Peace Offerings
| Peace Offerings | |
|---|---|
If Solomon takes the trash bag and checks inside, he'll find a dead racoon freshly killed. | |
| Players |
A visit and a shared meal |
It's evening, shortly after Sol has made his way back from the train station with a bag of takeout from the Chinese place on the way. He's shed his work clothes, replacing them with a more comfortable t-shirt and set of jeans, his socks and shoes off to let his toesies wiggle free. The smell of orange chicken fills most of the apartment; he's sprawled on his couch, reading a textbook on forensic insect succession while wielding a pair of chopsticks to absently eat. The fact that the glossy, full-color photos in the book are of insect eggs and maggots on dead and decaying meat doesn't seem to put him off his appetite at all. A nearby smart speaker is playing some mellow jazz music to accompany the scene. All of his windowshades are drawn down; the bug is snug in his den. There is the softest and scratchiest of -knock knock knocks- at the door that might eventually get louder if it isn't initially heard over the mellow jazz playing out of the smart speaker. If there is a peephole or security camera, one would spot a familiar scrawny monster in her familiar, faded 'Harvard' sweater. Does Mae even have other cloths? She carries a kitchen-sized, black trash bag in her hands, it's contents resting against her knees as she hefts the close-tied top to her chest. *knock knock knock* There's a twitch from the moment there's that soft knocking at the door, and Solomon's on his feet in an instant, teeth baring at the closed door. He glances to the side at one of the windows, as if checking to make sure he has an exit. Then he pads, near silent, to check the peephole. He certainly wasn't expecting to see the young woman outside and there's a moment of silent stillness before the deadlock is thrown and he opens the door. Faceted eyes reflect her as his gaze goes from her face to that trash bag. Then to the hallway to make sure none of his neighbors are paying attention. Then, he steps aside to make room for her to come in. "Mae. Good evening." He flicks his fingers in invitation. Mae doesn't flinch or move when the door is opened but she does stare up at Solomon's face with her usual vacant and aloof, open-mouthed expression... then she suddenly smiles wide and flashes those filthy, razor-sharp teeth. Her mantle, the dull scent of dusty attics and dead leaves, washes over him as she scoots passed him on the way inside, trash bag in tow. A curious glance is cast toward the smart speaker before the scent of Chinese food has her sniffing at the air. The food isn't enough to distract her from her purpose, though, and she turns back toward Solomon before waiting for him to close the door, at which point she will hold the trash bag out to him and smile with immense pride. If Solomon takes the trash bag and checks inside, he'll find a dead racoon freshly killed. Solomon closes the door behind her, with another look out into the hallway. He throws the lock and turns back to her just in time to get the trash bag thrust at him. He looks at her. Looks at the bag. He takes it, carefully, and peeks inside. Blink. Blink. He peeks back at her and her proud smile. One eyebrow goes up. "You killed this for me? I...thank you. I appreciate the effort." And now he seems something at a loss. Another long, awkward pause, before he clears his throat and nods to the furniture. "Would you like to sit? Have a drink? I'll, uh, put this away." Mae furrows her brow as a flash of confusion passes over her features at Solomon's muted reply to her incredibly thoughtful gift. The racoon must have been a healthy momma because she's plump with fat! The darkling offers a hesitant nod before she looks around the main room of the three-bedroom apartment, then she moves over to claim that spot on the couch where Solomon was residing moments before. Milky-white eyes hone in on the Chinese food though she maintains her discipline and doesn't touch the man's meal. Luckily, Solomon's freezer contains nothing but ice and pinky mice because that's where that fat raccoon is going. Its fate is likely to join the pinkies as food for bugs, if he were honest, but once it's arranged, he washes his hands, and gets a couple of glasses. Hope she likes soda, because that's what he's got. He comes back with two glasses, sitting them on coasters, one before her, and one before him. He doesn't miss the look at the food. He snatches up the container and walks back into the kitchen. Coming back in just a moment with two bowls, and the good split between them. He keeps his set of chopsticks, but there's a fork for hers. Host duties done, he sits back down and studies her. "That was nice of you? The, uh, raccoon, I mean. Thanks." The gristlegrinder's milky eyes widen in delight at the sight of the soda. Those terrible teeth of hers seem intimately familiar with the gentle caress of acidic and sugary drinks. Mae bows her head as a bowl and fork are set in front of her and she reaches out to collect both before she licks her chapped lips and begins to eat. A few mouthfuls are scarfed down with barely any actual chewing before she coughs, winces, and then says in her pretty little voice. "Welcooome... Sssssorrrrry." Solomon doesn't say anything after the apology. He just stares at her, unblinking and unmoving. Except for his mouth-feelers, which twitch and writhe in jerky little moments. When the stillness breaks, it's with a sigh. "Apology accepted. Just don't kill humans unless they're trying to kill you or someone else, and we'll call it even." A brief twist of his mouth in a crooked smile. "Or, at least, don't do so before