Post by Disgraced on Aug 5, 2022 13:47:15 GMT
It had been pretty obvious when it was time to go. The major threats - the frog, the crow, the crab - had been pretty much dispatched. The band was still out there, but the music had stopped, and if there wasn't any music, then there really wasn't much point to being here any more.
Maybe that was just one of the many ways that Grace was justifying how she felt, but it didn't change the feeling. She wasn't a hero - she didn't even want to be a hero. People who sold their souls to the devil weren't usually out to be heroes. In fact, she didn't really know why she'd gotten mixed up in this at all, other than proximity.
She didn't regret it, though. Maybe that was just the adrenaline talking. It was starting to wear off, though, leaving her shaky. Whatever happened next... well, it was going to have to happen without her. She'd slipped further into the building, picking her way among the debris left behind by her crashing through the window. After a minute or two of this, her nerves unclenched enough that she could follow it up by unclenching her hand, releasing the sword she'd carried. Its needles slipped from her palm, leaving her with a strange feeling of loss and absence. Her armor slipped away as well, fading into darkness or nothingness or whatever it was when it wasn't. Grace wasn't trying to define everything. She was just trying to survive.
For now, it was one minute at a time. She walked - well, limped - out of the building, taking a side alley and managing to pop out the next street over, waiting for what was probably longer than she would have liked to summon a taxi. Her mind seemed to be in a fog, not really conscious of much more than the distant sounds of whatever was going on back at the concert venue now. Still, she had time to wonder if the devil offered a taxi service, and whether they'd get here any faster. Of course, she didn't have any more to give him, so maybe it didn't matter.
When one did arrive, the driver took one look at her and asked if she was going to the hospital, which meant that Grace probably looked almost as bad as she felt. She declined the offer, though. Hospitals were expensive. She'd had to set aside money for the concert and the ride there and back - there was no way she was going to be able to afford an ER visit. The driver seemed understanding. She noticed that he waited outside until she got in the building, once he'd taken her back to her apartment.
It was turning the lock that was the first moment she actually felt like she might be safe - and the first moment when the insanity of everything really happened. Her body rebelled, and the next moment Grace was aware of anything, she was kneeling on the floor of the bathroom, stomach empty, unstoppable sobs shaking her shoulders. When she'd finally run out of those, she dragged herself into the shower and turned the water on, theoretically in some desire to get clean, though all she was really doing was sitting curled up on the floor of the shower letting the water fall on her.
Eventually, she came to her senses enough to undress, take a real shower, brush her teeth, and steel herself to have an actual look at her ankle. It was swollen and starting to turn purple, which was about what she'd expected. Prodding it with a finger hurt like a son of a bitch, but nothing felt wiggly in there, so she wrapped it with an Ace bandage she had probably bought in one of those fits of responsible adulthood and took a couple ibuprofen, hoping she could keep them down. Her stomach didn't like that idea at all, but she curled up around it and told it to behave, dragging herself over to the couch. Bed wasn't going to happen, not when it involved climbing up to the loft, but she could pass out on the couch.
An hour or more of listening to the sounds of the apartment and the city around her while staring at the walls in the dark proved that idea to be false. At some point, though, she must have dropped off, because she was awoken by the blaring of her alarm in her ear and the throbbing of her ankle. A sound of existential protest escaped her, counterpoint to the steady tempo of the alarm - but that wasn't going to get her anywhere, and certainly not to work.
She got up and took three more ibuprofen, bringing the bottle with her to throw in her bag. Her stomach didn't want ibuprofen this morning, but she made it deal with it. Her stomach also didn't want toast, not even with cinnamon. Apparently her willpower could only extend so far, and it didn't extend to breakfast. Grace supposed that would give her a few extra minutes to get to work, which she probably needed, since she had to bike there, and the devil only knew how that was going to go with a busted ankle. There was no point in calling a taxi, though, fare there and back would pretty much negate her pay for the day, and if she wasn't even making money, she might as well stay home. She needed the money, though, so work it was.
She made it. It wasn't pleasant and it wasn't pretty, but she got it done. It helped that her apartment was only six blocks away. Any more than that and she didn't know if it would have been feasible. She was starting to feel a little lightheaded by the time she came into the shop, which was why the sudden presence of arms around her was all that much more of a surprise.
