2020-01-16 - Cards & Bones

The Control Pad is, as promised, dead. Maybe it's because it's the middle of the day on a Friday in the middle of a way-too-cold winter that has the town consistently blanketed in snow. Maybe it's because the gaming industry has moved toward digital delivery and consoles are antiquated. Who knows! Either way, the place is all but empty if not precisely quiet, with some Sammus playing overhead at a good background volume. Sparrow sits behind the counter with a laptop in front of her and an open textbook near at hand, not at all ready to use the space for actual transactions. The neon redhead wears a black sweatshirt which reads GAME OVER CONTINUE? on the front in blocky white letters, paired with ripped blue jeans, flashes of colorful leggings peeking out from below. When the door opens, she doesn't look up, chirping a cheerful, "Help you find anything?" while keeping her focus on her work.

"Assuming you're Sparrow, I think I've already found what I came for." Comes the rumble of a voice, though Cristobal is glancing around the store with mild interest before he focuses on the redhead behind the counter. He comes over toting a small tupperware dish with a spoon and napkin in plastic wrap and sets it down on top of her textbook without much preamble. "Flan." The word is almost barked, his face holding all the telltale signs of someone who has gone beyond gruntled into the dis realm of gruntleness. "I was expecting some old fat Romani grandmother dripping with wisdom and saggy tits."

Sparrow peeks up when her name is spoken, black brows lifted high toward red, red bangs. "Oh, hey! Uhm." She looks around at her countertop sprawl and, as soon as the tupperware finds its way onto her text, it's lifted and slipped onto a shelf he can't see from that side. She echoes back, "Flan," a whole lot more cheerfully... and distractedly as she works to get all her stuff put away. With a snort of laughter as she closes her laptop, she flicks a look toward Cristobal and assures, "They'd ask for more. Twenty bucks, at least. More likely your first born." Computer and book are both slid into a backpack behind the counter. She tips kinda sideways while looking up at him again, feeling about for something as she asks, "Sounded like you've got something specific on your mind?"

There is a flash of something in his blue eyes, the threat of a storm brewing in the blue to make them darker than they would appear in the sunlight. They are an unusual shade for a latino, instead of the typical shades of caramel brown to near black. "Too late for that." Is all he says to the mention of a 'first born', but there is a tick in his jawline that indicates that's probably not a topic to tread on lightly. Cristobal seems to feel the tension building in his muscles, and if he wants to convince this young woman he isn't, in fact, a serial killer he needs to tone it down. So with a drag of his hand down a freshly shaven face, he looks away and tries again. "Sorry. What are you studying?" There. Small talk.

Maybe Sparrow ought to show some remorse for crashing over what might be a sensitive subject? She doesn't. But it might be because half of her thoughts are on feeling for her cards. Which don't seem to be there, if the frown she angles down toward the floor is any indication. Blessedly, it's brief, realization dawning as her attention catches on a flash of color beneath the register. Someone did the smart thing and set her cards aside. And then forgot that she'd done so. Oops.

"Medieval European Witchery," she lies cheerfully as she brings that brightly colored back up to the counter. It looks hand-sewn and worn around the edges, showing its age. She doesn't reflect one little ounce of his unease in her relaxed posture now that she's ready to go. "Or chemistry," is the more honest answer. "Alchemy?" Doesn't matter. Don't engage that. "You want a stool? You want a beer? You look like you could use a beer. Or cider. Soda? Water? Few minutes of just chatting? Whatever it's gonna take to get you not... whatever this is?"

Cris fixes her with a rather flat look before it gives away into a tiniest hint of smirks as she hops around subjects, with the truth mixed in somewhere along the line. "Stool. Beer. And a joint." Cris says helpfully as her colorful bag of tarot cards makes its appearance, he's pulling out a rather sedate looking dark blue velvety bag from the pocket of his jacket but it has less of a form than no doubt a stack of rectangular cards would make, and it rattles slightly as he sets it down.

Sparrow considers the third item on that list, not quite sure how her boss might feel about that, but she issues no objection. Instead, she slips from her stool to, first, stoop and grab a beer from the fridge. It's more likely to her tastes than his, a can of Stone Brewing's White Ghost, a crisp and tart berliner weisse. That set down, she brings the spare stool around the counter and sets it down next to Cristobal, finally giving him a good look over now that she's slowed down a bit. A little softer than her previous frenetic inquiries, she asks, "Are you always this, uh. Snarly?"

