ice cream and battle scars

The morning is cool and fresh along the promenade, the sun partially disguised by cotton-candy clouds. It is early, and the only shop open is a small café manned by a single girl, no older than nineteen, as she serves seven cones of ice-cream to seven people she has never seen before. She is surprised by this fact; usually, the only people about at this hour are regulars. But she isn't about to deny herself or her boss seven sales, even if the seven teenagers she is serving seem a little, if not a lot, worse for wear.

The first girl, who looks to be the youngest, orders chocolate. The ice-cream that is given to her is almost the exact colour of her hair. She takes it gently, with a smile and a word of thanks, and pays the exact amount.

There is an oozing cut sliced along the left side of her face, and her eyebrows are singed badly.

The second customer is a boy with close-cropped blonde hair and eyes like the sky outside. He orders a double scoop of choc-mint. As the waitress makes the ice-cream up, she notices the boy stands with a slight limp, favouring his right side. He also stands with his arm around the unfairly pretty girl next to him. The waitress is glad she didn't ask for his number.

She gives him the cone, and when he takes it she sees two of his fingernails are missing. She avoids skin contact and tries not to shudder.

The next customer is obviously the guy's girlfriend. She removes herself from his grip and steps forward, contemplating her ice-cream choices. There is something familiar about her, the waitress decides. The way she smiles. It reminds her of a movie star, although she can't remember which.

The girl clears her throat and asks for pistachio. She waits patiently for it, scuffing the toes of her shoes against the tiled floor. Her leggings are ripped in several places and dotted with what looks like dried brown paint. The waitress refuses to contemplate the matter further, handing the girl her ice-cream and waiting for someone else to step forward.

A short kid who looks like a Latino Santa's elf bounces to the counter and orders a double serve of coffee and triple choc. His companions roll their eyes but he just laughs, fingers tapping on the bench, his thigh and his chin. He must be seriously ADHD, the waitress thinks, fetching his order. Or maybe just excessively tired, judging by the ridiculously heavy shadows beneath his red-veined eyes.

When she hands him the ice-cream, he scabs money off the girl next to him to pay for it. As he turns, the waitress notices an ugly gash creeping up from beneath the collar of his shirt, across his neck and stopping just behind his right ear. She accepts his filched coins and looks hastily away, swallowing back the bile that has risen in her throat. She wonders if he's a street kid, and if the scar is from a brawl. She decides not to ask questions. It's safer that way.

Another guy steps up this time, biting his lip and surveying his choices. He is a mammoth of a bloke, though his mass looks more like baby fat than muscle. It doesn't help that he has the face of a toddler, either.

After a quick query if the café serves any non-dairy ice-cream - seriously? - he orders a soy-based rainbow-flavoured cone and shuffles awkwardly on the spot as he waits for it. The waitress mushes the spoonful into the wafer-cone, trying to make it look presentable, then exchanges it for her payment. As the guy lopes away to his friends, she observes him. Out of the seven of them, he is the least scarred, bruised, battered and/or exhausted. The only thing remarkable about him seems to be the few golden feathers sticking out from his pockets. The waitress turns away as she is greeted by the penultimate member of the party.

She almost screams in shock. The girl standing before her has striking grey eyes and curling blonde hair, and would be considered quite beautiful were it not for the soot, dirt and ash that cover her from head to toe, and the fact that half her head of hair is missing, seemingly ripped from its roots given the ghastly red welts remaining. The waitress swallows and tries to stay calm as she takes the girl's order for a plain vanilla ice-cream. The two of them avoid eye-contact as the transaction is made, the waitress trying to stop herself from throwing up, and the girl trying to disappear as quickly as she can as if she knows the effect she has on people.

The last customer reaches the counter and gives the waitress a charming smile. Like the girl before him, he is covered in black dust, and the only really visible colour is the startling green of his eyes and the occasional splash of orange of the clearly shredded t-shirt he is wearing. There is a ballpoint pen in his hands and he flips it idly around and around. He orders blueberry.

The waitress's hands shake as she gives him the cone. He notices, smile shrinking slightly. "I'm Percy," he whispers, words meant for her ears only. His voice is smooth and soothing, and she tries a tentative smile back.

"Zoë."

Percy blinks several times. "That's a good name," he murmurs after a moment, before handing her a handful of money and telling her to keep the change. She does.

The group of seven trudges out the door of the café, bloodied and bruised yet obviously content, licking their ice-creams like little children. Percy is last out the door, and as he is about to leave, he glances back to Zoë, standing alone behind the counter. He doubles back and presses some more money into her hand.

"Buy your own, for a change," he says with a grin, and then he is gone, strolling along the promenade with his friends and never once looking back again.

Zoë does buy herself an ice-cream. It's blueberry.

Author's Note: I'm going on holiday hiatus from now until an undetermined amount of time. Hopefully you like this, I was bitten by a plot bunny this morning and it just wouldn't go away. Please review, y'all know it means the world to me. xoxo