ArchivedLogs:Sensitive Topics

Sensitive Topics
Dramatis Personae Parley, Shelby	2013-03-19 '
Location <NYC> Village Lofts - Rooftop - East Village
It tends to be windy, up here, but the presence of plastic table and folding chairs suggests that nevertheless building residents occasionally make their way out to this rooftop. With a good view of Tompkins Square Park less than a block away it's a good spot for city-watching. There's a railing around the edge, though it might be possible (if /unwise/) to climb over it to the narrow concrete ledges beyond and from there to the fire escape. Centrally, someone has broken down crates and constructed a small raised-bed garden up here, barren in winter but filled in three other seasons with a small assortment of herbs and vegetables. Teenagers aren’t the brightest creatures on God’s green earth. Evidence of this is found in where Shelby has decided to perch this evening. It is dark, and it is cold, and it has been raining off and on today--though it has stopped for the moment--and she’s decided that the /perfect/ place to sit is on the railing that rings the rooftop. That’s right. On it. The kid has her narrow butt perched on the metal, her booted feet braced against the ledge on the other side and her fingers curled loosely around the rail to provide balance. She is looking out over the city in the direction of the park. Even without empathy, it would not be difficult to pull feelings of woe and anger from her mind. They practically radiate from her in comic lines, starkly drawn as any teenage angst. It’s just a shame that angst is justified, in this instance. One, and then two. It’s just a quiet count of one hand on the rail beside Shelby, and then another, full of eight micro-counts of fingers drumming down once in a light tattoo, followed by two elbows crossing to rest upon them. Parley’s entrance is a thing that melts in, with no immediate moment arrival, nor jarring thrust into attention - he dims in. “What are you thinking?” His eyes are lowered to the park below. It’s a good thing Shelby had the grip on the railing, because Parley’s arrival is fucking /startling/. She flinches, twists sideways and starts to bring a knee up--only to relax when she recognizes the young man beside her. Her glare lingers longer than the adrenaline does but it goes no further than skin-deep. “Aren’t you like a mind-reader or something?” There’s more grump in the return question than intended and glare becomes grimace that would pass as an apology if it weren’t so dark up here. “Thinking about B,” she admits a moment later. “Bastian. ‘N Shane.” The stray red light of a distant radio tower illuminates one side of Parley’s face in a slow glow of crimson - seen forming a thin sliver-smile for her glare, eyes hidden in shadow - that fades back to black. His tone does not carry such mirth, “I’m an empath. Not a telepath. I cannot see in your mind. Only perceive what you feel.” As delicate as a pinprick, he nudges an edge of her WOE back at her. Though... it’s concentrated, yet smoother - the chemical response of a brain to stress free of the circumstances accompanying it. It’s actually rather rich - an indulgent sense, recognizable as negative -- in concept. But... “Where are they now?” He asks in the dark. “Feel but not feel, huh? That’s kinda shitty.” He has at least teased out a thread of curiosity. Perhaps not enough to entirely sink the woe but it serves as a decent distraction, Shelby’s puzzling over the sterilized version of her own emotion. In the end, puzzling over it leads to bemusement and the bridge of her nose crinkling. She slides a glance sideways at him. “He says they got them in Staten Island. Some foster home except the assholes they’re with don’t /like/ mutants, so they might get moved soon.” This spills out of her with the acridness of burnt wood, all ashes and tannins. “But maybe they’ll be back Thursday. Maybe. If they don’t get disappeared and end up back in the labs.” Shelby’s heart attempts to do a slow turn in her chest at that thought and she yanks her gaze back to the park, in search of something soothing to stare at. Parley’s head can be sensed turning towards Shelby in a sort of surprise. “--shitty?” He turns back down to considering the park, leaning over the rail as though thinking about /pouncing/ on the little cars scootering around below, “I don’t think anyone’s ever called it that before.” Thmp. That’s his head leaning against Shelby’s arm, lightly. “They won’t.” It’s said very frankly, with a comfortable confidence. But it’s not reassuring. Just honest. “That isn’t their style. They’ve made this far too public.” “Yeah, shitty,” Shelby confirms. “Like, feelings are for feeling, right? That there, that thing you just did, it didn’t /really/ feel like me. I mean it was all...” Alas, she lacks the capacity for descriptors but there in her mind is what she intends to say--the