ArchivedLogs:New and Old Wounds

New and Old Wounds
Dramatis Personae Melinda, Peter, Shelby	2013-02-18 '
Location <NYC> Evolve Cafe - Lower East Side
Tucked down an alley, this out of the way coffeeshop is easy to miss if you don't know what you're looking for. Unassuming from the outside, its inside makes up for it -- spacious, with abundant seating and plenty of plush couches and cosy armchairs along the room's edges. The coffee is good, the prices are cheap, and there is a definitive alternative vibe to the room, from the music they play to the art that hangs on the walls. The real draw to this place, though, stems from its client base -- one of the very few businesses in the city that is welcoming to mutants, Evolve has become widely popular as a hangout with that crowd, and it is quite common to see them among clientele and employees both. At night, the thump of music can be heard from above, coming from the adjoining nightclub of the same name that sits over the coffeehouse. At this point, it's rare for Peter to be *out* of costume when he's out and about--not that anyone in Evolve would know the difference. He gets a look from the current barista--they know Peter here. He's that 'weird kid' who's only allowed two orders a day. And *no* energy shots. Peter's dressed in a black unzipppered hoodie and jacket; underneath the hoodie, there's a T-Shirt of... zombie Batman? It looks like Zombie Batman. As he pops into the place, he's thumb-twiddling on his cell-phone, eyebrows knotted together in supreme concentration. Then, suddenly, he's bringing it up to the side of his head, talking: "Hel-lo? Yes. Yes, I'm..." He looks around the coffee shop and bites down on his bottom lip. "--home. Huh? Of *course* I'm telling the truth why would I lie about something like that I mean I'm totally at my house RIGHT NOW and--right, okay, um, I'll wait for your call." Click! Liar liar PANTS ON FIRE. Melinda gives the young man she passes on the way into the coffee shop a raised eyebrow, blinking at the little bit of conversation (RIGHT NOW) she heads toward the barista bar to order a drink. She gets an extra large, extra coffeed chocolate thing with foam and cinnamon and pays, only to have to hover in the receiving line over to one side. The barista behind the counter seems extra slow today. Mel averts her attention from coffee nightmares to the curious kid she saw on her way in, looking him up and down now and considering. Peter sneakily looks about the room shortly after hanging up--yes, NO one noticed his insidious lie. THE PERFECT CRIME. He misses Melinda's look--instead, darting up to the counter, where the barista gives him a familiar, dour glare. Peter adjusts his Buddy Holly glasses, ahems, and slaps a wadful of change on the counter. "Um, just juice," Peter says. The barista... *stares*. "What?" Peter asks. "Are... you feelin' okay, kid?" "YesIjustwantjuiceplease." Juice is provided. "Must be a regular to get that question," Mel offers quietly, but not too quietly. It's said in Peter's direction, but he can dismiss it if he chooses. She receives her cup of hot beverage a moment later and thanks the barista with a dollar, before turning and scanning the room for some place to sit. "Of *course* I'm a regular," Peter snaps--rather twitchily--as he clutches up the juice. "I--oh, jeez, I'm sorry," Peter says, and his mood is immediately *overbearingly* apologetic--as if he just kicked a puppy or something. "I'm sorry, I'm just *really* twitchy today, and I shouldn't drink coffee or caffeine or anything, because I gotta make some Really Big Decision, and I'm a little nervous because I am pretty sure I'm gonna have a conversation with Angry Words, and I shouldn't even be telling you about this," Peter finishes, moving away from the bar, sneakily glancing from left to right to see if anyone's heard... what he's saying. Not that what he's saying makes any *sense*. "Oh, really?" Melinda accepts his over gracious apology with sobriety and a nod. "Yeah, you don't look too good. You going to be okay?" She looks to a near by table and finds an empty seat. She mostly keeps eyecontact with Peter as she sits, gesturing to the other chair to issue an invitation. "Do you want to talk about it? I'm a total stranger and it won't make a difference if I never see you again." Peter seems like a nervous bundle of energy. He *always* does, but right now, in particular. He looks over at the seat... and suddenly he's sitting