ArchivedLogs:Leave Town for One MINUTE...

Leave Town for One MINUTE...
Dramatis Personae Melinda, Shane, Jim	2013-03-04 Jim catches up. A little. D:!! wtf u guys
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. Exits: SoHo (SOH) Contents: Melinda Melinda has decided to take her lunch break outside today and has set up a small chair by the mouth of the alley that leads back behind the business face of her cafe. She's got a sandwich and a steaming cup of coffee and is bundled up against the winter cold. Her hands are covered in whitish knit mittens and her hair trapped beneath both scarf and hat of similiar hue. Her bright red pea coat attracts attention, the way her black slacks do not. She sits there, continent to get a little bit of the sunshine before it disappears behind the clouds again. Melinda has decided to take her lunch break outside today and has set up a small chair by the mouth of the alley that leads back behind the business face of her cafe. She's got a sandwich and a steaming cup of coffee and is bundled up against the winter cold. Her hands are covered in whitish knit mittens and her hair trapped beneath both scarf and hat of similiar hue. Her bright red pea coat attracts attention, the way her black slacks do not. She sits there, continent to get a little bit of the sunshine before it disappears behind the clouds again. The clouds aren't given a chance, Jim gets there first to darken Melinda's door. Or... sunny spot. And STANDS there, backlit like a lone gunman. Staring down at her with a cigarette stuck out of the corner of his mouth. "You." Accusation. Dispassionate accusation. Melinda looks up when someone takes away her sunshine. She frowns. She sets down her cup and lifts a hand to block out more of the sun so she can see this person's face - but the voice gives it away. "No. You." "Looks like you kept your job." Jim turns his head to the side to not, in fact, blow smoke /on/ Melinda's lunch break. He's thoughtful like that. "You've been gone a long time." Melinda states, brow furrowing. She leans over and takes a drink from her cup and straightens up again. "I did." "Yeah, I been out of town. Y'miss me?" Jim finally gets out of her sun by dropping into a squat on his hunkers. He's gotten scruffier, his stubble threatening to beard, his already overgrown hair dirty bushed back from his face by a pair of sunglasses that serve as a headband; he's gone from rocking hobo-chic to mostly just hobo-classic. "How'd you pull that off with management?" "It wasn't mean. It was the others. I'm just lucky that the others were there and could work whatever magic they do." Melinda takes a small bite of her sandwich and chews quietly for a little while. "Shelby ran off and joined a school afterwards." There's something hollow in the woman's tone when she mentions Shelby's situation, her eyes downcast. "You all right?" "Me?" The long 'e' in this word makes for excellent baring of teeth, Jim's almost perma-squint twisting. Melinda's face is held for a long, weighty moment of silent consideration, and then he shrugs and settles into a seat nearby her, pulling his smoke from his mouth, "Yeah. Call it going back to my roots a bit, communing with nature." He frowns deeply at a bank across the street. Maybe he's bitter about a drop in stocks. "What is it." What is /what/? "Really? Um. Okay." Mel takes another bite and rests her hands and the sandwich in her lap. She chews slowly and glancing back over at Jim as he squats down. "It's turkey and bacon." "Not the sandwich," Jim says it like '/fuck/ the sandwich'. He continues squinting across the street and smoking. People walk by: a woman in a fuzzy hat, a coup walking a great dane with a spot over its eye. "What is what then?" Melinda asks, turning more of her attention on Jim. "Forget it," Jim pushes his mouth into a flat line and flicks his cigarette into the street. He was done with it anyway. "No." Melinda shakes her head and purses her lips. "I'll answer. I just want to know what you're talking about." "You made a face." Crap, now Jim is /disgruntled/. "You said the kid ran off to school and you made a face. The fuck's up with the face." He's pulled out his pack of cigarettes only to find it EMPTY. He scowls into the papery lining of the Marlboro box and then crumples it up into a fist and crams it back into his pocket. "She... uh, Got attacked recently, near my place." Mel starts, tone dry and hallow again. "Some mutant just destroyed her arm - twisted it up so that the hand goes the