DX Fieldtrip: Around Town
Sep. 23rd, 2023 11:33 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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xp_logsRictor finds a suitably authentic Latin bodega that just so happens to have been generous with the feline occupants of District X.
"Yes, just wait. I come bearing gifts."
Nudging aside the ragged tabby trying to wind itself around her, Sharon reached into one of the saddlebags on her harness and extracted a ziploc bag. Her tail twitched happily as she teased open the bag with her claws. It bulged with pilfered cold cuts. Not devouring them on the way into town had been a sacrifice of tremendous proportions. Sharon began to spread her bounty around the base of the dumpster as the tabby began to mew with excitement.
"Now that I am strong again I have returned, triumphant and rich with tasty meats," Sharon proclaimed as a huge black and white tom began to devour a cut of chicken. She purred at the grey female that rubbed against her and reached down to scratch her ears. "I remember my friends, just as I remember my enemies."
Rictor's mission to better source ingredients for his kitchen (mis)adventures had proceeded well, thanks to Angelo and Gabriel directing him to the local Latin markets around Salem Center, but sometimes they either didn't carry something specific or they were out. His last couple trips, he couldn't find queso de bola to make queso relleno, but as fortune would have it, one of the many bodegas in and around District X did. So he hummed happily as he stepped out of the store, a small shopping bag in his hand bulging with the Dutch cheese.
He stopped when he spotted Sharon in the nearby alley, surrounded by a cadre of actual cats. He thought about walking on by but she had eyes in the back of her head and would surely spot him. So, holding his groceries close so her kitten army wouldn't attack, he called out a greeting to her.
The girl turned. An undersized black cat had jumped up to perch on her shoulder like urban pirate fashion.
"Rictor." Sharon's eyes fell on his bags as she leaned to brush her cheek against her fluffy companion. "You have supported this local small business? Very good. Owner is fond of cats. Leaves out food every day. Canned tuna sometimes also. Perfect place for reunion. You will join?" She gestured to the carpet of lukewarm cold cuts like a generous host offering canapes to an unexpected but not unwelcome guest.
In a normal setting, joining a clowder of cats and their nagual leader would be insane. But Rictor lived in a world of magic and mutants, so really, how weird was this? He nodded and entered the alley.
"Can you actually talk to cats?" he asked, carefully extending a hand for the cat on Sharon's shoulder to sniff. "I mean, you can talk to them, of course, you just were. But do they understand and can you understand them?"
The small cat leaned forward perilously to get a good sniff of Rictor's fingertips. Sharon gently placed a hand against its chest to keep it from tumbling from her shoulder. "Dependent on definition. Cats do not talk as people do. It is sound, but posture and scent also. Easy to learn, easy to understand. Just keep expectations managed. Unlikely to offer key witness statement, for example, but basic things, like 'there is danger,' or 'here is food' -- simple. It is a Vibe." She plucked the cat from her shoulder and set it down with its fellows, who seemed to be multiplying to a borderline worrying degree. She settled down to rest her chin on her hands for a better view of the feeding frenzy. "Have something similar, maybe?" she remarked. "Do you not communicate with the earth? Unless Captain Planet was lies."
Rictor chuckled, mostly unbothered by the flourishing clowder, but he did keep his cheese closer to his body. "Sí, basically. No words, just feelings. Actual vibrations. On real ground, not concrete, which is dead and doesn't talk." He looked around. "I didn't know there would be so many cats in the city."
"Where there is regular food, there is cat. Where there might be food, there is cat. Watching, always." A black and white cat shoved a ginger away from a choice piece of chicken. Sharon delicately removed the ginger and set it in a less provocative location where it could instead focus on an uncontested slice of turkey. "But yes. Is like that. Not all things speak in words. You could force, but negotiation is better, yes?"
"I'm not a god or a spirit or a saint, or even a curandero," he admitted sadly, fighting back the pang of sorrow that always came with that realization about himself. "I'm just a man. I can only ask the earth to follow my words, I can't force it. Maybe that is a good thing to understand for more than just powers."
