Logs:In Which Evolve Has Storytime and Nobody Helps to Get a Bingo

In Which Evolve Has Storytime and Nobody Helps to Get a Bingo
Dramatis Personae Marinov, Regina, Taylor
In Absentia Shane, Erik	2023-07-21 "I was prepared for human blood, but not for rocks or motor oil."
Location <NYC> Evolve Cafe - Lower East Side
Spacious and open, this coffeeshop has a somewhat industrial feel to it, grey resin floors below and exposed-beam ceilings that have been painted up in a dancing swirl of abstract whorls and starbursts, a riot of colour splashed against a white background. The walls alternate between brick and cheerfully lime-green painted wood that extends to the paneling beneath the brushed-steel countertops. There's an abundance of light, though rather than windows (which are scarce) it comes from plentiful hanging steel lamps. The walls here are home to artwork available for sale; though the roster of prints and paintings and drawings and photographs changes on a regular basis it has one thing in common -- all the artists displayed are mutants. The seating spaced around the room is spread out enough to keep the room from feeling cluttered. Black chairs, square black tables that mostly seat two or four though they're frequently pushed around and rearranged to make space for larger parties. In the back corner of the room is more comfortable seating, a few large black-corduroy sofas and armchairs with wide tables between them. There's a shelf of card and board games back here available for customers to sit and play. The chalkboard menus hanging behind the counter change frequently, always home to a wide variety of drinks (with an impressive roster of fair-trade coffees and teas largely featured) though their sandwiches and wraps and soups and snacks of the day change often. An often-changing variety of baked goods sit behind the display case at the counter halfway back in the room, and the opposite side of the counter holds a small selection of homemade ice creams. A pair of single-user bathrooms flanks the stairway in back of the cafe; at night, the thump of music can be heard from above, coming from the adjoining nightclub of the same name that sits up the stairs above the coffeehouse. Friday Night: a special time of the week that could always be the best night of your life, or the night that you never want to remember. When Regina had the energy to spare, she would go out and randomly pick a nightclub to visit. She would grab a drink, find a comfortable seat, and watch as people would piss their lives away. Some would drink until they were leaning over tables, laughing without a care in the world. Others would dance across the floor, moving and gyrating their bodies to a tune that didn’t quite match up with the thunderous music. The lonely ones would find their way to the bathrooms or the VIP lounge, making shallow connections with someone who they wouldn’t remember the next morning. All their emotions screamed out one thing and one thing only: life was too fucked to live passively. Chewing on that notion had become a pastime for her. As she involved herself more and more with her fellow mutants, she began to consider what she had been doing with her life. Living certainly wasn’t it. Functioning barely covered it. She had made a step forward by getting this job, sure. But what else? Her molars dug on the inside of her cheek. Her lips, however, were pulled into a polite smile as she continued to serve her customers. She was a professional: she could do her job and have an existential crisis at the same time. So far, it wasn’t too bad for a closing shift. Her shift manager was supposed to come in any second. He had been kind enough to call ahead and let her know that he’d be late. Something about traffic or some shit. “I doubt this place is going to get crazy busy, “Regina mumbled to herself, rolling her shoulders to crack her back and her neck. “Can’t be worse than the last place.” << Unfortunately, the late-night crowd finna be wild. >> Unlike the sledgehammer-blunt force of the last person who spoke in Regina's mind, this is a pleasant ripple, heavy-spiced with a mixture of amusement and resignation; it comes with undercurrent-imagery of the nightclub above them and the freaks. Emerging from the back a moment later, a mountain of a man, smooth bald head and ink-black skin and burly muscles, although none of those things manage to be as eyecatching as the many serpentine arms poking out from the carefully-cut holes in his tee (black, also, it is printed across his broad chest with bold white all-caps reading 'WHITE LIVES MATTER TOO MUCH'). Taylor is checking the current outstanding orders and his improbable tangle of limbs is unfurling to start helping