rich sweetness of a Coke, the condensation cool and wet under the fingers, lifting it up for a drink and HOLYFUCKAUGH it’s flat. Even picturing this is enough to leave her lightly smacking her lips. Flat Coke is no one’s friend. But floppy heads against arms, they’re happier things. She reaches up and across to ruffle his hair before adopting a comfortable slouch, steady enough to serve as a leaning post. “Fuck, dude. The foster system is like /perfect/ for not being public,” she goes on, grimly. “You’re always reading about this kid or that one slipped through the cracks. Disappeared, or got fucking dead ‘cause the workers didn’t check in on them. “All they gotta do is move ‘em around enough.” “Children without parents are all but waiting to be lost.” Parley can be heard chuffing air through his nose when his hair is ruffled, though he does not seem otherwise inclined to resist it. He /feels/ her sentiment clarify in his mind but, just this once... he does not aid in finding it’s phrasing. Only grows quiet. “But Mr. Holland’s children /have/ a father. A father that is also a local celebrity. There would be an investigation. Worried phone calls. News broadcasts. Mh. They’re using the system to rattle our cages. See what comes out.” He scrubs a hand through his hair, sighing, “Now. If the children should /run/... ” Even this is thoughtful, dispassionate, but... tense and bitterly amused. “Well. Run away children are as easy to lose as children with no parents.” “I guess.” If Shelby sounds reluctant to acknowledge this truth, it’s only because she’s suffering a sharp pang of guilt at the phrase “run away”. Some of it clings to old memories; most of it is fresh. She looks down and scuffs one foot against the ledge. A little grit, a bit of gravel, tumbles over the edge and falls from sight almost immediately into the evening’s gathering gloom. The girl is worrying at her lower lip, catching chapped bits of skin and tugging at them with her teeth. Self-mutilation on the mildest of scales, the sting hardly registers. “I was gonna...I mean, if they don’t give them back to the school Thursday. I was gonna go over there, get them and dump them in the bay or something,” she confesses, “until we can figure out how to get them home. They could hide down there for a long time. Bastian’d probably love it. He’s...I guess...they’re not being fed. The way they need.” “Then we’ll make them a gift basket,” Parley says simply, turning up his head and raising a hand to, delicately, touch Shelby’s lower lip. “Don’t bite it.” He lowers his hand again and withdraws, pushing off the rail to walk along the parameter, head tipped back to stare up at the stars. “Running away will make it harder for Mr. Holland to regain custody, in the long run. They still need to be processed. It’s hard. But they’re watching. They /expect/ someone to run. Above all else,” he eases around on a heel to walk pace back again, idly. “We must not be predictable. We must be silent when they want us /loud/. Still, when they want us to run. Vicious only when they think we’ve /gentled/.” He reaches Shelby by now, at the end of his circuit -- and smiles. Or seems to in the dark. “What do they like to eat?” Shelby reaches up and drags the back of her hand over her lip when Parley points out what she’s been doing. She checks her knuckles too, as if to see if she was drawing attention because of /blood/. Nope, she’s good. When he goes pacing away, she tracks him for a moment before clambering over to the other side of the railing. Hopping down, she slumps back against it with her hands in her pockets and her forehead furrowed. Listening intently, not entirely pleased but tending towards acceptance of what must be done. Parley does speak as someone who would know. “Okay,” she says slowly when he’s returned and finished. Curiosity leads her to attempt a subtle side-eye at that smile--perhaps expecting a glint of Cheshire cat teeth in the gloom. “So, like, not flying off the handle like a basket case. Right. I’ve heard that before.” She snorts. Usually it is taken with less grace. “They’re meat-eaters. Y’know. Sharks. So...steaks, pot roasts, whatever. Salmon, I bet. Salmon’s fucking delicious even if you aren’t a shark.” “-/Salmon/.” This brings Parley back to full dedication, with a thin laugh that can’t seem to decide if it is drear or delighted by the reminder, “I’ve forgotten about salmon. Mr. Holland and Mr. Black’s homes had been well stocked with nutritious food but.” But no MEAT. Maybe there was a small glint of teeth - streetlight off slick ivory. It could just as easily been nothing. Maybe a neutral grimace at the night. His voice is soft, over the rumple-sound of cloth that is him reaching into a back pocket, “I’ve gotten a job now. I consult for the lawyer that’s now helping Mr. Holland with his problems.” THIS NEXT sound is the crinkly-flutter of cash being extracted from a