Sharon gave a very human nod of her head. "I could not force my way into colony. Required negotiation, respect. For you moreso, maybe. Hubris regarding the forces of nature -- there are entire curriculums built around such stories, yes?"
"It's why we all speak different languages, verdad?" Rictor confirmed, thinking back to the story of the Tower of Babel he learned in church. "I should go find Shatterstar. There's a second-hand DVD store he wanted to go to. I'll see you later?"
"Indeed you will," Sharon replied. She pulled her attention away from the clowder to turn her yellow eyes on him: a threat, a promise.
"I know you have cheese."
Sharon decides to use this opportunity to pay a visit to the Snow Valley offices. She expects to find Darcy. She does not.
Sharon rose to her hind legs long enough to open the door to the Snow Valley offices. They were discreetly labeled, but she'd been told to look for the brownstone with the deli and the bodega on the ground floor. Her nose had proven an adequate guide.
The reception area was nicely appointed. That wasn't a surprise. Privately, Sharon wasn't sure what a 'think tank' actually entailed, but she assumed anything with a name that vague must have substantial financial backing. She wasn't actually interested in what they did. She only knew that Darcy worked there, and the prospect of being able to physically interrupt someone in the middle of work was irresistible. While walking across Darcy's keyboard wasn't currently viable Sharon had faith she would find a way.
Confidently, the cat padded toward the reception desk.
Artie was on reception duty. He didn't spend the time there he once had but it was as good a place as any to work from. They didn't get many in person visitors but any could be a threat so the cameras tracked you all the way up and the glass surrounding the desk was bulletproof. He tensed momentarily when the silent alarms triggered and then relaxed on seeing Sharon.
A tap on the keyboard and his screens changed to the HR forecast and an article one of Emma's nice people had written about the semiotics of mutant fashion came up on his screen as the internal systems locked down. And he waited.
The problem with quadrupedal ambulation was that it put your eyeline significantly below where most of the world expected it to fall. As a consequence, it took Sharon a few precious moments to realize who was sitting at the desk.
Then she did. And froze.
Artie was a pro so he didn't laugh. Just floated text over saying "Hi Sharon! Didn't expect to see you today. Do you have an appointment with someone?"
Slowly, very slowly, placing one foot after the other, the cat backed away. She kept backing away until her tail hit the door. For a handful of seconds the prehensile appendage prodded frantically before locating the handle. Then, without once breaking eye contact, Sharon rose to her hindlegs, pulled open the door, and ejected herself from the premises.
Artie just watched the performance, bemused. When the door swung shut, he tracked her out on the cameras and saved the whole visit - all five minutes - as a video grab for later.
Jessica Jones, unwilling chaperone, absolutely does not ditch out to beg Quentin Quire for temporary use of XFI resources, and very definitely doesn't make it weird.
Even though she knew she'd worked there - or at least, so she'd been told - the XFI offices didn't seem that familiar. A lot of places in the city had a similar feeling, honestly; she'd been born in Manhattan, worked here for years. And the double-vision feeling that had thrown her so much a month ago, an itchy almost-déjå-vu, had become so normal that she'd almost stopped noticing it - though the sensation now was crawling up her spine in a way she didn't appreciate.
The offices were nice, especially when you compared them to what she'd been using, but she couldn't exactly picture herself working here. It felt like a real office.
She didn't love what she was about to do, but the $17.21 in her bank account was an excellent reason for why she had to do it. So she steeled herself and knocked on Quentin Quire's office door.
Quentin was neck-deep reviewing expense reports, one of his least-favorite parts of the job (should he hire an accountant for this, he wondered), and was inclined to ignore whoever was calling for his attention, but he was trying to make himself a good boss, dammit, so he looked up from his laptop at the intruder.
"Jones?" He raised his eyebrows, the only sign of how shocked he was to see her here. He was not an empath, so he did not pick up the full brunt of the emotions exuding from her so much as the tone of her thoughts. Apprehensive, agitated, ashamed that she had to come here. Feelings he knew well, but he shored up his mental shields all the same to keep his manner steady. "I'm out of Takis."
