Logs:Also, Coffee
| Also, Coffee | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia
|
2019-05-11 << My God, are they /all/ telepaths?! Am /I/ a telepath? >> (Coincident with/immediately in the wake of Spence alerting Jax. |
| Location
NYC - Montagues - SoHo | |
Montagues harkens back to the day when SoHo was filled to the brim with artists, with its mismatched furniture, all plush and decorated heavily with carved wood, but remains trendy enough to keep its newer patrons by making sure that furniture is clean, in good repair and inviting. The antique tables all have been reinforced to seem less creaky. The real draw of the cafe is the smell: fresh roasted coffee mingles with perfectly steeped teas. Spices from crisp pastries mingle with the tang of clotted cream but don't overwhelm too much the scent of chalk on the menu boards. It's early yet, by weekend standards, but Montagues is already doing a brisk business. About half the tables are occupied, but at least there's no line at the moment. The barista has ducked out, perhaps aware that they might not have a better for a bathroom break anytime soon. Steve is manning the counter, though he's not had much to do but clean. To that end, he has a rag in one hand and a spray bottle in the other, scrubbing the countertop more vigorously than necessary. He's wearing a black poplin with white buttons, the cuffs rolled up neatly to the elbows, black slacks, and a black half-apron. There's a long red welt on the outside of his forearm and plenty of smaller nicks besides, but aside from these he shows little outwardly sign of having his ordeal at the beginning of the week. His jaw is set grim and firm, and his ice blue eyes bore into the spotless counter. He keeps wiping. The door opens with a heavy thump. Dusk is dressed in faded corduroys, a green and black striped v-neck tee, large dark glasses, his wings folded in tight against his back, a stark pallor to his skin today. One of his wings stretches out briefly, just long enough to hook against the door, hold it open for a moment behind him before he continues on, trudging, to the counter. He leans against it, arms folding. Staring down at it for a moment. Watching the rag's vigorous motion. Not actually bothering with an order. Flicker trails behind Dusk. Actually on foot as he comes through the door, dressed in neat khakis and a grey polo, a matte black tentacle-shaped limb in place of the more human-shaped arms Steve has previously seen him wearing. He stops beside Dusk, looking from the menu -- to Steve -- to his housemate. Back to Steve. Steve glances up when Dusk and Flicker enter. He doesn't smile, but he does offer the two men a nod and a quiet "Hey." He finally stops cleaning, setting aside rag and bottle. "Sorry, ah..." He looks up at Dusk, then Flicker. More somberly. "I'm sorry." He swallows. Then blinks his eyes clear. "How can I help you?" Dusk swallows, taking some time to look up from the counter. His hand curls into a fist, circling against his chest. "It's been kind of a week." There's a scratchiness to his voice. His wings curl tighter against his back, claws scraping against the floor. "We just. Uh. Came to pick up coffee, but." "You're not a barista." Flicker almost manages a smile -- there's a small tug at his lips. It dies stillborn. "Are you..." He sucks his cheeks inward, gnawing briefly at their insides. "Have you," he tries again, but stops. Exhales quick and hard. "Yeah." Steve's right hand flexes, starts to form a fist, relaxes again. "Yeah, it has." He shakes his head, and there's a softening of the gaze he returns Flicker, though he doesn't quite manage a smile, either. "I've been training. Can't help you with anything fancy yet, but if it's just coffee?" He opens his hands. "I'm your man. Would you like some pastries, too? Or sandwiches?" "You have like those." Dusk straightens off the counter, describes a boxy shape in the air with his hands. "Bigass things of coffee? Can we get big coffee. Tanks. Like two of those and, uh." One thumbclaw twitches towards Flicker. "Whatever he wants." He rubs a hand against his beard -- thicker and scruffier than usual -- brows lifting. "Shit, food. Do we have food? /Should/ we have food? Do people need food? He's our man." Flicker's cheeks flush deep red. "Um." His eyes drop rapidly away from Steve to fix on the well-scrubbed counter. "I'll -- have lemonade. I think Joshua could use a meal. That doesn't come from a vending machine." He takes his wallet from his pocket, toying with it restlessly. "You were there." It's very abrupt. His cheeks darken further. Steve frowns in perplexity for a moment, then his expression clears with comprehension. "Oh, you mean these?" He stoops and comes back up with two cardboard cartons with plastic spigots. "And a lemonade. I can do that. The uh...ruben is pretty good. Goes good with the French onion soup." He looks at Flicker. Looks down at the rapidly healing burn on his arm. "I was." He opens his mouth as if to say more, but nothing comes out. Clenches