Reality-Induced Schizophrenia

Samir

retroactive disbelief vs. dynamic resonance rolls 1/3

Dice: 2 d10 TN7 (2, 10) ( success x 1 )

Samir

Dice: 6 d10 TN7 (3, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7) ( success x 1 )

Samir

2/3

Dice: 2 d10 TN7 (5, 10) ( success x 1 )

Samir

Dice: 6 d10 TN7 (3, 6, 8, 9, 10, 10) ( success x 4 )

Samir

3/3

Dice: 2 d10 TN7 (3, 9) ( success x 1 )

Samir

Dice: 6 d10 TN7 (1, 3, 3, 5, 8, 10) ( success x 2 )

Samir

It's a beautiful evening. Clouds cut back on the mountain-high heat and the breeze feels nice after a period of oppressive sunlight. The sidewalks teem with pedestrian foot traffic and every block emits music and conversation. People shout across the street at each other and open restaurant doors give way to the sounds of clattering cutlery and discussions melted together into a din.

That said: Samir is having a bad day.

The worst thing that could happen to a Virtual Adept is to lose his sense of direction. Their magic works through connections and code and when it all starts to fritz out everything looks the same. He hasn't changed his clothes in two days and the less said about what he did yesterday when he escaped from wherever he was Thursday night the better. On a good day the man is aware and leery of germs and their presence in the environment and on other people. His own thoughts keep him away from other people. The amount of ritual he has to go through just to leave the apartment eats up entire hours of his day.

Grace has never seen the young man with his hair down. The tie responsible for keeping it restrained is still in place but he's had a rough few days and chunks have fallen free of its bindings and fall stringy down to his shoulders. A healing laceration mars his face.

'Laceration' is too kind a word. It looks like someone tried to eat a chunk out of his face and managed to break the skin without causing any further damage. Scabs left behind.

He may or may not have gone missing. Someone may or may not have said something. He doesn't even know where he is right now. He ought to know he's going the opposite direction of his fucking apartment because the light rail tracks are nearby and he doesn't live near the light rail.

So whatever Grace is doing on this lovely late summer afternoon she happens to look up and see a somewhat disheveled young reality hacker go slinking past.

Grace

[Awareness!]

Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 2, 4, 8) ( success x 1 )

Grace

Grace is having tacos. She's got a sack in one hand and a taco in the other, taking in the sights of Federal Boulevard on her way to her car when it happens. There's a hint of sharpness to the air, and it's something familiar, something that jogs her memory. She looks around her, and her eyes almost pass right over Samir. If it weren't for the general state of him, with the scabs of healing wounds and signs of distress, she might have had to look a lot harder.

People like Samir disappear. It happens. Whatever it is about him that selectively deletes him from memory works hard. It can get you in trouble. Still, she's heard it around. The event that left him like this, his disappearance? Not exactly something that she's missed.

"Samir?"

They're about to run into each other -- literally.

Samir

Her voice is different than the voices of the loas that had gathered in judgment around him and started hounding him two nights past. It's real. It tugs at him in a way the voices he's ignoring do not.

In the seconds that their eyes meet as they pass each other on the sidewalk Grace can see a glazed sort of madness in his eyes. This isn't a mindscape he's in or a Marauder he's become but she can feel the influence of his resonance and more than that she can feel the paradox crackling around him electricity-wild and for a second it looks as if he's going to turn and run.

Sleepers everywhere. If he were not in control of himself this would be a potentially deadly situation. Still could be. Grace doesn't know what sort of state he's in.

Startled and jolted and Sam stuffs his hands deeper into the pockets of his banged-up biker jacket. Ducks his head and keeps walking. For all he knows she's not real. He's having trouble differentiating between what's real and what isn't. He can push away the things that are very obviously not real but it's the things that could be real and aren't that still give him trouble.

They do not run into each other literally or otherwise. He sidesteps her and passes her by.

Grace

Okay. The taco she was eating gets wrapped up and stuffed in her bag quick-like.

"Samir! Hey," she says, to his back, turning around to walk with him. "It's me. It's Grace. Where are you headed?"

She tries to keep her voice calm, does not even get close to touching him. When she pops up at his side a few seconds later, it's on the other side of the sidewalk.

Samir

"I--"

He about jumps out of his skin when she appears in his peripheral vision on his left side instead of his right where she'd been a moment ago. She can hear whatever he was about to say next catch in his throat.

There's as likely a chance that he's talking to himself as he is talking to another human being. He doesn't understand why it's called Quiet. Ought to just call it Batshit and get it over with. Even if she is a hallucination it's not worth leaping into traffic to stabilize his personal bubble.

A frown creases his brow. They're still walking.

"Are you actually here?"

He's too worn out to try and word that question so he doesn't sound as if he's lost his damned mind.

Grace

Are you actually here? Grace remembers those words from another direction. Lying in a bed drenched with sweat and bloodstains when a quiet Verbena in a lab coat and face mask brought her water. Are you actually here?

She knows what that's like. Knows the look on people's faces when they figure out that the person they're talking to is out of their minds. She just keeps walking without letting that get to her enough to show the shock.

It doesn't really matter why Samir's like this. Just that he is, at this point, hallucinating. Pretty sure about that.

"Yes. Though I know it's fairly difficult to take me at my word when I could be a hallucination. I'm not, though. Listen, you've been gone for two days now. I can see why. You need some help, yeah?"

Samir

Just because she says she's actually here doesn't mean she isn't saying what he would think she would say. The mind is a more powerful computer than the typical user and the typical user doesn't have the ability to write a few lines of code and change physical space.

Their people tend to generate Paradox more quickly than the other traditions do. It's hard to tell how far gone he is from looking at him. Maybe he wouldn't have even noticed an expression of shock if it came over her face.

But he flinches when she uses the word 'hallucination' and stops walking when she says she can see why. That he needs help.

"What?" he says. "No, I'm fine. What are you talking about?"

Grace

"Hmm yes. Fine," she says, stops on the sidewalk with him. "I'm not going to argue. You are alive enough. That's good. People have been worried."

It could be a lot worse, she seems to be saying. At least he's only wandering down the road looking like a rabid dog got to him, asking his friends if they're really there...

"Where are you headed?" she asks again. He might even know.

Samir

"Nowhere."

He's paranoid. Just because she isn't a hallucination doesn't mean she isn't something else. A construct or a hologram. An evil twin or something. Paranoia shoots his answer out at her and it's not an honest answer.

A glance over his shoulder reveals the direction he was headed is clear. Grace doesn't know where he lives or how he gets around.

"Just..." He clears his throat. Scratches the skin near the bite one two three times quick then shoves his hand back in his pocket. Doesn't scratch the bite itself. If he did that he'd tear off the scab. Act normal, damn it. "Just out for a walk."

Grace

"Okay," she says. Damn, he's going to be hard to get to, she thinks. Just out for a walk? Fuck, man. She rolls her eyes, because even the insane will get that out of her when they're being ridiculous.

"Would you like a taco?" she says, digs into the bag to find a fresh one. He might not have eaten for those two days. It's still in its wrapping paper when she hands it over, across the sidewalk. She has to lean over to get anywhere close to him, but she does. Slowly.

Samir

"No no no, I don't--!"

Overdone attempt at reassurance. Like he has a muscle spasm adjusting his Friendliness dial and cranks it all the way up to 11. That she hands something to him at all whether it's the innocuous taco it actually is or appears to be something fucked-up filtered through the lens of his perception would have been enough for Sam to try and decline as polite as possible if he were--

Well. Sam isn't exactly mentally healthy on an ordinary day either but if he's deranged on an ordinary day he's quiet about it. Quiet versus In Quiet.

His hands came out of his pockets as he sprang away from Grace. Not showing his palms yet but more to keep his balance. Like he might need to turn and start hauling ass in a second. That wound on his face looks like it hurts even if he doesn't realize it's there.

"Heh!" Act normal: fail. Reel it in. "I don't eat meat. Vegetarian." He stops talking before he can launch into a delusional rant about what the government does to the meat in this country. Starts walking backwards away from her. "Thank you. Though. I really... I'm fine."

Grace

She turns to face him as he's walking backwards. First things first? We're going to make sure he doesn't get lost again, 'cause it looks like he's about to book it away from his friends -- again. Honestly, Samir? The taco gets stashed away again.

"I'm going to call Kiara, all right? She can help with your," Grace starts, making a sweep across her face.

She pulls out her phone, and huffs a little sigh into it as she goes to operate her 'special' programs. Tracking people is almost her specialty, by now. Usually, she doesn't do it to friends, but in this case...

"I'm also going to make sure we can find you," she says, under her breath. "Last time somebody called Kiara, that didn't work out so well..."

[Corr 2, Life 1, Mind 1 = Tracking a Samir. He's not running away again if she can help it.]

Dice: 3 d10 TN5 (5, 7, 8) ( success x 4 ) [WP]

Grace

[Extending, because...]

Dice: 3 d10 TN6 (3, 7, 10) ( success x 3 ) [WP]

Samir

That gesture she makes doesn't mean anything to him. Sam frowns heavy and considers her for several seconds. Call Kiara. How does she know Kiara. Maybe she is actually Grace.

In an ideal world he would accept the help she offers and sit quietly while they waited for the healer to arrive. It isn't as if Kiara is an unknown variable here. He trusted her enough to go off into the desert and let her show him the fucking Umbra. He's been alone in a warehouse with Grace several times.

His capacity to trust others and his own safety aren't the issues here about but he doesn't have an altruistic martyr streak going either. It isn't a matter of him valuing other people's lives more than his own. Worrying that the Technocracy or vampires or some other faceless malevolent force is going to swoop in and kill his friends. It's that he doesn't trust himself.

No way for him to convey that to Grace without sounding crazier than he already does so he just stands wide-eyed controlling his breath while she looks down at her phone to punch in a command.

Sam isn't a ghost. He can't vanish at will. What he can do though is keep creeping backwards away from Grace and then duck into a fucking alleyway. Introduce a bit of lag between when she last physically saw him and when his coordinates show up on her computer.

When she looks back up he's gone from the sidewalk but she knows exactly where he is.