across from Melinda. The kid moves *fast*. Almost scary-fast. And it's promptly all gushing out: "So there are these really nice people, I mean, they *seem* really nice, but a lot of scary people did scary things to them and I think those really nice people are gonna go square off with the scary people to try and save a bunch of *other* nice people from them. And, and, and," Peter adds, extending this for several moments, before finally finishing: "A *FRIEND* of mine," he says, the emphasis on 'FRIEND' so loud it might as well be pronounced with a bullhorn, "is gonna go with them. But they don't know it yet. And I think they might even try to stop him! Because they probably think this friend is just a really confused and messed up kid. And I guess, I mean, he IS, about most things, but totally not about this, he is GOING and that's FINAL and I think they're going to use Loud Words." Melinda's expression is thoughtful, mingled with some very high eyebrows at the vagueness of this story. "Oh. Okay. Have you talk to parents or guardians of this friend about this situation? What would they think about it?" She wets her lips before bringing her cup to her lips, blowing gently on the surface to create a hole in the foam and taking a ginger sip. "Oh they'd hate it," Peter says, effortlessly fast. "I mean they'd lock him up in his room and throw away the key if they knew what he was doing! But, but, but," And then, Peter brings both hands down on the table with a sudden, pronounced *SMACK*--the juice, sitting there in front of him, makes a low, clinking warble. His tone focuses, mind narrowing, trying to slow himself down: "...he can do these *things*. Totally crazy things. Everyone thinks he's putting himself in danger, but... I think... I think..." Peter's voice drops almost to a whisper: "If he really had to? I think he could dodge a *bullet*." "Whoa, whoa, whoa... Slow down there. Are we talking about literally dodging bullets, or are you just trying to boast about the guy's skill?" Melinda straightens up when Peter smacks the table, but her shoulders pull back when he starts talking about bullet dodging. "Hun, I know you probably look up to this guy, but if he's your age, he's probably just... gotten these powers and should maybe try to get some training before thrusting himself into a life or death situation. One bullet, maybe, but what if he's too slow? He gets grazed and I'm sure that hurts like crazy and there'd be a wound that sets off all sorts of adrenaline and shock reactions that could screw up his ability to cope - especially since guns usually have more than one bullet. Training with medical aid on hand is probably better than jumping on ..." She stops speaking when the first part of story evades her. "Oh, not *literally*," Peter explains, suddenly apologetic. "I mean some bullets can actually break the *sound-barrier*! That's over 750 miles per hour! But--" Peter's hands are suddenly clutching the bottle, twisting with a loud *POP*--"if you know the person's /about/ to shoot you--you're not really dodging the bullet. You're dodging the hand, and the trigger, and the muzzle." And then he's drinking--but mid-gulp, Melinda's words seem to catch him, and he almost *chokes*, quickly setting the bottle back down. "He'sneverbeenshotIdon'tthink," Peter mumbles. "Or, uh, shot *at*. So, uh yeah. How does it feel to get shot?" Peter asks, apparently 100 percent earnest about the question. Apparently, he figures Melinda would *know*. "I don't really know, but it's horrible. A guy I know was shot in the park a couple weeks ago. He was floored by it. If he had good reflexes before, he was falling over a mess after." Melinda turns her cup in her hands, letting the bottom rim rub against the table top. "Now, please don't tell me that you and this friend of yours is going to go practice shooting at him until he gets good at shit, okay? If you're going to try anything, maybe use a laser that gauges distances and speeds and practice stuff in a scientific method that ensures both of your health and well being." Peter just... *gawks* at Melinda. Like she just said the goofiest thing *ever*. "I--I'm not gonna fire a gun at anybody!" he says, and his cheeks burn a bright, scarlet red. "I would never--I mean--somebody could get hurt! I'd... yeah, run tests or something, like maybe use a paint-ball gun or something," and now Peter's eyebrows are crumpling together, like this idea hasn't even *occurred* to