his jaw again instead. "Those! Thanks." As if that small bit of clarity was the full extent of the energy he had for communicating, Dusk slumps back against the counter, arms folding atop it again. A harsh rumble growls in his chest -- maybe at Flicker's not-quite-question, maybe at Steve's answer. "Sorry," his words come over the continued growl, softer, now, "It's just been such fucking bullshit. Keeping Jax locked up all week while he's --" The growl deepens. His fingers curl into fists. "Soup. Sandwiches. Yeah. Let's go with those." "Ryan --" Flicker hesitates, his tentacle arm coiling inward against itself, curling the wallet up within it. "Was like his brother. More than. A lot of the people who died were friends. This has all been a farce. I'm sorry you were --" His shrug is very small. Steve tenses -- subtly but visibly -- at Dusk's growl, or the sinuous motion of Flicker's tentacle arm, or perhaps both. But he does not back away from the other men, and the grim twitch of his mouth looks angry than fearful. "I hadn't known either of them all that well, but..." It's not clear whether his hesitation here is for uncertainty or concentrating on the operation of the tablet component of the register -- he presses an index finger firmly for each item. "Well. I haven't got all that many friends in this world, and --" He glances at the table Flicker, Isra, and Ryan had been sitting at when the gunmen attacked. Gives a quick, abortive shake of his head. "No. I'm glad I was there. If it had made a difference for even one person. Just wish I could have done more." He swallows. Rotates the screen of the register with the summary of their order for Flicker to review. A skinny preteen in a gray suit and matching blue wave patterned tie and kippah appears beside Flicker. The effect is abrupt and complete, as though someone has simply spliced him into the film. Spencer's face is wet, his eyes red and swollen, and he's hugging himself rather fiercely. "Prometheus kidnapped Ryan," he blurts, struggling to keep his voice steady though it wobbles all the same. "He's /alive/ but they /took/ him and they have him hooked up to all these machines and we have to get him back and Pa said to tell you so we can find him and get him out, oh hey Steve, can we go now?" Dusk's brow furrows, his growling softening. There's a distinctly troubled look that crosses his face, his claws twitching again. "I think you did a lot. I'm glad -- well. Glad they had help. I..." He hesitates, trailing off, and is just taking a deep breath to say something again when abruptly they are interrupted by sudden!child. His jaw clenches, wings tightening hard at his back. "Spence..." It's quiet, and tired. His shoulders slump, his weight settling back against the counter. His fingers rake into his hair. << Fuck. >> The soft rumble has started back up in his chest -- though lower, now, soft and slightly edged with a plaintive whine. "Hive, man," kind of sort of pleading. His head just shakes. Flicker has been looking over their order. He straightens suddenly when Spence arrives, his own eyes widening. Only very tangentially listening to what Spencer is actually saying -- these words aren't meant for him. Not /exactly/. His tentacle arm is uncoiling, coiling, uncoiling. Suddenly very /acutely/ aware of Steve's presence. Of the others in the cafe around him, on a level past even his regular hypervigilance. << Should we call Lucien? >> Some part of him thinks they should be stressed. Most of him is far too exhausted to reach stress, yet. Steve /does/ back away from the counter when Spence appears, his eyes wide. Then /wider/, as the child spills his somewhat rambling tale. "Ryan?!" His startled joy is more than enough to offset his confusion, though there's plenty of /that/, too. "Wait, /who/ kidnapped him?" << Prometheus. Greek titan. Stole fire from the gods...? >> He's stepped back toward the others, hands gripping the edge of the counter, as though ready to vault over it. /Is/, in fact, ready to vault over it, literal or figurative titan be damned. << Where is he? >> He only barely manages to stop himself asking it aloud. << This kid doesn't know me from Adam's off ox. Dusk and Flicker can decide if they need my help. >> He looks to Flicker, then Dusk, then back to Spencer again, adamantly keeping his mouth shut. There's a presence stirring -- not only within Flicker but several other places around the city, as well. Taking stock of other parts of themselves (in an office a few blocks away) (unconscious in a hospital bed), only vaguely relaxing once they are reassured that, no, we aren't actually in Prometheus. << We'll tell Lucien. >> Hive's awareness unfurls right along with Flicker's. Prickling with a vague irritation at the /minds/ he can feel -- some of them very much listening to the conversation occurring around Captain America and a sudden surprise teleporting child. << Nobody kidnapped Ryan. >> When Hive's voice comes it /sounds/ like his usual voice, gruff and familiar and tinged with his