"Grace!" Mina might have cleared the five-foot marker with her shoes on, so it wasn't a particularly large hug, even if it was obviously meant to be. "I remembered that you were going to that concert last night, I've been worried about you. I'm glad you're okay... are you okay?"
The obvious answer was probably I'm fine, everything's fine, because that was what you were supposed to say... but Grace didn't really want to say it. Maybe it was that she just didn't have the energy, or maybe that it was just if she couldn't say it here, where else was she going to say it. "...Kinda? ...I threw up when I got home." Mina made a noise to that, something nonverbally sympathetic. "And I'm pretty sure I sprained my ankle somewhere in there."
"Did you see a doctor?"
"Nah. What are they going to tell me, wrap it up and take ibuprofen? I can do that on my own, without a copay."
"That sucks. Ugh. Trade me today, okay? You take cashier and I'll run drinks, at least that way you can sit down for most of your shift."
Grace hated doing cashier. Interacting with customers was awful - but Mina was probably right, and she nodded a grateful acceptance and went to put her bag down and sit on the stool by the register. A shadow loomed over her almost as soon as she'd sat down, huge and imposing.
Mike was built like an equilateral triangle. He was as broad as he was tall, covered in tattoos, had probably killed a dozen men, and had quite possibly eaten some of them. He was employed by the owner as some sort of personal favor - though from who and for what she had never figured out. He spoke minimal English, and whatever other languages he knew, he didn’t speak much of them either.
He was also the best baker that the coffee shop had ever known, and he gave Grace a vaguely threatening glare while putting a plate down beside her elbow. There was a pair of cookies on it, still steaming from the oven.
"Eat." It was clear that this was not a suggestion. Grace wasn't sure that she was up to it, but she picked up one of the cookies and nibbled at it dutifully, which seemed to satisfy him enough that he lumbered back to the kitchen. Gingerbread. It wasn't bad, actually. Wasn't ginger supposed to be good for upset stomachs? She had to admit she did feel a little better by the time she'd worked her way through the cookies and Mina had taken the plate back to be washed again.
Maybe Grace was more okay than she had thought. Last night had been hard, but this morning... this morning she was here, in her place where she belonged, with people who cared about her. Somehow, that made things better. The clock ticked over to 6, and the doors unlocked to let the morning rush come in.
Grace offered the first customers a smile that wasn't as fake as she'd expected it to be.
"Hi! Welcome to the Devil's Brew!"
Maybe that was just one of the many ways that Grace was justifying how she felt, but it didn't change the feeling. She wasn't a hero - she didn't even want to be a hero. People who sold their souls to the devil weren't usually out to be heroes. In fact, she didn't really know why she'd gotten mixed up in this at all, other than proximity.
She didn't regret it, though. Maybe that was just the adrenaline talking. It was starting to wear off, though, leaving her shaky. Whatever happened next... well, it was going to have to happen without her. She'd slipped further into the building, picking her way among the debris left behind by her crashing through the window. After a minute or two of this, her nerves unclenched enough that she could follow it up by unclenching her hand, releasing the sword she'd carried. Its needles slipped from her palm, leaving her with a strange feeling of loss and absence. Her armor slipped away as well, fading into darkness or nothingness or whatever it was when it wasn't. Grace wasn't trying to define everything. She was just trying to survive.
For now, it was one minute at a time. She walked - well, limped - out of the building, taking a side alley and managing to pop out the next street over, waiting for what was probably longer than she would have liked to summon a taxi. Her mind seemed to be in a fog, not really conscious of much more than the distant sounds of whatever was going on back at the concert venue now. Still, she had time to wonder if the devil offered a taxi service, and whether they'd get here any faster. Of course, she didn't have any more to give him, so maybe it didn't matter.
When one did arrive, the driver took one look at her and asked if she was going to the hospital, which meant that Grace probably looked almost as bad as she felt. She declined the offer, though. Hospitals were expensive. She'd had to set aside money for the concert and the ride there and back - there was no way she was going to be able to afford an ER visit. The driver seemed understanding. She noticed that he waited outside until she got in the building, once he'd taken her back to her apartment.
It was turning the lock that was the first moment she actually felt like she might be safe - and the first moment when the insanity of everything really happened. Her body rebelled, and the next moment Grace was aware of anything, she was kneeling on the floor of the bathroom, stomach empty, unstoppable sobs shaking her shoulders. When she'd finally run out of those, she dragged herself into the shower and turned the water on, theoretically in some desire to get clean, though all she was really doing was sitting curled up on the floor of the shower letting the water fall on her.
