2020-07-14 - We Didn't Start the Fire

Abitha had given Sparrow an address, which may or may not be strange to any local, as it was near, but not totally on the Bayside row. She would arrive to find a small cottage, seemingly charming and manicured. The siding was white, it had an adorable picket fence and vines archway. Everything about it said Victorian finery. No family markings however, and no cars in the driveway. There was a keypad deadbolt on the front door and a doorbell.

Abitha would open it soon after the ring. She wore no make up, and her eyes were red, but she looked better than she could have given the events two nights prior. She opens the door a little wider once she sees Sparrow, and there’s the ghost of a tired smile. She was wearing a rumpled green T-shirt and jean shorts, the logo a little cactus that indicated she was ‘Not A Hugger’.

“Hey.” is all she can really manage, her voice a gravely croaking version of her usual monotony.

Sparrow's features are creased with what's probably worry, maybe curiosity, possibly both when she gets out of her very easily identifiable red Kia with its numerous kitschy bumper stickers and heads toward the door. It's a (rainbow cut-off) jean shorts and (black creepy drippy white eye) tee shirt kinda day for her, too. But she's got on make-up, complementing the colors in her shorts and the laces of her sneakers, and accessories. When she answers that, "Hey," with one of her own, it almost sounds like a question. "Not sure if you've secured yourself an immediate hideaway or you already had one to begin with and. I dunno. Maybe you're actually FBI or something." Pausing her perusal of the place, she looks directly at Mac and asks, "Are you FBI?"

There’s a snort, followed by a slightly exasperated sounding sigh as Mac takes a look around the area. The place was... Not her decorating style. She was all new age, industrial, but comfy surfaces. This place was old, antiques, and had that potpourri odor indicative of a much older generation. But, then, in the middle, the floor was literally scattered with computer parts, some old dinosaur of a Dell seemingly disassembled and its innards laid out in an arc on the floor alongside a dark brown bottle.

“No.” comes her answer, her voice still quite harsh and weak, “My Mother rented me an AirBnB.” The word mother seems to have a weird inflection to it, proper and professional, like one would refer to a doctor or a professor, and lacking that certain familiarity one would expect. “For a week or until I get my ‘affairs sorted’.”

Sparrow lingers at the door once she closes it behind her, not wholly sure if she should maybe take off her shoes before proceeding into the Very Nice House where her Very Casual Former-Boss is currently living. For a week. In the end, she leans into that indifference implied toward the person paying for the place and moves forward, finding a place to sit--like, actually designed for sitting--on the outskirts of the mechanical mess sprawled across the floor. "Do you have a lot of affairs to sort?" the purple-haired punk teases, angling a playful waggle of her brows toward Mac. The humor effortlessly bleeds into something more sympathetic as she notes, "You know I've got a room, right?" Had she mentioned it? Probably not. "Big house. Could prolly spare a room as a workshop, too. Or whatever."

“No. Just waiting on the insurance. Looking at buildings.” The way she was shortening her sentences as she went, she was either getting choked up or just hoarded from all the screaming and crying. Not that she’d admit it. Sparrow’s look would probably present a juxtaposition. Mac’s shoes were very neatly set near the door, either a proper training or an Asian adjacent sort of thing. But the mess of parts was making it clear she used the house however the hell she wanted. Unhelpful. Mac was settling herself in the empty spot at the crux of the arc, this having obviously been her work area. The tools she had been using to take the box apart were clearly old, greasy and not hers, and not near up to the job. She was using them anyways. She reaches into the box to start unscrewing the motherboard just as Sparrow was offering, and there was a very obvious sort of blinking, but Mac was long dry of crying, and she stared into the box to not look at Sparrow and make it any worse on herself.

“That’s... That’s a really good offer. Idea. Um.” Now it was more obvious that it wasn’t just lingering hoarseness, “It’ll depend on the space I can find. Yaknow, having the whole building was really convenient.” And she didn’t drive, which Sparrow might or might not have known by then. Mac’s little self-sustained bubble she built made it so it didn’t come up often.

"Well." Sparrow leans forward with her elbows set on her knees, bringing her a little closer to Mac's level while they talk. "The room's empty. It's not like you need to sign a lease or anything. So. If you're still without a place when your week is up here?" She shrugs. The offer's out there. Even if it's unlikely to solve her financial problems at the moment. She'll figure that one out later. There are options. She lets that hang for a few seconds before pressing into the way more awkward territory of, "So. Uh. How're you holding up?" She pulls a face, mildly frustrated. It's not the question she meant to ask, but pushing right into you sounded weird in your texts and I can't figure out if that's grief or something's up seems maybe not the best approach. It'll have to do.

