cottoncandypink

Entry tags:

2018,
tess mercer

Tess

The door opens to Wilford's dressing room. The blue walls are decorated with framed vintage movie posters, opening up for a vanity that doesn't look like it's been used since Wilford moved into the building. Along the exterior brick wall is where Wilford's set up his office, with a few shelves and filing cabinets behind the massive desk. The other side of the room is more of a lounge, with a black leather sofa and matching chair, and a smudged up glass coffee table that shows evidence of small, sticky hands.

Wilford closes the door behind them, only to open it again to reveal the large closet where he keeps several other guns. He stores the rifle in with the rest, making sure the door is locked so the nosy little toddler can't find his way in.

Beyond the door leading to the hall, people are obviously coming and going. Someone's having a heated argument, but the soundproofing in the building is heavy enough that nothing specific can be made out.

Now that there's signal, Wilford pulls out his phone to check the traffic report. Wilford sighs. "Someone dropped a yacht on the beltway," he says.

His phone isn't buzzing with missed texts though, so he's hoping it happened after Andy got past that point.

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Wilford makes an exhausted noise.

"Yeah, we're working on that too. He's fine around older kids, but the ones closer to his age freak him out like you've never seen."

He leans on the horn as someone decides to start backing up right in front of him. For a long moment, it seems like the driver doesn't realise anything's wrong, but he finally stops before he backs into them.

"Perhaps because he can't get much attention from them."

If Michael's anything he's an attention freak.

Then the car stops right in front of them.

"Jesus. How does anyone survive here?"

"Nah, he's afraid of them," Wilford says. "Screams like he's being murdered."

A few more quick honks convinces the idiot in front of them to actually put his car into the correct gear and get going.

"You don't have rush hour where you live?" he asks, while Michael starts shouting in the back seat.

Craning her head to check on Michael, she decides to leave the driving to Wilford.

"We do, it's just not like this." Again, helicopters. She wouldn't really know.

"Hey, kiddo. It's okay. We're going to get there soon."

"Ba ba ba!" Michael shouts. Apparently he likes all the noise.

Speaking of helicopters, there's a bunch buzzing around up in the air. Whether they're watching chaos or causing it isn't clear.

"We do this every day, don't we runt?" Wilford says.

Michael shouts something that sounds an awful lot like 'fucking business.' Wilford knows he's not supposed to laugh, but boy is it hard.

"No, we tell them to learn to drive." He's barely holding it together.

That's a scowl directed at Wilford.

"Don't encourage him."

At least they know he can say something other than ba ba ba.

"I couldn't live in something like this. Metropolis is bad enough."

Wilford shakes his head, still trying not to laugh. "What?" He's not going to discourage the kid when the goal is to get him saying anything at all.

In the back seat, Michael's gone back to his usual sound.

"You should see it on a Friday."

Eventually, they make it off the surface streets and onto the Del Perro freeway. Traffic doesn't necessarily improve, but it is at least moving faster. Of course, moving faster means there's less time to react to the idiots deciding they need to do a U-turn to catch the exit they just missed. At least they lose the helicopters. They never bring anything good.

She's just glad she has her seatbelt on as they race through traffic.

"I think I'd rather not."

Wilford manages to get them down the freeway and into Del Perro without any damage, despite the city's best efforts. He expects Michael to fall asleep at some point, but apparently having someone new in the car is enough to keep him engaged and awake as he tries to show her all his toys again.

They finally make it out to the beach. Wilford drives them down to the boardwalk, parking in a reserved spot behind the building. The parking lots for all the shops and restaurants along the way are crowded, but it's a nice day in a touristy part of the city, right on the beach. Crowds are a good thing to have. After getting Michael out of the car and locking up, Wilford leads the way to the ramp at the side of the building. A sign above the door calls the place Buster's, but the cheapness of the sign suggests the name may not be a permanent choice.

The restaurant inside is crowded and busy, and even the patio outside has been filled up, smoke and haze be damned. Someone has taken it upon themselves to decorate the inside of the building for Christmas, with colourful garlands and lights strung up along the tops of the walls. That's fine. Wilford's not too pleased about the little angels and Christmas trees that are tacked up along with the garlands.

Wilford grabs a menu from behind the counter and hands it over to Tess. "Tell Devon to take these fucking angels down," he says quietly to the hostess as he keys an order for himself and Michael into the system. "The trees too."

The menu is heavily Korean seafood, but presented in a way that makes it a little more attractive to picky American tourists. The main theme of the menu is a mix-and-match system, with aside from a few exceptions, most of the items being presented as individual side portions.

Edited 2018-12-07 18:30 (UTC)

Between trying to keep Michael from bothering Wilford while he's driving and looking out the window at the strange world around them, the trip is mostly a blur to Tess.

Once out of the vehicle, her eyebrows rise at the sign outside the restaurant.

"Isn't Buster your dog?"

It's cute. Sort of.

She takes the menu, eyeing the decor around them.

"You got something against Christmas?"

"I wasn't going to keep calling it Thandie's," Wilford says.

That name was awful.

