Point of Contention [Shio/Sol]

Humans breed conflict.

Usually, there's always some sort of argument or debate going on somewhere.  Anywhere.  Generally, if there isn't, all involved parties would bear the onus of finding some way to create one.  It's inscribed into the species, it's as much a part of their being as their flesh or soul.  Death and Taxes are often cited as the two only true inevitabilities in life.  Sol had a differing opinion.  He believed that conflict was even more inevitable.

If there was one human left alive in all the world, there would still be conflict.  Sol was certain of it.  They were just that bad.

Though fairly universal in its distribution, contention tended to breed more quickly, more aggressively, at certain places.  Some locales were prime for the rapid birth and spread of low-quality arguments, such as bars, night clubs, pubs, and generally any place or event in which alcohol is present or available for individual purchase and immediate consumption.  Others lead to arguments of greater depth and quality, places where great minds of exceptional merit and extraordinary determination met: universities, symposiums, NASCAR races, etc.

Then, there was Starebocks.  A corporate chain Coffee House, come to be be known in modern days as a stomping ground of the most pretentious kind of pests and nuisances that the whole of humanity had to offer.  They gathered, wearing their scarves and prophylactic glasses, wearing ironic t-shirts and skinny jeans, carrying the thinnest and lightest laptops and the biggest and heaviest smart phones that money could buy, there to preen and display to their fellow egocentric wastrels just how ahead of the game of being behind and vaguely outside of the game they truly were, that the others might wallow in the shame of knowing how much they'd failed to impress everyone with their patent unimpressiveness.

A special sort of division took place in Starebocks.  It was for this that Sol had come, hungry for some poorly formed pseudo-intellectual debate to take form.  He'd lurked about for hours, his favourite human puppet drinking overpriced latte after latte, waiting for two freelance authors on the cusp of being published but currently unemployed to notice each other and begin the passive-aggressive engagement of their kind.  Just as he was getting ready to give up and find some other spot to trawl, somebody got noisy.

"You call this coffee?" asked a man, gently placing his cup on the counter with enough restrained force to break through it, his hand shaking with the effort.  "I order a simple pumpkin spice cinnamon caramel mocha latte vanilla Irish cream brown sugar macchiato and you give me this disgusting mudwater!?"  He swept the end of his scarf about his neck as he said the words, voice dripping with strained and false civility.

Sol could smell the brewing fallout, more aromatic and enticing than any of the other aromas filling the shop.  He gave his man the signal, and the sweating, balding little man rose from his seat and approached the counter, a dreadful grimace on his face.

The little man in the suit knew what would come next.  He did not look forward to it.

"You think this is something that can just be settled with a few dollars? That if I am refunded or even recompensated for my loss, the fact that this store promised a product of higher quality than that which they delivered me can be just scrubbed away!?"

The customer's face would have been red, but he was too youthful and skinny to even suffer elevated blood pressure, too much of a waif to experience hypertension in the face of adversity. He clenched every muscle in his body, did his best to force the blood to his face, but ultimately failed to turn red in response to this arrogant, mainstream threat to his totally justifiable indignity. Failing this, he simply held up his cup, which itself was red, and waved it before Shio's face.

"Every day I come here to work on my novel. I'm so close to publishing. I'm not asking anyone to give me what I want for free. I just need a single freaking simple coffee to come out right. How can I focus on my novel when my coffee tastes like the 2%!?"

"What does that even taste like?" asked the confused Liberal Arts major, who had already earned his Bachelors and was working on his Masters, working the only job such a useless degree would permit.

"It tastes like you not knowing how to make a single, simple cup of coffee!"

"Gentlemen," added a timid, quavering voice. It came from a the mouth of a short, balding man with a round face, thick eyebrows, and a very worried expression.

"I believe that I can help both of you come to an agreement."

The customer's fierce, retaliatory stare made it clear that he didn't believe that this pasty, squirming little man could help him. By contrast, the clerk looked helpful that he could. This brief staredown continued for a moment, until another customer made his way to the counter and offered his own odd, generous, creepy brand of help, offering the fuming hipster one of his own cups of slightly used coffee.

Sol saw this interloper for what he was. It wasn't enough that the vermin would try to kill him at every turn, now they were stepping into his conflicts! He rose from his spot, where he'd been hovering close to the sweating lawyer that he'd been bullying into acting as a mouthpiece. Looking down at Shio, a mouth forming on his left palm, he expressed his discontent to the flesh-clad shinigami:

"Do you mind? I'm working, here."

"I was here first.  Inquire of yon chubby bald-pated fellow.  I've had him drinking coffee for hours in anticipation of this very moment.  He'll hear you, even out of your convenient little pseudo-body."

