ArchivedLogs:Open Mic: Natural Conclusions
| Open Mic: Natural Conclusions | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia
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2013-01-24 Is anyone *really* surprised? |
| Location
<NYC> Montagues - SoHo | |
Thursday night has pullled in a meager crowd of slightly more outgoing or at least more music appreciating individuals for the fancy practice of 'Open Mic.' It's early in the evening, so most are simply sitting around, a little closer to a chair and a microphone with some amp hook ups, watching some pour soul trying to set up. Melinda is wiping down some of those same tables in preparation for others joining the onlookers as the night gets going. Her work uniform, white button down and black slacks, is fresh and clean and perhaps starched, giving her a fresher appearance than her normal over steamed barista look. She's got a clipboard under one arm, which she looks at after glancing up at the clock over the door. She moves over and speaks with the young woman setting up, "Go ahead and start when you're ready. I'll let you know if the next person shows up or not later." You can't accuse Jim of dressing up; he's still in tatties and elbow patches, rocking something between 'apathetic literature professor' and 'hobo chic'. But he's shaved within the past twenty four hours and apparently taken the time to stop at the local CVS for a cheap bargain-bouquet of about three orange mums, a sprig of fern and some disintegrating baby's breath, which he carries irreverently at his side a little too casually, to the point that he taps it absently against a hip while looking around. He notes Melinda in a cursory scan, and professionally meanders around the sides of seats and tables to lean in, once she looks less occupied, "Yo, where's our diva at." Whatever handgesture he's trying to make to elaborate on who 'their diva' might be, it involves holding his palm at approximate female head-height. And then TALONING his hand as though crushing the skull that would occupy the air space. But only a little. "Our... Oh. Shelby." Melinda doesn't exactly jump when Jim approaches her to speak, but does stiffen a little, surprised out of her distraction and landing back firmly in the here and now. "Oh, shit. I'm sorry. Shelby left me a voicemail and called off her playing tonight." A crease of worry starts to creep across Mel's forehead, her eyes making a quick study of Jim's appearance before locking on the bouquet. "I'm so sorry. She said next week, possibly, but I don't know." She stops prattling on and lets her voice gain a little more volume, but doing so only when the musician on 'stage' starts strumming. She sounds positive quiet despite this. "Do you have a way to reach her?" "She what?" Jim leans forward, one eye squinting up against the sudden increase of noise (music?) in his vicinity. "No, I don't gotta way to -- the fuck happened? Thought she was all in." "She was," Melinda agrees and starts ushering Jim back away from the stage corner of the room. "But then she calls me on Tuesday and says that she can't. I'm worried. Haven't been able to get a hold of her since. I mean..." She looks awkward. "I'm not worried she's dead, but I'm worried, you know?" Jim is amiable to ushering, floating along with Melinda like a log caught on a water current. "What, you don't got it? Uh." He looks around the room as though some patron might randomly offer up a useful suggestion, his grizzled features stitched with a grungy, vague concern now, too. "No, I don't, I'd have thought you did. Here." He hands the bouquet to Melinda - or rather, kind of smacks them against her chest while fishing into a pocket, "Have some flowers." For being so abused, they see to be at an almost livid-healthy coloration! The baby's breath is even growing new buds now - even if the bits at the door had been shedding. His cell phone is one of the rare animals that still flips open and has only a number pad inside, and he begins the labor of slowly pressing buttons to get up his address book, "She uh - wrote her number on Hive's arm, didn't she? I got that guy's number. I'll." He doesn't like this word coming up, and grits his teeth to show it, "text him." "Uff." Melinda is presented with flowers. She blinks at their lively beauty but is rather busy being confused by Jim's gesture. She takes them in arm and blinks at him as he begins pushing buttons on his phone. "Oh. Um. Okay." At a loss, she inhales deeply and pulls out her own phone. She fidgets before opening up the menu and finding Shelby in the contact list. She starts a text message to her.
And so, Jim and Melinda become THOSE PEOPLE. Both of them man and woman, side by side at a live music performance, flowers and all... with their phones out, ignoring one another. Jim gets a response back pretty quickly, with a default upwardly ascending chime that makes him look miserable just /hearing/, brows furrowing. And whatever the response is, it earns a mutter of, "Asshole." And a second flurry of slow-button mashing. Slow but /annoyed/.
Melinda stands there, flowers pinned between her side and her elbow, flopping out toward the open air. She receives a text message and reads it, glancing quietly at Jim before prepping another text. When Jim swears, she finally speaks up. "She says she's dead and it's all your fault." There's another incoming text message and she adds, "Oh, something about Hive being a pervert - if I'm reading it right. Or you are." She frowns at the phone and sneaks a peek at Jim as she types a response. Yep, the chatty dead girl sends another response.
