2022-05-27 - Mad Tetris Skills

Another day, another shift at Espresso Yourself. Ariadne has noticed the volume of customers is steadily increasing as the temperatures steadily rise in turn. Summer is thinking about making a showing and it means less cups of steaming brew and more blended coffee monstrosities.

As such, yes, that is her muttering to herself under her breath as she plays with the blade mount on the interior of the smoothie machine. This thing is cursed, she swears, and it has nothing to do with her and everything with the Veil attempting to raise her blood pressure a few unnecessary points because A: sharp things, B: delayed orders, and C: she's really tired of being sprayed with whatever's being blended up inside when the lid to the blender mysteriously loosens yet again.

Today? The blender is clean because they're between orders, but there's a betraying splotch of what appears to be a mocha iced blend recipe on her left eyebrow. At least her hair was up and back in a clip so it was spared. Hearing the shop bells ring at the front door, she hollers out without looking up, "Hey, come on in! We'll be right with you."

Under her breath: "Screw into fucking place...!" to the blade piece in question.

"Maybe not right here, and maybe not right now," Ravn Abildgaard returns to that last remark from Ariadne. Unseen and unheard as often before, the tall Dane in black exists one moment where he didn't exist a moment ago; he has a knack for those ninja appearances. "But if you'll do me something drinkable I'm up for debating it when you're off work."

"Ravn." Una's being a good little citizen and bringing up her empty mug and plate to the counter rather than leaving them on the table to be collected, and she's just in time to pick up on Ariadne's mutter, catching the context if not the substance, and then the arriving Dane's reply. Her little gasp is definitely more one of mirth than horror, though; while there may be a paint of pink upon her cheeks, it's not so scandalised.

It's a very good thing Ariadne's retracting her hand from inside the apparatus: suddenly, a Ravn.

A moderately loud yelp and she's jump-straightened in place with her hand pressed against her chest. Ravn gets an owlish look before the barista busts out laughing.

"Oh my GOD, Ravn, seriously! Bells -- bells on you and Itzhak both, I swear to god," she says. Una's arrival is well-timed indeed! Behind the counter, Ariadne laughs a bit harder for a second. It's the aggrandized reaction. A fond shake of her head and she mounts the smoothie jar back into place on its base. "And you're both troublemakers." Una included, of course, really just to see if she can tease a reaction out of her fellow redhead.

"But something drinkable, hmm, I wonder what Ravn wants." It's black coffee, of course. Musing teasingly, the barista reaches to take Una's mug and plate. "Una, refill on what you had? Remind me if so?"

"Show me a bell collar that Kitty Pryde can't break and I will show you that I still can." Ravn smirks and rests an elbow on the counter. He looks proud enough of himself -- not so much for the smart-ass comment as for the successful ninja startle; boys will be boys, and some things will always be funny to boys.

He doesn't feel any need to elaborate on his order of preference. Does anyone in town not know his order of preference?

Instead he smiles at Una. "I have a trick I want to show you. And for once, there are no blue babies or cats with too many teeth involved. This one's just handy. I've created the classic Dungeons & Dragons Bag of Holding."

Blithely, though with a gleam in her eye that suggests she's either still amused, Una tells Ariadne, "I want what he's after, thank you Ariadne."

(Coffee. That's all she's after, promise.)

"And I am pro bells, and absolutely insist that I am the opposite of a troublemaker. I think you've mistaken me for a different redhead. Wait-- Ravn, bag of holding?" Beat. "Bag of Holding." Instead of disbelief, her thoughts have apparently immediately jumped ahead because her next question is a: "Can you fit, like, whole hat stands in it? Like Mary Poppins and her carpet bag? Show me!"

There's a cough-laugh from the sink as Ariadne delivers the mug and plate to the sink. Both of her companions get a drolly-amused look and rosebud-smile.