Faced with her now on the same side of the counter, Cris gives Sparrow the long once over she deserves, starting with the tips of her shoes and ending with the crop of bright red hair that his hand is drawn to for a moment. It might be as if he means to pet the paw of his hand down the side of it, but in the end he's only going to tug at one lock unless she shies away. "Are you always this shiny?" Something tickles his throat and he pulls his gaze away to throw one leg over the stool and slide up onto its seat. "Like a penny fresh from the mint." He mutters and then nods, sharply down at his bag. "Are you familiar with Santeria?"

Sparrow's shoes might be the dullest thing about her, matte black Doc Martens that have seen better days, but even those have shimmery purple-green ribbon laces to brighten them up, kinda sorta matching the violet undertones of her matte lipstick. Her brows pitch up as his gaze dips down, the left corner of her lips following, leaving a crooked smile in place by the time his attention ascends again. That amused curiosity doesn't abate as she allows that contact, though it breaks into a snort of laughter for the tug before she chirps out a confident, "Careful," like he might be the one in danger here.

"I'm usually much shinier than this," is only a little lie, spoken as she starts back around the counter to grab herself a beer and reclaim her seat. "But I wouldn't mistake glitter for greenness, handsome." She pops her beer can open with a familiar click-hiss, shaking her head as she looks to the bag. "Nope. We gonna work some magic together?"

"Mm." It's a rather bland note of disbelief as she tells him careful, as if such a word doesn't exist in his vocabulary. "Handsome, she calls me. So that means you find 'snarly' handsome. And tell me, if that's the case why would I ever admit to being otherwise." He puts a hand to his side as he twists on the stool to face the counter, the movement of his midsection drawing out a flicker of pain around his eyes but nothing more than the touch and the wince there to indicate it. "Magic might be overselling. But before I dump out a bag of bones in front of a girl, I like to give her warning." At least he's moved on from monosyllabic responses as he reaches for his own beer and cracks it open.

"Means I find tall men with intense eyes handsome," Sparrow counters with a challenging arch of one dark eyebrow. And while that might eliminate the snarliness from her list of what she likes, she doesn't seem particularly off-put by it either. Her gaze strays down his body with more concern than curiosity at that faint wince, but she doesn't ask. Nope. She sips at her beer then sets the can aside. Hand wiped on her jeans to dry it, she reaches for her back of cards. "Fair," seems genuine at his explanation, grateful for the consideration. "So, tell me what we're doing here then. Whatever you want. No promises of quality." Beat. "How can I help?"

"See, this is where I'd normally tell you that my eyes are the least intense thing about me." Cris' elbows hitch up on the edge of the counter and both his hands are held out, palm up and fingers twitching for her own. "Gotta say a prayer first. Don't care if you believe, just close your eyes and think of England."

Sparrow can't help but grin for that, all nice and easy. If she's curious, it doesn't show. She just accepts that assurance of excessive intensity and moves on to the business they're here for. She looks to the offered hands, but that's as close as she comes to hesitation before her fingers settle in his and her eyes close with a very direct reminder of, "There are cameras," just in case this is a lead in to something shady. After that, her thoughts are on England. On Big Ben and the Eye. On Ian Curtis and Paul Hollywood and a nebulous mash of nonspecific accents.

And so a prayer is given, entirely in Spanish though certain words are bound to leap out like 'God' and 'mother' even if Sparrow isn't fluent in the language. Even the patter might be familiar, Catholic in nature, and when it's done Cris' hands slither out from her own so that he can cross himself and fish out a tiny gold crucifix from around his neck and give it a quick kiss before he lets it dangle on top of his white t-shirt and buffalo flannel combo he's got going on.

"Alright." He declares, shaking out his wrists and along with it, shirking off his jacket that he drapes over his a thigh. "We're not looking for specifics, but general guidance, yeah? But the reason I was drawn to Gray Harbor didn't...manifest itself when I thought it would. So do I stay, and wait, or do I travel on. Good?" He asks, if the last warning that he's about to cast bones.

