ArchivedLogs:Coffee Creeping

Coffee Creeping
Dramatis Personae Anima, Elliott, Murphy	2013-03-20 navy >>>>> marines suckit murphy
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. Murphy arrives, followed by a dark and ominous rain-cloud. Not really, but he might as well be -- the man looks like he should come with his own inner monologue rumbling interjections about dead dames and smoke-choked corridors between each step he takes. He's dressed /sharp/, at least -- a black wool coat. Nice suit, nice tie. But he looks like he hasn't been sleeping or eating for the past day or two; rings under his eyes, a little thin in the cheeks -- fresh stubble gathering. That, and his face is /locked/ in a perpetual scowl. Like he's perpetually being pissed at the particular arrangement of the world before him. He steps right into Montague's -- coat swishing, feet *thumping* -- and glowers at the poor, poor dear behind the counter. Then: "Melinda." -- "Uh, no sir, she's not--" -- "Coffee. Black. Medium." SMACK. Five dollar bill on the counter. There is a young woman, mid-twenties, pale, tall, thin, face bright and shining (almost /literally/) who starts outside Montagues. Dressed in a checkered peacoat with jeans taking over at the leg, she smokes her umpteenth cigarette down to a stub, puts it out against the standalone ash try at the entrance, and reenters the cafe, following up behind Murphy. As the barista processes him along, she arrives at the front of the counter to place her order. "Black coffee. With a shot of espresso. /Strongest/ blend you have." With a smile, she fishes around in her jacket pocket and extracts exact change to pay, declining her receipt and relegating herself to standing position near the area where prepared drinks are served to waiting customers. Elliott is soon behind Murphy and the young woman. She's not glowering, though she doesn't look particularly /springlike/ either. Dark wool coat, dark cargo pants (pinned up into a stump on one leg), grey t-shirt. There's a backpack hanging on the back of her wheelchair, and it bumps up against the chair's back as she shoves her wheelchair into the rapidly closing gap in the door. Thump! Only a brief thump, and then she lifts an arm to push the door open further, awkwardly finagling pushing /it/ and propelling herself inside. She wheels her way across the room, navigating between the furniture to notch herself into line, tipping her head back to look up at the menu. "Long days?" It's a cheerful question, to the glowery-man and the strongest-coffee-you-have woman in front of her. Murphy steps aside. Waiting for coffee. And then there's a woman who looks like she might be... glowing? Nearby. And another woman, in a wheel-chair. Asking him (and glowy girl) a question. Murphy squints at them both, but concentrates on the person who spoke to him. Narrowing his gaze into a focused /spike/. One upon which he seems to intend to skewer her on. "Nights. You're the lieutenant who fought pirates." *FWSSSH* -- Murphy's coffee is finished. His hand reaches for it, fingers curling tight around the heat of it. "Read about it. Silver Star. Not too shabby." The woman, (Tanya, to anybody familiar with the refugees rescued from Prometheus by our favorite mutant activists), looks over her shoulder when addressed. Mousy brown hair tossed around her, her almond-green stare is curious and deductive. "Mm, no. I just. Really like coffee," she answers, brow-raising as Murphy provides some background information on the wheel-chaired woman from thin air. Her glowing isn't so obvious-- it's more like a healthy sheen, accenting her plain-but-pretty features. Elliott concentrates her gaze back, eyebrows raising at Murphy's narrowed gaze. "Yeah," she says, still fairly cheerful, "You a fan of pirates?" She pushes up towards the counter, ordering a coffee of her own -- black, too, triple-shot, and a ham-and-cheese croissant on top. "Guess this is the place for it," she adds to Tanya. "Haven't actually been before. Was in the neighborhood though. Coffee good here?" Tanya gets a glance from Murphy. But only a glance. Silently, her status as one of the refugees is noted; processed; filed. He's paying close attention to her; making sure she doesn't get herself in trouble. But he's not making it obvious that he knows her. He's also making it /look/ like Elliot's the person he's interested in talking to. Because he's not /supposed/ to know Tanya's one of the refugees. "Actually? Yeah. But I'm a bigger fan of the Navy. Was always handy, havin' a whole branch of the Marines dedicated to chaffeur duty." Uh oh. Is Murphy trying to START SOME SHIT? It's hard to tell if he's 100 percent serious or just teasing. "It's affordable. I don't think I know good coffee. Just started drinking it." The comment comes as could-be odd, or revealing to the likes of Murphy, aware this statement results from any of number of years kept in a lab facility. Tanya(Anima) passes it off as casual, however. One of the baristas on-duty, slides three paper-cups with sipper-lids and rings a bell, calling, "Three coffees. One black medium, one black single-shot, one black-triple shot," in the order each was received. Still eavesdropping