wallet and held out towards Shelby. It’s a primal-familiar noise to human ears. “There’s two hundred here. Take them out to eat instead. And use the rest to buy them whatever reserves can be kept out of a refrigerator; salami. Cured meats. Jerky. And otherwise tell them to sit tight. The case right now is weak - it’s not /meant/ to succeed, just inconvenience. We just have to be smarter.” “Dude, no. You can’t forget about /salmon/,” Shelby huffs. “You should fix that, like...now.” While Parley goes for the pocket, the teen is idly prodding the tip of her tongue at her own canine to ascertain the extent of its pointiness and possibly its likelihood to glint. Given that dental care on the streets is dismal, there is a low, low chance of shininess. But she checks anyway, still regarding the young man with mild interest--interest that sharpens when the telltale rustle of money is heard. She does not have ears to perk but they’re unnecessary. Shelby straightens up, pushing off the railing as cash is waved in her direction. Her immediate impulse is...greed. And then disbelief. He’s just handing her two hundred dollars? Just like that? “Uh...okay, yeah, sure. They’d do fucking cartwheels if I showed up with two hundred bucks worth of Slim Jims,” she says as she takes the stack and runs the pad of her thumb over the bills’ edges. Whiffffffffle. Mmm. Then, with her eyebrows knit together, she shoots a look back at Parley. “You’re kind’ve different, man. From last time.” “I’ve been getting out,” Parley says from the dark, leaning over the rail once more to give Shelby a view of the back of his furry neck. It’s not a /thick/ fur, and grows thinner at the sides, vanishing towards the front of his body. The swell between greed and disbelief felt in Shelby gets only one simple, pulse of sentiment in answer: << (trust.) >> “...is it better or worse?” It’s not asked with concern - just curiosity. Something else, distant. Looking over the sprawl of naked trees in the park. The money is folded and shoved into her jacket pocket, the zipper there sounding loud when it’s closed to keep the funds secure. Then Shelby is turning to fold her arms on top of the railing. Rather than look out over the park, which had given her so much peace before, she has her head turned to continue studying Parley--in this instance, the rosettes brushed over his fur and peeping over the top of his collar. It is not a shy study. This is harmless curiosity at it’s finest--though she /is/ resisting the urge to reach out and touch the fur that’s visible. “You decided I was cool pretty quick,” she points out with more pleasure than confusion. Parley has good taste! “I dunno if it’s better or worse yet. I mean, you were pretty fucking adorable before. When we were up here with Hive...” Oh, the pang she feels just to say his name. She huffs, and focuses again. “Now I think maybe I’d be cool with you being at my back in a bar fight.” That was a joke. “-- I don’t mind.” There’s a thin thread of amusement either in Parley’s voice, or possibly sewn in through his particular mutation as he reaches up to turn down his collar. “It’s not terribly soft towards the middle. I have guard hairs there. The rest is alright.” He lowers his head further, further, until his forehead rests on his forearms; exposing more neck while also getting to put his head down - +1 for killing two birds with one stone. “...why did you leave home?” Well, so long as he’s /inviting/ her to touch... Shelby is shameless, not even balking once enough neck is exposed. Up comes her hand, fingers spread and brushed gently at first before she amuses herself with a smaller-cat style scritch. “Oh man, you’re even softer than you look,” she points out, forgetting GLOOM long enough to be amused along with him. Mention of guard hairs leads her to switch to flat-hand stroking to discover just what those are. Only to snap into something cool and remote when /that/ particular question is asked. Her hand twitches, a drawing back interrupted until she remembers the empath bit. Then she goes ahead with shifting hand from fur to railing. May as well, right? He’d have noticed. Her sigh serves both inside and out. “Shitty home life. Isn’t that why everyone takes off? I mean, when you don’t live in the movies.” Her eyes flick sideways at him. “How’d you get caught?” Her intention is clear--a brief aggressive jab, meant to mirror the impact of /his/ question. “Hmm.” where Parley’s fur is mostly fine and soft, the guard hairs are a touch coarse and spiky. As is the ‘hmm’ sound he makes, a bit of a rasp that somehow conveys ‘touche’. “I actually wasn’t,” he says it lightly. “I was an intern.” Facing forward, his own eyes flick sideways to look /back/ at Shelby. “Are you glad you did?” “Y’know, I never did figure out what interns do. Like, is that different from volunteers? ‘Cause neither one gets paid or something.” Not that Shelby really /cares/ about internships. She’s talking for the sake of talking, filling up the quiet and space between them with a jumble of words until it sinks in that she’s had her petty revenge and it worked. Her expression twists. “Sorry, man. I shouldn’t get bitchy about you asking.” Apology comes in the form of fingers creeping back to ruffle sosoft fur. There are a reason people have pets--it is soothing to pet them. The new question doesn’t trouble her nearly as much but her lack of answer is more for not having an answer, only a jumble of conflict that even a translator couldn’t pick apart. “I guess, yeah,” she finally decides. “I’d probably be hella bored if I’d stayed.” That too is a joke. “It’s a sensitive topic. I should be sorry.” Parley says this with a sort of hardness, his brows... furrowed. They then unfurrow when Shelby’s fingers creep back along his neck and after a sort of thoughtful shifting of lean-spare muscle beneath her fingers he seems to decide this is preferable than /not/-scritches, and he drops his head down again as though for a moment -- defeated. The skin along his nape and shoulders has a sort of looseness to it, rolling loosely over the muscles and bones beneath to form a handful of scruff. “Boredom is also a sort of madness,” he mutters. “How is your arm?” The refugee gossip chain long-since got word that /something/ had fixed it. But he sounds a trifle... irritated to have forgotten to mention it. “Nah. You just caught me off-guard is all,” Shelby volunteers. Her fingers grow bolder as he relaxes and oh yes, she does test the scruff before just enjoying the feeling of fingertips combed through fur. Special interest is paid to mussing the rosettes and setting them to rights again. “I left ‘cause my stepdad was an asshole control freak who went spastic when it turned out I’m a mutant. I kind’ve miss my mom sometimes but she let him push me around, so fuck her.” There. That wasn’t so hard. On the outside, at least. No one possessing a heart could /not/ feel, when saying such words. Shelby’s head and heart grow hard and spiky as a chestnut shell. Thankfully, there is fur. She brings the other hand to bear, double-scritching now in a way that would serve as massage were they not standing up. “Arm’s working fine. Dude who did it is still out there but Jesus, y’know, I completely forgot that. It’s been /crazy/. “Hey...how’d you get a job so fast? What’re you doing, anyway?” “I’m good at selling myself,” Parley chuckles into his arms with a little rumbly grumble that may as well pass translate to an empathic purr. Almost grudgingly. “And I got lucky. I met a lawyer willing to hire a mutant - albeit quietly. I consult for her, when she’s dealing with clients that could stand to have an interpreter.” Not ‘require’. ‘Could stand to’. Because there is a difference. “I’m glad you’re in a better place. They’re good people here. And they’re fond of you.” Grudging or not, encouragement of any form is taken as...well, encouragement. Shelby, not one for nuances. She does drop back to just the one hand though, leaning sideways up against the railing while continuing to tease out more head-rumbles. “That is pretty lucky. But pretty sweet too, man. Congratulations,” she says without hint or sign of sarcasm. “I bet what you do comes in handy with that sort’ve thing. Like, lawyers and everyone just trying to bullshit each other about what’s right or not, you can figure it out for her. If she pays good...” Why not go to the dark side? Her amusement twists into something darker at the equally genuine remark he ends on, though. “They are good people, good people are /totally/ gullible. You maybe noticed that, huh?” There’s a long stretch of silence from Parley, embodied with many volumes said through saying nothing. His head picks up, if only enough to lay a cheek on his forearm, studying Shelby’s face impassively. Then ‘hffs’, and rolls into her palm for a stretch of smoothing and scratches. “I don’t think I’m going to last long, here.” Shelby’s thumb strays near the notch behind his ear, where it joins with his skull. She isn’t surprised to hear that--it is, after all, her usual modus operandi. There might even be a thread of wistfulness woven through the acceptance. It’s so /easy/ to just keep moving on. But she allows that not everyone has her reasons and so asks, “How come? Too many folks? Or just...not your flavor?” Impassive study is met with curious one. Prr. Parley’s eyes close - this is neutral. But once closed, the neutrality seems to explore a few potential cracks; brows slowly furrowing. If anything, the more he relaxes, the more he seems to grimace. “Perhaps we should wait and see.” It’s not optimistic. But it’s not dire, either. Just a little weary. He sets his hand over Shelby’s. Pat. “We should go in. Have you seen my apartment?” It’s COMPLETELY EMPTY. Save a Joshua and a Mirror. Not that Mirror really has a name.