ArchivedLogs:Failure To Communicate

Failure To Communicate
Dramatis Personae Violet, Micah, Doug, Isak, Shane
In Absentia	5 July 2014 Linguistic ability failure sounds an awful lot like Zombie Plague, as it turns out.
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 plentiful 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 clear and cool and only just starting to get dark outside of Evolve, but the music upstairs has already begun thumping and the evening crowd has begun to trickle in. Having thought ahead to the matter of crowds, Violet has staked an early claim on one of the sitting areas designed for coziness. In the back corner, she is leaving her mark on one of the corduroy sofas by sprawling on it, without her hoodie on. Yes, there is fur shedding, wisps of black and grey and cinnamon caught in that ridged surface as the catgirl reads through the paper. One would not think it would be a physical activity, reading the paper, but she keeps moving as she does it. From lying on her belly to flopping onto her back, from one side to the other, and finally to lying with butt against back cushions and head dangling over the side and legs stretched up against the wall (ankles crossed because she's a lady, damn it)...she has made herself comfortable. And now she's getting to the end of the Living section, the tail she's draped over the arm of the sofa taking on a thoughtful swaying as she peruses the horoscopes. Micah is on a break from Clinic work and Commons work caring for the injured and the newly released from torture lab. The never-ending Feed People compulsion seems to be going strong, however. He has an honest-to-goodness metal lunch box in hand, a familiar blue and TARDIS-decorated, naturally. He is dressed simply in faded bluejeans and a powder blue T-shirt with a Totoro face on it, auburn hair in enough muss that one could assume he'd just rolled out of bed. Swinging the lunch box just a /little/, he bypasses the line and goes straight for the counter in search of one sharktwin. Doug does /not/ look like he is here to love the nightlife /or/ to boogie when he comes in shortly behind Micah. Not dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt with a green 1UP mushroom on the chest. The blonde looks pale and drawn as he comes through the door to the coffee shop, his eyes a bit wild around the edges of his gaze. He pauses for a long moment inside the door, soaking in the cool air before heading in the direction of the line -- something he doesn't look particularly /confident/ about, although this time he doesn't look like he's about to flee. Not yet, anyway. There's a whiff of expensive cologne just behind Doug - cologne and cigarette smoke. Isak /is/ dressed like he enjoys the nightlife and the boogeying. The white suit and loose v-neck blue t-shirt look like a more fitted version of something out of Miami Vice. He is both young enough and fashion forward enough to pull it off. His blonde hair is slicked off his face and the white jacket is pushed up to his elbows. He spots Micah as he breezes past, but the man moves too quickly for him to say his hellos. Instead, he just looks down at his phone and shoots off a text. There is a tiny blue sharktwin making an appearance! Though not behind the counter; the barista gives Micah a quick smile but is just gesturing off towards the back of the room when Shane comes traipsing down the steps from the nightclub above. He doesn't really look like he's been /clubbing/, admittedly, in polished Oxfords and slacks and bowtie and a neat grey button-down with a deep red vest over top. He also looks faintly peaked, a little pale, a little dark about the eyes, hints of being here since opening combined with a somewhat sleepless few nights with an apartment cluttered with traumatized refugees. Hints of Tired don't stop him from detouring past the couches on his way back to bat lightly at Violet's swaying tail. Skirting over /towards/ the counter earns a sudden wrinkle of nose, a further paling with a brief twitch of head and small chuffed out snort, bloodhound-sensitive nose instinctively reacting somewhat unfavourably to strong scents as he passes by Isak. He bops his head lightly up against Micah's arm -- bops and then /rests/ there a little longer than necessary. "What'cha got for me?" His black eyes slant back towards the line, and his smile to Doug is very faint, closed-lipped and polite. Less polite: "Christ you look like ten miles of bad road." A very dramatic hiss follows Shane past the couch, in the wake of Tailgate. But, given the fact that Violet does not even bother to raise her upside down newspaper to look at him, it is probably just that--dramatic, not