CONSEQUENCE OF SOUNDS. [DAISUKE]

[Marigold Murphy]

Marigold clutched her plaid handbag to her as she walked down the street, the greens and purples and yellows of it clashing against the floral dress that hung on her in a fashionably haphazard way, and against the tan, knee-length trench that did nothing to shield her from the cold winter wind. The remnants of the last snow was still on the ground, turned to gray mush that oddly resembled brain matter. It was with that pleasant thought that she looked up from the yellow shoes squishing in the slush and toward the end of the street, where warmth and caffiene and pleasant company awaited her. Hands that were chapped with cold and red at the fingertips ached slightly, they were holding so tightly onto her bag; in the five years she'd lived in Hope City, she'd been mugged twice. Most people went through their entire lifetime without that happening once, but this place was different. Crime was more commonplace here, it seemed, than anywhere else in the world. Not that Marigold had the kind of experience that would prove that estimation, but to assume such would be safe. Safe, unlike the streets of this beloved city. Even on this main one, where so many people milled around, there were people lurking that were just waiting for the opportune moment to, in plain sight, rob someone and push them onto the soggy ground. Marigold didn't want it to be her, that day - or any day, for that matter. She might as well have been on her knees and praying to be left alone, she was thinking it so hard.

Every twitch, every movement of passersby drew Marigold's paranoid attention until, finally, she came to her destination. The interior of the Starbucks was in stark contrast against the city outside its windows; the people behind the counters, on a good day, were friendly, and they at least gave things instead of taking them. The floors were generally clean, although some customers had dragged in the muck from outside, and there were bright lights that took away shadows that lurked just beyond the door. There was even heat, which Marigold was eternally grateful for. She didn't even get that luxury in her own apartment, and her thin body needed it in this weather. The Starbucks even smelled nice, like so many varieties of coffees and espressos and baked goods. A tiny smile flitted across Marigold's delicate features, her cheeks reddening in the warmth and her fingers slowly releasing their death grip on her purse. She wasn't so naive as to think that criminals wouldn't be within the shop itself, but it was nice to delude herself of that, at least for a little while. Shrugging off her coat with little grace as she tried to juggle her handbag, Marigold draped the thing over her arm and slipped quietly into line. It was a weekday and it was morning, so there were plenty of people waiting to get their coffee to start the day. Marigold didn't mind; she wasn't in a hurry. She had a few classes that day, but they started in the afternoon. Even as a child, Marigold had always gotten up with the sun, so she had some time to waste before her schoolday began.

Chewing on her slightly chapped bottom lip, Marigold leaned to the side and glanced toward the front of the line, checking on the progress of it. With that movement, her sheet of red hair swung over her shoulder and into her line of sight - and it was then that she saw what looked like a beetle crawling within those tendrils. Usually Marigold was a mild-mannered girl, quiet and demure, but in the face of this - a tiny little bug that had found its way out of the cold and into her hair - changed her into what she could only compare to a banshee. With a high-pitched shriek, she batted at her hair madly, dropping her coat and bag onto the floor and knocking into the person who'd gotten in line behind her, as well as the person in front of her and the person in front of that person. It would have been a domino effect, if the people weren't animate and hadn't dodged out of the way. After a moment of panic, the beetle was out of her hair and on the floor, and Marigold found herself the center of attention. Her eyes widening to an impossible size, she slowly knelt to gather her things, breathing a quiet, "Sorry," during her descent. Hands shaking slightly, she started shoveling her things back into her bag; she had, unfortunately, dropped it in a way that had spilled all its contents. Luckily, all of her things were in one area and not all over the shop. Marigold's face was a fantastic red as she performed her chore, and she hoped to God that people had stopped staring at her. She didn't have the courage to look up and check.

[Daisuke Tsuruyaba]

If there was one thing at which Daisuke Tsuruyaba was good, it was being the center of attention. It came with the territory, being a tall Japanese boy covered in tattoos and piercings, but he also wasn't too greatly opposed to the situation. Though he had been bundled up for the long trek from the outskirts of the city (the Old Mill might have been awesome for a superhero hideout, but it wasn't conveniently located) in a bundle of winter clothing including a wool pea coat and legitimate Russian fuzzy-hat, he was now stripped down to just his jeans, shirt, and scarf; he had to keep away the chill that entered the shop every time another person did, after all. He was working away at his laptop, putting together an advertisement for his Digital Illustration class, sipping away at his large cappuccino as he did so. Mostly, he was focused on his work; his bright brown eyes would occasionally wander away from the glowing screen to check out who had joined him in the coffee shop, but never would he linger too long. He was too busy typing and clicking and sketching and researching, however boring the project was. Daisuke didn't think he had any reason to worry about the grade for this course, but why risk it?

Just as he was taking a long sip of the still-warm coffee and stretching out his long body, Daisuke's thought process about how to tweak the coloring and the shadows of a particular part of his drawing was interrupted by what sounded like a cat being murdered. He jumped, choked on the mouthful of coffee, and snapped his wild eyes up to the source of the noise; a pretty, petite redhead was struggling with something unseen, shrieking and knocking into people in line with her. There was something particularly comical about the situation, and he almost began to laugh, until he heard that meek voice weakly apologize and the small body drop down to gather up books that had to belong to a fellow student. Instead, Daisuke raised himself to his full height, and strode over to her easily on long legs. He crouched down with her, smiling amicably, and plucked the last book from the ground to offer to her. Having some trauma happen this early was terrible enough without having a whole coffee shop full of snobby art students judging her, right? Right.

