RP Wrong Way Down

[illirica]

The kid looked like something the cat dragged in. The woman watching them was batting around the question of whether that meant a half dead bird or half a dead bird as they picked their way across the room from the door, moving between tables and haphazardly placed chairs that seemed random but made a fairly good indicator of whether or not someone was already drunk by the time they made it up to the bar.

Since the bar had delusions of being a restaurant, the bartender didn't have to kick them out immediately, at least not until they tried to order something and pass off whatever crap fake ID they'd probably paid too much for. Couldn't have been more than twenty, though, probably younger. Late high school, could have been early college if they'd gone to college. Androgynous, hard to tell at a glance if that was in a certain way or an uncertain way. Could have been either. The dark circles under the eyes were real, not some emo makeup mishap.

Hells, they were tired. Poor kid. She could feel the exhaustion radiating off of them. Exhaustion, and other things. A lot of other things. Better to close that wall up, before she got sucked in too far.

"You want a sandwich?" It was, very carefully, a question. It could have been a suggestion, but she tried not to make suggestions. It didn't feel right, somehow. Maybe if she'd been a little more willing, she'd have been somewhere instead of this dive bar. Probably in a cult. She'd have been great in a cult.

She wasn't going to start a cult. And the bar might have been a bit of a shithole, but it was nearly a thousand miles away from her mother, which made it all worth it.

Maybe that was why she was watching the kid. They reminded her a bit of herself, back when she'd been a runaway. It certainly seemed like they were running from something.

 

[Katpride]

Lark is reaching the limit on how long they can stretch this loop, and they’re no longer young and dumb enough to try to push past that. That way lies crashing wherever they’re standing and having to cart themself home when they wake up. That’s never a fun time. They’re not exactly heavy, but to tired muscles a little weight makes a lot of difference.

So here they are, just a week or so displaced from their own time, grabbing a bite to eat before calling it quits. And damn, this place is built like a maze. Their hip knocks into the corner of a table that jumps out at them from nowhere, and they rub at the sore spot as they plod the rest of the way to the bar. Ugh, why is this so much effort? Maybe they should just skip the meal and go right to sleep.

No, if they do that they’ll be starving by the time they wake up. Lark makes an effort to shake themself awake, just for a little while longer, as they claim a seat at the bar.

It still takes them longer than it should to register the bartender’s question. Their eyes jump to her, something sharpening in their gaze as they give her a once-over, checking quickly for weapons just in case they’d dragged themself to a truly shady restaurant in their daze. After a moment, they relax. She seems like a normal bartender. A little young, maybe, but who are they to judge?

Belatedly, they remember that they should probably respond. “Yeah. And a water. Please. Or juice. Whatever you’ve got.”

Words are hard. Their voice sounds a little gravelly, but they can’t be bothered to pitch it up. They just slump into the bar, resting their head on their folded arms.

 

[illirica]

Hmm.

It hadn't exactly been a difficult question, but the delay before the kid had answered made her feel like she'd asked some sort of complex calculus equation - which was ridiculous, because she wouldn't have known the answer anyway. She had a GED, and... wondered if this kid even had that. The kid had not specified what kind of sandwich, which was probably some factor of being tired and not caring and at this point anything was good. If they'd had restrictions, they'd have said, right?

She popped a chicken breast on the grill, because they definitely needed some protein, and because it would take a few minutes to sear and the kid could pretend they were waiting and not loitering or napping or whatever it was they were actually doing. It gave her time to pour a glass of orange juice, because the kid also definitely needed some vitamins, and debate whether or not she could balance the glass on top of their head without them moving... probably not the most helpful thought process there, but she wasn't perfect.

Better set the juice down next to them instead, with an audible enough clink to let them know it was there. She returned her attention to the chicken, definitely not scoping out the kid's situation in the corner of her eye.

"So... you got somewhere to go tonight?"

She had a list of shelters memorized. Just in case. It was the sort of thing you memorized, when you'd needed one yourself, for a while.

 

[Katpride]

The clink of the glass startles them. It’s not especially loud or anything, it’s just that their eyes were slipping closed, even though they’d made the effort to rest their head sideways for the express purpose of keeping an eye on things. They unwind an arm to tug the glass closer, a faint smile finding its way onto their face. Orange juice. It’s been a while since they’ve had it; they tend to gravitate towards apples nowadays, for, well, nostalgic reasons they suppose.

