ArchivedLogs:Fresh Meat

Fresh Meat
Dramatis Personae Doug, Shane	2013-01-30 Doug has kittens.
Location <NYC> Village Lofts - Lobby - East Village
Bright and sunny, the lobby of this apartment building is clean and unassuming. Requiring an electronic keycard for entry, the pair of elevators dings cheerfully when one arrives. A small sitting area has bright yellow couches and small coffee tables, though the nearby vending machine is perpetually running out of /something/. Tall windows let in plenty of light during the daytime, and the building maintenance keeps the common areas spotlessly clean. Outside it's miserable. Drenchywet. Once it was grey but then the sun went down and now it is blackblackblack. At least city-black, which means still a host of lights from streetlamps and buildings and cars. Wet, though. Definitely wet. And so as the door is pushed open to spill one tiny blue teenager into the lobby, it /also/ spills a puddle of water dripping liberally off his clothing. Shane seems to have made no effort to /avoid/ the wet. No umbrella. No raincoat. Only soaked-through-teenager, who looks pretty /pleased/ about this state of affairs, really. Insofar as Pleased can be seen behind the giant armloads of groceries he carries, bag in each arm. THey're soaked through, too. But the canvas bags they're in at least are holding up well to the soaking. There's a noise from the direction of the laundry room as the lobby door swings shut; a shuffling of furniture, some cursing, a muffled thump, and a tinny sound that is the sound of a dryer door being slammed shut. A moment later, a young blonde man emerges, not dressed for the outside at all in jeans and a red sweatshirt that reads SCHS across the front in yellowy gold letters. He carries a cat carrier in one hand, from which a tiny mewing can be heard. Two, actually, both protesting this undignified mode of transport loudly. Doug pulls up short at the sight of the other resident, freezing in place momentarily as he takes in the full image. "Um. You need some help with that?" is offered cautiously, the young man making no move to actually step forward and /do/ so. Shane has been heading across the lobby, towards the stairwell door, but he stops at the sounds from the laundry room. He's watching the door curiously, his nostrils flaring, and as Doug enters the lobby he's sniffing. Thoughtful. He shifts one of the grocery bags to his hip, still kind of dripping puddly onto the lobby floor, and he looks from the cat carrier up to Doug. "Trade you?" he offers, hefting one of the bags as his black eyes drop back to the cat carrier. "/Your/ dinner smells tastier." Doug steps back when the bag is lowered, although he attempts to hide it in a shift of the cat carrier, much to the protests of the occupants. Shane gets a longer look, the blonde's eyes widening as he gets a better look. He recovers quickly, though, and he looks down at the carrier with a wrinkle of his nose. "My din...oh, no. I found these guys holed up in the broken dryer. I'm taking them up to my roommate, so she can snuggle them to death." He swallows, and tilts his head, considering his question carefully. "You don't really eat cats, do you?" He lifts a corner of his lip in fascinated distaste. "'Cause that's kind of gross, dude." Shane's lips peel back -- it's /probably/ a smile. It has a rather large number of extremely sharp shark-teeth involved. He tips one of his bag towards Doug; on top of this one there's a rotisserie chicken, crisp-skinned and smelling strongly of garlic and lemon and rosemary and roasted chicken. "C'mon, doesn't this smell tasty?" The sight of so many sharky teeth has Doug inhaling through his teeth in a backwards hiss, and he swings the carrier around behind him protectively. "Dude," he says, his voice not as brave as his posture. "You're not eating my cats. I've already given them names. You can't eat something with a name." He's still remaining where he is, "It's...gauche, or something." "What're they called?" Shane's crouching, slightly, to peer towards the carrier. His nostrils flare again. "Sure, okay, fine, I'm not looking to trade. Good chicken though, mm?" He waggles his bag again. "I mean, man, you slap some rosemary on basically /anything/ and it turns delicious." Doug relaxes when the other man crouches, although he watches carefully for signs of springing attacks. "Oh, they're called Alt and Delete," he says, wrinkling his nose. Peering inside the carrier will reveal two irritated-looking kittens about three months old. One is a scraggly calico with bright green eyes and the other has solid black fur that could be sleeker and yellowy lantern eyes. Both hiss when Shane looks at them, backing against the back of the carrier with cute little arched backs of terror. Doug looks at the chicken, and grins. "Man, it does smell good," he admits. "My mom makes these roasted potatoes with rosemary and olive oil that are insanely delicious." "So how's this smell good?" Shane wants to know, tipping his head down towards the roasted chicken, "and eating /cats/ is /gross/?" He's still crouched. Leaning a little closer as the cats back up, his teeth still bared sharp in a -- smile? With his solid-black eyes and somewhat alien facial features, it's hard to read much into his expression at the moment. "They're," he pronounces, straightening and taking one step towards Doug, "fresher." "Well, that's..." Doug wrinkles his nose, trying to pick the logic apart. He exhales sharply when it fails to produce a chink to pick at, and rolls his shoulders. "Okay, you have a point. I guess if you prefer kittens over roast chicken, these guys would smell pretty good." He pulls the carrier back as Shane leans forward, although he offers an uncertain smile. "You live in the building?" Shane's grin just widens, quicker-brighter