There's a parking lot flanking the imposing Cathedral Basilica of the Immaculate Conception and framing said parking lot a little bit of greenspace: young trees planted in an artless row on a grassy little knoll where homeless men like to hangout on hot summer afternoons. You don't see as many men there on cold snowy evenings. If anyone's out there, the sexton at the Cathedral tries to open the doors. Across the street: a McDonald's. The world being what it is: catty-corner from the homeless-knoll, a 1920s-inspired steakhouse / tavern called Prohibition serves up cocktails and dishes celebrating an age of dizzying wealth about to be followed by one of abject poverty.
Oh, irony.
There is, as always, a girl-creature in the frame and the girl-creature has worn her combat boots instead of her Alexander McQueen heels, and this is her only concession to the weather. Thigh-high fishnets, a cling-y little red cocktail dress, this old leather coat, shearling lined for warmth but un-fucking-buttoned because: style. Spiked black leather choker around her neck, golden hair a tangled, dancing flag around her head, which is ducked low against the wind. The sign from the Fillmore glows dull in the distance, but there's no show on the schedule tonight and the snow has cut down on the Thursday crowd. Whoever is out is: hurrying.
Hell, she is, too, but she's taking advantage of the walk and smoking one of her clove cigarette. Ash and tobacco and spiked-spiced-sweetness drifting back from her in a cloud.
marlinspikeThere is a young girl, thirteen perhaps or fourteen, with light brown skin of a flawless sort, kinky curls the color of soot, and atop the kinky curls a beanie shaped to look like an owl, the flaps which cover her ears. The owl eyes are staring, starveling felt; they peer at Serafíne before the girl does. The girl does just after and her jaw unhinges a little: open-mouthed staring, because Serafíne has that effect on people sometimes, especially the sensitives. The young girl is dressed in a worn coat, not quite warm enough for the weather and judging by a certain bitten-ruddiness to her skin she has been out a little too long.
"Scuse me maam scuse me," she says, and her teeth chatter together a little on the first word give her breathy voice a bit of a waver. She's speaking more loudly than she has to, a shock to the system.
Cold, cold, and people hurrying, but there is a food truck parked on the street regardless; the awning is a cheerful peppermint swirl color, and there is a gigantic Wolf and Three Pigs on top of it as advertisement.
SerafíneShe has that effect even on the oblivious. Doesn't she? The sharp features, the something-arresting, the goddamned way she dresses, nevermind the weather. And then: the everything else, the millon other things, gut-punch, giddy, fall-in-love, fall-in-something brilliance of everything else about her. And lo, listen:
(because she does: listen. to strange girls, and starveling owls and whatever else crosses her path)
"Yeah?" Arrest again. Not precisely stutter-stop but her momentum is cut and then she pulls up short, holds her cigarette a bit out of the way so the stream of smoke unfurls behind her like a flag. This quick little searchlight of a glance.
(Per + Empathy: hello little girl, are you okay?)
Dice: 7 d10 TN5 (3, 4, 4, 5, 6, 8, 8) ( success x 4 ) [Doubling Tens]
marlinspike"You know the clubs around here, don't you?"
The too too loud voice is bravado, is brashness and determination; to fit in, to make this play she is about to make stick, some desperation wrapped around the yarn - strengthening it; lending to the volume and the sharpness. Serafíne does not look like she listens. If you looked like Serafíne, if you felt like Serafíne, why would you ever listen to anything else, why would you look outside yourself, why would you you're too fucking cool. But she does listen, and sees things people would not expect too. That brashness and determination, yes, and how false it is - but how true the desperation is: how deeply-rooted in panic simmering below the surface. No; not okay.
"I think I've seen you around before." Lie lie lie lie little girl. Little liar. Like that'll give her cred.
SerafíneAnd that attention lingers, simmers, sharpens. The quick spread of her mouth, see, juxtaposed one against the other. "Not the nightclubs. I mean, I might end up in one sometimes, but I don't really give a fuck about some goddamned DJ playing about with records, or VIP areas or bottle fucking service. Too many douchebags. The bars, though."
"Anyplace with a live band." Sera's philosophy about Going Out in a nutshell. So, she sees: the lie and the desperation and the bravado around the lie and god who does that look like? how does that seem?
"I might've seen you around, too." Not simply dignifying the lie: endorsing it. Giving it back.
"You wanna grab something to eat? I'm all about food trucks but it's fucking cold. McDonald's or Prohibition?"
