Encounterlogs
Rachels Odd Encounter Sr Lauren 240423
In the early hours at the Oh, For Heaven's Cake! café, an unlikely group forms when Rachel, Trevor, and Gabriella's morning is interrupted by the arrival of a distressed teenager named Rebecca, who declares herself a psychopath undeserving of sweetness in her life. Amidst Rachel and Trevor's light-hearted conversation and the ensuing uncomfortable declaration by Rebecca, the atmosphere shifts distinctly. Rachel, aiming to diffuse the tension, offers to pay for Rebecca's pie, sparking a significant moment of conflict as Rebecca protests, claiming that indulging could lead her back to harmful behavior. Despite the revelation of her past actions—pushing a friend down the stairs—Rachel and Gabriella respond with a mixture of concern and practical advice, suggesting that indulgence in pie could be a means to curb malevolent urges rather than succumb to them.
Rebecca's admission draws a varied range of reactions, from concern to attempts at humor, as the group navigates the conversation's seriousness and absurdity. Rachel, in a moment of quiet counsel, whispers something indiscernible to Rebecca, a gesture that seems to pivot the young girl towards a semblance of hope. The situation concludes with Rebecca, still plagued by her self-doubt and seeking redemption, asking the poignant question of how to fix herself. Trevor's reply underscores a theme of human imperfection and the potential for improvement, suggesting that the encounter, while odd and interspersed with moments of levity, serves as a reminder of the complexities of human behavior and the search for acceptance and transformation amidst one’s own flaws.
(Rachel's odd encounter(SRLauren):SRLauren)
[Mon Apr 22 2024]
In the cafe of Oh, For Heaven's Cake!
The brick wall behind the counter and display case has been painted a calming seaside shade of pale turquoise, breathing new life into the older building, with the remaining walls left their natural warm browns and deep reds. Thick dark wooden beams create a further focal point and add dimension against the brightly painted brick. Floors are laid with a dark, polished cherry hardwood, swept clean and left tidy. Natural light streams through the window panes on each side of the door, and turquoise fixtures on iron poles hang from the rafters to provide soft lighting at night.
The counter is made of a thick piece of cherrywood, with ironwork scroll detailing at each end. An old-fashioned register sits to the side to ring up customers, while three cherrywood swivel stools with low rounded backs and iron pedestals provide a place to wait on an order. A bistro style table for two is pressed next to the window for people watching and a gift shop is nestled into the corner beside the eastern door marked 'Unisex Restroom'.
It is night, about 48F(8C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. There is a waxing gibbous moon.
(Your target and their allies encounter a demonborn who in the midst of sadistic lust has gone too far and is now filled with regret and self loathing at what they've done.
)
"Handwritten it is," Trevor replies, eyeing Rachel with a curious glance. "You're going to regret asking for it, I'm warning you."
It's early morning. Trevor and Rachel must have been here a while, awake earlier than even the birds, because they've got cookies in front of them, and a glass of milk each. "You can't be that bad. I can read my *doctor's* writing." There's easy banter between the two of them -- but a little shy, at least on Rachel's part. They must be new to each other.
In the early morning hours of the day, the soft hum of the espresso machine fills the air, accompanied by the occasional clink of ceramic mugs and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries baking in the oven. The first light of dawn is but a distant glimmer in the sky, only the barest lightening of the sky outside visible through the large windows that provide a view of the Court street outside the cafe. There's hardly any passersby at this time of the day, only a rare car passing by now and then, lighting up the street with its headlights.
There's few other customers to be found in the cafe this time of the day, too early for even the early-risers and the office-goers to be seeking a cup of coffee. Maybe in an hour or two. Right now, there's just them filling the cafe with quiet, easy banter, and whoever's in the back preparing fresh batches of pastries. That is, up until the door pushes open with a jingling of the bell and a girl in her late teens trudges her way in, her shoulders slumped and her eyes lined with dark circles beneath. She doesn't look like she's brushed her hair anytime recently, and her clothes are a little wrinkled; if anyone could be said to need some cake, it's her.
"I'll have some coffee, please." comes her order mumbled to the person behind the counter, "As dark as my pathetic soul. No sugar because I don't deserve anything sweet in my life." Teenagers. A sigh as she walks past Rachel and Trevor to sit at the table next to them, slumping herself across the seat and staring listlessly out the window. She's all but oozing self-loathing - probably a real mood-booster for Rachel.
"I assure you, it's bad. Worse than your doctor." Trevor lets out a soft exhale. He's dreading the writing, but he'll do it. A bet is a bet, and he lost. Dunking the rest of his cookie into his milk, soaking the poor thing. It's gone a moment or so later, the milk following closely after.