him. "Actually maybe that's a really good idea I wonder where I could find a paint-ball gun I bet that could..." He perks, looking up to Melinda: "Oh. Oh! Where can you learn about first-aid stuff? Like, are there seminars or something?!" "Honey, people go to medical school for a reason. Basic first aid? You can get that through the Red Cross. If you want more than that but not medical school, then paramedic or EMT training is the next step. After that, nurses then doctors." Melinda's brow is furrowed too, her hands compulsively turning her drink as she speaks. "It would be better if you knew a person who was well trained in wound treatment, but getting trained yourself is... good too." The door is pushed open, admitting one Shelby Wilson, girl about town and recent student. She's zipped up against the winter chill in her puffy black coat, with baggy khakis puddling over characteristically ratty sneakers. Rolled up papers are sticking awkwardly out of one pocket, requiring that she occasionally straighten and shove them back in to keep them from falling out. Her first order of business? Proceeding directly to the counter to order something /hot/. "S'fucking cold out there, y'know?" might be overheard, directed with a grin to the barista. "You guys should get, like, a liquor license so you can top this shit up with the good stuff." "Well, I mean, he can't just *tow* someone who can do medical stuff around, that would be weird, but maybe I can learn a little first aid in case he--or somebody else--" Eye dart. "--gets hurt. And it couldn't hurt, right? I should learn CPR, and..." He trails off as he hears that voice. And that girl. Peter's eyes *BULGE*. "OhGod," he snaps, and if Melinda turns to look in the direction Peter's looking... when she looks back to Peter, she might notice that he's gone. Wait, what? Yes, he's *GONE*. How the hell did he-- Oh, wait, no, he's just under the table. Hiding. "It's her! Why is she *here*?! Is she following me?! OhGod." Melinda inhales deeply and lets him talk first aid before turning to follow his gaze. She recognizes Shelby and blinks in confusion before turning to look for Peter. "What? Her? She's here a lot. This may just be a coincidence." She frowns and leans back to see if she can see him, but gives up looking ridiculous. "You do know that hiding like that is going to draw more attention, right?" She finally gets to drink some of her coffee. Actual money is swapped for the drink--or confection, given the amount of whipped cream Shelby's ordered on top--and then she turns to size up her seating choices. And wouldn't you know it, Mel is spotted right off the bat. A grin blinks into existence as she heads in that direction, oblivious to the boy lurking under the table. "Mel! Hey! Jesus, aren't you sick of coffee shops yet? We gotta get you some new hangouts," she says as she drops the cup on the table and reaches to pull out the chair recently vacated by Peter. "How's it going?" Somewhere beneath the table, Peter sucks in a breath. She's coming this way. Peter mumbles to Melinda: "Act cool, like I am totally *not* a weirdo. Everything's cool. Everything's *fine*." And suddenly he's popping out from underneath of the table, right besides Melinda, wearing his best 'oh so THAT'S where they were' face--holding those Buddy Holly glasses of his. He shoves them back on his nose. "Sorry," he says, shuffling back into another seat, clearing his throat a few times. "Uh, they keep falling off." Peter is taking pains to speak *much* more slowly than he usually does. Also, he just looks kind of like some sort of goofy teenage nerd. In a black hoodie and a Batman Zombie t-shirt. "Well, there's this problem where coffee is kind of an addictive substance." Melinda responds to Shelby first, an eyebrow rising at Peter's quiet commentary. "This is close to my apartment. Besides, didn't you and Shane invite me here the other night? Is it not a great place to be now." She turns to glance at Peter when he's all settled in his new seat. "We could get you one of those bands that help keep them on, if you need?" Mel's wearing jeans and a tee shirt under her red peacoat. "Whoa!" This is Shelby's opinion of Peter popping out of nowhere. She freezes in the act of chair-pulling and blinks at him a few times before casting a confused look at Melinda. "Uh, friend of yours? Hey. I'm Shelby." Without an iota of recognition, she eases herself into the chair so recently vacated and promptly