Nobody
[Okay, let's roll this once. If it's not good
enough, we'll do again, and if that's not good enough, Jack will be a
jerk and cancel.]
Dice: 8 d10 TN6 (4, 6, 7, 8, 9, 9, 10, 10) ( success x 7 )
Nobody
[... Okay, so... We're good. >.>]
Molly Toombs
Last
Saturday, Nobody met Molly Toombs in a bookstore. He wasn't the most
attractive thing, as a matter of fact he was a bit of a stone's throw
away from it. Yet, he still managed to worm his way into the curious
and intellectual interest of the curvy young woman who had been reading
about ghosts and calling her book utter hogwash.
He'd caught her
interest enough that when the store had started to close and it was time
to go, she'd tried to invite him to coffee. He'd turned her down,
claiming his stomach was a little on the upset side, so she'd gotten his
number instead.
Less than a week later she's putting that number
to use. Wherever Jack may be, he'll find a text message on his phone
timestamped 3:40pm from however it was that he'd entered Molly's name
into his phone -- probably just Molly, but the Undead could be quirky
things. They have to find humor in themselves somehow.
How would you feel about letting a woman buy you a drink tonight?
Nobody
Nobody
wakes in his hole where-ever that is his haven his protected circle his
don't look at me, Sun, don't look at me, Golden Sphere, don't look I
don't belong in your world your world is separate we are separated. He
wakes at whatever time it is he wakes and he does whatever it is he does
as soon as he wakes maybe he goes out hunting for blood hungry maybe
that is the first thing he thinks about can't do anything else until the
way some people are with coffee just need need need groggy dumb. Maybe
he stays inside maybe that's his plan for the night staying inside
where-ever that is and read because Nobody reads anymore (it's all
electronic soon they'll be tattooing cellphones communication devices on
people's wrists ha ha) or maybe he stays in with the animals. Maybe
Nobody lives somewhere no human would ever go. Whatever it is he does
from the moment until the sun goes down simmers behind the mountains
flames out bloody and the nearly full moon mostly cloaked by clouds
replaces it and sweet sweet darkness takes the city again well the point
is whatever it is he does from the moment the dark comes until the
moment Molly Toombs gets a text reply is best left to the imagination.
She gets a reply at ten to six from whatever name she put into her phone
(probably Jacky).
If that is the price of good conversation, I believe I feel very good about it.
Did you have a place in mind?
Molly Toombs
Molly
had been kicked back on her couch at home, back against the arm of the
sofa and her legs stretched out on the rest of the cushions. There was a
laptop in her lap and a glass of water on the coffee table to her
right. She was researching dog breeds (of all fucking things, because
Tommy Lynch of the Sabbat had put in her head that getting an animal to
sense when Things Were Afoot was a good idea, and because she saw this
to be a truth when Lucy the Kitten was unable to tolerate the envelope
in the house), in particular large ones because she figured if she was
going to be keeping an animal it may as well be something intimidating,
something that would fight for her and help keep her safe in
confrontations.
The page was on a lengthy explanation from the AKC
website about Rottweilers when her phone chimed merrily on the table
near her glass of water. Molly's attention perked and rolled over to
the little device, and the message on it was read.
With a bit of a grin, the woman straightened up and texted back:
There's a place downtown called Pints Pub. 221 W 13th Ave. How does 7:30pm sound?
Even
as she's waiting for her answer, Molly will close the laptop and move
it to the coffee table. The cup of water and phone are brought with her
into her bathroom so she can get herself ready for a same-day date with
someone that you really wouldn't expect a girl like Molly to be
pursuing.