and definitely, now, a smile and not just a /teeth/. His forward motion doesn't stop -- though he just continues /past/ Doug, now, to hit the up button on the elevator with his elbow. "Kitten, chicken, s'all good. I like fresh, though. Toothsome. Bloody. But I got my dinner tonight. I live here, yeah. Third floor. Who're you?" "You've got the teeth for it," Doug says, relaxing as the other man stands, moving aside as Shane approaches the elevator. "I think I saw a stray around the service door," he says helpfully. "It only has one eye, but it looks pretty fat." He grins. "If you get hungry later, that is." He moves to the elevator, as well, still looking over the other man. "Doug Ramsey," he says in answer to the question. "I'm in 503. You've probably seen my roommate around. Anwyn Rosenblatt? Little chick with..." he frowns. "Her hair is purple this week, but it was pink for a while before that." "One eye," Shane echoes, and this makes him snort with quiet amusement as he leans back against the frame of the elevator. Waiting. "I think one eye I couldn't do. Remind me too much of my --" His nose wrinkles. "Shane," he offers, then. "303. Shit, yeah. Uh. I've seen her. Looks like she might have a hair-off with my dad. His can't stay the same colour for any length of time." Doug is watching carefully when Shane speaks, his brow knitting at the unfinished sentence. It's easy to let it go, though, and he nods as the other man introduces himself. "Nice to meet you." He laughs. "Yeah, Ahn's pretty wild with her hair. She's talking about going blood-red, next. I keep telling her it's all going to fall out." He wrinkles his nose, and rubs his chin. "Although, if your dad dyes /his/ a lot...or does he do it some other way?" he asks, tilting his head. "Pff if he dyed his all the times he /changed/ it he'd be bald already. Also like, never fucking get out of the bathroom, sometimes it changes three or four times a day. Different colour for class, for work, for /other/ work --" Shane shrugs, tipping his head upwards, listening for a moment and then stepping back away from the door. It takes another few moments before the elevator slides its way down and the door dings open. "You should try it, though, you'd look good in --" Shane looks towards Doug, looking him over a moment and then stepping into the elevator. He keeps a damp-sneakered toe in the door to hold it open. "-- blue." Doug wrinkles his nose. "Oh, man. If Ahn had that mutant ability, she would be exactly the same way." He grins, and is shaking his head to dismiss the idea of his coloring his hair when the comment catches him off-guard. He pauses mid-step to blink at Shane, his gaze turning quixotic as he steps into the car. "Um. Well, I like blue," he says with a lift of his shoulders and a half-smile as he leans againt the back wall and resting the carrier against a knee. "Any particular shade you were thinking of?" "Pff," Shane says again, though he's looking down at one of his own very blue webbed hands, now. "No such thing as a bad shade of blue." He's nudging elevator buttons with his elbow, pressing three. Pressing five, too, with kind of a /smirk/. "Five-oh-/three/, you said?" "I don't know," Doug says in a teasing voice. "Asking to eat a guy's kittens isn't exactly a /nice/ shade." He grins, and leans back. "I guess it grows on you, though." He nods at the question. "Yeah, 503," he confirms, and frowns. "Why does everyone say it like that?" he asks. "Is it haunted, or something?" "Man you just pulled them out of the dryer how bonded could you /be/? I'd totally find you /new/ stray kittens you'd never know the difference. Anyway your fault for bring tasty kittens into my lobby." The question pulls Shane's grin wide-wide-wide again as the elevator starts up. "Oh, shit, yeah. Nobody ever told you? Creepiest fucking thing, uh, but I don't want to ruin the surprise for you. Next time you're home alone try thinking /really hard/ about the most horrifying things you can think of and maybe the ghost'll tell /you/ the story itself." "Hey, I risked life and limb to put them in this carrier," Doug says, holding up the carrier to peer inside. "Isn't that right, Del? You got me good, didn't you?" Lowering the carrier again, he grins. "So, by the right of blood and Finders Keepers, they're mine, We are Bonded For Life." His gaze flicks along the length of Shane's frame as he speaks, and his eyes crinkle in amusement. "Um. That sounds...pretty scary," he says. "Although, we haven't had any problems that I know of." He thinks a moment before slapping his forehead. "Man. Ahn's going to want to have a seance, when she finds out." "Hey if /blood/-rites make a /thing/ I could be the /bonded/-est motherfucker in this building --" Shane's teeth are baring again, bright and /amused/, and against his grocery bags the tiny prickles of claws that cap his webbed fingers are lengthening into -- very /not/ tiny. More knives than prickles. "-- but I don't think anyone'd like it. You're right, though, that's a pretty /sealed/ deal." The elevator dings onto floor three, and he steps out, turning back around once he's out in the hallway with a last amused smile. "/Do/ that. Ask it questions you'd be /surprised/ what ghosts know. See ya round, 5-0-3." The emergence of the teeth again doesn't faze Doug much, now, but the sudden emergence of claws is enough to press him slightly against the back of the car. He offers a smile, though his expression is slightly worried-looking. "Okay, but if Ahn burns down the building with her dumb seance candles, don't come looking for me." He lifts a hand as Shane steps out, and quirks a grin. "See ya, Third Floor. Feel free to come up and hang out some time." He grins, and as the door closes, he offers an incentive: " -- I'll even go to the alley and score the snacks!"