other way and the fingers are fucked and there's this place on her arm that's all messed up like he fixed her like a balloon animal." She shakes her head, her eyes unfocused. "Nothing's broken. Nothing's torn up. It didn't even seem to hurt her. It was just..." "Say what?" Jim's hand is still in mid-cram to the depths of his jacket pocket, which means that shoulder is also hunched up and requires him to lean forward to peer /around/ it at Melinda. "She what?" Suspended belief? Occupational hazard to not believe the first thing he hears? Words?? Melinda inhales deeply and nods at Jim, lips twitching before she presses them into a fine line to steady them. "She says the guy did it all with his touch. I haven't slept well for days. I can't imagine what she's going through." She glances down at her sandwich. A lip curls up to note the departure of her appetite. "Jesus jumping Christ," Jim doesn't exclaim it - he says it grimly under his breath as though using it to /steady/ himself if anything. His hand lands on the side of Melinda's bicep, turning in his seat to run down a quick inspection of her face and form that snaps back to her eyes, "Is she alright? Did she seem to know the guy? Did he see /you/?" Hang on, he'll let her answer eventually. Surely. He might be talking calmly but this is a lot to wrap a mind around. "She said he was a stranger, never seen him before in her life. She's okay, I guess. Back at the school, safe and maybe getting medical care." Melinda shakes her head and wets her lips. "No, he didn't see me. I got the feeling that by the time she called, it had been a long time since in the incident. The police were still outside though. He had to have been scared away." She draws in a deep breath and watches Jim, not at all bothered by his hand or attention. "She was in an alley hiding when I got to her." "This fucking city," Jim growls, and his hand hasn't fallen off Melinda's arm, though more because he's too stunned to remember he /put/ it there. His expression is alight with racing thoughts and quick mental sorting. And he nods, "Yeah, if anywhere is safe it's that school, but /Christ/. When'd this happen?" He and Melinda are outside Montagues, sitting in a sunny spot by the service alley. They are not radiating JOY at the moment. "Thursday night." Melinda switches her attention between Jim and the sandwich in her lap, one she doesn't seem wholly set on finishing. It is still mostly there, so the woman lifts it to her mouth for a bit of mechanical chewing and swallowing, her coffee steaming beside her seat. "I'd pester her to see how things are going, but we're not exactly close." The door to the coffeeshop opens, dispensing one teenager into their scene of JOY. Shane doesn't look particularly JOY'd or NOT JOY'd, mostly just shrugging a coat on, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of a pocket. Having been here since open, it is about time for the part-timer to be done for the day; he seems like he was set to head straight out but stops at the sight of Jim and Melinda. He frowns at the GrownUps in the alley. "Shit, I thought you'd ditched the city for good. Hive was heartbroken. Hey, Mel. I've dished like a pro you got no idea. So many dishes. Sparkling. Why the longfaces, you look like someone pissed in both your coffees." "Yeah, we made up. I got him flowers." Jim snarks back reflexively, "He stayed at my place last night, actually." This part isn't in on the joke, he's stating it, "I just drove him home the /fuck/ are you working here suddenly?" His hand falls off Melinda's arm to raise two fingers and place them against the front of his mouth in universal hand sign for 'cigarette? can has??', pointing at Shane's pack. He just run out. "You hear about Shelby? Shit, I can't leave town for a week before you people are getting assaulted without me." "He's been working here for months, but don't tell his dad." Melinda replies when her mouth is clear of sandwichy goodness. "Hey, Shane." She nods her chin at him before remembering her coffee and picking it up to take a long drink. No piss there. She sets the paper cup down and starts in on her sandwich again. "Jim, you already took a bullet. It's probably okay that you dodge a few here and there." "Yeah, we made up. I got him flowers." Jim snarks back reflexively, "He stayed at my place last night, actually." This part isn't in on the joke, he's stating it, "I just drove him home the /fuck/ are you working here suddenly?" His hand falls off Melinda's arm to raise