If only she was coming to ask for snacks. She lifted a hand in greeting. "Hey," she said. There was nothing to do except plow ahead. "So, uh, you know how I apparently somehow put you on the path to occupying this very, um, clean office? I was kind of hoping I could leverage that into a favor."
"Depends on the favor, I guess. What do you need?" He indicated the chair on the other side of her desk, telekinetically sliding it back to make room for her if she wanted to sit. Though it was obvious she wanted to keep this conversation short and leave as soon as possible.
After giving the chair a dubious look - she wasn't used to telekinesis - she did sit on the edge of the seat. "I'm trying to - restart my business," she said, obviously ill-at-ease; not necessarily just or even primarily because of Quentin, but because she had never had to ask for help with this side of her life. She lifted a hand, jaw tense. "I spent the last - I don't know, six months? - anyway, I wasn't exactly lucid for a lot of it. So I'm broke." Broke, evicted, living on charity. Amazing. "I was hoping I could use some of your resources. Nothing major, just if you have subscriptions for background checks, record searches - you know, the basics. So I can take on a few things and rebuild from there." She stressed the next part: "It'd be temporary - a month, maybe."
"You must be desperate," Quentin muttered with equal parts derision, amusement, and sympathy, a true man of contrasts. "Yeah, sure, we can swing that. You know, you could just come here, work with us. Bring your clients, if you have any. I guarantee we have more work and pay better than you would solo."
If you have any was a low blow, but Jess couldn't exactly blame him for it; she actually wasn't sure if she did, which was going to make for some awkward phone calls. "Thanks," she said, meaning it. "But - honestly, I prefer working alone. And I don't think we have the same kinds of clients, anyway." She gestured at the offices around them, a corner of her mouth quirked.
"And what sort of clients do you take?" he asked. "Despite the facilities the one percenters who founded this place bought for us, our clientele isn't so fancy."
The look she gave him didn't let him off the hook for the office space. "I'm guessing you don't spend most of your time serving papers for shady lawyers or getting dirt on cheating spouses, though."
"You'd be surprised," he countered. "But also lots of tracking missing people, which is distressingly common among mutants. Dirt for child custody cases. Proof of employment discrimination. Background checks. Community aid shit."
The brunette woman's face didn't change, exactly; it more froze for a moment. "Ah, yeah, mutant shit," Jessica said. "Not really my area." Actually, as far from her area as she could make it. She wasn't insured for that kind of thing, among - other reasons.
"Oh." If he took a minute to think about it, maybe Quentin could take everything he knew about Jessica and her backstory to deduce why she would feel that way. Maybe even understand it, if not hold some sympathy. But he was not feeling so charitable, not for the kind of professional position a fellow mutant held. "Then you probably are better off doing whatever it is you do."
"Probably," Jessica agreed, expression shuttered. She shook it off, the moment ending. "Listen, I really appreciate the resources - if I can ever do you guys a favor, let me know."
Not bloody likely, but a free favor was never a bad thing to have in your back pocket. "Sure, thanks. I'll have Susan send you the account stuff."
"Thanks again," Jess said, standing and heading for the door. She threw a, "See you around," over her shoulder as she left.
Shatterstar and Sharon provide each other with moral support during the complex task that is patronizing the food service industry, which goes about as well as one could expect when neither party considers themself human.
Uncertainty was an unusual look on Sharon, but it was certainly the impression she was giving off now. Even her tail was twitching nervously.
"Request assistance, please," she said.
"What did you need?" Shatterstar asked, trying not to be overwhelmed by all the choices on the board himself. Who needed twenty different sandwiches plus build your own?
Sharon licked her nose nervously. "Looked up menu online. Already know order. But . . ." The older mutant hesitated, actually looking embarrassed. She sat on her haunches and rummaged in the lightweight hemp bag on the harness Pixie had made her. After a moment of fumbling she pulled out her phone, which had been embedded in a combination phone case/wallet.
"Never been to restaurant," she explained. "Can pay, but do not know how to use card. Only ever ordered online." She pulled out her credit card and proffered it hopefully. "You can help?"