At the jingling bell, Trevor turns slightly, eyes moving to the door. He can't help but watch this wrinkled, unbrushed, even possible unruly teenager trudge in. Eventually, he comes to the conclusion. Teenagers. And his attention is brought back to the date. Or, cookie meeting, whatever it's called.
"You sure you want nothing else? I have to write you a letter?" Trevor's gaze is on Rachel, but he eyes the teenager warily as he awaits the reply.
RachelTrevor's wandering attention attracts hers. After he's completed his assessment of the teen, she's still looking over his shoulder, wondering. "Hm?" Oh, she was listening. "You know, the more you say it's terrible, the more I want it. You've piqued my curiosity."
Her cookie's still mostly intact. She'd only taken a small chunk off it. "Do you want anything else?" she asks. She leans away, craning her neck. The counter's visible, from here, with a variety of other treats. "The pie's good, too. I think you'd be into it."
"Or, know." Her grin's brazen.
Trevor's wandering attention attracts Rachel's. After he's completed his assessment of the teen, she's still looking over his shoulder, wondering. "Hm?" Oh, she was listening. "You know, the more you say it's terrible, the more I want it. You've piqued my curiosity."
Her cookie's still mostly intact. She'd only taken a small chunk off it. "Do you want anything else?" she asks. She leans away, craning her neck. The counter's visible, from here, with a variety of other treats. "The pie's good, too. I think you'd be into it."
"Or, know." Her grin's brazen. (fix)
It might be too early for breakfast, but not to Gabriella, who decided to have cake for breakfast today. Opening the door and stepping inside, she hears of pie while the door is being closed behind her, and looking around, she sees Rachel and Trevor. "Oh, hey there- we all got the same idea today?"
Wrinkled? Sure. Unbrushed? Absolutely. Unruly? How dare you, sir. She's the opposite of unruly right now - she's as ruly as they come, barely seeming to register anything much around herself, lost in her thoughts for long moments. The teenage girl's likely not paying any attention to the conversation about doctor's notes and letters going on between Trevor and Rachel nearby as her coffee comes to be placed in front of her. A sip is taken, too-hot; scalding, even, as it pours down her throat. The level of sweet, sweet suffering elevates.
The mention of pie, though - that grabs her attention. Brown eyes flick over to Rachel as though she's just spoken of the manna of the gods. The growling of her stomach is audible. But, no - this is, apparently, some sort of self-flagellation, to be surrounded by all sorts of treats and restrict herself to black coffee she's very much not enjoying. The girl slumps further in her seat, and takes another sip of suffering-coffee.
"Damn," Another soft exhale through his nose. "Thought reverse psychology would work, apparently not." Was that even reverse psychology, what he was trying to do? Probably. He's not a psychologist. Never was. Never will be.
"Pie sounds great, actually. Which do you recommend?" The question is asked to Rachel, then Trevor twists weirdly in the seat, finding whereever it is that Gabriella is standing to comment. "Seems that way, yeah. I'll be honest though, cake for breakfast doesn't scream like my kind of normalcy."
"He's saying that," Rachel tells Gabriella. "But he ate that cookie pretty fast." She tosses Trevor right under the table. She, herself, pushes off it, standing so that, now, she addresses Gabriella at eye level. "Hi, Gabby." A nod at Trevor. "Trevor, this is Gabby. She goes to the Oak, too. And, um..." Well, it follows that Trevor's Trevor -- but she doesn't know what appendage to give his name. "This is Trevor. He--" She stumbles. "Fixed my car yesterday." Up to Trevor to make a correction, however he finds appropriate. She already looks regretful.
"...I'm just going to go find that pie now. You sit. I'm thinking pecan, but I'm not sure."
"Oh, I know- go to the gym every day, eat healthy, I've heard it all- but what's the point of cake if you can't eat it whenever you feel like? Besides, the finals have started, if -now- I can't be excused for eating what I want, when would I be?" Gabriella theorizes in reply to Trevor, even if she does not seem like she has ever had any need for excuses in order to eat whatever she wants. Smiling to Rachel, thankful for the introduction, she then uses the opportunity to whine, "at least you have a car, my stupid dad doesn't want me to have mine around in town, thinks if I had it I'd spend more time in Boston than in Haven." He might not be wrong. "At least Spring's coming, I might get myself a bike."
"Nah, don't gotta do all that." Trevor replies, picking his words carefully. Then he pauses, throwing his hands up in defeat. This is definitely an argument he's going to lose. Cake for breakfast is definitely a valid thing. Yeah. Let's go with it.
