Logs:In Which There Is Some Ruminating On The Nature Of Brunch, While Some Framing Occurs

In Which There Is Some Ruminating On The Nature Of Brunch, While Some Framing Occurs
Dramatis Personae Alex, Taylor	2019-06-16 "Busy and well-caffeinated?"
Location <MOR> Welcome to the Freakshow
Wider and more spacious than many of the surrounding nooks and niches, this chill cavern is the central hub of the Morlock's underground network. With tunnels branching off in many directions, it takes a while to learn to navigate from here to where you want to go, but there's generally plenty of more experienced people around to teach newcomers the ins and outs of the pathways. Here, though, is a safe place to come and relax, for what value of relaxation can be found among moss-covered walls and the occasional stagnant puddles on the floor. There's been furniture brought in, a mismatched assortment of crates, mattresses with busted springs, a few broken and subsequently repaired chairs, a folding table in a corner. Shelves along a wall hold entertainment; books, a smattering of board and card games, sometimes snacks. There's even electricity, wiring none too safe and visible in places where the wall has been broken open; the naked light bulbs flicker often and the lone outlet has had so many power strips attached it is undoubtedly a fire hazard. Though far above them the evening is wearing away into night, down below the streets and buildings of the city the Morlock's caverns are a space that can seem to be displaced from time. With the only light from the bulbs strung across the ceiling, the lack of clocks, and the denizens who come and go at all hours with little regard for the hour (especially as a few are nocturnal), one can find someone sitting and relaxing in the cavern at any time. This is a part of the city that truly never sleeps. This evening, the person sitting (though not relaxing) against one of the chairs is Alex, looking slightly less human than he normally does, mouth and lips elongated partially, as if with the beginnings of a beak. A few feathers sprout scattered from his arms, almost as if he had been tarred and feathered and then washed off -- with black glossy feathers, instead of white down. His ever-present sketchpad is nearby, but for once, he's not sketching in it. Instead, he has a few pieces of cardboard sitting on his lap and is carefully cutting long thin slices of colored paper with the edge of a ruler. Even the sewers can't quite rid the acrid smell of coffee that's etched into a barista's every pore after a long shift, and Taylor is carrying this scent with him as he trudges back in from above. Steps dragging, shoulders drooping, nearly all his arms (all but the longest of them fully grown back, now; the biggest have gotten quite lengthy again, though they're smoother than they ought to be and lack their heavy club-ends) looking kind of wilted. He slumps his way over to the chairs, flumping himself down into one of them, his arms spilling out to drape against the floor. Eyes closing. Backpack and the heavy tote he carries (laden, as it often is after a shift, with Evolve leftovers for any Morlocks who want to scavenge them) dropped to the floor next to the chair. Eventually he cracks an eye open to peer over at Alex's handiwork. "S'that all for?" "Hey Taylor," Alex says, his words slightly blurred at the edges his oddly shaped mouth. He doesn't look up, however, until after he has made one more long, careful slice of the paper. He tilts his head to one side to study Taylor, head moving back and forth in a distinctly avian gesture as he studies the other man. "Matting for the frame that I'm putting together for this commission I got a couple of months back. Finally finished the work yesterday. Hopefully I'll get a couple of hundred for it, can get us some more supplies for once." He closes his mouth sharply, though it doesn't really make any noise -- hard to clack your beak when all you have is fleshly lips. "How was the shift?" "What's the commission? How do you decide on --" One of Taylor's long thin arms flicks towards the paper. "Do you not set your prices ahead of time? What if you put all the work in and they don't pay you?" He just grooooans at the question. Long and deep, an arm flopping over his eyes. "It's the weekend, man. How do you think?" Alex proffers the notebook up to Taylor with one hand, passing it off as he reaches down to pick up a frame from the ground and flips it over to carefully start working up the staples out of it. If Taylor is quick enough to see, he might notice the picture in the frame is a family portrait that is definitely not of Alex, unless Alex was growing up in the 1950s in a Korean family. "We negotiated pricing ahead of time, but I'm hoping with the frame plus the tip, I can get more out of her." The drawing is carefully rendered and very clearly Dusk, albeit Dusk as few get to see him -- swooping downwards out of the sky, a grin on his face, with the edge of one of New York's many skyscrapers behind him and reflecting reds and pinks from the setting sun onto the back of his wings. "Busy and well-caffeinated?" "Oh shit, Dusk? That looks amazing, dude. You really got him." Taylor sits up to examine the portrait as he takes it from Alex, his eyes widening. "Wait, her? Who's the commission actually for?" He sets the notebook very carefully on his lap, watching Alex work. "Hectic and full of entitled douchebags. And well-caffeinated. But there is genuinely nobody worse on the entire planet than dedicated brunch people." Alex looks up from his framing in surprise when Taylor recognizes the portrait. "You know this guy? Dusk... yeah, that sounds right. It's a surprise for his girlfriend named, uh..." Alex reaches into his pocket and tugs out his phone. A few taps later, and "Isra. She's one of us. I mean, so is he, obviously, but. Seemed nice, at least for a surface-goer. And hey -- I like brunch." "Yeah, Dusk's amazing. He's a friend." Taylor is supplying, "Isra," even as Alex is looking it up. "She's cool too. Loaded, she'll probably tip good, she likes us." He hands the notebook back to Alex. "It's not about liking brunch. Who the hell doesn't like brunch? Everyone likes brunch. But there's liking brunch and then there's --" His face scrunches up, and he slumps back again, making a vague indecipherable grunt. "Some people are just really into brunch. It's like a whole identity for them. They have clubs about it." “Clubs?” Alex’s eyes flick down to his work once more, the tip of his razor carefully working under each staple before he pries it up with the thick of the blade. “How the hell do you have a club based around eating brunch at a damn cafe? Cooking it at their houses, okay, sure. I could see my mom doing that. But at a restaurant?” Alex snorts. “Lazy.” "Rich people will have clubs around any nonsense. It's wild. And mutants with money to burn, I think they're a special kind of rich people because if they're having brunch at Evolve, they're feeling real put out that they should be eating somewhere fancier but aren't allowed." Taylor's arm scrubs hard against his eyes. "Your mom, she do a good brunch? I do miss that. Like a slow Saturday morning at home." “Yeah, she did....” Alex’s hands still, but he doesn’t look up. “Sometimes, we’d get food and go out to see my dad down at the yard. We’d sit and watch the ships go by, eat... was very peaceful.” "Sounds it." One of Taylor's arms coils, writhing and sinuous, to wind around and onto the chair, slowly propping him a little more upright. It gives him a better vantage point to squint over at Alex, head propped sideways on a shoulder. "...do they know you're here?" Alex sighs, deeply, and looks up to Taylor. “No, uh... it took me a while to figure out how my mutation worked. For a while, I wasn’t the birds as much as they were me. By the time I figured it out and put myself back to me, I’d already been buried. Empty casket, obviously.” He cracks a smile, but it’s forced and doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s probably better that way.” "Uh -- huh." Taylor gives Alex a blank look. Gets to his feet, at this, not bothering to conceal the look of disgust that crosses his face as he picks his bags back up. "Aiite," is just dismissive. "You white people are 'bout dumb as shit, though." His head is shaking as he wanders off to set the food out for easy pickings.