For his part, the balding little man didn't feel like chiming up in the argument that had begun to take an even more vivid shape as Shio's gigai sat back down and pretended to enjoy coffee that it could not taste.  The unruly customer was too busy dealing with socks full of hot coffee to continue bitching, which effectively ruined the entire debate.  Sol frowned beneath his mask.  This was an incredibly vicious and spiteful intrusion; an entire afternoon wasted because some bathrobe wearing, hollow-hunting spirit had decided to make himself the center of attention.  For his part, the hollow was munfed.

"I could as easily leave.  You've already spoiled my argument.  What might have been a fruitful dispute over inadequate coffee has now become a matter of spilled milk.  I didn't personally expect much of it.  Some bickering, naturally.  A voice of reason chimes in, and customer and barista come to terms.  I enjoy their souls.  Life goes on, as it has, as it will.  This, of course, until you step in."

The pudgy lawyer that Sol had been bullying into translating ran off towards the restrooms.  The young undergraduate behind the counter began frantically supplying his bitchy customer with recycled paper napkins, and the very vocal coffee drinker set to work relieving his shoes of the piping hot uninvited beverage.

"All the same, I don't really want to." Sol clicked his teeth, in a sense.  Though the single mouth running across the palm of his hand did not visibly open and close, the sound of clicked teeth echoed out from the hollow.

"I think you might be even better, though.  You're carrying your own argument, aren't you?  Like that sword at your side, the one you're fingering so nervously, thinks you're a special variety of awful.  Bit of an internal feud?"

Sol lifted his left hand, and it's needly-toothed, bizarre little mouth formed what looked approximately a grin.

"I may be of service to you both."

Sol was a bit confused by the shinigami's reaction.  It seemed that he felt that he was being threatened.  Of course, there was a certain amount of intentional underlying threat, but that was natural in the profession of law.  The threat was not so much to be taken as being made against his life, but against his security in the event that he unwisely chose to remain without sound legal representation.  It was clear, by the man's own admission, that his weapon was very dissatisfied with its owner.  Things could only escalate from here.  The hollow could almost taste the conflict already. His hand-mouth spoke again.

"Don't be hasty.  My words may have been chosen poorly, or your prejudices and assumptions about my motives may have coloured them.  I was offering you free expert legal service.  I eat human souls because they cease to have meaning when my work has been completed.  It is just another service I offer my client.  I am not compelled to consume those whom I have served.  Even if I did wish to eat you, given that one party is inedible to me, I would be forced to decline.  I only eat in pairs, you see.  Gillians not withstanding."

The mouth on Sol's hand bent into the best approximation of a smile that it could muster.  Given that it was a needle-toothed, drooling, mockery-of-life sort of mouth, the effect was mostly lost.  Still, he hoped that the shinigami would be willing to take a step back and approach this with an open mind, keep things civil, and ultimately proceed into arbitration.  It would become very boring and inconvenient for both of them if he did not.

"I apologize, in my haste and momentary aggravation, I've forgotten one of the most basic bits of etiquette.  In this life I am called Sol Mediar.  It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

He extended his right hand for a proper shake.  It was easy for the hollow to forget how unpleasant such an experience could be for members of the other races, even if he did politely keep his mouth on his left hand for just such occasions.  After a moment, he recalled that it would probably be rude of him to expect any reciprocation, so he retracted his hand and nodded his head by way of substitute.[/font]

"That is true enough, but I'm no stranger.  I am an advocate.  Any advocate is legally as trustworthy - more trustworthy, in the strictest terms - than even the closest, most beloved friend or relative.  Unlike such people, who are compelled to represent your best interests by fragile abstracts of friendship and loyalty, I am driven by a far more reliable motivation: personal gain.  Still, if you'd rather settle things between yourself and that candlestick on your own, I will not press the matter."

The mouth on his left hand let out a rasping hiss that might have been a sigh, if it hadn't had to pass through the hideous needle-teeth that filled the maw.  The mouth silently slid shut, as if being zippered from both ends at once, and another appeared on his neck, running from just below his mask where the jawbone would be to his collarbone.  It attempted a smile again.  Sol held his now mouthless hands up in a shrug, as if to indicate to this man all of his intentions without actually speaking a word.  Being Sol, though, he then proceeded to explain himself noisily in his usual fashion.

"The problem becomes one of priorities.  I do not particularly relish the notion of fight you here, and it seems that you'd rather avoid conflict as well.  That gives us a good, solid basis to sort things out on.  My primary concern is that I'm really in the mood to do some arbitration today.  I'm literally starving for it.  You seem to wish to drink your gross plurality of mediocre beverages undisturbed.  These resolutions are mutually exclusive.  Perhaps some sort of compromise could be arranged?"