bastardized muddle of an accent -- only rather than spoken aloud it hammers, throbbing and jarring and unpleasant, a solid weight of pressure dropped heavily into Dusk and Spencer and Steve's mental space. In the next moment there's a spike of pain that squeezes vicelike down around the three, a loud /clamor/ of noise -- the cafe growing suddenly far too loud, far too overstimulating, a jangle of voices and /smells/ and feeling swirling through them -- then, abruptly, it fades. To Spence and Dusk, the quiet background whisper of Hive's mental presence is there, soft but sensible. For Steve, without the long familiarity of experience, likely just a lingering touch of headache and a slightly greater attunement to the other presences in the cafe. Spence had sucked in a breath and was about to 'briefly' explain the horrors of Prometheus when Hive's calm negation comes pounding into their heads. He winces just a bit. "Huh?" His brows knit, his panic momentarily stalled by this revelation. << How does he know? How do you know?! I /saw/ him! >> This is accompanied by a tear-blurred image of Ryan in the hospital bed, ensnared by wires and tubes. Then all the grief and terror and confusion of the last few minutes catch up, so overwhelming that he starts bawling again, breath coming in great heaves between his sobs. The pain of the psionic annexation hardly registers, and in its wake he leans hard into Hive's presence for the comfort he dares not take in physical contact. Dusk's next growl is sharper, but brief. His fingers clench harder into his hair. << He's at Mount Sinai. >> This thought comes once his mind is /their/ mind, tired -- a little apologetic. Only a little. His wing curls out -- not actually touching Spencer, but making the offer clearly available. << He knows because we've been keeping watch over him all week. >> Flicker closes his eyes, letting Hive's psionic awareness take over in place of the physical for a moment while he -- breathes. Deep, slow. His sinuous black arm curls around his midsection, his other wrapping tighter against his chest. "We're sorry." Very softly. << His heart stopped in the ambulance on the way over and it got out that he'd died. By the time he was rescuscitated the story was all over. It just -- >> The chaos of feeling that starts to rise in him echoes through their shared mental link -- a grief, a helplessness, but most of all a hot sharp fury -- << Someone tried to kill him. Twice. And he's barely holding on right now. If everyone thought he was dead -- if everyone /thinks/ he's dead -- >> Steve starts at Hive's sudden input, his flinch more of surprise than of actual discomfort, though his relief is not inconsiderable. << Oh, thank God. Wait, is he /here/? >> He looks around the cafe, frowning. << How far away can he /do/ that -- >> His fretting is derailed by the pain and overstimulation of becoming Hive, though he certainly has no notion that's what just happened. One of his hands goes to his head, and he almost expects to find a physical wound somewhere. << What the hell was /that/? >> His perplexity and astonishment only grow when the /others'/ words start appearing in his mind without their lips moving. << My God, are they /all/ telepaths?! Am /I/ a telepath? >> He shakes his head as if to clear it, the existential crisis dissipating as quickly as it came on. << Right. Stay on task, Rogers. Ryan's alive, and free, and he's...something like safe. >> He braces both hands on the counter in the vague hope this might steady him against any new, potentially world-shaking revelations. << Saf/er/, at least, from further attempts on his life. >> His alarm is abrupt and, as seems to be common when he feels in crisis, wordless. Just a quick estimation of the number of Montagues patrons in earshot, the volume of Spencer's voice when he had first announced this. << But it would just be rumors. No one else knows where he is. Things are under control. >> He seems to take Flicker's tangle of feelings as his own -- admittedly it doesn't seem very far from his (presently quieter) emotions. He closes his eyes, opens them again. << Alright. Is there something I can /do/ about this? >> Hive's voice is far less jarring when it comes through the next time. No hammer-thud, no spike of pain. Just his thoughts, surfacing as naturally as though the others were thinking them themselves. << Things are /not/ under control. >> The others' perception widens, slightly. A girl in the corner texting with a friend about how WEIRD that some mutant just appeared in her coffeeshop to talk to CAPTAIN AMERICA? About Ryan being kidnapped? Does he mean that celebrity who DIED this week?? Another young man tweeting about how New York is SO fucking weird, mutants just show up out of NOWHERE to say -- Another pair of kids whispering nearby about if Ryan Black's death was a HOAX. Together with this expansion of awareness, too, there's other sorts of proprioception. Their body (kind of jittery) (kind of shivery, even in oversized sweatshirt) (a little woozy from too