Another heaved sigh and a redoubling of effort on finally getting the last screw out, carefully extracting the motherboard from the Dell. She begins to visually inspect it for any damage or corrosion but seems to pointedly stop and set it down on the floor in front of her a moment. Her green eyes finally drift to Sparrow’s, making an effort to make sure it was a sincere, “Thank you.” before her eyes were back on the components.

“I mean, I’m fine. I’m just frustrated. There’s a flicker in this monitor, and I don’t want to have to crack the case on the LED to figure out if it’s just a bad connection, so I’m just trying to figure out if all the components on the hardware are good first.” It was techno ramble, and didn’t answer the question well at all. This was no where near the type of computer that met Mac’s standard and the fact she was taking such a careful, focused tear down of a computer that she absolutely should not be messing with might be an indication she wasn’t handling something well.

"Pretty sure you can fix the flicker," Sparrow, not a computer nerd, mumbles at the deflection. She might not get the ins-and-outs of it or why this computer was out of Mac's wheelhouse, but she knows that her question went, oh, entirely unanswered. "I won't press, if you don't want me to press, but if something's going on?" She looks off to the side and follows that movement, up from that forward lean and into a backwards slouch. "I've got a few other friends caught up in some weird stuff. Not, uh. Weird weird with a capital W probably? But. I dunno. Someone said something about zombies, so. Who knows, right?" Again, her face scrunches up sourly, but it's fleeting, expression settled into as gentle a sternness as she can manage when she looks back to Abitha. "If there was anything not-normal on pretty much any level?"

“Nope. Not big W Weird. Weird how obvious it was, maybe.” Abitha starts, then raises a hand to have to cough, harsh and grainy. She reaches for her cider and takes a swig, wincing. After a breath, she continues. “Two cops showed up near closing. Wanted info on some dude. I told them no. Next night my shop burns down. All on camera. Didn’t give a shit. Haven’t looked at cameras from the night. Screen... flicker’s too... too annoying.” That might or might not seem like a strange reason. She obviously had her phone, and had used it to look at the cameras plenty before, even yelling at Kyle while she was still in bed. The catch in her voice as she said it was shaky, like she was having a hard time getting the excuse out, but was otherwise holding it together.

Willing herself to put down computer components only seemed to make her fidget more, and the label on the bottle she was holding soon became the newest thing that needed fixing, removing, her shortly shorn nails slowly beginning to push and peel it up at the edges. “One cop had tiny shine. Not like us. Other one was a normie.”

Sparrow was just doing her due diligence, acting on that worry that Joey had nudged her way with his wellness check the other day. She hadn't really expected anything that was gonna begin with 'two cops' and end with any mention of either of them shining. As soon as that first detail comes out, her expression shifts, surprise and comprehension registering at the same time, like a piece unexpectedly clicking into place in what she thought was almost certainly the wrong puzzle. "Did you get names?" comes as she shifts in her seat to pull her phone from her pocket. "Badge numbers? Any idea who they were asking after?" Tilting her phone toward Mac indicatively, she asks, "You mind if I poke a friend about this? Not a cop."

“H Liu, which I’ve come to find out is a Harvey.” Mac answers, looking around for her phone, and not quite remembering where it was at the moment, which was probably for the best. She still fidgets with the cider bottle and readjusts her legs into a more comfortable cross. She sighs a little at the question and shrugs, “I poked August soon after they came in. Got the rundown on that crooked is the usual around here, but he seemed surprised. Said he was telling a friend that was a cop. So... Yeah? Sure?”

Mac looks at Sparrow again for a moment, about to open her mouth and say something, but closes it, a look in the gamer’s eyes like she was realizing something, then looks away. Of course, this affected Sparrow just as badly or maybe even worse than it did Mac, Sparrow had every right to investigate it as well.

"Was that one of the cops or whoever they were looking for?" Sparrow asks of this Harvey guy, the name clearly not ringing a bell. Unlike August's. And the referenced friend-who's-a-cop. "Prolly Javier." She waggles her phone, gesturing as she clarifies, "The, uh. Acting Chief of Police, I guess? Wanna say nice guy, but. That's not the right word? But also not not the right word. And--" She flashes an apologetic frown toward Mac. "--not at all relevant. Sorry."

She catches that click, that weird look angled her way, maybe accidentally, but she doesn't press. Instead, she shoots off a couple of texts to somebody as she explains, "I, uh. Have a friend who was run off the road week or so ago. And then he and some other friends were shot up at the police chief's funeral. Then there's this news about the gunfight at the casino. And all of it?" She gestures with her phone again. "Friend of mine, real fucking good guy, keeps getting pinned for all of it."