Nobody
Molly didn't need to wait very long for the return text
Brilliant. I'll see you there. :)
Jack
had a good memory for Faces and he thought about the Face he'd been
wearing when he met Molly, Harald who is jackpot Jacky, Jackpot Jacky,
and tonight when he put it on put it up oh how easy it becomes to be
other people to be invisible to never reveal it gets easier and easier
sometimes this canny knack he has to see him through the nights. He
looks in the mirror that he has in his hole, in his haven, in his lair,
yes, lair is a good word, his hidden place, his oubliette, he looks in
that mirror when he done although there is no reason to, no reason at
all, but it's a special mirror, isn't it? Yes, and so
and so
Jacky
is early, because a youngish man who looked like Jacky would probably
be early if he weren't bemusedly late looking at the watch on his bony
wrist as if he weren't quite sure what it was, Jacky would probably be
early because he is punctilious or would like to be punctilious. He is
early by a good twenty minutes or so and he is unseen when he arrives,
because that is one of Jack's tricks, and he is unseen when he takes a
booth in the corner, because that is also one of Jack's tricks, how
everyone avoids that place, how nobody wonders why he isn't drinking
yet, how he unseen takes somebody's already finished beer and sets it
down in front of him watches the condensation gather and melt and make
rings on the table, it's all part and parcel of tricky Jack's tricks,
and he waits until he spies Miss Molly Toombs, and then
only then
do
people start noticing him again. The Jack of middling height and
perpetual squint, the pigeon-chested young man with patchy scruff on his
chin and eyebrows as thick as thumbs and tonight glasses perched on his
nose but not a flattering shape of glasses for him, and only then does
he rise to his feet in order to hail the nurse.
Molly Toombs
Nobody
is early, purposefully not letting people notice him in the booth that
he chose in the corner, back up against the wall that would eventually
turn into a staircase upstairs much nearer to the front of the
establishment. He's got a glass of beer in front of him that someone
else had finished, to make it look like he'd been drinking something
while waiting for Molly from The Bookstore to arrive.
Molly is
about five minutes early, because she's a timely thing, but not near so
much as "Jacky" is. She comes around the corner of the staircase
looking like people do when they're trying to find someone in a
restaurant-- chin stretched a bit higher, eyes searching, expression
unsmiling and concentrated instead.
She's got her dark hair done
with product in it that helps the natural waves and mild curls stand out
and be full of pretty volume. Her hair skims the tops of her shoulders
when left loose like this. She's got a red peacoat folded over her
arms in front of her, and is dressed like she's out on a date, not just
meeting up with a friend. When you're just meeting with a friend you
wear jeans and a hoodie in weather like this.
Molly, though?
She's dressed herself up in a pair of snug black pants that hug her legs
and ankles and everything else to boot. There are black high heels on
her feet, helping her up an extra three inches of height. Her blouse is
a well-stitched thing with a neckline that sits up on her collarbone,
the sleeves capped short, with the bottom hem extended out to fall over
her hips, with the back pleated almost like a short peacock skirt. Her
jewelry is a bracelet and earring of pearl, and a black charm necklace
that sits on her chest overtop the shirt.
"Jacky" spots her first,
stands and waves, and catches her attention. Molly's penciled-dark
eyebrows hop on her face, and pink-painted lips spread into a smile of
greeting. She waves just a little, not raising her hand much to do so,
and moves to join him at the booth he'd chosen. Her coat goes onto the
bench first, and is pushed up against the wall when she lowers herself
to sit opposite of where the scrawny homely man had set himself up.
"Hey,"
she greets him. Her cheeks are bright from the chill of the night air
outside. "Looks like you beat me to the drink buying. Have you been
here long?"
Nobody
Jack is a courteous Jack unless
he needs to pretend not to be and that doesn't happen often at all.
There's always a reason for courtesy. Fail to be courteous and who knows
what'll happen. Bad things, maybe. Jack doesn't sit until Molly has
reached him which is when he makes an awkward and aborted movement as if
he'd pull out a chair for her but the booth doesn't have chairs. He
does not appear to be the kind of young man to allow akwardness to get
him down because if he did he'd be crawling with his chin to the gravel
and he'd have a better shave than the one he does. So, Jacky changes the
movement to a half-push of glasses up the bridge of his nose,
apparently having forgotten that the glasses are hanging from his shirt.