"I don't know about a hat stand, but a good number of things can suddenly disappear into that shoulder bag," comments the older redhead. "Other things that will disappear into that bag include Ravn's smirk he's wearing once I find one of those unbreakable bell collars and your attempt to keep from blushing more, young lady." A finger circled in Una's direction, just to see if she can prompt more of a blush out of the Kitchen Cleric. "But still, since I'm a professional." Throat-clearing, ahem, we are a professional even if we're dimpling up a storm. "Black coffee for the tall guy, previous order for the lady, be right up."

Of course she's watching the bag demonstration as she does this, easily dividing attention per experience and practice.

Ravn glances down at his shoulder bag; it's fitted for his sleek little laptop and a couple of books, nothing more. His grin turns no less wide as he tells Una, "You know what they say, it's not the size."

He ambles over to sit at the table nearest the counter so that he shamelessly can chat up at least one specific barista when the room's not too busy. Hanging the bag over the back of his chair he glances at it and says, "But yes, pretty much like that. I seem to be able to carry quite amazing amounts of stuff around. I intend to never find myself without bandaids or a map, or a torch, or a spare pair of socks ever again."

And as if to demonstrate he reaches into it only to line up on the table, a pair of socks (black, men's size), a windbreaker (black), a laptop (black), eight textbooks (assorted colours), a sandwich box (containing one tuna sandwich, probably purchased for his cat), a small thermos bottle (green), a first aid kit (family car type), and five plush weasels (cyan, pink, magenta, lime green, and yellow). "I'll think of more things, I'm sure."

On cue, Una blushes some more. Ravn and Ariadne are both the cause of this one, presumably."Wait, my attempt? Does that mean I do blush more, or I don't?" She's grinning, though, turning so that she can lean her body weight up against the counter and then use it to push herself off and into motion again, all the better to slide her way towards Ravn's newly-claimed table and inspect the demonstration.

"Holy shit," is both prompt and impressed, the words escaping almost involuntarily as item by item, Ravn pulls out his treasure trove of objects. "That's-- shit, that's awesome. And you just figured out how to do this?"

Another snort-laugh from the barista at the machine dispensing the plain cup of black coffee -- what a line. Ravn gets another fond side-look before Ariadne returns her attention to the machine. "You blush more," she replies to Una with a teasing wink. Una's order is swiftly in the works after she reaches a long arm to set the mug of black coffee on the counter for pick-up.

It means glancing up to see the contents of the bag appear. And continue to appear. And continue to appear. And get amusingly ludicrous. Barista hands starting at lightly fisted on her hips end up pressing fingertips to her lips by the time the -- those are plush weasels -- show up and she's definitively the source of the giggling now behind the counter. Russ down the way at the register glances over. "What?"

"Shenanigans," Ariadne replies to her coworker down the way with a reassuring grin. It's the code-word for harmless customer antics, apparently, and her coworker is mollified. She adds for Ravn in particular in a cheeky tone, "Hey, Copperfield, yours is up."

Well, don't tell Ravn twice. He walks up to fetch his coffee, leaving a table full of plush weasels in garish colours. Does Russ stare blankly? Probably.

When he settles back down he murmurs, somewhat more quietly, "I also have a pistol but I don't think it's a great idea to take that out in the middle of a coffee shop. Nor the baseball bat. Want a weasel? I use them for target practise -- they're not alive so we can float them, and if you try to do something and drop one by accident, they don't break. They do break when I shoot them, but, it's worth it for the satisfaction. Ever seen brain weasels? I have seen brain weasels."

Una presses one pinky-pale hand to her cheek and makes a face at Ariadne, as if to say: is that even possible? Spare my circulation! Of course, it comes with a grin, too, a moment later.

She's more thoughtful in her perusal of Ravn's hoard, picking up the magenta weasel and turning it over in her hands. "I... think we're good without waving the pistol and the baseball bat around in the middle of the coffee shop," she agrees. "I generally prefer my brain weasels to be metaphorical, as a rule, though-- actually, no, I'd prefer not to have any at all, but that's not the way it works, is it?"

