So maybe it isn’t exactly a store—nothing that’s purchased can be taken out of the building upon departure. The cyber café has found its way onto Elm Street regardless, and its name resembles some long-tired joke about java and huts, but with enough of a discrepancy to escape litigation.

It doesn’t hide its purpose though; the room is dominated by hulking, boxy computers, far from state-of-the-art, all interconnected in a tangled serpent of wires that must lead to a concealed main router. Some people—it’s normally the kids on break who despise Keaton’s on-campus library—are smart, and have toted sleeker laptops along.

There’s a fair smattering of them, along with a congregation of tourists who were stuck with the wrong cable in their hotel rooms, and then there are the poor souls hunched over the edge-to-edge rings of desks, squinting through inch-thick screens with their eyes darting to the remaining time every few minutes.

Apparently the ‘NO SMOKING’ sign on the wall has gone dutifully ignored, because the ambience is mostly smog.

Caught between the guise of a college dropout and a diurnal (or confused) clubber, technology’s sweetheart reclines in what small corner is not taken up by machinery. He’s getting better at this lounging thing, which is grand and human, and gives a wonderfully self-important impression.

The body Lynx has slipped on is male, though not imposingly so, his eyes a live grey that’s more chromatic than it has permission to be. Several shades paler than the bisque wallpaper, his skin is looking as flimsy as cellophane. It’s difficult to determine through the smoke, but something glows dimly blue within his throat.

A pair of those god-awful biohazard goggles keeps shockingly cyan bangs from dripping into his line of sight, and he’s popping gum in the fashion that leads to little sister smotherings. With each smack of his lips comes a brief, electric glimmer behind his teeth.

On top of that, he is wrapped in a downright distasteful amount of PVC, the kind that gleams enough to pass for a solar panel, and there are tiny, lit bulbs woven through his primary colour hair.

It’s no wonder the café’s frazzled owner is on the verge of telling him to pay or get out; the god is a pain, when he’s not being useful.

In comparison to Lynx, this kid's so dull it's amazing that he doesn't blend in with the wallpaper. Messy black hair, golden eyes, and casual clothes make up his appearance. His posture says he neglected his poor mother's words of wisdom in his youth, slouched over so dramatically he looks like the Hunchback of Notredame. Zane's body isn't bent over a computer like the folks around him, but rather scribbling in a notebook (not of the laptop kind). One earbud of an outdated iPod shuffle sticks in his right ear, while the other destroyed little one rests, defeated, on the coil binders that hold his worn-out scratch pad together. The MP3 player blasts Highway to Hell perhaps a little too loudly.

The scribbles are a shopping list he's hastily throwing together for some sort of party he wasn't informed of until today, and he refuses to write it without coffee; for that very reason, a vanilla latte rests on a table beside him. Unfortunately, the clicking of mice is enough to distract him from his rather wordy project, insomuch that he restlessly clicks his pen to mimic the pattern. When he has the mind to stop his behavior and return to his work, an unfortunate event occurs: halfway through listing an item, his writing apparatus runs out of ink.

This is about the time he looks up at the person nearest him and discovers the blue-haired god who looks like he swallowed a blue Christmas light. Not only that, but he’s so decked out in PVC and light bulbs he gives Zane the impression he walked off a bad fashion show and had a wrestling match with the lights. It’s almost… disturbing.

For all he knows, what with technology these days, it’s probably just some glowing tongue ring, and this guy has some awful fashion sense. The smacking of his lips is rather unattractive, too.

“Gotta pen?” he inquires, hoping the kid acknowledges him

The other earphone might as well be snuggled up against the god’s eardrum, for how loud the music sounds upon creeping into his brain, and it’s mingling with the other frequencies he inadvertently picks up, so that he has to focus to recognise the individual song. When he does, Lynx decides to ask Pan why it’s such a popular tune, because in theory it goes against what should be ingrained survival instinct.

It’s enough food for thought to make him almost miss the boy, but then he blinks rapidly—come to think of it, he doesn’t blink very much otherwise—and he’s back on track. Dipping long fingers past tacky patent vinyl, finding room in his buckled jacket where there looks to be none to breathe, Lynx manufactures a pen that would fare better in a science-fiction movie.