Sparrow expresses no curiosity for the prayer, for the ritual of it. None of it is particularly familiar to a girl raised by new age spiritualists, who learned German in high school, but she accepts it without question all the same. There's even a smile at the end as she draws her hands back, as she reaches for her cards. While Cris gets into the details, what he's looking for, she starts to shuffle. "Alright," seems an answer more to his words than the question about the bag, but that gets a nod which says much the same. "Pretty sure nothing in this town goes quite the way we expect, but." She sets the deck down nearby, hopefully out of the way of his own casting, and instructs, "Cut."

Cris knocks his knuckles on top of the deck before splitting it in two, choosing relatively equal stacks and setting them side by side. "Kiss." Maybe it's like her asking him to cut the deck but he holds the blue back out in front of her. There miiiight just be a hint of a smirk there about the request, as if he could be pulling her leg about that particular thing, but really. When working with the divine, is it really their place to question such things?

Sparrow doesn't hesitate. She does arch her brows in what might be read as challenge--or the answering thereof--as her purplish lips pucker and press to the blue pouch, bestowing her blessing upon it as is only right and proper. All about energy, isn't it? Drawing her deck close again, the backs of the cards marked with a white and blue rorschach pattern, she starts directly, flipping over three cards--the first of which earns a brief breath of laughter from her--from left to right, all of them facing her: Two of Pentacles, Six of Wants, Justice. "Mm. You ready?"

Bemused is the perfect descriptor as she complies with that purpled kiss of blessing and he undoes the drawstring with a little quick tug before he simply upends the contents of the bones onto the counter, mirroring the flipping of the cards. He doesn't immediately look down at the results, instead concentrating on the three images that are revealed from her tarot. Cris gives a quick puff of breath and wipes his palms off on the material of his jeans. Is there a hint of nervousness suddenly telegraphing through the latino's bones? That little laugh didn't really help that situation any. "Lay it on me mamacita."

Bones. Sparrow takes a moment to look that spill over, curiosity caught and stuck at about the half-way point, brought down by the the background process generating excuses just in case her boss walks in. Customers just aren't as much of a concern. To judge by the ease of her slightly off-center smile when given the go ahead, none of it really concerns her all that much. "So." One brow arches high as she taps a finger below the Two of Coins. "This guy? Really really wants to tell me that you fucked your way into this." Real professional up in here. "Whatever this is. Cuz this is your past, what got you here..." And it sounds like she could go on, but she gives it a second, aiming to read his reaction to her particular interpretation of that first card, seeing how it lands before she goes on.

"Fucked as in screwed or as in screwed up?" The question comes earnestly as he looks down to his pile of bones, to see what's corresponding. Cris is listening, but now he's also reading his own representation of things so his eyes are diverted downward. His hand strays out to the side, blindly finding his can of beer and drawing it back to his mouth for a quick sip to sate a mouth gone dry. Whatever he's seeing, he's clearly not liking, his lips pulled back into that tight expression he was wearing when he first walked in here. That intense gaze flicks back up, suddenly locked onto her mouth as if he'll find the answer there in more than her words.

"Fucked," Sparrow doesn't quite clarify. That watched mouth then proceeds to spew more low-grade profanity. "Screwed. Nailed. Banged. Boned. Oh. No, that one works either way, huh? But you get the picture, yeah?" Her grin flashes cheeky, holding for a moment before she surrenders that tease and clarifies, "Definitely not fucked up," a bit more softly. "See. This guy's rooted in earth, body. And twos are connection, so." She holds that impish grin for a moment, making sure he gets it, before she lets her smile dims, sinking into a bit more seriousness and sincerity, some concession to the seriousness in Cristobal's bearing. "But? He's also about finding balance, juggling worldly concerns. Wants and obligations. Making choices. Changing to suit the situation. Which."

Her finger taps beneath the middle card, that Six of Wands, as one shoulders lifts in a shallow shrug. "This tells me you did fine. That you got whatever it was you were looking for. So, sure, maybe it didn't happen the way you wanted? But it happened. Success. Uh." Her features scrunch a bit, the first flicker of uncertainty to cross her expression, some thought given on how to elaborate. "And, I'd, uh. Put this in a... let's say. Uh. Spiritual realm. Esoteric spooky-fu bullshit. At a guess." It doesn't look like a guess.

