ArchivedLogs:Volunteering

Volunteering
Dramatis Personae Noah, Shane	2014-07-14 part of infectytp. Followed by bringing home a stray.
Location Red Cross disaster relief office, Manhattan
The billboard at the Red Cross was covered in pieces of paper, both official lists and handwritten notes of people found or missing, or people looking for others. Noah had been standing in front of it for at least fifteen minutes, scouring every inch of every piece of paper for a hint of his parents, and had found nothing. Ignoring the twinge of worry that added to the weight on his shoulders, he sent up another silent prayer and pinned his own piece of paper to the board. It was hastily torn out of a notebook, the words on it written in a rough and hurried hand. 'LOOKING FOR: WYATT HUNTER AND HELEN HUNTER MARRIED COUPLE FROM GEORGIA CALL (###) ###-#### WITH INFO' A printed photo of a smiling couple in their thirties, dressed in camo and hunting gear, was taped below it. Noah scratched at the back of his neck once it was up, unsure of what to do now. It seemed ridiculous to spend as much time as it took him to find the place and to leave after putting up a piece of paper. He turned to look for someone who worked there to see if there was anything else he could do. When he spotted the blue-skinned shark boy, he paused and blinked a few times. Once Noah knew his eyes weren't playing tricks, he was able to see that the obvious mutant was a volunteer. Well, that solved one problem for now. Noah hesitantly walked over, clearing his throat. "'Scuse me. I had a question?" he drawled, Georgian accent thick like molasses. Shane is tucked in behind an empty desk at the office here in disaster services, dressed -- kind of /sharp/ for a shark; he’s in elegantly tailored grey trousers, a short-sleeved salmon-pink button down, equally well-tailored vest buttoned snug against his slim frame. A neatly tied bow tie to cap it off, though even with his collar and bow tie there’s a slitted length of /gills/ visible above the fabric. He has a small stack of forms in front of him that he’s currently working through to mark down information from them on a /different/ form. Apparently at the moment volunteering means Lots Of Paperwork. There’s a plasticky red-and-reflective-white vest with prominent Red Cross logo draped over the back of his chair but he has a lanyard around his neck with a pair of badges on it -- the one on front definitely says VOLUNTEER quite prominently down its side (and adjacent to that, MANHATTAN), with a photograph -- in it Shane’s wide GRIN is /inordinately/ toothy -- and beneath, Shane Holland-Zedner. Above: American Red Cross, Greater New York. When Shane looks up from his paperwork, his solid-black eyes are wide -- they take up a ridiculously disproportionate amount of his narrow face in a way that tends to be more demonic-alarming than anime-cute. The smile that follows once he sets his pen down may not be a lot more helpful, bright and /very/ full of far too many sharkteeth. “Woooah, hey, Georgia boy? Sure. What’s up, sir, if I can’t help I can probably point you to someone who can.” "I'm, uh." Noah tried not to stare. God gave him blue eyes, God could have someone else look like a shark if He wanted to. And it was rude, otherwise. "Tryin' to find my parents? They were here on a trip when everythin' went down... Is there 'nother way to look for them than just the board?" He asked, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at said billboard. Shane winces, lifting a hand to scuff his webbed fingers against his spiky black hair. “Yeah, we got a site online? For folks looking to reconnect with people. Can post there for you or -- see if they ever checked in. I can help you get an account set up if you like?” He flutters fingers towards the desktop on his table, already twirling his spinny chair towards it to wake the screen up and log in. “You just getting into town?” "Yeah." Noah shrugs a shoulder sheepishly. "Took a while to be able to make it up here. But they'd have been able to survive, I know that much. If- if you could help, I'd much appreciate it." There’s a brief moment when Noah says they’d have been able to survive that something twinges across Shane’s expression, not quite skepticism so much as a pang of -- closer to sympathy. His sharp teeth prickle down briefly against his lower lip, fingers tapping quickly at his keys, and then he slides a blank sheet of paper over towards Noah together with a pen. “M’gonna need your full name and both of theirs. Phone numbers, birthdates, their last known address. It --” He hesitates for a brief moment, black eyes shifting between the screen and Noah’s face. “We have people who specialize in this. Reconnecting loved ones after disasters. But it’s not -- always a /quick/ process, New York -- was kind of chaos after the biters swarmed here, you know? It’s, honestly, still a little bit chaos. I’ll get your account set up and we’ll do everything we can to help but sometimes it’s more expedient to find -- a private investigator or something who can help things on a little faster.” Noah bends over the piece of paper to hurriedly scribble his and his parents names, along with everything else Shane specifies. The only oddity is that their last known address is only the name of a hotel. "I don't really know the address of the place they were stayin'. I already called and they said they weren't there, but..." He slides the piece of paper back towards Shane, not finishing his sentence. His expression plainly says he doesn't want to venture down that road. "I dunno how I'd find a private investigator. Do you got anythin' on that too?" Shane takes the paper back, scanning the information only briefly before he starts entering it into the computer with a rapid click of keys. “It’s no problem, I can look that up,” he answers absently, glancing upwards once he comes to a pause in his typing. His tongue pokes out of the side of his mouth, and after a moment he answers: “I know a couple, actually. I could put you in touch. Where’re /you/ staying at while you’re here?” "Uh." A flush spreads across Noah's cheeks, and he suddenly looks down. "Well." He rubbsat the back of his neck, looking embarrassed. "Kinda… stayin' in my truck for now. Ain't found nowhere. But I put my cell number on the paper, so if you need to find me." The hairless ridge of Shane’s brows lifts at this information, and his head gives a small shake as he finishes up Noah’s entry in the database. “In your truck? For real? You drove all this way and you don’t even have a bed?” He rubs his hand against his cheek, looking down at his screen. “Tell me you’ve at least gotten a good meal into you since you got here. When /did/ you get here?” "Few days ago," Noah mumbles, still not meeting Shane's eyes, just audible. He shifts from foot to foot, hands in his pockets. "And yeah. Kinda. Ain't nothin' been home cooked, but. It's… been okay." His tone suggests otherwise. Shane huffs out a quiet breath, one side of his mouth pulling upwards. “You know, my folks are both from way-down-South too. I don’t think either of them would approve of a /few days/ without home-cooked food. Doesn’t that violate some kind of code of your people?” He logs back out of his computer, swiveling his chair back to face Noah. “If you don’t mind a family of freaks --” His webbed fingers are waving towards his sharky blue face in indication, “and you don’t mind waiting for me to finish filing this paperwork I might be able to help fix that meal situation.” Noah shrugs, obviously a bit uncomfortable. "Usually hunt and grow my own food. Not really easy up here." He shifts on his feet again, looking like he wants to decline, but hesitating on doing so. "And I wouldn't think any of you were freaks," he says softly. "God don't. No reason I should. But, um. Y-yeah. I think… that sounds nice. Thank you." Shane chuckles at this, quiet; it’s accompanied by a soft whisper of gills shifting against his starched collar as they flap open against the sides of his neck. “You have a personal line to God, I’d like to have a word. Some of his followers down here, they haven’t got the memo.” His smile is casual, though, easy-friendly if you can look past the sharp teeth. “I do kind of a lot of hunting myself. Have to get out of the city for it but if you’ve got a truck -- not a big deal. And down at my place we grow a /bunch/ of our own food. S’kinda nice, I think you’ll like it.” "Does sound nice. Like home." A small smile curls the corners of Noah's mouth. "Thank you, again. For everythin'. I truly do appreciate it." He takes his hand out of one of his pockets, holding it out to Shane. "M'Noah. Know you already know that with the paper I just filled out, but. S'nice to meet you." Shane reaches up to grasp the offered hand firm and strong, his own hand considerably cooler to the touch than normal human temperature. “Shane. You too. ‘least I can do, I mean, as far from home as you are it’d probably be nice to have just a little of it back.” His toothy grin is bright and broad as he adds: “Besides, it’s not like I have to do any work. I’m just volunteering my Pa to cook for you. I’ll text him, let him know there’s company coming. We always have strays, he never minds. He’s /Southern/. Just let me finish up here, yeah?” "Sure. I'll just be..." Noah jerks a thumb over his shoulder at the billboard again. "Mighta missed somethin'." He wanders back over to all the listings, standing a bit straighter now. The weight on his shoulders seems to have lessened.