Regina lighten the load -- probably many times in many barista's lives, they have wished for extra arms. Taylor's many tentacles only reaffirm this idle wish, industrious with the drinks they're making even as he reaches out (out, out, out, two of his arms faaaar longer than they had seemed where they were previously coiled around his midsection) to clear the plates someone has left at one of the tables. "We get the crowd from up there," one of the smallest of his arms is poking straight up overhead, "coming and going and man but the only thing that beats regular customers is drunk customers. -- You Regina, yeah?" Now Regina prided herself on being the prime example of “Ice Queen:” unshakeable, cool as can be, and being able to roll with whatever circumstances to decided to challenge her. That all-too-gentle voice that glided across her gray matter made her twitch. Her shoulders, anyway. Maybe. She was certainly going to pretend that was the case as she quickly took a rag and wiped up a river of coffee on the counter. Crazy how that happened. The coffee just spontaneously appeared there! Absolutely wild! You never know what you are going to get a café built by, run by, and owned by mutants. Certainly not her being scared by a voice out of nowhere that could have come straight from the radio. Maybe he does work for the radio? You’re stalling. Stop being a pussy and talk to the guy. You got scared. Get over it. She sighed, rolled her shoulders again and turned to look at Taylor. Or rather, look up at him. “That would be me, yeah. Love the shirt, by the way.” In turn, she unzipped her black denim vest and revealed a tank top that read, “You take my rights, I take your teeth,” in elegant cursive. Lovingly illustrated was a large blue fist punching a chicken. Specifically, a chicken with a certain Kentucky senator’s face on it, his teeth being sprayed across the shirt. “So we’re the club crew tonight? Lovely. That means big tips, and big purchases. No worries. They’ll buy food and we can clean up inventory for the weekend. Fifty-fifty chance of someone puking in the plants or puking the garbage cans. One hundred percent chance of the bathrooms being wrecked. Can’t wait!” "I don't work for radio, though I been told I have a good look for it." Taylor's smile is broad, a stark flash of teeth behind his jet-black lips. He glances over toward Regina's shirt, and his head bobs approvingly. "Shocked that man still have na teeth, as punchable as he makes himself." He's setting one of the drinks he just made on the counter, snaking an arm halfway across the room to set another down on a table beside a guest. "They'll probably get the worst of it upstairs but we for sure get a heap of -- trickle-down drunks. You bang-on 'bout the tips, though." He grimaces. "And the bathrooms. 'long as we get through the whole shift without nobody lighting the place on fire, I call it a win." “Alright, then I gotta set up the Bingo.” Regina did not take the time to explain what she meant. Instead, she grabbed a napkin, a pen, and began scrawling a quick five-by-five grid. She quickly scrawled out words for each square, minus the one in the middle. She did a scan of her penmanship before offering the napkin to Taylor. “Considered this a rough draft. I wrote down everything from ‘crying in the middle of the floor’ to ‘asking for fries even if we don’t have fries.’ Feel free to edit it or offer constructive feedback. You know, do I not have enough weird shit on there, that sort of thing. I figure we can fill this throughout the night. We hit a bingo, that’s the story we tell the next day. What do you think?” The bell at the door jingles with one member of the late night clientele entering. Due to the heat, they have opted to wear plenty of sheer fabric, though the illusion of modesty is maintained by the natural fur coat that they are always sporting. Their knee length sheer skirt is over a very short pair of black shorts. Their top is also sheer, with some of the construction in a more solid fabric: a strip of buttons down the center, black pockets placed strategically on the chest, and bands of opaque fabric around the seems of the shoulders and around their wrists. Gold coloured embroidery provides some highlights to the outfit. The natural colouration around their eyes seems all the more dramatic with the way they match with the colouration of the outfit. Their feline ears are perked when they step through and, as if having heard parts of the conversation before entering, they offer, "What about, 'asks to sleep in the cafe'? I could probably help you with getting some squares filled out if you really want for a drama-packed night." Taylor swipes the napkin, easing down onto a stool as the counter-crowd clears. A deep laugh rumbles up out of him, and one arm snakes out to coil around a pen of his own. "Cha! Sure, yeah, cuts the boredom -- we gon' have at least one set of drunk-ass humans freak out 'cuz they stumbled in the wrong place. 