Logs:Late Breakfast

Late Breakfast
Dramatis Personae Dusk, Samara, Shane
In Absentia	2019-06-16 "And who are you, exactly?"
Location <NYC> Evolve Cafe
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. "-- and then this smarmy-ass flatscan tells me *he's* been called a freak too many times to *accept* me branding the whole community with it. And walks the fuck away like *Good day, sir*. Like it's a gorram *mic drop*." It's a busy Sunday morning, bustling with people enjoying their brunch, and among Evolve's regular crowd Dusk doesn't stand out all that much. Extra limbs are nothing much, *here*; he's not even the only one with wings, today; several people with brightly coloured shades of skin or fur or scales, though *most* of the patrons could pass as human (until they yoink the ketchup from a neighboring table with a quick burst of telekinesis or cool down their own water glass to near-freezing with a touch.) At a table near the front of the room, Dusk is perched on a backless stool dressed in black canvas shorts, a soft blue tee shirt with a cartoon house on its breast pocket that is being held aloft by a mass of colourful balloons, dark glasses shoved up into his mess of wavy hair. The pair of enormous fuzzy black bat wings behind him are half-mantled, one of them sporting a mess of tape that splints one of the fingerbones in place. There's a deep warm rumble that is layered underneath his speaking voice, long familiar to his current tablemate as amusement; the crooked smile on his face helps place this further, though the sharp fangs he bares may be offputting to some. His head shakes, and he spears some of his corned beef hash onto a fork, shoving it into his mouth. Across the table from Dusk, Shane isn't eating. Isn't actually sitting, either, kind of leaning with one knee on a chair and one foot planted on the ground. The tiny blue youth is dressed a good deal more sharply than Dusk, elegantly tailored lavender and white Nehru suit with intricate detailing at its borders. His pitch-black eyes have been steadily widening through Dusk's animated retelling; at present they dominate a good deal of his elfin face. "Holy fucking shit, to your actual face? Humans are too bold, biggest fucking mistake giving them rights." Samara is a small teenager, not very remarkable looking except that her skin is glowing softly beneath a thin coat of grime and her eyes also shine, more brightly and clearly. Her dark brown hair is very short and inexpertly cut, as if she had recently taken scissors to it herself. Her light green t-shirt and blue jeans are even grubbier than her face, and she carries a dark green backpack. She has been pacing the sidewalk outside for a few minutes, but finally comes into the coffee shop. Her shoulders immediately scrunch inward and she stands swaying for a moment, fingers digging into the padded straps of her backpack, her light pulsing at quick, irregular intervals. She looks like she is about to flee, but then she steps over to the table where Dusk is sitting. It's kind of difficult to tell where her lamplike eyes are focusing exactly, but she seems to look back and forth between the two before settling on Shane. "Hello. How are you doing?" she says mechanically, as if reading from a script, her posture still tense. "Right the fuck! After asking me what he could do better! I can't even --" The rumble that growls under Dusk's voice deepens. He takes a deep swig of the cranberry juice that's in front of him, his head shaking. His subsequent wince might be in connection with the current conversation, or might be in connection with Samara's arrival at the table; he glances up at her and shifts his sunglasses down from his head to cover his eyes. "Yo." He lifts the glass he's holding, tipping it in a salute towards the glowing girl. "You looking for the mutant cafe, you've come to the right shop." Shane's gills just flutter, quick. He may be about to reply, but is distracted by the new arrival. He half-pivots on the chair, inner eyelids sliding sideways shut over his eyes. "Better'n you, looks like." He slides his foot down to the ground, gesturing to the chair. "You hungry? You look a bit, uh." His webbed fingers flex, grasping briefly in the air. "Dazed." Samara looks back at Dusk, hunching her skinny frame even smaller. "Hello. Yes, I was. I used Google Maps to get here." The light under her skin flutters. "I don't know. I didn't eat breakfast." She looks past Dusk and Shane at the crowded cafe. Their fingers squeeze more tightly around the foam straps. "I'm sorry. There are just. A lot of people here." "Lucky for you, it's brunch time." Dusk hitches a wing up in a lazy sort of shrug. "Unlucky for you..." The same wing stretches juuust a little wider, indicating the crowded dining room. "It's brunch time." "Is kind of one of our most popular hours." The ridge of Shane's brow lifts, and he braces a palm on the table, reaching his other hand out to skewer a sliver of Dusk's corned beef on a claw. He pops it into his mouth, sucking his claw clean. "You looking for something? Someone? Just looking? Breakfast, I can help you with. The people I really can't." Samara's eyes go a little wider and a little brighter when Dusk moves his wing. She opens her mouth and then closes it. Her shoulders relax a little at Shane's questions this time. "Yes. I am looking for Mister Jax Holland." Her skin glows brighter. Or tries to. It sputters back down into its previous dimness momentarily. "Do you know where I