Participants:
| Scene Title | Lattes and Pheromones |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Ferryman helper meets ferryman helper, Abby also meets one of her future teachers, Professor Coriolen. |
| Date | March 19, 2009 |
Starbucks
Everyone's been in Starbucks
Cloudy and dreary, many students from Columbia and faculty have sought shelter from the cold in this coffeeshop. Reading a newspaper and huddled in his black overcoat, a man with swarthy features waits in the queue with others. "Professor Coriolan? Professor?" the barista calls out behind the counter. "Are you ready to order, sir?" The eldered man looks around, "Oh, my apologies. Yes. A latte will be lovely. Please." He takes out his wallet, places a five on the counter and walks off to the side to wait for his beverage. "Keep the change."
Not a student, not quite yet. Just there, trying to figure her way around the place, work out the logistics for her 'bodyguard'. Abigail is one of many who trickle in the door to the coffee place. Frail, thin, circles under eyes, she could be mistaken for some student who's been burning the midnight oil a bit too much. Maybe. She's careful to keep space around her, not touching anyone in the place. Past Coriolan she moves when his order is placed, paid, to place hers, pay for hers. "Grande please, french roast, plain" Her southern accent spills into being from her mouth. That done, beside the Professor she takes her place to wait.
Coriolan places his paper underneath his arm. "We don't get too many people with a southern accent here," Coriolan muses to Abby, nodding with a smile. His rich, British baritone continues, "Well, not since the bomb. I think a lot of people are beginning to presume Columbia might be the next target." He takes a closer look at the girl, "Studying for mid-semester exams?"
Someones talking to her that isn't wearing a green apron. "No, not yet at least. I uhh, I'm not, I'm just enrolled again. I was supposed to start but some things happened and so. Came for some books, make sure I had them all" He looked old. Safe. Highly unlikely to be a man who will abscond. Brian was nearby anyways, dropping books off for her while she went to get some temporary energy. "You?"
"Hm." Coriolan says, raising a jet brow. "Came in here out of the cold. I just finished teaching one of my classes. If you have any European or British History marked on your schedule, we will probably meet in class. I'm Ian Coriolan. I'm Departmental Chair for British History here at Columbia."
A thin hand is offered up, strong grip that is surprising given how she looks. "Abigail Beauchamp. General studies. I think, I have something like that. Stuff I need so that I can qualify to take my EMT1's. A friend got me re-registered and into a few classes to see how I'll do, till I can start proper next semester. I came for some coffee. Get some energy before going to work, It's a pleasure to meet you Professor Coriolan?"
Coriolan takes the hand into his, "A pleasure to meet you, Miss Beauchamp. Columbia is quite an endeavor for someone who wants to be an EMT. But with the amount of universities atomized by the bomb, I suppose anything is possible." Finally, his coffee is made. He takes the paper tumbler, and stirs a bit of artificial sweetener into the frothy coffee. "Then again, perhaps if the president of your country stopped proverbial witch hunts and worked to expand the amenities of New York, then perhaps things would be a bit better." He looks around to see if anyone heard. "Hm. I should really hold my tongue in public places."
"Everyone's allowed their opinions" Abby's coffee isn't that far behind his in coming. "Besides, he wasn't exactly voted in. Someone else was. It just filtered down the line till it was placed in his hands" There's no doctoring of her own drink. She takes it as it is. "They could deal with Staten Island, and take down the Linderman act. I'd… I could get behind that. Right now though" A deeper frown than she's had sinks in. "Right now I agree with you" More than he could imagine.
"Your name sounds vaguely familiar. Oh." Coriolan purses his lips together, and then turn into a smile. "Well, I think we are probably of like minds, Miss Beauchamp. Probably far more than just politics."
She was just about to take a sip from her coffee, but her hand hesitates, the steam rising from the hole in the lid to tickle her nose. Blue eyes are suddenly about five times more wary and glance to the door to see where Brian is. "Do we?" Each word cautious.
Coriolan leans closer to her, and says, "Does the name "Noah," mean anything to you? And I'm not talking about the bloke who built the ark."
Damnit. There's no secret handshake. She doesn't know how discern someone who's fishing from someone who isn't. "what's.. the name of the underground railroad of New York?" She's watching him. She may look tired, and seem tired and that someone with a strong breeze could topple her over, but she's ready to bolt and scream from Brian.
"If you choose….I suppose you could call me a ferryman, if that's what you want. But, I suppose I march to the beat of my own drum. I'm also a victim of the hand that God has dealt me. Watch." A student walks by, carrying a cup of coffee. Coriolan puts his foot out, and the girl trips slightly, spilling the coffee a bit on his loafers. A deadpan and a look from Coriolan is all that is given. All of a sudden the girl takes her books, shaking. Making a break for the door. Others look on, but don't give it much thought. "Here, Professor," a barista says. "Let me mop that up." Coriolan takes Abby by the shoulder, "Please do. Come, Miss Beauchamp. Let's get away from the mess."
Telepath? Empath? Something, cause that girl left with barely a blink. Coriolen's hand on her shoulder though, makes her uneasy, ferryman or no. "Could you please.. not touch me? Just, no offense is intended I just… " She's gentle, with easing her shoulder out of his touch, coffee held close, a glance for the departing girl. "We can go. Brian's around here somewhere, watching out for me, so I can't stray too far or he'll get upset" Like a little puppy that Claude accused her of being, she'll follow.
"Of course. I can't stay for very long and while I would love to give you a tour of Kensolving Manor, I'm afraid that I have another class coming up." He reaches into his wallet and hands her a card, "The next time you have someone who…needs my services in this area, feel free to stop by. The light above the front door means that I am available and accepting new…house guests." The dark swarthy man places his wallet back in his back pocket, the card held between his ring and pinky fingers - the platinum pinky signet ring shining brightly in the artificial light of the Starbucks.
Another safe house. Of a sorts. "I might.. have someone. Could use some help. He's from your country to I think. He's been staying at my place while I was taken' The card is eased from between his fingers, great care taken to not induce a paper cut. "Do you have a pen?" Stupid question, likely he does, she doesn't at the moment. A napkin is grabbed from the condiment station, ready to write down her own. "In case some of your guests, need help, that I can offer. I'm not supposed to right now, Not till i'm back in shape" Not that it's stopped her. "But soon, I can, I'll be at this number, or you can get in touch with our friends. They have ways of finding me"
Coriolan reaches into his briefcase and pulls out a ballpoint. "I'll memorize it and then burn it. I try not to keep many numbers in my cell phone anyway," he says with a smile.
Memorize and then burn. That's what she does to most of them. Save for innocuous business cards that no one will question that she has in her hand. "I work, at Old Lucy's over in Greenwich. It might not be your cup of tea, but, I'm there, a few nights out of the week, just send for me. Or, you know" There's school. And that he seems to quite possibly be one of her teachers. "If I don't show up for class… I'm likely sleeping off a healing. I try to always show up though, I'll always try" This slow down in caffeine is temporary, she knows it. Like Deckard and his drinking, she and her caffeine. The ballpoints taken, number written down before both are passed over with a frail smile.
"If they have scotch, it is my cup of tea," Ian notes with a smile. He takes the number and the ballpoint and pockets them. "A pleasure meeting you, Miss Beauchamp. I hope to see you on campus, sometime. Good day." He takes his briefcase and coffee, and exits stage right.
Abigail, exits stage right after a departing nod, go seek out her copy of Brian, stop and get him a drink too. He still needs to be fed, watered, walked.
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