=========-< << The Lethbridge Library - Mezzanine >> >-=========
The mezzanine level of the library is home to its collection of philosophy and art, poetry and the paranormal, its horseshoe floorplan covering the entire rear of the building and extending out over the atrium below upon each side, abutting against the library's front wall. A chest-high parapet protects guests from toppling down into the atrium below.
Decorated in muted emeralds, rubies and creams, heavy carpet muffles footsteps between the many shelves which radiate out from the walls, all light coming from skylights and the atrium's chandeliers. A number of small reading tables are available at the head of the stairs, tucked amidst comfortable loveseats and armchairs.
The wall directly opposite the building's entrance has been painted with a mural of the tree of life, each leaf inscribed with favourite authors of those who contributed to the library's construction.
Occupying a table all to himself, in the corner of the reading area, the place is empty except for him - it's a Saturday morning, not the time of day most would hit the library except desperate college kids perhaps. And he might've just scared them off. He's dressed in cargo pants and a blue T-shirt with several holes in them. But it's clean - maybe it's a fashion statement? He's kicked off his shoes so his clawed feet get more comfortable. There's a pile of books spread out on the table and he's blinking with heavy eyelids as he stares down into one, head resting in hand and elbow propped on table; he's about to fall asleep on top of the book.
Widget's just been trying to sleep, having cleverly managed to sleep three shelves up in the back after placing a few heavy books in front of her. She's small, so she manages it, only reliquishing her place when one of those desperate college kids decides that /now/ would be the perfect time to read about vintage cars. Other than finding a very groggy gremlin who sleepily offers him a few pointers on Chevy teardowns before wandering off, his day continues to go as planned.
Widget's doesn't, because there's a giant dog sitting in the library. She...really wanted to pet it. Like a lot. So, the gremlin shuffled up all quiet-like, looking for the perfect patch of pettablle puppy. Unfortunantely, the only thing she managed to transfer is a nice bit of static electricity. That'd work too. Widget's only got her oversized and grimy mechanic's jumpsuit, feet bare on the carpet. Zap.
Seven doesn't look like the sort of puppy you /want/ to pet. More like a very grouchy sort of old wolf. Though, as he's half-asleep, admittedly, he isn't especially intimating and he IS in a library. He turns a page with a claw, uncaringly - he's read the former page ten times but nothing got stuck. His eyes have that blank look of someone who's not at all focused on what they're here to do. THen there's a wrinkle of his nose and a deep sniff of the air - yellow eyes sweep about the place.
Standing very still as the dog sniffs around, Widget is very, very glad that her friends decided to hit her with the hose before she went out. Rather than reeking of industrial waste, there's just a tangy hint of rust in the air. This dog was...really big and kinda scary. So was her friend's wolf, though, and he was really nice. Plus this one was reading and not mauling anyone. The gremlin was conflicted. Her experience with animals boiled down to ferals and strays in alleys, not so much nice dogs in parks. Up until recently, anyway, which might be why she was even considering this. Being a gremlin, however, she was only conflicted for a few seconds.
Welp, now there's a tiny Lost hugging the wolf-man in the library, rubbing a rusty face into it's fur. Good choices are being made.
The tiny girl surprises him, and he's not used to that; he finds himself sneak-hugged by a tiny gremlin that smells of rust. His immediate respons is he's being attacked, so he shoots to his feet with Gremlin probably clinging to him, his fur bristling and hand going to grab the little one around the neck or any other purchase; a low deep growl doesn't bode well. A book goes flying to the floor with a thud, but otherwise this whole encounter is rather quiet. "What. Are. You?" is his tersely whispered and threatening question. Maybe he likes a hug, he just doesn't like sneak-hugs.
Huh? Did she just get taller? Oh! Maybe the wolf was mag- Gack! Widget finds herself held by the throat, still clinging to bits of fur. The gremlin would answer, if she couldn't feel her neckbones creaking. She still tries, rasping out an answer. She sounds both confused and terrified, almost hoping the wolf thing would just snap at her or something. Not this. This really hurt. "G-gremlin..." Wait, was that not a good answer? Owowowowowokok! "L-lost!"