little food and too little sleep) pacing restlessly back and forth along the same small stretch of sidewalk. Phone in hand, the taste of nicotine on their lips. Another glance to the phone screen -- no answer -- -- a somewhat disorienting rapid shift of mental frame -- expanding rapidly, contracting rapidly -- the world seen in rapid snapshot views that blink from one to the next to the next too fast to get a coherent picture of much more than one freezeframe of city after the next. It stops, settles, in an image of luxury; sumptuous wooden furniture upholstered in rich leather, wide windows looking out on a lushly manicured garden. A young man in a simple but elegant grey suit, watching them with a satisfying level of attentiveness in his bright green eyes. A feeling of deep injustice, bristling and indignant that the thread count of the serviettes in the Solarium at lunch were /not/ up to the standard they had got used to at the Club in Rome. Bristling that they had not furnished this very simple request! If they kept their linens at a decent quality, these minor requests wouldn't even be a problem! They'd heard /such/ good things about the concierge here but this -- -- and then a near blinding stab of pain, rippling through all their nerves in a flare of burning. Stabbing. Tearing. Scraping-scratching-clawing through their minds. Screaming in bright-white flash behind their eyes. (Somewhere beneath that, for those /very/ adept at navigating this psionic plane, a very calm methodical calculating. Just how much pain /can/ we take before ceasing to appropriately function? A background awareness of fingers pressing against smooth polished wood desk -- feet planted firm on the floor. Insufferably entitled patron prattling on about napkins. Nod appropriately. Ignore that they flew in a day earlier than they had told him. Begin to plan where to obtain replacement linens before brunch. Reply in flawless Italian. The searing is burning higher -- grip the table /just/ a bit harder while, somewhere inside, there's a rearrangement of mental partitions --) The pain shuts off. The heightened awareness shuts off -- they're not across the city, not in luxurious clubhouses or city streets. Just here in the cafe after all. Voice thicker, something rough and unhappy twisting briefly within them and then pulling back away from their awareness: << Well, Luci knows. >> The logic of keeping Ryan's survival a secret clicked for Spencer before the other components of Hive have quite finished explaining it. He cycles rapidly through relief, fury, grudging admiration, fury again, and then finally just worry. What has stopped worrying him, though, is the risk of accidentally teleporting someone -- or, really, /part/ of someone -- with him. He throws himself into Dusk's embrace, all but disappearing into his massive wing, still crying. He has no answers for Steve. The agony of Lucien's brief stint with them only makes him tense his entire small body against Dusk's side, crying harder. Then slackens again, exhausted. << We should tell Pa. That Prometheus doesn't have Ryan. >> Dusk wraps his wing tightly around Spencer, hugging the boy tightly to his side. A harsh growl rumbles through them at the flare of pain, quieting only when the agony does. "Fuck." Soft, exhausted, aloud. Steve's offer of help turns over in their mind, together with the pings from other people around the cafe beginning the digital chatter. << Well. I'm guessing we're going to need a lot more security soon. >> Flicker's breath catches with a quiet hiss. Though his left arm clenches tighter against his side through this spike of pain, the tentacle goes slack, hanging limp at his side and dropping his wallet to the floor. He shivers -- blurs out of sight, a ghostly shimmering trail that heads vaguely toward the exit and then out of view. In the melange of pain it is about as difficult to track his path mentally as visibly. By the time the shock of agony has passed, the connection has snapped back into a greater obscurity, anyway -- his presence just a silent background observer in their minds. Steve watches their journey through the city, simultaneously nonplussed and oddly unconcerned about /being/ nonplussed. He recognizes Lucien with a jolt of surprise and pleasure that still does not override his confusion. << Where am I? How did Luci get -- >> The pain blasts all coherence from the part of his mind that /isn't/ Hive and sends it straight back to -- -- metal coffin. Blinding white light. Horrible mechanical whine. Burning agony so awful he cannot imagine anything worse. Until it gets worse, his body twisting and breaking /itself/ as it grows -- Steve is clinging to the counter, eyes squeezed shut against the light that isn't there. He registers the empty space where Flicker had stood before, but without much dismay -- it doesn't feel as though he's /entirely/ gone. << Security I can do. >> Replying in his thoughts seems natural now, and the offer of something concrete to do grounds him. << Also coffee. >> | |