After Wilford puts in their order, he looks around the restaurant a little more closely, struggling to hold onto Michael. The kid doesn't seem to want to be held anymore, and is doing his very best to squirm out of Wilford's grip. It's packed almost to capacity today, and about as noisy as you'd expect from a crowd this size. Weekends are all hands on deck, but it looks like they're missing a few servers. He'll have to check the time sheets when he gets to his desk.

"Maybe I do," he says plainly. "I also got tricked into filming some stupid reality TV bullshit on Monday, and don't want to give them anything to use."

"Why not just call it Wilford's?"

She takes Michael's hands, attempting to help keep him where he is. It's good there's a crowd. Crowds mean business.

"People like decorations for holidays. Customers. You should see what I do to the lobby of Luthorcorp every year."

"It was failing when I bought it. The last thing it needed was for it to get crowded like this before I had the chance to fix it."

He hoists Michael up so he can get a better grip on the squirming little runt.

"Jim's squatting here."

That doesn't need to be elaborated upon further, he doesn't think.

Tess blinks.

"Jim's what?"

Then she snorts softly.

"Maybe it'll finally put him out of his misery."

Wilford shrugs and shakes his head. "Somewhere out near Pacific Bluffs," he says. "I don't know how the hell he got here, but he's been out there for a while. Since before I moved out here from back east."

Wilford still wants to drop a jet onto Jim's house.

He points quickly at the register. "You gonna get anything?" he asks.

Tess would not only approve of this plan, she'd help.

"He's a worm. They have a way of getting places."

She shakes her head.

"I'm good, thank you."

Wilford submits the order and starts leading the way back to his office, before his own kid starts causing a scene.

"He couldn't have chosen a worse time for it," he says.

The office is a closet, probably literally. His computer is on a small folding table in the corner, but he has somehow managed to cram a small two-seater and a coffee table into the space. He sets Michael down on the sofa, and pulls out a handful of crayons and a colouring book for him.

"I'd done something real stupid, and was lucky he doesn't know it was a felony. I'm pretty sure anyway, because he could have destroyed me with it."

He doesn't know how many people in the bar know about his adventures in opening a fifteen year old save. He's guessing not many.

She follows them inside the office and sits beside Michael, handing him crayons as he wants them.

"He's an evil little shit that way. What did you do?"

Michael opens his book to a random page, finding a blank one to scribble on. The page opposite, with a duck in rubber boots and a rain coat, has been coloured with significantly more care. Michael picks up one of the green crayons and ignores the uncoloured puppy. The duck apparently needs more green. A lot more green.

"There was this guy who I was pretty sure was save scumming. I didn't know if he had two save logs, or if someone else was helping him, or what. But I knew he was doing it and wanted to catch him in the act. And I thought the best way to do that was to open an old save from when I was just out of college."

It was the single most stupid, idiotic thing he has ever done.

Tess still isn't sure about saves and how Wilford's world actually works, so this perhaps doesn't impress upon her the way it should.

"Isn't that what saves are for? To be opened later?"

Wilford shakes his head as he boots up his computer. "Not if you open them to use future knowledge for personal gain," he says. "The feds like that about as much as they like insider trading."

Fifteen years of future knowledge is a lot to be acting on. Jim's apathy saved him a whole heap of trouble.

He gives the computer his password and pulls up the day's time sheets. Two people didn't show up today. Great. He pulls out his phone and fires off a text to each of them to figure out where they are, since nobody bothered to put any notes into the system about it.

She isn't following, but that's fine. He did a bad thing and he's glad he didn't get caught for it. She knows the feeling.

She keeps handing Michael crayons as Wilford finishes up with his work.

"Is this all you do, go from one job to another?"

Pretty much. Wilford knows his world is different to most, and it's almost impossible to explain everything anyway.

"Not every day. But I go stir crazy hanging around the house all the time."

She's friends with Jim. She's probably heard it before. He's got to keep himself busy if he doesn't want to get himself into trouble he might not be able to get himself out of.

"I'll have to be here all week for that damn show, so he's gonna stay with a buddy of mine. He's got an eight year old that he spoils rotten, and they get along pretty well."

He doesn't want Michael on TV. That would be the easiest way for his mother to track him down.

While he talks, Wilford starts going through the bills. He's already paid off the place's substantial debts, but that hasn't stopped new ones from coming in. While he does that, Michael mumbles to himself, scribbling wildly with whichever colour seems to catch his eye. If he misses the page and gets it on the table, Wilford doesn't seem to care. He's engaged and ostensibly learning some skills, which can only be a good thing.

"You need a hobby."

Like she's one to talk, but at least she's taking time off right now to be here.

"So you're just going to leave him with someone else for a week? He needs stability."

Wilford shakes his head. "No, just for the evenings. I'm going to pick him up on my way home. But he can't be here, and I'd rather not get fined by the network."

So he's going to get the stupid reality show cancelled instead.

The door opens, and one of the servers brings a tray with several plates and bowls holding various things. Wilford moves onto the floor across the table from Michael, moving everything out of the way so they have room for dinner.

"His mom," he starts, but shakes his head. "He can't be here when they're filming."

Along with various fish cakes and gimbap and beef, the server hands Wilford a bottle of beer and a glass of orange juice, both of which get set well out of the way up on his desk. Michael immediately forgets all about his colouring and grabs one of the fish cakes from the plate.

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