>> "Sis is Noo 'ork. No'ody cares unless 'ou ged somesing in re'urn."

"Not s-run New York," Jack said simply. Who said she wasn't getting anything out of this? She was getting clothes on the back of her doppelganger and saving herself the trouble of dealing with the repercussions of his lack of clothes.

>> "You seen ok noa. Nouh? NOW-UH. Of duh dwo secons we kno'n each o'er."

This earned a sharp, amused exhale from the prawn, a smile tilting on her lips as the kid walked past, carrying the clothes with him into the bathroom. Good. She was so glad to seem "okay" by the standards of a kid.

>> "So'as your s'ory?" Moments later, the robotic voice chimed-in, <What's your story? Only if you want.>

It was weird to be on the outside of this, of her speech impediment, of her mutation-- to see someone else struggle with what was the day-to-day for her. It was alsmost like having a kindered spirit, except Jack had no way out of what the kid was now experiencing. This was her life. The prawn sat quietly, for a spell, listening to the sound of running water from within the bathroom.

" 'e-cane a nyu-tant 'en I 'uzz a kid," Jack explained, " 'ad to leaze ny house. House 'uzz no good. Ran a'ay. On streets sore... long tine. Get in gang. Get in trou'le. Instead uzz going to jail, sun hero sorts sined nee. Take nee in to dis nyu-tant school in San Srancicsco. I lizz dere sore a long tine. Stay outta trou'le, graduated. 'ork construction. Ol' gang catch nee. Ran a'ay again. Cun here. 'een here sore nanny years now. No gang. No trou'le. Just... lowkey."

The prawn stretched. It wasn't detailed, but it was enough. Besides, he didn't need to know the nitty gritty. That was Jack's background in a matchbox. Jack chirred absentmindedly, looking at her hands. He had already declined giving his name, so she hesitated asking other details.

"You?" that was non-invasive enough. He could be as vague or as detailed as necessary.

The west coast. He'd heard there was a school there, but it had never before concerned him. Now he was listening to someone who'd lived and thrived there. His situation had changed enough that he was seeing the idea in a whole new light.

Jude had a quick sink bath while he thought about Jack, gangs, and the mother f***ing west coast. Maybe... he didn't belong here. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe he could get the breathing room he needed at the other school. Or no school. He had options.

"I ran a'ay. 'or duh t'ird tine." After he explicitly promised not to. "'s 'ot 'ecause... c'est ridicule!" Jude flipped the tap back off with more force than he'd meant to and ran his fingers, all three of 'em, back over the antenna while he sorted through his clicks and mouth shapes. Huh. Actually French was such a mumble that it didn't sound half bad in rainbow form.

He breathed and inspected himself in the reflection of the sink spout. He wasn't himself and it wasn't just the mandibles. It was hard enough to put the thoughts together in English let alone saying it in a mouth he wasn't used to. "I 'ould haf to 'ra' you a 'iagran."

He shimmied his way into the shorts and pulled the tank top on while he exited the little closet-like space. Huh. So, the arms just kinda hung out underneath the clothes then?

"'ow I 'ook?" He gave a little twirl, Gladiator-style. Was Jack not entertained?

>> "I ran a'ay. 'or duh t'ird tine. 's 'ot 'ecause... c'est ridicule!"

"S'ree tines," Jack echoed, ponderous, "Do you like it? Lizzing outside? 'uz al'ays hard sore nee. You don't slee' right. Al'ays on edge. Don't know 'en you'll eat."

>> "I 'ould haf to 'ra' you a 'iagran."

A diagram?

>> "'ow I 'ook?"

"Like nee," Jack said with an inkling of amusement in her tone, rousing herself from the couch. She shuffled back to her open locker, reached into her messenger bag, and found a Sharpie and an old reciept. (She didn't have loose paper, and she wasn't about to tear a page from her sketchbook... the sharpie was for marking-up woodworking projects.)

"So 'ut you gonna do now?" the prawn asked, politely, "Do you has a 'lace you're slee'ing? Shelter?" She jotted her name down on the sheet of paper an untidy scrawl. "Jack Dyer" it read. Underneath, she wrote her phone number.

" 'en's duh last tine you ate?" Jack pressed-on, folding the receipt and, for the moment, holding-on to it. She stuck the Sharpie back in her bag, then glanced back at the kid, closing her locker. Again with that knowing look. Was it that the person before her looked so similar to her? Or was it that they were a waif as she had been? Whatever the cause, the kid had struck some sort of protective chord with her, and now Jack was offering to feed him...