Chime! Another answers comes. "What, is he texting everybody this shit?" Jim mutters, sounding bewildered, /while/ mashing buttons. "Boxers, my asshole." He's wandering off while writing up a text. He needs a coffee, to be /strong/ during these trying times.
Melinda is too busy typing to notice at first that Jim has left her. She tosses off a message only to get another one in reply. Her eyes widen as her lips part. It's not exactly jaw-dropping news, but concern starts to overwhelm her expression. She looks up, sees Jim, then looks back down and sends another text message.
Jim wanders back to Melinda, phone open and in one hand, his sacred juice of the bean in his other. He's drinking it black, because embellishing it would take two hands and a great deal more fucks to give. "So." He says, and then stops talking because he has drinking to do, snapping his phone shut, for a moment. "What do you got." Melinda's visible concern gets a pulling together of his brows.
Melinda remembers to close her jaw when Jim speaks up again, catching her attention. She winces in his direction then continues to type furiously. She adept, so it flows smoothly. She inhales after the last message and looks over at Jim. "Well, she apologizes. She didn't mean to drag you into this. She's enjoying coffee and free muffins right now, so um... don't worry?"
Montagues is boasting a slightly more active crowd tonight, consisting mostly of people who are here to listen to the open mic performers. Melinda is dressed in a nicer version of her work uniform with a clipboard under one arm and a bouquet of flowers under the other, standing off to the side where she and Jim can talk easily. "/Muffins/?" Now it's Jim's turn to drop his mouth open, though with a great deal more disgruntlement. It doesn't improve when his phone reminds him it exists, and he snaps it open. Reads SOME message. And then snarls up his teeth to bare them /at/ his response, slamming it shut again. Vindictively.
Hive still has cellphone in hand as he enters the cafe, shivering with his beaten old jacket pulled tight around him. He doesn't scan the room when he enters -- not visibly, at least. He just /beelines/ for Jim and Melinda, bringing both still-slightly-numb hands down in a heavy clap of Jim's shoulders. SHAKE. "Shit, fancy meeting you all here. Hey, Mel. Hey. Flowers."
Melinda is reminded as well. She purses her lips as she reads and then replies again. When the response comes, she twitches at the words, inhales deeply and sends a reply back. Any thoughts she had are interrupted by Hive's entrance and his acknowledgement of Jim's relinquished posies. "I, Uh, they were not for me. I'm just the incidental recipient." She smiles bravely then receives two text messages in a row. Upon reading them, her shock may be hidden to the naked eye, but it's reeling in her mind. 'You are too a teenager, for fuck's sake. Seventeen is still a teen.' She has yet to think of a response, but sends a pointed glare at Jim before turning on him. "Hey. You're not actually developing a crush on Shelby, are you?" She points the flowers at his chest now. "She's young enough to be your kid." Jim sets his coffee down on a nearby table, because the instant Hive is shaking him by the shoulders, he has fisted up his own hands in the front of Hive's /jacket/ to shake him back, his jaw clenched forward. I Am Shooting You With My Mind. BANG. BANG. BANG. Right between your slanty little eyes. -- he jerks his head towards Melinda, "/Christ/. Is she still telling people that?" "I know, right?" Hive is saying this to Melinda, with a slight roll of his eyes. "/Seventeen/, I mean shit if I can't imagine what it's like out there but that doesn't make her an adult." He's saying this /while/ still shaking Jim. Being shaken. "Aw, they for /me/, guys you shouldn't have. Who's got a crush on Shelby now?" He's EYING Jim. Like. Lie to me. Try it. "S'it you, Whitey?" Melinda looks between Hive and Jim and purses her lips further, annoyed. She hefts the flower bouquet and smacks him across the shoulder with it, where it won't hit Hive. "Don't take this lightly. If she is saying it to multiple people at many different times, it could be a cry for help." She continues to deliver the stern glare. "Lady, you gotta take everything that kid says /cum grano salis/," she lies like a fucking bathmat, Jim /doesn't/ say. Out loud. "Y'know what? Fuck you both. And fuck her." He yanks at the flowers, and if he /gets/ them, he's whapping them against Hive as though very /passionately/ knighting him, his jaw tight, "Go on, tough guy. /Check it out/. You tell me! Jesus jumping Christ on a cracker, you people." "Could be," Hive allows, lifting a hand to whap at the flowers as they whap at him. "/Aw/ Jim I didn't know you cared! -- But," he continues, "she could also just be a teenager. Jeez, man, no," he's pulling out his phone to compose a /new/ text message, saying as he does, "I've had my /fill/ of your brain for a while. Do you think you can get her a new slot, Mel? She seemed bummed about missing this one."