Shatterstar took the card, looking to see if it had the chip. Apparently some new cards did just tap pay, which Shatterstar wasn't so sure about. "Sure," he said, trying to not seem like he hadn't used a card in over a year. When he had gone to Ben's with Match he had paid in cash. "You go up to the counter and order, then pay after. Do you want me to order for you?" He didn't know why he added his offer.
"Yes please. I will watch. Then next time I will know." Sharon's relief was palpable. Her body language conveyed that, while she might be a fearsome apex predator, she was a fearsome apex predator that had suddenly found herself in a situation she had heretofore seen depicted only through screens. The fact the deli was beginning to fill with the lunchtime rush was also making her nervous. This was District X, and even one of the counter staff had a fine patina of scales dusting his cheekbones, but Sharon was the most obvious mutant by far. This was a terrible awareness to have when you were in an enclosed space and your head only came up to the other occupants' knees.
Shatterstar waited for Sharon to give him her order before getting in line at the counter, gave it to the counter staff and was told to tap to pay. Now it was his turn to look confused but did so, tapping Sharon's card to the terminal much too quickly. Thankfully, the counter staff was patient when he told Shatter that he had to hold it longer, which he did. He let out a breath of relief when it worked, and handed Sharon her ticket. "You go up to the counter when the number is called," he told her, trying to regain a sense of authority on the subject of delis.
Sharon, who had raised herself onto her hind legs to observe the transaction, accepted the slip and fell back onto all fours. "Was something wrong with payment?" she asked, unerringly homing in on weakness. "You seemed confused also."
"I just did it too fast the first time," he said defensively. "And normally I just do the chip where you insert the card." He was not going to admit to his weakness.
Sharon's tail flicked in annoyance at yet another thing to remember. "Swipe, chip, and now tap also. It is just for paying. Why are there so many options?"
"Don't forget cash," Shatterstar said as he finally decided on a sandwich and got back in line. Sharon was completely right- much too many options for almost all things.
The crowd was increasing. Sharon drew herself back onto two legs in an effort to decrease the space she took up, steadying herself with her tail. She tried to pull it close so it wouldn't be stepped on. Her yellow eyes studied the other customers.
"People order food that is made just for them," she mused. "They eat here, all together, with all these other people they do not know. It is normal. But for me it is the first time. Outside my apartment I only ate from garbage and slept under condemned houses." Her eyes settled on a young family waiting for their food. The father had hefted his daughter onto his shoulders and was bobbing her up and down to keep her entertained. The child was laughing.
"Does not feel like they are mine," Sharon said. "These human things."
"It doesn't get easier," Shatterstar told her with stark honesty. "Human things. When you aren't human. They're still... difficult no matter how many times you do it." He spoke from his own experience from not considering himself human, or even mutant. He always felt out of place. Something else from somewhere else.
Sharon turned her attention back to Shatterstar. On her hind legs their difference in height wasn't so great. "Even if you are human-shaped?" she asked.
"I think people can sense that you aren't like them," Shatterstar said. "It doesn't matter what body you're in. And feeling like the body doesn't belong to you..." he trailed off, thinking he had shared too much. He finished with a vague shrug.
The cat studied him with her huge yellow eyes, her expression a mask of feline impenetrability. A few feet away the girl on her father's shoulders shrieked with delight. Finally, Sharon broke her scrutiny and returned her attention to the menu.
"Difficult to be unlike anyone," she said. "More when it is not obvious, maybe. You are seen, but no one knows what is looking back. Alienating." She twisted the slip of paper in a clawed hand and added, in an airier tone, "Is my assumption."
Shatterstar looked at her suspiciously, training his own face into something more mask-like. It was uncanny, how she knew what he was thinking. He didn't think she was a telepath- maybe it was just something cats could sense. Or maybe everyone knew he wasn't quite anything. He had never tried to hide it.
"Good assumption."
"I am wise." She might have said something more, but at that moment her equally feline attention span was redirected by a call from the counter. "My number!" she exclaimed, shuffling forward. She returned with the tray, taking extra care with her balance while on her hind legs. The tray held a platter of meat, fish, and sides. Her tongue darted out eagerly. "I will find a seat," she told him, absorbed in the gastronomic promise before her.