He grins a grin that is wide and sweet and oh dear god those are still
his teeth, but it crinkles up his face in such a way as to seem quite
genuine indeed, and he says simply, "You're beautiful tonight."
He's
dressed, uh, like a young man who probably thinks that as long as it
has a collar and passes the smell test it's good. He didn't dress up,
but he dressed nicely. It just doesn't matter how nicely he dressed:
He's a little rumpled. Uh. Fine. A lot rumpled. He looks like the kind
of young man who could put on a perfectly starched and perfectly
tailored suit and within instants he'd be rumpled. His coat is thick and
bulky and a vintage-looking trench that has a moth-hole in one corner
but what are a few moth holes and a few home remedies when something is
worn and torn-up and anyway the coat it's off and folded on the booth
seat beside where until just now Jacky was sitting, his phone out on an
e-mail screen so he was probably checking his e-mail, and when Molly
sits Jacky sits again, thin shoulders hunching forward because that
seems to be his natural posture, a rueful glance tossed toward the
almost but not quite empty beer.
"About half an hour. I found it more easily than I thought I would. Have you been before?"
A
gesture to the drink. "I couldn't help myself. I find there's something
sad about a man sitting alone at a table without at least a drink to
keep him company, and next thing I knew the drink had left and only the
glass was left. Let me buy the first round to make it up."
He'll
squint apologetically toward the floor proper, looking for a waiter or a
waitress to flag down to do just that, too courteous (there's that word
again) to start talking Molly's ear off while she's still settling.
Some Jacks are quiet and some Jacks are loud.
Some Jacks are both.
Molly Toombs
The
compliment is appreciated, because Molly did clearly put time into her
looks tonight. She's proud of her figure, and refuses to let a little
belly fat take her self confidence away when she came out with a good
hourglass curve to her silhouette in return for it. Her face was an
average thing, freckled and symetrical enough to pass. Tonight she wore
lipstick and mascara, but didn't wear foundation because she struggled
with seeing it sit overtop of freckles anyways. Her tones were pink to
compliment the clothes she wore. She was a plain-faced girl by nature,
but she worked with what she had quite well when she had time to do so,
when she wasn't wearing scrubs and pinning her hair out of her face so
it wouldn't get in her eyes and mouth while trying to inflate lungs and
put pressure on gushing wounds and what have you.
"Well thank
you," she says to him while she sits down, almost immediately defaulting
to crossing her legs at the knees as she so often does. She doesn't
try to deny the compliment, insist that he's mistaken. She just
appreciates the niceity and moves on into other things.
He says
there's something sad about being alone without a drink, and Molly
chuckled and nodded her head in agreement with him. He wanted to buy
the first round to make up for it and started hunting for a waitress.
Molly just grinned and fiddled idly with the pearl-and-gold bracelet
about her left wrist while her hands rested in her lap.
"What,
you're apologizing for buying your own drink by buying the next round
too?" One shoulder hikes up and relaxes again in a shrug. "If you
insist."
The wait staff here isn't any better or any worse than
the average crew. A woman in her mid thirties with dyed
blond-and-brown-highlighted hair and clearly enhanced breasts under her
workshirt spies Jacky looking about, leaned and stretched in his seat in
the booth, and comes on over. She isn't snapping or chewing gum or
looking impatient. She is, for all intents and purposes, average but
capable from what can be seen.
"What can I do for ya, dolls?," she asks cheerfully.
Nobody
If
you insist. Up go those too-thick Kahlo-esque werewolf brows in a curve
that appears good humoured and mild. That'll do for an answer - that
and the faint hint of a smile and the nervous tic of a scritch-scratch
under his chin bristles scraping against nails a sandpaper sound -
because here's the waitress calling them dolls. Pint's Pub serves and is
proud to serve real ale and Jacky rests an elbow on the table in a
comfortable sort-of way in order to better circle the not-quite-empty
glass of - not beer, oh no. Not just beer. That real ale. "Another India
Pale for me, and for..."