me. I don't care for it." He does his best not to watch her eat. Or drink. His gaze falls to his own food, which is consumed a bit more delicately. It isn't long before that annoyingly dull scaping sound of a metal fork against a porcelain bowl signals that Mae has finished her plate of food. The soda is finished in one long, drawn out series of noisy gulps before she sets the empty glass down next to her bowl. Rubbing her throat, Mae nods her head solemnly. "Okay-dokay." Solomon nods. "Good. Glad we're agreed." He isn't rushing his own dinner, but his mouth twitches in amusement as she drains the soda in those several slurps. "So. Uh." Another long pause. "How are you doing?" He sniffs in her direction, dubiously. "Do you have any other clothes?" The darkling rises from the sofa and carries her bowl, fork, and empty glass into the kitchen where she will leave them in the sink before returning back to the living/sitting area. Mae reclaims her earlier spot on the couch where she settles in and starts to survey the room with her curious but vacant little stare. Solomon's question earns a shrug of her shoulders while the second earns a shake of her head. Solomon's eyebrows lift in surprise as she puts away the dishes. "Thank you. I appreciate that." The room is an odd mixture of 'middle class white guy with maybe pretentions of culture' and 'private bug zoo'. The furniture and decor is generally subdued and classicly masculine, with a few framed vinyl albums of indy bands and classic rock artists (with place of pride given to a mint copy of Veteran of the Psychic Wars and it's legion of baby-faced masked cultists staring blankly at the viewer), and a lot of books. And then there are the vivariums, brightly lit, with deep green plant life, and bugs that are crawling busily on branches and under brush. Not far from where Mae is sitting, a fist-sized tarantula is eating a pinky mouse on a rock in a desert-themed enclosure. He nods to the response, like it was what he was expecting. "You want some shirts? They'll be big on you, but it'll let you, uh, wash what you're wearing." Mae's milky-eyed gaze found the spider and she's been staring at it as it goes through the process of eating that pinky mouse. Solomon's question has her blinking curiously and peering toward him before she pauses to sniff her arm pits. There is a moment of hesitance before she nods her head slowly in reply. Solomon nods, and stands. He heads back into one of the closed rooms; a bedroom, clearly. Mae's left alone for about five minutes, before he returns with several shirts. About half are t-shirts, short-sleeved and with various logos of bands and universities on them. The other half are button-downs, long-sleeved and heavier, clearly meant for colder weather. In a show of self restraint, the tarantula is still there finishing his meal when Solomon returns and not within the darkling's belly. The darkling, herself, is waiting eagerly for the cloths which she immediately begins to sift through. One t-shirt in particular is selected for an obscure band, likely chosen for the image of their album's logo. Mae is hardly shy at all as she strips off the hooded sweater. She's topless underneath and Solomon might notice an array of scars from claw marks and whip lashings on her bare back. The rest of her torso is scrawny with malnutrition, or at least the show of it. Ribs can be easily counted above her pale belly while her small breasts hang with a softer shape, from dehydration and a lack of body fat. Her naked upper body is quickly covered when she pulls the t-shirt over it and she takes a moment to adjust it 'just so' before she favors Solomon with a wide and filthy smile. Solomon makes a strangled noise when she strips off her shirt right there. He turns red, abruptly stands, and takes his dishes into the kitchen, giving her some privacy to change. When he returns, he looks relieved to see that she's finished. He clears his throat. "Well. I'm glad you like it. Perhaps you should, uh, shower before changing again. It'll help everything last longer." There's a quick wince and a flash of shame before Mae's expression returns to it's usual aloof vacancy. She begins to fold up the other t-shirts and button-downs, stacking each in a tidy little pile that seems second-nature, like the muscle-memory of some forgotten laundry work she may have performed long ago. Milky eyes rise to meet him, expression betraying a hint of curiosity. "Sssssleeeeeeeep.... ooooovveeeerrrrr?" "Absolutely not," Solomon is quick to say, with a firm shake of his head for good measure. "If you need to shower, then I don't mind you using the bathroom. But you're not sleeping here. If you don't have a place, the Freehold should help you find one," he mutters. The denial brings a quick little huff from the small woman before she turns toward the pile of cloths. Her old and dirty hoody is folded up and placed on top of the pile before the darkling rises from the couch and picks up the stack. Mae hugs the laundry to her chest before she turns back to face Solomon, again. Her lips move as if to form the first work of 'Thank you' but then she coughs softly and turns toward the door. When she turns in that direction, Solomon moves towards the door himself. He checks through the peephole, before opening it for her. "You're welcome," he says, with a faint smile and a shrug. "I'd offer pants, but quite frankly, none of them would remotely fit." Another awkward little clearing of his throat. "Be careful out there." "Okay Dokay. Bye bye." is Mae's quiet little reply, voice soft and sweet. She steps out into the hallway without another word and immediately makes her way toward the stairs or elevator, cloths in arm. | |