Preparedness

[sirrobinv]

 Who: Damien Wayne and open!
What: Settling in.
Where: Lovecraft Diner
When: July 20th, mid afternoon
Status: Open
Rating: PG/PG-13 because Damien can be a right jerk sometimes

Comments

[never_blink]

Well, that made a little more sense, actually. More likely that he'd know someone who liked playing about with self-decoration than that he'd met someone who naturally looked like Clarice did, though she knew better than to dismiss anything as impossible. Dr. Reid had also assumed that her appearance had been something she'd deliberately done to herself, ears and eyes and all. As if she would choose to look like this.

She started to speak and faltered under his frank gaze. Her chest? It wasn't often that anyone looked past the colors at all, but his stare was baldly assessing and it made Clarice want to shrink back and disappear.

"...um." She cleared her throat, fingers tightening on the edges of her plate. She was a big girl now; she wouldn't run and she didn't need anyone to save her. Not when all he was doing was looking. "Um. I don't have any tattoos. Or... paint. I - I just... look like this."

Her eyes were down around the level of his chest now, but she still felt the weight of his gaze leave her as he turned back to the menu. It was a relief. She was even able to look up again when he asked his next question. Which again surprised her; the diner was, well, pretty clean overall, and the food always good. But, 'back' to the hospital?

"Do you have a, a food allergy?" she ventured. "I'm sure Mr. Stephens could make you something..." At the grill, the cook made an effort to hide his scowl. Business was business, after all.

[sirrobinv]

Obviously the girl--meta-human, most likely, now that Damien thought about it, wasn't very observant. By the brand logos on his bags, even the way he was dressed now it should have been obvious that his concern wasn't a food allergy, but basic hygiene.

'Honestly, does she think someone who could afford fare to the city and bags from Armani, Gucci and Dior all in one trip would eat in a place like this?'

"My only allergy is to terrible food." Damien replied simply. "What do you believe is the best this establishment offers?"

A heavy ceramic pitcher clanked loudly on the counter-top as 'Stephens' overheard, but Damien paid no mind, keeping all of his attention on the menu and Clarice.

[never_blink]

With several years of constant exposure to Lulu, it was just possible that Clarice would know that those were names of high-end fashion... things. Possible. But she'd grown up in a slum. The closest she'd come to recognizing name brands was knowing someone who'd sold knockoffs to tourists on street corners. She would never have recognized the real thing, nor would she think to look. A bag was a bag; as long as it looked nice and carried things without falling to bits, what else mattered?

Right now she was giving him a look of genuine astonishment. "Nothing here is terrible!" Not that she'd tried absolutely everything on the menu, but she'd tried enough. Also, that was an awful thing to say, especially with the staff right there. It was a little unbelievable to her that she'd heard him right.

When asked for her opinion, she faltered. The brief outburst had taken pretty much her whole ration of boldness for the day. "The best? Um..." She looked down at the menu he held. She'd noticed the looks of distaste he'd been giving the grill. And no, it wasn't particularly clean, but how could it be? You couldn't expect a grill to look brand new when it saw so much use each day.

"I-if you don't like grilled things, there's... well, the tuna melt is good?" She held up her own plate as an illustration. "Or - or there's egg salad? And they have some, some very good soups?"

[sirrobinv]

At her assertion, Damien only barely resisted rolling his eyes.

'The lengths some people go to in order to stand on tact and propriety...'

"Well, that's good to know..." He practically drawled, listening to her suggestions with some interest--he knew to avoid the grill and any seafood, only someone with a death wish ordered seafood at a diner, after all--but soup was a possibility. Despite the heat outside, the interior of the diner was cool, two massive air conditions set into the wall on either side of the building pumping in chilly air.

Taking a moment to think, Damien picked up his tea again, one pinky raised on instinct as he sipped quietly.

"Soup would seem to be the safest option. Sir," He spoke up, addressing the obviously perturbed server. "A bowl of vegetable soup and a strawberry milkshake." The last part of the order would seem to betray his age, but he order with the sort of authority reserved for someone at least twice as old.

"...Thank you for your suggestion, miss." He said to Clarice--he may be eating in a fourth rate dive, but that didn't mean he had to be entirely ungrateful. "For future reference, are there any restaurants in this town of...superior aesthetic sense?"

[never_blink]

This boy just got stranger and stranger, and coming from Clarice, that was saying something. He looked so young, but his behavior, the way he held himself, and the way he spoke didn't line up at all with his apparent age. The mutant girl almost asked whether he was an adult who'd found himself in a child's body - that would be in line with Aternaville's style, after all. But she didn't quite dare.

He didn't seem fazed at all by her appearance, either. When she'd said it was natural, he hadn't even blinked.

At least he wasn't being rude about the diner anymore. His tone and his expression weren't exactly endearing, but...

"...You're welcome." She considered the situation a moment, then slid onto the stool next to him, setting down her plate on the counter in front of her. It seemed like she was in a conversation now, so she might as well stop hovering like she was about to take flight. Taking a sip from her soda, she considered his question. Captain Scratch's Seafood Emporium was probably not the sort of place he was looking for...