two fingers and place them against the front of his mouth in universal hand sign for 'cigarette? can has??', pointing at Shane's pack. He just run out. "You hear about Shelby? Shit, I can't leave town for a week before you people are getting assaulted without me." "He's been working here for months, but don't tell his dad." Melinda replies when her mouth is clear of sandwichy goodness. "Hey, Shane." She nods her chin at him before remembering her coffee and picking it up to take a long drink. No piss there. She sets the paper cup down and starts in on her sandwich again. "Jim, you already took a bullet. It's probably okay that you dodge a few here and there." "Been here for eons," Shane affirms Mel's more accurate answer with a bit more exaggeration thrown in. "You get him an orchid? I hear Asians like that exotic shit." Shane's tapped a cigarette out of his pack, and it's halfway to his lips when Jim makes his mooching gestures. He extends a hand, offering the cigarette to Jim instead and tapping out a second. "Shit, yeah, I heard about Shelby. Haven't seen the lobster claw yet though. Does it look spiky and red and delicious? I can assault you, if you like," he adds magnanimously to Jim. "If you're feeling left out. All the cool kids are doing it, after all." "Aren't orchids those ones that look like --," Jim flicks a glance towards Melinda, "-- a..." hang on he's got this, "uh, ladypart?" Yeah, he went ahead and went there. "And it was only a /little/ bullet," He goes for that sweet charity handout from Shane like it was his lordly DUE. He has a lighter that he'll offer in exchange, even if he extends its lighted head only after taking care of his own first. "It doesn't count if you gotta /ask/, fishface. Why're we not tellin' your dad?" Melinda cringes a bit at Jim's analogy, but ultimately shakes her head in dismay. "Orchids are wide and flat, for the most part, with a center portion that I guess could be... ...well, said to resemble female sexual organs." She needs more coffee. She is reaching down to grab it as Shane's description sinks in. "It's not red. It's all normal skin colored. It's not actually damaged, you know?" She frowns again and just holds her cup and her sandwich. "I dunno, orchids are orchids." Shane is not helpful when it comes to flora. He shrugs a shoulder, already getting out his own cheap plastic lighter to light up as Jim lights his own first; he waves away Jim's offer, slipping his own back into his pocket. "We're not telling my dad because he's always stressed as fuck about money and I just want to help. But he'd flip if he knew and be /more/ stressed like maybe I'm just working cuz he doesn't work /hard enough/ and it's a crock of bullshit so we're preemptively not allowing it. Dude who fucked up Shelby's arm sounds freaky as hell. What the fuck is wrong with people?" "That is pretty stupid," Jim agrees openly without apology, blowing smoke through his nostrils, "I had my first job when I was fourteen. Kids work. It's good for them." He's not saying it like it's an argument. More like vague approval of /Shane's/ side. No telling Jax it is. "No idea." Mel shakes her head and finishes up her coffee. "I - uh, don't like lying to Jax, but we're not supposed to tell him about Shelby either. I think she figures he'll take it upon himself to go hunt the guy down. Says he has too much on his plate right now. Knowing Jax? I kind of believe it." She takes a bite of her sandwich, finally getting to the halfway point. "He would," Shane agrees immediately. "He /will/. He should. I bet he and Hive could convince the guy to fix it. /I/ never promised not to tell," he says with a shrug, pulling a long drag of his smoke. "But I'll tell him next week when he's not quite so busy. S'got spring break coming up and all. Perfect time for hunting evildoers." "You people," Jim scrubs his face; he has to do this /around/ the cig in his mouth. "This week's tight. But I don't know what the big deal is - lotta the families I've known had the kids work. You don't exactly look /abused/," he adds dry to to Shane. "As for this other guy..." Grimace. "So it's pretty much assumed he's a mutie, yeah? Bone bending doesn't sound all that /common/ even in New York. Shit." It's not a panicked shit. More a tired one. His extra layer of scruffy beading makes him look haggard rather easily. "Your dad hunts people down?" Melinda looks between Shane and Jim for a moment, confused. This isn't apparently normal behavior for her. Fingers reach up to tuck a