The response is a wise one - Seven could've guessed that she was Lost like him, but her reply confirms it. He sets her down on the table, to let her sit there, but he keeps that grip on her neck, losening it enough for her to be able to speak. His hand is so large, it goes almost /around/ her neck, and she can feel the claws scraping against rusty skin. "Oathed?" he whispers pointedly, yellow eyes gleaming as he looks into hers. The malevolent gleam is on the surface; this is a killer. He's not a cuddly puppy. "Better be, or you're a dead gremlin." His accent, spoken with a raspy but not unpleasant whisper, is decidedly /British/.
Widget looks like she's about to burst into tears, try and run, or pass out. Well, she's not going to do the last one, given that she can suck in a breath to avoid turning blue. The inhalation leads to a panicked ramble, the gremlin clearly trying to avoid being eaten. "DunnowhatthatisbutyoulookfluffyandI'msorryandI'll neverdoitagainIpromiseforeverpleasedon'teatmeI'llbegoodan-" This goes on until her breath is cut off again or she runs out of breath. She sounds, well, submissive. There's a hint of an accent. Mexican? Her panicked gremlin-brain tried to think about ways to not die to very angry dogs, her alley-experience coming up with two things. First, she tried to bear her neck, which unfortunately exposed the claw-mark brand on her neck. Someone seems to have broken Hospitality. The second was to basically go limp.
The rambling has Seven looking faintly annoyed, the malevolent gleam turning more rage-like. He growls at her and squeezes the hand a bit tighter again, as if intending to shut her up that way; but then he stops. He reins himself in, for a moment it was clear he had murder in mind. But something... something stops him. He averts his gaze and looks out into space for a lingering, unpleasant moment, and when he looks back at her his eyes have turned calm and cold instead of malevolent. He releases her abruptly and takes a step back. "Fluffy?" he asks with dry humor. "I look /fluffy/? That's the first time I've been called that." He's noticed that claw-mark on her neck, but he leaves that be for now. "You really shouldn't sneak up on guys like me and give them hugs."
Widget coughs, rubbing her neck as she flops out of her chair and scuttles under the table. She just sort of cowers, shivering in little ball while she tries to formulate a reply. Oddly, she doesn't just run and she /still/ seems like she's trying to grovel. "Yes. Fluffyveryfluffyunlessyoudon'twanttobefluffyandthenyou'retheleastfluffyyes." Inhale. Exhale. Ow. "Won'thugyoupromiseforever." Aaand then she crawls back out, sitting in a chair while not breaking eye-contact. Kind of like she's looking for permission. You hurt me, so we're good, right? It's kind of an ugly bit of body language. Might poke a bit of the Beast, even. The most abused of animals, still sticking around because that's just life. It happens.
The books, if she notices, are all about local history and lore, or rather, Tamarack falls history. The one he was browsing, that fell to the floor, it's picked up now, the large Beast bending down while keeping his eyes on the small woman. Seven retakes his seat; he sure woke up from this, so he eyes the books for a moment as if contemplating getting back to reading. "Slow down," he tells her quietly, glancing her way again. "I'm not going to hurt you. You're not oathed, to the Freehold?" he asks her whisperingly, raising a shaggy eyebrow.
Widget's flickering eyes go to the books for a second before snapping back to the wolf. She shakes her head, not trusting herself to slow down her speech just yet. She was going to. She /had to/. It was important. She focusing her breathing, wipes the tears from her eyes, and tries to talk again. "No...not...oathed." Inhale. Exhale. Click. Perk. Curiousity activated. "What're you reading? Are you British? Can you howl?" Oh. Nononono. Stop. The gremlin forces herself to stop talking, scooting over to the wolf to try and lean against it. See? All good. Allll good. She's listening.
"Can't blame you. I just oathed myself the other day," Seven grunts. He shifts so she can move closer - now that he's decided she's no threat (which might be a mistake, who knows), he doesn't mind her being near. "I'm trying to find information about the mine over in the Falls. You heard about the explosions there?" he asks her. This isn't secret information, it was in the news papers even. "I'm from England, yes. Haven't been back in a long time," he responds, still speaking with that quiet rasp. The last question has him turning a long look at her, and his response is a snort. "I can howl."
Widget leans a bit closer, sniffing at the wolf. She looked up at him, face slipping from fear back to her normal wide-eyed impish expression. "Explosions?" That got a reaction, the gremlin shaking her head. "No. In a mine? Old dynamite or gas pockets or collapses or something?" She didn't read newspapers, she slept under them. Or burned them. A lot. Or used them to wrap hedgebeast organs for building. Mostly anything but what she was supposed to. "Or... The gremlin actually looked around for once. "...Magic?" Oooh! Magic bombs? "From New Mexico! Yes. And can't howl. No. Yes."