"I'll meet you once I get my order," he agreed, glad the topic had changed.
"Yes, just wait. I come bearing gifts."
Nudging aside the ragged tabby trying to wind itself around her, Sharon reached into one of the saddlebags on her harness and extracted a ziploc bag. Her tail twitched happily as she teased open the bag with her claws. It bulged with pilfered cold cuts. Not devouring them on the way into town had been a sacrifice of tremendous proportions. Sharon began to spread her bounty around the base of the dumpster as the tabby began to mew with excitement.
"Now that I am strong again I have returned, triumphant and rich with tasty meats," Sharon proclaimed as a huge black and white tom began to devour a cut of chicken. She purred at the grey female that rubbed against her and reached down to scratch her ears. "I remember my friends, just as I remember my enemies."
Rictor's mission to better source ingredients for his kitchen (mis)adventures had proceeded well, thanks to Angelo and Gabriel directing him to the local Latin markets around Salem Center, but sometimes they either didn't carry something specific or they were out. His last couple trips, he couldn't find queso de bola to make queso relleno, but as fortune would have it, one of the many bodegas in and around District X did. So he hummed happily as he stepped out of the store, a small shopping bag in his hand bulging with the Dutch cheese.
He stopped when he spotted Sharon in the nearby alley, surrounded by a cadre of actual cats. He thought about walking on by but she had eyes in the back of her head and would surely spot him. So, holding his groceries close so her kitten army wouldn't attack, he called out a greeting to her.
The girl turned. An undersized black cat had jumped up to perch on her shoulder like urban pirate fashion.
"Rictor." Sharon's eyes fell on his bags as she leaned to brush her cheek against her fluffy companion. "You have supported this local small business? Very good. Owner is fond of cats. Leaves out food every day. Canned tuna sometimes also. Perfect place for reunion. You will join?" She gestured to the carpet of lukewarm cold cuts like a generous host offering canapes to an unexpected but not unwelcome guest.
In a normal setting, joining a clowder of cats and their nagual leader would be insane. But Rictor lived in a world of magic and mutants, so really, how weird was this? He nodded and entered the alley.
"Can you actually talk to cats?" he asked, carefully extending a hand for the cat on Sharon's shoulder to sniff. "I mean, you can talk to them, of course, you just were. But do they understand and can you understand them?"
The small cat leaned forward perilously to get a good sniff of Rictor's fingertips. Sharon gently placed a hand against its chest to keep it from tumbling from her shoulder. "Dependent on definition. Cats do not talk as people do. It is sound, but posture and scent also. Easy to learn, easy to understand. Just keep expectations managed. Unlikely to offer key witness statement, for example, but basic things, like 'there is danger,' or 'here is food' -- simple. It is a Vibe." She plucked the cat from her shoulder and set it down with its fellows, who seemed to be multiplying to a borderline worrying degree. She settled down to rest her chin on her hands for a better view of the feeding frenzy. "Have something similar, maybe?" she remarked. "Do you not communicate with the earth? Unless Captain Planet was lies."
Rictor chuckled, mostly unbothered by the flourishing clowder, but he did keep his cheese closer to his body. "Sí, basically. No words, just feelings. Actual vibrations. On real ground, not concrete, which is dead and doesn't talk." He looked around. "I didn't know there would be so many cats in the city."
"Where there is regular food, there is cat. Where there might be food, there is cat. Watching, always." A black and white cat shoved a ginger away from a choice piece of chicken. Sharon delicately removed the ginger and set it in a less provocative location where it could instead focus on an uncontested slice of turkey. "But yes. Is like that. Not all things speak in words. You could force, but negotiation is better, yes?"
"I'm not a god or a spirit or a saint, or even a curandero," he admitted sadly, fighting back the pang of sorrow that always came with that realization about himself. "I'm just a man. I can only ask the earth to follow my words, I can't force it. Maybe that is a good thing to understand for more than just powers."
Sharon gave a very human nod of her head. "I could not force my way into colony. Required negotiation, respect. For you moreso, maybe. Hubris regarding the forces of nature -- there are entire curriculums built around such stories, yes?"