What's the one thing cops like more than donuts? You guessed it: coffee. Especially discount coffee, courtesy of the fine staff at Espresso Yourself.

The pair of law enforcement who shoulder their way in from the rain are pretty well known around here. One's a six foot something black guy named Moretti who can't stop talking, and his partner's a gruff Mexican who won't start. He mostly nods along, hands shoved into the pockets of his matching GRAY HARBOUR POLICE jacket as they both mosey on up to the counter. He does seem to be in a decent mood this morning. Which is something.

"Get me a vanilla latte," Moretti requests with a broad grin, taking a lean up at the front as he digs out his wallet. "Extra foam." De la Vega rolls his eyes.

"I really don't want to consider what 'brain weasels' actually look like and the fact that anyone's seen them around here is not comforting to me."

Drily, Ariadne's comment proceeds her as she walks around the counter to then drop off Una's order in turn. The pinks stuffed weasel is then picked up and looked over as if it too might somehow be something more than it appears, much like the shoulder bag acting the part of the vaunted Bag of Holding. There's a gentle lean of hip, easy to track visibly, to bump against Ravn's elbow as the barista momentarily lingers. The pink plushie weasel is set back down on the table. "Adorable as hell." Can confirm per the marine biologist.

But business calls. She glances up as the front bells ring and recognizes at least the Mexican. "Hey gentlemen," comes the greeting as she then disappears behind the counter again. Time to make a drink or two.

Russ at the register takes the order for Moretti's vanilla latte with extra foam and hands off the cup to Ariadne before looking at Javier. "And for you?" the young man asks.

"They look like weasels. We had an invasion of them during the hurricane last summer. And since then, I've used plush toy weasels for target practise." Ravn begins to pack away his substantial stash of things on the table -- all of it somehow managing to fit into his shoulder bag in one amazing display of Tetris skills. "But no -- I didn't figure it out. Rosencrantz showed me."

Then the badged gentlemen wander up and he offers an upnod to them both; he's never talked much with Moretti but de la Vega, certainly.

Flush or no flush, Una smiles a brilliant smile at Ariadne in exchange for her coffee; magenta plush weasel goes back on the table so that she can take up the replenished mug instead. "How did you know they were brain weasels?" she wonders of Ravn, though chewing at her lip she seems to decide better of this and says, "Maybe I don't want to know; maybe I can guess. Bad plan."

The explanation of the bag's provenance draws another nod-- as do the two cops-- and Una pulls out a chair to sit, wrapping both hands back around her coffee once she's done so.

"Coffee," murmurs the older man without so much as a glance at the menu, or Russ. He too starts digging out his wallet, flips it open, and fishes out a crumpled note. "Black." A significant look's shot to his partner, who makes exaggerated kissy noises at him in response. The money's slid over beneath a pair of inked fingers, and -- upon spotting the folklorist -- de la Vega curves a slight smile. "Hey there."

A vanilla latte with extra foam isn't terribly difficult to concoct. Ariadne's thankful that it's not some monstrosity of a drink like a vente six-shot, no foam, mid-temp, sugar-free vanilla syrup at four pumps, fat-free milk, with whipped cream topping -- because that particular customer wanted fat-free milk and still the whipped cream topping. People are weird, the barista thinks to herself as she goes through the motions and glances down the way at Russ again.

"Black coffee and the vanilla latte..." Russ tabulates the total, takes the money, and gives back change. "They'll be ready down the way," he informs Moretti and Javier. It'll be the vanilla latte arriving first at the pick-up sector of the counter with how Ariadne works at a brisk speed. The black coffee won't be of any terrible trouble either -- it's just black coffee.

She's in the area to hear the conversation continue about brain weasels. "I mean, I'd like to hear the story sometime, but if it's gruesome, maybe someplace not here," she says in Ravn and Una's direction with a concerned quirk of brows. Her voice then lifts: "Order up!" This for the two drinks for the two cops.