Grace

After the blip of red shows up on her map displaying "Samir" she flips back to the normal operating routine of phones. There's a list of contacts that she scrolls through (Jeez, Grace, when did you start having all these friends?) and finds the K's.

Somewhere else in Denver, Kiara's phone starts going off. If she picks up, it's Grace on the other end with this to say:

"Hey, it's Grace. I'm having a problem? I'm on Federal right by the... uh... Truong An Asian Gifts store? It's Samir. He's all fucked up. Need backup. You available?"

Kiara

[We're doing a little detective work from the other night here. Life 1, coincidental scanning blood. Who was with Elijah? Did Kiara figure that out. Base diff 4, + 4 Sam's Arcane equal to Jesus or something to pick up traces of his resonance, -1 focus, -1 taking her time = BASICALLY DIFF 6]

Dice: 3 d10 TN6 (3, 5, 10) ( success x 1 )

Kiara

[Extending, don't mind me.]

Dice: 3 d10 TN7 (1, 2, 3) ( botch x 1 )

Kiara

[Oh screw you paradox.]

Samir

[That is amazing.]

Kiara

[Reality says no.]

Dice: 2 d10 TN6 (3, 7) ( success x 1 )

Kiara

[Kiara says ow.]

Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (1, 4, 7, 8) ( success x 2 )

Kiara

The last time Kiara had gotten a phonecall, it had involved her driving to Washington Park to assist Elijah with a certain situation involving a drug dealer, Vulgar magic and some sort of entity that had ended up as little more than fatty, smoldering clumps on the ground where it had (quite literally) been scorched from the earth. To say the Verbena's evening had taken a turn would be putting it lightly.

Tonight, she's leaving a tip at a Vietnamese restaurant and shrugging her bag over a shoulder when her pocket vibrates. Not Elijah's half blurred identifying picture but a placeholder (the brunette was yet to manage a capture of Grace for her number) and it's with a pause and a swipe of her thumb over the screen that Grace hears the click and familiarity of Kiara's voice on the other end of the line.

"As I live and breathe, Grace Evans. What's going on, girlfriend?"

There's a certain lightheartedness to the pagan's greeting as she smiles in farewell to a waitress and pulls open a glass door that fades in response to Grace's greeting. Kiara twisting, instead, to sight her location in relation, a frown pulling her red painted lips down. "Samir?"

The pieces hadn't made any sense at the time. Blood on Elijah. Another Awakened but she hadn't been able to pick up a trace. In fact, it had seemed - "I'm on my way." She's easy to spot, too. The Verbena with her long, wild hair and red mouth. The edges of a skirt licking at her heels as she jogs toward the Truong An Asian Gifts store; a heavy silver belt laced at an angle around her hips and jewellery; stones and beads and who knew what else adorning her wrists and neck.

You could feel Kiara Woolfe coming, the deluge of rejuvenating energy and swirling, pulsing life (here came the healer).

[Be nice, dice. Awareness, just in case.]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (5, 6, 6, 8, 9, 9) ( success x 5 )

Grace

Grace is a presence leaning against the outside wall of the gift store when Kiara shows up. She's looking into her phone, and Samir is nowhere to be seen.

Still, she peels her eyes off of whatever is so interesting in order to look at the sensation of Kiara. "Hey. He turned and ran. But I could see it coming, so," she flips her phone around, showing Kiara the map of Denver, complete with the little red dot that is Samir upon it.

"He's hiding out in an alley behind the shop. I think he's hallucinating and extremely paranoid. Doesn't think we are who we say we are, I think? In other words, use caution."

Samir

That little red dot starts to boop its way around the back of the building and towards the parking lot.

After he'd ducked out of sight Sam had thought he would try a little self-medication. Light up a cigarette and wander the length of the alleyway or breezeway or whatever the hell this structure is called while window-gazing while he gave himself a pep talk. Acting like he's waiting for someone. Something other than hiding from someone who is trying to help him.

What he can state with certainty is that he is in fact hallucinating and he is in fact suffering from delusions and sensory overload.

What he cannot state with certainty is what actually qualifies as any of those things.

Hiding in an alleyway was not the smartest decision he's made today and especially not this particular alleyway. It takes about two cigarettes for him to state that to himself with certainty. Not smart hanging out in a place where it looks like the awful things he's been seeing or worrying about could actually happen.

Something rustles through a pile of garbage and that's about enough self-medication for right now.

So the little red dot moves. Luckily the little red dot hasn't eaten in two days and has no sense of direction right now. It starts to head towards South Federal rather than cutting north and running.

Samir

OOC: STRIKE THAT FIRST SENTENCE I JUST LOOKED AT A MAP

Kiara

Whatever Kiara had been doing before Grace called, there's no clear sign of it. No shopping bags hang from the woman's arms; there is just a lightweight jacket that cuts in at her waist and elbows, leaving her forearms and wrists free and allowing glimpses of the bracelets the brunette wears around each; a ring on her right hand; some smooth oval stone that catches and glints with her movements in the light.

She's slowed to a purposeful walk by the time she sights Grace leaning against the wall of the gift store, the shifting, keen sense of her guiding the Verbena as surely as anything else. The sensation the Verbena has of the other woman is frequently something clever and agile, the cunning fox that slips into the grasses before it can be scented by predators; the circling eagle; its wings spread wide and casting low shadows across the dry earth before it dives. Clever and quick, that was Grace.

Kiara's eyes tick to the phone in Grace's hands with this brief, tugging smile.

Admiring. Impressed. She nods, breathes out slowly as Grace talks and falls into step with her; Kiara's skirt shifting around her legs as she does; it's a vibrant flourish of pinks and greens and a cut down the side that reveals the edges of the strapped heels on her feet. "I think I may know why. Elijah called me the other night from Washington Park," Kiara's voice is pitched low, her focus shifting from Grace to the careful dodging of pedestrian traffic around them as they weave toward the dot known as Samir.

"He said he was there with another - " She hesitates as a couple brush near them, "- one of us. Something attacked them, but by the time I got there whoever was with him had taken off. Elijah had their blood on him. I tried to use it to figure out who it was but - " The Verbena's expression knits into something akin to lingering confusion. "The blood was strange. I couldn't get anything that even seemed human, but Elijah said the guy with him, he was freaking out."

Her eyes tick to Grace. "Sounds a little familiar."

Grace

"Yeah. I put that much together. I mean, the injuries match what I've been told," she says, shrugs. "Samir's a friend. He's one of my kind, you know? Think he's having the worst couple of days ever..."

She heaves herself off the wall, looks at her phone again. "He's moving. Probably found the courage to get out of that horrible alley... Want to go get him? See if he'll respond to some semblance of reason?"

She sighs, heavy, like that's rather unlikely. At the very least, he might stand still long enough to let Kiara heal his face. But then again, Grace isn't really going to let him walk the streets now that she knows where he is. He's a walking Technocrat magnet in his current state. Fuck that. She starts walking a brisk pace in the direction of the dot. South. Let's go that way.

Samir

Fun fact: Samir had been meeting up with Elijah the other night after nearly three weeks in a milder episode of Quiet. No one has seen him at all this month because he has been holed up in his apartment hallucinating and attempting to puzzle out a sort of meaning from the hallucinations.

All he's come up with is he needs to stop fucking up vulgar hacks.

So for three weeks Samir had subsisted on a diet of cigarettes and bottled water and whatever he could scrounge up from the bodega downstairs without drawing too much attention to himself. He looked a bit thinner to start out. Now he looks thinner and dirtier for not having bathed in two nights. The wound on his face is the source of the blood on Elijah's shirt.

Their paths converge because he doesn't know where he's going and they do. When he sees the both of them his eyes go wide. Dart between the two women's faces several times. But he doesn't turn and bolt. He puts his back against the wall of the building and breathes fast and waits to hear what they have to say.

Kiara

The look Kiara casts Grace is one of contained sympathy. She brushes the fingers of one hand briefly against Grace's elbow, the touch so fleeting and barely there before it was gone it could have been mistaken for an accident. Touch rarely was, that being said, with the Verbena.

"We'll fix it. If we have to, we can hold him until I can at least heal his face." There's something very matter of fact about the way she says this, Kiara, that offers the idea she has absolutely no qualms with attempting to physically restrain a fully grown man to prevent him injuring himself (or others) further. It's there in a steady way the brunette says it; the intent sweep of her eyes over the crowds, the tilt of her chin.

Their paths converge and Samir looks like a startled, wide eyed doe caught in a hunter's crosshairs. Back against the wall; staring at them and Kiara's supple mouth thins to a line; her dark eyes flicking over the Virtual Adept's body and returning to focus with keener intent on his face. On those wild eyes of his.

"Hey, Samir." Kiara takes a step, subtly preempting Samir's flight on one side; her fingers slide to her sides; one resting over her bag; a worn leather thing that looks as if its held together by determination more than any physical resilience. The pagan's voice is quiet, threaded with (deliberate) pleasure at the sight of him. He looks thin, drawn and smeared in blood and dirt and there's a certain way the Verbena draws in a breath, a certain angling of her body that reads readiness.

That speaks of unvoiced sympathy for his current situation.

"Grace and I were just looking for you. I heard you had a rough night. I can help you feel better, if you like."

Grace

"Yeah, don't grab him, Kiara. I know you might want to -- I'm just saying, that will make it worse. Be careful about the touching shit all together. I'm afraid of what he might do if he gets hyped up by somebody trying to hold on to him. I used to be like that. Sucks."

She just keeps staring into her phone while she talks, not really looking at Kiara's reaction to that.

Eventually, they catch up. They catch him. He's up against the wall and scared shitless. Grace's eyes skitter off of his, with his fast breathing and cornered animal expression.

"Hey. I called Kiara, just like I said. Hey, I can get you something vegetarian to eat, hey? I uh... ate all of the tacos..."

It's about all she can do at the moment. And necessary, because come on -- he looks like she did after throwing up her stomach lining for a month.

Samir

Option A: Continue asserting that he's fine and nothing's going on he just partied too hard the other night hah hah go away Friends nothing to see here and then they double-team him and everything is awful and they end up on the news or in a Paradox Realm or Room 101 or or or.