"It's why we all speak different languages, verdad?" Rictor confirmed, thinking back to the story of the Tower of Babel he learned in church. "I should go find Shatterstar. There's a second-hand DVD store he wanted to go to. I'll see you later?"
"Indeed you will," Sharon replied. She pulled her attention away from the clowder to turn her yellow eyes on him: a threat, a promise.
"I know you have cheese."
Sharon decides to use this opportunity to pay a visit to the Snow Valley offices. She expects to find Darcy. She does not.
Sharon rose to her hind legs long enough to open the door to the Snow Valley offices. They were discreetly labeled, but she'd been told to look for the brownstone with the deli and the bodega on the ground floor. Her nose had proven an adequate guide.
The reception area was nicely appointed. That wasn't a surprise. Privately, Sharon wasn't sure what a 'think tank' actually entailed, but she assumed anything with a name that vague must have substantial financial backing. She wasn't actually interested in what they did. She only knew that Darcy worked there, and the prospect of being able to physically interrupt someone in the middle of work was irresistible. While walking across Darcy's keyboard wasn't currently viable Sharon had faith she would find a way.
Confidently, the cat padded toward the reception desk.
Artie was on reception duty. He didn't spend the time there he once had but it was as good a place as any to work from. They didn't get many in person visitors but any could be a threat so the cameras tracked you all the way up and the glass surrounding the desk was bulletproof. He tensed momentarily when the silent alarms triggered and then relaxed on seeing Sharon.
A tap on the keyboard and his screens changed to the HR forecast and an article one of Emma's nice people had written about the semiotics of mutant fashion came up on his screen as the internal systems locked down. And he waited.
The problem with quadrupedal ambulation was that it put your eyeline significantly below where most of the world expected it to fall. As a consequence, it took Sharon a few precious moments to realize who was sitting at the desk.
Then she did. And froze.
Artie was a pro so he didn't laugh. Just floated text over saying "Hi Sharon! Didn't expect to see you today. Do you have an appointment with someone?"
Slowly, very slowly, placing one foot after the other, the cat backed away. She kept backing away until her tail hit the door. For a handful of seconds the prehensile appendage prodded frantically before locating the handle. Then, without once breaking eye contact, Sharon rose to her hindlegs, pulled open the door, and ejected herself from the premises.
Artie just watched the performance, bemused. When the door swung shut, he tracked her out on the cameras and saved the whole visit - all five minutes - as a video grab for later.
Jessica Jones, unwilling chaperone, absolutely does not ditch out to beg Quentin Quire for temporary use of XFI resources, and very definitely doesn't make it weird.
Even though she knew she'd worked there - or at least, so she'd been told - the XFI offices didn't seem that familiar. A lot of places in the city had a similar feeling, honestly; she'd been born in Manhattan, worked here for years. And the double-vision feeling that had thrown her so much a month ago, an itchy almost-déjå-vu, had become so normal that she'd almost stopped noticing it - though the sensation now was crawling up her spine in a way she didn't appreciate.
The offices were nice, especially when you compared them to what she'd been using, but she couldn't exactly picture herself working here. It felt like a real office.
She didn't love what she was about to do, but the $17.21 in her bank account was an excellent reason for why she had to do it. So she steeled herself and knocked on Quentin Quire's office door.
Quentin was neck-deep reviewing expense reports, one of his least-favorite parts of the job (should he hire an accountant for this, he wondered), and was inclined to ignore whoever was calling for his attention, but he was trying to make himself a good boss, dammit, so he looked up from his laptop at the intruder.
"Jones?" He raised his eyebrows, the only sign of how shocked he was to see her here. He was not an empath, so he did not pick up the full brunt of the emotions exuding from her so much as the tone of her thoughts. Apprehensive, agitated, ashamed that she had to come here. Feelings he knew well, but he shored up his mental shields all the same to keep his manner steady. "I'm out of Takis."
If only she was coming to ask for snacks. She lifted a hand in greeting. "Hey," she said. There was nothing to do except plow ahead. "So, uh, you know how I apparently somehow put you on the path to occupying this very, um, clean office? I was kind of hoping I could leverage that into a favor."