Rubbing his neck with a hand, "Oh, uh, we've met before, few times now." He continues, "Didn't really fix her car. Helped her find it." A smirk creeps into his features at that. What does it mean? Who knows. "Oh, a bike would be good. Just don't be like me and crash it all the time. Might want a helmet too."
Trevor has sat perfectly in place, waiting for a pecan pie to grace his table.
Rachel speaks of the food of the gods, and the poor, starving teen can't help but have her eyes follow her aaaaall that way to the counter, somewhat like a puppy sitting near the table, waiting for scraps to be thrown down for her. She's definitely got money - her clothes speak of it, wrinkled as they are - so it's just something else, probably her aforementioned black soul, holding her back from ordering a slice of pie for herself.
Unless...
Squeeeak, goes her chair dragging along the floor as she moves to stand. Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle. Is a line at the counter necessary? There is now. The girl goes to stand behind Rachel, as though the woman's ordering can give her the courage she requires. The suffering, of course, doesn't go down any - she's just a permanent mood-lifter following Rachel around now, even if her eyes are fixed on that slice of pie, so close yet so far. She eyes the door too, as though she's considering making a run for it after a pie heist.
Rachel doesn't just order pie. She orders pie - pecan, as promised - alongside a massive slice of chocolate cake and...
She sneaks a look back at Trevor, and at Gabriella. They seem preoccupied. "I'll pay for the next person, too." She hands over a wad of cash and a few coins. Clink, clink, clink, into the tip jar.
No acknowledgment for the girl, otherwise; she doesn't intend to make small talk. Instead, she stands away from the counter, for little Miss Moody to place her order while her own is plated and made available.
As the chair squeaks, Trevor eyes the teenager, eyes following the entire distance from chair to counter.
Maybe Rachel doesn't intend on making small talk. The girl standing behind her, however, seems all too willing to speak up immediately in protest, when she hears those words. "No!" she gasps, as though Rachel's committed great offense by offering to pay for the next person - who doesn't even /have/ to be her, if she'd just turn it down and pass it on like a normal person. "You can't pay for me!" she declares, the first outburst of emotion since she entered the cafe like a black cloud was looming over her head. "I'm- I'm a psychopath!"
Gabriella chuckles as Trevor mentions his mechanic work was just to track down Rachel's car - any other meanings to the interjection are lost to her. Behind the stranger, Gabriella sets out to be the third in line, finding it odd when Rachel decides to pay for the stranger's meal, but the surprise is really when they claim to be a psychopath. How does Gabriella react to that? She burst out laughing.
Trevor isn't sitting perfectly still anymore. He shoots up at the sudden outburst - taking large, heavy steps towards Rachel. Hovering just behind her, almost protectively. Probably not his place, considering they barely know each other. But, well, random outbursts at 7 AM in a diner sounds like trouble to Trevor.
Rachel's just about figured out how to respond when Gabriella starts laughing. Indubitably, this isn't how she'd wanted to proceed; and she doesn't quite have Trevor's reaction either. She's not worried. Not the way the average person might be, at least. About the state of the girl? -- she's curious.
This is Haven. Psychopaths come in spades. They don't often announce themselves.
"It's only pie," she tells the girl, and Trevor both. "You don't have to have it if you don't want, but you do have to keep it down, okay?" Her tone's quiet. It placates.
The duality of man - Gabriella over there is laughing her ass off, and Trevor over here is looming overprotectively as though the five-foot-nothing teen in distress poses any real threat to Rachel. She almost looks like she's about to burst out crying at the outburst of amusement from Gabriella, tears welling up in the proclaimed psychopath's eyes. "Don't laugh at me! I don't know what I'll do if I lose control!" she exclaims to Gabriella as though she's hiding a bazooka beneath her clothing, ready to be pulled out anime-style.
Placation, though - that gentle tone from Rachel does seem to be doing something... slowly. She blinks teary eyes at the woman, sniffling once, then tells her, "... I want it." A pause, then she elaborates, "B-but I don't deserve it. I'm a bad person who does bad things. I looked it up." There's a glance back at Gabriella when she says it, so the girl really knows what she's talking about. "I fit all the signs of being a psychopath." Google said so, presumably.
Rachel's placation works, and Trevor steps back, visibly relaxing. No longer a looming overprotective presence. Instead he's just a regular dude. One that watches the teary-eyed teenager curiously. Doubtful this five-foot-nothing girl could even carry a bazooka, so Trevor deems her not a threat.
Lumbering back over to the table, he sits, "I can't see why bad people can't eat pie."
Rachel's in agreement. She points to Trevor, about to give her approv-- wait a second. That'd mean affirming that the teen is, in fact, 'bad.'