Option B:

He listens as Kiara offers to help him. He listens as Grace offers to get him something besides the tacos she ate. He doesn't want food. They as in They with a capital T They are trying to kill him because he won't do what they tell him to do. He knows They aren't real. But then there's the germs he knows are there. Germs and he go round and round most nights anyway.

But he's tired and he's hungry and he doesn't want to upset them. He and Tobacco concluded that they're real and they probably aren't being remotely mind-controlled by the Technocracy. Or else he just doesn't care if they are.

"Okay," he says.

Kiara

It's at some point between Grace asserting that she shouldn't touch Samir and the way Samir looks at them as if he's resigning himself to some fate worse than death that the Verbena's fingers slide into her bag and curl around her phone. It's a subtle motion but in Samir's current state might as well be certification she's calling in more suits to come in and restrain him while they escort him away.

The brunette knows precisely two people who might be able to reach the man pressed against the alleyway wall in ways that won't snap whatever tenuous control he's clinging to and her fingers tap out a message to the first she locates in her saved numbers. Two women with devices in their hands, exchanging looks between them and the second; the taller; tucks hers away after a moment and reaches down to set her bag on the ground with a dull impact suggestive of heavy items within.

"Okay." She repeats and straightens, but doesn't approach. There's a cant of her head, her eyes search Samir's expression for signs he's about to lash out, make another run for it. "You know I'm not going to hurt you, right? You have a cut - " she gestures to her temple, the heavy jewellery on the Verbena's wrists clinking together. "I'm going to fix it. I'm going to come closer."

A beat. Kiara takes a step. "Tell me if you want me to back off."

Serafíne

Taxi on the corner. The yellow sort with the lights framing the word TAXI to tell you: on duty or off, occupied or un. Half a dozen tree-shaped air fresheners hanging from the rearview mirror and a strange, subdural sort of music muttering from the speakers.

Lights flashes against traffic. The smear of the lingering sun this bloodied, blooded stain over the windshield, or maybe that's simply the pulse of traffic light as it changes over from yellow to red.

--

A woman climbs out of the backseat. Creamy white, maybe ivory, cocktail dress. Brocaded or beaded and strapless, long hair pulled back into a loose almost-chignon that only emphasizes the darker, shaved fringe on her head. Heels on the sidewalk (black, peep-toe, these) as she saunters towards the trio, studded black clutch tucked in her right hand.

Samir

Sam opens his mouth to answer the question as to whether he knows she's not going to hurt him. It isn't so much that she cuts him off as he decides he doesn't want to answer that. Sure the hallucinations aren't real and he can tell himself that all he wants but the ones he sees are everywhere and the ones he hears won't shut the fuck up. He can ignore them but that doesn't make them go away.

His eyes have a febrile sheen to them but he's gone pale from lack of sleep and food. It isn't illness that has him acting like this. They can practically feel how haywire his Work has gone or hear electricity crackling in the air around him. Practically but not quite.

He wants her to back off but not for the reason Grace has warned her about.

That cut is a bite. What bit him was once human. A young blond man with an appetite for dangerous things unwrote its Pattern and left it as singed nothing on the grass in Washington Park. He isn't sure he believes her. When he puts his fingers to his face he doesn't draw away blood but that's because the wound has already scabbed over.

Wordless resignation. Kiara can put a hand on him and he won't try to escape.

Grace

Grace nods at his "Okay" and starts stalking off to find him something vegetarian in this place. The Vietnamese places usually have plates and soups full of meat. The taco places usually have meat wrapped up in tortillas. Maybe she might find a taco place with some sort of bean burrito, but then that would be full of lard, so no...

A bit of wandering through Google finds the place they just passed (Saigon Bowl) with a vegetarian menu. Score. Lemongrass sauteed tofu sounds good (and more portable than a soup) so, she trundles off to go get some.

Kiara seems like she has this "no touching" thing down. She's asking permission first, at least.

It's then that she notes Sera, that unmistakeable gut-wrenchingly enthralling sensation of her. Grace turns and waves. "Gonna go get him some food," she says, as if that explains everything. It might. The guy needs to eat as much as he needs his face put back together.

Serafíne

Mind 2: (less aura reading/surface thoughts. more like a life scan: wtf is wrong with you?) Difficulty -1 (focus)

Dice: 3 d10 TN4 (9, 9, 10) ( success x 3 )

Samir

Mind won't tell her how it happened (I think she needs Prime for that) but Mr. Lakhani is enjoying wild hallucinations and sensory overload. Also low willpower bc he's been pushing away the hallucinations for like three nights in a row. The fact that he has OCD outside of Quiet isn't making things any better but he is having a lot of intrusive violent/homicidal thoughts so yay.

Serafíne

(And now Mind / Prime: 1 methinks. are you under the influence of magicks?). Dif -1: focus.

Dice: 3 d10 TN4 (6, 6, 10) ( success x 3 )

Samir

Someone botched the ever-loving fuck out of a vulgar Forces 2 effect. "Electrical Chaos," that particular effect is called. 9 points of Paradox for the low low price of two Arete.

Kiara

It's hard to imagine what Kiara must have texted Serafine to get her to Federal on a Saturday at dusk. After, even. The sun sinking down and stars speckling the sky; clouds rolling over and there's the three of them with Samir pressed back against a wall as if he's preparing himself for some sort of onslaught. Blood dried to his face; gore and who knew what else staining him.

He's got a bite mark on his face and the creature responsible for it wasn't anything explainable to most people. There's nothing normal about any of this but then again - their lives, their world - Kiara's taken a step closer and Grace stalks off in the quest for food and then there's the curl and hook of the Cultist and Kiara cuts a look over a shoulder; her hair wild and loose tonight; she's in white and pink and green and there's a protracted pause before she says anything.

Lets the other female closer and then: "Something attacked him with Elijah in Washington Park two nights ago." An undertone, that. Kiara's voice a deliberate aside, her hands dropping to her sides. "Whatever it was, it got Samir. I can heal it, but - " Her attention settles back on him. It's not the physical that's the problem, the unspoken as she moves closer. Her focus on the injury to his face.

[Life 1, scanning those injuries to see how bad they actually are. So much magic. -1 for focus.]

Dice: 3 d10 TN3 (3, 5, 7) ( success x 3 )

Kiara

[Int + Med to possibly lower a roll to heal with Life, I think we need at least 3 to drop it a diff.]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 2, 3, 4, 8) ( success x 1 )

Kiara

[Vulgar af, Life 3 + Prime 2: Heal Samir's face. Base diff 7, -1 focus, -1 going slow, -1 practiced rote]

Dice: 3 d10 TN4 (5, 5, 5) ( success x 4 ) [WP]

Kiara

[Paradox, 3 + 1 for probable/possible Sleepers around cuz they always are]

Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (3, 5, 6, 10) ( success x 2 )

Kiara

[Ow.]

Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (2, 3, 4, 9) ( success x 1 )

Serafíne

The creature's dark eyes track to Grace as Grace walks by, remarks that she is going to get him some food. Sera's mouth is painted a red so dark it seems to be the color one imagines heart's blood must be. There is a sort of sliding acknowledgment in that glance but also: a clear focus elsewhere. This hum, beneath her breath, beneath her skin, the sliding grace of it, music of the spheres or at least music of her spheres: less rhythm than harmony, with the glissading uncertainties of the universe.

"Paradox."

That is Sera's response to Kiara. Both the verbal greeting and the unspoken warning or perhaps request.

Samir is hallucinating like a schizophrenic off his meds and on a psychotic break.

--

None of them really belong here but at least in her usual get-up Sera can be both classified and dismissed as a streetwalker. That's what all the abuelitas in a certain priest's congregation always thought she must be: showing up at all hours, half-dressed, fucked the fuck-up.

Now it is dusk, a late-dusk, a summer-dusk, the hum of traffic skimming by on Federal, feral kid and Sera's mouth closes, flattens - this neat, thoughtful sort of grimace. Keeps some distance as Kiara starts to heal Samir. Her right hand half-closes, thumb rubbing slow and rhythmic over the bronze ring she always wears. This small physical tic she is not really aware of.

(While Kiara is casting: Mind 1: Mind Shield.)

Dice: 3 d10 TN3 (1, 7, 8) ( success x 2 )

Grace

Upon her arrival at the Saigon Bowl just down the street, Grace orders some lemongrass sauteed tofu (with peppers and a spicy sauce, the menu says, so hope Samir likes heat. Probably does.)

It reminds her so much of all those times Kalen would just bring her food. Like -- hey, you look like you haven't eaten. Here's some noodles. Don't starve. He's rubbed off on her. Or, perhaps she just can't think of anything else to do for him. Everyone wants to help. It's a thing you do as a Mage in Denver -- or at least it's a thing that their little group does. Theirs is a small spot of sanity in the insane world.

It's going to be a little bit before the stir fry is done. In the intervening time, she checks her phone. Samir is staying put, and that's a good sign. She doesn't want to have to chase him down so she can deliver tofu.

Samir

All of them would qualify as schizophrenic if they were to ever speak to a Sleeper professional about what they believe themselves capable of accomplishing. Breaks from reality and delusions of grandeur. Strange thoughts and stranger behaviors.

Reality is punishing Samir for breaking the rules. His is not a divorce from reality brought on by a chemical imbalance and reality is not one thing to all people.

He is more dangerous than a schizophrenic because the things he believes and thinks he can make into reality. If he chooses to believe in whatever it is he's seeing and hearing then those things can cross the gauntlet into this world.

They're all wary of him. He knows they are. He's breathing heavy because he's overwhelmed by what the world is doing to him and then there's Kiara trying to help him even though he's--

Well. Sera isn't reading his mind. She has no idea what he's thinking. Neither is Kiara. Kiara is close enough to hear the cadence of his respirations. That he's scared.

Kiara's palm finds the wound on his face smooth but for the scabbing and the two days' worth of stubble come in on his jaw and as she works her pagan magic saltwater traces the line of her thumb.

He keeps his hands jammed in his pockets and his eyes locked shut the entire time.

