2019-05-31 - Two Girls, A Car Crash, and a Pizza Place

Summary:

Barbara and Allison meet coincidentally over pizza when a nearby car crash leads to a revelation.

Log Info:

Storyteller: None
Date: Fri May 31 02:08:36 2019
Location: Mario's Pizza

Related Logs

None

Theme Song

None

barbara-gordonallison-crestmere

Mario's pizza is the sort of place that always has customers. it's open 24 hours so it stands to reason on one hand. But just how many customers do they get at 3 am? One must wonder. Thankfully it isn't that late just now, however. Going on 10 pm, ther eare a good number of customers. In fact most of the tables and booths are full. As a result it could be tricky to find a place to get a seat without waiting.

One who has been here long enough to get a table, Barbara Gordon sits at a two person table near the back. She has her pizza already, resting an elevated rack to allow for more table space. She's taking advantage of that space with her laptop. She's working away on something in what looks like a text editor or a compiling app. Lines of neon green text streak across the screen at the whim of her equally fast fingers as she types. Occasionally she pauses first to push her glasses back up the bridge of her nose, then to take a bite of pizza and a sip of the drink in her glass.

Ain't this the city that never sleeps?

Allison bursts into the parlor. That's actually a bit melodramatic: she comes in hurriedly, but she looks exhausted. Rings around the eyes. The slump of the shoulders. The apron still wrapped around her neck and waist, concealing pedestrian black jeans and a white t-shirt. All evidence points to a job in the food profession, and those poor folks work all sorts of odd hours.

To-wit: the pizzeria is still open.

Still at the front, the woman looks, from afar, to be placing an order — or attempting to. As sometimes happens, though, she checks her pockets, and then makes a New York exclamation: "Fuck!" It's loud enough to cause the cashier to pause in punching in the order. And then, further talk. "I'm sorry, I was — I am so knackered from the day, I must've forgotten my bloody wallet — ergh!" The blonde server looks as if she's about to break into tears. "Look, just — " Exasperated sigh. " — I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'll — "

She half-turns, looking helpless and heatedly upset.

It's surprising how often something akin to this scene unfolds here. And in many other restuarants. But it's quiet enough that the expletive and the half apology half explanation carry across the room.

The redhead was busy typing away at the creation of the Next Big Thing (tm), because of course what else could she be programming in a pizza shop? But the commotion got her to glance up and give her green eyes a break from the typing. A look at the clock. Oof. Too long typing. She closes her laptop then and there, tucking it into her bag as she observes the distress of the blonde at the entrance.

Standing up, Barbara walks over to the front and asks honestly, "Is everything okay?" Looking first to the cashier/server/whatever needs done at the time, then to Allison.

It's an easy story.

Allison's got the look of a girl who might've been a model. Her outfit suggests a fall from that goal. "It's just been a long day," she explains without looking in Barbara's direction, her voice tinged with a British accent. "I forgot my wallet at work." Another sigh. "I'll go back and get it." But it's not what she wants to do, given the way that she doesn't just dash off to do so. A long day for a working-class woman from another place.

Just another day in New York City, aka Gotham.

The blonde straightens her shoulders back. Eyes that, for a moment, looked as if they may burst into water harden. That's the New York attitude. "Everything'll be fine, I — " Then she looks at the redhead. " — I'm sorry for disturbing." Hand through wispy hair. Half-hearted, apologetic smile. "Guess I just don't want to go back and get it, lazy bugger that I am, mm?" She puts her hands into her pockets.

And everything is all right again.

Barbara Gordon smiles understandingly. She wears faded and torn jeans, a simple blue tank top and a gray and green flannel over it. "It's no disturbance. In fact you did me a favor. I'd have sat there all week if I hadn't been coaxed from my programming stupor" she laughs. "I get in a zone and the world is dead to me. It's good to get a break." She looks around, "So.. no tables.. and.. a need to catch your breath and enjoy a slice or three?" Looking back to Allison, she offers, "I'm Barbara. And you're welcome to join me. They've put up with me in here tonight long enough it's time I order another pie to earn my keep. would you like to join me and help pick out what toppings go on it then share in the bounty when it arrives?"

Allison gives Barbara an Ackbarian look.

She looks around the parlor for a moment. The cashier looks half-relieved that the blonde didn't suffer an emotional breakdown. You know what's really awkward? That: being in the service industry and witnessing someone meltdown into a puddle of angst and tearful chagrin. The blonde considers the offer carefully before non-chalantly — seemingly non-chalantly — saying, "Sure." Because it's pizza, and no one in their right mind turns down pizza.

Not in New York at least.