There’s a sagely, and understanding nod given when Sparrow waxes back and forth about Ruiz’s personality. “Ah. I know the struggle.” Mostly because that’s probably how people would paraphrase Mac on different days as well. She tried... Sometimes. And not others. The cider becomes indicatively lighter as Mac takes a steeper pull from it, then sets it aside to attempt to stop fidgeting. But all habits die hard, and one of the expansion cards it lifted. Seriously, how old was this thing it still had an Ethernet NIC?

“Yeah, Harvey Liu was the cop. Tough guy, he thought. He wanted to scare me. Was looking for an excuse.” She explains, though not going into how she knew it. She was capital ‘W’ weird, it came with the territory. “Guess I gave him one.” she mutters. Again, guilt. Her eyes hit the floor. Her unthinking had led to her shop being burned down and two students to lose their jobs. Fuck. She looks up surprised at all the other news though.

“Damn, I feel kinda self centered moping around here. People getting shot at, and all.” There was a furrowing of her brow, a concentration, or a mulling over. She looks up, “If your friends need help, I’m not help less. If this is all involved... I mean there has to be a trail to things, right?”

Sparrow doesn't seem the least little bit bothered by the fidgeting. Hell, she doesn't even seem to notice. Goodness knows she's prone to similar behavior some days. Today, she's maybe worryingly chill. If one ignores the weird faces she makes at her phone every now and then. Which are a good bit different from the comfortably stern look she turns to Mac when that guilt bubbles up, all blatantly obvious this time. Waiting right there for the fidgety geek when she looks back up. "This is not your fault. Whatever excuse you think you gave him? Totally one hundred percent does not excuse setting fire to everything you had in Gray Harbor. That is entirely disproportionate by any normal human standards."

She pauses just enough to imply an unspoken Okay? before continuing. "And you are totally justified in whatever moping you have to do regardless of whatever anyone else is going through. This is all bullshit. And, frankly? You lost a lot, even if nobody died. So." The lecture just sort of ends there, with some implication that she's allowed to feel what she's feeling. Except maybe guilt. Which Sparrow might even allow if she weren't in a very Fuck Those Guys place at the moment. "And my friend says he'll see if the pieces fit. I can introduce you, if you want. Real nice guy. Helped organize the jello thing."

There's only so much tough bitch juice one can really channel in these kinds of situations, and only so many time you can skirt certain issues in the attempt to avoid returning to pain. Mac was making noises of grudging agreement with Sparrow's words, nodding dejectedly. It was what she needed to hear. Until Mac starts to go silent and still. It wasn't Sparrow's fault in the least as she tries to reassure Mac of the facts, but she had hit the nail on the head. Mac had lost everything. That reminder was what had Mac's eyes open, beginning to get glassy, face reddening, muscles she had been forcing to stay calm and relaxed now bunching on her face.

It didn't matter how much would be replaced by insurance. That was her store. Those were her things. She wasn't going to get back her wardrobe, the cosplay she met GabeN in, the trophy from the first tournament she participated in, the first system she hand restored. Money doesn't get those things back, and the pain of that realization shakes Mac's form as she tries to hold back a sob. It wasn't a great attempt, and she lifts an arm to tuck her eyes into her elbow, like some sort of weird childish mechanism to not show an adult they wanted to cry. She tries her best to just breath through it, shaky inhalations and exhalations through pursed lips, her other arm wrapped around her midsection, but it would be a good bit before she could talk again.

Crying is Perfectly Normal. So is trying not to show it. And so is that wide-eyed oh fuck that crosses Sparrow's features when she realizes she might've kinda maybe slammed on that button. Her first instinct is to look away, to try to provide some semblance of privacy for that battle that Abitha's fighting right over there. Or, more accurately, to flee mentally at the very least. Some might even call it a polite instinct, a healthy reflex. Maybe it even could be if she saw it through. Instead, she sinks from her seat to join Mac on the floor. One hand reaches to tentatively settle on a shaky shoulder while the rest of her posture remains open, inviting. Hugs here for anyone who wants 'em. And no words. Words got us here.

Clearly, Sparrow had spent enough time around Mac to know physical contact was offered or allowed very seldom by the gamer. The shirt was not ironic. What was ironic was that normal humans are wired to want contact in consolation in times such as this. And it was literally the only shirt she owned. Mac, to her protest, deep down, was still human. The touch was not shied from. A sob or two more, and maybe it was coincidental, but Mac leaned forward into it, surrendering to the hug, and even returning it.

Thankfully, she was dehydrated enough that she wasn't too messy crier, and whatever past emotional or developmental damage she had meant she was quiet and quick to recover. It would likely feel all too short for a good cry, but Mac manages a croaking, "Thanks," before trying to pull away, sucking in a wet sniffle as she lifts a hand to try to wipe her face.