He trails away to let Molly make her own
order. He'd have ordered for her once upon a time and, to tell the
truth, sometimes he has to remind himself not to presume, remind himself
that manners have changed, especially if he's been avoiding people. He
doesn't often avoid people, Jack, but sometimes the twilight places
where the creatures of the dark kingdom and the day kingdom's children
mingle and meet wear on him and he does. Usually those moments do not
last very long.
He hasn't been in one of his avoiding spells for a
good long time, so he doesn't need to remind himself. Not really. He
remembers the game. He'll ask Molly if she wants to eat too and if so
ask to see the menus because he had to find this place so he hasn't been
here before. That's his story, he's sticking to it, and it might even
be true though it surprises him when he thinks about it how often he
finds himself surrounded by a feast mustn't touch mustn't eat or else
the poison comes it's all part of the game that too.
And once
their drinking and eating situation has been squared away, Jacky says,
with a quiver of the ol' eyebrows, "So where did we leave off? Souls and
their relevance?"
Molly Toombs
Molly smiles
politely up at the waitress when she comes up to the tableside, and
waits to let Jack make his order first. Just as he knows the dance of
interacting with people and what is appropriate, Molly is much the
same. Let your partner order first, give them the opportunity to lead
and guide and flash a bit of dominant masculinity if they want to. He
says that he'll have an India Pale, and Molly orders:
"The blonde homebrew, please."
As
for food? She declines, expressing that she'd grabbed a bite to eat
before meeting him. With a smile, she explained: "It'd be misleading
if I invited you out for a drink and turned it into a full on dinner
date, wouldn't it?"
But where had they left off last time? he
asked with a quiver of eyebrows that came with a thickness that was
better suited to a seventy year old Mediterranean man. Something about
souls and how relevant they are? The trauma nurse with freckles on her
nose and cheeks just laughed a little, this of course being after the
waitress had accepted their order and moved off to the bar to fetch what
they asked for.
"Something about that, and Faith, and the disease
curing powers of garlic. We were circling the topic of repelling
vampires, I think." She grinned, the expression close-lipped instead of
showing any teeth. "We shifted there from ghosts."
Nobody
The
waitress didn't take the glass when she left and Jack lifts it up and
wipes the ring of liquid with the palm of his hand. This seems to be an
absent gesture. He follows it up with reaching for or remembering the
coasters set in a neat stack in the middle of the table and puts one
down then sets the glass on that and shifts it to the side. His eyes
have lit up with remembrance, and he says, "Ah, right. Poor vampires, to
be found so repellent." The corners of his eyes crinkle up, and the eye
with the distended pupil seems quite dark.
And then the underfed
youngish man, his hair slicked back but curling around his ears like it
can't stop, wouldn't it be nicer if it just curled or if it was just
straight, why does it have to do both? settles in his seat with his
hands on the table, a gesture that is meant to subconsciously reassure,
and he launches right into it.
"Well then. Do you
believe that vampires have souls? Or, perhaps more pertinent to what you
were reading up on last time, that ghosts are the souls of the dead?"
Molly Toombs
Molly
knew full well that the topic they chose to connect over would swing to
the age old question: Do you believe? She'd anticipated it, and had
pondered over how she was supposed to answer it the whole bus ride and
walk out here. There were a couple of options and lines that she'd
given herself to use, but here on the spot she still wasn't certain
which one she should go with.
She had no plans to outright lie--
to say that she plain old didn't believe there was a chance either
existed at all would make her look like an idiot since she was clearly
at least somewhat knowledgable on the matters. She could say that she
wanted to believe. Or, the last option, she could say that she simply
did believe-- she could say that she knew them to be real for a god damn
fact out of her own personal experience. It was far more socially
acceptable to believe in ghosts, but to say you believed in vampires was
the kind of thing that could get out ousted from social groups and
abandoned on dates.