Melinda goes to make another swing at Jim, annoyed at his response but finds the flowers pulled from her grip. The words follow anyway. "Hey, excuse me if I ask questions instead of just dismissing shit," fuckface. She grumbles and steps back. "You wouldn't be the first guy to cry 'liar' when confronted with an accusation from a female." She crosses her arms over her chest, her expression softening a little when looking over at Hive. "I... yeah. I just need to know when she gets her stitches out." Yeah, and I wouldn't be the first guy that got falsely accused. Jim has a whole desk full of files on that matter. Now that Hive has the flowers - which are /thriving/ in spite of the abuse, bright orange mums opening a tickly-fragile feathery-light bud against the side of Hive's neck - he has free hands to retrieve his coffee. Because at least /it/ understands him. Even if it'd understand him a whole lot better with a double shot of whisky in it. "Yeah, excuse me lady, but I'd be a lot more sympathetic if it wasn't me she was pointing it at. It's crying wolf shit like that that /makes/ people have a hard time believing it when it happens -- /stitches/?" Watch Jim dial back his attitude by about twenty degrees, looking actually a little wary-concerned between the two. Hive is rolling his eyes at -- Jim, apparently, though he's not very helpful as to explaining /why/. "Stitches," he agrees, dipping his head to sniff at the abused flowers. "She said it wouldn't be that long. I told her we'd come when it was --" He waves the flowers at the person /actually/ playing, now. "Me, Ryan, Jax. Would your management freak out if his kids came? I think they're all friends." He looks a little unsure about this. Wincing slightly. And looks at Jim. "Though I'm not sure, actually, having /all/ those people together in a room's a good idea -- how long's it been since you got shot, Jim?" "Ah. Well. The management has no policy on mutants at this point. I don't know." Shane's fine in the back, but damn if I'm saying that. I still feel a little bit like I'm an obnoxious racist for thinking those words even if I know they don't mean... fuck. Whatever. Boss doesn't want the place 'welcoming' if it means losing customers. Sebastian would be a good audience member, but telling Shane to just try not to stand out would be provoking. "I could see about renting the entire place out, but that'd be expensive." Maybe just staying late? I could probably convince them to let me hold it open until 2 or something. Seems late though. "And the point is kind of to get her name out there." Oh, yeah, that detective guy. "She's fine. She just got cut up a little, but you can see why I might be worried about her." Pointed Stare. Oh, god, shoot me, she's so reasonable. "Yeah." Jim scrubs a hand between his eyes, eyes squeezed shut, exhaling wearily, "Yeah, all too easy." He scans the cafe over the top of his coffee, answering Hive, "Probably too long." And he is /forefront/ thinking: 'Though if you're going to pack that many of us freaks in one place, you're gonna turn this joint into the next OK Corral, and fuck-you-very-much, I'm not gonna be within two square miles of the joint-' Before hindbrain catches up and laughs at himself: 'Yeah, right, I'd probably come, god help me. Damn.' "Dude, that's /not/ the most freaks I've ever seen packed into one place and it turns out fine. It's just the fucking /teenagers/, they're trouble. And you." Hive scrubs his hand through his hair, his smile abruptly /wry/ as he looks at Melinda. "You don't seem like an obnoxious racist. But you can't help your management. The boys'll probably have school anyway. I'll see who I can bring, be nice if she had some support." He reaches for Jim's coffee. To STEAL it. "How did you..." Melinda stares at him blankly for a moment, but the sound of clapping draws her attention. She's confused, but she has work to do. She nods to the pair and turns away, looking down at her clipboard and tries to keep the current night's activities flowing smoothly. "Yeah, but normal teens get kicked out of places. Freak teens get molotov /cocktails/ thrown at them." Or Everyone Starts Bleeding, as a flicker memory of Shane clawing a man open at the outside the shelter references. Fucking /teenagers/. Jim purposely is glancing at a really interesting spot up there in the corner, not meeting Melinda's eyes in her moment of confusion. Once she's walked away, he glances after her: "Damn." How the hell is she living here and still that /good/. You'd think this city would make a light /snack/ of her. He doesn't even bother trying to defend his coffee, just watching his departure from his custody with a sort of mourning frown. "The hell happened to her." He means Shelby. Stitches? Do they need to put someone in the rose garden? "Oh, /fuck/, right. Shelby." Hive