They sit up enough to drink their juice, surprised by the first tangy sip but going for a second without pause. It’s more acidic than they remember, but still good.

“I’ve got a place,” they answer, somewhat amused. It’s not the first time they’ve been asked something like that. They don’t intentionally try to project ‘homeless person’ vibes, but the wires can get crossed when they stumble into random places looking like something the cat dragged in.

The glass is growing chilled from the drink within it, weeping condensation into their hands, and, wonder of wonders, seems to be putting a little pep back in their step. They sip again, thinking of their apartment and how it will not be tonight that they get back to it, but another day in another time not too far removed from what the bartender would consider to be her ‘now’.

Where are they, ‘now’? They can’t seem to remember the city, or even the state. They suppose it doesn’t matter. They’ve got no shortage of anchors in their apartment, it being one of the few places they regularly go to recover in the present. It won’t be too much trouble to get back, though they’ll have to jump again once they’re there to catch up to their present.

Still, to settle their curiosity, they ask, “Have you worked here long?”

 

[illirica]

Heyyy, they were talking. Human speech, what a wonder. The healing power of vitamin C and having five minutes where everyone minded their own business. They seemed to have perked up a little bit, anyway, so that was all right. Not that they didn't still look like they'd crawled out of a pit somewhere, but maybe a good month's sleep could help with the rest, if they could get it.

"I've been here a couple years," she answered the question. Since she'd been old enough to tend bar, anyway. "Used to waitress, before that. It was mostly all right. Bartending is better money, though." Not a whole lot of money, and of course she was a disappointment to society - or at least to her mother, who reminded her every time she picked up the phone, which was half as often as she called and about three times as often as she wanted to.

"Why? You looking for a job? I could ask around and see if anyone's hiring. I'm Sable, by the way. Yes, it does mean 'dark' and yes, I am the whitest chick you've ever seen." From the way this was delivered all-in-one, it seemed like the already answered followup questions happened more or less constantly. "It is - and I quote- Isabelle without the 'i'! Isn't it creative?! Because what if we name the baby after the main character in Twilight and make it even edgier! I thought about changing it, but I decided I like complaining about it too much, and I don't know what I'd change it to, anyway. How about you? Got a stupid name too, or did you get a normal one?"

 

[Katpride]

Lark blinks slowly, taking a moment to parse the deluge of information. “Um, yes? Or… no, no I’m not looking for a job. But yes, I have a name. It’s Lark. Like the bird. I’ll leave the relative normality of that up to you.”

They pause, taking another sip of their juice, and their eyes skitter away, across the row of bottles behind her and to the door, still closed. They flicker back to Sable without pausing for long, and the corner of their mouth curls in tired amusement. “Your folks sound like a real riot.”

They pause time to better skim over the pang of remembrance. It’s been months since they’ve visited their parents, and years since they first started drifting away. Longer than that, if you factor in their unique chronology. They’ll have to move on at some point.

They flicker back into linearity as though no time had passed, segueing smoothly. “It’s funny, I never got around to watching Twilight. There’s a certain era where it was on every corner, though, so I guess I sort of have by cultural osmosis.”

 

[illirica]

Lark.

Like the bird.

Not like, for example, bugger all this for a lark. The corner of her lips twitched, something that was tucked away before it could become a smile that she'd have to explain, just in case the kid got offended by that sort of thing. Sable didn't think they would, and usually she was a pretty good judge of that sort of thing, but it also wasn't something she was going to risk at work. She liked her job.

"Just my mom," she supplied. There'd never been a father in the picture. She didn't know if a riot was really how she'd describe it, either, at least not without a dripping serving of sarcasm. "And I moved away. When I was about your age."

There was a whole lot not being said, between those sentences.

"You look a bit like death, Lark. You got a plan for that?"

 

[Katpride]

She almost smiles, and they almost smile back. It doesn’t last long on their face. Neither does the mild interest with a splash of something more sympathetic, when she mentions moving away. It all shutters down into a guarded wariness, and they consider their next words carefully. Their finger traces the rim of their glass, circling endlessly without any hope of reaching the center.

“I’ll be alright,” Lark says. For a few months longer, they do not say. It’s not my plan, not really, but I don’t get a say in the matter, they carefully do not insinuate. I’m a runaway too, but I didn’t wait to turn eighteen, they think about saying, but then they think better of it.

