[Emily Littleton] The city is trending back to normalcy. The holidays have passed, dwindled in Life's rear mirror, and intersession is ending. Soon her peers will once again flood campus, and crowd the quiet corners of the Mile's innumerable coffee shops. Tonight, Emily walks down the street with her head held high and her eyes unburdened by other thoughts. There was a run in at the Cloud Gate, odd and unsettingly, but it passed without incident. In fact, she'd gathered yet another resource for making this new life of hers... tenable.
Her cellphone is pressed to her ear, held tight by one frozen hand. Emily's banter is light-hearted, and the smile underlying it touches her whole face. It brightens her dark eyes, softens her mouth, chases away the weight she's carried on her shoulders for too long.
"Oh, the City is it, now? You know that's hardly descriptive..." she teases, twisting the words around a light lilt. Her footsteps are slow, and other pedestrians must walk around her. "No, no. This weekend's fine. I'd like to wrap this up before the term begins."
Easy. Practiced. She stops to look up and check the name of a street as she passes.
"I'll fly in Friday." A pause. "No, not a problem at all. Cheers." A small shake of her head. "I'll see you then."
She closes the phone and slides it into the pocket of her jacket. Her messenger bag hangs at her side, and Emily's hand comes to rest on it for a moment. Then she's rubbing her hand together, trying to get feeling back into the fingers that had been holding her cell phone. She tugs open the door to the tea house with her less frostbitten hand, and steps across the threshold.
The door swings shut behind her, blocking out the cold once more.
[Jarod Nightingale] [Let's do some rollin', here: Life 3 effect, vulgar w/o wit, diff 7 -1(focus) -1(practiced) -1(goin' slow)]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 4, 4, 5 (Success x 4 at target 4) [WP]
[Jarod Nightingale] After awhile, one got used to these odd little differences. The feeling of long hair on bare shoulders, the so-soft caress of satin against skin, and the elegant, tip-toe walking that came with stiletto heels. These were actually quite easy to adapt to. Other things had been less so, but Jarod was nothing if not an adaptable creature. He could become... whatever he wanted to be. Whatever a situation called for. It was a certain skill that went beyond simply the manipulation of flesh.
This creature, now... she was a living work of art. A moving statue he'd painstakingly created by sheer force of will and imagination. She was perfect. Physically so, at least. And was both him and not-him. Another life. Another name.
One that people like Emily were never supposed to discover, but then... when Jarod (no - Mei) came around the corner and spotted her entering the tea shop, he did not immediately duck back into the shadows, as he perhaps should have. Instead, he (she) stood still and listened to the tail end of Emily's phone conversation, then followed her inside the tea shop, trailing behind by a few seconds.
It was hard not to notice this woman. She was tall and exotic, and dressed as if she'd just been to a show or a fancy restaurant. A black satin dress hung just past her knees, and over that, a long black velvet coat with what looked like real fur lining the sleeves and collar (but was in fact just a very good fake). Still, she was behind Emily, so maybe the Oprhan wouldn't notice.
For now, she hung back and pretended to contemplate her order.
[Emily Littleton] Maybe she wouldn't notice that the door swung open to let Mei in, and the door swung closed again to block out the cold. Or the way that everyone in the room with line of site to the vision that had just entered, how they all, almost simultaneously drew a hushed (appreciative) breath and carefully, so carefully as not to get caught, exhaled. Mei was likely used to this, the concerted stares, the unknowing appreciation. But maybe, just maybe, Emily had other things on her mind, or was not turned toward the doorway to see Mei enter...
Maybe she was talking to the counter staff in a somewhat uplifted tone. Lightly taking the (inevitable) query about her accent in stride, turned it artfully back to the cashier with a small chuckle (resonant [warm]) and a roll of her eyes. Maybe she was saying Please and Cheers and leaving a tip like one ought to, or like one does when one can still remember what the weight of a minimum wage paycheck (less taxes) feels like in the slump of a recession.
"Mind what you say about it being quiet," she teases one of them, who had been complaining about a slow night. Raised a knowing eyebrow.
It's when the staff behind the counter starts to stare that Emily happens to turn enough to look over her shoulder and catch sight of what has brought them all momentarily to a halt, to that transient moment in which they all become overly concious that they were just barely holding onto a breath too long.
