ArchivedLogs:The Face

The Face
Dramatis Personae Jim, Violet	2014-07-13 '
Location Oscar's Sports Bar
The city's fallen into localized zones of excitement and /agony/ with the end of the World Cup finals; those Americans and visitoring sports fans can be seen even now, hours later, hanging around outside the streets. Those in blue and white commiserating in one another's arms, others in yellow, red and black boisterous and laughing. Oscar is one such bar; never likely to win any beauty pageants, its dark interior, homely hole-in-the-wall atmosphere and negotiable blind eye to in-door smoking has made it a selectively popular hang out for a steady cluster of regulars in to watch fall out and rehashes on the TWO whole monitors. The store owner, speaking in animated German and trying to RECREATE the single winning German goal with both hands on the counter, is currently sending out a round on the HOUSE. Seated on a stool at one of the raised tables, Jim has been soaking in the atmosphere with the usual leaned-back, stone-faced I'm-not-with-you-people interest for a few hours. The ready hand at his camera has been snapping a few candid shots (a man and woman kissing with fireworks on the screen behind them; a scruffy deeply-lined veteran fist-bumping a young college student with a mohawk; a paper hate in Argentinian colors abandoned on the edge of the counter and soaking up a ring of spilled beer...) Wearing a battered Harvey Mandell t-shirt and shorts, he momentarily frowns down at the shot glass plunked down in front of him, then back up again to catch a shot of the laughing bartender pouring another row to be distributed. Having tasted the bitter tears of those whose team lost, perhaps Violet has decided to amble on over to a more celebratory venue. Possibly she is wanting to see what winning looks like? Perhaps she is just ambling. Alley cats have made an art of that practice for thousands of years, after all--and they tend to be just as disliked as those people who cannot or will not pick a side to root for. Fluid morals and alleigances have no place in sports bars and yet there she is, sliding in the front door and escaping notice (at first) by lieu of being dark and quiet. Her denim shorts are very short, bare and furry legs on display, along with that tail, but in spite of the night's general warmth she has a hoodie on with hood /up/, on the off-chance she has the sort of face that offends. Of course, spying (or smelling) Jim through the crush reassures that this is not the sort of place that will throw a person out for their /face/. "Y'think he spit in it?" she wonders of the shot as she simply appears at his table. Another of those stools is waylaid, appropriated for her own perch. She hooks her feet back around the legs and drops a spiral-bound notebook on the table, then folds her arms atop it. Still depowered yet, Violet only briefly knew Jim when he was more (tree)bark than bite, and it's a face warped by only burn scars that turns vaguely in her direction, "For all I care, he could pinch off a loaf in it." Apparently foregoing greetings is the name of the game this evening, because Jim moves right on to jerking his chin across the bar at a table of laughing dudebros, "Kids over there. Hand to god, one of 'em just puked in his empty pint glass and just - set it aside. See it?" It's true, a glass sits at the edge of the table half-full of milky SUBSTANCE. "Grade-A all American vomit. Bless this fucking land." Click. He hefts his camera and snaps a picture of it like it's a grim fucking /duty/ to capture. CLICK. The bridge of her nose rumples, sending up ridges of fur at odd angles along nose and brow. "Not sure that'd be a big seller, even in a dive bar," Violet muses. "How long y'been dry?" What? She is genetically predisposed to the nosiness. A victim of her /genes/. Besides, one pointed question in exchange for a /disgusting/ observation seems fair. She will /not/ look at that glass over there, opting instead to tilt her head and conduct a curious study of the camera Jim is wielding so grumpily. "People get worked up over th'funniest things. I guess maybe I got wired wrong along th'way. S'good t'see you out 'n about though." "Phh. It that obvious?" Jim asks wryly, leaving the camera to dangle off the back of his neck by a strap with leaf-patterns woven through it. And fires back, "How long /you/ been hopping bars underaged?" A feline's curiosity might find a challenge in a PI's, Jim's seat turning faintly more in Violet's direction, even if he's speaking to... like. That one far wall over there. Fuck that wall, "Don't think people ever get wired fucking /right/." While arm is still in a cast and bruises are visible to the side of his face, he doesn't seem to be /bowed/ for his experience, and says with a hefty amount of frankness, "You shouldn'ta had to see all that, anyway." His eyes swivel to Violet finally, "...y'alright?" Considering last he'd seen her, she'd been squashed and puppeted and poofed... "I've known m'share of boozehounds 'n junkies. They all get th'same look. Some do anyway. Pissed at th'world for puttin' it there, pissed for wonderin' maybe if you could just swing th'one, yeah? I'd take it off your hands but..." Violet's teeth flash bright white in her black and cinnamon face. "S'not one of th'laws I favor breakin'. /I'm/ here for th'air conditionin'." Such as it is, in the sweaty and smoky interior. "Until I get caught, anyway," she adds, a weather eye turned to the patrons for signs of discontent--or even notice of her person. Spying nothing as of yet, she returns to lounging and eyeballing the less than pleasant visage of her erstwhile table companion. Beneath her hood, an ear is flicked--and crumpled. The fabric shifts, she makes a face and reaches up underneath to adjust. "Don't figure I'll have t'worry 'bout it much. Not like I live there in all of it." Like you, is the unspoken addendum. It's possible there'd be more notice of Violet on another day, but the dark interior and the current feverish atmosphere seem to be working in the girl's favor... for now. Jim isn't exactly