with interest, the woman approaches the counter first for hers, taking a moment to decipher the labels, and offering the two theirs, first, extending both her cup-holding hands. Elliott is slower to claim her coffee. She has to twist around to retrieve her wallet from the backpack hanging off her wheelchair, and the slice of smile she gives Murphy as she turns back is sharp. "Yeah, be a miracle the day the Marines ever actually learn how to sail," she says, stretching up towards the counter to pay for her food and drink. She drops all the change into the tip jar, wheeling up beside Tanyima to -- frown at the high counter. She hits the brakes on her wheelchair to keep it stable, levering herself up carefully onto one leg to claim the coffee. "Just in it for the caffeine, then?" Her eyebrows quirk up to the other woman. Murphy's eyebrow twitches at Tanya's comment. Attention slinks over to her. He wants to say something like 'CAREFUL', but, well. He just glowers at his cup of coffee, then glowers at /Elliot/ instead. Watching her as she carefully levers herself up to claim her cup. Doesn't offer to help, though. Because, let's face it: Murphy's an asshole. "Be a miracle," he agrees, "'specially since we already know how to /swim/." Oh-HO. TOUCHE! Well, not really. He sips his coffee. Grimaces. Grunts. Then: "Pirates were mutants, I heard." /Now/ he gives a pointed look to Tanya. Like 'hey. Hey. I know your secret. SHADDAP about it'. "Yes, I like to feel energized. I feel tired a lot; it gets me through the day," Tanya agrees, watching the steam curl through the slit on her lid. Exhaling a cool breath, she watches the trail of cloud-like moisture dissipate, watching as Elliott and Murphy retrieve their respective coffees. "Would you care to find a table?" is asked, mostly of the friendlier Elliott, although Murphy is included by implicit association with them thus far. Catching his look of caution, she disregards it, prying further, "Oh my. Mutant /pirates/? You are like a superhero then. Are you allowed to say where you fought them off? I did not know real pirates existed." An almost childish glee accents her curiosity as she scans Montagues for an open seating arrangement. "Y'well, sink enough ships and you'll have to learn pretty damn quick. S'alright, though, you all can stick to soaking up bullets. Let the grownups play with the heavy machinery." Elliott stays balanced against the counter long enough to claim both coffee and croissaint, settling back into her chair afterwards with plate on her lap and coffee cup in cupholder. She leans down to unbrake the wheels, nodding in easy acceptance to Tanya. "Drug this whole city runs on." Her fingers taptaptap against the cup. "Who needs sleep when you can just get an extra shot." There's a faint tint of pink in her cheeks at the superhero comment, and she shakes her head to dismiss it, wheeling carefully through the furniture to find a spare table. She kind of /battering-rams/ a chair out of place to make room for hers. "The high seas," she answers Tanya, "where else are pirates found? -- Was out by Somalia. Piracy's still been a real problem that-a-ways. Mutants this time, yeah. Next week it'll just be humans with bigger guns. Still, the guns are easier to defend against, 'least." Murphy stands and watches the two go, chatting. And then he grumbles. /FUCK/. He's supposed to be... what's he supposed to be doing? Stirring up trouble, right. But something about Tanya's gleeful tone is tugging at the back of his brain. He follows -- not too close. Just kind of hovering. Like he's got nowhere else better to be. Behind Tanya: "Superheroes wear tights. She ain't wearing tights." He stares at Elliot, then. "Not that anybody would mind." CREEPSTER alert. Maybe Murphy figures she can take it, though; she fought pirates, surely she can handle a pervy ex-Marine? "Weird shit out there, now. This one time, three of us got pinned down by a fucker with a .50 caliber and a death-wish. Blew his brains out. Twice. He got better." Murphy sips coffee. Like this is just shooting the breeze. "Pissed 'em off, too." "Well, I'm sure this city comes with a lot worse addictions," Tanya opines, fingers gripping around the textured insulator around her coffee that keeps her hands from burning. She moseys along through the cafe behind the bulldozing Elliott, claiming a seat on a nearby couch, rather than a chair, so she can half-sprawl in lazy recline. "Somalia, hm. I don't know, what are these type of pirates after-- out there?" Glancing over her shoulder, "Superheroes do not wear tights. Superheroes look like the rest of us; no one said their uniform had to be spandex," she counters to Murphy. Once seated, she pops the lid off of her coffee and stares into the black liquid, blowing to send ripples across its surface. Rather pointedly cutting through his war-story, she interjects, "I am Tanya, by the way. And you are?" "Heroes wear all kinds of uniforms," Elliott says in agreenemt with Tanya, "but I was just doing my job." She does in fact seem impervious to Murphy's creepstering; she's been a woman in the military she has /been/ creepster'd on before. She does smirk, though, looking down at her