Kiara

There is something innately wild in the manner the Verbena heals people. Professionally, as a mundane calling, she rarely does it quite as intimately (or brazenly) as this. Which is: Samir allows Kiara to come closer and - with a beat where she garners the awareness from Serafine (Paradox) - invade his personal space. She steps close enough to him that he can see the color of her eyeshadow; the thick application of mascara on her lashes; the faint smattering of freckles on her nose.

He can smell the brunette's perfume and when her eyes rove his face; feel the intensity behind it. Her hands come up; there's no contact at first; just a vague sense of warmth that radiates from the pagan. She looks as if she's pushing at the edges of an invisible bruise; her teeth sink into her lip and she tastes blood; the tang of it on her tongue strengthens the focus.

Pulls at the fabrics of reality; unspools it; slices into it with the precision and disregard a weed might for the way and direction it grows; pushing itself into the world. Kiara Woolfe pries apart what should be and creates what shall be and Samir's eyes are shut against it when she puts a hand on his face; cups it; and slides another down into his clothing.

Over his chest; skin to skin. Pushes down and there's this subtle; tingling radiation. A surge as if his heart had suddenly galloped and there. His skin begins to knit itself together; as if time had sped up in tandem and the layers of wounded tissue repair; half hidden by matted hair and dried blood and a few days of beard growth Samir's body regenerates and he can feel it. Feel the burn of Kiara's will pushing itself against him and then -

She lets go; there's a sudden severing and the sense of warmth fades and she steps back, Kiara, the slightest of smiles twitching her mouth.

(There's always a cost, though).

Her nose starts to bleed and she takes a jerkier step back, lifts her fingers to her face; turns her eyes on Serafine and notes, in a considerably weaker voice: "It's done." (Nature cannot be altered without recompense.)

Serafíne

(Mind 3: Calm. Difficulty: 8. -1 Focus. - 1 Time.)

Dice: 3 d10 TN6 (1, 6, 7) ( success x 3 ) [WP]

Serafíne

(Extending: +1)

Dice: 3 d10 TN7 (2, 7, 9) ( success x 3 ) [WP]

Serafíne

(One more time.)

Dice: 3 d10 TN7 (5, 8, 10) ( success x 3 ) [WP]

Serafíne

Samir has plenty of time to refuse what comes next. To get up, to get away. To object: physically or forcefully or merely with his words. There's magick in the air as Kiara, touches him, spills blood for him in more ways than simply one. Unknits something-that-was and creates what-will-be.

Somehow, on some level, this is all so absurd. The strangest of gatherings around a frightened, hallucinating drug dealer. It's not really a part of town where passers-by look too closely at strangers, because they don't want strangers to look back, but anyone looking would probably make a half-dozen connections and end up with an assumption that is somehow closer to the truth than they know: college kid and shrooms, graduate student and a bad batch of MDMA, friends gathering to talk him down from that ledge, or at least out of the filthy alley behind Saigon Pho House or whatever, and into someone's car.

Humming: Sera is simply humming, a very quiet, very particular song beneath her breath. The chord progressions basic enough that they sound very much like a lullabye. This point where they hook through: skin and spine and consciousness and she closes her eyes, fixed and concentrating. Sinking into this not-precisely-meditative state where she wraps her intentions around her will and frames them in her mouth with a stranger's words.

Opens her eyes not long after, strangely settled.

The humming opens up into this low, rough song, the words more spoken than sung.

Black sky and black sea, lighten up
When we can't breathe
All dreams escape fire, over worlds
Fly but won't tire
Slow down on us wind, hold us still
When everything spins

Near the end she offers Samir her hand. Who knows if he'll take it.

"I have to go. You should let Grace or Kiara take you home. You shouldn't be alone right now."

Grace

The food arrives, and Grace picks out a coconut juice drink to go with it. Tips the people, because she always does. They may not know it, but they're helping so much.

So -- plastic sack of food hanging off of one arm, with the coconut drink in hand, she uses the other to check on her phone, to see that Samir's still there. They haven't scared him off yet. And so, she takes it easy, doesn't run after him. Probably wouldn't be a good idea to run after him anyway. Probably would be a good idea to take it slow and just arrive where he decides to hide and be very insistent about the food.

We'll get there. Eventually.

So it takes a little bit, again, for her to stroll up all nonchalant and smiling.

"Thanks, Sera," she says, because there's the hum of her Working in the air, and something happened. Did it not? Wasn't there someone singing? "I brought lemongrass tofu. They assured me it was actually vegetarian. And this is some kind of coconut drink," she says, giving him a look-over. The bites are gone from his face. That's cool.

No excuses this time, Samir.

Samir

The last time they saw each other Samir promised Serafíne that if she said or did anything to make him uncomfortable beyond the level of uncomfortable he was striving for on his quest to Leave The House More Often he would tell her.

He broke that promise. He made up an excuse about leaving a window open and got the hell out of there. That excuse was bullshit. Then he spent the next three weeks shut up in an apartment whose windows he never fucking opens let alone would have left that way barely talking to anyone.

Neuroplasticity ensures that the human brain can adjust to just about anything. The mind and the will it houses are more powerful tools than any focus any of these fledglings could conjure up. Whatever drove Sam into choosing solitude has kept him there long enough that he's fallen into Quiet twice in one month.

Whether he wants her to or not Kiara runs her hand over his cheek and face. He's wearing the same clothing he had on the night he met Elijah. Wine-red Doc Martens and black jeans and a biker jacket. Some band t-shirt on underneath. Some gray tissue-thin cotton t-shirt with a band logo so faded one would have to lay it out flat to make sense of it.

His heart hammers against the Verbena's palm. He grits his teeth and closes his eyes tighter.

Yes. Yes this looks fucking absurd.

Kiara takes away the scab and the wound beneath and he when he has his right mind back later he will thank her. His right mind remembers the attack. She takes away the wound and she makes room for Sera and then Sera shuts down the part of his brain that is always on. Nothing she can do for the Quiet if she even realizes he is in Quiet. Maybe she just thinks he is a schizophrenic or a bad trip. He doesn't know what she saw in his pattern and he doesn't ask. He doesn't know where he is right now.

Another saltwater line leaves the other eye when he opens them. Lets go a breath like he'd been holding it all this time. That release junkies seek when they push the plunger. A moment of disorientation. Sera doesn't know what effect she's had. He's still in Quiet. But it's quieter now.

He shouldn't be alone right now.

His hands are still shaking. He doesn't take hers. In his right mind he would take her hand and his mind is better but his mind wasn't the problem to begin with. He looks her in the eye. Still bombarded by things he can recognize and ignore but not escape. And then here comes Grace to offer gratitude his throat won't give up.

Sam sags against the building rather. His knees do not give out. He remains standing.

"Fuck," he says. Ragged. Like someone who'd about lost their voice screaming the night before. "I'm so tired..."

Alright. Coconut drink. He won't argue with her. Whatever Sera did helped.

Serafíne

Sam doesn't take her hand, so Sera drops it back to her side. Has a little clutch slung across her body on a chain reaches for that little clutch, snaps it open, pulls out 1) lipstick; 2) an iPhone. Gives Grace a quiet little look as she reapplies her lipstick and calls another cab. Offers to share it with Kiara if Kiara needs a ride but otherwise: soon, gone.

Serafíne

(Thanks guys! Gotta sleep!)

21th Birthday Redux

Elijah

Of all the places that Elijah could sit down and read, Sera's place didn't seem like it was going to be in the top five. As it turns out, that was an incredibly incorrect statement, because there he was on the front porch, motorcycle parked somewhere inconspicuous and near another vehicle in the hopes of not getting it run over while he's off dallying with people whose company he enjoys.

Maybe it was a new leaf. Maybe he was trying to make good on things, trying to make good on the prospect of being a good student, or maybe he was just trying to avoid being in the middle of an Arbonne party.

That was the truth of the matter: Jenn had been conscripted into hosting a "party" for a friend, which consisted of getting facials and being pressured into purchasing things that she didn't actually want. Elijah had a problem with impulse buying, and there was going to be copious amounts of drinking. The girl selling brought enough booze to keep a small army well lubricated socially. Elijah knew that he tended to do stupid things when he was drinking, and somehow suspected that buying expensive skincare products might be one of them.

Also, he wanted to see Sera. And Dan. And Dee (he actually made a meet! Recently, too. Came with pompoms but was sans-fly away skirt because- well- he was no seamstress. He might have been thin, but he had no hips. Nothing pre bought was going to stay on)

But there he was, backpack slung over his shoulder and helmet deposited by the front door and he knocks- because he always knocks- and makes his way in. "Bonjour! Je errance à travers votre maison. I promise I'm not robbing you!"

Serafíne

Some ordinary Wednesday night. Strangers call it hump-day.

Which isn't a saying that has much resonance at 719 Corona Street. No one there has a normal job. Rick is still at the record store and part-time at a comic shop, filling in for a friend who is off trekking in Nepal. Dee's got the bakery, and that's morning work. Sometimes she stays up all night and heads in for a few solid hours of kneading bread. Sometimes she gets a later shift. Regardless: not a normal 9 to 5, which is pretty cool. Gives life a different rhythm, plus she - like Rick, has some hopes of something else, soon.

Dinner-ish time. Or lunch. Breakfast for some folks, like our heroine who tends to sleep until the ass-crack of four p.m. and wander down for a morning libation of tea-and-whiskey, thank you very much. Fasting - more intermittent, now, pressurized and experimental - doesn't really effect that schedule she maintains so assiduously.

Dinner-ish time. The windows are open and there's a breeze blowing through the house and music someone and meat-on-the-grill. Always a guest or three - like Emily, aka Honey Bunches of Chokes, who's dressed up for her evening shift at Saphistry and heading down the hall and out the front door as Elijah comes in.

"Hey hot stuff," Emily grins. Has half-a-sandwich wrapped in wax paper that she's consuming. Is dressed in a neat outfit that fits almost perfectly with Elijah's aesthetic: pinstriped pants, a shortsleeve button-down, bow tie, fucking suspenders, hair loose, finger guns. One-handed finger-guns her greeting as she passes by. "Everyone's out back, I think. Cooking out."

So they are: so he will find them. Dan at the charcoal grill, manning tongs and shit and drinking a beer. Dee in a lawnchair, Sera on her cabana bed with a guitar in hand.