She huffs a breath out; it almost sounds like a laugh. Please, Trevor.
"We've all done a lot of bad things," Rachel says. She's hedging; Trevor's nearby. She's very still, now, the same way that he was. That 'we' is supposed to be an 'I.' "But you're upset about it, aren't you? Psychopaths don't get upset about that kind of thing." That's not a little known fact; but it does sound, for whatever reason, like she'd done her fair share of research, too, once upon a time.
"Oh, I... I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Gabriella claims, trying to stop herself from laughing, and then comments, "I saw a meme about how all people that drink black coffee are psycopaths, anyway, I think that's all overrated. Anyway, what sort of bad things do you do?" Gabriella challenges the girl to say, while listening to Rachel's own arguments, but then, seeing that the counter is free, she steps to it to place her own order, "I'll have a slice of ... that chocolate cake", she says, pointing to a decadent looking cake.
"If I forget and eat pie and let myself slip back to my old ways," SRLauren informs Trevor, as though she's old and wizened instead of being not-quite-an-adult, "Then I might... do it again. No, I can never have pie, and I can't go back to my family. That's why I'm here, to learn to be a patient fisherman. Like those people you see on the TV. I just... this place smelled good..." Great, so she's also run away from home. That may explain the non-brushing and the wrinkliness of her clothes. She also probably hasn't showered in a day or two.
Rachel's argument does give her pause. She eyes the woman again, a little warily and a little hopefully. "But normal people don't enjoy hurting others," she tells her. "That's why I am a psychopath." It's solid, sound logic, really. "You can't just kill someone for enjoyment and then feel bad later and not be a psychopath." Her eyes widen then, and she hurries to reassure all three of them, "I didn't kill anyone yet! I promise!" Yet, like she thinks she will at some point.
She's wary of Gabriella more than the other two, even if Trevor had been ready to suplex her; Gabriella's the one who'd laughed, after all. "I drink black coffee." she claims first of all, her nose turned up. She really had not been enjoying her coffee, though. "And I..." There's a pause here, an awkward shuffling. "I hurt my little brother's friend. I pushed him down the stairs." She squares up her shoulders, stares at Gabriella as though daring her to deny her psychopathic tendencies.
THE GIRL informs Trevor, not SRLauren.
"The cake's actually for you." If Gabriella remembers, Rachel had purchased a pie for Trevor -- but then a cake, too. Both have been sitting on the counter for a couple minutes, while this conversation's unfolded. She hands Gabriella's slice to her, then retrieves the other plate, ready to head back to her table in a moment. Just: not before...
She wouldn't have asked the girl what crime she's committed, but Gabriella's gone and done it -- and curiosity is, so often, morbid. Before she goes back to Trevor, she leans toward the girl. She hesitates. Her hand cups around her mouth. She murmurs something, inaudible to Gabriella and Trevor both.
"Well... huh, like, if this is a conscience thing, you better go tell that to the cops, not us... did he press charges or something? Anyway- maybe what you need is more pie- you know, like, next time you want to hurt someone, bite your tongue and go get a splice of pie instead, rightht? " Gabriella reaches for her wallet then, to pay for her own cake.
Rachel walks off toward Trevor, after that, and reclaims her seat.
Trevor was going to say something, but, Rachel seems to have it handled well enough. Instead, he just shuts up, eyeing the girl in case she DOES have a bazooka hidden somewhere on her person.
The girl's eyes are wide when Rachel moves past her with her slice of pie and she's left standing there near Gabriella. "I don't know," she answers her, stepping forward to the counter, still a little shook at whatever was whispered to her. "I was scared and I- I ran away. I can't go back home. They probably all hate me." There's another glance back at Rachel. She's... placated? Maybe. Something close to it, at least. She's definitely resigned to her fisherwomanly fate, but maybe she's a little less panicky now. Slightly less likely to start bemoaning her psychopathic tendencies again. But first, "... I'll have a pie too, please."
Pie retrieved, the girl stumbles back to her seat where her cooled cup of coffee sits, not sparing it a single glance. Her eyes are for Rachel, in ways that say she has questions, and isn't able to figure out what to ask, or how to ask them. "I'm... my name is Rebecca." she informs them - mostly just Rachel, let's be real. Sorry Trevor, she doesn't even glance his way. "What's- how can-..." Words are hard. Finally, she lands on, "How do I fix myself?"
Even though Trevor was ignored, he speaks up. "What makes you think you're broken?" It's not a simple question. Yes, he was listening. He heard the entire conversation, but, he still asks it. "You made a mistake, yeah? You're young." He slides across the seat, voice soft - as comforting as it can be. "Don't be sorry, be better."