"Depends on the favor, I guess. What do you need?" He indicated the chair on the other side of her desk, telekinetically sliding it back to make room for her if she wanted to sit. Though it was obvious she wanted to keep this conversation short and leave as soon as possible.
After giving the chair a dubious look - she wasn't used to telekinesis - she did sit on the edge of the seat. "I'm trying to - restart my business," she said, obviously ill-at-ease; not necessarily just or even primarily because of Quentin, but because she had never had to ask for help with this side of her life. She lifted a hand, jaw tense. "I spent the last - I don't know, six months? - anyway, I wasn't exactly lucid for a lot of it. So I'm broke." Broke, evicted, living on charity. Amazing. "I was hoping I could use some of your resources. Nothing major, just if you have subscriptions for background checks, record searches - you know, the basics. So I can take on a few things and rebuild from there." She stressed the next part: "It'd be temporary - a month, maybe."
"You must be desperate," Quentin muttered with equal parts derision, amusement, and sympathy, a true man of contrasts. "Yeah, sure, we can swing that. You know, you could just come here, work with us. Bring your clients, if you have any. I guarantee we have more work and pay better than you would solo."
If you have any was a low blow, but Jess couldn't exactly blame him for it; she actually wasn't sure if she did, which was going to make for some awkward phone calls. "Thanks," she said, meaning it. "But - honestly, I prefer working alone. And I don't think we have the same kinds of clients, anyway." She gestured at the offices around them, a corner of her mouth quirked.
"And what sort of clients do you take?" he asked. "Despite the facilities the one percenters who founded this place bought for us, our clientele isn't so fancy."
The look she gave him didn't let him off the hook for the office space. "I'm guessing you don't spend most of your time serving papers for shady lawyers or getting dirt on cheating spouses, though."
"You'd be surprised," he countered. "But also lots of tracking missing people, which is distressingly common among mutants. Dirt for child custody cases. Proof of employment discrimination. Background checks. Community aid shit."
The brunette woman's face didn't change, exactly; it more froze for a moment. "Ah, yeah, mutant shit," Jessica said. "Not really my area." Actually, as far from her area as she could make it. She wasn't insured for that kind of thing, among - other reasons.
"Oh." If he took a minute to think about it, maybe Quentin could take everything he knew about Jessica and her backstory to deduce why she would feel that way. Maybe even understand it, if not hold some sympathy. But he was not feeling so charitable, not for the kind of professional position a fellow mutant held. "Then you probably are better off doing whatever it is you do."
"Probably," Jessica agreed, expression shuttered. She shook it off, the moment ending. "Listen, I really appreciate the resources - if I can ever do you guys a favor, let me know."
Not bloody likely, but a free favor was never a bad thing to have in your back pocket. "Sure, thanks. I'll have Susan send you the account stuff."
"Thanks again," Jess said, standing and heading for the door. She threw a, "See you around," over her shoulder as she left.
Shatterstar and Sharon provide each other with moral support during the complex task that is patronizing the food service industry, which goes about as well as one could expect when neither party considers themself human.
Uncertainty was an unusual look on Sharon, but it was certainly the impression she was giving off now. Even her tail was twitching nervously.
"Request assistance, please," she said.
"What did you need?" Shatterstar asked, trying not to be overwhelmed by all the choices on the board himself. Who needed twenty different sandwiches plus build your own?
Sharon licked her nose nervously. "Looked up menu online. Already know order. But . . ." The older mutant hesitated, actually looking embarrassed. She sat on her haunches and rummaged in the lightweight hemp bag on the harness Pixie had made her. After a moment of fumbling she pulled out her phone, which had been embedded in a combination phone case/wallet.
"Never been to restaurant," she explained. "Can pay, but do not know how to use card. Only ever ordered online." She pulled out her credit card and proffered it hopefully. "You can help?"
Shatterstar took the card, looking to see if it had the chip. Apparently some new cards did just tap pay, which Shatterstar wasn't so sure about. "Sure," he said, trying to not seem like he hadn't used a card in over a year. When he had gone to Ben's with Match he had paid in cash. "You go up to the counter and order, then pay after. Do you want me to order for you?" He didn't know why he added his offer.