little hair behind her ear under her hat. "And you know about this - and okay with it?" Her eyes squint a little as she leans back in her seat. "sorry. He's just this punk, right? Who keeps his family afloat and does charity and shit." "Not generally, no," Shane says with a shrug, "but seems like a good time for it, some dude turns Shelby's arm into a lobster claw. Mostly," he says, with a toothy grin, "he's just this punk. Who keeps his family afloat and does charity and shit. I'm totally abused. Bastian bites me all the fucking time, shit's just not right." Not that his grin looks particularly all that traumatized by this." "Until they got mutant cops in their mutant crimes division," Jim answers Melinda, not deathly serious but far from joking, "Mutants kinda got to police themselves. It sounds more dire than it is, lot of the time." He flicks ash off to one side, conscientious enough to avoid shoes, not /nearly/ enough to seek a trashcan. "You gotta keep in mind, lotta shit gets different. Even that time at the park when I got shot --," he jerks a chin at Shane too, /he/ knows, "-- I mean, it /sucked/ and it's dangerous but I was up and walking around again fully healed in days. Shit goes from being horrifying to just being /weird/. So all this shit with," he grimaces, because yes they're not using this phrase, "/lobster claws/ and melting arms... Jax 'n Hive got shit that'd make them pretty effective against most types of troublemakers. You've /seen/ what he can do against guns." All of New York has seen what he can go against guns. "You're a mutant?" Melinda replies to Jim's speech. She presses her lips together and frowns. "I don't know. I guess I thought that mayor thing was a one off and he didn't actually go /looking/ for bad shit." Eyes flicker in Shane's directly, studying him for a moment. "I ... guess it makes sense, I just, I guess, don't really think about that stuff because I can't do shit when bad things happen - except throw blankets over people and patch them up a little bit." And feed them. And caffeinate them. "Mutant crimes division is a joke," Shane grumbles, "fucking harassing people who aren't doing shit and the people who really /need/ to be stopped they aren't equipped to handle. Pa --" There's a moment when Shane hesitates, frowning. Mid-drag of his cigarette, his gills flutter quickly at the sides of his neck, and he winces and drops his hand, shoulders twitching like coughing though he doesn't make a sound. "Doesn't go looking for trouble so much as there's a fuckton of trouble floating around. Sometimes it takes someone stepping up to do shit about it. You do plenty. The huge /bulk/ of trouble is shit like being cold and hungry that flashy forcefields can't do shit against." Jim grimaces to Melinda, "Yeah, I'm not really in the habit of spreadin' it around." He nods along with Shane, "Fuck, I don't do a damn thing either, I take /pictures/. Peek in windows." Shrugs. "Running off to fight crime's not really what most people /should/ do. It's sure as hell not /my/ bag." That's his story and he's sticking to it. "That's why the public display rules are stupid. It's just going to make things worse for everyone." Melinda offers the agreement to Shane as she searches Jim's face. "Yeah." There's a beat before she notes, "You probably shouldn't admit that you peek in windows too much. It's kind of an invasion of privacy." She moves her plate with her sandwich under her chair and crosses her arms in front of her. "Stupid as fuck. You know they ticketed Pa?" Shane grumbles. Though he has probably grumbled this many times already. "Should be getting a fucking /medal/." He blows out a stream of smoke, irritably tapping ash from his cigarette. "Jim makes his living invading privacy. Like a creepster." "Lady, I am a card-carrying private investigator," Jim would be saying this a lot smoother if he was able to get said card /out/ without it getting caught up on his inner breast pocket. He hands it over to Melinda, she can /have/ it. "I'm paid to be a creepster. You don't want my family photos on the wall, believe me." He frowns between them, "Wait, ticket -- I know he pulled that shit when the mayor got shot at, but I thought he'd dodged it. Did they change their mind?" Melinda takes the card and examines it before slipping it into her pocket. Now she can summon Jim whenever she likes. Mwahahaha! Ahem. "I should probably get back there, inside and work. Shane may be off duty, but I have to sling some more caffeine." She gets to