"...Can we still be friends?"
"Think it was magic bombs, but I'm no expert," the wolf beast admits grudgingly. "You know about things like that?" He slams the book close and lets her sniff him - when she's done, he puts his nose right up near her neck and sniffs her right back, inhaling that scent. His eyes gleam a bit hotter at that and his actions are so very animalistic, it's clear he's doing this with a bit of Beastial power involved. "Let's say that we're not enemies, for now. Friends is quite a big leap," he says, leaning back and grinning at her, surprisingly charming when he wants to be.
Widget smiles sharply, nodding excitedly. "Yes! Make stuff! Limbs and bombs and viewers and bullets and traps and stuff. And break them. Good at breaking. With my brain." The gremlin poked her forehead. When the wolf sniffs at her, she tilts her head to let him get in there. Now that he's closer, it's pretty easy to get all the hints that never quite wash off. Her scent is /odd/. Coolant, engine grease, fuel, pollution, rust, burnt electronics, steam-engine runoff, any smell that comes with mechanical things not doing what they're supposed to, all layered in a rather small package. The gremlin patiently waits for him to finish, smiling up at him when he wolfishly grins at her. "That's okay! Have time!" She wasn't gonna shave him in his sleep until they were really friends.
In difference, Seven smells like the forest, of sawdust, of lake water and freshly dug dirt. And fur, there's a bit of a fur smell to him - he IS a canine of kinds. Crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back on the chair, rocking on it, he listens to her explanation and watches her with a sly cunning. "There's some things in that mine that I think need to go away. A proper explosion might help with that. Though it might cause a counter-reaction making it so bad the whole thing collapses, but hey. I don't actually care, myself." He grins again, then wipes that grin off, remembering; "Probably need to discuss it with the others first."
Excitement shines on the gremlin's face as she starts to fidget, nodding along quickly as the wolf talks. "Can do that! Put stuff in the drainage shafts to limit damage or flood it or maybe take the supports out if it's deep or use the shockwave to pop meaty things or burn them so they oxygen gets used or expose gas pockets for choking or double-burning or-" Ooof. That sounded nasty, loud, and potentially very dangerous everyone involved. That might be why she looked so damn /happy/ about the chance. She couldn't stop herself. This time she hugs him proper and for real. Yes. "...Others?"
Seven gets surprised hugged /again/. This time, he throws his arms out and just holds them there for an awkward few seconds before carefully putting arms around her and giving her back a few pats. He's afraid he'll break something if he squeezes. "There's some other Lost involved. Ben, and Uschi. Do you know them?" he asks, moving his arms down again and waiting for her to stop hugging him on her own. His gaze glances about - making sure nobody is near enough to hear. With his enhanced beastial senses, he's not worried about being snuck up on, but you never know.
She hugs him for a really long time, just sort of nuzzling and murmuring as she rubs her face in his fur. Eventually she stops, right after it gets supremely awkward. "No?" She knew a few of the Lost around here, but not them. "What are they?" She didn't know the proper names for herself or the other Lost, really. Seven was internally the 'wolf-man with fancy voice' until further notice.
Someone who's been out of Arcadia for a few months, like Seven, isn't the right person to teach her about this. He lets her hug him, and makes a few content animalistic noises - maybe he doesn't dislike it that much. BUt yeah, in the end he's squirming a bit and puts that large 'paw' on her shoulder to keep her at arms length when she pulls away. "Lost," he tells her. "Like us. This isn't a one man job, or a three man job. Could use a small army, to be honest. But, with four? We /are/ a small army." He eyes her. "Empasis on small. Do you ever eat?"
Widget looks at Seven. Oh. He just asked if she ate. She did. A lot. In fact, most would refer to her a 'black hole'. "Yes. I do." The look is like is someone asked a rat if it liked to nibble on things. It was just what they /did/.
"Uhuh," Seven says with a dubious squint her way. He hasn't seen that yet - he'll be proven wrong eventually. "I can't do this anymore," he decides and turns, releasing her shoulder and starting to pile the books on top of each other. "I'm more of a hands on person - I'll leave the reading to Ben." Least he tried. He looks down at his boots, eyeing them with a bit of loathing. Like Widget, he's clearly more of a bare-foot type kind of guy. There's a sudden realisation, looking at her feet and his own bare feet. He forgot something important. "What's your name? I'm Seven."