Did he like it? Jude could see how she might think that given the sheer quantity of times that Jude had opted to be poor. "Hade it. 's usually 'or a 'ery intortant 'eason." First for saving the world reasons and then for love of his life reasons and now...? Now he just didn't fit back into the life-shaped hole he'd left behind.

"'iagran." He reiterated. There really was no other way.

So what was he doing to do now? Jude was going day to day. Or maybe hour to hour was more accurate. He hadn't formed a plan. He was lost.

"I guess I get ano'ser yob. Noo 'ower. 'ind a slace." Start over again from zero, basically. Only this time, he didn't have a roommate or a secret club or a mission or a future. He was turning his back on everything he'd been working toward before. The other times... he knew those were only temporary bumps in the road of his life. This here was a big ****ing pothole.

Jude took a seat when Jack went looking for whatever. The idea of starting again was daunting. It was easier to just be for a bit.

She had more questions, questions that he didn't want to admit to. Jude sank down on the bench until the back of his head hit the top of the backrest. The ceiling had no easy answers. "I nake do."

The prawn had asked if the boy liked living on the streets because she knew of people who chose the lives of travelers. That was how she’d gotten from Washington to California after all. She met a bunch of hippie travelers who didn’t particularly mind physical mutations, and didn’t believe in settling down. They each had their own vehicle out of which they lived, mostly vans, converted school buses, and the like. They traveled wherever there was work and made money under-the-table.

Jude did not appear to be of that population. In fact, he said he hated running away, and mostly only did so for “important reasons”. The prawn lowered her head at the kid and arched her eyebrows.

>> "I guess I get ano'ser yob. Noo 'ower. 'ind a slace. I nake do."

The prawn closed her locker, and latched the lock into place. Jack shuffled to the kid, and held her receipt out to him.

“Ny sone nun-der,” she explained, “I get oss in duh early norn-ing. Iss you want to get sun-ting to, or a ‘lace to lay your head sore a see-ew nights, ny door is o’en.”

Whether or not the kid wanted to take the phone number, Jack pushed the folded receipt towards his primary hands.

“Got a shower and sun good sings to eat, a nice couch,” the prawn rumbled, “Iss you really are nee, duh usual sh** dat hu-nans eat is gonna taste like gar’age to you. No sast sood. No soda. All dat just tastes like nud. Don’t know why.”

Besides, having a place to stay would help minimize some of the stress of getting back on one’s feet. Getting a good night’s sleep was nearly impossible on the streets. She didn't want the kid falling in with a bad crowd, either.

Oh? Her number, huh? That'd be real useful if he had something like a telephone or maybe if public pay phones hadn't gone the way of the dinosaur. Still, he held that paper close to his chest. She'd been nothing but helpful and understanding, if gruff. She knew far too much about all this to not have experience.

And she sold her apartment pretty well.

"I 'ight s'eal all yoo s'uff." He warned her, eyebrow ridge drawn low. "I 'ight 'urder yoo in yoo slee."

He wouldn't. But she didn't know that... did she?

>> "I 'ight s'eal all yoo s'uff. I 'ight 'urder yoo in yoo slee."

Jack exhaled sharply, a genuine smile breaking across her inhuman features.

"Nuh-sing worse stealing," she assured the kid, her lavender eyes glittering. She clapped a hand on the kid's back, thinking very little of the threat, "Do ya sink I nade it on duh streets sore as long as I did, jus' to get killed in ny slee' dy sun kid who's crashing on ny couch?"

It wasn't that she doubted his abilities, but to let your guard down enough to get killed in your sleep would take a degree of unawareness. Despite having her own abode, Jack still slept with an awarenesss of her surrounding.

"Get oss uzz 'ork at 4 a.m.," Jack said coolly, "Iss you 'ant a 'lace to crash sore duh night, neet ne out sront. Ny lunch ends soon."

(OOC: So we could either end it after Jack goes back to work, or we could time-skip write Jude going to Jack's apartment after her shift ends. Your call!)

Nothing worth stealing? Jude clicked out a thoughtful mrr. He would be the judge of that. He wouldn't steal it, but he would totally judge... if he ever bothered to go see the other shrimp's apartment, that was.

Jude had forgotten that this had all started with Jack crouching outside with food. He stood and stretched. Her reminder was also a dismissal.

"Sanks." He waggled the paper before putting it into his pocket. Her pocket, actually, since these were her clothes. He was still undecided, but if the clock above the doorway was any indication, he had a few hours to make the call. Plenty of time for him to "make do," as he'd said that he could.

He should have said that he couldn't. It would have saved him the effort.