is slurping Jim's coffee loudly as he watches Melinda leave with a parting nod. "S'good. I'm glad there's people that give a fuck." Another slurp, and he hands the coffee back. "Sorry. Brace yourself." That's all the warning Jim gets before Hive's voice /cracks/ in, hard and sharp-stinging as a whip, tonight. << That guy. In the fucking -- water -- shit. Your boring-ass assignment. Burning the fucking computers. You see the news later? Dude went back to the city and /killed a fed/. >> "Tss," Jim hisses quietly, and takes a very thorough sip of coffee, eyes scanning the current musician at the mic. << Saw the news. Thought it was the same guy. /Not good/. What's that got to do with the kid? >> << She was there. When he killed the dude. Collateral damage. Looks mostly okay. Maybe more shook-up than beat-up. But still. Fucking Christ, this /city/. >> Hive is turning to lean against the wall, flowers tucked up into the crook of an elbow as his arms fold over his chest. << I thought being a P.I. was boring philanderers. All your assignments involve crazy fucking murderers? >> << When it rains it pours. >> Jim, for this matter, is pouring /coffee/ into his face. << Most people got a /little/ monster in them. All just shades of gray, how much they whip out at a time. Poor kid, that dude wasn't built for messing around. >> There's a vague amiable outward silence, full to brimming with a million-mile-a-minute questions filling it up. What kind of money is this guy dealing with; who kills a fucking fed in broad daylight; what sort of shit was this guy hiding down there; what would he have done to /us/ if he saw us; shit, he didn't see us, did he-- << You'd have known if he saw us down there, right? >> << No, he wasn't. You know Jax? Ran into Jax the next day. Didn't come out of it with more than a couple bruises but shit. If he can take /Jax/ on -- >> Hive sounds even more wary, now, evidently -- impressed? Worried? by the man's ability to take out the -- glittery skirt-wearing artist. << Mutant extremist. Makes things /so much/ peachier for the rest of us. >> There's a pause, Hive's head turning to watch the musician on stage with all external evidence of rapt attention. Mentally, his tone bristles. << No. Didn't see us. >> That is firm. << But seriously, fuck that asshole. I don't know what he's mixed up in. But it's gonna be a mess. >> When one song ends, a few people clap. You can tell what parts of the room the musician's friends and/or family are located in, they're /whistling/ and cheering in the otherwise quiet room. << /Jax/, too? >> Jim is exempt from having to clap, he has a coffee cup. He makes a lethargic beverage-drinker pantomime of tapping his cup into opposite palm. << Oh, extremists. Sure, that's just what this cocktail needs. That the same people that pulled that shit at the Statue of Liberty? Or are there /more/ groups. >> This fucking city. There's a long pause, in which Jim actually is only thinking of numbers: namely, counting down from five... four... three... two... << You wanna go back down and check it out? >> Hive doesn't clap. He doesn't have an excuse. He just stands with arms resolutely crossed, an incongrious grimace on his face in dark contrast to the orange flowers he holds. Or maybe fitting. Beaten-up orange flowers. << -- Don't actually know, >> Hive acknowledges. << Could be the people. Shit. Don't know. You know he fucking /grows animals/? Turned Jax's beagle bear-sized. Made it attack him. Flew away on a fucking /pigeon/, god, in a city like this he's got an army of sewer-rats and wing-rats to -- whatever. Puppetmaster. >> Hive says this like, god, /controlling/ the animals, what a horrible thought. << Pffff, like hell I want to go back there. >> He uncrosses his arms. Claps once. Heavily. Crosses his arms again. << When are we doing it? >> << You an evening guy or a morning guy? >> Jim gives the last remaining swig of coffee /lurking/ at the bottom of his cup a grim look. << No. >> Hive is kind of generically scowling at the room at large. The musician. The crowd. Whatever. << Evening, I guess. Usually up most of the night. I like the city better when more people are asleep. >> << Well, I'm out. >> Of coffee. Jim sets the cup down. << Wanna go now? >> Hive thwaps the flowers at Jim when Jim sets the coffee cup down. Smack. It's apparently preparation to tug gloves out of his coat pocket and put them on. So that he can LEAVE. Jim did say now! Jim waits out Hive's gloving by picking up whatever stems have been broken or bent in the bouquet. When he pinches fingers around then broken points lightly, they're whole again when he releases them. He's frowning over this process, brows furrowed. He then slaps the bouquet against one shoulder like a bayonet, tossing a last scan around the cafe while he turns, and heads for the door. | |