To the girl's credit(?) even though she is surprised that she's gotten this far she doesn't act like she's surprised, or perhaps she's just too desperate and just too panicked to wonder at her success. "Cool," to Sera might've seen her around too. She hugs herself and approaches Serafíne direct, hauling herself up from her watchful spot, a furtive glance up and down the street and toward the food truck; the despair grows keener.
She says, "Pro-prohibition would be cool." Because if anybody can get her into such a place it would be Serafíne, right. "So you know the bars but not the nightclubs."
The statement has a queer little ripple to it: like, she was going to ask what the difference between a nightclub and a bar is, then thought better of it.
Serafíne"Yeah," that little ripple, oh my fucking god, it cracks Sera's too-soft heart ike an egg, all jagged, " - nightclubs, see, are where asshole douchebags go to pick each other up and listen to pre-canned and heavily autotuned and remixed pop while the richest among them lurk behind red velvet ropes. Bars,"
a simple, spreading grin. Sera kinda unhooks her hand from one of those deep (warm) pockets of her and lifts it up like: hey, she's gonna pull-the-girl in, loop an arm around her shoulder. If she'll allow herself to be so pulled-in. " - are like the best living room ever. With booze. Prohibition it is."
--
Up close Sera smells like smoke and cloves and burnt, burning sugar. Like booze and a bit of that musty odor of marijuana and a very slight hint of a very expensive perfume. Leather, and snow. They cross the street to the half-empty cocktail bar / tavern / steakhouse. The sudden blast of warmth, the blissome noise, and no one stops them and no one cards them and the bartender waves a 'seat yourself' sort of gesture.
marlinspikeThe girl goes suspicious, alarmed, and a little pleased when Sera goes to loop an arm around the girl's shoulder. Nothing is simple when you're thirteen or fourteen, nothing is simple when you're in trouble and you're doing something you're not supposed to be doing. The girl's nose prickles and she sneezes, but says with a put-on air of wisdom, "Yeah. Autotuned and remixed pop is bullshit, I like it to be vinyl if it's not live." That's the right thing to say, right? maybe. "Douchebags though. I, I mean. Is there a club that is fullest of asshole douchebags?"
Inside the Prohibition the girl goes up on her tiptoes and peers around, hopefully, only to look crestfallen in the next moment. She turns her attention back to Serafíne, "Uuh... so what's your name. I mean, sorry if I heard it I forgot. I got a bad memory sometimes."
Serafíne"See?" Returns Sera, full of encouragement and camaraderie for all that she herself does not care if it is vinyl but: yes, my child. That is the right answer. You will make some hipster a very fine girlfriend, someday. "You'd fit right in with my housemates. Dan and Rick geek the fuck out over records. Me, I'm not that fucking smart, to remember all that shit they get into."
--
Sera picks out a booth at least one booth away from the next occupied booth and sits. Lets the girl choose her own place: across or beside. Gives her space to make her own decision. Don't we all need space to make our own decisions? And when they are sitting down:
"I'm Sera. What's your name?"
marlinspike"Heh; cool," to fitting in with Sera's roommates. The girl wants to sit across and she drags off her owl hat as soon as they have, carelessly leaving it on the table. There are little hot pink rhinestone earrings in her lobes, the kind of fake-pink only strawberry dreams are. One of her legs is bouncing up and down up and down and she slouches in a way that only a thirteen or fourteen year old can as she looks around again, peering hard into the corners.
"It's Jaylo, my friends call me Lo-lo. You go on lots of dates right?"
Serafíne"I wouldn't say I go on alot of dates, precisely. That's a little too fucking specific for me. But I like people and I like going out so sometimes the two things end up happening at the same goddamned time."
There are menus already on the table, tucked between the napkin dispenser and the wall. Sera: pulls out two. Hands one to Lo-lo.
"Why? You waiting to meet someone tonight? You've been looking like you're waiting for someone, you know?"
(START MAGICK: Mind 2/Entropy 1: to pick up on the girl's most important surface thoughts, Difficult: 5 -1 (personalized instrument) )
Dice: 4 d10 TN4 (3, 4, 5, 10) ( success x 3 )
marlinspike"No I'm not meeting someone in partickular. I like to keep it loose but I am, like. I guess I'm - "
This while she takes the menu and bends it, folding it so the light ripples over cheap laminate and letting it boing back straight in shape. Jaylo is thinking: fuck fuck fuck what if Ivy is dead what if she is fucking dead this was so so so so so stupid.
" - you know, I just kinda wanna scope out what it's like for. Like do a report on, I mean, you know tinder right? I thought I'd see what it looks like to be on a tinder date, get a laugh or something."
She is annoyed at herself too, over the panic (what if Ivy is dead right now what if she is dying I have her phone what do I do), for messing up her story.