"Are you okay?" Dais asked, eyes wide and sparkling, and one corner of his mouth turned up. His light Japanese accent floated though his french vanilla-flavored breath. The people around them had that look that he knew very well; social etiquette said not to continue staring at the girl who was apparently having some kind of mental breakdown, but their curiosity made them steal quick glances from the corners of their eyes. Daisuke wasn't for protecting the innocent from the cruelties of men at all cost or anything, but nor was he into putting people into uncomfortable situations when it was generally pretty unnecessary. Dais just kept still, smiling and watching with the book held out in his long-fingered hands. His fingernails were painted a pleasant navy color, though some nails were beginning to chip a little at the edges.

[Marigold Murphy]

Marigold was scrambling so much that she was having difficulty actually picking up her things and putting them back in her bag. She did what she could to let other people have the spotlight and when the rare occasion came that she was in that light, she seemed to shrink and shake. This instance proved just that. It didn't help that, when she looked up briefly, she could see the annoyed and judgmental looks of some of the patrons. Her gaze was firmly on the floor after that, and after a short moment, she saw the shadow of someone approaching. Her heartbeat quickened; she assumed it must be one of the staff telling her to take her things and get out because she was disturbing the customers. But instead of getting chastised, she saw a slender hand reach out and pick up one of her books, holding it out for her. Her gaze traveled up the young man's figure, wide eyes sliding over long, long legs and arms full of tattoos and, finally, a face stuck with piercings. She saw past those, though, and instead saw the smile he was giving her, and it somehow immediately made her feel better. She couldn't quite find it in herself to smile back quite yet, but her cheeks warmed pleasantly.

'Are you okay?' he asked, and Marigold was immediately fascinated with the lilt in his voice. She reached out and gently plucked the books from his long fingers, tucking the thing back into her bag, and muttered a gentle, "Thank you." She stood and smoothed out her dress with the smallest amount of grace she could still muster, then clutched her bag close to her, as if afraid to drop it again. Clearing her throat, she looked to the young man again. He was tall, she realized: taller than she was, and she tended to tower slightly over her female friends. "I'm all right," she managed to say, bending down to get the coat she'd forgotten on the floor. "There was a beetle in my hair. It surprised me." That was the understatement of the century, wasn't it? Her cheeks warmed again, but this time with embarrassment. Instead of focusing on how big a fool she must have looked, she turned her attention to the boy, and there was plenty to distract her. The piercings and tattoos were plenty, but it was his hair, too, and his unique features, and just his aura, which just oozed warmth and friendliness and assurance.

She realized, then, that she should probably say something more. He had, after all, just practically rescued her from wanting to sink into the floor and disappear forever. She might have been embarrassed right then, but would have been more so if she's just been totally ignored, save the occasional glance of distaste. "Sorry," she said quickly, then smiled. It was small and sweet, but it was still better than the slightly scared grimace she'd had on her face before. Marigold held out her hand to shake his and did just that as soon as he offered his in return. "I'm Marigold. Can I buy you a coffee? Or a brownie? As a thank you." It might have been that four-fifths of the people of Hope City were the least trustworthy of humanity, but this young man seemed to belong to that rare one-fifth. If first impressions meant anything, that was.

[Daisuke Tsuruyaba]

Daisuke's eyes lit up when the girl responded well, if shyly, to his offer of help. The blush filling the skin between her freckles was utterly charming and endearing, though he was sorry to see it under these circumstances. He waited patiently while the redhead composed herself and settled her books back in her bag and mentally steeled herself, he assumed, to take on the people surrounding them; they had mostly begun to forget about the commotion she had caused just five minutes before, caught up instead in their coffees and frappucinos and the calories written on the signs inside the bakery display, performing mental acrobatics to plan out the meals for the rest of their days to counteract the cappuccino that would constitute half of the day's calories on its own.

As she murmured out a thank you, Daisuke shook his head and waved his hands before his chest. "N-no, no problem," he said, eyebrows raising, widening his already expressive eyes. He searched her face, found her to be sincere, and laughed. "A beetle? I hate beetles. I keep my hair short because I don't like stuff in it," he announced, voice picking up with a pleasantly cheery lilt. The sides of his hair were appropriately shorter than the middle, forming a thick, fluffy mohawk. The thing about beetles may not have really been true, but a white lie like that couldn't hurt. "One time, I found a centipede -- one of those big house ones -- in my kitchen, and I covered it with a cup, and I decided just to buy a new cup to replace it. My parents came home from a business trip a week later and yelled at me for wasting my money." Daisuke shrugged shallowly, raising his palms up. There was that blush again, highlighting the freckles peppered along her nose and cheeks, making her mature and dignified face look unsure and girlish.

"Daisuke," the tall Japanese boy answered. "That's my name." A few acquaintances had not recognized his name for what it was, but assumed he was swearing at them in Japanese or something; though he spoke the language fluently, he didn't parade around just flaunting it. It seemed silly to him to insult someone in a way that they wouldn't even understand. "I habe been here for a while already; I'm finishing up a project. But if you insist, you can buy yourself a coffee and come sit with me? Are you a student?" Of course she had to be, with the books that had fallen out of her bag, but Daisuke didn't want to prattle on about that kind of thing. That would make for terrible conversation. "I'm just sitting over there; the draft gets in sometimes, but it's cozy." The boy made no move to leave Marigold's side just yet; if she wanted to be left by herself to make her purchase, he would let her, but if she was in the mood to keep up the conversation saving her from having to face the remnants of the glances coming her way, he'd happily continue to find stories about a shared hatred for bugs. The centipede-cup thing was true, at least!