side of the doorway. "S'Murphy." The man waiting for Melinda is dressed in a long, black wool coat -- his hair recently buzzed down to stubble, his face showing signs of a three day old shave. He looks like shit. He /always/ looks like shit. Melinda takes her sweet time getting to the door, but there are noises inside of the upcoming answer. First, the TV turns off at the sound of the knocking. When she hears his voice, she replies pleasantly, "Coming." Eventually there is a shadow at the peep hole, then the sound of the deadbolt turning and the handle twists visibly before the door open. Melinda stands there with the door only open a little. She's wearing a thick purple bathrobe, her hair braided over one shoulder. There's more fullness to her face and a different set to what he can see of her body. She looks tired. "Hey, Murphy. What's up?" "You gained weight." Murphy is suddenly -- umf, umf, UMF -- attempting to shoulder his way into Melinda's house. Not violently, but as firmly (and as rudely) as he can manage while not actually managing to shove Melinda around. "Need some intel. On nutcrackers. Got a problem. Also," and here, Murphy pauses a moment in his prolonged attempt to infiltrate Melinda's apartment, "--wanna know how Jim's doing." This request is softer, tinier; like a little piece of fine print tacked on to the back-end of an intimidating contract. "Well, Jim's dealing with a lot." Melinda lets him push open the door, leaning a shoulder against the frame as he does, mostly out of the way, aside from that rather large belly, sticking out from between the embrace of her bathrobe. She has soft cotton pajamas underneath, both in shades of blue. "But intel on nutcrackers? What kind of problem?" She closes the door once he's inside and begins to head toward the kitchen. "You want anything?" At the sight of that belly, Murphy pauses -- even his shouldering gets a little softer, more like an after-thought than a genuine attempt to invade the apartment. When Melinda turns to move toward the kitchen, he stares at her back, eyebrows crunching together like cogs in some immense adding machine: "You're pregnant," he corrects himself. Then, like a series of puzzle pieces snapping into place, things start to click -- one after another: "Jim." And then, his hand instinctively reaches for the interior of his coat, and -- "--y'get it tested, yet?" He pulls a pack of cigarettes out, crumpled; looks after her, scowls, and slides the smokes back into his coat. "Dreams," Murphy replies, rather cryptically, to Melinda's other question. And then: "Don't want anything. 'Cept maybe a new head." He leans against the doorframe, glaring at the space she disappeared into. "I have chosen not to get the child tested yet. I haven't even asked what sex it is." Melinda pours herself a glass of milk then and returns to the dining room table, taking a seat and resting. "Yes, Jim is the father. I can't say that it's all that he has on his plate. You've heard, of course, of the bodies and bits around the city lately. Plus, he's looking for someone from his community. Teenager gone missing. People are more concerned, what with that other news." "Nngh." Murphy's fingertips rise up, massaging at his brows, eyes closing -- listening to what Melinda's saying. "--haven't heard. Been trying to... get my head together. Missing teenagers -- bodies? Bits?" His eyes flash back up to Melinda. "--somebody from /his/ community? Teenager." His left eyebrow twitches; his eyes suddenly go dark. His face seems half-twisted between a smile and a scowl: "Don't tell me. Kid's a little -- lizardy." "Yeah, I think so. I've seen him before, but I'm not always sure which of the twins' friends he was." Melinda lifts her glass to sip, inhaling after swallowing. "There is so much going on, Murphy, and I don't know all that much. I've kind of been overwhelmed with doctor's appointments, the kid, moving. Have you checked in with Jackson Holland? He's generally the one with the most connections, knows what's going on." She frowns, her free hand rubbing against her belly. "He's too cheery," Murphy replies, eyes narrowing a little bit at Melinda's belly as she rubs it -- as if he was /willing/ the child therein not to be a mutant. Don't you dare, little bugger. His eyes eventually scrape their way back up to Melinda's face, and: "Victor Borkowski. His parents asked me to make sure he's okay a while back. Figured it'd be him -- that's the way these things work." Then, more soft: "If he's in trouble again..." Murphy's weight sags hard against the door; for a moment, he looks less pissed off -- more just straight-up exhausted. "Never ends. Alright. You still have my number. If you need it." "I understand, but some how, he has his finger on the pulse of most everything I know anything about." Mel starts to get to her feet again as Murphy begins his farewells. "I will. You should call Jim. Go ... smoke with him or something. He's less cheery and he knows a good deal more than me." She heads toward the door. "Plus, he probably needs to talk to someone less cheery too. Maybe you can help with the teen, Victor." "Have to," Murphy admits, mildly, replying to that last comment. He reaches to re-open the door; that moment of exhaustion has slid away, replaced with hard grit and indifference. "Told his parents I'd keep an eye out." Then, just as he opens the door -- just as he's moving to step out -- he fires a look at Melinda, as she approaches. It's a hard one. "--if it's a mutant, move to fuckin' Chile." That's apparently all he has to say on that; otherwise, he's heading out the door. Melinda doesn't say anything as she walks Murphy out, just eyeing him evenly when he makes comments about Chile. She shakes her head and lets him leave before closing up after him, scrubbing her face with one hand. "Have a nice night, Murphy," she tells the closed door. "Try to stay out of trouble."