anger. A page is turned. Paper crinkles. Micah redirects with a nod, smile, and soft thanks offered to the barista, meeting up with Shane on his circuit. "Saved you about a cup of the seafood gumbo that...Violet made." Speak of the catgirl. He waves at the hissing kitty. "Evenin', hon," is directed at Violet before he continues. "An' I apparently managed t'overestimate the amount of bacon needed for breakfast this mornin' an' had a bunch extra thawed, so I made some bacon wrapped chicken breasts. Not used t'cookin' so much meat anymore. There's one of Jax's oatmeal, walnut, an' chocolate chip cookies in there, too. Case y'wanted t'nibble at it a bit." There are additional smallwaves offered to Doug and Isak. "Man, the place is hoppin' t'night. Can you catch a break t'eat?" Doug seems very focused, as he stands in line, seemingly unaware of Shane as he appears, or Isak falling into line behind him. His attention is firmly fixed on the chalk board and its selections, and he seems to be studying each entry there as though he has never been in a shop like this before. He blinks slowly, and there's an uncertainty in the way he screws up his face as he reads. When Shane speaks to him, it's a long, stretched-out moment when he turns to look blankly at the younger man. His mouth works a bit without opening, and when he finally does speak, the words come out in an odd, forced rush. "You're. One. Talk." He waves his hand in Shane's general direction and takes a shuddery breath before he continues. "Look. Driedout. Almost." Isak is fairly oblivious to how his scent might be affecting those of the sensitive nose persuasion. He nods to Micah as he's acknowledged, but keeps to his space in line behind Doug. He types another text into his phone. After he sends it, he slips the phone away and considers the back of Doug's head. "Hey man, you all right? Stoned?" Shane answers the hissing with a /cheerfully/ sharp baring of teeth, snapsnapchomp in the air. "What's your horoscope say?" he wants to know, before his eyes light with Micah's announcement. "Oh/snap/ have I ever told you you're the best dad /on the planet/?" This time Shane's smile is /toothy/-bright. His gaze skates across the crowded cafe, gills fluttering brief and uncertain. "Barely taken one all fucking day except to /piss/," he acknowledges with a grimace. His brows lift at Doug's reply, and he shifts his attention between Isak and Doug uncertainly. "... dude what's /wrong/ with you?" It's abruptly /wary/, tense, in -- the way that a /lot/ of people who lived through the verbally-transmitted zombie apocalypse get around people with uncharacteristically odd speaking patterns. Finally, finally, Violet deigns to peep around the edge of the paper. A sniff is taken of the air, different impressions sorted and discarded until she can match one scent to one voice. "Micah, hey. Evenin'. How you doin'?" Horoscope? Oh, right. Upside down cat gets hidden again as she finds her place. "Th'more others insist that you conform t'their standards th'more you're gonna insist on goin' your own way," she recites, /almost/ as stilted in reading aloud as Doug is in his own speech. "This stuff's eerie, makes y'wonder they got a precog at...th'paper..." Newsprint rustles again, this time as she trails off and swings herself around to sit proper, as normal people do. The Post is folded up but distractedly--that uptick in tension in the air has not been missed, no sir. With a furrowed brow and stubborn set of his chin at that announcement, Micah presses the lunchbox into Shane's hands. "/That/ means y'need a dinner break. A real one. Where you /sit/ an' get t'taste your food. Seriously, if there's somethin' needs doin' while y'eat, just point me to it." The expression softens a little at the lavish thanks, dissolving into chuckles at the horoscope. "They write that one for you, personally?" he asks the catgirl before continuing to push Shane on the issue of food. "There's a stuffin' in 'em, but it's not bad on protein as these things go so y'should actually be able t'eat it. S'got pine nuts and waterchestnuts an' artichoke an' sundried tomatoes an' herbs..." The ingredients list gets a little slower and quieter as he goes on, slowly just trailing off as he watches Doug. "Um. Honey, I'm kinda afraid y'might be havin' a stroke or a seizure. We should get you sittin' down. Can you try t'smile wide?" Doug looks startled by Isak's question, turning to look at the older man blankly for a moment before he slowly shakes his head in apologetic confusion. Whatever it was Isak asked him is just not making any sort of connection. And Shane's question gets a longer study, and a deep furrow of the blonde's