"Well... there's Corelli's, it's Italian. They're - kind of expensive, though. The Four Seasons, that's the hotel, they have a restaurant that's also very... superior." If this place wasn't acceptable to him, what would be? The pancake house? Unlikely. But she really couldn't imagine that the nicer places in town were within a ten year old's budget. Maybe his parents... "I work at the bakery, Sweet Lady Jane - it's just a few blocks down Main, and we have very good sandwiches and cakes and things."

...Maybe his parents were rich, so he was used to eating at fine restaurants, and maybe they weren't here. How many children came with their families, after all? A couple, but not many. Then again, there was that kind boy Nokoru, who'd come all alone and who still managed to be ludicrously rich. But how often did that happen?

"I'm sorry, I didn't get your name?" she ventured. "When did you arrive?"

[sirrobinv]

"Damien Wayne. I arrived last week." He replied, "And I assure you, price is hardly a concern. Though from the amount of variety, it seems I would be better off hiring a cook..." Though he had arrived without any proper identification, he had the numbers for the main family accounts memorized and was able to access them that way through the local bank, which was only the second strangest thing he'd experienced since his arrival.

At mention of a bakery, Damien's dark eyes brightened somewhat and before he could stop himself, he asked: "Do you make baklava or hadef?"

Hadef, he knew was too much to ask for. He hadn't had it since he lived with his mother, and even then only at holidays, but it was one of his favorites. Most bakeries, if they dabbled in Middle Eastern pastry only kept to the safer, more recognizable ones-- it had taken Pennyworth months to find a bakery in Gotham that had even heard of the more obscure varieties.

'Don't know why you'd expect them too, I mean look at the size of this town. It makes Smallville look like Central City.' The boy thought to himself, and really, his desire to find anything to remind him of Gotham surprised him, especially to the point where he'd blurt something like that.

Clatter

A small white, ceramic bowl brimming with a steaming, dark red soup nearly fell right in front of Damien, followed by a heavy clear glass. He eyed his meal suspiciously for a moment, aware that the server was watching his every movement. Very slowly a spoon was dipped in (after being wiped vigorously on a napkin)raised full, and brought to soft lips. The tension between customer and server could have been cut with a knife.

It was...dreadful, but Damien had expected that. The only two recognized flavors were tomato and salt. He made a slight show of swallowing--not quite what he reserved for Pennyworth, but close enough.

After that first swallow, he went straight for the milkshake and determined to try this 'Corelli's' for dinner later.

[never_blink]

Hiring a cook. So maybe he really was like Nokoru, in that he had access to a lot of money even in the absence of parents. That boggled Clarice's mind. At his (apparent) age, even with her parents, they'd considered themselves lucky to be able to keep regular meals on the table at all.

Then again, that was hardly the only obvious difference between the two of them. Mutant coloration aside, she had never been so self-possessed at that age. She wasn't so self-possessed now.

Or so mean. She couldn't help the thought, but she tried to keep it from her face. He seemed to be easing up a little bit. Or at least trying to.

When he asked about the pastries, it was the first time she thought she saw his true age in his expression. For just a moment, it was unshielded eagerness. And then it shuttered again, so quickly she wasn't sure she'd seen it. But she wanted to bring it back. There was a child under there.

"Baklava - we do," she said quickly, leaning forward earnestly. Trying to find that child inside him again. "Not every day, but we can. I don't - I'm sorry, I don't know the other one. But I'm sure we can find a recipe. Bethanne can make anything. You called it 'hadef'?"

[sirrobinv]

"Tch. Not many know how to make it anymore, it's very old and complex." There was a note of arrogant challenge in Damien's voice at the idea that some small town bakery owner could possibly be good enough to make one of his few childhood delights, but then, his father's companies scoured the world looking for undiscovered talent in all fields...how was this any different?

"I can provide a recipe if you feel up to the task, however." reaching into a pocket, he took out a new, slim leather wallet and pulled out a business card with his name and cellphone number. After all, if Wayne Enterprises didn't exist in this universe, that was nothing more than an opportunity waiting to be taken advantage of.

"I'm in the process of acquiring a mansion on Blanche Avenue, and would like a tray of baklava and hadef prepared as a housewarming gift. I can acquire a recipe as soon as tonight and send it your way. If it is satisfactory, I will be looking for at least a part-time pastry chef." Damien paused to take a long sip of his quickly-melting milkshake. While the child hadn't emerged again, at least not in the way it had before, it was hard to deny it was there in one form or another. "Pay would be more than adequate, if you prove to be up to snuff."

[never_blink]

The unchildlike child handed Clarice a business card, and a challenge. She couldn't help feeling nervous. Should she be making promises for Bethanne? On the other hand, she really did believe that the woman who'd taken her in four years ago could bake anything. She had far more confidence in Bethanne's skill than her own.