Widget nods, piling up books to try and help the wolf. She understood. She could read and she did it a lot, but mostly blueprints or manuals or things. Plus she got bored super-easily. "Oh! Name is Widget now. Hi, Seven!" When she looks at his boots, she tilts her head. Ohhh. Yeah. She knew that well. "Could make room. For claws. Little slits or something." She tended to just sort of spew out ideas.
"Widget." Seven tries it out, squints at her, and accepts the name - it fits. "It's fine, but thanks for the offer," he says and picks the shoes up, carrying them in one hand and a pile of books in the other - he'll leave them on a counter up here for the librarians to put them back later. He can't do it himself, he'd never remember where he found them in the first place. "You got any money?" he asks her next, which is a sort of odd question. "I'm hungry, and I got no money at all today."
Widget nods, padding next to the wolf as he packs up. "Money? Some." There's a little flash of impishness as she smiles up at him. "Don't need it. Can get food. Yes." She had a bunch of ways! Some of it was even good! Jus took some know-how and bit of scarpering, if required.
"We'll sort it out. You know where the best dumpsters are?" Seven is a survivor. He can survive in the city as well, and it's a bit far to go hunt for food - his stomach is growling. Dumping the books on the counter, and tying the shoelaces together on the shoes, he puts them over his shoulder so his hands are free. "Let's go eat." He stalks towards the stairs. Here's when she'll realise, that despite the fact he's huge, he moves with amazing sinuous grace and athleticism and barely makes any sound when he walks.
=========-< << Tamarack Road - Patterson District >> >-=========
A long stretch located just far enough from the river for its quiet flow to go unheard, the Patterson District's northern edge is home to a number of small office buildings and local services, including an ancient laundromat which seems in a perpetual state of slouching toward its neighbouring buildings.
The brown-brick, steep-roofed Patterson Middle School occupies a good four acres of land leading back toward the base of Lewis Hill, its sports fields and auditorium often doubling as locations for community events. A few enterprising shops have sprung up in the vicinity, a florist, a candy store, but overall, the neighbourhood is all business, capped on its southern end by the staid presence of the local fire and police stations.
The market to the north offers a number of shops and eateries, the offerings across the unimaginatively named Patterson Bridge tending toward the more exotic. The Riverside area to the south is a splash of green park by the banks and large buildings off to the west, nearer the much-respected Four Hills.
Coming out of the library with Widget, the two look like one odd couple, Seven towering over the tiny girl. Neither of them wears shoes, the towering Beast carrying his over a shoulder with the laces bound together. He stops and raises his chin, sniffing the air and trying to zoom in on where there'll be food. It's past lunch hour, so he's hungry - his stomach makes more noises. "I smell pizza. And burgers."
Widget is still rambling on about dumpsters when she leaves the library. She's just so excited to be dumpster-buddies with somebody! Nobody ever went dumpster-diving with her! She had all these ideas and tips and stuff and now she could talk about them and it was really nice an-
Eventually she goes quiet, watching the wolf sniff about, head tilted. Oh! That was a really useful nose! "Really? Where?"
Oh, pish to that, no dumpster-diving buddies.
The Mouse looks to be on her way to other parts of the outskirts of Fort Brunsett, namely south towards the Industrial District. She's nearly ubiquitous on the street, and easy to overlook: short, wearing black clothes, head down with her hood up, and so on. It might even be hard for one of the Lost to see her, but she has a long, naked tail lifted up and behind her, signaling her nature from behind her Mask.
Coincidence puts on her on the same sidewalk as Seven and Widget, and a handful of feet away, when they talk and catch her interest.
"Over that way," the Brit explains - his accent is undeniable and a bit arhaic, if one got an ear for such things. With his beastly senses of a wolf, he can sniff out food quite well - especially if it's discarded in a dumpster. He's paid attention to Widget's dumpster-diving tips - that's the sort of knowledge that is good to have, in a town. He's so focused on that, he at first doesn't notice Clarice; mice are good at going undetected. But that tail? It catches his interest as he starts walking in the direction of the tantalising smells. He stops short and looks suspiciously at the tail and the person its attached to.
Widget stops too, noticing the tail. She knew that tail!
"Clariiiiiice!!"