Emily is not holding her breath. Perhaps she has become somewhat immune to these moments, with as much time as she spends with a particular Verbena. In truth, this is not so. And those moments with Jarod have none left her, they've simply transitioned to something different (not awe [appreciation] warmth).
The Orphan smiles, and it is warm enough to lift the corners of her eyes, and then looks away before she might begin to stare. She waits on her tea at the edge of the bar, and gives the woman wide clearance. Because people would fall all over themselves to stand near her -- she remembers this, too, from a particular Verbena -- and Emily need not be underfoot if (when) it begins this evening.
[Jarod Nightingale] There was a similarity here that Emily might recognize. The mix of ethnicity in the woman's features. The height. (Though with the heels, Mei was actually taller, even, than Jarod.) The eyes.
Especially the eyes. Indigo. Without a doubt, this feature was unique enough to be noteworthy. Mei was different enough from Jarod that she did not look like his twin, but also similar enough to beg the question of some relation, perhaps. Maybe another sister. If Emily had a very, very good memory, she might even recognize both the coat and the dress from Jarod's guest closet. But then, that was probably hoping for too much.
She shouldn't know. Because this was not the kind of thing that most people handled well. And yet... here the two of them were, and when Emily turned around, Mei smiled in a very... Jarod-esque manner, all seductive charm and subtly wicked humor. As if she knew some very delightful secret. When she approached the counter, she unhooked the clasp on her jacket and slid it from her shoulders, baring a low v-neckline and thin shoulder straps. She folded the coat very neatly over one arm and asked, politely, for a cup of Silver Needle.
After paying, her heels clicked delicately on the floor as she moved to stand next to the bar. There was no awkward feel to the way she moved, either. She practically glided, as if somehow she'd been walking in those shoes her entire life. The grace was both effortless and oddly feline. (Because no matter what form he decided to take, Jarod would always seem feline.) She leaned in towards Emily, almost as if she knew her, and whispered... "We always seem to meet like this."
[Emily Littleton] It had been a good day, and nothing had died near Emily in over a week. Nothing had threatened to kill anyone -- overt and flamboyant threats from one Henrietta Bean towards one Armenian landlord notwithstanding -- in any sincerity. She had made progress on her many educational projects, and found new avenues for self-improvement... so it is with an unassuming sidestep that she moves out of the space that Mei seems to need, space that was once Emily's standing place. And the body language seems to say, for all one can convey without words: Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize you needed to stand here.
But the oddly beautiful woman does not stop with usurping Emily's standing place, no, she ventures again into the Orphan's space to whisper in her ear -- a pleasantry reserved for a select few, thank you very much -- something rather presumptuous.
And here is where the good-natured pleasantries end. The well-paved (good intentions) road of social niceties comes abruptly to a British sounding halt with an incredulous and artfully curled, "Excuse me?" and a pointedly quirked eyebrow.
Emily takes another sidestep out of the woman's demesne. (Do we know each other?) To an outside observer, one who does not know her so well, Emily seems to have been bequeathed a reasonable portion of British stick-up-ish-ness about her personal bubble of unperturbed space. Only a few would see how her shoulders pulled back (slighlty) and the corners of her mouth and eyes tautened with suspicion.
"I don't believe we've met..." she added, steering the conversation back towards familiar and careful waters. Not long after this careful statement, Emily has the welcome diversion of collecting her tea (honeybush masala [cream, no sugar]). Of thanking someone, of creating a little ritualized space. In this space of time, no longer than a few heartbeats, she lets her sense for things unseen reach out. Again. Perhaps a bit wary of what she might find clinging to the Other who presumed such familiarity.
(( Per + Aware, diff 6 ))
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 3, 5, 6, 8 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Jarod Nightingale] Emily reacted to the odd intrusion much the same way that many might have. After all, even if she had suspected that something was.... not quite as it seemed, it wasn't exactly an easy or logical leap to assume that someone you knew could change their gender like a fish. An awakened mage might assume these things, but Emily was still very new to her new life. So when she stepped back and insisted that the two of them did not, in fact, know each other, Mei simply laughed, as if she found the whole thing very amusing.
"Oh Emily, really. Are you that easily fooled? You should look more closely."
Not with her eyes, but with her other senses as well. There was no cracks to be found here. The costume was complete. Flawless. He was a woman. The curve and jut of breasts beneath the fabric of the dress was not some trick of padding. But if Emily really looked... if she really felt the truth behind all of that, it was still him. She still felt like Jarod. An odd juxtaposition, maybe. Jarod was not effeminate and had never exhibited the desire for it. He was male, and quite comfortable being so.