eyebrows as he works through it. "Can't," he says helpfully, frowning at the floor and exhaling sharply. "Words. Don'twork." He points at his temple, and lifts his eyebrows helplessly. Micah's input gets a widening of Doug's eyes, and he inhales through his nose deeply, studying the redhead's face for a good minute before he nods, and smiles a wide grin that doesn't reach his eyes. "How. Is. That." Isak looks more than a little wary at Doug's trouble with words. He rocks back half a step. It turns out that he's saved by the bell. His phone starts to emit a series of bass notes. When he answers it, he speaks in rapid-fire Swedish. He glances around the room, then lifts his hand half in goodbye, half in apology, then slips out the door. "/Hah/, that is kinda spot-/on/. -- What's Aries say? If they have a precog writing their paper I'm getting that one every /day/." Shane is raccooning into the lunchbox right where he stands, tucking it against his chest with an arm so that he can open it up and dig out a chicken breast, claws pincering it before he takes a huge bite. The quiet moan he lets out at his mouthful of meat is nearly indecent. He lowers the food, though, swallowing and going stiffer at Doug's continued explanation of word-difficulty still being fairly solidly in line with early-onset zombie symptoms. He takes a slow half-step just a /little/ bit in between Micah and Doug, gills fluttering quick again. "... how long have you been like that?" Sadly Shane's question on horoscopes is fated to go unanswered. Did someone say zombies? No? That's all right, Violet recognizes the signs too. Her eyes narrow and shift about--no doubt in search of something suitable for beating on poor Doug--as she stands. Not to insert herself between people, no, she's not that selfless. Rather, she slides along the wall on a course for the door. Shane's reaction to the food is enough to drag Micah's attention away for a moment, a hint of a grin tugging at his lips. His eyes soon slide back to Doug, however. “That's good. No droop. /Prob'ly/ not a stroke. You ever had a seizure before? I still think y'should sit.” He directs the young man toward the...recently vacated couch. “Have y'had any flu-like symptoms?” Doug makes a noise of pain when Isak erupts into Swedish next to him, and reaches up to grab at his forehead as the color drains from his face. He slaps his forehead-grabbing hand down over his eyes, slowly moving his head back and forth until Isak is gone. Then he slowly lowers his hand, looking like he might actually be about to vomit. His forehead is sweaty, and his eyes are red-rimmed as he squints at first Shane, then Micah as they speak. "Sit," he agrees in a croak, moving towards the indicated couch and dropping heavily into it. The second question takes a moment to parse, and then Doug shakes his head. "Not /sick/," he assures the older man, wiping a smear of red from his nose and struggling on. "Ability. Gone..." he spreads his hands, unable to come up with the word. Which hopefully illustrates his point for him. "No /don't/ sit --" Shane just looks all the /more/ alarmed at Doug's pallor, sweat, nauseated look, drip of blood. The rapid flutter of his gills only gets faster. "You need to get --" There's a clamp of mouth sharp and abrupt, fingers clenching to smoosh the unfortunate chicken in his hand before he remembers to return it to the container it came from. "-- To a doctor. Like now." “Mmn. He's not gonna get anywhere on 'is own. Needs t'sit. I can bring a chair from m'van. Stay with 'im an' make sure he doesn't...fall over or somethin'.” Micah grumbles in frustration as he hurries to the door. “Should be able t'call an /ambulance/ an' go to an /emergency room/.” Doug watches the other two men as they talk, his eyes shifting as he works through what's being said. "I'm. Not/sick/," he insists, lifting a hand to flap it weakly. "I. Canwalk, And. Regularstuff. I just. Can't..." he sighs as the word he wants eludes him, and he flaps his hand again in frustration. "Words. Read. Speak. English. Is. Hard," he says, and exhales in frustration as he scrubs at his nose. "Foreign. Are. Likeeye. Stabbing." He lifts his shoulders. "Been. Seeingdoctors. Stillnot sure." "Of course you can call a motherfucking ambulance, /he's/ goddamn normal. Flicker's been. Hive's been. They don't give a fuck if you /look/ like some whitebread richboy. And he'll get dealt with in an ER way /faster/ than at the Clinic right now, they're a /little/ overtaxed right now and it's a Saturday." For all his agitated tension -- which keeps growing as Doug keeps explaining his language difficulties, an actual /growl/ reverberating soft in his throat at 