Ow. That felt like a low-impact car crash. Worth it. The gremlin tacklehugs the mouse, nuzzling and nipping and generally crawling over her friend. "Hi! Met this wolf and he sounds fancy and I zapped him and he choked me but we're friends now and there's a mine with explosions and I can help and now we're going to find food and it's nice to see you and hi and yes." Inhaling, she bonked her forehead against Clarice's, smiling sharply. "And I think the food is over there." Point. Then back to hugging!
The Mouse doesn't even make a startled squeak when assaulted.
Clarice falls onto her back heavily, her arms catching the leaping Widget out of the air. Without substantial damage, the littler Beast frowns, and then tries to get Widget's attention with quiet words. "Widget." Beat. "Widget." The Gremlin keeps chattering. "Widget." And when there's a pause: "Your knee is on my tail."
Which it is.
Her hood having fallen from her head, Clarice peers from aside Widget at Seven. Mouse ears twitch when she notices the wolf Beast: after all, she's a prey, and he's a predator. But unlike other prey, this Beast holds eye-contact, even if she's underneath someone else. A steady gaze, as if to say 'come at me, bro, you wanna eat me'?
Not very mouse-y at all.
The predator - cause he is undeniably a predator - does get a twitch to his fingers and claws as he watches the mouse get 'assaulted' by the even smaller Widget. Like an instinct coming to the fore for a few seconds, a sly malevolent gleam in his yellow eyes as he meets Clarice's square look. Then he grunts and rolls his neck, shaking out of it. "You're one crazy little ball of rust, aren't you," he tells Widget and takes one long step over, reaching down to lift her up by the scrape of her neck by grabbing the back of the jumpsuit. "That's what she did to me, too - just all sneaky like," he rasps quietly; he doesn't have a booming voice. "I almost choked her to death."
"andthentherewasthispossumthingwithbuglegsandit'snamewasCocoandshewassuperangryan-" Whoop. Oh. The gremlin hangs by her jumpsuit, pausing to inhale as she finds herself a few feet of the ground. At least it was by her, like, clothing this time. "Yes!" Widget confirms brightly, nodding along. "Was gonna eat me but I was really sorry and he stopped and I'm better now and we're friends. Yes." Was that bruising on her neck? Yup. "Wanna get food? With us?"
The Mouse eyes the Wolf for a couple of seconds in silence.
"I'll be fine." Clarice's tone is frosty. "For now." She slowly gets up to her feet. "But I'm curious: did you //really// choke her because you were surprised?" Beat. "You thought that was reasonable?" The Mouse's hands remain loose at her sides, wrapped as they are.
Widget may remember that she passed Clarice once at The Iron Church.
There it is again: that blue-eyed look of 'come at me, bro, whut'. Challenging. No, defiant. "Are you hungry right now?" The Mouse licks her lower lip quickly. "I could use a run."
Or a fight, maybe.
"Yes. She jumped at me and... hugged me." In hindsight, when he explains it - it doesn't sound terrible to be hugged by tiny-rust-goblin. He drops Widget unceremoniously and glares at them both, for no other reason than that he feels like glaring. "I didn't know what she was. Who she was. Maybe she was trying to kill me. How would I know? You don't walk up and just hug people... sneakily." He throws his arms out, defensively. The challenge? He just squints at Clarice. "I'm hungry right now. There's a dumpster over there with pizza AND burgers in it. I'm not going to run after you, if that's what you think." His ears twitch a little. If he had a tail, it would flick.
Widget looks between the two, realizing that things may or may not be currently 'going down'. Um. Ummmm. The gremlin fidgets, trying to think of a way to diffuse this. Talking about it probably wouldn't help, she couldn't magic it into being better, and...uh... Clarice had the look that meant punchings would happen, and that was gonna go really bad because animals like those two really didn't car if people watched them fight and secrets were important. Mental inhale. Think. Wait! She could /distract/ one of them! Not wolf. He didn't like that. Clarice? How could she- Oh! Idea!
Widget decides the best way to defuse the situation is to pad up to the punchmouse and kiss her deeply on the mouth in broad daylight. She's just sort of going off of past interactions, so, uh, she's /trying/. Using the closeness to try and hug the mouse close, hoping that if she hauled off on the wolf there'd be a rusty cushion. The fact that said cushion would likely be both her and intercepting a mach-punch wasn't a concern. Mostly she wa sjust trying to inhale Clarice's face.
No one ever expected the Gremlins.