Just as now, apparently, he was quite comfortable being female.
[Emily Littleton] Emily's fingers were wrapped around the cup of tea, with its too hot porcelain translating all of that heat into the long digits without mercy or abatement. The longer she stared, thought, tried to puzzle through this, the more the heat seared at her hand causing a new distraction. At some point -- not yet -- her hand would involuntarily release the offending item. It would -- but not yet -- fall, shatter against the hard tiled floor. If Emily did nothing but stand there, it was inevitable.
Emily pulled back, hard, against the flurry of emotions that might have crossed her features. Confusion. Recognition. Disbelief. Worry.
She made a small, frustrated sound in the back of her throat and switched her tea to the other hand. She pressed the too warm fingertips into her temple and smashed her eyes shut in an exasperated expression.
"No... I really don't think I ought to look more closely," she said, but the tone was light and belied something other than resistence. "I don't think that would be proper." A jest, lightly. A very thin shadow of the banter they (?) often traded.
She did take a moment to replay her conversation with the counter staff in her mind. Had she, or they, used her name. Was it written on some slip of something peeking out of her messenger bag, or stuck to a paper on the side of her cup. Even agitated, her memory was sharp and she could find no transgression that would let this beautiful stranger in on such secrets.
Still, though, she had not accepted that this might be Jarod. In truth. That he and she might be one and the same. Or different and yet halves of the same whole. Perhaps there was another sister, yes. One with whom he shared secrets -- because Maia had not know about Emily, and was all too eager to toy with him about her -- ...
No, that line of reasoning did not lead anywhere pleasant either. Emily realized she was clenching her jaw, and made a conscious effort to release it. And now she had been standing for too long, and needed to swap the hands that carried her tea once more. And again. Shorter intervals now, because her hands were already sensitized to the heat.
Soon, blissfully soon, Mei would have to step away to gather her own tea. And Emily would be free to step out -- oh, but she hadn't gotten her tea to go this time, and stealing the mug would be wrong (mustn't steal things) -- or find a table of her own. A table then. And likely she would be joined by... her (him). And this odd test would continue.
[Jarod Nightingale] It was a lot to take in, and Emily still was not certain of what she felt. She had the right to be suspicious, and after a moment of watching her desperately attempt to piece things together in her head, the expression on the exotic woman's face seemed to soften a little. Her own tea was ready, just then, and she picked it up carefully.
"As if I ever gave a damn about propriety. I'm a model. Who knows how many people have seen me naked by now." A playful jest, and one made as if she/he assumed that the game had been at least partially figured out. "Please don't run away. I've had a fucking miserable day, and the version of me that you'd probably rather be with right now won't be back until tomorrow morning, but it's been a little while and... well, you know. It's nice to see you."
She smiled, and it was all at once Jarod and Mei together. Something beautiful and androgynous. She turned then, and walked over to a table, where she set her tea down. After draping her coat over the back of a chair, she sat down and crossed her legs gracefully. A glance towards Emily was both curious and inviting. Wondering, perhaps, if she would decide to simply flee after all.
[Emily Littleton] Usually encounters with this much confusion and such strong desires to bash one's head into the table until he (she?) made sense were reserved for outings with Enid, the ineffable red-head. But she was safely half the world away at the moment, and it was Emily's turn to strongly wish for something solid against which to smash her head until the world just, effing made sense.
It... because Emily was confused as to pronouns and identities, she would have to refer to him/her in a neuter declention. It... sounded like Jarod. It even moved like Jarod, but with a sashay instead of a swagger (to borrow Kage's subtext). It knew more than it should of, if it were a mere figment of her imagination. And were it a figment, oh, then Emily would be having words with her imagination just now. Strong words.
She was too bright to be confounded by this, but Emily was certain that it was not possible. Belay that. She was certain that it was not probable, that it fell into the realm of non-zero probabilities that were infinitely unlikely but statistically possible. These non-zero probabilities were often excluded from an expected set due to ... well, reasonable observations and some quantum craziness that Emily need not think through to understand that...