Cris is watching her mouth so intently that he might as well be deaf and resorting to reading lips. From that impish grin to its dimming in concession, he watches it all in relation to her words as if that's going to tell him just as much as the words she's saying. There is a little twitch of a smile when she says 'Esoteric spooky-fu bullshit', Sparrow's chosen terminology doing well to crack that tense bearing of his just the tiniest fraction like a fault line warring between two shifting planes. The friction awakened earthquake comes in the form of a rumble. "That's what the cards say about the past. What about the future?" He doesn't refute anything she says, nor is he exactly confirming it or offering any correlation to his reading of the scatter of chicken bones.

Sparrow might be used to keeping lip-reading company, because there's no indication as she goes on that she's at all bothered by it, that she's reading it as untoward intention. He might catch the subtle sink of her shoulders when that weird word choice seems well-received. Always hard to be sure how that's gonna go in a town like this, falling dead when it's wrong and, often, poking a hornet's nest when it's not. "Justice." Yeah, he can read that. Says it right there on the card. "She's a tricky one to read. But she talks about truth either way. Kind of, uhm. An amplification of that two over there, in her way. About balance, too. But this isn't the same sort of balancing. This is weighing truth. Cutting through the bullshit." With some weight, she adds, "Making decisions. Before they're made for you." It sounds like there could've been more, but her own words catch her a bit off-guard. Yeah, that's the right read. No need to ramble further. With a glance down at the bones, she asks, "Do I get to see the other side?" without waiting for answer before tacking on, "You have any questions?"

And there's that damn tick in his jawline again, born from a subtle set of teeth against each other in a bit of a grind and grit that makes the muscle pop once or twice. "Cutting through the bullshit, huh?" Cristobal repeats, as if finding something substantial in that particular turn of phrase. "The cards tell you where I'm supposed to get the machete?" That appears to be his only question as he pushes back from the slight lean he's taken to as she was speaking. "And if my bones just say you're full of the same bullshit I'm supposed to be cutting through?" That one is rhetorical because he's holding out his hand again in a silent bid for her own and judging by the look on his features this isn't a request to be brokered. "Security cameras, yes, I know."

Sparrow doesn't hesitate to flip another card onto the third, laying The Lovers indirectly atop Justice in answer to his single follow-up question. Though the answer looks obvious, it's got her eyebrows drawing together for a second, swiftly dissipating as she snorts a laugh for his question. "I'd say they're pretty sharp," comes with a wide smile as she offers her hand over. There's no interpretation of the fourth card laid, not yet, brown eyes steadily set on blue. "I mean. That's what I advertised, right?" She doesn't sell it as well as she should, cockiness sinking beneath something a shade softer, more serious, that doesn't find any voice.

"Sharper than me sometimes. I shouldn't be explaining this to you." Cris says simply as he turns her hand over in his so it's palm up, and with the tip of a calloused finger he draws a slow imaginary pair of intersecting lines on her skin. "This is the crossroads. The center, here, is the heart of the problem. The crux or central issue. The bones tell me I have a blockage between heart and soul. Alternately love and the afterlife." His hands closes around hers, closing up her fingers like a Morning Glory shying its petals away from the heat of the sun. "I'm emotionally constipated." See? She's not the only one that can make little quips about their readings. With a wry twist of his lips, he squeezes her trapped hand slightly before relinquishing his grip. "Lo siento, please continue."

"I'm not really good with shouldn'ts either," Sparrow replies quietly, paying more mind to Cristobal's face than his fingers until that first line is drawn. Even then, her consideration is inconsistent, flicking from one point to the next as she drinks in as much detail as she can. She snorts a laugh at the joke, smile lingering as her fingers are freed. "Our friend the Two says sex'll help," is certainly a tease, maybe even flirtation, but some sobriety sneaks in as she tips a nod toward the last card laid out. "Could read that one that way, too. Specially with all that gold at their feet. And I could definitely entertain that as earnest advice. No doubt there's emotional release, especially when the sex is intense, but. Feel like I'd be doing you a disservice if I didn't, uh." The thought hitches a second.