For all intents and purposes, it is a normal pen, only it’s loaded with what could be landing lights in a trinity of colours and is running on no battery. He holds the offering out between pinched fingertips, his somewhat vulpine face customarily blank, but doesn’t withhold from asking, “Why are you writing?” There isn’t much in his flat voice to differentiate the question from a statement, although the meaning’s clear.

Why is the boy wasting time with ink and paper when they’re in a utopia of keyboards? (The clicking doesn't bother him.) Possibly it’s an affront to the god himself.

"Fancy pen," Zane remarks, but for all the enthusiasm the statement should have, its delivery sounds bland and dull. The flashing lights could easily invoke a seizure, and the boy squints while reaching to grab it, smothering its bright assortment of colors with his hand. Zane's pretty sure that he could go blind if he stared at it long enough.

"Shopping list," he replies off handedly, jotting down the finished thought before looking up. The pen still manages to radiate a fascinating glow, even when covered by his skin.

"Why're you sitting around?" He pauses, giving Lynx a once-over with his eyes. Then he promptly reconsiders his statement.

"You know what... never mind."

People are supposed to like flashy. Vegas, for example.

“Yes, but why are you writing?” Lynx repeats, his mouth twitching a bit impatiently. It’s harder to get his point across when he can’t muster the emotion necessary to emphasise the right words, so he clarifies, “Not what are you writing.” His wanting to know is naïve in the fact that he simply expects to be told, and for that to be the end of it.

He’s about to add to that, but a girl a couple of metres away clicks into her inbox and has it flooded with spam mail, and the god shuts his jaw in mild vexation before panning his lambent eyes back up to the boy. “Why shouldn’t I mind?” A question for a question for a question; Lynx is more intrigued by its retraction than anything else.

With the heel of his boot a balance, he tips his chair back to stand on two legs, arms slung over the sides, idly mimicking the dismal slouch.

"Oh." The smile he offers is crooked. "Because computers are much too complicated." He waves a hand and proceeds to pause the blaring rock song with an indifferent shrug of one shoulder. "Technology hates me, and with my handling it'd chew up this list like nobody's business."

He taps the pen on the notepad paper with a frown of thought, puzzled as to the next item in his collection.

"...because, man, you're..." oh, what's the word?

"You look rather like a computer, yourself."

What with the light bulbs in his hair reminding him of the blue Windows XP bar.

The gum-chewing resumes, and the blue that flitters across his tongue is brighter, like it’s been agitated. “You shouldn’t presume,” he says, his expression solemn (or just empty, as per usual), as though a good friend of his has been unfairly misjudged.

At least the boy isn’t putting the whole of the blame solely on computers; so many do when struggling to come to terms with their own incompetence. The phenomenon is something akin to: ‘Once a new technology rolls over you, if you’re not part of the steamroller, you’re part of the road.’

“These models aren’t complicated. They’re old, but convenient. You can get your shopping done online, if you like. Save yourself the hassle.” Lynx’s sales pitch lacks the proper intonations and waggling eyebrows of a businessman, but insofar it’s logical. This time the god’s gaudily flashing pen runs out, with an abruptness that proves his point.

He supposes that the comment regarding his appearance is a wayward compliment, and lets it go without interrogation.

"Presume what? I'm a stupid fuck and don't bother to figure these things out." Another toothy smile, and he takes an idle sip of his latte. To Zane, this guy looks like he should get out and enjoy life more.

He plays with the dropped earbud, sliding his fingers over its relatively smooth surface. He notices the pen stops its furious kaleidoscope flashing actions, and looks the utensil over. He figures the batteries have up and died, but that doesn't matter. It's a lot more pleasant this way.

"I need these things by today, and the cost of shipping is unbelievable, and..." he still hasn't written anything else down yet, "for someone who likes computers so much, you don't seem to have one."

Curious raise of one eyebrow.

“Your conclusion shouldn’t be that technology hates you. As you’ve said, you’re a ‘stupid fuck’ with bad handling,” the god reiterates, sounding perfectly free of malice. Just restating the facts as they’ve poured from the horse’s mouth.