falls back into casual mode. "Or swim goggles to wear over them," she suggests with a gap-toothed smile. "Hey, we invited you to the /club/. Upstairs. For /dancing/. It was a fucking amazing night though. Most of it, anyway." "Uh, Peter," Peter says, hesitantly reaching out to take Shelby's hands, *viciously* blushing. His sudden confusion and awkward bashfulness might be taken as shyness, but the truth is he is FREAKING THE HELL OUT and it is requiring an extraordinary application of will-power not to show it. "Nice to meet you, Shelby. Oh, uh, I didn't... I didn't introduce myself, earlier," he tells Melinda. "Sorry. Um. Yeah, hi. I'm... Peter." Slow. Stay slow, Peter. *CONTROL*. Thank God he didn't have that coffee. "I'm Mel. Nice to meet you. Sorry to lose that total stranger thing we had going," Melinda smiles a little and glances upstairs. "Well, I was honest, Shelby, when I said I was wiped. I had to open that morning and that likely means getting up when you've gone to bed after clubbing." She takes another drink of her coffee and leans back in her chair. "Peter is developing an interest in medicine and first aid." Shelby studies the offered hand but decides, in the end, that handshaking another teenager amuses her. She goes for it, smile upgrading to a grin at his rampant blushing. "Yeah, nice to meet you and stuff." Afterwards, she goes for her dessert in a mug. "Medicine, huh? Crazy stuff. I think that's what Bastian's going for too...oh, Jesus, you don't even /know/," she laughs, switching topics mid-stream back to clubbing. "I mean, we kinda went home early 'cause we met someone but then Jax's place was /insane/. All these people there. You hear about this kid named the Spider? The one the Bugle's all 'oooh bad guy' about?" It may not be possible, but Peter's blush actually goes *up* a notch. The boy looks ready to combust on the very spot. He is basically calling in for back-up from all four corners of his brain. "Um, it's fine," he mumbles to Melinda--otherwise not responding, eyes darting from Melinda to Shelby to Melinda and then back to Shelby. When she mentions the Spider, he draws back into his little corner of the booth, trying to shrink into non-existence. "I don't really read the Bugle on account of the paper's heavy opinion," Melinda offers, off hand, glancing sideways at Peter. Her lips purse. "What about him?" "/He/ was there. Crashing on Jax's couch." Shelby sounds mildly miffed at that--Jax's couch is after all /her/ couch. "Oh oh oh!" She dips closer to Melinda, overlooking Peter for the moment. "And when those things exploded? I was totally there. Friday night? Crazy, huh?" Having confided this little brush with all the news that's fit to print, she slumps down in her chair. The rolled papers she'd had in her pocket tumble out, falling with a quiet whumph to the floor. Unrolled, they prove to be sheet music. "Swear to God, if anyone gets shot or blowed up around here, I have to see it." This is too much. *Way* too much. Suddenly, Peter's popping out of his chair, gingerly manuevering around Melinda--acting a bit more awkward than he has to (goddammit he just wants to BACKFLIP out of here). He stumbles over Melinda, nearly drops his juice--and starts mumbling: "I've, uh, gotta go. It was nice talking to you, miss. I *really* appreciate it," he says, before adding: "Maybe I'll, uh, see you around. Bye, Shelby." And then he's darting for the door with nary a glance back over his shoulder! RUN, PETER. "Yeah... I'm beginning to think that's your curse." Melinda offers casually. "There's just something about you that causes guns to go off and people to get hurt." She blinks and leans out of the way when Peter makes his escape, brow furrowed up and lips pursed hard. "Uh, okay. Bye." She frowns and turns back to Shelby as he flees. "You're a terrible story teller. What happened Friday night?" "Uh..." Shelby tilts her head, blinking as she watches Peter scramble away. "Dude is /weird/, Mel. You need some normal friends too." Present company excepted. She curls both hands around the cup and makes a face. "I'm better at songs," she confesses. "Friday...I was gonna go out dancing, right? Except I walked by this alley and this Spider kid pops up and yells at me to run. We got chased by toy helicopters, swear to God. So he /grabs/ me, and takes off across the street, like flying, dumps me behind a car and then shit started blowing up." "Toy helicopters and explosives?" Melinda