Flustered nonetheless, the woman mumbles, "I'm Amar— I mean — sorry, I'm Allison." She offers one of her callused, working-class hands. If Barbara takes it for a shake, she'll find the hand remarkably warm, almost hot. "I — um — you — ?" Beat. "You're a programmer, then? You like, write the sort of things that people stick into their phones — apps, I believe?" Beat. "I, ah — " Her cheeks are pink. " — I don't do that. I — " She looks past Barbara's right shoulder. " — you're sitting over there, then?"

Lower lip gets sucked into her mouth for a chew.

Barbara Gordon shakes the hand and smiles. "Hello Allison. It's a pleasure to meet you." She nods. "I do a lot of programming. I do some consulting but my day job is with the New York City Public Library system. I help with the networks, some database work. bit of everything." She jokes, "I'm a nerdy librarian. It's true." She then nods, "Yes. C'mon." she noticed the warm hand but chalked it up to the blonde being flustered. "Time to go get an order in." She won't take no for an answer.

"Oh, I can just have whatever you're having."

Allison seems pliant. She is easily lead to a seat, and, when she gets there, she seems to be put more at ease. A little, at least. "I don't want to be a bother, you understand; it's not the way I'd like to be." Beat. "I suppose my wallet'll be safe where I put my things at the restaurant, but — " She looks to the door for an instant. " — I'll go back and get it once I — well, I mean, once we've had a gnosh." And then she sits, putting her hands on the table. "I didn't even have the bloody sense to change before I left."

All of it comes out like verbal diarrhea.

And then, she's quiet. A hand comes up to run fingers through blonde hair. Her eyes are decidedly cast more towards the table than anything else. "Is it difficult to program?" Stop. "I've actually been meaning to try and do something more with myself than just being a waitress or back kitchen staff there, but — " Rueful smile. " — it's not easy getting about in New York City these days. Although I suppose it's never been easy for anyone, anywhere, yeah?"

She pinches the nails of her middle fingers into her palms gently.

Barbara Gordon moves to sit, having gotten a box for the remainder of her earlier pizza and packing it up for later. A programmer's feast, old pizza. Hot, cold. Doesn't matter.

"Tell you what. it'll take about fifteen or twenty minutes for the pizza to cook. Let's settle on an order and I'll hold your seat for you. You need to get your wallet and things. That's not good to just leave behind. Identity Theft isn't getting any better after all. I'll still be here. I promise."

She nods, "It can be a challenge to program. But anyone with determination can pick it up. there are great online courses and CUNY has great in class courses too. It is hard to get ahead in NYC, you're right. But never lose hope. Keep your eyes on what your goal is." She winks.

Allison gets a look on her face that is a mixture of relief and sadness.

"Would you?" Stay here, that is. "I promise it's just a few minutes away." Grateful. "Thank you, Barbara, thank you, I — " She looks to the door again, and then pulls herself up to her feet. " — I'll be back, I promise. I'll owe you." And then, without needing more prompting, heads on out of the pizzeria on brisk feet. Once she's out the door, she then bursts into a sprint.

And, about twelve minutes later, she returns, a little breathlessly.

Allison looks around, at first. When she sees that Barbara's where she said she'd be, the blonde brings herself back to her chair, and sits back down. "Thank you. Thank you so much." She looks relieved and pleased. It's the simple things. "But now that I'm here, why don't I pick up the pizza? Please. It's the least I could do, really — I insist." She reaches into her pocket. "I've been working for most of the day, but I get paid well enough to get a pizza or two every now and again."

Clearly, she doesn't know who she's talking to.

Barbara Gordon didn't even get her laptop back out while Allison was gone. She seemed content to wait and people watch or daydream. Seeing Allison return, she smiles. "I keep my promises, Allison. And I said I'd pay. So no.. I appreciate your offer. But that wouldn't be right. I wasn't raised to back out on my promises. My dad would say - your word is all you have. If you don't keep it? No one will trust you, ever again." She grins. "So blame dad. And no. You don't owe me. One hard working girl to another, I'm happy to try and brighten your day. Sometime you can pay it forward to someone else having a rough day. Deal?"

Barbara's response gives Allison pause.

It's not a bad thing; it's a good thing. The blonde looks confused for a moment, but then responds with a knowing smile and nod of her head. She agrees. "At the very least, Barbara — " Beat. " — I can't say that I'm anything but a blithering mess of a woman right now. Conversation with me would probably lead to me telling you of my problems with work, with life. And I'd like to avoid being an exasperating shit as much as possible, so — " A self-deprecatory laugh follows.

" — maybe I should just ask questions about you."

And so, she does. Her laugh is followed by a smile, and the look of a young woman who is just settling in on the high point of her day. "Do you come out to program in public because — well — I mean, I guess I should ask: how do you do something as complicated as programming in a place like this?" Not that it's busy. "I would imagine you'd need to concentrate and focus, to make sure that you get it right the first time, yeah?"

Her fingers knit together; her hands rest on the table.