"So. It's also about the balance between the head and the heart, right?" With another pause, she straightens slightly. "We've got coins, earth." She pats low on her belly, just above her lap. "What keeps us rooted. What keeps us alive. Then there's wands, fire." She presses her hand to her midsection, below her breasts, briefly more defined below her sweatshirt for how she draws the fabric in. "Passion. Where I'd put the soul in my work. Then heart." With a tap to her sternum, not where her heart actually is. "Water, cups. Emotion. And air." She taps her temple, the mind. "Swords. Which we see in Justice, yeah, but consider the alignment, how everything feeds up, from base through flame and over heart to the head. Justice requires alignment. Mental clarity is the end, not the beginning."

She flashes a faintly apologetic grin, a hint of self-consciousness flaring in the touch of color which comes to her cheeks. "Which is my very long-winded way of saying that the answer to your question is an ultracheesy follow your heart. Cuz that's what the Lovers do. They don't think. They do."

Cristobal's upper lip curls in something caught between a smirk and a sneer as Sparrow imparts she's not good with the 'shouldn'ts' of things. No doubt the mere commonality is causing all sorts of lascivious gears to start turning in his head. But he focuses through telling her what at least some of his reading suggested, but that goes a little blurry as she brings up the Cups again. His eyes follow the progression of her hand as it starts on her stomach and heads north with the explanation, his eyes going slightly hooded by the time she gets to the heart. "There's only one problem in the 'doing'." And then his lips turn up into a wicked grin that doesn't need much more explanation beyond: "Security cameras."

His heavy palm closes over the scatter of bones, gathering them beneath and into his grip with a curl of fingers so he can scoop them back up into their bag. "Eat your flan, Pajarillo, before it goes flat."

Sparrow's laughter is downright delighted, her wide smile rendered devilish my the mischievous glint in her bright brown eyes. "Not an exhibitionist then?" she taunts, possibly unwisely, as she follows suit, collecting her card and securing them in the drawstring pouch again. "Prolly shouldn't go out of my way to lose my job," comes with some reluctance, not entirely convincing, but she does reach for the flan, pulling it back out from under the counter and onto the freshly cleared surface. "But it's not like you don't have my number. Though. Should probably warn you. Higher price for those services." It's the sort of remark which really ought to come with a look of some sort, but she's too busy poking the flan with the fork, giggling so very contentedly when it wobbles. She's already taken her first bite by the time she looks up and concludes, "I might wanna get to know you. And I ask a lot of questions."

"Tip number one, if you can't profit from it, don't get caught on camera. I don't think TMZ would be lining up to buy 'hot redhead gets banged by angry latino'. Tip number two, don't threaten to charge when we both know we'd give it up for free." Cris pulls the drawstring closed rather succinctly, tucking the bag back in the pocket for his jacket where it still lays over a knee. The flan is pretty standard Mexican Flan, perhaps a tiny touch of cinnamon added, but the vanilla taste is pure and not from some syrup bought off the shelf at the Safe Way. Cristobal is reaching again for his beer, intent to finish it lest he be charged with alcohol about for leaving any behind. He drains the last of it with a heavy bob of his adam's apple.

"Just because you ask a lot of questions, doesn't mean they'll get answered. And who are you fooling? Of course you want to get to know me. I'm fucking fascinating." He plunks the empty can down in front of her. "Toss that for me, will yah?" And then he's sliding off his stool to thread his arms back into his coat.

Sparrow wants to protest that second point. She really, really does. The desire plays out across her face rather plainly. As does the acceptance that, yeah, he's probably right. "Still. Dinner and conversation'd be nice." Icing on the cake rather than payment for it. "This is good," comes around her third or fourth bite. "That cinnamon?" Her smile flashes wide as she issues a little mm!. She nearly chokes on her fifth bite, flan finding its way into her sinuses, when she laughs... and then coughs and then laughs some more at his declaration of awesomeness. Hard to see, at first, that it's not the least little bit derisive for how her eyes water, for the way her cheeks go red, but once she's got herself put back together a couple seconds later, she murmurs, "I like you," and leaves it at that. She'll get to cleaning up in a minute. For now, she's happy to enjoy her payment.

And the view.