He wanted to know what she believed, and the
confidence about her face and posture slacked some. She had to think,
but there wasn't enough time in the world that would let her be
confident in her decision of what to say. Only just enough time passes
for her lack of response to start to be only a little bit worrying
before she speaks up as though the silence, the pause, the gap in
conversation never happened at all.
"I think that I don't know
nearly enough about what makes a soul in its simple core to know whether
or not vampires still have them. Is a soul a personality and conscious
thought? Is it that thing that keeps you feeling guilt, to tell you
when you're doing wrong? Is it who you are?" She shrugged and
went back to twisting the bracelet around her wrist. "I don't really
know. Depending on what a soul actually is, I'd have to say that they
might. I can't be sure. Ghosts, though? I'm pretty sure they're souls
or spirits or something like that. They have to be more than just
energy left on walls or objects, because simple energy doesn't have a
consciousness and isn't sentient."
Seamlessly, she turns the question around: "What do you think?"
Do you have a soul, Nobody?
Nobody
Jack
is a good listener. A good listener doesn't rush someone to a
conclusion. Doesn't push them to hurry up and answer. Perhaps someone
who specializes in gotcha! interrogation would. Not Jack. Jack listens,
and doesn't give any cue in body posture or look that he finds Molly's
pause to be a thing stretching on too long. He observes it. It's part of
a thoughtful conversation. And then the pause, the gap, is gone. He
gives her that poetry listener's nod again as she speaks. He doesn't
fidget very much, but his hands are clasped and his posture relaxed.
After Molly asks her question, the waitress comes back with their drinks
and Jack smiles a reflexive and absent smile (that air of surprise that
is just the way This Face is shaped present again. Mild bemusement). He
waits until she is gone before he answers her. First with a - "Hmm."
Then
with a - "I believe, hmm." Another pause. He is an active listener. But
he is an active speaker, too. There is something in the honeyed cadence
of his voice. He's a man who knows how to use his voice and who'd
certainly go to Hades and sing his way out again. Even This Face, with
its register that's not quite his own true register, has that control to
it -- he hasn't tucked-it away, buried that will to eloquence. All of
which means that when he answers, he still pays attention to the person
he is speaking to instead of spending all his thoughts on his words, as
if he must fix them in place or fashion them carefully before letting
them go. He's always been able to trust his own tongue.
"In the
human spirit. I believe in the ability of the human spirit to conquer
and to survive any horror. Unless we hold to the myth that vampires are
fallen angels, we must believe they were human once. And if they were
human, they were possessed of human spirit. I'm going to make a little
jump and say that human spirit equals soul without pinning down what
exactly that means. I think we know in our guts. And I do believe that,
if vampires were real, they'd have souls. At least, they'd have souls as
long as they still possessed the ability to think or feel and act on
those thoughts or feelings. The vampire is usually supposed to be in a
state that isn't quite death and isn't quite life, correct? Why wouldn't
they have souls?"
He pauses, quite as if sheepish, though there's
nothing sheepish about his quick and surprised smile, eyebrows raised
as if to invite Molly's thoughts.
"As for ghosts, well - for
myself, I believe they're the spirits of the restless dead and they're
bound to the world because of regret. You believe that ghosts are
sentient then?"
Molly Toombs
Their beverages are
delivered, and both Jack and Molly give the waitress ('Gale', her
nametag reads) polite little smiles each of their own flavor. Gale
smiles at them, pleased with the pleasant young couple, wishes them a
good night and is on her way.
While Jack explains what he thinks
constitutes a soul and a spirit and that vampires probably do have them
(if they exist at all), Molly listens and sips at the light colored ale
that was set on a coaster in front of her. When Jack specifically
expresses that he believes a soul and a spirit are the same thing that
can't really be defined but can be felt in your gut, Molly's expression
shifts a little. It's less that mask of making nice, the somewhat
on-guard smile that doesn't tell you a lot but can't be argued with
either. Instead, it's more open and involved. The smile fades from her
lips, but not because she's displeased. Simply because she's engaged,
and less inclined to put on an act because of it.