There might have been a retort, but it gets lost when Widget consumes Clarice's face. There is a moment of protest, and another moment of trying to extricate the young woman from her. A couple of seconds, and there's that warm sort of muffled sound that comes with open-mouthed kisses that are yielded to or accepted, rather than denied. The ice that suffused the Mouse's face drains away, leaving naked contentment at being, well, assaulted.
Pleasingly.
When the kiss breaks -- Clarice will do it if she has to -- the Mouse blinks a couple of times owlishly in Seven's direction. "Mm?" She frowns, fuddled. "Oh. Um. If -- " Clear throat. " -- if you're hungry, I -- well, I can just go and, um -- " She looks at Widget. " -- I mean, there's, like, um -- " Arms remain looped lazily about the Gremlin. " -- I mean, I can -- do you like cake? And, like, fresh burgers, because I can -- I mean, I can just, like, go and cook stuff, if -- " Shrug. Lip-bite.
Looking down abashedly.
The look of utmost bafflement on Seven's face, eyes wide like saucers, is almost comical. Yes, that might not have gone quite so well had Widget tried to distract HIM in that manner - but it sure worked as a distraction. Any thoughts of doing a predator-prey thing with Clarice (who would be what in that scenario?) is completely forgotten in lieu of that kiss. It also garners some attention from people on the street - there's a whistle from some construction workers passing by.
And then, Seven does something he can't remember having done in a very, very long time. He laughs. It's a quiet muffled chuckling sound, his shoulders shaking and eyes squinting, his face split into an amused grin. It softens his wolfish features considerably. "Yes, please," he responds, wiping at his eyes as tears form from laughter. "That sounds really good."
Widget pops herself off of Clarice with a puff of breath, rubbing her forehead agains the mouse's with a tiny cackle. A-ha! She had helped! And now there was real food and every was okay and she felt...kinda funny. Sure, she had genuinely done that without any other motives, but...like...it was kinda nice. Still! The gremlin lifts Clarice's head (if she can, anyway) and smiles at her before turning away. She struck a self-satisfied pose, hands on the hips, before pointing in the direction of the diner. "To food!"
The Mouse stares into a part of the world that exists right in front of her, nowhere else.
And then she speaks. "Hmm? Oh." Blink, blink. "Right, it's -- " She sticks a thumb to the north. " -- a walk's away. Long walk. Might need to hitch a ride with someone heading up that way, but -- " Shrug. " -- let's go." She still seems to be frazzled and bewildered, but at least she isn't in KILLERMAU5 mode. Why, she nearly careens off the sidewalk and onto her face into the street.
Thankfully, tails are useful counter-balances.
============-< << Crossroads Cafe - Restaurant >> >-============
From the outside, the Crossroads Cafe is a blink-and-you'll-miss-it kind of place. A long white brick building, with green-and-white striped awnings and a simple black-letter free-standing sign reading CROSSROADS, this diner could almost be mistaken for a low-rent church by the unobservant; a distinctly modest-looking place whose only appeal is big windows.
The same cannot be said for what's inside. Push past the glass door and the the tiny entry, and along one wall near the hostess station one sees some of the amusements and occupations for Crossroads patrons: crayons and paper for the kids, puzzles and board games in a stack available for the eaters, and multiple copies of the daily paper. They're the first choice to make before one takes a seat and finds the extensive menu, rivaled only by the revolving dessert case nearby to tempt those leaving.
The squishy green vinyl booths along the big windows seat six, and are lucky enough to have tiny jukeboxes sitting on the tables. The tables are a series of two-toppers with sturdy metal chairs and benches that can be rearranged for different seating. Ceiling fans rotate lazily and their lights are warm; the floors are battered hardwood. The kitchen area is mostly obscured behind a low wall, but a large cutaway window near the back of the diner is where the waitstaff can communicate with the hardworking cooks. There's a green-painted door near that rear kitchen area that leads to some sort of back room.
The Mouse leads the way.
The help on staff look to the door, and wave lazily at Clarice when she comes in. "I'm helping the owner run the joint; she has other things to worry about," she explains, mostly to Seven, as she returns the waves, and moves around the corner. "Menus are in the holders." Where the ketchup, napkins, and salt and pepper shakers are as well. "Give me a second to get your order."
And, like that, she heads back to the kitchen to filch an apron.