"They were weasels, coming into the hurricane shelter, and going for people's heads." Ravn nods slightly; this is perhaps not the place to describe the little assholes and their demise in greater detail -- and definitely not the part where the Chief blew the head off their faerie master, either. Ravn doesn't regret it one moment -- in fact, that was the day he decided to learn to shoot properly.

He upnods back at Javier in indication that there's space at the table by the counter. And for once in his life, the folklorist seems to be cradling in his gloved hands -- a cup of black coffee, no frills, no active coal, no colourful algae syrup, no carrots. Just coffee. Apparently, it pays off, dating one of the baristas.

"Hm," is Una's comment on the subject of weasels, which probably serves as confirmation that no, this is not the right place to discuss these things in detail, and also, possibly, that this is fucked up and wtf Gray Harbor not that she really should be surprised, of course, but still. "I think that's a conversation that requires beer," she finally concludes. "Or possibly whiskey. Or both. I'm easy, really."

"What the hellllllllll."

A slightly more work-appropriate drawl from the barista when Ravn does his succinct little summary of 'brain weasels'. She echoes Una's sentiments with a nod even as she wipes off her hands on a lightly-dampened towel with the lack of attention indicating long-practice. "I'm easy too." A beat. "Shush, you," she murmurs in Ravn's direction with a quick little smirk. A glance at the clock on the wall and she makes a soft sound of delight. "Excellent, time for my break. Lemme shuck an apron and I've got dibs on a seat."

She does just this, revealing her t-shirt of the day beneath it: a navy-blue number with bold white lettering announcing, CHAOS. When she settles down in the chair beside Ravn, it'll become more apparent there's a gold chain about her throat; whatever's on it hides away beneath the t-shirt to keep it safe from work-related damage.

"Made progress on your ball costume, Una? Also, I heard you're treating Jules to a spa day for her birthday -- good call," grins the barista at her fellow redhead. "Jules' birthday was a day or two back, she was sneaky," Ariadne informs Ravn with a glance at him.

"Nothing wrong with being sneaky." Ravn smiles, a little sheepishly -- if he had had any say in the matter, no one would know his birthday. "And spa day sounds -- well, divine. It's rare enough to catch a day of proper rest in this town. I don't suppose you're smart enough to treat her to a spa day in somewhere else?"

How the hell is he getting all those weasels into that bag? Oh well. Mad Tetris skills.

"I have still got no idea what I'm going to the ball as. The prettiest princess' something something. I'll find out. If I think about it now I'll panic and end up chaining myself to the largest sequoia in the woods and refuse to get dragged there. Surprise me."

Alas, answers on any of those questions will need to wait: Una's phone begins to buzz, and after a frown at it, she offers her companions a reluctant shrug and heads for the exit to answer it. "Yes? Oh-- one second."

Ariadne lifts brows at the phone call. "No worries," she mouths at Una and nods as the younger redhead has to abruptly depart for better conversational purposes. A glance over at Ravn after she's slouched back into her chair more with her arms lightly crossed beneath her chest.

"You wouldn't really chain yourself to a sequoia, would you?" she asks her boyfriend in a tone containing understanding if fond tease. They've had this discussion before, about how large social gatherings aren't cups of tea (or coffee) sometimes and understandably so. "You know that I know exactly what you're going as at this point, you tall goofball." A gentle nudge of shoulder to shoulder, easy to spot on approach. "I'm also intending to take Jules out for a birthday drink at some point here, want to tag along?"

She glances up at the two cops in idle curiosity. Their drinks are still ready whenever they are, the boon of a smaller coffee house: no hurry, no worry.

"You know what I'm going as, I don't." Ravn offers a small, lopsided smile. "But if it's too outrageous -- I'm not throwing away the map to the sequoia yet, just saying."

He sips his coffee and cants his head. "Out for a drink, sounds good. But, are you certain that that's not a girls' night out you're talking about? I'm not sure I can shave close enough to qualify for one of those, tempting as it sounds. If it's a mixed affair, though, I'll be happy to tag along. I like the ladies in number five."