Barbara Gordon laughs. "Really. It's okay Allison." She offers a nod of assurance. "But I'm happy to answer questions. I… won't promise they are interesting answers. Or that I won't take a hard core turn past nerd and into total geek-speak… so fair warning!" she jokes.

"Well this is a personal project and I'm just getting my ideas down right now. If I didn't do it here I'd be doing it at home. And that's really boring. Here at least they feed me when I pay them to, right?" She laughs. "But I guess you could say I hit it off with programming really well? Once I start, I get focused and it's like there's just me… and the instructions I'm writing. I guess it's sort of like a novellist when they're in the zone for a new book? maybe?"

"Maybe."

When the pizza arrives — it's not too long after Allison re-takes her seat — the blonde server unabashedly dives in. It shouldn't be too much of a surprise that the rail-thin woman would be as ravenous as a bitch with nine puppies. Like a good New Yorker, she pulls off a slice, and folds it to eat — which she begins with a bite that would normally be reserved for sharks or crocodiles. Om-nom-nom.

"Guess that makes sense," she manages to get out as she delightedly begins the meal.

Chew, chew, swallow. "Speaking of writing, what do you think of all of the news bits I've read about the Batman?" Irony. "You know, how he is apprehending criminals, bringing them to justice. Sounds so very poetically romantic, don't you think?" Allison takes another large-carnivore-like bite out of her slice. Poor thing never had a chance. "Do you think it makes the city safer? I think it makes the city safer. I mean, not driving, mind you, but safer."

"Like, easier to walk in the dark safer."

Barbara Gordon laughs. "Really. It's okay Allison." She offers a nod of assurance. "But I'm happy to answer questions. I… won't promise they are interesting answers. Or that I won't take a hard core turn past nerd and into total geek-speak… so fair warning!" she jokes.

"Well this is a personal project and I'm just getting my ideas down right now. If I didn't do it here I'd be doing it at home. And that's really boring. Here at least they feed me when I pay them to, right?" She laughs. "But I guess you could say I hit it off with programming really well? Once I start, I get focused and it's like there's just me… and the instructions I'm writing. I guess it's sort of like a novellist when they're in the zone for a new book? maybe?"

"Maybe."

When the pizza arrives — it's not too long after Allison re-takes her seat — the blonde server unabashedly dives in. It shouldn't be too much of a surprise that the rail-thin woman would be as ravenous as a bitch with nine puppies. Like a good New Yorker, she pulls off a slice, and folds it to eat — which she begins with a bite that would normally be reserved for sharks or crocodiles. Om-nom-nom.

"Guess that makes sense," she manages to get out as she delightedly begins the meal.

Chew, chew, swallow. "Speaking of writing, what do you think of all of the news bits I've read about the Batman?" Irony. "You know, how he is apprehending criminals, bringing them to justice. Sounds so very poetically romantic, don't you think?" Allison takes another large-carnivore-like bite out of her slice. Poor thing never had a chance. "Do you think it makes the city safer? I think it makes the city safer. I mean, not driving, mind you, but safer."

"Like, easier to walk in the dark safer."

Barbara Gordon grabs a slice and eats, albeit more slowly. Still folded in half, because pizza. She listens to the questions and thoughts. Ironic, indeed. If only Allison knew.

A thoughtful pause and barbara replies, "Well? There are many sides to the story, I suppose. I mean, is it really so different than hiring private investigators when the police are too busy to look into a case? Or bounty hunters to track down criminals who have jumped bail? It could be argued that even policing the city by law enforcement can make the city more dangerous in some ways while far safer in others, y'know?" She sits back sipping at her soda. "I think I sleep better at night knowing someone like him is out there. And the others."

Just a sigh comes from Allison.

It's a wistful sigh. Not a 'man, i <3 the bat' sigh, but more of a resigned one. Maybe she doesn't sleep well at night, for whatever reason. "That all makes sense," she murmurs, after swallowing a large, chewed mouthful of cheese, sauce, and dough. "All does, I guess. It's like what Orwell said about rough men."

And then it happens.

There is a screech outside, as a car rounds into the street, out of control. Allison's attention is drawn to the commotion, as the vehicle accelerates and then slams itself into a nearby light pole with a terrific crash. "What the — ?" Her eyes widen with concern, and she drops the remainder of her slice onto the table thoughtlessly.

She looks to Barbara, incredulous.

Barbara Gordon smiles innocently and sets her soda down just in time to hear and see careening vehicle and the crash.

"…whoa."

She blinks then looks to Allison and then to the room, making sure everyone is okay.

Jumping up, the redhead seems fully intent on running out there to make sure everyone is okay. She all but sprints to the front doors, shoving through them onto the sidewalk, looking around to make sure no one there is harmed either before moving toward the vehicle cautiously.