There's something new back here, too.

A tire swing hung from one of the great arms of the big oak that dominates the back yard.

Elijah

They match. Almost, they almost match, because there he is in a pair of slacks and a shirt with three quarter length sleeves pushed up to the elbows, vest unbuttoned, but soon enough ready to be rebut toned- which was what he started doing when he looked at Emily- with her grin and loose hair and the fucking suspenders. He never learned how to tie a bow tie, figures he should ask at some point.

"Great match last week," he tells her, starts to meander outside because Elijah meanders, takes in details of the house, basks in the smell because it always smells fan-fucking-tastic. Can't imagine the place ever smelling like anything other than food or incense or herbs or a party or the various people who lived there. Elijah didn't talk to Rick much, but he had concluded this was a travesty- made note to do it again at some point. It helped to have friends who worked at record stores, he had his eye on a few vinyls. Maria Callas specifically. He had a beginner's guide to Italian shoved in his backpack because of the soprano. "Are they matches or are they meets? I don't know."

But eventually, he would meander again. Eventually, he would find himself in the back yard smelling charcoal and whatever else was on the grill. Resists the urge to hug Dan from behind because Dan isn't fireproof. (Note to self: become fireproof. He's learning a fair bit about Ars Essentiae and, frankly, he's been kicking himself the entire month because if he had fucking learned it first like he was apparently supposed to things would be a lot easier right now.)

"Holy shit, when did you get a tire swing?" Backpack gets shrugged off his shoulders, hung low in one hand. Grin bright and off to the grass with him.

Serafíne

"Don't worry your pretty head about it, sweetheart," Emily tells him, a spark in her eyes, a quiet little smirk ghosting across her mouth. "Show up with your pompoms again and you can call them whatever the hell you want."

--

"Fuck if I know," so says Sera, glancing up once as the sliding glass doors open. She is wearing sunglasses and a black Echo and the Bunnymen t-shirt and that appears to be it? The t-shirt is long enough to tuck beneath her ass on the cabana bed and cover the tops of her thighs but her legs are long and bare where they emerge from the bottom head. Criss-cross applesauce, that's how she's seated, body slung forward, not really hunched but the guitar's acoustic and she is, really, so startlingly slight when glimpsed like this: out of context, no heels around, no make-up, hair an "I just got out of bed" sort of mess.

Prettier, maybe, without all the stuff that goes with being Sera. Or perhaps: a different sort of pretty. Still arresting - the spare edge of her jaw, the elfin spike of her ears through the chaos of her hair. The hollow temples, the darting bits of ink as her fingers drift over the fretboard, framing out a chord progression pretty soundlessly - not strumming, not striking over the soundboard. Listening to the something something something somewhere in her head.

The Fuck If I Know from Sera makes Dee roll her eyes.

"Few weeks ago," Dee tells Elijah, "This guy we know is starting a business installing artisan tire swings in the yards of Denver's nostalgic rich assholes, needed a place to put one in to take a picture, and customer reference to add to his quotes. So.

"Tire swing." Quick grin of her red-red mouth.

Sera's eyes are on Elijah though, still. Marked, lingering, assessing.

Dan turns around too, glances at the kid, then back at Dee.

"Hey, guess who's legal now?"

Elijah

He takes in the people around him. There's Dee, with her lips ever-so-red and drawing attention to it, makes him watch the words she's saying before going back to her face and her eyes. There's Dan, who is cooking- because he was accustomed to seeing Dan cook, rather liked watching Dan cook, takes in the way light plays across the various colors etched across his skin. Then? Sera.

Sera, without her makeup. Sera, in a state that is very much her, very much appealing, entrancing, breathtaking, but… it's her. It's just another version of her, another part of her definition, another piece of Serafíne that was not always so edged but still edgy. Something where the corners were softer. She seemed some far creature, something that ruled the summer courts for half a year before giving way to winter. Something who made her bets and bargains for a year and a day.

"Yeah," he says with a smile, something bright and pleased, he's stepping off onto the grass, over to where the bed is so he can park it for a moment. At least give the appearance of someone who was not completely enthralled with the fact that his friends had a swing in their back yard. Let's face it, that was the only acceptable thing to do when you had a strong oak and plenty of space. "I had to get a new wallet, though, I left it at the mall. So! The fake ID has been laid to rest."

He sits down near Sera, leans a little against her for a moment, hi without saying it.

Serafíne

"We could make you a new fake-ID," Dan tosses back, turning something over, adjusting something else. In addition to the sturdy tongs he has one of those silicon-based oven-gloves, hanging from a hook beneath the charcoal grill, which he gets out when he really wants to manhandle the corn dressed with lime-butter, maybe, or the new potatoes which will be cooked in foil over the coals and then smashed and then grilled until they are crispy on the outside, fluffy on the inside.

In other words, perfection.

"A stand-in, you know. Let you give it a proper funeral, maybe cremate it on the grill or in the firepit. Paper, you know. Don't wanna release toxic whatever-the-fuck fumes from actual plastic."

Sera: has a mug of cooling tea in a neat cup-and-saucer settled on the flagstones beneath the cabana bed. Real china, flowers and shit all over it. Elijah comes close and gives her that little lean and she kinda leans back against him, this side-bump of acknowledgment, awareness, this animal sort of understanding.

"We could just pretend like today's his fucking birthday. Give him a real goddamned party."

Dan: "I thought you were on him to study."

Sera, this not-precisely-abashed little shrug. "All things in moderation, yeah? Or, you know. Excess."

Elijah

"I'm down for both of those things, give the ID a proper send off instead of, you know, what actually happened which is probably it, and a bunch of other crap, living in a trash can because I don't carry cash-" which he should really start doing. Curbing the desire to be completely loaded with various illicit substances has really cut back on the need to actually carry anything more than a couple fives- maybe a ten.

"And if it helps make the case for a party- I successfully managed to actually study for the last ten days. That is probably my longest streak of academic excellence since getting here. It's either party or looking through the history of bookbinding and the modern printing press."

He actually sounded a little excited about that.

"I don't think I've had a real party since I was twelve. Pleeaaase can I be a delinquent student for, like, eight hours? Maybe four?"

Serafíne

"Four hours?" Dan gives Elijah a bearded smirk. "Do you really think you can get through one of Sera's birthday bashes and make it back to whereever the hell it is you are reading about the history of bookbinding in four hours?"

--

And Sera gives Elijah a banked look with a neat little shake of her head.

No.

--

"Let's have dinner first, at least." That's Dan again.

And so they do.

--

If Sera was fasting tonight, well: she's not anymore. It is Elijah's 21st birthday do-over and first there's the cook-out in the backyard as the edges of the sky sink toward dusk and the flames spark and meat and potatoes and zuccini and corn sizzle on the grill. Corn smothered in chili-lime butter and hand-made sausages from the charcuterie next to Dee's bakery, crusty rolls and whatnot. Makeshift cake (the cinnamon rolls Dee brought home for breakfast tomorrow) hastily done up with fondant and a quick-thrown-together buttercream to write as much of HAPPY BIRTHDAY as she can get on the surface, and 21!! on another one.

Candles, the trick sort that go out and spark back to life again and again and again.

A bottle of red and a bottle of white and a bottle of something sparkling or gin and tonics or whatever the hell it is Elijah would like to have. The night opening up, becoming wider, more expansive as whatever is consumed or smoked blooms wide open.

There's this point where the spare, artless, morning-after creature disappears upstairs to make herself over. Emerges in a cocktail dress with black-rimmed eyes and spikes through her ears and fishnets and combat boots and out they go - somewhere, everywhere, anywhere.

No reason to recall that a couple of weeks ago Elijah nearly died jumping in front of a bullet headed for the guy who had just served him his first legal drink of his life. No mention of that day, or that night, where they went, what came after. No one's looking for them, no one's come asking. The memories of the patrons fuzzed and muddled, their own bodies made-whole.

What matters is here, and now. The little mock funeral for his fake-ID, complete with black umbrella dug out from the left-overs in the foyer. The meal, shared with friends, around a table. The whatever-comes-next of it all.

Elijah

The do over, he concludes, is infinitely better than the actual twenty-first birthday.

There was food, there was food that he actually wanted to eat and he wasn't spending it in a seedy bar with half of his friends phoning it in because of prior engagements or being hungover. It was outside, with the air feeling fresh and there's fucking cinnamon rolls- an odd truth. he adores cupcakes but can't stand actual full-sized cake. There was some sort of care paid with little bite-sized things that didn't go into sheet cakes.

His ID gets a eulogy- a real, honest-to-God eulogy. Something with fond times mentioned (the first time they met at seventeen when a guy with biceps the size of his head asked Elijah in some gravelly voice what he wanted his name to be, and he'd picked Jason Johnson because there was a Friday the Thirteenth poster hanging on the wall in the guy's basement and there were mosquitos and fireflies everywhere.) Some close calls had- a near confiscation more than a couple times back home when the colors didn't seem quite perfect. Goodbye, dear friend, goodbye.

He still tells stories, though, if only because he likes sharing. Gives a recount of the match he'd seen recently and relayed his utter confusion with regards to roller derby. Talks about an operetta he'd wanted to see, which was pretty fucking hilarious for the time frame it was written in. Dances with people even when there isn't music playing because music was playing somewhere.

Doesn't forget to tell Dee he loves the way she blushes. Doesn't forget to tell Dan that he admires how incredibly fucking smart he is. Doesn't forget to tell Sera that she defies fucking words, that he fucking loves that.

Maybe he's just drunk. Falls asleep somewhere, at some point. Dreams of nothing instead of Nothing.

A lot has changed.

Cameo-Dan

Steel

[Nightmares]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (2, 5, 7, 8, 8, 9) ( success x 4 )

Aidan

[also nightmares]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 4, 9, 9, 10) ( success x 3 )

Steel

[Also, as we're 'working'... ]

Dice: 8 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 1, 2, 2, 3, 5, 6) ( success x 1 )

Steel

Summer is in full flow, and so are the streams of people passing through the shopping precinct. People come and go in search of food, coffee, shopping, or simply passing through on their way elsewhere. It’s a warm, pleasant day. The sun is out and those who aren’t tied into the suit-and-tie uniform that their gainful employment demands are showing more and more skin, trying to develop that tan that the fashion magazines tell them that they should.