"Ohhhhh, the costume won't be outrageous, you know it won't," Ariadne claims with a little wave of her hand to shoo away such an idea as is. "If you want to know, I'll tell you right now." She smirks at the taller Dane and then shrugs. "I haven't ironed out the fine details with Jules, but if it's a mixed party, I'm sure you're invited. If it ends up being just the ladies, then I suppose you'll be left to wonder what the hell we're up to and whether or not I might start drunk-texting you. I've never really been one to do that, but hey, there's always a first time in a relationship."

Her hazel eyes travel to the front doors. "I wonder who called Una...and she's killing me with curiosity about what she's going to be. Did I tell you she sewed me a cloak for my birthday? Like a proper deep-hooded cloak long enough to reach my toes and swirl in a potentially malevolent manner as I take corners quickly enough?" Such beam.

"Gotta take a leak," Moretti informs the older cop, elbowing him in the side as he passes off his drink. "Find me a seat, will ya?" And then he's thumping off, leaving de la Vega with two cups of coffee and, apparently, the offer of a seat. The vanilla latte's set down first, thump, and then all one hundred ninety odd pounds of him in the chair next to Ravn. "Who the fuck orders a latte with extra foam?" he wants to know. Possibly of Ariadne, considering he's looking at her when he asks it. slurp as he downs some of his coffee and digs out his phone.

"You did not," Ravn agrees, grey eyes sparkling with amusement; he can easily envision this, yes -- swirling until suddenly plonking down, dizzy. "But no, don't tell me. I have my chain and my padlock. I will see this costume you've planned for me and then you'll know -- it, or the sequoia."

His amusement does not dim at de la Vega's comment. "I am going to say -- somebody who wishes they could just ask for a glass of warm milk? Not that Moretti strikes me as neither very young, nor suffering from insomnia. My mother always had me fed warm milk with honey when I had a cold as a kid, maybe he's preparing to take a few days off with the man flu."

Ravn's claim makes the redhead beside him snort-laugh. "Alright, that's fair," she accedes of the large tree and potential self-jailing against it. She thinks it's fine, the idea and resulting design. Not too many feathers, not too little number of feathers -- Goldielock's porridge of feathers: just right.

And then, Javier settled at the table. His question makes Ariadne's brows lift and she can't help the little laugh. She chimes in after Ravn's thoughts: "People who want more texture to their drink...or maybe a plateau where the sprinkling of whatever can sit instead of dissolving into the drink," she informs the cop with a good-natured grin. "Not the craziest drink order I'll ever field, that much is certain."

Javier glances after where his buddy went, then back to Ravn with a shrug. "You think either of us sleep well at night, the shit we see on an average day?" He snorts, and takes a sip of his coffee. "Anyway, he's a baby." Meaning the guy's probably in his thirties, at best guess. A fair bit younger than de la Vega, anyway. "The fuck's the man flu?" His gaze roves back to Ariadne, and his brows furrow. He does not ask why someone would want to add texture to their drink. But he's thinking about it.

"According to every woman I've met, it's what we get instead of flu. Which is why when we have the flu, we are dying while women are just, eh, it's another day. I used to think it was kind of sexist babble, to be honest, but they did some actual research on it -- and it turns out that men do tend to get sicker because women's immune defence systems are a tad better on average. So basically, we're the fragile little flowers we like to think they are." Ravn looks amused at the idea. Of course he's never felt any particular need to prove himself macho.

He glances at Ariadne as if he's actually wondering the same thing. But then, given he always orders black coffee, no frills, maybe Ravn is not the first to understand why anyone would want to insult their coffee with words like 'plateau' or 'sprinkle' or heaven forbid, 'boba pearls'.

Ariadne does appear a tad bit pleased to have the research pointed out. It was on the tip of her tongue to mention it as is. Still, diplomatically, she adds, "A solid head cold doesn't differentiate much anyways between the sexes and the spectrum of identifiers. You're still screwed over with a monster headache and putty in your sinuses no matter what. If you're lucky, your joints don't feel like you played a game of Rugby while drunk."

