|Traumatic Sushi in Chinatown (Part I)|
|What: After the disastrous meeting with random strangers in Harlem, Wicked and Quentin go for some sushi in Chinatown, and find a very cool new person.|
Lower Metropolis - Chinatown Though widely renowned as a tourist attraction, Chinatown is also a solid ethnic community. More than perhaps any other neighborhood in Metropolis, Chinatown lives by its own set of standards. These are not imposed on non-residents, but when the city's laws and procedures clash with tradition, the residents here are most likely to follow their own ways. Perhaps because of this, Chinatown is one of the city's most crime-free neighborhoods. Modern architecture seems at home with faux ancient Chinese buildings in a surprisingly coherent meld against the backdrop of the Diamond District's gothic spires, just to the east. Herbal shops can be found next to Christian churches, and elegant pagodas surround plain white storefronts where one can buy little plastic Buddha statues.
So. What a flop it was to meet with that magical boy. Empathically, she chastises her ghosties. They sulkily respond that they can't always help what a magical person will behave like. Not everyone gets QQQ's sense of humor, or his personality. And, certainly not Zachary! Stupid Zack. Stupid, stupid. So!
Walking alongside Quentin, her hand entwined in his, the new rosary with skulls he bought her around her neck, Wicked swings their arms as she totters along on her very tall-soled goth boots, her inward-turned feet dragging now and again. Her ghosts, of course, are swirling all around her--weaving in between her body and Quentin's. Occasionally, Quentin might feel a chill, but for the most part, the ghosts try to stay clear of his personal space while still staying very close to Wicked.
Her stomach growls, again.
She hasn't eaten in... Two days?
"I think I should have some sushi, QQQ," she says softly, not looking up at him, trying to keep her eyes forward. To admit that she needs to eat is very hard on her. Very hard. She exhales a sigh of disappointment. "I'm very disappointed. ....About meeting that magical boy and how he was worse than toe cheese," she whines. "I was hoping to find good material for our gang! But, he sucked." She chews on her lower lip as they walk into Chinatown.
Kid Omega doesn't show being pleased that Wicked asked to eat - she doesn't need him chastising her, she's gotten enough of that in her life - but he nonetheless steers her towards a decent Chinese place, one earbud in and quietly pulsing music in his left ear, keeping his overactive brain stimulated so he can focus properly on his girl. "Sushi, sure thing, doll. Very Iron Chef. I totally wanna be on one of those judging panels someday, just so I can eat a bunch of gourmet shit and then look at the guy and be like, "Ptuey! Fail! This tasted like snot!" he laughs, opening the door and allowing Wicked to go in first.
Sometimes, of course, people show a strong reaction to Wicked's ghosties. If they're just a bit spooked, fine. But anybody who thinks about saying something will suddenly forgot how to talk. Anyone who wants to jeer will suddenly turn around and walk into the nearest wall. Anybody thinking of calling the cops or taking a picture will find themselves breaking their phones or throwing them away. Quentin doesn't mind making a splash, but Wicked's been annoyed enough today, and it probably wouldn't make her feel better to have to actually -see- him psi-blast a pack of bitchy human whiners, so he keeps a nice, preventative psychic pulse going to ward off trouble.
Which explains the slightly glassy look on the face of the hostess, the ghosts quickly wiped from her mind (along with a few childhood memories, but, eh, it's her fault for having a limited mind) so that she sees only a nice young man and his lady, "Table for two?" she says.
It's been a quiet enough day for Terry. He's been very careful to avoid being around anyone he knows because... frankly? His intent is to get out there and be /alone./ So he's purposefully going out to the parts of town that he doesn't tend to visit very often. The places where his friends and other acquaintances wouldn't go looking for him. There's days to be a hero, and there's days to be a moody teenager. This would be the latter one.
Still, even when it's time to be a moody teenager, hunger strikes. There's a part of him that's still not entirely certain /how/ he gets hungry if what most people would call a stomach can be reshaped -- with a little help -- into anything else. Along with everything else comprising the black-clad teen's body. So right now, he's half-poking at, half-eating a bowl of rice. Yes, with chopsticks. Because honestly? If you're going to eat asian food... not doing it the authentic way, even if it occasionally looks silly, just doesn't /feel/ right.
When the /other/ two that stick out from the crowd walk into the door though, Terry looks up and studies them for a moment. Gaze settling on Wicked especially as the company she keeps becomes pretty obvious. There's a brief raise of an eyebrow, before he stretches out his legs to push back two of the chairs at his table. A hand is raised, and two pale fingers point towards theempty chairs -- offering them seats, should they choose.