...

Jude knew he'd stayed up too long without restful sleep when he caught himself zoning out again. L'heure bleue was still a while away since the days were shifting to accommodate the turning of the seasons. Funny that Sam had wanted him to learn crap like that out in the wilderness. Despite Jude's rejection of Sam's drunken tutelage, he'd ended up learning it anyway.

He was still unsure of how it made him a more capable mutant or X-man.

What was he supposed to do now?

"-eeeey! Rainbow buggy space cadet!"

Nonplussed, Jude realized that someone had been talking to him. Or, rather, at him?

"GET OFFA MY BENCH."

Her bench? Jude looked between his seat and the homeless woman's cart, struck with sudden inspiration.

"'Rade ya for id."

Jude visited the diner and begged to use the phone so that he could dial the number. A fair bit of wandering later and Jude was there at Chief's doorstep with a housewarming gift: a mug that read "World's Okay-est Dad."

Despite the trickling flow of the remainder of Jack's shift, she endured it through to the end. Since she had her phone on her at all times for its translating function, she recieved the kid's phone call and was able to relay directions to her complex easily enough. Hopefully they were clear enough. Then again, all of the squat, low-rise Harlem complexes probably looked the same to the undiscerning eye, so perhaps not?

Jack made the commute home more hastily than usual, her walk from the train station more clipped than usual. She found Jude on the front porch of the complex, a fixture that would be more ominous to any other passerby.

"Hey kid," she greated, ascending the concrete steps, "'el-cun to ny hun-dle hone."

It was a modest building, in the way of New York buildings. Five stories (not including the basement) and four narrow windows accross. It was a brown stone buliding with off-white accents. Next to it, an empty lot on one side, and a gated alley on the other. There were garbage cans along the front, and bags of rubbish that hadn't quite made it to them. All in all, though, it was a quiet and not-too-terrible street. (There was a church about a five minute walk from there.)

Jack keyed-in her code and led the kid in through the front door.

"Sird sloor," she announced, walking the familiar route towards the stairwell.

She didn't mean to seem terse, but she was rather hungry. She assumed the kid was too. They ascended the stairs and, soon enough, they were at the door to her apartment. The prawn rummaged her keys out of her bag and unlocked the door. Once the door was unlocked, she pushed it open, and gestured for the kid to go-in ahead of her.

The front door opened into a narrow hall. To the left, the bedroom and bathroom. To the right, a kitchenette and great room. Jack hadn't been lying when she said that there wasn't much worth stealing. In he living room, there was a couch, a bookshelf, and a small round table with four chairs. A modest television sat opposite of the couch. Closer to the kitchenette, some woodworking materials. There was a pile of junkmail on the counter. The fridge was opposite of the kitchenette, tucked in teh corner of the great room. There was enough room for a small stove/oven, a sink, a scant amount of cabinets and counter-space. All-in-all, a nice space, but it was very meagerly decorated.

"Toilet to duh right, ny roon is at duh sar end uzz duh hall," Jack said simply, padding towards the fridge, "Couch is all yours. Are ya hungry?"

She was so... trusting.

Or maybe it was that she was sure of herself? Either way it was incredibly jarring for Jude to see in someone else what he so clearly lacked. He'd thought that he'd known what he wanted and quite suddenly he'd had to choose something different. He'd had plenty of time to process the ramifications of that choice, but he was still... mourning.

Mourning that he had to make it in the first place. Mourning that it was done. Mourning what should have been instead.

"Hun'ry." He confirmed. "Can I hel'f?"

Jude hedged around the apartment with his mug gift, unsure of its reception or when it was best to pass it along. He eyed the couch and tried to guess if he would even fit on it.

Maybe the floor would be better. The floor an a pillow. He wouldn't ever turn down a pillow.

Jack rummaged into the fridge-- she'd already set aside some ground beef for food when she got home. The kid could have it-- it was good, grass-fed stuff, no chemicals. That sort of thing was important when you had a funky way of tasting things.

"Re'nen'der duh sirst tine I had neat as-ter changing," Jack said, tossing the bag of ground beef onto the counter, "It's... it's awe-sun, you'll luz it. Gotta get duh clean stuss, doh. Organic stuss."

>> "Hun'ry. Can I hel'f?"

"Sure," the prawn grunted, fishing-out some leftovers for herself, "Iss you want."

Jack meandered to the stove, fetching a frying-pan from an adjoining cabinet. The frying pan was deposited on the stove, the stove was lit, and the prawn retrieved a spatula as well. This was proferred to the kid.