'least one drunk-ass bog," here his eyes flick just-briefly to Regina and then back down, "-- freak out cuz they forget some freaks look like freaks." He hasn't looked up again but a warm mental brush touches light at Marinov's mind with a sense of welcome. "We put just fall asleep in the cafe no asking and that's the damn free space. Likely enough," he's agreeing now as he sets his pen down and looks up, "this cool cat here. You heading up?" A rare shark-like grin crosses her lips. There was nothing like a little chaos to spice up a potentially fucked-up night. She grabs a stool and sits on it just so she can see the floor above the register. Being a splendid height of five feet and seven inches made it so that she still wasn’t tall enough to see what was going, but tall enough so that she wasn’t asked what she was doing out of high school. And the whole, you know, token goth vibes. “I am SO down to see some people freak out. Here’s a fun tip for you: panic smells like Funyuns, humiliation reeks of hard-boiled eggs, and fear smells like buffalo wings with extra horseradish. I don’t why they do, but I can tell you who’s feeling what and we can go from there. For the Bingo, I mean. Well, and so we can avoid any potential disasters.” Her focus was broken at the stranger’s presence. “Good evenin’ sir. Welcome to Evolve, where the only thing that doesn’t evolve is our amazing prices and high-quality service.” Regina greeted with a damned good impression of an A.I. Marinov's response to the feeling of welcome, is a sense of appreciation, a soft blink of their eyes and a bow of their head towards Taylor. "Was gonna go up, but to avoid being your free space, figured I should get myself a bit more caffeinated first. Wakefulness is a fickle thing." Their gaze turns towards Regina. <<Sir?>> is echoed in their thought with a kind of curiosity, as if considering the mental calculus that went behind the word, "I am not sure I can agree with your scent assessments, but if smell varies like taste, then I can't disagree either. Is that a new slogan, or just a new face? I don't think I've seen you working before." "Sir?" Taylor is echoing aloud just an instant after Marinov's thought, and he's looking Marinov over brief and thoughtful. "Sleep's siren call gonna get us all eventually but if I can help you dance a bit longer before you puddle on our couch --" He hasn't risen from his stool but his arms are extending, grabbing a fresh cup of coffee and doctoring it with some lactose-free cream. "This is Regina. They new-new, just this week? Shit do we got a slogan, we should get ourselves a slogan. Evolve -- cuz sure as shit nobody else in town gon' let your freak ass drink. -- damn we put down someone who get so drunk they forget their own powers? That's always a fun one." She watched the interaction between the two mutants with genuine curiosity. Now that she was fresh into the community, her hobby of people watching had taken on a whole new level. It was also a nice reminder that she wasn’t alone and there was a whole community to be a part of now. Not that she forgot, not really. But, sometimes, she would wake up, look around in her apartment, and wonder if she dreamt up everything. Maybe she had finally lost it and had sunk herself deep into an illusion. Thank fuck for the job, otherwise she would have lost whatever was precious left of her sanity. “I thought I’d throw the slogan out as a way of greeting you, a-la-playful-sarcasm. Let me make you a breakfast sandwich in the meantime. Any opposition to bacon, smoked gouda, and tomato? Let me know if you want one, too, Taylor.” "Evolve: We know what you want. On account of the mind reading and shit," offers Marinov as a contribution to the slogan contest, laced with a gratitude for this fact and that their order is already in progress. "Regina, huh? I am Marinov. Taylor Marinov, though my first name was gifted to a certain iconic barrista with more arms than average. You'll probably notice me around here plenty." They wave a hand in front of their feline face, "I have one of those faces, hard to pick out of a crowd, but I'm here a lot. You can hold the tomato, bread, cheese and make that bacon low sodium, and you've got yourself a deal. I've got some minor dietary restrictions." "You want, like, quadruple bacon on that 'sandwich'?" Taylor is wondering with a light amusement. "-- I'm good, thanks, for now at least. Oh shit I forget," and he's amending the bingo card