Widget sits on her stool, swinging her legs. Every so often she gives it a spin, idly turning about as she looks around. Her order was, of course, massive. So much meat, so little time. She watches the mouse go into the kitchen, smiling at her. Then her attention is to the wolf, the gremlin watching him order and then just sit there.
This place - it's very familiar to Seven and he's making a content grunting sound as he realises this is where they're going. This is more home turf. So, he takes a seat on the stool, his long legs reaching down to the floor. He leans over the counter on his arms and orders, politely, two large burgers and two order of fries. There's another dubious glance at the tiny gremlin at HER order. Like he seriously doubts she can eat all that.
Somewhere along the way here, he introduced himself simply as Seven. No last name.
"Clarice."
It's a pretty name for a pretty mouse. And she is a pretty mouse, no doubt at it. There are a couple of cooks in the back, but the Mouse decides to do this on her own, like an American Remy. Meat? Eggs? Fried foods? No problem: she can bustle in the back with anyone, and seems perfectly at home doing so. Casual glances to Seven and Widget are given from time to time, but this order requires a personal touch, it seems.
She //did// promise to cook them food, after all.
Widget peeks up over the cut-out to the kitchen, trying to watch everyone work in there. Every so often she catches Clarice's looks and smiles at her or gives a small wave. She was amazed how well that worked! Have to remember that for later, in case of more angrymouse incidents. Widget still seems to be staring at Seven every so often, quietly scooching a bit close. "Try something?"
Seven also catches glimpses of Clarice over there. That she's pretty? He's noticed. That gleam in his eyes is interested for a bit, but he stifles it and instead focuses on something else while waiting on the food; he draws little animals on a napkin with a pen he found somewhere. He's not terribly at sketching. He draws a mouse wielding a big kitchen knife. And a little ferret that looks a bit like Widget, but a machine one.
He glances sideways as Widget scoots closer. "If you're going to kiss me too, don't." That's giving some sort of permission though, with that caveat.
Seven might've noticed Clarice's hands.
He's a predator. He knows prey. Those hands -- knobby, scarred, calloused -- are the hands of someone who likes to use them. A lot. Boxer wraps? To make sure that knuckles aren't skinned when they hit faces, or bone, or pavement. The fact that Clarice's hands are fairly large for her size also suggest that she hasn't been a victim for a long time.
Like a trap mouse.
When the Mouse returns, it is with two plates, one for each of her guests. Her face returns to a sort of resting bitch-face that most grizzled veterans of the service industry have, which the entitled lament. Perhaps she doesn't mean to be -- nothing about Clarice seems snarky -- but it does add to the overall air of "frigid ice queen" about her.
She leans against the counter, in front of Widget.
"Enjoy." Beat. "So, what's your story, Seven? If you don't mind." Her eyes move back to Widget, of course, all cold and -- well, no, not really, they are bemused and almost wistful when they settle on the Gremlin. When they settle there, that is, for when she looks back to Seven, they are frosty snowglobes again.
Widget giggles. "Not gonna." Facial anatomy wouldn't have been on her side anyway. No, instead she tries to scratch behind his ears. Sure, she has to stand on the stool to do it, but it's a worthy experiment. Scritch Scritch. She's got rusty digits and quite a bit of dexterity, so it's not like she's bad at it. Until food comes, that is, and she attacks her mound of meat with frenzied speed. Not messy, but very efficient. She really /can/ eat all of that.
Seven's look at Widget is incredulous. He suffers the scritching with a set jaw. "I'm not a dog." He looks at Clarice as if he could use some rescue - that frosty gaze his way, it's met with stoicism and acceptance. Not like he can blame her much. "I'm a veteran," he replies - it's the super-short but very true version. "I came into town a few weeks back, and I've settled in with the locals." A roundabout way to say 'I joined the Freehold.' He pulls the plate up close and licks his lips before digging in, eating like he's not had food in days. Even so, he gets outshone by the tiny Widget, and he gives her some admiring looks. "You really /can/ eat that much."
"Mm. She terrorizes my kitchen."
Clarice lets out a noise in her throat. "Locals could use a good veteran. Problem is, many of them don't listen to them." She shrugs. "Used to be a cop a couple of years back." She looks //awfully// young for that to have happened, but she might be older than she looks. "But no one listens to me about the streets, these days. As if I haven't lived on it for most of the life I remember."
She makes a huffing sound.