Rachel didn't expect to have the girl follow her, after that. She'd just set the pie on the table, between Trevor and herself. She'd just begun to partake in a forkful of pecan and flaky crust, when...
Ah, the million dollar question. How's she supposed to know? That's the look she gives Trevor. She allows him to intercede. But the girl: she's Aware that there's more, of course.
Rebecca's admission draws a varied range of reactions, from concern to attempts at humor, as the group navigates the conversation's seriousness and absurdity. Rachel, in a moment of quiet counsel, whispers something indiscernible to Rebecca, a gesture that seems to pivot the young girl towards a semblance of hope. The situation concludes with Rebecca, still plagued by her self-doubt and seeking redemption, asking the poignant question of how to fix herself. Trevor's reply underscores a theme of human imperfection and the potential for improvement, suggesting that the encounter, while odd and interspersed with moments of levity, serves as a reminder of the complexities of human behavior and the search for acceptance and transformation amidst one’s own flaws.
(Rachel's odd encounter(SRLauren):SRLauren)
[Mon Apr 22 2024]
In the cafe of Oh, For Heaven's Cake!
The brick wall behind the counter and display case has been painted a calming seaside shade of pale turquoise, breathing new life into the older building, with the remaining walls left their natural warm browns and deep reds. Thick dark wooden beams create a further focal point and add dimension against the brightly painted brick. Floors are laid with a dark, polished cherry hardwood, swept clean and left tidy. Natural light streams through the window panes on each side of the door, and turquoise fixtures on iron poles hang from the rafters to provide soft lighting at night.
The counter is made of a thick piece of cherrywood, with ironwork scroll detailing at each end. An old-fashioned register sits to the side to ring up customers, while three cherrywood swivel stools with low rounded backs and iron pedestals provide a place to wait on an order. A bistro style table for two is pressed next to the window for people watching and a gift shop is nestled into the corner beside the eastern door marked 'Unisex Restroom'.
It is night, about 48F(8C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. There is a waxing gibbous moon.
(Your target and their allies encounter a demonborn who in the midst of sadistic lust has gone too far and is now filled with regret and self loathing at what they've done.
)
"Handwritten it is," Trevor replies, eyeing Rachel with a curious glance. "You're going to regret asking for it, I'm warning you."
It's early morning. Trevor and Rachel must have been here a while, awake earlier than even the birds, because they've got cookies in front of them, and a glass of milk each. "You can't be that bad. I can read my *doctor's* writing." There's easy banter between the two of them -- but a little shy, at least on Rachel's part. They must be new to each other.
In the early morning hours of the day, the soft hum of the espresso machine fills the air, accompanied by the occasional clink of ceramic mugs and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries baking in the oven. The first light of dawn is but a distant glimmer in the sky, only the barest lightening of the sky outside visible through the large windows that provide a view of the Court street outside the cafe. There's hardly any passersby at this time of the day, only a rare car passing by now and then, lighting up the street with its headlights.
There's few other customers to be found in the cafe this time of the day, too early for even the early-risers and the office-goers to be seeking a cup of coffee. Maybe in an hour or two. Right now, there's just them filling the cafe with quiet, easy banter, and whoever's in the back preparing fresh batches of pastries. That is, up until the door pushes open with a jingling of the bell and a girl in her late teens trudges her way in, her shoulders slumped and her eyes lined with dark circles beneath. She doesn't look like she's brushed her hair anytime recently, and her clothes are a little wrinkled; if anyone could be said to need some cake, it's her.
"I'll have some coffee, please." comes her order mumbled to the person behind the counter, "As dark as my pathetic soul. No sugar because I don't deserve anything sweet in my life." Teenagers. A sigh as she walks past Rachel and Trevor to sit at the table next to them, slumping herself across the seat and staring listlessly out the window. She's all but oozing self-loathing - probably a real mood-booster for Rachel.
"I assure you, it's bad. Worse than your doctor." Trevor lets out a soft exhale. He's dreading the writing, but he'll do it. A bet is a bet, and he lost. Dunking the rest of his cookie into his milk, soaking the poor thing. It's gone a moment or so later, the milk following closely after.
At the jingling bell, Trevor turns slightly, eyes moving to the door. He can't help but watch this wrinkled, unbrushed, even possible unruly teenager trudge in. Eventually, he comes to the conclusion. Teenagers. And his attention is brought back to the date. Or, cookie meeting, whatever it's called.
"You sure you want nothing else? I have to write you a letter?" Trevor's gaze is on Rachel, but he eyes the teenager warily as he awaits the reply.