One hundred and sixty two days, five hours, and seven seconds, their paused internal clock reminds them. Nine days, ten hours, three seconds, two seconds, one second, their unpaused internal clock contributes.

They can’t meet her eyes anymore. They look over her shoulder at the label on a bottle of wine, but their eyes won’t focus for long enough to read it. They’re too tense, they know. They’re not playing it off as well as they usually do. They’re tired. They want to sleep. They want to wake up without a sword hanging over their head for once.

They grit their teeth, frustrated with themself for a number of reasons, and don’t seem to notice when their finger pauses its circuit and starts to tap listlessly at the side of the glass.

 

[illirica]

That was a lie.

Sable could usually spot them pretty well. The words didn't line up right with the feelings. It was the sort of lie that was supposed to make someone feel better, because there were some things you just didn't say. She wondered if Lark was trying to make her feel better or make themself feel better. If it was the latter, it wasn't working. Those clouds were heavy - not the sort that someone got just from normal teen things. Breakups, failing a test, a minor accident.

No, whatever it was they were facing, it was something pretty serious. Facing... or running away from. Sometimes those two things were exactly the same, on the inside.

"You might be." It probably wasn't the right sort of words to be reassuring, but Sable bet that Lark had already had plenty of people tell them that of course it was going to work out. Sometimes, the acknowledgement that it wouldn't necessarily meant something. "I don't know. Sometimes... things work out in ways you don't expect. You might not get what you hope for, but you might end up with something you can live with."

 

[Katpride]

Lark flickers out of their ruminations. Too literally - they’re staring off into space one moment, then in the space of a blink the smile is back, their position slightly altered, their hair falling in a slightly different way. Like a bad jumpcut in a movie, where no one told the actors that they were supposed to be facing to the right in this scene.

“Oh, maybe,” they dither. Their expression is wooden, the smile not reaching their eyes.

“Wouldn’t that be something,” they add, too wistful, and for a moment there’s a desperate kind of hope in their eyes, like a flicker of fireflies in the deep forest green. They try to bottle it back up with mixed success, leaving only something slightly hysterical. “Something I can live with.”

They laugh, low and somehow choked, and down the rest of their juice. They’re about to ask for another, but the faint scent of smoke catches their nose. “Is something burning?”

 

[illirica]

That was weird.

There'd been something there, hadn't there? Or, maybe there had been nothing there? Sable didn't really know how to describe it, just that for a moment, there'd been a blank. It'd been something she'd felt more than seen, because working in a place like this she was used to not seeing a whole lot of stuff. That didn't meant that she didn't notice, though, and it didn't mean that looking back over the kid didn't reveal some... differences. Things that hadn't been there a moment ago, because a moment ago there'd been-

Well, no, there hadn't been. And that was the whole point.

She was still trying to wrap her mind around what that meant and get through the rest of it when she noticed the same thing that the kid did, and gave herself a little shake and flipped the chicken over. "It's called charring when you're in a kitchen," she said, lightly enough, because it seemed like it was heavy enough in here already. "Adds flavor."

She put it on a bun with a plate of vegetables - lettuce, tomato, onion, cheese. Cheese wasn't a vegetable, but it still went on the plate. People got weird about what went on their sandwiches, and Sable had learned just to make it their problem and not hers. Don't want it, don't eat it. "Guess I better not charge you for it, though."

Because that was why she made little mistakes, sometimes. A little charring wouldn't ruin anything, but it meant she could write it off on the books, and if she had to make a guess, the kid was probably already counting coins and the cost of a meal might be much better going towards something else. They didn't seem like the type for drugs, but even if they were... no, she wasn't going to judge. Not after that last part.

She'd gotten that feeling from a few people before, here and there. Sometimes people came to a place like this to drown their sorrows, sometimes people came to a place like this to pretend they could still float. There was a particular vibe that the kid had in them right now, and Sable recognized it as the same one she sometimes got from... well, terminal cancer patients, for one. The you have six months to live crowd. At some point, people switched from living to dying. If you were lucky, Sable thought, it went quick. If you weren't... well, if you weren't, then you had some weird combination of too little time and too much time. Not enough days, too many hours. Disqualified, but they had to run the race anyway, so they limped along, not really caring what place they ended up in.

More than a few of them ended up in places like this. Sable pushed the plate over, in front of the kid. "Eat something. It'll make the hours easier."

Just not the days. She didn't say that part, though. She had a feeling Lark already knew.