her feet and kneels down to pick up her plate again. "You have a very interesting career, Mr. Morgan." "See you tomorrow, Mel." Shane pulls in a large drag of his cigarette again; when he blows out the smoke it is more a /hiss/ than a breath. "Fuck, no, it wasn't that shit. There was a dude in Central Park. Poison quills. Some assholes got in his face and he panicked. Shooting quills everywhere. Pa stopped them from doing much damage. Shielded the crowd. Shielded the fucking cop who ordered him the ticket." He chuffs out an irritable snort. "Whole situation was a pack of bullshit." "It's the only one I'm any /good/ at, Miss Chylds," Jim tosses at Melinda like it's an /argument/. He totally just gave her his number. Melinda never gave him her last name, but she didn't have to. The danger of getting friendly with a shameless snoop is their tendency to shamelessly /snoop/. AA doesn't cover the vices of curiosity. "Be safe," his last parting words - and they're rather grim even with a smile. To Shane, in her absence: "What. Fuck that." And then, "Gimme another cigarette." "Fuck you, man, don't you have a job?" Shane blows his next smoke in Jim's /face/. Or -- up towards Jim's face, anyway. Being Very Short kind of means the breeze is taking it before it can be properly a direct shot. "Was fucking Eric, too," he says, with a sour downward twist of his lips. "Well, his fucking Sargeant. Whatever. It was shitty." "Don't /you/ have a job?" Jim counters, "C'mon, I have given you /so many/ smokes, man. I grew you pot. C'mon, cough it up." It would be hilarious if Jim then started coughing from the smoke blown in his face, but he has no flare of the theatrical. He looks pretty unimpressed with it if anything. "Why does /that/ not surprise me. That cop was eyebanging your dad at the mayoral shit - wouldn't shock me if he gave him the ticket just to have an excuse to stay in his life. You weren't there, were you?" "I wasn't there. Just Pa. Spence. There's video all over the internet. Whole thing on camera, really dramatic looking. Eric didn't look one bit pleased. His whatever. Officer. Ordered --" Shane shrugs, sucking hard at his cigarette. "Who wouldn't eyebang my dad, my dad's fucking hot," he answers on another stream of smoke, flicking the stub of his cigarette at the wall. For a long while he stares at the wall, eying the brick like it has offended him. "Pa's fighting it." This is abrupt, as Shane dips his hand back into his pocket to grab his pack of cigarettes again. "He have a lawyer?" Jim doesn't bat an eye at this abrupt news. He reaches up to adjust the sunglasses he's been using to keep his shaggy graying hair back from his face, head turning to watch a street light, where a few horns honk for to encourage the general traffic movement. "No." Shane taps out a cigarette, offers it out to Jim. With a grumbled, "Fucking mooch." He doesn't take another for himself, just cramming the pack away afterwards and shoving his hands in his pockets. "I mean, he'll talk to the ACLU I guess. But. Been kinda --" His eyes shift away, up towards the sky, his shoulders hunching. "Fucking busy already." Victory! "You're one to talk." Jim does not recoil from claims of moochery, and he tucks his new prize in the corner of his mouth. "Yeah, I know. I've been looking into some things for him. When this is over, I'll see what I can't do t'help. I was a law student for years, still know a few people. What it sounds like you're saying? He might well have a case." He's saying this around his teeth, with a demonic flick of yellow in his eyes from his lighter. Inhaling life into his smoke. "You're mooching a fifteen year old's smokes, dude," Shane says, still looking upwards pretty fixedly. "That's gotta be a spot on the bingo card of middle-aged sad-sackery." He shrugs a shoulder, looking back at Jim with an abrupt shrug, a dismissive snort of breath. "Yeah, cool. He might," he agrees with sudden apparent disinterest, tugging his coat closed and turning away. "Gotta dash. Shit to do." "I am taking cigarettes away from a fifteen year old. I'm a fucking saint," Jim answers back, deadpan. He's watching Shane's excessive teenage apathy on display, looking mostly just tired and ill-shaven and watchful behind the burning embers. "Yeah," he murmurs, looking across the street. "See ya." There is not much left here to watch; a twitchy jerk of shoulders to settle his coat better, a quick turn away. Shane disappears around the mouth of the alley in haste, vanishing into the afternoon.