An idle glance over towards Russ; he seems to be holding his own, excellent coworker that he is. "Nothing wrong with a soother before bed anyways, though I'd skip coffee if anybody wants to sleep."

"I will drink coffee in the evening and I will lie awake to three am twitching, and then I'll get up and take the Zoom calls from my students which come in at around that time anyway." Ravn laughs softly. "I've grown used to the whole idea of sleeping in strange intervals. And heaven knows even those of us who aren't cops see some shit in this town -- there's plenty nightmares to go around, alas. I intend to spend most of tonight convincing myself that no one's going to make me give a speech tomorrow, and if they do, I will drag Ariadne on stage as my meat shield."

Cue chortling: "Meat shield, oh my god, Ravn."

Ariadne puts her hand over her mouth briefly while she stoppers up some serious cackling. "Look: nobody's going to make you speech. I really don't think anyone's going to make you speech. Besides, I can speech for you. I'll just do the monologue from the Fellowship, about liking half of people as much as I'd like and liking more less half as less as they deserve -- or however that one goes. Watch me memorize it just in case." It's not a far-reaching possibility of the barista doing this, just in case.

"I could never do that anyways, be awake that late and night and communicate clearly with anyone. If I had students...good lord. I'd be too blunt, I think. Cite your goddamn sources, Ralph," she funs as an example.

"Given these are army boys coming back from active duty, I don't think there is such a thing as being too blunt." Ravn smiles a little. "Generally, they tend to take it better when you call things as they are. They've heard enough hot air and empty promises. Sometimes they'll yell at me because I'm a green schoolmarm who'd shit my pants if somebody pointed a gun at me, and I tell them they're absolutely right and let them get it out of their system. Sometimes I point out that unless they plan to go through the rest of life blowing away any opposition, they'd better start using their brains instead. It can get quite loud but you have to remember that these are people who are struggling with some pretty severe trauma. Also, sources are the least of it, stop lifting your texts from fucking Wikipedia without checking their sources."

A sound of comprehension from Ariadne, this accompanied by a nod. "Ah-hah. So we talk to them like I do my Army friend in Montana. I know this secret." She even taps the side of her nose as if it should remain a shared secret otherwise. "But I can't believe you still get students who directly plagiarize Wikipedia without checking their sources. Seriously?" It's more rhetorical by the shake of her head to follow. "I had a professor who only gave you one shot not to do that and then you auto-failed his class. He was a little wicked, but I liked him for it. He'd also lock you outside in the hall if you were late. Never saw him take a cell phone though, which was surprising to me."

She pauses to say to Russ, "Behind the tangerine syrup." He looks there for the spare pump and thumbs-up in Ariadne's direction; she upnods at him in return.

"When some bloke's spent all night in a PTSD flashback to the Helmand Province, you don't flounce him for desperately trying to appease you with Wikipedia. That's not my job." Ravn upends his coffee. "My job is to sit him down, talk him through it, and get him working on the piece he is going to actually submit to his professor. To evaluate how bad he is -- do I need to tell his professor he needs more time? Do I need to tell him that if he doesn't get his shit together, he is going to wash out?"

He smiles lightly and puts the coffee cup down. "The very most of them manage, somehow. Some of them take more time than others. But the real point isn't whether they ever get a Bachelor's in whatever. It's that they learn to be human again. And on that note, I do need to get started on my ever-growing pile of backed-up emails. Going to nip over to HOPE to do it -- why is it that once I need proper wi-fi, this place fills with tourists? They should come here while I'm living at Oak Avenue in winter."

Grouse, grouse. "I'll see you both around. Chief, give my regards to Moretti and tell him to take honey with his warm milk, right?" And off he is, though not until he's squeezed Ariadne's hand quickly in passing. PDAs are not and probably never will be coming naturally to the Dane.