Participants:
| Scene Title | G'morning Dio |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Spiked coffee and redheads… Welcome home, Diogenes. |
| Date | August 24, 2010 |
Gun Hill: Isis and Diogenes's Apartment
Bare. Bones bare. This apartment seems built for the simpler functions of living only. The studio room's white walls remain mostly unbroken but for the short list of furnishings within this residence:
A single, double-sized bed sits beneath the windows that look out onto the street below, done up in a plain, black bedspread. To the right stands a larger book shelf, which proves to be a hopeful piece of furniture, for it currently houses only a handful of novels, leaving a greater space for the occupants' intended purchases. Clothes are kept in two beaten and worn, rolling suitcases propped open on the opposing side of the bed. A little desk is set up for the use of a single laptop, while the barren table in the kitchenette is used as the landing place for another notebook computer.
Even this kitchen-area is minimally supplied - cabinets are home to a small set of matching red and black dishware, cereal, and canned Chef Boyardee meals beside a bottle of vodka.
Isis kneels on the foot of Diogene's bed. The little redhead carefully juggles a mug in one hand, watching the sleeping man for a short moment before reaching out and pinching his big-toe through the blankets. "Hey. Psssssssst. Hey. You awake?"
The manner in which Thomas sleeps is a peculiar one. Isis has had the time to observe his sleeping form during their stay at his friends back in his home country, though it is still something to be amused by: the young man sleeps with a completely blank facial expression, save for parted lips, as though he was going to devour all of his bed sheets.
The pinch of his big toe is just barely enough to wake him up. Although his leg quickly rebounds as part of a subconscious reflex, Diogenes squirms on the bed lazily, fluttering his eyes open sleepily. "I am now. What is it?"
The slender woman leans forward, waving the mug of coffee before the tip of Diogenes's nose. "I just want to let you know… You are an asshole." She grins and leans back, sipping from the coffee. "There, now I'm done. We can get on with this whole business." She nods to herself with an approving air.
"Come on, get up. I'm boooooored."
Although one to keenly discuss the most troubling philosophical questions the curious human mind has been plagued by for centuries, Diogenes is also apparently one to slowly wake up, given a good night's sleep. "What…" He cuts himself short, instead propping himself up with an elbow and smacking his dry lips; his heavy eye-lids soon come down, as well. It's not until a moment after that he finishes his sentence in a slightly more awakened state: "What he fuck?"
And one rumbling groan later, Diogenes sits up on the bed. Legs pulled up, hands draped over his knees, and his eyes set on Isis with a gaze that flings imaginary daggers. "Do you want me to juggle, or make a funny face?", he asks, stretching one of his hands and letting it hover in mid-air, expecting Isis to share the coffee.
"I prefer funny faces, but I draw the line if you paint your face up like a clown." She shudders theatrically and presses the mug of coffee into Dio's hand. The drink is overly sugared to fit her tastes and spiced with a warm shot of vodka for the same reason. "Listen, I'm sorry about… the scene on the dock. Stress'll do that. I mean, it's not like I'm leaving a lot behind," she mummbles.
The redhead pops a brow into a subtle arc. "You better make it worth my while." She winks and shifts about, crawling up the bed to turn around and sit beside Diogenes. "So, Mr. Tomas, you've just come back to the lovely U.S. What do you plan to do now?" She puts her fist in front of his face, as if holding an invisible microphone.
Diogenes does not give the coffee much thought until he tastes, at which point he merely quirks both his brows and glances at Isis inquisitively, asking her seriously? without uttering so much as a single sound. Still, he is hardly complaining. Quite the contrary, he finds it ironic that he quite likes this recipe, as anyone will figure out from repeated sips.
"Forget it. We both had a bit of a rough time, and after miraculously injuring your hand to the point of almost needing stitches, I think that little flip-out on the docks was among your smallest." After a couple more sips and an overall more invigorated look on his face, he addresses the interviewer in an equally more energetic tone. "Well, Miss King, I'm not so sure. I think I will join the Ferrymen, put on a cape, and save children from burning orphanages", he announces in a deliberately low pitched tone. Of course, he quickly adds in his casual tone a moment later: "…Which I set fire to." Cue another sip of the coffee.
Isis grins at the use of her alias, resisting the urge to chuckle at the absurdity of its presence on Diogenes's lips. She pulls her phantom microphone back to her own lips. "Oh, the heroism. Oh, the villainy." She drops the act of reporter, her eyes growing playfully wide. "You'll need a mask." She nods eagerly and pops back up to her knees, grabbing the nearest pillow and pulling its case over Diogenes's head so that the plush cushion within stands up off the back of his head, his face a bulge in the front of the fabric. "There! The Super Blockhead Man."
This, ladies and gentleman, is what becomes of a redhead in a good mood with spiked coffee. Keep this in mind for your own safety.
As awfully tempting as it might have been to see where this insanity might lead, the fabric impeded the man's ability to consume coffee. As such, he only allows Joanne to marvel at the sight of the Super Blockhead Man for so long until he slips a few digits below the case, pulling it up and letting the pillow fall behind him. And after that comes a triumphant sip.
"Actually, to answer your question honestly, I think I'll do what I failed to do when I first arrived here. I tried to monitor and read people, but in my effort to distance myself from people and remain objective, I've gone full circle and fell face-first into subjectivity, instead. To reach objectivity, I need to wade through subjectivity, first. Funny how the world, works. This is also why, I think, I should meet certain people I've met in the past. To, y'know. Make them see the other side of me."
Isis stares at Diogenes for a long moment after his more honest reply. Her eyes narrow slowly, dark lashes shadowing hazel eyes. "I used to think I was insane for pondering experiments like that. I guess it makes me more 'normal' than you that I don't act on them." She watches her companion a moment longer. There is no judgment in her tone, only the simple statement of fact through observation.
She suddenly swivels about, popping to her bare feet on the creaking, wooden floorboards. Perhaps honesty is too much for her this morning, seriousness not fitting for her mood. Perhaps she did not appreciate his answer. Perhaps in his reply she found something within herself she'd rather not dwell this hour. Or, knowing this particularly unstable redhead, it could be something else entirely. Whatever the case, she shuffles across the studio apartment in her white tanktop and black pajama pants to gather a ball of clothes from her suitcase.
"I'm going to run to the store. We need food and I used my last nip of vodka on that coffee." She shrugs and slips into the bathroom, closing the door with a decisive thud.
Yes, goodmorning, Diogenes. Welcome to your new life.