Serafíne"Tinder sucks. All assholes, see? They just wanna fuck, and not the way you wanna fuck. You know? You gotta be wary of guys who swipe this way for boobs and that way for ass. You're more than that, you know? Dude, I hate that shit.
"But, wait," - sharp skimming look: this infinite edge, the supple thread of: awareness, compassion knotted with a hint of query between her brows. " - where's Ivy? Your friend, right? I'm pretty sure I've seen you together. Were you supposed to meet her?"
(Mind 3/Entropy 1) - that is a totally plausible thing for me to ask, I am awesome AND super trustworthy. Dif 6 -1 (personalized instrument)
Dice: 4 d10 TN5 (1, 4, 6, 6) ( success x 3 ) [WP]
marlinspikeHer chest is rising and falling rapidly, her pupils little pinpricks of shock and her hands little claws little talons of hope on the side of the table. No. Not hope; because Serafíne asked where Ivy was, didn't say -
"Yeah I was but girl went to some club I forget the name can't find it in my text messages was hoping to see her, she's got some good dope right now," because yeah, 'good dope' is a reason to be really intensely invested in meeting up with your friend. "Also she's just really cool we're bffs you know." There's some solemnity in the archaic sentence; we're bffs you know.
Because they totally are.
Serafíne"If you've got her phone, I can probably find her. I mean, that's a big fucking if - "
The cigarette is long gone. The scent clings, though. Her hair, her skin. The smeary brightness of her eyes. The intensity, the tattooed hand on the table: open, open.
" - but if you had it, I bet we could track her down."
marlinspikeLo-lo gives Serafíne an up-and-down look, skeptical and pure in her skepticism. This is the kind of skepticism that strengthens the Pogrom, makes it necessary for sleight of hand and reasoning.
"You could? What you some kind of cool chick hacker?"
Serafíne"You know that find-my-iPhone shit?" Blatancy? Fucking blatancy. "Friend of mine created a reverse-loop-up version of it. If someone's had their phone long enough, you can use it to reverse-track them down.
"Doesn't work from any old phone, though. There's some kinda fucking algorithm, right? Some stupid math shit. Takes all the coordinates and even the 'net searches and puts together a pretty-goddamned accurate map 75% of the fucking time."
marlinspike"That doesn't sound like it's real," Lo-lo insists. Blatancy, or no. Even silver-tongued, Mind-stamped; this is where Lo-lo's particular mind digs its heels in, stands firm: and yet. "That doesn't sound like it's real at all but I guess other shit doesn't sound like it's real too. The Simpsons predickin the president or whatever." She unzips her jacket, sniffing a cold-is-on-its-way sniff broad nostrils flaring, and she has a tiny canary yellow purse tucked against her side there. The canary yellow matches some of the patterns on her knit owl hat. She takes an iphone out of the purse and slides it across the table toward Serafíne, and her eyes have gone big.
Serafíne"Maybe it's not real," Sera concedes, reaching across the table for the iPhone. Oh, her hands, teh scrim-and-scroll of her tattooes, the flash of her many rings. Somehow the combination of obscure script and spike and sheen seems very much like the edge of an obscured treasure map. See, an edge to her smile then. That skepticism brings out everything in her that refuses it, that will not be contained. And oh: she wants to clash, not with a panicked girl, but with everything and everyone who tells her: no, can't, won't, should, shouldn't. Fuck them. "Maybe it's magick."
And Sera flags down a waitress and turns the iPhone over in her hand and knows enough to slide it on and there's a passcode but she's not a goddamned actual hacker so she keeps it in one hand and picks up her own and orders a round, no wait, two, of tequila shots and she'll let Lo-lo have one of the four, but the other three will belong to her. She takes two in this quick succession, belts them back, licks the salt, bites the limes. Feels that first buzz because fuck -
The third shot she sort of contemplates and keeps close. The 13 year old isn't getting that one. She's allowed: one. If she wants to get drunk she can steal communion wine and get drunk in the sacristy like EVERYONE FUCKING ELSE.
Meantime: magick. Starts. Corr 2 / Entropy 1 / Life 1. Where are you Ivy? (So: Dif is either: coincidental or vulgar-with-witness. -1 (time) -1 (personalized instrument) +1 (distracted by tring to pretend she is fucking around with phones)
SerafíneVulgar with witnesses: Difficulty: 7 -2 +1
Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (1, 4, 5, 6) ( success x 2 ) [WP]
SerafíneExtending + 1 spending quint. (-1)
Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (4, 7, 8, 9) ( success x 4 ) [WP]
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