But what if her employer also had never tried the pastry? Being 'old' and 'complex'... Following a recipe was easy, but how would they know whether the taste and texture were right if no one but Damien had any frame of reference?

And then there was Damien. Clarice had known children who were cruel - too many of them - and she didn't think Damien was cruel. Mean, yes, he had been, but... more than that, thoughtless. As if it didn't even occur to him that other people's feelings should matter. In someone who otherwise seemed so intelligent and so adult for his age, that wasn't right. It suggested more about his upbringing to Clarice than he probably realized.

And she thought his arrogance on this point was a cover. He really wanted this hard-to-find treat, and Clarice wanted to find it for him. She didn't even mind that it was rude to demand housewarming gifts.

Blanche Avenue - that was where Nokoru lived, too. She wondered if the bakery would be called upon to cater Damien's housewarming party as well. If he had one. There seemed to be a lot of similarity between the two boys - and a lot that was utterly different, too.

"If you send the recipe to the bakery, we'll do our very best," she promised, pulling out one of Sweet Lady Jane's business cards out and handing it to him in turn. She didn't often get to use those, since everyone in town already knew where the bakery was. "I, um, I don't know that Bethanne will be available to work for you, though. The shop keeps her very busy. She'd be happy to take a weekly order from you, though, I'm sure. If it's... up to snuff, like you said." Except he'd said you. But if anyone was going to make this treat to his satisfaction, it would be Bethanne, like Clarice had said.

[sirrobinv]

Damien took the card from Clarice with a cursory glance, slipping it into his wallet with a nod. For a moment he went back to his milkshake, listening closely as the girl muttered and stammered, becoming increasing aggravated by the quirk. It was like trying to hear to a mouse.

"Ugh, speak up, will you?" Damien growled lowly, almost low enough that she would have to strain to listen herself. "I can understand being cowed by your appearance but does it look like I care? Trust me, you are not the worst I've seen, compared to most you're a super-model." Amazing how he could make even the highest praise sound like an insult.

Speaking normally again, Damien straightened, wondering if the girl was at least partially deaf or just suffering from that crippling low self esteem. Or maybe both.

"I wouldn't bother offering someone who already owned what would appear to be a successful business another job." He said, looking slightly affronted. "You, on the other hand, look like you could use the supplemental income. This is a small town and I'm guessing you're just starting college?" She looked to be around Batgirl's age, at least, and Brown was only a sophomore...

The thought suddenly reminded him that on his visit to city hall several days ago, a rather aged secretary had foisted a mound of paperwork on him, and amongst it was enrollment for the local elementary school. The idea made him ill.

[never_blink]

Clarice started. She knew she spoke softly, but nobody had ever complained before. Besides which, and this was the really sad thing, she'd actually been speaking quite confidently - for Clarice, that is. His irritation was more in danger of cowing her more than encouraging her to be bolder.

But more than just his tone caught her attention. "You're not the worst I've seen," he'd said. And he'd guessed her age, once again looking at her more closely than most people ever did.

"Sorry, she said, pale eyes searching his. "You've... met mutants before." Amazingly, it didn't even sound like a question. Although... given this town, that was probably too much of an assumption to make. "Or - demons? Aliens?"

Once, 'demon' had been nothing more than an insult to her. Then she'd met Mr. Lorne.

It didn't do to make assumptions.

Not that he wasn't making his share. For instance, that she needed a greater income. She was living comfortably on what she made at the bakery - very comfortably, since Lulu wouldn't let her pay rent and considering what she'd grown up with. Then again, Damien probably didn't have the same idea of what a reasonable income was.

And, too, he had a point. The Aternaville community college wasn't terribly expensive compared to universities, but it was a fair chunk of change. Would it be wrong to take on baking jobs outside the bakery? She'd have to talk to Bethanne about it.

All assuming she was even capable of making these fancy treats of his, of course.

"How about... if I just try to make that recipe for you? Then you can see if you even would want me to take that job." She was sure he wouldn't hold back from telling her if he didn't.

[sirrobinv]

Damien couldn't deny that the sensation of seemingly blind eyes boring into his own was a strange one--he could feel their strength but not pinpoint it, like looking at one of 3D puzzle pictures; he had to battle the desire to squint awkwardly.

"Tch." Was the response to the soft apology. 'Don't apologize, just improve.' "Metahumans, aliens, and a demon if you want to take Grandfather's title literally. Not like he didn't earn it." The last part of that sentence was drawled out grudgingly. "It's hard to be different where I come from, especially when everyone else is too."

Reaching for his wallet once more, Damien retrieved several hundred dollar bills and tucked them discretely under Clarice's plate. "An advance on ingredients and for shipping. You'll need it if you want to do it right." He'd already spent several hundred thousand in the last week, acquiring the house, clothes and buying furniture sets that would be delivered soon.

Taking a chance on a pink, small town pastry chef was, Damien decided, as good a way to spend what remained of his pocket money as any.

'Beats wasting it on godawful soup.'