frowns and scratches the back of her neck. "Yeah, that still doesn't make sense - and Peter wasn't a friend. He was just a kid who was extremely stressed that I hoped might feel better if someone listened to him." She takes a long drink from her coffee as she leans back, spying the sheet music. "I think you dropped something over there." She points. "That's the thing..." Shelby leans closer and drops her voice. "Spider says those things are murder-drones. They go after mutants and were after him. I was just in the way." Having dropped this bombshell, she twists in her chair to look at the floor before leaning down to grab the music. "Shit...thanks. Ryan's got me learning to read this stuff, it's crazy hard." "Well, learning to read that is how you learn to write it, which is how you get it licensed and copyrighted. You do want to make money off your music, right?" Melinda inhales and keeps talking despite the growing discomfort registering on her face. "Murder drones and you were just in the way? How does that work? If they were really after mutants, wouldn't they target you? How do they know?" "That's the plan!" Shelby straightens up and drops the music on the table before retrieving her coffee. "He said they were after him 'cause he broke into the place to get some info on something. I forget what. He was the one bouncing all over the place, maybe they just go for the obvious ones? I dunno, I pass pretty well. Kinda scary though, huh? If he wasn't bullshitting me and people /are/ making shit like that..." "I don't know." Melinda wets her lips nervously and looks away. "It's pretty terrible." She shakes her head. "I'm sorry, Shelby. Even if he's just got an over active imagination, this is a pretty shitty thing to have to think about." She sighs and finishes off her coffee. "So, tell me more about the music?" "Yeah." What else is there for her to do but agree? Shelby's quiet for a moment, swiping up gobs of whipped cream and popping them into her mouth. But once recovered from that momentary blip of gloom? One would never know. Her grin pops right back into place. "Ryan's helping me get /awesome/ for the show at the Bowery next month. I'm opening for him and I'm gonna play the shit I'm writing now then. It's /hard/ but man...can you imagine? If people like it, maybe I could even do like...a whole album." "Okay, maybe we shouldn't talk about your music. I was hoping for something more on point, not your daydreams of fame and fortune." Melinda exhales and glances back toward the bar, eyeing up the sandwich selection. Shelby's eyebrows draw together in momentary confusion. Her, "Huh?", is ever so eloquent. "It's not a daydream! I /am/ opening at the Bowery. /And/ writing my own shit," she says with a stubborn tap tap tap of the sheet music--which is not hers at all. No, Miss Elton John and 30 Seconds to Mars are displayed there. "Seriously, Mel. You need a club night. Get dressed up, go out, have a few drinks, drop a few tabs..." "No, Shelby, I don't need a club night. For all your trying to not be a fuck up anymore, you still lack a lot of sensitivity. YEah, I'd like to talk about your songs, but no, I don't want to talk about how your showcase at my cafe has lead to something bigger. I don't want to know about recording contracts or how the great Shelby is going to be famous. I just wanted to talk about the fucking songs." Melinda ends up quite frustrated by the end, but does a decent enough job at keeping from raising her voice. "Yes, I forgave you for that whole mess and we're still all very lucky it didn't lead to anyone getting hurt physically, but I am still hurt emotionally and your bragging about fame is kind of poking at that wound." "...what?" The confusion deepens into genuine surprise. This time it's Melinda that Shelby is left blinking at. "But you..." She bites her lip to stop the rest of that sentence--a step in the right direction? Maybe. Or maybe not, because she reaches to curl up the sheet music and stuff it back into her pocket. "Okay. Okay, I get it. I gotta get back to the school, huh?" she says as she pushes the chair back. She's got the casual act going for her, sweeping the to-go cup up and giving her head a swing to send her hair over her shoulder. "Maybe I'll see you next weekend." "I look forward to it," Melinda adds, tiredly, shoulders slumping. Shelby hesitates but only briefly. Off she goes for the door, shoving it open and venturing out into the chilly afternoon.