RachelTrevor's wandering attention attracts hers. After he's completed his assessment of the teen, she's still looking over his shoulder, wondering. "Hm?" Oh, she was listening. "You know, the more you say it's terrible, the more I want it. You've piqued my curiosity."
Her cookie's still mostly intact. She'd only taken a small chunk off it. "Do you want anything else?" she asks. She leans away, craning her neck. The counter's visible, from here, with a variety of other treats. "The pie's good, too. I think you'd be into it."
"Or, know." Her grin's brazen.
Trevor's wandering attention attracts Rachel's. After he's completed his assessment of the teen, she's still looking over his shoulder, wondering. "Hm?" Oh, she was listening. "You know, the more you say it's terrible, the more I want it. You've piqued my curiosity."
Her cookie's still mostly intact. She'd only taken a small chunk off it. "Do you want anything else?" she asks. She leans away, craning her neck. The counter's visible, from here, with a variety of other treats. "The pie's good, too. I think you'd be into it."
"Or, know." Her grin's brazen. (fix)
It might be too early for breakfast, but not to Gabriella, who decided to have cake for breakfast today. Opening the door and stepping inside, she hears of pie while the door is being closed behind her, and looking around, she sees Rachel and Trevor. "Oh, hey there- we all got the same idea today?"
Wrinkled? Sure. Unbrushed? Absolutely. Unruly? How dare you, sir. She's the opposite of unruly right now - she's as ruly as they come, barely seeming to register anything much around herself, lost in her thoughts for long moments. The teenage girl's likely not paying any attention to the conversation about doctor's notes and letters going on between Trevor and Rachel nearby as her coffee comes to be placed in front of her. A sip is taken, too-hot; scalding, even, as it pours down her throat. The level of sweet, sweet suffering elevates.
The mention of pie, though - that grabs her attention. Brown eyes flick over to Rachel as though she's just spoken of the manna of the gods. The growling of her stomach is audible. But, no - this is, apparently, some sort of self-flagellation, to be surrounded by all sorts of treats and restrict herself to black coffee she's very much not enjoying. The girl slumps further in her seat, and takes another sip of suffering-coffee.
"Damn," Another soft exhale through his nose. "Thought reverse psychology would work, apparently not." Was that even reverse psychology, what he was trying to do? Probably. He's not a psychologist. Never was. Never will be.
"Pie sounds great, actually. Which do you recommend?" The question is asked to Rachel, then Trevor twists weirdly in the seat, finding whereever it is that Gabriella is standing to comment. "Seems that way, yeah. I'll be honest though, cake for breakfast doesn't scream like my kind of normalcy."
"He's saying that," Rachel tells Gabriella. "But he ate that cookie pretty fast." She tosses Trevor right under the table. She, herself, pushes off it, standing so that, now, she addresses Gabriella at eye level. "Hi, Gabby." A nod at Trevor. "Trevor, this is Gabby. She goes to the Oak, too. And, um..." Well, it follows that Trevor's Trevor -- but she doesn't know what appendage to give his name. "This is Trevor. He--" She stumbles. "Fixed my car yesterday." Up to Trevor to make a correction, however he finds appropriate. She already looks regretful.
"...I'm just going to go find that pie now. You sit. I'm thinking pecan, but I'm not sure."
"Oh, I know- go to the gym every day, eat healthy, I've heard it all- but what's the point of cake if you can't eat it whenever you feel like? Besides, the finals have started, if -now- I can't be excused for eating what I want, when would I be?" Gabriella theorizes in reply to Trevor, even if she does not seem like she has ever had any need for excuses in order to eat whatever she wants. Smiling to Rachel, thankful for the introduction, she then uses the opportunity to whine, "at least you have a car, my stupid dad doesn't want me to have mine around in town, thinks if I had it I'd spend more time in Boston than in Haven." He might not be wrong. "At least Spring's coming, I might get myself a bike."
"Nah, don't gotta do all that." Trevor replies, picking his words carefully. Then he pauses, throwing his hands up in defeat. This is definitely an argument he's going to lose. Cake for breakfast is definitely a valid thing. Yeah. Let's go with it.
Rubbing his neck with a hand, "Oh, uh, we've met before, few times now." He continues, "Didn't really fix her car. Helped her find it." A smirk creeps into his features at that. What does it mean? Who knows. "Oh, a bike would be good. Just don't be like me and crash it all the time. Might want a helmet too."
Trevor has sat perfectly in place, waiting for a pecan pie to grace his table.