"This place's a haven of sorts. If you need a place -- " She sticks a thumb at the Back Room. " -- head there. The place's owned by Ms. Winters, but, as I said, I'm sort of running it for her. Good place to see new faces." Shrug. "Closest place to a tea house I could find."
Because that's where women of ill-repute live, see.
Widget tears though her food, finishing it quickly. Leaning back with a satisfied huff, she gives a grateful smile to Clarice. "Back room is nice. Been there! Yes." Another smile for the mouse. "Veteran? You're a soldier?" She thought back to wars she knew about. Oh! "At Vietnam?" Was that still happening? They had soldiers out there /somewhere/. She hoped they won, anyway. Something about red people trying to do something against America, if she remembered right.
"I don't mind," Seven admits, about not being listened to. "Mostly I just want to be left alone and stay out of politics. They need something fought, they can point me that way." He keeps it simple, but he appreciates Clarice's point there, nodding at her thoughtfully. "You looked into what happened at the mine?"
He glances back to the backroom, making note of that - he grunts thankfully around a mouthful, filing away that knowledge. He stares at Widget, a bit baffled. "There was a war in Vietnam?" He's also British - they weren't involved in that war per se. Even so, his question suggests he wasn't around when that war happened.
Clarice's look is that of rodent disapproval.
"All war's political." Shrug. "And no. But -- " Another shrug. " -- I've had other things to look into. And I'm afraid I'm not yet accepted or part of the locals; I just hover around the fringes, trying to prepare for the inevitable." Whatever that is.
What she doesn't do is get into Seven's absence from history.
Widget nods. Ohhhh. She got what was happening. It was like when she figured out what the internet was and kinda stared at the wall for an hour or two. Or cell phones. Or Computers that were not room-sized. Or-
So basically, she wasn't going to judge or pry. Clarice gets another nod. "Only Us like me. Sometimes not, though. Like Clarice! She lets me touch her." Platonically, surely. Not...not that it's super-clear from her tone. Or the hug she reaches over the counter to fulfill.
"Not good at politics."
"You make no sense," Seven complains but rather goodnaturedly, at Widget. He finds it extremely hard to be mad at the small woman in general, accepting more from her than he does from most. Finishing up his food, having wolfed it down quickly and efficiently, he pushes the plate over and nods at Clarice. "Thank you, that tasted great." He scratches his scruffy chin, with beard that is half fur. "I wasn't going to join, but then had a change of heart. It seems I'll be sticking around awhile and I'd rather be in than out. Doesn't mean I'm going to get involved in the... meetings. Sounds outright borish to me."
To the last part, Clarice shrugs.
"People talk." Beat. "People don't really seem to understand politics here. Everyone is friendly and polite. Sometimes, there are heated words." Shrug. "But I have not seen people demand recognition. I have not heard of many edicts on conduct. What I do know is that I hear and see very few people willing to lead." Sigh. "Which is at the heart of politics."
She looks to Widget after.
"Not that I don't mind the simple life. It's easier. Quieter. But I think that comfort is the most dangerous thing to stay in when there are threats around you. And I think it behooves us not to wait until something happens before we act."
Her Court affiliation's no secret.
Widget nods, clearly totally confused about the conversation. This was one aspect of society she just never came across, before or after being taken. She's back to spinning on her stool, idly swinging her legs. "Lotta fucks die not knowing a knife is better in a gut than hanging on a belt." She's echoing someone in the past, judging by the gruffer tone and the much stronger Mexican accent. Was that close to what they were talking about? She didn't know.
"Now you're making total sense." Seven shoots Widget a grin and an upnod - he likes that saying and files it away for use at some point. He hands over the little sketches he made on the napkins, one to Clarice and one to Widget. He's got some talent but need to practice more, but definitely better than most would draw. "I'm never relaxed. I always expect trouble." Pointed look at Widget. "That's why I almost choked miss Sneaky Hug here."
Clarice's mouth stretches into a thin line.
"That'd be unfortunate. Being prepared is different than expecting trouble. The first implies being ready if a hug becomes harmful. The second presumes that any hug will be lethal." She looks at the counter. "I try not to let fears govern my senses." And then, she looks to Seven, touching the sketch with a finger. "This is very good."
And she takes it, and slips it into a pocket.
"Would you two excuse me? I have to help out." Because the cook in the back is ringing heavily, and that means that it's all hands to battle stations. Some large order's in, and needs to be handled.
Work is the bane of the chatting class.
| 