Participants:
| Scene Title | Say Anything |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Remi seeks Zachery out in order to speak of a matter unsettled. The two find closure of sorts, albeit not the most rewarding sort. |
| Date | July 25, 2019 |
The street outside of the Dirty Pool Pub
It’s been a sufficiently long enough time that, with luck this stupid plan will work. There’s been a nice little weekly package of good liquor, from gin to whiskey to scotch, and even a bit of rum thrown in there for good measure, all left neatly at Zachery’s front door, every Friday as if on a schedule. Occasionally, there will also be a decent bottle of wine to go along with it. The gifts have always been left with short little notes of genuine apology for the sender’s abhorrent behavior.
Remi knows he’s inside today — she can hear him, while also realizing that her ability makes her a rather terrifying stalker. Hopefully the recipient of all of this attention will be a bit more open to a conversation, this time around.
The little redhead, wearing jeans, a t-shirt, and a way-too-big brown trench coat with the sleeves rolled up, has a picnic basket on the ground next to her feet. Held over her head is a boom box, a la Say Anything — and Peter Gabriel’s ‘In Your Eyes’ is playing at the highest volume possible, the woman leaning against a parked car that isn’t actually hers. It doesn’t actually look like it works, in fact. She’s not got the same goal as the star of the particular movie she’s channeling, but she figured it was, at the very least, a good way to ensure that the conversation doesn’t start out too hostile.
One of the funny things about literally living in the back room of a pub is that when things are left at your front door, proverbial or not, people notice. The same could easily be said for this charade, and as such, Zachery Miller is not the first person to peer through the Dirty Pool Pub window.
The curious faces of its regulars, bikers, end up peering at her instead, drinks in hand. What the fuck? This question is asked both verbally and internally, more than a few times over, along with a few differently phrased variations on the sentiment. The baffled crew is eventually dispersed by a larger man (in height, width and presence all), who throws a darkly inquisitive look out into the street before he veers off to the side and out of view again.
It takes 30 seconds or so, but the door to the pub finally opens by virtue of said large man - Remi might recognise him as the owner of the pub - having slammed an arm across it in order to usher his tenant out.
Said tenant looks… unprepared for this situation. Zachery stumbles out onto the sidewalk, in jeans and a shirt that says '2008 Harlem Soup Kitchen Helper Extraordinaire' across the chest, and just… stands there as the door slams shut behind him. Like a dog that's been shoved out to deal with a nuisance, except this nuisance was tailor-made to baffle him, personally.
Even his thoughts can't seem to settle on anything other than just … Oh. So, with a twitch of his eyebrows that lands his expression just this side of irritated, he just says, simply, "… I'm finding myself increasingly glad I'm familiar with the effects of hallucinogens, because otherwise I may have suspected my drink was spiked."
It would be a lie to call the look on the woman’s face anything but amused as the giant man ushers his tenant out. And for a long moment, she just stands there with that amused smirk on her face, boombox still held high over her head. It only lasts for that moment, however — her arms are tired and the person she wanted to see is out, so she lowers the musical implement and clicks the song off right as Peter Gabriel is hitting one of those high notes.
The boombox is set down next to the picnic basket, which she promptly uses one foot to open briefly, revealing…several bottles of wine, with two sandwiches of some kind resting on top. “Let’s have a picnic,” the telepath murmurs with a small chuckle — is that a touch of a French accent?
She doesn’t offer further dialogue to help determine that; instead, she turns, gesturing toward a nearby tiny park that is, thankfully, quite uninhabited. “If I’m going to drink with you, I need some place less populated.” And it seems she’s going to drink with him, judging by all of that wine that she picks up in one hand, the boombox in the other, before starting her way toward said park. No tricks or funny business this time. I promise.
There's a stillness to Zachery that stays all the way throughout the scene that plays out before him. His eye is drawn to the basket, but only for a second, before it returns, piercingly, to focus on Remi's face.
When she walks, he remains. Well, fuck. His attention drifts off to the side, nose wrinkles with a sneer that never quite fully forms, and… he turns around. Back to the pub, shoving the door open with an extremely tired-sounding, "Bruce!" He waits, one hand on the doorward as he leans further in still, "Bruce! If I'm not back in half an hour, you know what to do, yeah?"
If you're still listening, he thinks as clearly and as firmly as he can, before he even gets an answer from Bruce, this is the last time I'm doing this. It's speech or nothing.