Sheeple, really. People who follow the same routine, think what they’re told to think, drink the brand of cola that they’re told to, working towards their little white picket fence, perfect wife, and 2.4 children, even if there’s something that niggles away in the backs of their mind that this isn’t really what they want.

But the crowds can be advantageous to certain people. Those who prefer to blend into the crowd, a faceless blur in a sea of faces. The sun, and the extra skin on display, gives added distraction to the marks. Middle-aged men work well – their surreptitious glances at the youthful cleavage in easy view means that they don’t pay much attention when someone remarkably unmemorable happens to bump into them. Faces aren’t noticed, the lack of a certain weight in a certain pocket isn’t picked up on until later when there’s something to pay for or an ID card to dig out.

The pickings are slim, though. A short, thin female fishes a ten dollar note out of a wallet before slipping it quietly into a trash can. It’s better than a kick in the teeth, but she’s had better hauls. Maybe it’s just time to take a break. After picking up a coffee from a stand, she finds an unoccupied bench to settle onto and just watch the people passing by for a while. The hood of her top is slipped down, revealing dyed black hair and pale skin. Black combats and boots finish the look. Apparently someone didn’t get the message about goths being out of fashion these days.

Aidan

[perc - Intuitive - + awareness]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 3, 7, 7, 8, 8) ( success x 4 ) [Doubling Tens]

Aidan

[*sad*]

Aidan

The world has always been different to Aidan; at least he thinks it has. There are blanks in his mind, things that hide away memories about himself. He can only assume, then, that this had always been the way it was. Ah but did it matter?

He had no desire to buy things. Aidan didn't really understand the need to collect anyhow. He always had just enough to get by, clothing wise, and enough supplies to create his art when he needed it. Besides, Aidan believed in meaningful relationships, and if a shirt didn't want to come home with you, it shouldn't be forced. He was here because he had followed the wind, and the wind had whispered softly of fun things and people. Then it went on its way. Wind spirits were like that. They were flippant and whimsical, most of the time, so one couldn't expect to talk long with them.

But we digress. Aidan was wandering, as he often did, with a bit of a bounce and a smile. He hummed some song he heard somewhere, though he couldn't recall where or what it was. It was hot, but Aidan had a tendency to flip social convention on its head and... and well wear a long sleeve. It was light fabric of course, probably hand knitted some time ago, but it was long sleeve none the less, and extended past his own hands. It hung loose enough that his collar bone showed and it was a mercy that it hadn't fallen off his frame; Aidan could never properly size his shirts. It was only his jeans that were worn appropriate to his shape, and his sneakers, which of course were used and worn from walking. He had nothing else.

Aidan found himself pausing near a planter, blinking at the greenery that rested inside. "Oh?" He said, as if he understood every word...and maybe he did, maybe he didn't. He leaned in, pushing a few leaves out of the way. "Oh right! This?" And he plucked a dry leaf from the poor thing and smiled brightly. "All better! Right?" Aidan pressed it against his nose. "Smells nice though."

He never minded the people. Aidan understood how odd he was, and how that tended to translate to all the people around him; sometimes though, he forgot. He straightened and stepped from the plant, walking past the benches with no particular goal in mind. He wasn't here to shop after all, just wander.

Steel

[Per+Aware?]

Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (2, 3, 5, 8, 10) ( success x 2 )

Steel

The crowd in the mall is fairly tasteless, no particular edge of emotion powering it. So it’s easy to notice when a little extra something doesn’t quite blend in. Something sprightly and enchanting – almost other-worldy? Something less than ordinary, more than the mundanity of the background blur.

It takes a short while of watching people before she starts to narrow down its owner. A young, thin thing talking to… Is he really talking to the plant? Oh, good grief, like the plant really cares about a dead leaf. There had been thoughts that maybe she should try to reach out to the local Awakened, but maybe this isn’t the best of choices. Assuming that this isn’t some elaborate Technocracy plant, anyway.

So for now she sips her coffee and watches him.

[Because we’re trying not to be obvious, Man+Sub?]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (2, 5, 6, 6, 7, 10) ( success x 4 )

Aidan

[Do I sees you seeing me?]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 4, 5, 6, 7, 7, 10) ( success x 4 )

Aidan

Aidan was...Aidan was like a faerie, someone might say. The way his resonance played, tossed and tugged at the part of each person that sung their desires. It didn't need to know what those were, it only needed to make one feel as if it did. But bounced in a way; it bounced in a playful way that said whatever 'it' was, it had no ill intentions, but merely wanted to dance... or run.. or play games. His resonance sung of magical forests and glowing creatures that sang and dance without a care. Aidan was very much like that. He never seemed to notice the terrible things in the world, or he found the silver lining in them.

Aidan laughed. He laughed and he turned just a little and dropped his eyes down. "Hello." And his smile was bright and warm. Sunshine, someone might call it. It felt like that..inviting, pleasant. But he was smiling at something near his feet, and then reaching a hand down to grasp at something, something small, and holding it gently. "I did...thank you." He says. To most people, Aidan is just another person off his meds, or tamed enough that he's not a 'danger' to them. Still odd. Still strange. but he doesn't notice.

There is a feeling he has in the back of his mind, of being watched. He can feel the eyes perhaps, feel the person keeping watch, but Aidan doesn't see them, doesn't find them in the crowd. It's not unusual afterall.

Elijah

He was running out of vests.

One couldn't be sure that this was even possible, but it was true. Elijah was running out of vests. Specifically, he was running out of vests and things that went with vests. Which was a terrifying notion when one thinks about the sheer volume of clothing Elijah must own in order to successfully fill up two closets at two different locations, but it was true. He was running out of things that were business casual and then running out of things that he found even remotely interesting because… well… who could really find business casual interesting? Elijah had a palpable disdain for polos, a strange feeling of irritation that came when he tried to pick out cargo pants, and an irrational distaste for being asked to wear chucks or vans.

He was particular about shoes. He was particular about a lot of things, the least of which was making certain that he- in all of his longish haired and lanky glory- was not mistaken for someone who could even remotely come close to skateboarding. He's taken one too many face plants. Seen one too many curbs from close up that he does not want to entertain the idea that he might end up down there for awhile.

Today's search yielded little results, but he did happen to emerge victorious with a couple vinyl records, a DVD, and three books on ancient Egypt. He had to get something that would be even remotely helpful, or maybe he was just interested because Egypt seemed interesting, or maybe still there is a chance that Elijah actually picked up his phone and checked messages on something. Whatever the case, he was walking, had a powerful need for something that rounded to being food. Attire was comfortable, but warm- because let's face it, Elijah Poirot wears way too damn many clothes. Jeans, some three-quarter length half button up thing for a shirt, a vest (because where else will he put his pocket watch?), and about half a dozen bracelets on one arm.

Oh, yeah, and a necklace he couldn't take off that was tucked into his shirt because Jenn tied knots really, really well.

Steel

Steel peeks over, puzzled. There’s apparently someone there that he’s speaking to, but it’s nothing obvious. Certainly not a person, and he doesn’t seem to be wearing one of those little ear pieces that make perfectly sane people look like they’re talking to themselves as they walk down the street. None of that, and so? Maybe it’s drugs, or a lack of meds, or something else. Either way, he doesn’t exactly come across as the most… sane person on first impressions.

On the other hand, it doesn’t seem like she’s been spotted either. There may be a little looking around, but nothing focussed and searching. This time, at least, she seems to be passing without notice. For now.

And suddenly it seems to be raining Awakened. Another resonance, another Mage. This time she takes a moment to pull up her hood before looking through the crowd again. The moment helps to mask her features, make her a little more anonymous in case she needs to vanish again. Again, she scans the crowd to locate the source while she takes another sip of coffee.

Aidan

Elijah and his vests. Elijah wasn't exactly subtle, at least o Aidan, and he wasn't hiding. He was clearly there, holding things he had bought and Aidan...Aidan could sense him of course. He pushed himself on his toes, looking for the signature he felt near him, still holding onto to...whatever it was he was holding onto. Then he half knelt and smiled to the uh...air.. "I think I see him!" He let go of the invisible thing and began a small jog towards Elijah, who may or may not be privy to his existence.

He weaved, as needed, then vaulted himself at the shopping Eli with a "Eli!" To follow it. "We've been looking for you!"

Elijah

[Am I completely oblivious to the presence of other magical people? Per+aware]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 3, 5, 5, 8, 9) ( success x 2 )

Elijah

He is clueless. Sure, he picks up that tiny feeling of enchantment and the sense of something on the back of his neck that was like some darling little far creature in the woods, but he is completely oblivious to the idea that there were any other people around that weren't Aidan. There is a sound he hears, one that accompanies Aidan like little footsteps and perhaps a sigh. Little people. Little dead people specifically. He liked crowds, liked the sound, liked how you could get lost in the sensory input and pretend like the people reflecting into the shadow lands were just… regular people.

Maybe they liked that. He wasn't sure.

There was the sound of his name, and his brows rose and Elijah transferred the bag from one arm to the other (books about ancient Egypt don't come in reasonable sizes. They only come in why is this so freaking huge and it's just about lower Egypt? Fuck! (It's a very specific, but very common size. One can also buy boxes of Cheerios by the same measurement.)) "Hey, princess," he said with a grin, "and Aidan. Who is most assuredly not a princess."

A beat.

"Been looking for me long?"

Steel

The strange one, maybe talking to ghosts and plants and bugs, shoots off with a target in mind. A target, it turns out, with more to it – to him – than meets the sleeping eye. A target who is the new source of resonance in the mall, and another one that he’s unfamiliar with. She doesn’t yet have much in the way of knowing contact with the other Awakened in the city, but she’s beginning to get the feel for some of those who are around. Most she’s gone unnoticed by – the way she likes it, for now. One she’d come up against and left – was allowed to leave – but that one, on later thought, was less likely to be a threat to her than the other. The one in the park, who’d attacked without warning. She begins to get angry again as her thoughts wander, balling her free hand into a fist before she catches herself and makes it relax.