can find him?" Dusk's eyebrows lift. He sits up a little straighter on his seat, head tilting slightly as he looks Samara over again. "And who are you, exactly?" His tone is just a little more weighted than before, wings mantling out a bit further. Shane's claws drum lightly on the table. He gives Dusk a brief glance, then looks back to Samara. And up at the ceiling. "I can help you with breakfast," he says, again, levelly. "I don't know you from fucking Adam and I'm definitely not about to tell some rando where my Ba is. You hungry, or just snooping?" "My name is Samara Rhys." After a quick moment of consideration, she adds, kind of doubtfully, "Is that what you mean?" She stares at Shane for a moment, bright eyes drawing together in confusion, though she doesn't sound at all upset when she finally answers. "I'm not snooping. You asked if I was looking for someone, so I told you." She pulls a smartphone from her pocket and frowns down at the screen. "If I can still get breakfast, though. That would be nice." She drops her voice a little lower. "I didn't do that when I was supposed to." "No. I mean what do you want with Jax? Nobody here with even one shred of sense is going to tell a total stranger where to find him or I'd kill them myself." Dusk sounds fairly casual about this, bland as he spears up another mouthful of hash. "I'm pretty sure all he was asking about looking for someone was if you intended to meet someone here. Not that he was going to tell you someone's specific whereabouts. That's a fast track to getting people dead." Shane flicks his claws out toward Dusk in a gesture of agreement, but then frowns straight after. He squints at Samara uncertainly. "You're not supposed to be meeting Jax here, are you?" He sounds kind of doubtful about this. His gills flutter again as he straightens up. "He isn't wrong. You swing in somewhere, start asking where people are, s'a quick way to get people to assume you don't mean any good. We get a lot of people coming down here who just want to cause trouble for someone or other. You need something specific with my dad?" He takes a step back from the table, glancing back towards the register. "Anything specific you like for breakfast? I can grab you a menu." Samara shuffles back a step, eyes even wider now. "Sorry," she says, voice lower, too. "I don't want to get anybody killed. I just wanted to talk to him." After another brief pause she clarifies, carefully. "I'm not supposed to be meeting him here. I'm not meeting anyone here. Except you." She licks her lips. "Sunday is pancakes. Can I have pancakes?" Dusk watches Samara with his sharp fangs drawing lightly against his lower lip, his knuckles scuffing against his dark scruff of beard. He takes another sip of juice and pulls his wings slightly back inward. "It's not that we're trying to be harsh. It's just that --" One wing hitches up again. "Well. Like he says. About half the time if someone comes in here asking after someone it's cuz they're looking for violence." He looks over the teenager again. "Why are you looking for him? I can't tell you how to find him, but I could tell him how to find you. If there's actually a good reason." Shane's nostrils flare. All he says is: "Our pancakes are fantastic. Take a seat. Hang on. Anything to drink with them?" He waits only long enough for an answer on that front before vanishing off toward the counter. Samara nods firmly. "I understand." She lowers her backpack to the floor and tucks it under the table before sitting down herself, ramrod straight and with both hands flat on the table. "Chocolate milk? Please? Thank you." Her eyes follow Shane. Then return to Dusk. "I wanted to talk to him," she repeats, eyes narrowing slightly and eyebrows pulling together. "Because..." The words come halting and uncertain. "Maybe...he can tell me how to stop. Doing this." She looks down at her glowing hands. "Then I won't have to go to more doctors." There's a small twitch to Dusk's claws, a slight tip to his chin. A brief rumble that growls in his chest and then subsides. "Yeah, he is pretty bright." His voice is softer, now, a slow smile accompanying his words. The smile doesn't last long. "Does it make you sick? The light. You shouldn't have to go doctors if you don't --" His claws scrape against the floor. "You got an email or something I can pass along to him? Nobody should be forcing you into that shit." Samara's eyes go big again at the growl. She presses her hands more tightly against the tabletop. "I don't think it makes me sick. Just tired." She peers at the floor where Dusk's claws scrape against it. "My parents just send me to doctors because they want me to do some things and stop doing other things." She reaches into the front pocket of her backpack and pulls out a pencil and a pad of paper. "They don't want me to glow. If I stop on my own, they won't send me to more doctors." She opens the pad and prints an email address in small, neat block letters, then carefully tears out the page and holds it out to Dusk. "Please give it to him?" Dusk's growl deepens -- briefly, cutting off as his eyes drop to Samara's hands. A touch of colour darkens his cheeks, and he is slow, careful, about reaching to take the piece of paper. "Parents can be mad stressful about that kind of shit sometimes. I'm sorry. I hope you figure that shit out. Without any --" There's a small twitch in his jaw. "Nonconsensual doctors." He folds the paper, tucking it into a pocket. "I'll make sure this gets to him."