Frankie Lawson (_hiss) wrote in birthrightrpg, @ 2020-10-05 20:14:00 |
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Entry tags: | frankie lawson, ~roman skye |
Coffee Talk
Who: Frankie, Roman
What: A Chat
Where: Las Vegas
When: Morning After Animal Attacks
Ratings/Warnings: None
Frankie wasn’t much one for mornings but there was something reassuring about seeing the sun. He’d had a few wild nights since coming to Vegas but most of them were by design; this one had come flying out of left field in a fury of fangs and claws. It all started with what he had, in a moment of great stupidity, thought was some kind of injured dog -- an oversized one of those weird ones with the patchy hair and tongues hanging out of the side of their mouth that always win the ugly dog competitions -- appearing on the tiny balcony of his studio apartment. He hadn’t even stopped to think how a dog had made it up to his balcony before opening the sliding glass door, and then the real hilarity had begun.
Hilarity, of course, meaning Frankie running away from a snarling creature that smelled like the Newburgh Waterfront after a bad day mixed with a week’s worth of festered sewage. He’d ended up having to shift and jump on top of his own refrigerator to get away; the beastly thing had made it to the countertop but the curled yellow claws on its feet hadn’t allowed it to climb up the enameled side of the fridge. Frankie had been pinned there for over an hour before it bounded back out the door and off the balcony.
That had just been the beginning.
He landed in slightly stained and stinky clothing, standing on a street corner and watching the people begin their days with little actual acknowledgement of anything strange going on. He knew they couldn’t have missed out entirely, judging by a few bandaged passersby, but no one seemed ready to talk about it.
Shaking his head, Frankie let out a low whistle. “Denial sure ain’t just a fuckin’ river in Egypt,” he muttered.
Roman was one to be up with the sun. It was rare that he slept in; even on vacation or taking a day to himself the habit of riding early was so ingrained in him that his body just would not let the rest continue. His dog, on the other hand, snoozed the morning away until breakfast was served. He’d learned to make the best of the still dark, early hours by working out or getting a jumpstart on a case.
This morning was no different.
He had left his apartment to stop by a small, locally owned coffee shop to flirt with one of the cashiers and help himself to free coffee. Why not indulge in a good thing while you had it available? There wasn’t coffee like that which came out of a French press, but the beverage was not the reason for the visit.
With his warmed beverage in hand, the lawyer wandered toward the street corner. Was it the smell that caught him first or the sight of those few wandering around aimlessly with patched up wounds? Roman didn’t know. He sipped from the coffee he no longer desired and turned to the man standing a few feet away.
“You can’t expect them to face fear head on,” Roman uttered casually. He knew the aftermath of something Supernatural because of his extended experience cleaning up messes and this seemed along those lines. “Where’s the fun in that?”
Frankie glanced absently at the well-dressed man standing nearby. The enticing scent of hot coffee rose from the cup in his hand, and Frankie made a mental note to acquire some of his own at the first possible opportunity. Mornings might not be his thing, but at least a good cup of caffeine could take the edge off for a night owl -- or night cat, as the case may be.
“Yeah, but how do they ignore it?” he replied, shaking his head and shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his slightly stained khakis. There were limits, he thought; sure, some people just wouldn’t be able to accept it, but they had to be in the minority. When the evidence is there -- injuries, bodies, and that god-awful odor… it made it a little more difficult to bury your head in the sand. “There’s an oil slick of this goop,” he went on, gesturing towards the stain on his pants, “All over an alley about half a mile from here. It’s going to fester in this sun.”
A sip from the coffee, careful with the scalding liquid, and Roman cast a glance at the people moving along the sidewalk. Then his eyes turned to the other man, and once his mouth was empty of coffee the lawyer began to speak. “I’ve worked a few cases where clients on the other side of the table repressed memories. One young woman had experienced something so traumatic she didn’t express any emotion when it was brought up because of the depth of the repression. From what I understand, it’s the mind’s way of making sense of something terrible. You act like it doesn’t exist, therefore it doesn’t, even if you know that isn’t the truth.” He wasn’t for or against it, he was simply stating something based on observation. Roman shrugged his shoulders.
“They see what they want to see, and believe what they want to believe. Or maybe they’re so used to odd things happening which are so ingrained into their reality that something catastrophic like this weird animal thing becomes part of the norm.” Of course there would always be those who were scared and reacted as such. There were never absolutes when it came to the games of interpretation of the mind.
Eyes dropped to the stains on the man’s khakis. That explained the putrid smell. The pants didn’t look expensive so maybe the stains were an upgrade. But Roman dragged his gaze back up to meet Frankie’s. “That sounds awful.”
“Yeah, but repressed memories on this big of a scale?” Frankie asked, gaze ticking towards a young woman passing by, dressed in a clearly business casual fashion, briefcase in one hand, latte in the other, and a clearly delineated bite mark on her forearm. She paused and smiled to nod her head at someone she passed, and seemed overall unconcerned that something had tried to take a chunk out of her at some point in the not too distant past. The man she had nodded at had raised his own to-go cup in greeting and smiled; there was no way he hadn’t seen the bite but he wasn’t the least bit bothered by it.
Frankie reached up with one hand to scratch at the back of his neck, squinting in the sunlight. “I’ve seen a lot of shit in my day, but even this was a little much,” he said with a sigh. Glancing back at the other man, he shrugged. “It was a nasty piece of work, let me tell ya. Looks like you at least dodged a few bullets.”
That was a fair point. He glanced up in enough time to view the same exchange Frankie did: the way the businesswoman with the marks on her arm smiled and waved at a man who clearly ignored the odd blemishes. Roman couldn’t have cared either way. Whatever happened hadn’t affected him outright. “Mm, perhaps that’s part of whatever occurred to bring about the oddities. Maybe we aren’t supposed to make a big deal out of the whole thing.” Magic could be tricky that way, but he wasn’t certain that could even happen. Who really knew?