legs. Leg. "Yeah, shit, s'hard to find my /fit/ lately. I've been leaving the tarting it up to your mom, she's holding it down on that front." She picks up her sandwich, taking a large bite and washing it down with a more careful sip of hot coffee. Her eyebrows raise at Murphy's story. "Yeah. There's a whole /mess/ of strange out there these days. Just gotta do what we gotta do to keep it from hurting anyone, yeah?" She leans forward to extend a hand to Tanya. "Elliott. Pirates are after look. Same's anyone, I guess. You new to this city? It comes with a /pile/ of shit a mountain high. Navigable shit, though, if you know your way around." Murphy's name is, presumedly, not asked for -- so it isn't offered. He's watching Tanya, still. Like a hawk. A very unobvious hawk. "My mom /does/ dress like a cheap whore," Murphy agrees, this statement carrying all the weight and gravitas one might invoke when describing the weather. "But she ain't got /shit/ on your dad's sloppy blowjobs." SIP. There's no bitterness in that comment; it's pretty much automatic. This is what qualifies as 'small-talk' for Murphy. A discussion concerning the sexual proficiency of each other's parentages. Positions, payment, preferred brands of lubricant, etc. "Yeah, sure," I GUESS. Is his response to Elliot's question. Anima acts impervious to scrutiny, a faint smirk crossing over her features at the sexual banter between the two as she sips her coffee. When offered a hand, she reaches out her own, touch gentle; with it, however, comes a quiet telepathic creeping. Quiet, subdued, it's a shallow, cursory sweep of the thoughts skimming the surface of her consciousness, nothing invasive; it ends when she recollects her hand to herself. Nodding, "Entirely new. Still trying to figure out /how/ to navigate it, to be honest. Sticking close by a source of coffee seems to be a good start." No, Murphy is not exempt from a handshake, nor a pestering, "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name, still." She bares a sliver of a smile at him. "Huh, /your/ dad didn't seem to have any complaints," Elliott answers with a /slurp/ of her coffee. Because it's hot. "He didn't give it," she adds with a slight smirk. "What /is/ your name?" Her surface thoughts are mingled. A tired need for caffeine. A vague sense of relaxation to be just -- sitting and enjoying company and a coffee after the whirlwind of /spotlight/ she's had since returning home. An idle thought to the work she /came/ here to do -- tuck away at a corner with her laptop and finish a mound of paperwork for getting Back To School. "Coffee definitely helps. You come up here for school or work or what? I'm only just back myself, but I've been here my whole life. You ever need someone to show you around --" She hitches a shoulder up. "I know plenty of good coffee spots." "Shit-fucker. Mr. Shit-fucker." Dead serious. Murphy looks at the hand that Anima/Tanya offers. Like there's something /wrong/ with it. But then he takes it, and... Murphy's head is not a friendly place. It's full of nastiness, and anger, and paranoia. And right now, he's thinking about whether or not Tanya's going to get herself into any trouble. And then -- hey, wait. He /knows/ Tanya, somehow. Her face is in his head. And something else, too, just beneath those thoughts. A buzzing -- like static. A /sea/ of thoughts, far deeper than any one head should be able to contain. Just brushing up against it sends sparks of information -- /so/ much information. A perfect, crystal clear image -- in HD -- of Tanya emerging from the Village Lofts, walking down the street. Seem from within the front seat of a car, parked some distance away. The image is crisp -- way more crisp than any memory has business being. "Murphy," he tells under Elliot's /second/ prompting, as if having /two/ women hammer him for his name is enough to break down the barrier. Is it brighter in here? For a moment, Tanya looks more radiant - or is it a passing cloud unveiling a small lance of sunlight lancing through the cafe window? Grasping Murphy's hand, there is somewhat of an imagistic overload; it confuses the signals between natural mutation and the touch-based telepathy, making her appear /shinier/. Maybe. Tanya retracts her hand, quick to slurp her coffee and buy time. There is hesitation in answering Elliott, as if she has to do a bit of /digging/ to retrieve an explanation for her presence there. In New York. "Modeling," she supplies, eventually, and not too convincingly. "Well. I came here to model. You know, that whole thing." She smiles, and it is true, she fits the profile: tall, rail-thin, none-too-curvy, with a plain sort of prettiness that could be easily dressed up, given pounds of make-up and liters of hairspray. "But right now I'm looking for work. To support my coffee fix." She is /not/ looking at Murphy. Not after that hi-def handshake. "You seem like a shit-fucker," Elliott agrees, after sizing up Murphy. "I mean, you remind me of other shit-fuckers I've known." She noms on her sandwich some more. Omnom. She brushes a stray crumb from her lips with her thumb, sucking her finger clean afterwards. "Murphy Shit-fucker. Unfortunate name. Suits you." Her eyes gravitate