Eventually, she came to her senses enough to undress, take a real shower, brush her teeth, and steel herself to have an actual look at her ankle. It was swollen and starting to turn purple, which was about what she'd expected. Prodding it with a finger hurt like a son of a bitch, but nothing felt wiggly in there, so she wrapped it with an Ace bandage she had probably bought in one of those fits of responsible adulthood and took a couple ibuprofen, hoping she could keep them down. Her stomach didn't like that idea at all, but she curled up around it and told it to behave, dragging herself over to the couch. Bed wasn't going to happen, not when it involved climbing up to the loft, but she could pass out on the couch.
An hour or more of listening to the sounds of the apartment and the city around her while staring at the walls in the dark proved that idea to be false. At some point, though, she must have dropped off, because she was awoken by the blaring of her alarm in her ear and the throbbing of her ankle. A sound of existential protest escaped her, counterpoint to the steady tempo of the alarm - but that wasn't going to get her anywhere, and certainly not to work.
She got up and took three more ibuprofen, bringing the bottle with her to throw in her bag. Her stomach didn't want ibuprofen this morning, but she made it deal with it. Her stomach also didn't want toast, not even with cinnamon. Apparently her willpower could only extend so far, and it didn't extend to breakfast. Grace supposed that would give her a few extra minutes to get to work, which she probably needed, since she had to bike there, and the devil only knew how that was going to go with a busted ankle. There was no point in calling a taxi, though, fare there and back would pretty much negate her pay for the day, and if she wasn't even making money, she might as well stay home. She needed the money, though, so work it was.
She made it. It wasn't pleasant and it wasn't pretty, but she got it done. It helped that her apartment was only six blocks away. Any more than that and she didn't know if it would have been feasible. She was starting to feel a little lightheaded by the time she came into the shop, which was why the sudden presence of arms around her was all that much more of a surprise.
"Grace!" Mina might have cleared the five-foot marker with her shoes on, so it wasn't a particularly large hug, even if it was obviously meant to be. "I remembered that you were going to that concert last night, I've been worried about you. I'm glad you're okay... are you okay?"
The obvious answer was probably I'm fine, everything's fine, because that was what you were supposed to say... but Grace didn't really want to say it. Maybe it was that she just didn't have the energy, or maybe that it was just if she couldn't say it here, where else was she going to say it. "...Kinda? ...I threw up when I got home." Mina made a noise to that, something nonverbally sympathetic. "And I'm pretty sure I sprained my ankle somewhere in there."
"Did you see a doctor?"
"Nah. What are they going to tell me, wrap it up and take ibuprofen? I can do that on my own, without a copay."
"That sucks. Ugh. Trade me today, okay? You take cashier and I'll run drinks, at least that way you can sit down for most of your shift."
Grace hated doing cashier. Interacting with customers was awful - but Mina was probably right, and she nodded a grateful acceptance and went to put her bag down and sit on the stool by the register. A shadow loomed over her almost as soon as she'd sat down, huge and imposing.
Mike was built like an equilateral triangle. He was as broad as he was tall, covered in tattoos, had probably killed a dozen men, and had quite possibly eaten some of them. He was employed by the owner as some sort of personal favor - though from who and for what she had never figured out. He spoke minimal English, and whatever other languages he knew, he didn’t speak much of them either.
He was also the best baker that the coffee shop had ever known, and he gave Grace a vaguely threatening glare while putting a plate down beside her elbow. There was a pair of cookies on it, still steaming from the oven.
"Eat." It was clear that this was not a suggestion. Grace wasn't sure that she was up to it, but she picked up one of the cookies and nibbled at it dutifully, which seemed to satisfy him enough that he lumbered back to the kitchen. Gingerbread. It wasn't bad, actually. Wasn't ginger supposed to be good for upset stomachs? She had to admit she did feel a little better by the time she'd worked her way through the cookies and Mina had taken the plate back to be washed again.
Maybe Grace was more okay than she had thought. Last night had been hard, but this morning... this morning she was here, in her place where she belonged, with people who cared about her. Somehow, that made things better. The clock ticked over to 6, and the doors unlocked to let the morning rush come in.
Grace offered the first customers a smile that wasn't as fake as she'd expected it to be.
"Hi! Welcome to the Devil's Brew!"