... She let out a long, belaboured sigh and studied him intently for a moment. Indigo eyes. Cat-like grace. Similar speech patterns. Intimate knowledge of her relationship with him. It all added up to a precarious truth. One she wasn't quite sure she liked. One she wasn't quite sure she could apply Occam's Razor to faithfully.
Something in her conscious mind broke, yielded, stepped back away from its insistence that this, he, she, it -- this was not possible! It ceded the point and the set of her shoulders, jaw, eyes faded somewhat. The intense scrutiny lessened, and the look in her eyes was more seeking. Searching. Wanting confirmation in something familiar, finding only the unfamiliar trappings instead.
In a rush of wind unfelt, and a rustle of something unseen (who are you? [Go, sit, talk.] I... don't... [Go, sit. Talk.] ...want ... [Go.] ...to.), Emily's mind is made up for her. Watching from the outside, it is like some unseen hand has upset the tentative balance in her mind. It is not entirely of her, but not entirely divorced from her awareness. Emily finds herself walking over to sit with Mei, even before she is entirely certain she wants to. Or should. Just that she must for reasons inexplicable.
"... Explain this to me?" she asks, not lightly, not in jest. "And... what... should I call you?" Another confounded question. She is floundering, but she had not run away. Emily goes, she sits, she talks, and something settles about her shoulders like a mantle. It is soft, and barely more than imagined. She sits a little straighter than usual, too.
[Jarod Nightingale] Once they were seated together, there was less in the way of immediate concern for eavesdroppers. Still, they were in public, and one never really knew who might be listening in. The woman shrugged gently, as if things like names seemed relatively unimportant right now, and she took a moment to enjoy the first sip of her tea before responding to Emily's inquiry.
"Depends. The man I was with all day called me Xian Mei, but seeing as how we know each other rather better than all that, you can still call me Jarod, if you like. Though I suppose Mei fits the features a bit better."
Technically speaking, neither name was entirely false. Xian had been his mother's surname, and so, while not on his birth certificate, could still be claimed. There was also a great deal of memory attached to this name: Xian Mei. Rada had spoken it once or twice, in relation to him. Somehow, the nick-name had stuck. (And it had seemed rather appropriate, given the circumstances surrounding his first forays into the world of the opposite sex.)
But Emily knew him as Jarod, and anything else may have felt strange, coming from her lips. Even now, he (she) was beginning to feel less at ease in his (her) current body. As if it sat unnaturally on his bones. Maybe it was simply the collision of two worlds. Two lives. Or maybe it was because he (she) was picking up on Emily's discomfort.
She pursed her lips together for a moment, then shook her head, dark hair brushing softly against her face. "It's the same as what I did to the wound on your arm. Life patterns are easy for me. Especially my own. It can be... re-woven. Temporarily, and when I have need of it, which I did today."
Beat.
"But I think this was a bad idea. I can go if you want."
[Emily Littleton] "Mei..." Emily said the name softly. She had set her tea down by now, and was toying with the rim of the mug with her fingertips. She often did this while she thought, while she watched a situation unfold, or idly while they traded light jests or unbarbed ribbings. It was something quintessentially Emily, regardless of which hand she used, or which side of her body was engaged in this idle action. "Mei..." she repeated, just as softly, thinking it through.
Or perhaps remembering other things, tied to that sound. Tied to the repetition. (Mei-mei [I am not your sister] Ai-ee [You're not my auntie]) Tied to the arrangment of features that Jarod and Mei shared, that had reminded her of a place she might have called home, back when they had first met in a place like this not far from here.
We always seem to meet like this.
And then she (he) made overtures toward leaving. Emily's fingertips stilled, held their position for a moment, and then reached across the table toward his. Seekingly. (No. [Please?]) It was a small, affectionate gesture. An apology for how long it had taken her to assimilate all of this, to take it in and process it and be able to see him behind the trappings of someone else.
"No..." she said gently, tentatively. "Please stay." Beat. "Jarod."
Emily did not speak his name often. She didn't use proper names in conversation beyond introductions or moments of annoyance or an obvious need for clarification. He had probably said her name four or five times for every time she'd said his. Maybe more. Probably more. So it is a sweet thing, the softness to her tone when she shapes this word, the warmth (still reaching for understanding [but having acheived acceptance]) in her eyes when they seek his.
[Jarod Nightingale] He was already pulling away when she reached out. Retracting. Not exactly in a physical sense, but you could see it in the way that his (her) eyes glazed over and became cold. Detached. This was a bad idea. I can go. I should go.