The floor is
turned over to her, he wants more information behind why she thinks
ghosts are sentient. She blinks a little bit and shifts in her seat,
slightly uncomfortable for a second. Sure, people told ghost stories,
but nobody would ever tell you a story where they got possessed and shit
actually flew around a room at you. They told stories about doors
slamming and lights going out, and people accepted that because it could
be empathized with as being spooky but could also be dismissed on other
things. Believing that someone else's spirit settled in your body and
used your mouth to speak words that you didn't think of yourself is
another story entirely.
He can see on her face that she struggles
with what to say, that she's on the verge of saying one thing then
backing off from it and considering another. In the end, she suffices
with: "Yeah, I do. There's too much pointing toward it for that not to
be the case."
Teeth find her lower lip for a second, out of
nervous habit, but the taste and feel of lipstick against her tongue
reminds her not to. Instead she takes another drink from her glass and
swipes the rim clean with the pad of her thumb. Her eyes had fallen
away from Jack's weak-chinned bushy-haired face(Mask) and were watching the bubbles gradually rise through the pale beverage in her glass instead.
"I
just figured, from the stories of vampires, that they're pretty much
rejected by everyone-- mankind and God-kind as well. So either they
wouldn't have souls, or those souls are already damned."
Nobody
Molly
struggles with what to say and leaves it at there's too much. He
doesn't choose to pull at that sentence. Turn it into a stone. Try and
lift it to see what's underneath. He has, perhaps, guessed from her
reactions and his own intuitions from the night before and this, that
she had a personal brush with what she believes is the supernatural.
Many people do. Many people have varying levels of comfort with what
that brush was. Belief rules, again, doesn't it? He just nods his
acceptance of that statement, and his expression is a thoughtful one.
Pensive. He scratches under his chin again, turns the gesture into an
absent stroke of his jawline. Thumb on one side, forefinger and
middlefinger on the other.
"Why?" Jack sounds curious. There's a
brief pause, as he realizes that might require clarification, and so he
clarifies. "Or what does 'damned' mean in this context?"
Molly Toombs
Jacky
sat there scrubbing at his chin and jawline, and Molly's attention was
pulled back to him by the movement. He asked 'why', simply, and the
expression of confusion on her face must have prompted him to realize
that he needed to clarify.
He wanted to know what she thought
'damned' meant, or what she meant by it. This question was difficult
and had to be pondered for a second. She wasn't sure how to explain
what she'd meant, she figured the word would have described itself just
fine. But, again, Molly's a clever girl, so she figures her words out
soon enough.
"I'm not really sure how to explain that, I guess. I
just figured it was a way to say that you've been... scorned by God, I
suppose. That you've got a black mark on you, that you've done
something that can't be repented." She shrugged a little and lifted her
glass off the coaster. "I didn't go to church much as a kid, so I
don't have much background in this matter in particular."
And down her throat goes another swig of the tall glass of ale.
Nobody
Jack frowns but it's a Thinking About Things
frown not an angry frown. "I..." Hesitation. "Don't want to commit to
religion, though most of the stories do seem to have a Judeo-Christian
twist, don't they? So it's easy to try and look at them, and God, from
that angle when unravelling the myth of the vampire," and he smiles that
surprised smile again, this time just a quick pit-stop on the way to:
"What do you think about being redheaded?"
Molly Toombs
The
young woman nodded in agreement with Jack's thought. It was difficult
to settle on any one religion if you were raised without being
introduced to one by your family and friends. You hit a certain point
of development and start to question things, need proof to accept them.
Religion is chief among those.