Well, I know how she feels and I won’t be letting that happen again.

Now, though, there are these two. One who Steel was close to writing off as someone to contact, another that she knew nothing about. One way to start working out that little problem, and getting a better feel for him. Steel stands and starts to wander in their general direction, following the ebb and flow of the groups of people passing by. Getting close enough to listen, she finds a shop window to stare into. Or, at least, stare study the reflection and the two people talking.

[Just drifting, nothing to see here… Manip+Stealth]

Dice: 9 d10 TN6 (2, 4, 5, 6, 6, 7, 7, 7, 10) ( success x 6 )

Aidan

Aidan is confused by this. "Why? Why am I not a princess?" The concept of gender roles has apparently slipped past him. He pauses close to Eli and lets his eyes drop to the books. "Oh! You have new friends!" He sounded delighted, exceptionally so.

"No." They hadn't been looking for him at all really. Aidan lightly scratched at his neck. "We were just going to explore but then you showed up! And now we're together. She was my guide. To find you when I came." Aidan looked down and smiled warmly. "I guess we're just meant to be together. I like having friends."

He hasn't picked up on Steel yet, hasn't noticed that she tends to be around wherever he is. Aidan laughed warmly. "Or maybe you can't get away from us Eli."

Elijah

Sincerely, if he knew what he was missing, he would kick himself. Would roll over on his face and lament to the stars how did I become so blind? But, the fact of the matter was this: Elijah Poirot was outclassed when it came to noticing Steel. The young man with the detective's name was just not on his game when it came to the powers of observation at that juncture. So, there he was, bag in hand and posture comfortable, just conversing with the black-haired young man standing with him.

"Princess is a gendered term? The male equivalent is prince, but there isn't a gender neutral royal offspring term," which, given that this is a modern age, Elijah wonders if that is something people need to work on. Aidan's eyes drop to the books and Elijah perks up immediately from instruction mode- and let's face it, he could explain any number of things about modern society that Aidan didn't get. He was comfortable with that- into a frame of thought that was decidedly more excited. The bag gets set down, and one of the books- heavy and having the slightest scent of decaying paper and ink to it- gets pulled out and opened up.

"I wanted to look some things up about ancient Egypt and I realized I don't have any starting point for knowledge about ancient Egypt, except fro some of the things I talked to Kalen about but I really wanted a gigantic primer on the history of- anyway, I wanted to know more to make some things make sense in a broader cultural context," he said, flipped through the pages, "they have an entire chapter on the Rosetta stone."

Steel

Oh, Elijah, not as blind as you’d think. This is something practiced, something that came naturally. Maybe not as naturally as some other things, but still good enough to evade casual attention. Add to that the way the world just seems to overlook her most of the time… At least until she does something stupid to draw attention to herself, which is a habit she tries to avoid developing.

The conversation gets going in earnest, and there are fragments that might be useful to know. Someone named Kalen who seems to know things. Egypt might be trendy enough for this to simply be idle academic interest, or there’s the possibility for something more going on. Awakened have hobbies, but they also tend to get involved in things that bite back.

There’s still coffee, so she takes another sip. And keeps on listening.

Aidan

Aidan blinked, a little confused. "What if I want to be a princess? You get to wear tiaras right? They're sparkly and pretty! I heard they have a really bad attitude though sometimes. Really vain. I've never met one though! They're probably just really proud of how they look! What do princes get to wear? Oh wait! You can be a prince!"

Aidan looked to the book Elijah had, and then he tilted his head a little, scratching at his hair. "Why don't you just ask them? The people who were there? You could travel to Egypt and ask them what it was like. They'd probably tell you. They'd probably like being asked! Oh oh.. you could ask the lion statues too. I bet they see everything." To Aidan, asking the direct source of information made far more sense, but then, he wasn't much of a book worm; he spent most of his time talking to the things people read about, or at least, talking to things that had been there longer, even if he didn't always understand them...

"What's...the Rosetta stone? Is it red? No no! Is it a stone that is a rose?"

Elijah

"You can wear a tiara if you damn well please, regardless of whether or not your royalty. Jenn's got a tiara somewhere, she was in one of those school-sponsored popularity contests and placed third. She was the representative for the art class, which was technically also a club," he said, conversational and still flipping through the book. He gets to the page about the Rosetta stone, the chapter that starts it all and there is a look of delight in those bright green eyes. He settles in a little closer to Aidan, a little conspiratorial, "anyway, it's a fucking badass tiara and there may or may not be pictures of me wearing it on Instragram."

There totally were pictures of him wearing a tiara on instagram.

"Traveling to Egypt is kind of cost and time prohibitive," he said with a laugh, "I've got my passport, but I don't speak… I think it's Arabic? I don't think they speak Koptic there, at least not regularly- anyway. It's easier right now to load up on books and soak it in. The Rosetta Stone is what enabled people to be able to decipher what the ancient Egyptians wrote, it was basically like the equivalent of microwave instructions that come in three languages… if microwave instructions were culturally significant. It's basically a gigantic carved stone."

A beat, he flips through, "I don't know off the top of my head if it's marble or limestone or sandstone…"

Steel

The first guy she’d spotted, well. Downright strange. He seems harmless, but then appearances can be deceiving. Hadn’t she used that to her own advantage before, after all? And all of them – the Awakened – had the potential to be much, much more than they physically appeared. There were ways of working that didn’t end up with the world fighting back too much, but when the necessity was there? Well, explosions can be made to look coincidental.

The other guy, though, sounded a lot more interesting. Cost being a limit? Then either he isn’t a fan of black suits and mirrored shades, he’s too far down the pecking order to take advantage of the perks she assumed they could get, or this is an extra-curricular activity. It’s too early to tell. Too early to know if it’s worth the risk of letting down her guard for a bit.

Time will tell.

Aidan

"Jenn has a tiara?" There was something about his tone that made it sound like a child who was just given the keys to the candy factory. "You'd look good in a tiara! I think anyway." Aidan flashed him a bright smile. "Really! Is it just diamonds or are there different colors? I like tigers eye. It's fierce. Rawr." He gave a mock claw in the air and giggle to himself.

"Wouldn't they speak ancient egyptian?" Aidan's brows furrowed slowly. "Why would they speak Arabic? Wait did they speak that back then?" He scratched his head again. "Oh! I bet you could find a way to talk to them normally. Or make pictures or... or maybe they can show you places that are important!"

"So the stone is a translator? Does it just tell them what it means? " Aidan blinked and canted his head. "Microwave instructions..Oh I think I get it now. I think. Maybe? Yes! I get it now. It's like having one of those rings the cereal gives you because it likes you."

Elijah

"It's mostly just those little fake diamonds? A lot of glass and crystal but it's made out of freaking titanium, which I thought was kinda badass. The thing is freaking impossible to break," as though they had tried to put the tiara to the test. Couldn't even coax it into a wobbly semi circle. We digress.

He starts to meander, picking the bag back up and halfway precariously perching the book in one hand, and he makes his way slowly to a nearby window to look at what might be there. Elijah didn't have a shopping problem, wasn't prone to impulse buying- or, rather, was very good at convincing himself whatever it was that he was buying wasn't an impulse buy and therefore needed to come home with him. This is how you end up with three books on ancient Egypt, ladies and gentlemen.

"I think if I were to show up in Egypt I'd get eaten alive by tourist traps and get robbed and I'd end up having to ask very politely to have someone come and fly me back home on account of being stranded in a country where I don't speak the language. Basically, I'd just be bracing for disaster. And languages morph and develop and change over time depending upon a number of factors, like who is ruling and who is conquering and what's going on politically. And some languages end up dying out over time." A shrug, "it's a thing."

"Anyway," he drops his voice and converses in more conspiratorial, quiet tones. Slips in and is a little more in Aidan's space than he was before, "not everyone has the luxury or opportunity to talk to things directly, so that's why things like the Rosetta stone are hugely significant. Being able to interact with the actual, like, spiritual manifestation of things is generally considered the exception instead of the rule."

Dan

Tall guy, lanky. Somewhere north of 25, and actually north of 30, thank you very much. Happens to the best of us, happens to all of us if we're lucky enough. Black skinny jeans and a button-down short-sleeved plaid shirt. No bow-tie tonight. The button-down is open a the collar. Arms full of tattoos, from the edge of his wrists until they disappear beneath the sleeve of the short-sleeve shirt, colorful work, deliberate and deliberately chosen.

Exits a little hole in the wall, frowning at the display on his phone, lighting a cigarette.

Doesn't normally smoke except when she smokes, but, well.

Sometimes you just need a vice.

Steel

Ever since coming to this city, Steel had pretty much kept herself to herself. Oh, she’d been out and had contact with people at the most superficial level, but no real contact. Nothing more than some very tense, stressed minutes while she got away anyway. It had been relatively easy the last time she’d tried this. But that was before she knew about who – and what – was out there, and generally best left far, far away.

There comes a need to make new connections, but there are various issues surrounding trust to get over first. Otherwise it would simply be a case of saying ‘hi’ and letting her own resonance flare out to mingle and merge with theirs. No, she needs to know more about this guy before she risks coming out in the open. She doesn’t exactly have the resources to search official files, doesn’t have the contacts in the city (yet) to ask around and see what people have to say.

Which leaves a possibly riskier approach. Steel pushes away from the window and turns to walk, a route which just happens to pass by Elijah and Aidan. She seems to stumble on something and bumps into Elijah, muttering some kind of apology. The voice, for as long as it lingers in memory, sounds vaguely English.

[Dex+Larceny, I’ll have your wallet please, Elijah. Pickpocketing spec, Larceny aptitude. Which I completely forgot about earlier, still not used to this character's dicings.]