Rachel speaks of the food of the gods, and the poor, starving teen can't help but have her eyes follow her aaaaall that way to the counter, somewhat like a puppy sitting near the table, waiting for scraps to be thrown down for her. She's definitely got money - her clothes speak of it, wrinkled as they are - so it's just something else, probably her aforementioned black soul, holding her back from ordering a slice of pie for herself.
Unless...
Squeeeak, goes her chair dragging along the floor as she moves to stand. Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle. Is a line at the counter necessary? There is now. The girl goes to stand behind Rachel, as though the woman's ordering can give her the courage she requires. The suffering, of course, doesn't go down any - she's just a permanent mood-lifter following Rachel around now, even if her eyes are fixed on that slice of pie, so close yet so far. She eyes the door too, as though she's considering making a run for it after a pie heist.
Rachel doesn't just order pie. She orders pie - pecan, as promised - alongside a massive slice of chocolate cake and...
She sneaks a look back at Trevor, and at Gabriella. They seem preoccupied. "I'll pay for the next person, too." She hands over a wad of cash and a few coins. Clink, clink, clink, into the tip jar.
No acknowledgment for the girl, otherwise; she doesn't intend to make small talk. Instead, she stands away from the counter, for little Miss Moody to place her order while her own is plated and made available.
As the chair squeaks, Trevor eyes the teenager, eyes following the entire distance from chair to counter.
Maybe Rachel doesn't intend on making small talk. The girl standing behind her, however, seems all too willing to speak up immediately in protest, when she hears those words. "No!" she gasps, as though Rachel's committed great offense by offering to pay for the next person - who doesn't even /have/ to be her, if she'd just turn it down and pass it on like a normal person. "You can't pay for me!" she declares, the first outburst of emotion since she entered the cafe like a black cloud was looming over her head. "I'm- I'm a psychopath!"
Gabriella chuckles as Trevor mentions his mechanic work was just to track down Rachel's car - any other meanings to the interjection are lost to her. Behind the stranger, Gabriella sets out to be the third in line, finding it odd when Rachel decides to pay for the stranger's meal, but the surprise is really when they claim to be a psychopath. How does Gabriella react to that? She burst out laughing.
Trevor isn't sitting perfectly still anymore. He shoots up at the sudden outburst - taking large, heavy steps towards Rachel. Hovering just behind her, almost protectively. Probably not his place, considering they barely know each other. But, well, random outbursts at 7 AM in a diner sounds like trouble to Trevor.
Rachel's just about figured out how to respond when Gabriella starts laughing. Indubitably, this isn't how she'd wanted to proceed; and she doesn't quite have Trevor's reaction either. She's not worried. Not the way the average person might be, at least. About the state of the girl? -- she's curious.
This is Haven. Psychopaths come in spades. They don't often announce themselves.
"It's only pie," she tells the girl, and Trevor both. "You don't have to have it if you don't want, but you do have to keep it down, okay?" Her tone's quiet. It placates.
The duality of man - Gabriella over there is laughing her ass off, and Trevor over here is looming overprotectively as though the five-foot-nothing teen in distress poses any real threat to Rachel. She almost looks like she's about to burst out crying at the outburst of amusement from Gabriella, tears welling up in the proclaimed psychopath's eyes. "Don't laugh at me! I don't know what I'll do if I lose control!" she exclaims to Gabriella as though she's hiding a bazooka beneath her clothing, ready to be pulled out anime-style.
Placation, though - that gentle tone from Rachel does seem to be doing something... slowly. She blinks teary eyes at the woman, sniffling once, then tells her, "... I want it." A pause, then she elaborates, "B-but I don't deserve it. I'm a bad person who does bad things. I looked it up." There's a glance back at Gabriella when she says it, so the girl really knows what she's talking about. "I fit all the signs of being a psychopath." Google said so, presumably.
Rachel's placation works, and Trevor steps back, visibly relaxing. No longer a looming overprotective presence. Instead he's just a regular dude. One that watches the teary-eyed teenager curiously. Doubtful this five-foot-nothing girl could even carry a bazooka, so Trevor deems her not a threat.
Lumbering back over to the table, he sits, "I can't see why bad people can't eat pie."
Rachel's in agreement. She points to Trevor, about to give her approv-- wait a second. That'd mean affirming that the teen is, in fact, 'bad.'
She huffs a breath out; it almost sounds like a laugh. Please, Trevor.
"We've all done a lot of bad things," Rachel says. She's hedging; Trevor's nearby. She's very still, now, the same way that he was. That 'we' is supposed to be an 'I.' "But you're upset about it, aren't you? Psychopaths don't get upset about that kind of thing." That's not a little known fact; but it does sound, for whatever reason, like she'd done her fair share of research, too, once upon a time.