“Talking it is,” she calls over her shoulder as she slowly meanders toward the park, rolling her eyes a bit. She’ll still be listening, of course — she’s always listening — but she’ll respect his boundaries all the same. She doesn’t stop to wait, her steps slow enough that it will be easy for someone as tall as Zachery to catch up.
She doesn’t say (or think) anything until she reaches the midpoint of the park, her destination marked by a rusty old picnic table; the basket and boombox are set upon the center, and the woman climbs up to sit on one side of said basket, reaching in and pulling out a bottle. It’s not the high quality stuff she’s been sending, but it’s still a decent-looking Chardonnay.
“I want to lead with telling you that I’m sorry for our second meeting,” she murmurs once Zachery joins her. “I pretty clearly wasn’t in the best way.” Definitely a French accent there — she’s not pretending at all with him.
Though he does join her, Zachery does not sit. He languidly takes his place standing at what would be the head of the table if it weren't the picnic variety, one hand reached out to splay fingers across the old wood. One more week and I wouldn't have been here. Wouldn't have had to deal with this.
Most of his expression has pulled into a neutral state, though there's something overly alert about the way he looks down at the table, then the wine, Remi's face, then off to the side at nothing in particular. His fingers rap an impatient pattern down onto the tabletop. "Go on."
The Chardonnay, unopened, is offered out to Zachery, along with a wine key. There are no glasses — presumably, the plan is to simply have a bottle to themselves. This is only further confirmed when Remi reaches in, pulling out a nice Riesling for herself, setting about opening it with her own wine key.
“I was wondering if we could have a talk and, perhaps, get off on a much better foot than the one we’re currently on,” she replies. “You heard and saw some things that probably warrant a bit of explanation, oui?”
"That's the funny thing," The words leave Zachery like he doesn't want them in his mouth to begin with, hasty and devoid of intonation. He accepts the bottle, holding it by the neck, before his eye resettles on Remi's face, hard stare unblinking. "When I meet people, generally, I have a habit of prying. Personality traits, quirks, what little background I can surmise informs their habits, what their boundaries are." Sometimes too far. "But with you?"
He sets the bottle down and away from him, and slides the key over next to it. Monotonously, he adds, "I find myself just not giving a fuck."
Briefly, Remi’s eyebrows raise and fall, her mouth pulling back in an unsurprised expression. “Understandable. I suppose that is as good a viewpoint as any.” And here she was going to quietly tell him about who she actually was — if nothing else, so he could write her off as some crazy delusional telepath and completely write off her backstory.
“In any case, I’m sorry for what I did. It was shitty of me.” She doesn’t offer much further of an apology than that — she’d much rather not overshare with someone who already knows too much.
"'Shitty'," Zachery repeats, shooting Remi a keen look for which he angles his head upward, while his fingers curl inward at his sides. That's one way to put it.
As if realising the company he's in may have caught the skepticism in his thinking, he quickly straightens and says sternly, "Let me make something clear. I'm not here to trade you my forgiveness for your words. You can keep sending bottles, your apologies, it doesn't matter." You don't matter, come words echoed quietly, despite a conscious decision not to say them. "I've got better things to do than keep grudges, and I should think that you have more fruitful relationships to pursue." His eyes narrow ever so slightly, as he searches her face for something.
Apparently, Zachery has also chosen today to be his unfiltered self. Unfortunately, that means pleasantries fall by the wayside.
Really, his indifference is one of the better possible outcomes; she’s not huge on the guy, so false pleasantries honestly sound nigh-unbearable. “That’s good to know,” she replies with a small nod, before pushing the basket, minus the bottle of Reisling in her hands, back toward him.
“I’ll stop bothering you,” she adds, standing and slipping off of the picnic table. “Glad this could come to a reasonable conclusion.” And with that, she’s sauntering away — after taking back her wine key.
"I wouldn't say you were a bother," Zachery replies, watching her walk with a semblance of a grin starting to pull at his expression before it's pushed back down and away with a squaring of his shoulders. "Just… a good lesson for what to avoid in the future." He pauses for a beat, then adds, "I hope you find… elsewhere, to belong."
For what it's worth, this sounds like he's speaking the truth, though his motivation remains an unspoken ordeal. Could have been useful, slips through the cracks of his mind, before he pulls his attention back to the table and the items upon it. His chest rises and falls with a prolonged sigh. Well. At least lunch is sorted.
Still could be if you stopped being such a dick about it, comes through — she’s still listening, she’s always listening, because that’s how her stupid ability works. Despite the offer, she’s still sauntering away, unopened wine bottle in hand.
She’ll be bringing this back to the Novelle Vue for enjoying a few nights before the opening festivities begin.