The topic shifts suddenly on its
head, though, and a question is posed out of the blue about what she
thinks about being a red head. Molly doesn't quite spurt her surprise
into the glass that she was drinking from, but she does stop short and
purse her lips together to prevent exactly that from happening. The
glass is set down and the back of her hand presses to her mouth, so that
she can carefully swallow what she had left to finish swallowing. With
that done, she laughed outloud, the sound a little breathless for the
fact that she had to hold the surprised laughter in to keep from wasting
ale on the tabletop.
"What?," is all she can ask.
Nobody
That
grin. The crinkly one that does away with that air of surprise. His
tone is sober however when he repeats the question: "What do you think
about being redheaded? Is it something that one might be able to
repent?" The grin diminishes until it's just an echo on his pale,
unattractive features. "According to a folk beliefs in various cultures
across time and history, red hair was a sign of the devil, bad luck, or
sorcery. I remember reading somewhere that redheads didn't have souls."
Molly Toombs
Oh
holy shit. It's a 'Gingers Don't Have Souls' referene that he's
making. Molly stares at him for a second in disbelief, confused at
first by the fact that this man, of all people, was referencing
something that South Park sent spiraling into pop culture jokes and
prompts to bully freckle-faced kids in junior highs. She's maybe more
confused by the fact that he backs the question up with citations of old
cultural beliefs that red hair represented the devil and witchcraft.
A
hand reaches up to tuck her hair (dyed dark to cover the natural
vibrant red) back behind one ear, and she frowned gently, not angry or
insulted but some light or diet version of the two instead.
"Well,
I'd say that being born with red hair is pretty different from being
Undead. One is genetics-- what you're born with, what your parents were
born with, so on and so such. The other is..." She waves her hand
looking for the words. "A condition. Or curse, depending on who you
ask.
"And I assure you, my soul is intact."
Or at least, she's prety sure it is.
Nobody
Molly assures Jack that her soul is intact and for a moment Jack's eyebrows jump up, this time in an expression of surprise that has nothing to do with the shape of This Face (This Mask [This Person Composed of People He's Seen]), but all to do with true surprise -- or at least the feigning of such. Did Molly Toombs, whose hair doesn't look red in spite of the freckled face, just claim to be a vampire with a soul? He jokes: "Should I ask you how you would classify vampirism, Molly? Is it a condition or a curse?"
He jokes, but it's a real question in the same vein (get it? Get it?) as the rest of their conversation. Engaging with legend. Discussing myth. Digging through stories and rumours and beliefs for something that could be at least true in theory. Jack believed in curses. Jack of the Curse, after all. Jack of the Sewer Rats. Jack of the Nosferatu. Jack whose face will never be seen again by day, but neither will it be seen by night. Jack of the Hag, Jack of Heart, Jack who believes - of course he believes in curses.
"And would a condition or a curse be enough to rob a man of his soul, if he had it to begin?"
Molly Toombs
The expression of honest surprise on Jack's face had Molly taken aback, enough that whatever insult or bother that was starting to heckle up defensively was all but startled away. Somehow he had her regretting her cool shift in tone. She leaned into the back of the bench on which she sat and hid a scowl when she realized that her cheeks were starting to feel warm and that meant she was starting to flush some.
The question he posed was still considered, though halfway through realizing that she was still just staring at him with semi-wide eyes she instead dropped her attention to her ale.
A good, long drink is pulled before she answers.
"A condition." She sounds very confident, very firm in her conviction when she says this. As though she knows it for a god damn fact. "And I don't know. I haven't quite decided on that one yet." It sounds like the jury's still out on whether Molly thinks that vampires have souls or not.
"They still have their personalities, and if that sense of person, of self-being, of.... ego, I guess, is what we're defining a soul as being? Then they still have them. I think the question posed is whether those souls get to pass on to anything. Which then opens the gates into if there's anything to pass on to in the first place, and we all know that's an infinite looping question that will just put us right back where we started from."
By the time she's done talking she's recovered from that flash of shame (why snap at the poor boy? he didn't do anything to you.) and is smiling pleasantly once more, twisting her wrist so her hand waves in a circular motion in the air to illustrate her 'so on and so forth' point.