encouraging her to strip out of her layers. He vaguely drops a hand on the table, where the natural position is to curl fingers around the glass, though their only activity at this point is to rotate it on its napkin, "Yeah well. You fall off the wagon, likely as not you wind up sucked /under/ it. Who knows." /Expansive/ exhale, "Maybe that's where some folk belong. - S'not really about worry." He practically buts Vi off, wryly, "That shit happened t'me, first time I was meeting people, I'd have found the fucking door." Right, Jim. Because you're a super star at avoiding trouble. "The Commons're supposed to be a /safe/ place." Spin-spin, the shot glass ticks along it's movements like a clock face. And his voice is hard, "--just got some bugs, still." "Looks like you've been hit with your fair share of wagons," Violet helpfully points out. And by this she means his /face/. She is in no hurry to betray her status either--though the idle sway of her tail, dangling down the back end of the stool might do the trick on its own--and once she's finished sorting out the ear business, she returns to leaning on the table. /With/ the hoodie in place. Hopefully the A/C can work through those layers. "I was still workin' out if I wanted t'hang out there and /maybe/ leanin' towards no 'cause of folks usin' stuff on other folks 'n all th'stress," she admits, "when th'riot squad came in t'take that Jax guy off for questionin'...day before yesterday? Somethin' like that. Got told, after, might be best t'find another place t'mooch off of and I guess that's about right. Y'all got a great big ol' day-glo bullseye painted on yourselves, I don't got th'cash for a fine. Or th'constitution for these labs. I'm delicate." "Maybe I /like/ getting hit by wagons," Jim contends RIGHT BACK, along with, "Hate to tell ya this kid, but you got a day-glo bullseye going on already, what with all, uh." He gestures at VIOLET'S face. "/This/." The rotating drink is picked up. Set down an inch to the left. The faint circle of moisture it leaves behind is dragged down by a fingertip and then crossed like Jim's making the symbol for 'female'. He gruffs down to it, "Not gonna lie - S'been a rough week. But it's /not/," he moves the glass down further. Picked up, set down. A few inches along. The two moisture circles are connected. "- like that all the time. Fhh. Jax had us taking fucking -- /de-escalation/ training courses to make sure it /doesn't/ happen like that again." Courses he probably got a lot of /looks/ during. Considering he was the asshole that started throwing punches. "Who the fuck called you a mooch, anyway. Last I saw you were bringing /us/ fucking -- food and cooking god damn /gumbo/." Tick-tick-tick, OH RIGHT. He throws open his hands as though someone (shoulder angel?) had been NAGGING him to add, "Which y'know. /THANKS/ for." Right. That. "About as much as y'like gettin' hit by fists?" Yeah, Violet was there. And she can make with the snappy comebacks with the best of them, though hers is good-natured. Hard not to sound easy-going when you've got that coastal drawl going. She tilts forward a little, rump coming an inch off the stool seat and head tilting, to get a look at what Jim is water-drawing. "No sense slappin' more'n one bullseye on, y'know? But if someone called my guy a name like that, I'd've probably swung too. Don't care /what/ they've been through, some things just ain't done. I maybe shouldn't've jumped that lady though. Wasn't m'business." As for thanks, well, she modestly shrugs those off--shucks t'waren't nothin'--but does pull a grin at mention of her loaves and fishes. "Maybe I brought that stuff 'cause I was feelin' guilty for moochin', with ya'll already feedin' so many." Notably, she is not naming /names/ because she is a cat and not a stool pigeon. "Was pretty good gumbo though, huh?" "Got a face /cries/ out for a fist in it," Jim snorts, allowing of the gumbo, "S'a little bit alright. Jax was givin' it out at the clinic when I was there - if I'd known you were the one that'd made it, I'd have picked up more fucking /catnip/ seeds. Should make you feel guilty more often." The waterdoodles are meaningless; semi-connected with spearing outward directed lines. His head shakes, "S'weird, I always thought that way - that getting a buncha mutants in one place was asking for trouble. Spent most my life sticking clear of it." "Isn't it though?" Asking for trouble, she means. Violet maybe has turned an eye up to witness the full glory of the face in question. Her grin, noticably, has bled away. "Even just ignorin' th'fact that y'got armored cops strollin' in t'haul folks off for questionin'...folks down where I lived, y'got enough drink in 'em and they started throwin' bricks through windows where /one/ mutant was. /And/ y'get our folks doin' stuff t'others without askin'. Sometimes folks laugh about it, sometimes not. There's no rules for this stuff. S'just a big ol' mess 'n who in their right mind goes runnin' into a big ol' mess?" she reasons. "I'm guessin' your face was just fine 'fore y'changed your mind on stickin' clear." Even without the complication of plant fiber, Jim's vocals don't make a very nice sounding laugh, low and tight under the din of voices and the blaring televisions casting flickering light across his forehead. "Kid," he lifts up the drink again, watching the news scroll through the warped glass cut. Sets it down - then picks it up just as soon and knocks it back. Sets the glass down with zero flourish. "Things haven't been 'fine' in a long-ass time." He rises from his seat, "You ever wanna swing by where there ain't a lotta folk, my place is far right building. Basement room. 'm not there all that often, so." He snaps his fingers and points at the girl, chk-chk! "Long as you don't use my fucking dirt floor as a litter box, you can bunker there, you want." And he's on his way out! "There's a hard pitch t'resist. Y'had me at "you're an animal and probably ain't housetrained"," Violet calls at the man's retreating back--through whether he will hear her over the sound of crowd and TVs, only Jim can say!