"Yes please. I will watch. Then next time I will know." Sharon's relief was palpable. Her body language conveyed that, while she might be a fearsome apex predator, she was a fearsome apex predator that had suddenly found herself in a situation she had heretofore seen depicted only through screens. The fact the deli was beginning to fill with the lunchtime rush was also making her nervous. This was District X, and even one of the counter staff had a fine patina of scales dusting his cheekbones, but Sharon was the most obvious mutant by far. This was a terrible awareness to have when you were in an enclosed space and your head only came up to the other occupants' knees.
Shatterstar waited for Sharon to give him her order before getting in line at the counter, gave it to the counter staff and was told to tap to pay. Now it was his turn to look confused but did so, tapping Sharon's card to the terminal much too quickly. Thankfully, the counter staff was patient when he told Shatter that he had to hold it longer, which he did. He let out a breath of relief when it worked, and handed Sharon her ticket. "You go up to the counter when the number is called," he told her, trying to regain a sense of authority on the subject of delis.
Sharon, who had raised herself onto her hind legs to observe the transaction, accepted the slip and fell back onto all fours. "Was something wrong with payment?" she asked, unerringly homing in on weakness. "You seemed confused also."
"I just did it too fast the first time," he said defensively. "And normally I just do the chip where you insert the card." He was not going to admit to his weakness.
Sharon's tail flicked in annoyance at yet another thing to remember. "Swipe, chip, and now tap also. It is just for paying. Why are there so many options?"
"Don't forget cash," Shatterstar said as he finally decided on a sandwich and got back in line. Sharon was completely right- much too many options for almost all things.
The crowd was increasing. Sharon drew herself back onto two legs in an effort to decrease the space she took up, steadying herself with her tail. She tried to pull it close so it wouldn't be stepped on. Her yellow eyes studied the other customers.
"People order food that is made just for them," she mused. "They eat here, all together, with all these other people they do not know. It is normal. But for me it is the first time. Outside my apartment I only ate from garbage and slept under condemned houses." Her eyes settled on a young family waiting for their food. The father had hefted his daughter onto his shoulders and was bobbing her up and down to keep her entertained. The child was laughing.
"Does not feel like they are mine," Sharon said. "These human things."
"It doesn't get easier," Shatterstar told her with stark honesty. "Human things. When you aren't human. They're still... difficult no matter how many times you do it." He spoke from his own experience from not considering himself human, or even mutant. He always felt out of place. Something else from somewhere else.
Sharon turned her attention back to Shatterstar. On her hind legs their difference in height wasn't so great. "Even if you are human-shaped?" she asked.
"I think people can sense that you aren't like them," Shatterstar said. "It doesn't matter what body you're in. And feeling like the body doesn't belong to you..." he trailed off, thinking he had shared too much. He finished with a vague shrug.
The cat studied him with her huge yellow eyes, her expression a mask of feline impenetrability. A few feet away the girl on her father's shoulders shrieked with delight. Finally, Sharon broke her scrutiny and returned her attention to the menu.
"Difficult to be unlike anyone," she said. "More when it is not obvious, maybe. You are seen, but no one knows what is looking back. Alienating." She twisted the slip of paper in a clawed hand and added, in an airier tone, "Is my assumption."
Shatterstar looked at her suspiciously, training his own face into something more mask-like. It was uncanny, how she knew what he was thinking. He didn't think she was a telepath- maybe it was just something cats could sense. Or maybe everyone knew he wasn't quite anything. He had never tried to hide it.
"Good assumption."
"I am wise." She might have said something more, but at that moment her equally feline attention span was redirected by a call from the counter. "My number!" she exclaimed, shuffling forward. She returned with the tray, taking extra care with her balance while on her hind legs. The tray held a platter of meat, fish, and sides. Her tongue darted out eagerly. "I will find a seat," she told him, absorbed in the gastronomic promise before her.
"I'll meet you once I get my order," he agreed, glad the topic had changed.