"Has you cooked any 'e-sore?" the prawn inquired, "Can cook duh neat iss you 'ant."

Organic, huh? He figured with all the talk of chemicals and whatever that made sense, but going from a garbage can to organic was a hell of a jump.

He puttered over to the sink and washed the mug and his hands. The mug he put next to the frying pan, slightly embarrassed that it had made him think of her at all when he'd seen it. "For you." He nudged it, unsure of what her reception would be. He just hadn't wanted to come empty handed. "Hous oo'arming gift."

He edged Jack out of the way so that he could take over moving the meat in the pan. The smells were making him want to cry and he wanted to watch it to see when it was done rather than sitting in suspense. "I can 'ove s'uff aroun' a pan. Canno' s'ice food."

Right now, he would have eaten curtains he was so hungry, but he had manners. He was a guest here.

There was an unfamiliar ceramic clink on the counter, and the timid proclamation of, "For you. Hous oo'arming gift."

Jack carefully picked-up the mug, which looked like a toy in her primary hands. She surveyed it, reading the text that proclaimed her "World's Okayest Dad". Jack chuffed, her expression softening. She didn't get a lot of gifts. And this one was damn funny. She was liking this kid more and more.

Mindful of the gift and the kid's antennae, Jack gave him the kid an appreciative (but not too enthusiastic) head-rub. If he had hair, it'd be a hair-ruffle, but he was bald. Ah, to be a prawn.

"I like it," she grunted, "Good sense o' hue-nor. Shank you."

Her tone conveyed how genuine she was being, although her own inexperience with giving thanks or expressing feelings made her gratitude sound a little forced. It really wasn't. Jack shuffled from the kitchen, leaving the boy at the stove with a spatula, and surveying the offered mug. It was nice of him to offer it to her.

He got a back of the head rub. Jude was pretty sure that meant that she liked it. Or at least liked him enough to not be rude about it.

If he'd given the mug to Sam what would he have done? Sebastian, at least, would have pretended in front of Jude. Cafas may have legitimately enjoyed it, but he, like Ghost, was concerned about not actually being his parent and letting him be independant. It was what he had asked them to do. Maybe not what he needed. Certainly not what he wanted, but it was hard to express that now. It would have shaken up the entire dynamic of how they'd operated together as a sort-of family.

Sam, though...

Jude stopped stirring for a moment.

He couldn't really be mad at Sam. Jude was the one who had walked away and he believed it was the best thing he could have done at the time for the both of them.

He went back to stirring the meat with his eyebrow ridge drawn low. It smelled like heaven— buttery rich umami heaven.

"Hab you ever giben up on a dream?"

Jack plopped herself onto the couch, gently setting the mug on the coffee table. Browning meat took longer than popping leftovers in the microwave, so she could afford to sit for a few moments. The energy of the brisk walk home was wearing-off. She was at the tail end of a shift, on the cusp of a much-deserved night's sleep. She tended to be very lethargic in the wee hours of the morning.

>> "Hab you ever giben up on a dream?"

A slow, lavender gaze fastened onto the boy's shoulders. His stature was similar, but smaller. He was hunched, as if the frying pan was steadily drawing him in. That was a sudden and spontaneously deep question to ask someone you'd only recently met.

The statuesque woman pondered the inquiry, folding one leg over the other. To give-up on a dream, you had to have on in the first place. Jack couldn't say that she had one, off the bat-- she just wanted a normal life, free of crime. And thus far, she'd avoided that. She'd been so focused on survival, however, she hadn't given much thought to "dreams". However dismal that might seem.

There were obviously deeper thoughts churning in the young man, it wouldn't do to say "yes" or "no" outright. She went back in the memory banks, back in the mental archives, thinking of any dreams she might have held. She though of Chelsea, her first love, and how the emergence of her mutation spoiled their blossoming romance.

Jack fished her phone out of her pocket and typed hurriedly, letting her robotic voice do the speaking for her.

<<I've always wanted to be happy.>> the clipped, synthetic British woman's voice told the boy, <<I was a romantic when I was younger. When my mutation emerged, though, that put a lot of my dreams on hold. My focus became survival. It was like that for a long time.>>

There were a lot of syllables in that explanation that would be problematic for Jack-- but she had also elected to use the robotic alternative for speech, because she avoided the risk of speaking in a quivering voice. That time of her life was still very raw, for her, and to speak about it meant going back to that frame of mind. She wasn't ready for it.

Jack began typing again.

<<It gets better, though.>> the AI informed Jude, though its general lack of tone made it seem disingenuous.