Unable to open her mouth to say yes to wanting a table, which infers eating food, Wicked struggles with herself as Quentin answers for them. 'No.' No? Hope leapt within her for a moment--maybe she wouldn't eat, maybe she could hold out for longer, maybe... 'We'll find our own table.' ...Oh. Drat. So, being pulled along by Quentin, Wicked totters along, her heavy boots making light, hollow *TMPTMP* sounds as she walks behind him. When she sees the chairs pushed out and the proffered hand, pointing at the seats, she looks up at Quentin questioningly. He pauses for the briefest moment...and nods. Hmm!
So, Quentin escorts her to the table, and as they sit down, she feels her chair TKed up to the table, simultaneously with his. "Um, hi!" Wicked says, staring blatantly at the table. She's having real doubts about food. She doesn't LIKE food. But... She needs it. Sometimes. She sighs. One of her ghosties cups her cheek and tries to comfort her. "Nice to meet you--" her head twitches sideways and her eyes roll back into her head...and, she croakingly inhales air before blurting out in a strangled, stilted voice, "TerrrrrrrANCE." She shakes her head, her irises popping to the front, again. She leans very closely to Quentin, holding his arm tight with her bony, bony little hands.
Kid Omega wouldn't normally just pop down at someone else's table - well, okay, he would, but, with Quentin, an invitation would actually make that less likely, the contrary little shit - but Terrance puts a little ping on Quentin's psychic radar, and he's always intrigued to meet other metas and mutants. Plus, company might actually make Wicked feel more inclined to eat, not wanting to look odd by not doing so. Whatever it took to get the carboydrates down the food hole. He takes his usual insouciant stance, kicking a foot up on the table and leaning back, an arm draped possessively on the back of Wicked's chair as she settles in next to him. His t-shirt says "I'm Blowing Your Mind" with a brain-shaped mushroom cloud underneath.
A passing waitress stops suddenly and turns on her heels, knees locked together and briefly unable to move as Kid Omega casually seizes her motor functions for his own purposes.
"Sushi. The good stuff. You know what it is. Bring us some. Rice. Saki. A little bowl of that green shit. Chop chop," he says, twirling a finger. As he does, the waitress twirls on her heels like a puppet on a string, marching back to the kitchen despite of the tray full of food she's carrying. The table that ordered it starts to protest and call out for her, until Quentin makes a cutting motion across his throat and they all quiet at once. And wait. Silently.
"Terrance, huh? You got another name, or are you tryin' to 'keep it real'?" he says, making air quotes. "Me, I like codenames. Like old time desperadoes and shit."
Wicked's greeting does surprise him -- the fact that she's got spirits around her? That doesn't really /phase/ Terry that much. He's had the opportunity to see a great many things of the weird variety, but knowing his name? That almost seems something separate entirely. Something that a good magician could do -- but that surprises nonetheless. "Likewise." the older teen offers with a bit of a nod. "...have we met before?" He figured he'd remember. There's people in the city who dress like they do, but they're rare enough that he figures he'd remember if he did.
Attention turns to the other male as he manipulates the waitress with ease. Eyebrow raises again. "Impressive. It took me about ten minutes before someone dared stop by to take my order. Guess you look like a big tipper." he offers, lips curling up in an amused smirk. It doesn't really explain how the other table hushed, but maybe he's some kind of celebrity? ... or mob boss. The former seems more likely.
"Terrance is the name. Terry's what most people use... and I can respect codenames. Useful for the ones who need to hide..." Terry doesn't do the secret identity thing. Just like he doesn't do the costume thing. "...but equally useful for making a statement. /That's/ Trauma. Explains me in a nutshell." ...and more specifically, what he puts others through.
Kid Omega grins, "Nothing to hide, I just kind of like the sound of 'em. Trauma sounds good, though. Intimidating. I go by Kid Omega. I know, I know, Kid, but it sounds good. Like I said, desperado style. Wicked...well, she's Wicked," he grins, reaching his hand down and squeezing one of her thin legs, "I do tip big, though, when it's earned. I just don't like to wait," he says.
Wicked looks up briefly at the mention of her name. She smiles, crookedly, awkwardly, as she tucks a lock of her long, loosely curled hair ( [] ) behind a small, elfin ear. "Yeahhhhhhh," she whispers, her body quivering a bit--something like one of those tiny, nervous dogs who piddle when they're nervous/excited. She hugs her too-thin waist as she slowly lowers her head to the table, a soft, sad sort of wailing moan wafting eerily from her throat. She's not afraid of food. She's not afraid of eating. She just...likes how she looks, she likes being so thin she can wrap her own fingers around her thigh... She whines to herself, slowly banging her head on the table as Quentin talks to Terry.
"Kid Omega. Wouldn't want to underestimate you based on 'Kid', but... I get the feeling that's part of the appeal, no? Keeps you balanced against the 'Omega' part, which by itself would definitely be a lot to live up to." ...and the way the younger man carries himself? He suspects that he has every intention of living up to it, if he's not there already.