back to Tanya at that brightening, first looking past to the window and then settling on the woman with a slightly puzzled look. What she /says/, though, is, "You've got the build for it, for sure. Any luck on the work front? I hear it's rough out there." This comes with a wince, sympathetic but not empathetic. Senator's daughter. Scrambling for work is not a problem she has experienced in life. "You seem like a New Yorker," she adds, to Murphy. "East Coast, for sure." Never forgetting a damn thing has a number of disadvantages -- but it carries one particular benefit. And that's that you /never forget a damn thing/. The sudden spike of light in the room is briefly noted -- almost subconsciously -- and filed. So is the fact that it happened /just/ as Murphy's hand made contact with Tanya's skin. So's the fact that Tanya's now paying much more attention to Elliot. Still, none of that is blazingly suspicious. So... "I /am/ a shit-fucker. And it's better than the /other/ last name," he throws on. "Yeah, raised and grew up 'round Philly. Moved to New York after the corps. Work as a snoop. Probably not for long, though. Fuckers got computers that can do all the snooping for you." Poor Murphy; he's an outdated model. Back to a regular, human dim, Tanya proceeds unfazed, setting her drink down on the table, half-gone by now. She reclines further back into her seat, settling so as not to risk touching anyone by accident; really it looks like readjusting for the sake of comfort. "No, none yet. I'll take-- anything though. I've got a little community college under my belt from back home. Whatever pays, pays though." Ah, the plight of the poor-- or seemingly poor and struggling, anyway. "I might have to take you up on the offer to show me around though. Maybe put in a few applications at some of these coffee spots you know." A laugh follows, along with a furtive side-glance at Murphy. Hi. "Snoop. You're a /professional/ creep?" Elliott's eyebrows lift, a smirk twitching onto her face. "Really /are/ a shitfucker. Snoop anything interesting, lately?" The comment about compters just gets a shrug out of her. "Still need someone to tell the computers what to look for." For Tanya there's a more genuine smile, warmer, less smirksome. "Totally will. You planning on going back to school at all? Where's home?" "You want a taste, it'll cost you two sawbucks," Murphy tells Elliott. "Professional means I don't do it for /free/. But yeah, I'm a pro. Been creepin' since I creept out of the womb." That glance toward Murphy from Tanya is returned by a surly *glance* shot. Y'ello. STAY OUT OF TROUBLE. "Might. Maybe. Not sure what my next move is beyond finding employment." Tanya frowns at her own lack of forethought on this, reaching up her hands to comb her hair back from her face with raking fingers. "Home-home, or where I live now?" This time, her expression for Murphy is a bit more deviant in nature. Trouble, Tanya? The alliteration might as well tie them together, pal. "Home-home. Or where you live now." Elliott shrugs a shoulder. "And thanks, but no thanks. I get /plenty/ of being creeped on for free. Admittedly mostly amateurs, but they have a lot of practice. I mean, the Olympics was for /amateurs/ once, too." Murphy seems satisfied by Tanya's glance his way; like, alright. Kid probably won't get herself into trouble. PROBABLY. The mention of 'home' raises Murphy's hackles, but -- he suppresses a grimace. Telling Elliott where she lives is probably not a security breech. PROBABLY. "Speaking of which, I got some puppies to kick. Later, sea-dog." The coffee is SLURPED. Murphy heads on out. Because, well, yeah. Those puppies ain't gonna kick themselves! "DC area, originally. Now I'm staying with a friend over here in SoHo, until I can find my own place." Tanya watches Murphy collect himself and prepare to leave. "Bye, mister spy," she calls after him, grabbing for her coffee cup once more. Sip. "Where are you from? Sorry if I don't know as much as--him," she apologizes, with a look after the departing private investigator. "I'm not very up to date on current events." "Seeya, shitfucker," Elliott calls to Murphy. Cheerfully! She even lifts her cup to him in salute. "Oh, I've been from here for forever. Brooklyn born and raised. Navy took me as far as I've ever been from home." She pulls her crumpled receipt from a pocket, twists around to pull a pen from her backpack. "Here," she says, jotting a phone number and name -- Elliott! -- down on the back of the receipt. "I should probably settle in and actually get some work done, but. If you need someone to show you around, ever." She offers the slip of paper to Tanya. "Thanks," Tanya murmurs in gratitude, reaching to take the slip. Folding it in half, she tucks it away into her pocket, and rises. "Very nice meeting you. And thanks-- I'm sure I'll be calling you soon." With that, she pulls the same hand that formerly held the receipt out of her pocket, clutching a pack of cigarettes. Nicotine and caffeine in hand, she returns herself to the same place as before -- right outside, chain-smoking and sipping, until the sometimes-shiny young woman slips away, lost in the hustle and bustle of New York sidewalks.