again, "can not leave out people with dietary restrictions that you can absolutely not find in na damn cafe coming in here to ask why we don't carry 'rocks' or 'human blood' or 'motor oil' on the menu, we clearly discriminating against them. Meat, though, we can handle meat just fine." “Pleased to meet you, Marinov. I’ll see what we got for low sodium bacon and get that to you.” Regina bowed with a flourish of her hand, less in sarcasm and more of the playful snark that she liked to color herself with. She poured through the fridge reserved strictly for food and grabbed the (thankfully not turkey) desired bacon before throwing it onto the flat-top grill. A wider smile crept up on her lips as she tended to the bacon, feeling a sense of accomplishment that she was cooking for a change. Even if it was just bacon strips, it was better than the depressing custom of microwaving a frozen burrito. Within a few minutes, the strips were nice and crispy, a delightful smell of porcine glory. She grabbed a plate, slid the strips onto the ceramic dish, and swiftly brought them over to her new feline acquaintance. “So, I was prepared for human blood, but not for rocks or motor oil. Do we get cyborgs for the latter, or the fierier types that need that? Am I going to have to learn how to make a Motor Mocha Cappuccino? I mean, I know it’s NOT on the menu, but I am always ready for a Karen or a Kevin of any variety.” She rattled off as she slid back behind the counter. “Going off of that, I’d love to hear the weirdest incident you guys have had to deal with her.” "Didn't you have someone asking for magma before? Like. How would storage even work?" says Marinov. "But if you did, you could say you were serving the hottest dishes in town. That could totally be a slogan, right?" They take the plate with a bow of their head in appreciation, "Bacon and coffee, I am living someone's meal fantasy, I am sure." They tilt their head slightly and look to Taylor, "Weirdest incident?" << How do you even choose? >> they think with some amusement. "Is 'some poor soul wants to talk to the manager' on there? Because it should be." "Naaah, people ask for shit like blood or battery acid we point 'em at health and safety codes. Welcome to BYOB... A, though. And yes," Taylor's laugh is bright, "what they think we just gon go blip over to Hawai'i, harvest some fresh?" His amusement is brighter still at the mention of talking to the manager, as one arm snakes over the counter to hand Marinov their coffee. "Oh, man, first time someone sass you and then ask to speak to Shane about it it's gonna be a treat. -- we did one time," he adds, thoughtful, "have Magneto have a bad brain attack in here. He wrecked the place. Can't say that was exactly just another Saturday." “Magneto? As in the premier Big Bad Metal dude with a penchant for fucking up landmarks? Or some other poor soul who jumped on the name?” Regina asked the question carefully, briefly considering whether this job was worth it if it meant potentially getting squashed by a mutant with a legendary temper. She brushed her fingers over her snakebites with a grimace. “Well, least I know Shane is not the one to be fucked with. Now you got my curiosity. Give me the details. If the story is good enough? I’ll go upstairs after work and buy us all drinks.” "Magneto, as in the old man who can somehow totally pull off the drama of a cape," confirms Marinov, reaching to take the cup from Taylor's arm. "Even though that's not a typical day, 'repairs required' is probably a pretty good square to include." With the cup between both their hands, they inhale deeply to get that nice fresh coffee smell. "Shane's the best, he looks after his people, which some dipshits somehow do not expect from a manager." They shrug in an exaggerated way, as if to say, 'how did they ever get that idea?' "He doesn't make a habit of it or nothing. Think someone was punching his brain -- usually when we get powers mishaps they're less, uh." Taylor frowns, his longest arms idly starting to coil back around his midsection. "Magneto." Is this a very clear definition of what went on? He certainly seems to think so. "I got no damn clue what the premiums here are like but I figure Shane must be bribing or blackmailing someone at the insurance company." He's nodding, affirmative, to Marinov's assessment of Shane, at least, and his expression has animated as he sits up straighter. "Aiite bet. Lemme paint you a picture this one time, 'right round New Year --" As he begins the story there's a ripple against their minds, summoned out of memory; the jingle of the bell, the cold blast of wind that accompanied it -- did Regina want details? Because Taylor's seeing fit to earn those drinks.