"Wicked, huh? I can see it, too." There's a motion to her - not just the ghosts, but the overall look as well. She reminds him of an old friend, in a few ways... and a part of that brings him some concern that softens his features. He might not have wanted company when the day started, but this pair might just be who he needed to meet. "She gonna be alright?" he asks, inclining his head slightly.
Kid Omega lets his face drop, his smile vanishing for a split second, "She's fine. She's with me," he says, both marking her as his territory and putting her under his protection. "As for the Omega, I'm sure I'll manage," he says, the smile returning, as if nothing happened. He takes Wicked's hand in his, keeping her from digging her nails into her thigh, as she's wont to do on occasion, then cupping her chin with a gentle, telekinetic push, lifting her head. He puts a slight, tender brush of his psyche against hers, drawing hunger forth over the heavy walls of her self-abuse. Walls that he, nonetheless, leaves intact. He doesn't believe in fixing. Just making sure she eats enough to hold herself together. It's complicated. Luckily, he neither has to nor feels compelled to explain it.
The waitress returns, laying down plates of finely cut sushi, rolls of rice and fish, properly sauced and seasoned, "Try a bit of spicy tuna. Doesn't taste anything like those damned sandwiches they serve in the cafeteria," he says, flicking his eyes back to Terrance once he's assured that Wicked will eat, whether she likes it (she won't) or not. "Yes, underestimating me is a bad idea. I tend to get - or take - what I want. So, what's your particular talent then? Trauma offers so many possibilities. Bruises, wounds, neuroses..."
Wicked's heart flutters funnily as Quentin takes her hand in his and stops her from digging her nails in. Sure, he's a psychic, but he reads her without having to /read/ her. Her shoulders slump a bit when he stops her, but she squeezes his hand with affection. The gentle TK lift of her chin actually looks rather strange, as she leaves her body limp and looks as though she's being lifted like a puppet on strings. Her black curls shroud her face like a widow's veil, and she smiles lazily through them as Quentin's TK lifts and holds her in an upright position until he's sure she won't let herself flop back down---which she has definitely done, before.
Her stomach growls as the sushi is set before her and she sloooooowly...oh, so effin' slowly...creeeeeeps her free hand across the table and draaaaaaaaaags a set of chopsticks to her side of the table. She waits for Quentin to load her plate, 'cause she can't face it. Ugh. Stupid body! Stupid need to eat! Stupid! "I like your codename," she says, out of nowhere, and overly loudly. Since she's been sort of quiet, it might serve to shock. One of her ghosties clears her hair from her face and makes her look presentable, again, as her plate is placed in front of her. "I think you're very cool. You're not scared, at all," she smiles shyly at Terry, her tawny eyes seeming to glow.
"That's good." Whether it's towards the 'fine' or the 'with him' isn't spoken -- truthfully, it's a bit of both. Quentin's caring for Wicked is almost palpable -- and not to the level of being sickeningly so to the single. It even draws a small smile to his lips. Not something that comes too often, but that's the way Terry allows it. Happiness belongs to other people -- he'll get by being a realist, more often than not... even if most would brand him (and not inaccurately) a pessimist instead.
He's about to answer as far as what he does when Wicked pipes up once again. "Thanks -- likewise." he offers... before letting out a soft chuckle and leaning back in his seat. "You're officially the second person I've met to make that claim, Wicked-- and the first one doesn't count. Little brothers, you know." Pause. "...but no, I'm not scared. I'm the one who does the scaring." A nod over towards Quentin, "It's... more of a curse than a talent, but... I learn fear. I become it. ...and then people piss themselves, run, or both." There's a small amount of pride in that. Scaring those bullies away from that Cessily girl was a high point for him. "How about yourselves? Some I can guess, but..." That goes back to underestimating. Why guess at it when he can ask?
Quentin arches an eyebrow, "Fear, huh? Nice. Fear's one of the most useful ones, good for most occasions. I imagine the pissing kind of gets old, though, unless you're into that sort of thing. And don't gimme that 'it's a curse' thing. Don't let the sheep fool you into bein' ashamed of yourself. If they can't handle what you are - who you are - then that's their problem," he says, continuing to monitor Wicked's eating, albeit surreptitiously. Some of the food on his plate keeps moving itself onto hers as he very quickly wipes her memory of eating the piece it replaced, like a handkerchief on a whiteboard.
"Me? Mmmmmmmmm, y'know," he says, flicking his eyes to the left and making a passing girl's skirt flip up, flashing her panties at Terrance, "A variety of talents," he grins, then projecting into Terrance's head <<Mostly it's just being damn better than everyone else. I take other people's brains and treat 'em like Play Doh. Except the smell. Gotta love that Play Doh smell,>> he grins. "Among other things, I'm...versatile."
To be continued....