'English is hard' -- Shane's voice has dropped /quite/ quiet -- in kiiind of a way like oh /Christ/ let's not call other customers' attention to the plague-bearer in the middle of my cafe. He holds up his hand to Doug, darting away behind the counter and returning shortly with a pen and a couple sheets of paper (scrap, they're printed on one side with things like delivery receipts and invoices, blank on their backs) that he turns to the blank sides to hand to Doug. "/Write/. Stop talking. /Now/." Something about his sharp irritated /skittishness/ suggests that he might enforce this order with /force/ if Doug says anything more in English. Micah returns a few minutes later with a wheelchair, as advertised. "What're they gonna do for 'im in a regular ER? He's havin' a /power/ meltdown. We need to...they brought back some of those darts that shut powers down. He might /need/ one. Either way, he needs docs that can deal with /abilities/ issues. Not kick 'em out once y'mention it." The chair stops right at Doug's feet. "Sit. You need t'go t'the Clinic. No arguin'. Now." Doug is working overtime, keeping up with the conversation going on around him, looking back and forth with an intent cant to his eyebrows. He seems /mildly/ concerned as the wheelchair appears, and there's talk of ERs and things. He shifts on the couch, and holds up his hands -- only to have Shane push paper and pen into them. He stares at the younger man for a long moment with an 'are you kidding?" expression before he sighs, and nods. Then he leans over the paper and begins to inscribe with the pen. It takes a good three minutes before he holds up the paper, eyebrows lifting as he reveals his message: I c42frty4 uadte4ys81 w53ismxl. Doesn't that just say it all. "He's having a /language/ meltdown," Shane snaps back to Micah, "his powers are fucking /language/-based what the hell do you think would happen to him if -- and there's fucking /misfiring/ telepaths down there do you really want to spread some shit through a building full of traumatized badly controlled mutants? -- Fine. What the fuck ever." His own words are a little hitchy, now, around the rapid flutter of his gills, and he just narrows his eyes at the paper, turning aside from Doug with a sharp /hiss/. "Just get. Some help." He's reaching his clean hand down into a pocket, now, slipping out something in his palm that he drops into /Micah's/ pocket with the heavy settling feel of metal; though not really visible in the transition, he's started carrying a long sharp folding knife again since his run-in with zombies just the week before last. "And be safe." This might be to either of the other men. Shane just sounds tired. “I can leave 'im in the /garage/ an' bring somebody out if we have to. He just...if they don't shut this down he /is/ gonna end up hurt. It's not...this ain't the plague, Shane. But it /could/ kill 'im. Like kids with early onset abilities. That's the only place we can get 'im an injection or...any guidance on what t'do.” Micah pulls Shane in close for a quick hug when he drops the knife in his pocket. “You take a break. Eat your dinner. Text your pa where I went so he won't worry I been gone too long. I'm takin' 'im.” He points at the chair again. “In. Or I swear I'll haul y'in bodily.” "I'm. Not. /Sick/," Doug insists, blurting the words at Shane in frustration once he works through the teenager's objections. He lifts a hand to point at his temple. "No. /Static/. Likesickness. Just pain like. A headkick." He frowns at the hiss, and shakes his head as he falls silent again. When Micah points at the chair, he sighs, and nods as he switches seats. He doesn't look terribly happy about this turn of events, but he also appears to lack the energy to put up any kind of fight about it, sagging heavily in the chair when he settles. "Sorry." Might be to either or both. Shane /hisses/ at that last word, eyes widening in very clear abrupt /fear/ and claws shooting out sharply. "Get him the /fuck/ out of my shop," he snarls, jerking back away from Micah and Doug both. His teeth are bared, face pale and a noticeable tremble in his very tensed posture. “Don't say that word,” Micah orders quickly, bordering on snapping. “'Specially not when your language is messin' up.” As soon as Doug is in the chair, he snaps the seatbelt on over his hips and rushes out the door to the van. Doug remains silent in the face of Shane's sudden reaction, and Micah's order. Perhaps they don't translate, or if they do, he's smart enough not to exacerbate the situation. But silent he is, and silent he'll remain until they've reached the Clinic. Maybe that'll give him enough time to work out a whole actual sentence.