Dice: 8 d10 TN5 (1, 2, 2, 3, 3, 4, 5, 7) ( success x 3 ) [Doubling Tens] [WP]

Elijah

[Per+alert=6 - 3 (damn you, arcane!)= 3, diff 6]

Dice: 3 d10 TN6 (1, 4, 5) ( botch x 1 ) [Doubling Tens]

Aidan

[Perc + alertness? Totally just a trip right miss? 7-3= 4 dice]

Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (5, 5, 7, 9) ( success x 2 )

Aidan

"Did she name it? Sometimes things like to be named. It makes them special." Or maybe Aidan just liked to name them and he was convinced they liked it. But Aidan moves with Elijah no, lifting his hand sup to wrap around behind his neck, his elbows hanging down against his chest. He hummed when they moved, even whe Elijah talked. When they stopped at a window, Aidan beamed. "Oh that's pretty!" He said with a smile, dropping his hands and leaning against the glass. He pressed his palms against it. "I wonder what the pattern is for that. " He squinted his eyes, pressed his nose against the glass."Oh. So you should learn the language then. Leanr the language and visit. Then you'll learn what you need to learn from the people who lived there right? I bet if you ask someone real nice, they'll teach it to you." And someone really meant someone that wasn't necessarily corporeal to everyone else.

Aidan's head jerked up and he looked away from Elijah momentarily. But then he realized he was talking to him and Aidan turned his attention back. "huh?"

"Oh! I forgot." A small laugh escaped him, as if it were just some tiny joke between the two of them. Sometimes he really did forget that people couldn't 'see things.'

Now Aidan notices Steel bump into Elijah, even tries to give her a smile to show it's alright. "That's OK." He says it almost on behalf of Elijah. But he doesn't notice the wallet grab. It's all innocent to him. But then...wasn't most things?

Elijah

All he knows, at that juncture, is that he ran into an English woman who had a voice that was sort of highish lowish mezzo soprano alto coloratura feeling to it. Who had hair that was… uh… something. She had clothes on!e remembered very distinctly that she had clothes on, and he responded to the apology with a- "hey, no problem-"

but he's walking, you see. He's walking and there was someone who was presumably attractive shaped and had a lovely accent and he was thinking about something and about to explain something to Aidan and all was well and fine and dandy-

But he kept walking. And was heedless of the fact that he was walking into a store from with a giant glass window. A floor-to-ceiling glass window that was polished and primed and perfect and probably should have had some tape on it or an X or something that would indicate that people need to stop walking at some point.

Elijah did not.

The next thing he knows, there is a hollow clang and a reverberation and he has sprawled, flat on his ass, in front of a giant glass storefront. Now, carefully adorned with an Elijah-shaped set of prints where he'd run flat into it.

Dan

He lights that smoke. Inhales, long and raw and slow. One hand with the cigarette, the other - rough fingers, broad palm - around the screen in his hand. Turns his blond head and gives a faint smirk goodbye to friends leaving the bar - not for a smoke but, for good. Words are exchanged, and there would be a fistbump but he has both hands occupied. Straightens all-at-once when Elijah walks right into a picture window. Considers stubbing out the cigarette and heading over to help but sees the kid with them.

Figures they're on a date.

Wonders if he oughtta suggest Elijah check the kid's ID before sleeping with him.

Thinks better of going over to see if Elijlah is okay since that other kid is there.'

Steel

Steel had planned on just walking away, blending into the faceless crowd and going through the wallet carefully, away from any other prying eyes who might wonder where she happened to come across a wallet of a young man who she most definitely didn’t look like or was in any way related to. Although it’s surprising the things that you can ‘’just happen” to find that others have unintentionally dropped.

There’s a noise – some noises - just behind her, though. Not the kind of noise that comes with having been made, that kind of noise tended to involve a lot more shouting and running and calling for the police. So it creates a pause, just long enough to look back over her shoulder at what she was about to leave behind. She sees the young man sprawled on the ground and the oily marks that his skin had left on the plate glass window, and she laughs. Just the once, but it’s been so long since she last did it and it felt good to just enjoy that fleeting moment. And it is fleeting because she needs to vanish before he tries to pay for something, notices what’s missing, and tries to patch together what had happened.

And so she fades from view, and most likely from memory.

Steel

[Sorry that was slow, didn't spot it was my go]

Reality-Induced Traumatic Brain Inury

Elijah

After dinner, after conversations, after doing dishes (because Elijah figured he should at least do the dishes after eating someone's steak and drinking their wine- both of which were fantastic on account of the quality) it was off to go talk to Sera. If Sera was up to talking. Or check on her. Or… well, the intent was clear. Elijah, Sera, convergence.

It was up the stairs with him, slow and purposeful and perhaps slow and perhaps purposeful because he wanted to have some time to think. A time to reorganize thoughts and to put things into near, findable boxes only to realize that Elijah would never be organized, at least not in a way that others could readily follow. More spirals and fractals and spider webs than boxes. Categories overlapping, attention ping pong balling all over the place. But there was the question- what do you say?

That was what had him thinking. That was what had his attentions wherever they chose instead of what was in front of him. What do you say to someone who saved your life? What do you do to thank someone when, really, everything feels trite?

He lingered at the door for a second before taking a step in. He knocked gently- always knocked, even if he was just going to walk in anyway.

"You awake?" he asked.

Serafíne

She must be awake. Were she asleep he'd never be able to wake her with a knock on the door of a bedroom in a silent memory-of-a-house, but she's half-way to sleep. Exhausted, groggy, incoherent, head throbbing. The room is rich and quiet and wreathed in shadows. Some light from outside, the moon dwindling from full bright in the otherwise now-dark sky. The enormous bed, the furnishings, hardwoods and Persian rugs underfoot. Curled up beneath the crisp white sheets, she kind of stirs and then turns over as he asks her if she's awake.

"No."

Hahaha, funny joke Sera.

Delayed.

Reaction.

"Wait. Kinda."

Elijah

e would have sat on the edge, but given the sheer size of the thing he kind of suspected he wouldn't actually be able to talk to her if he did since she'd be an eternity away. She says she's not awake and it gets half a laugh out of him, breathless but amused because he does get amused by the tiniest of things some times. There's a pause in the reaction time; she's not quite home. Of course she wouldn't be. Elijah does bridge the gap, though, doesn't close the door, but rather leaves it open and eventually gets a seat on the bed.

Awkwardly scoots himself in closer, tentatively pets her hair because she has a wonderful texture.

"We had caviar and triscuits, it was pretty good." A little smile there.

Serafíne

Dan has cleaned Sera up and stripped her out of her clothes from the bar and located (somewhere) a proper, old-fashioned men's pajama top for her to wear in bed. Probably more covered up now than any other time Elijah has seen her, particularly with the sheets tangled around her long, lean legs. Even half-asleep, sick from that reality-induced traumatic brain injury Elijah assumed earlier, the creature responds to touch. Kind of nuzzles her way towards it, like some small, half-blind baby animal. Rolls over to be closer to the physical warmth of his body, that awkward half-scooched I don't know what I'm doing or how to do this posture.

"Mmph." -- and a few other half-garbled words, his only real reply.

Elijah

His fingertips traced from the short, shorn part of her hair to the longer parts and again and again. There is a quiet moment; he's inexperienced in terms of being supportive when someone's hurt. Uncertain, his bedside manner lacking in technical prowess but not in honestly. This is the most covered he'd ever seen her; even in the winter, she seemed to be half-clothed and content with it. All mini skirts and cavalier fashion sense.

"It…" he looks up, half laughs again but it's nervous, breathless, "shit… It hit me while I was cleaning up that… uh… well, this… this is a big fucking deal. Things got really bad tonight and if you'd not been there I could have died. A lot of people could have gotten really hurt if you hadn't been there to help."

He purses his lips, "and… like… you kind of take it for granted, because you know people who are fully capable of fixing whatever the fuck can happen to you but… I saw you save a guy's life, once, when that dude decided to try and eat that jock dude? Like… you just got there and you fixed it, and you fixed me."

Silence.

"Thank you doesn't cut it. I'm alive because you didn't let me die… and… you're here because… I guess your reasons are on you… but… it really fucking hits me sometimes that you give a shit about me and it's… it's fucking huge." his hand slops, rests in her hair, silence and stillness don't suit him. "Yeah…"

Serafíne

Oh, Elijah.

--

There's this very precise and carefully maintained line of demarcation between her shorn left sidecut and the longer wealth of dyed blond curls. The soft, downy growth is not blond but a brown that would probably verge on the mousey if she let it alone and perhaps shut herself indoors for the whole of the summer. Would probably take to the light, though, quite like the rest of her. This close, well, he can see that she has tattoos everywhere. Ink on the cartilage of her ears, a few more incomprehensible letters or numbers maybe, and another piece - a blackwork triangle - tucked beneath the shell of her ear, half-hidden by her hairline.

He can slide his fingers through her hair all he likes.

And he half-laughs, nervous, breathless, even though his only real audience right now is Elijah himself. He knows that, doesn't he? Intuitively, as he sits there, sliding his fingers through her hair, how far away she really is. And also, how very close. That body after all, which seems all the smaller when she is not wholly animate within it, is absolutely, utterly Sera quite as much as anything else about her.

She's simply hibernating, at the moment.

Inhales, breathing somewhat raggedly, mostly from the mouth because her nose is too full of dried blood for her to get a proper breath in, exhales. Sometimes she murmurs something, sometimes she whimpers. Even in her sleep she wants: perhaps in sleep she wants more than she does, waking, and even if she doesn't really hear him and even if she really won't remember this, well. He will.

And anyway, she likes to cuddle. If nothing else, he can tell that his physical presence, his touch, quiets her a bit. Helps her sink from that shifting restlessness to a deeper, healing sleep.

Elijah

After awhile, he settles into something more comfortable, keeps petting her hair like this was something that they could both find comforting. He knew the truth of the matter, that Sera wasn't going to remember this, most likely. But there she was, something human instead of the beyond-worlds figure he'd grown to know. She's all artwork and color. Elijah was comfortable there.

But, there they were. Sometimes, she murmurs something- sometimes he responds. Sometimes, he just talks, because he needed someone to talk to. It was unfair, really. It was a one-sided conversation, because he knew pretty well that Sera was just hibernating for now. He talked to her about things he saw during his day, the layers of the universe. He tells her about the times that he was interested in seeing the world pass over itself and time flash forward. Little bits. Sometimes poems. Mostly, poems.

Once she's settled, once movement slows and the whispers cease, he kissed her on the forehead and went to go find Dan. He needed to go home, even if all he wanted was to stay.