Nobody
Molly sounds so confident (a condition, I haven't quite decided on that one yet) that Jack, dreamy-eyed Jacky, finds himself paying more attention to the little signs. Jack who watches, after all. Jack of the Eyes. Noticing Jack. Does she, perhaps, speak with the subconscious inflection, the tell-tale something, of someone with personal experience? The undead are not a cautious breed by nature. But they learn to be cautious, don't they. They learn to be careful. They have learned. Jack rubs the bridge of his nose, the air of apology that seems as natural to This Mask and that air of surprise when This Mask smiles evident, distant, but her pleasant smile finds an echo of a smile, that infinite looping question that will just put us right back where we started from.
"True. But if ghosts are real, and I believe that they are, then their existence proves at least that there is something to go to. Whether it be a final oblivion that only a few hold themselves back from, trying to complete unfinished business, or some version of Heaven or Hell that isn't to be found on earth."
He pauses, then winces like finding the right word took some thought or came all sudden:
"Fair warning, on this subject I'll happily talk theory until I turn blue and, ya know, but I'm just as happy to stick to stories and bits of fact. Other people's fact at least." The edge of a smile, touched wistful. "As many times as I go looking," and here, a good-humored and bright gleam of self-awareness, "it's never easy to find what I want." Hands held up. "Not crazy, just terminally curious."
"What do you think about the No Reflections myth?" The question is asked with true curiousity (terminally curious would be a good descriptor for All Iterations of Jack), but it's also asked as an offering to explore 'facts' again.
----
The Percept + Empathy: ?? Personally invested in this subject/think you have experience, Miss Molly? roll.
Kenna @ 1:38PMOh hey, would someone mind witness stamping this roll for me please?
[Rolling 6 Dice for Jess Just 'Cause]Roll: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 8, 9, 9, 10) ( success x 4 ) VALID
Samael @ 1:39PM
Witnessed!
Molly Toombs
Who knows? Molly says, about souls. The destination. And Jack, rueful, but essentially a quixotic creature, says, "Somebody must. There is no perfect secret."
He has his forearms resting on the edge of the table and his expression is still, for the most part, pensive; a little searching now, blinking as if he's coming out of a daydream, and there's something very clear about his expression (even his damned distended pupil, the film of glaucoma making it a secret imperfectly kept; just how far can he see, anyway?). The young man (sure, that's what he is tonight) that Molly's conversing with is clearly the kind who doesn't let ideas go once he has them.
Well, how would I know that? she asks, again, and Jack wonders if he misstepped, has made her ill-at-ease somehow, to have knowledge brought into question twice in as many minutes. He hmms, pats his pants pockets down, realizes what he wants is in his jacket pocket instead. He pulls out a moleskine, something rather battered and stained, and full of notes. The revelation of the moleskine is a sheepish one, but beneath the sheepishness is a certain assurance. He doesn't care, This Face doesn't really care, that it's probably a little OCD or hipster to actually carry around a moleskine for note-taking in.
"Souls. Vampires. Ghosts. Ghosts don't show up in mirrors, right? Supposedly. Purportedly. Or they only show up in mirrors. Did you know some kids in Florida, separate from any outside input, concocted their own religion around the La Llorona myth and Bloody Mary? They put the two together, and…" He trails away, realizing he's going off on a tangent. Then gets back on track, says with a grin. Too bad about the teeth, really. It's such a sweet expression. "Okay, ah, leaving ghosts and their interactions with mirrors aside for the moment, not every folktale has vampires losing their reflections, just like every folktale doesn't have vampires losing their shadow. . . Though some do. It's a belief that usually seems tied to the whole Soul Question, so. . . Uh," he frowns, having lost track of what sent him off on this enthusiastic tangent. "Oh, right. That's how it found its way into my mind."
[[ Fade scene to black, went incomplete. Date concluded and they went their separate ways. Jack probably found an excuse to not make physical contact again, you know, like you do. ]]
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