But then fingers touched, and Mei hesitated. Jarod hesitated. (Maybe there really were two people present right now.)
Give him a mask and he'll tell you the truth.
There was an odd vulnerability, suddenly, and she took in a deep breath. Then fingers moved, brushing against Emily's and wrapping up amongst hers in the manner that only a lover would ever think to do. Then Mei leaned over and rested her head on the table, on its side. Hair like black silk pooled around her face, and her eyes gazed upwards, almost imploringly, at Emily's own. No, Jarod's eyes. The eyes were his. Always.
"You know, I've never told anyone about this before," she said quietly.
[Emily Littleton] "Mind your nevers," she said, gently. There had been enough times that something guarded (sacred) slipped out, was shared between them, that Emily was no longer surprised at the candor they could share. Whatever the mask, whatever the seeming. Her expression was softer, now. Warming, slowly. So slowly.
Anything can happen, child
Anything can be.
Emily, very carefully, very gently, used a fingertip to pull the strands of silk out of Mei's face, to tuck them the behind the other woman's ear. It is a gesture that Jarod has often used with her, a soft familiar thing. Tucking a wayward curl behind Emily's ear. And there is an odd symmetry to her doing the same for him (her) now.
"I do believe we say that to one another quite a bit these days," she added, still quietly, fondly. It was not easy, to see this woman as Jarod. But Emily had accepted many strange things for no good reason in the recent months. And she could tell herself, firmly, that there were excellent reasons for accepting this, accepting him, and being accessible.
[Jarod Nightingale] It wasn't the fluidity of identity that was the true confusion, but rather the rigidity of human definitions. Ultimately a person was neither male nor female. They were physically one or the other (or, sometimes, in between), but beneath that... a soul (if such existed) was its own entity, separate from rules and regulations. Whatever manner which Jarod might choose to express himself, there was still the fundamental nature of his personality. And that... had not changed. For all that he could paint himself to be such fanciful, unearthly things, if the mask slipped (if someone dared to look behind it) there was truth and honesty.
Maybe they ought to just blame all the confusion on linguistics (which pronoun? which name?) and be done with it.
Emily touched her, brushing hair away from her face, and dark eyelashes lowered briefly, to brush against cheekbones as she accepted the moment of intimacy. Some of the people in the shop were watching them, partially due to Mei's rather eye-catching allure, but equally as much because it wasn't that often one might see two women caught together being affectionate with each other in this manner.
Those people were flatly ignored, however. She lifted her head from the table then, sitting up and distracting herself with the warmth of a mug beneath wrapped fingers. The white tea had a delicate fragrance, and she breathed it in before drinking of it again. "I suppose we do. Perhaps I should stop being surprised."
[Emily Littleton] Once upon a time, in a place far away from here, Emily had been more open to the idea of souls, and how they might interact in a given place at a given time. She had seen the whole metaphysical world as more fluid, immanent, less rigidly defined. But she had been young, then, and full of wonder. She would not have questioned as openly, not ached in understanding this. But it was a long time ago, and Emily had built walls around her soul to keep it in. And walls around the walls to keep others out. She had fortified it, with its nascent belief and its still resident wonder against the ingress of Others. She did not (want to) believe they could be perceived, touched, shared so simply.
Cedric had such high hopes for you.
It is better, then, that he doesn't broach the idea of identity being tied to a soul, or soulstuff. Emily cannot, now, accept that as openly. She can tie identity to the mind, yes, to the body, perhaps, but to the soul? ... No. It is better to leave that alone.
To leave it in the corner of her mind along with the awareness of other people, how they watched the two women at the table, the intimate moments. Emily is unused to being fascinating enough to draw anyone's covert interest. She did not think of the cameras in the parking garage that night. She does not think of the others in the cafe, now. It is a blissful sort of ignorance, one that one day must be shattered, one that she will miss once it is sundered (if they manage to continue sharing moments like this for that long).
"I rather like that I can surprise you," she says, at last, when the quiet of thinking has worn thin and weary. There is a curl to the edge of her mouth, wry, familiar. "It feels like a little triumph whenever I manage it." Lighter. Teasing. Teasing without entirely teasing. He (she) has seen, done, been so much more than Emily could imagine, that it was an accomplishment to catch him unsuspectingly.