Not only have the epileptic lights shut off, but the pen’s mechanism has jammed too, which might have been realised by now if it was actually being written with.

Concerns about delivery and price are waved away with a dismissive shake of Lynx’s head; body language is somehow easier to pick up than the human niche of lifting one’s brow, like the boy is doing (show-off). “Get in touch with the right supplier.” That provokes a few looks from those in earshot—he sounds like he’s talking drugs.

As for why he hasn’t laid claim to a computer in the café, or brought his own, he doesn’t think ‘I am a computer’ will go over very well. “It’s in repair.” He’s a gifted liar; it comes with lacking expression and tone (and probably sweat glands). “Somebody with the aforementioned bad handling got near it. Meanwhile, I’m just soaking in the atmosphere.”

The place is packed, which makes it the equivalent of a popular temple, and each person in front of a monitor is inadvertently praying to the deity in their midst. A little bit of energy goes a long way.

“Why are you writing your list here?”

He rubs the back of his head with his hand, running it through his black hair. He actually laughs at Lynx's next statement, once again shrugging his shoulders. He makes a vague attempt to straighten his perpetual slouch all the while. "Haha, wow. Way to tell it like it is, man. I commend you on that."

His gaze temporarily rests on his list, and as a thought occurs, he scribbles it down-or, well, he would have scribbled it down, if the thing hadn't broken. He throws it down in a gesture of both defeat and disgust, and he's forced to look up at the deity once more. "Your pen's no good, either," he states in a rather matter-of-fact way. Then he sighs.

"Look. I appreciate your passion," or lack thereof, "but I'm doing just fine without one of those carpal tunnel inducing, eyestraining devices, thank you. Why don't you use one of the... humble models that have been so generously supplied here?"

Yes, it is an indirect and unintentional insult to the god. Tact? Zane doesn't know the meaning of the word.

"It's a cafe. It's close. And you?" The question at the end is rather tacked on at the last minute; it's habit rather than courtesy.

The god comes close to pointing out that if anyone deserves a pat on the back for the astute observation, it’s the boy, because Lynx is regurgitating his words. He says nothing for half a minute, instead watches the stranger with the standard amount of disinterest, and is careful not to blow any bubbles lest there be a shower of sparks when they pop.

The pen is good, and obedient, so when its original owner tells it to stop it puts its ink on hold. Simple. Picking it up from where it has been huffily discarded, he leans over, probably far and beyond the boy’s bubble of personal space, and writes a terse ‘it’s working now’ on the notebook page (and of course it is working now). His handwriting bears an uncanny resemblance to that of a typewriter. Then he lays the pen down again, and with effort quirks an eyebrow in expectation.

“I’ve already mentioned why I’m here. Atmosphere.” He must mean the atmosphere that’s four-fifths cigarette smoke. “Why do you need the items on your list today? Why are drinks being served around live equipment?” It’s been an extended round of rapid-fire questions since the beginning, and he’s already reaching for the vanilla latte with the intention of tipping it over the only greenery in this place—a drooping pot plant in their corner.

Zane's eyebrows knit together, golden eyes inspecting the curious figure that leans over him, scrawling something into his pad- except, with the way he writes, it can't really be called scrawling. He opens his mouth to protest and suggest he just take the pen, but remains irritatingly slackjawed at the fact that it works.

The mention of atmosphere nearly makes him snort, but he ignores the statement and returns to jotting down items they probably won't find uses for. When he looks back to Lynx, his glare is pointed.

"It's for a party. Ever heard of one?" his brow furrows in distaste and he swats away the grabbing hand. "And if you wouldn't mind, I paid for that."

The eyebrow lowers gradually, like his face is regressing to its scheduled screensaver mode. He’s torn between losing interest—if the dust-choked machines in the room shone more, he would have already—and being stubborn. Having his hand batted away clinches it for Lynx.

Eyes on the prize (the latte), he says, “I’ve heard of parties,” ingratiatingly straightforward, paying no heed to the condescension. “I’ve also heard it’s something of a ‘stupid fuck’ move to make your purchases for a party at the last minute.” Again, he’s drawing up a concise outline of the boy’s situation, not trying to be horrible, but there may be a hint of ‘so don’t point fingers at technology’ tacked wordlessly on.