"Sorry, I'm a mess."

Sparrow's gentle. Maybe she's afraid that she might scare Mac off if she hugs too intensely. Maybe she's uncomfortable herself. Maybe she just understands how to be supportive and receptive sometimes thanks to growing up with a couple of wellness weirdos for parents. Whatever the case, she keeps the embrace fairly loose, easy to escape, only leaning in just enough to provide necessary support while Mac works through whatever rough sobs need to work themselves out.

Her arms fall slack when Mac withdraws, and her weight shifts more comfortably toward her hip. There's a nod for the gratitude, then a quiet assurance of, "It's alright," for the unnecessary apology, accepted rather than dismissed. "I can't even imagine what you're going through. Like. Right down to how your routine is entirely just... gone. So. How about Corey and I send over some meals for the week, alright? You lemme know if you've got any allergies or restrictions or major preferences, and we'll fix some stuff up. And you can focus on the stuff that's keeping your head where it needs to be right now. Whatever's helping you get through. Alright?"

Deep breaths, cleansing breaths, Mac forces herself to get it back together. She sheepishly nods to the assertion of meals and shakes her head to any allergies. There's another thank you given, part of her knowing when Sparrow said she'd do something, she did that thing. Mac offers a shake of her head to allergies and a short, rueful laugh, speaking between halting breaths, still sounding gravelly, "I don't... really have anything I won't eat. It's uh... been mostly liquid." she jokes before another deeper breath as she draws her legs under her and tries to straighten her posture. It would seem imposing if not for her stature and the entirely childish and wet sniffle she makes before it.

"If you're going, before you do, I gotta do the business thing." She admits seriously. "So, Lack of Work is the term I gotta use on a layoff for you and Kyle. That means you'll be able to collect unemployment and I absolutely won't fight that process." She leans forward and puts her hands down, then pushes up to her feet. There's a moment where she has to resteady herself, but she seems to get it and walk to one of the small front tables, "I emailed Kyle his, but I printed you one since you were coming over."

She retrieves a sheet of paper and hands it over to Sparrow. Without looking at it. It has the Control Pad logo at the top, likely the reason for her visual avoidance, and is a standard form letter for a layoff.

The weird bit is the part where it says Sparrow will be eligible for all her accrued vacation time, paid immediately on her next and final paycheck.

"Right, so." Sparrow angles a look toward that cider bottle with a hint of a grin just beginning to touch her lips. "We'll send over some gatorade or something too." It might be a joke. It sounds like a joke. It won't be until the package arrives later that she'll know for sure. Once Mac's on her feet, she follows. And then pats herself for her phone. Blink. Blinkblink. Yes, she's listening to what her now-former boss is saying, but she also looks back at the seat she abandoned to find her phone stuck between a square cushion and an armrest, right where it had fallen when she got up without thinking about it. She'll catch that closing otter-and-duck gif from Joey later. For now, the device is just shoved in her pocket as she refocuses and follows, moving to pluck up that piece of paper. And likewise avoid looking at it. For a different reason. It just goes right into her other pocket without much consideration for the moment. Another detail for later: the WTF about the vacation payout. "Pretty sure I'mma be alright. I've got options. None of them as good as what I had, but." She doesn't linger there long, brows doing their stern Mama Bird thing as she refocuses on Mac-Care. "I'll be by either later tonight or tomorrow morning. I'll text. Quick delivery. Unless you need some people time." Beat. "Which everybody does sometimes. Even people who aren't people people. But. Yeah." She points toward the door. "I'mma get. I'll let you know if I hear anything back, alright?"

Mac makes a face when it comes to Gatorade, as would be expected. She nods in confirmation of the options, though looks a little skeptical. There's a look on her face like she was keeping something unsaid, neutral, not betraying intentionally. "And I'll think about what the end of this week looks like. Really. Thanks for the offer. If it comes down to it, a workshop is less what I'd need to a streaming room instead. I might be a little loud without some soundproofing." There's a pause, a blush, a banished thought. She'd had roomates briefly in college, and it was a traumatic enough experience. She shoves both her hands in her back pockets in that awkward, no-idea-what-to-do-with-hands stance. She can't help but add with a little concern of her own, "Yeah but like... You've got a bunch of friends who all need help. You be careful, too. And if you want to stop by to hang, I've got plenty of house. Or not. I'm at the mercy of like... everything, at the moment." Fucking quit getting choked up Mac, this is big girl, 'We're gonna be ok once we part ways today' time. Another breath, she goes on, "Though I should have a workable laptop day after next, I've been assured." Because Mac without a current generation technical outlet may actually become a lethal force if left alone to stew.