Roman offered a smile. “I live on a high floor apartment, and keep to myself. Staying in keeps me away from the eccentricities of Vegas. At least, until I’m ready to have my world turned upside down.”
Another sip would be taken from his coffee and his eyes went back to the man he was talking to. “I’m Roman, by the way. Roman Skye.” What did you call yourself after an ordeal like these people experienced? A survivor? It sounded a bit catchy even if it wasn’t true.
“Hard not to make a big deal if it’s trying to chew off your elbow,” Frankie reasoned, nodding towards the woman as she passed. He hoped she had at least bothered to clean the wound; whatever those things had been, they hadn’t been well. Frankie might have called them zombie-animals (zombanimals?) if he were the type to make assumptions, but he preferred to just roll with the punches. Whatever they were, they weren’t sanitary.
“I mean, I’d have at least gotten some rabies shots, from the look of those things,” he went on, then shrugged. He checked his hand for cleanliness and then offered it to Roman in greeting. “Frank Lawson,” he said, and snorted. “Guess I should make for a high-rise. One of the little bastards popped up on my patio, three stories up.”
“Clearly she’s not affected, elbow intact or not.” So the hoopla didn't seem to be necessary. If the woman wasn’t impacted enough to be upset about it, then who were they to be concerned? Perhaps she couldn’t feel pain. Thank goodness he wasn’t a mind reader.
Roman accepted the gesture and shook, letting go quickly to avoid any of that goop though it didn’t appear Frank had any on his hands. “Charmed. And why not? They offer a good view of the city.” The only downside to them were the birds, the ones who pitched themselves unknowingly into the glass paneled windows mistaking it for sky.
“It’s never a dull moment in Vegas, hm?” In his short time in the city, he hadn’t experienced anything quite like the upset with the interesting monsters. It had him considering who may have been behind it and what he could do to meet them. There were so many questions.
Frankie barked a laugh, loud enough to startle a pigeon that had been pecking the sidewalk nearby into flight. He resisted the sudden urge to reach out and swat it out of the sky, and instead wondered how a bird had weathered the previous night’s festivities only to be frightened by one guy’s wonky laugh. Takes all types, he assumed.
“That’s why I live here,” he agreed with a nod. Las Vegas was a 24/7 bacchanal, and Frankie was all for making the most of the time he had left on earth. “And pretty much why I’m stuck in my crappy apartment. Never gonna be in the tax bracket for the penthouse. I’d rather blow the money on a good time than a good view.”
That laugh earned Frankie a twist of a smirk, a split of lips bright with amusement. A nearby flap of feathers from the startled flying bird didn’t even get consideration.
“To each their own,” Roman nodded. His coffee cup would lift in a mock toast to that idea. “And I couldn’t blame you at all. Why else would anyone live in a place called Sin City if they weren’t looking to break out of the box and have a grand time?” It meant more money and cash flow for the city, those who were tempted by the hand of fate and chance.
Frankie snorted, glancing down at the stains on his khakis. “I’m startin’ to wonder if people around here don’t show up for another reason entirely, if you catch my drift,” he pondered aloud, regretting a moment later. He kept forgetting that there were certain aspects of the world best kept under lock and key; it would be very dangerous of him to go spouting off to every Tom, Dick, and Roman he met about the more unsavory side of things.
He rubbed at his eyes, suddenly wishing for sunglasses and that cup of coffee he had already decided to get. “Hell, I don’t know. Maybe they just like the neon.”
Roman did understand what Frankie was alluding to. His smile grew a touch, and he took another careful sip from the paper cup holding his coffee. “Perhaps it’s intuition,” he offered, maintaining the illusion that he didn’t know quite what the other man may have been onto for the sake of not exposing anyone while out on the street. That was conversation best left in private places with certain company for disclosure.
“Neon is quite pretty,” he remarked, nodding. “You look as if you could use a pick-me-up, friend. Why don’t I let you navigate toward that charming coffee house there?” Frankie seemed like he could use the bit of a caffeine boost.
Frankie looked down at his stained clothing and grimaced. He would be hard pressed not to get himself kicked out of even a 7-11 in this condition, even as most passersby were ignoring his state of dress. Vegas saw its share of people on the last days of bad benders but most businesses had learned to boot you out the door if you looked or smelled too bad; it scared off other customers and could be an indication that you were going to vomit on their floor.
“I think I’m gonna be dealing mostly with break-room swill today, if I don’t get home and get cleaned up,” he said with a sigh.
Roman offered a comforting, sympathetic smile. “Of course,” he replied. “Thanks for the conversation, Frankie. It’s been nice. Really.” Not his usual thing, conversing on the street corner but a change of pace was refreshing.
A card would be drawn from a suit pocket. He offered it to Frankie. “Here. If you ever need help, you’ll know where to find me. Cheers.”
Frankie took the card, making a mental note to tell Gold Mine management they needed to up their game when it came to business cards. It was of so elegant design that his mind started harkening back to Patrick Bateman. He suppressed a small shudder.
“Uh, thanks pal,” he said, pocketing the card. He didn’t understand quite what was happening -- there was something different, even important about Roman -- but he knew well enough to know that this was a card he wanted to hang onto. “You can find me at Gold Mine Pawn, if you ever, you know. Need someone to help fight off half-dead chimera or something.”
“Ah, yes, the half-dead chimera problem,” Roman mused. He wasn’t serious. But he smiled anyway. Gold Mine Pawn. That was one of the places he’d heard of come up in off-hand conversation once in a while. And here it was again, circulating. “Take care.”
With that, the lawyer turned on a well polished heel and began to move down the street, sipping coffee as he went along.