“And I don’t mind your paying for it so much as its being here.” He scratches the silver bolt in the cartilage of his left ear, which is uncharacteristically the only jewellery he has on at present, and the music player blares back to life with a vengeance. To serve as some means of distraction, as the god makes another childish but deft swipe at the coffee cup.

"Obviously never been to one, I take it." His smile is tight and less than friendly, which happens to be fairly uncharacteristic of the regular wild child. Perhaps Lynx has simply struck the wrong cord in his extensive and unpredictable personality.

He's determined not to let this guy bother him, and allows his lips to relax in mimicry of the god's blank expression. "It's also a stupid fuck move to assume it was my doing for the last minute plans."

Then, suddenly, he flinches and winces away, yanking out the earphone with a scowl and hisses an 'ow'. A few concerned computer users look back at the two of them, some managing to spare a raised eyebrow or a curious expression and others simply shrugging nonchalantly and returning to their projects.

The little musical diversion distracts Zane long enough for Lynx to have made a succesful grab at the latte. Zane, however, snatches his wrist, parrying Lynx's childish antics by exhibiting behavior no more mature than an adolescent's.

“There you go presuming again.” Human contact is no big deal, so it’s not going to hamper his objective. Lynx is leaning close, and all he has to do is lower his head and crook his neck to put his lips to the edge of the cup, tipping the entirety of the latte down his luminescent throat, still with the boy clutching his wrist. It’s a bit like the trick of a contortionist, but more like a determined god getting his way, and it’s a couple of seconds at most before the beverage has disappeared.

Vanilla essence and caffeine don’t meld the best with the strawberry flavour of the gum, but he’s glad to have eliminated the hazard, and the song dies without further adieu. He manages to look profoundly innocent, not in the least like the cat who ate the cream, although that’s precisely what Lynx has done.

“Don’t gripe if you’re not going to provide an explanation alongside. Say I take the bait and bite—whose doing was it then, and why are you cleaning up their mess?” There’s no prior warning for the electrical charge that shoots up the wrist being held captive, and while it’s mild, it carries enough of a sting to remind the boy to let go.

The latte trickles out of the cup at first, then proceeds to gush in a fashion not unlike a steady streaming river. Zane wants to move and twist his arm, but it's too hard from this position and- goddamnit, the latte's already gone before he has time to finish the thought.

"What the fuck was that for?" he demands, a certain degree of digust ringing in his voice. If Lynx doesn't look like a guilty cat (which is quite ironic, really), then Zane certainly doesn't look like the big bad wolf about to tear a head off. Except for the fact that the empath does rather resemble a savage animal at this point.

"Why do you care? Were you just talking to me so you could- ow." His hand snaps back to rest at his side, and he rubs the 'injured' forearm as if tending to a serious injury.

"Pay me back for that," it's an outright order, as a matter of fact. Zane doesn't stand for this kind of mockery.

Calm as before, Lynx stretches his arm, the sleeve creaking when he moves, to set the emptied cup down on the nearest table. He licks the froth from his lips in a flash of blue. “You could have spilled it. Liquid and electricity don’t mix, outside of silent films.”

If there’s a cryptic sliver in that explanation, he doesn’t elaborate, and nudges the chair onto its back legs again so that he’s about to take a spill himself, experimenting with the centre of weight until he can balance there without wobbling. Not a lot is precarious, given enough calculation.

Savagery is a successful way to keep the god’s fickle attention for more than a moment; the rawness of it lures him in. Zoos stay in business for the same reason, and when he looks at the boy, or indeed anybody in the café, he sees little more than an animal with a higher intellect than those in the wild.

That’s at the best of times. Other times, all Zane represents is a tidy bunch of atoms.

“You sound as if you want me to care.” And, because it’s a hoot to watch him puff up with affront, like a blowfish, Lynx taunts him further. “Say I don’t compensate you. What then?” Doesn’t bristle as the boy does, so that it’s too level to be a threat.