"Oh, I... I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Gabriella claims, trying to stop herself from laughing, and then comments, "I saw a meme about how all people that drink black coffee are psycopaths, anyway, I think that's all overrated. Anyway, what sort of bad things do you do?" Gabriella challenges the girl to say, while listening to Rachel's own arguments, but then, seeing that the counter is free, she steps to it to place her own order, "I'll have a slice of ... that chocolate cake", she says, pointing to a decadent looking cake.
"If I forget and eat pie and let myself slip back to my old ways," SRLauren informs Trevor, as though she's old and wizened instead of being not-quite-an-adult, "Then I might... do it again. No, I can never have pie, and I can't go back to my family. That's why I'm here, to learn to be a patient fisherman. Like those people you see on the TV. I just... this place smelled good..." Great, so she's also run away from home. That may explain the non-brushing and the wrinkliness of her clothes. She also probably hasn't showered in a day or two.
Rachel's argument does give her pause. She eyes the woman again, a little warily and a little hopefully. "But normal people don't enjoy hurting others," she tells her. "That's why I am a psychopath." It's solid, sound logic, really. "You can't just kill someone for enjoyment and then feel bad later and not be a psychopath." Her eyes widen then, and she hurries to reassure all three of them, "I didn't kill anyone yet! I promise!" Yet, like she thinks she will at some point.
She's wary of Gabriella more than the other two, even if Trevor had been ready to suplex her; Gabriella's the one who'd laughed, after all. "I drink black coffee." she claims first of all, her nose turned up. She really had not been enjoying her coffee, though. "And I..." There's a pause here, an awkward shuffling. "I hurt my little brother's friend. I pushed him down the stairs." She squares up her shoulders, stares at Gabriella as though daring her to deny her psychopathic tendencies.
THE GIRL informs Trevor, not SRLauren.
"The cake's actually for you." If Gabriella remembers, Rachel had purchased a pie for Trevor -- but then a cake, too. Both have been sitting on the counter for a couple minutes, while this conversation's unfolded. She hands Gabriella's slice to her, then retrieves the other plate, ready to head back to her table in a moment. Just: not before...
She wouldn't have asked the girl what crime she's committed, but Gabriella's gone and done it -- and curiosity is, so often, morbid. Before she goes back to Trevor, she leans toward the girl. She hesitates. Her hand cups around her mouth. She murmurs something, inaudible to Gabriella and Trevor both.
"Well... huh, like, if this is a conscience thing, you better go tell that to the cops, not us... did he press charges or something? Anyway- maybe what you need is more pie- you know, like, next time you want to hurt someone, bite your tongue and go get a splice of pie instead, rightht? " Gabriella reaches for her wallet then, to pay for her own cake.
Rachel walks off toward Trevor, after that, and reclaims her seat.
Trevor was going to say something, but, Rachel seems to have it handled well enough. Instead, he just shuts up, eyeing the girl in case she DOES have a bazooka hidden somewhere on her person.
The girl's eyes are wide when Rachel moves past her with her slice of pie and she's left standing there near Gabriella. "I don't know," she answers her, stepping forward to the counter, still a little shook at whatever was whispered to her. "I was scared and I- I ran away. I can't go back home. They probably all hate me." There's another glance back at Rachel. She's... placated? Maybe. Something close to it, at least. She's definitely resigned to her fisherwomanly fate, but maybe she's a little less panicky now. Slightly less likely to start bemoaning her psychopathic tendencies again. But first, "... I'll have a pie too, please."
Pie retrieved, the girl stumbles back to her seat where her cooled cup of coffee sits, not sparing it a single glance. Her eyes are for Rachel, in ways that say she has questions, and isn't able to figure out what to ask, or how to ask them. "I'm... my name is Rebecca." she informs them - mostly just Rachel, let's be real. Sorry Trevor, she doesn't even glance his way. "What's- how can-..." Words are hard. Finally, she lands on, "How do I fix myself?"
Even though Trevor was ignored, he speaks up. "What makes you think you're broken?" It's not a simple question. Yes, he was listening. He heard the entire conversation, but, he still asks it. "You made a mistake, yeah? You're young." He slides across the seat, voice soft - as comforting as it can be. "Don't be sorry, be better."
Rachel didn't expect to have the girl follow her, after that. She'd just set the pie on the table, between Trevor and herself. She'd just begun to partake in a forkful of pecan and flaky crust, when...
Ah, the million dollar question. How's she supposed to know? That's the look she gives Trevor. She allows him to intercede. But the girl: she's Aware that there's more, of course.