I's a pretty typical car crash for a comic.

The front is crumpled, and the car's body is partially turned from the impact. The driver remains inside, but there are signs of immediate damage. First, the gas tank appears to be punctured: iridescent fuel leaks freely from a hole in the underside, flowing onto the asphalt and the sidewalk. Second, the light pole is broken and bent, precariously leaning over the downed vehicle. Finally, as with all broken light poles, there are some blue sparks popping from the base.

It's a matter of time.

"Holy shit." Allison's doesn't seem the delicate sort, but she does exit from the pizzeria a few steps behind Barbara. "What — " Beat. " — the driver's still inside, Barbara." The blonde looks around for a moment, but it is late enough at night that there doesn't appear to be any eyewitnesses or interested bystanders.

"Should we call the police?"

Barbara Gordon's mind connects the dots of the situation. It's what she does best. leaking gas tank, sparking wires live with power. Trapped occupant(s) in the vehicle. As others emerge from Mario's to gawk, she hears Allison and nods, "Someone call the police!" But she's not running from the scene, she's running toward the car, assessing the integrity of the vehicle. She expects the doors to be jammed from the impact causing the frame to twist. But she still tries, tugging at the driver's side door. "Can you hear us? Are you hurt?"

The driver is out like a spent light.

But the door is not. With one of Barbara's sharp pulls, the door opens and the supine body of the driver — bloodied from where his head hit the wheel and the windshield — rolls out to be caught. Hopefully, Barbara also does that because Allison is a few feet behind, eyeing the sparking light and the spreading gasoline.

"Uh, Barbara?"

The blonde comes closer, to try and help with the driver if needed. She's slender and spindly, but waiting tables gives you muscles that work when adrenaline is up. "We have to move," she says tersely. "The gasoline, the sparks." There may be an explosion imminent. "Come on." It's really only a matter of time.

And time is running out.

Barbara Gordon has pushed the fear of explosion anf fire out of her mind as she focuses on the injured driver, "We don't have much time. Allison can you see anyone else in the car? If not I could use your help!" She turns to bark at the people from Mario's, "Everyone needs to get back at least a hundred feet! This car could catch fire any moment!"

She works to ease the injured driver out as gently but quickly as she can, but she's not making a lot of progress frankly. She doesn't want to hurt him more than he already is.

For a few moments, Allison helps Barbara to get the driver out.

The sparks fly. The gasoline spreads, and is inevitably caught. A fire starts and begins to grow near the car, as the two young women try to get the injured driver out. And, of course, when the danger is present, that's when there's sign of other life: the sad crying of a cat trapped in a carrier in the rear compartment of the vehicle.

Discretion is the better part of valor.

But there's another part to it, and that's what makes Allison stop. It's called 'insanity'. Ludicrously, the blonde says crisply, "See if you can pull him out. And — " There's a moment of hesitation. " — try not to look directly at me." She doesn't explain. She doesn't have time.

She just turns, and erupts into a bright light of heat.

Glowing like a sun, the blonde easily rends apart the metal the blocks access to the rear compartment. It happens for just a moment; then, the light quickly dies down, and Allison is able to reach in to get the pet carrier out. Once she has it, she turns to see if Barbara needs any assistance.

As if nothing at all just happened.

Barbara Gordon manages to nod witha bit of puzzlement before she is finally able to get the driver extricated. She picks him up with more ease than one might expect from her. She's stronger than she looks clearly. She pauses, "Wait!" she sees Allison going toward the car then has to turn away at that flare of near sunlight and heat. She gasps and moves quickly to get the hurt man away from the burning car. "Allison! We have to get clear! the tank could fully rupture and there'll be flame everywhere!" because gas tanks only explode in the movies. Unless they don't. Who wants to really chance it?

Across the street, as sirens begin to wail in the distance, Barbara gently sets the driver down and begins to check his vitals. It won't be long before the EMTs are on the scene to properly take over, the fire department to put the car fire out, and NYPD to control the situation.

When that happens, Barbara looks over to her new acquaintance, "… okay. I'm not one to pry. But you're far more than a server. And you were a huge help. Thank you." It's all she says other than offering a smile.

Allison's smile isn't as sunny.

It's sad. She's more looking at the cat in the carrier than really paying attention to what's around her now. She tentatively puts a finger between the cage's bars, so that the young cat can bat at its tip. "I'm really just a server," she insists in a quiet tone. Then, she looks at Barbara. "It's not like I can just do that to make rent."

"I don't know of anyone who'd pay a mutant to be a mutant."

She looks rueful. "I'm sorry, could I — " Her mood's changed. Maybe she's not entirely comfortable with having the ability to melt metal or glow like the sun. " — could I maybe just call you some time and — like, maybe we could try this again without the flaming cars?" Exhibit A, in the background.

And so the scene ends there.

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