Log:Trust Issues
| Trust Issues | |
|---|---|
"...best to just take whatever that guy says with a grain of salt." | |
| Participants | 2017.07.29 After a 'chance' encounter at Twixt shopping centre, Franky and Count drive out to get burgers and hang out, with absolutely zero ulterior motives. Except for, like, making sure Franky don't know nothin' about no fae business. Sadly, there's only so many lies that'll stick before emotions give a girl away... |
| Location
Twixt Stripmall & Rural Roadside Stop off of Route I-89 | |
| Friday afternoon in the Twixt Stripmall: is this place bleak or what? Nothing like some forgotten rural American capitalist drudgery to really stir up feelings of gloom and despondency. When was the last time they changed the plastic plants in here? Kurt Cobain was probably alive, then. But still. Sometimes places like this are useful -- for instance, when a person wants to get a boba tea and some incense and crystals and their nails done... Franklyn is stepping out of the nail salon - dressed in a flouncy boho maxi skirt of russet-n-cream, nipped in at the waist by a woven belt and paired with a oh-so-vintage ringer tee in cream and brown, with the words 'Support Wildlife: Drink Wild Turkey' across the front. Is she wearing a bra? Who cares! Franky doesn't -- she's admiring her freshly painted nails with a critical eye, while slurping on boba tea and adjusting her purse and bag of misc. goods from the near by hippie-shop on the crook of her arm. So much baggage... And with nobody around to observe her? She seems, in a word, maudlin. Beetle shell green nail polish can only solve so many problems.
Franklyn rolls her eyes, and goes 'uuuuugh'. Flounce, flounce, flounce -- Franklyn glides on over to the car, tossing the almost-empty boba tea in a passing bin as she makes a b-line towards Count and /her car/. Huh, the cup makes it into the trash without her even looking, she must have some arm on her... "Hey, go peddle your rough trade somewhere else - I'm not in the mood." Now that's a different tune from the other night. So huffy! So puffy! So reaching into her purse for goodness knows what.
Oh yeah. She ditched him and Lulu. For a split second? There's a wash of shock across her face. But only a /split/ second, because then she's eh'ing all nonchalantly and shrugging a shoulder. Does she notice Count's move to his hip? Maybe she's not as hyper-vigilant as he. Why would she need to be? From her purse comes a pack of Lucky's. One is swiftly lit, and smoking commences. "Oh /gaaaawd/, did he talk your ear off or whatever? Ugh, don't mind Ceebabes -- he's all hot air. Everything that comes out of his mouth is like, entirely twisted by this warped sense of 'the real' or whatever. Poor thing, he's like, delusional? I swear, he makes up soo much random crap about people and whatever? He doesn't even smell the scent of his own bullshit anymore." Said with such self assurance! Subtext: what a pitiable weirdo C.B. is. "Aaaanyway -- you're welcome. I'm glad you guys had fun at the range." Total assumption. Zero apology. But that grin of Count's... Franky mirrors it a bit, half hiding behind her cigarette. "Something's almost always eating me. I'm delicious."
"We had fun enough, long ass walk tho. Yer homegirl Green, I could like her, but man I'm disappointed, no calling, no writing..." sure he never gave up his digits, but those are details. "I mean Imma have to take yer word fer that one, not to say I ain’t imagined what you taste like, but I like t' get to know a dame before I give her th' tongue." Oh my god, so people talk like that? Judging by that wicked gleam in his eyes, he's playing it up just a bit.
Cigarette is lifted, face half obscured as she laughs and composes herself, rolling her eyes. "I dunno what you mean -- he tell you how super amazing I am, and grateful he is to get the opportunity to put on a new play at the theatre? Production ain't cheap..." She's nervous, also cranky. Maybe it's about the money. Or not. She just snorts and waves a hand dismissively at the comprehensive history of Count's dick sucking saga. She's /preoccupied/ with thought. For a few more moments - then she's furrowing her brow and watching Count again, focusing up on his words. "Why didn't you just call an uber? Yeah, yeah -- me and Green, we had to work something out..." Why is she smiling like that? So secretive! Then a hand is flapping in the air dismissively and she's swooping her hair back away from her face while ashing that cigarette. So animated! "There's only so much laundry I need cleaned, yeah? Besides, I get busy..." Then Franklyn is compressing her lips and squinting at Count, amused and disbelieving at the same time. She stares for a long moment, then murmurs; "...You put on one hell of a show, Count. What's going on behind the scenes, eh?" Pry, pry, pry...
His eyes seem to focus on her Cigarette for a moment, and before she takes it from her lips again, he reaches to snatch it away, and take his own drag from it, before holding it up to help him say "Me? Behind the scenes? Girl I do not know what you are talking about. I'm just some asshole who owns a Laundry..." who's down with cocaine and like to shoot his gun. "What makes you think that there is anything else going on with me? You think I live some weird (wyrd) life full of glamour and secrets?" And then his expression sobers, becomes almost still, flat, all the smiles gone and he just looks at her with hollow eyes. "Honey, you gonna start asking real questions, we're gonna have to become /much/ better friends." and then he offers her her cigarette back.
Which is probably why she doesn't even react properly when Count nabs that cigarette from her -- she just stands there dumbstruck for a second, before the oh-so-fucking-casual laughter returns and she rolls her shoulders in a shrug, chin lifted as she squints off into the middle distance. "Yeeeeah -- right? Like you must be a hoot at regional launderer conventions; sooo, do you like, bring the feathers and coins and skulls along with you in a little push-cart, or do you have a mobile altar for when you're on the go? For someone who 'just moved here' or whatever, you've got a sweet setup..." Franky smiles wide as she looks back at Count - her early spooked'ness just a distant memory, as she reaches out for that cigarette he just won't give back yet. That hollowed eyed look? Ignored. IGNORED. "Besides; everybody's got somethin' worth investigating about them -- but don't worry, I won't spill your tea if we party. Honest." Ah - there's the cigarette! Franky plucks it back from Count, but she doesn't smoke -- she just squints down at the filter, like she was trying to glean information or look for germs. Weirdo.
"Nah, I mean I get invited to the regionals, but they get too exciting for me, ya know? The afterparties are off the chain, washer riding orgasm races, mixing drinks in the spin cycle, last year Frank Wallace of Eerie Indiana ended up murdering Big Joe Tubman outta Albuquerque over stealing his patent for a better soap delivery system, wild place, totally not my scene." Sooo much Bullshit! SO MUCH. "And they got a little place there fer all the religious types, portable death shrines are all the rage, I mean sometimes I gotta slum it with Santa Muerte, but I make do." He reaches up, scratching the stubble under his chin as he considers her, and that rapid uncontrolled outburst earns her a smile, a smile filled with some mysterious triumph. "You'd like t' know wouldn’t you? Well, maybe some night I'll let you know, but if it comes back to me, that' I'm talkin' to you about it, my lips are gonna become glued, ya hear?" With a glance to the sky, and then back to her he asks "Where you heading now anyway?"
"So, it is a death shrine -- but not Santa Muerte? Yeeeah, I thought the coins were not chocolatey enough. Plus? No air fresheners or paper flowers- - but don't worry! It still got like, /quite/ a lot of likes on my Insta, sooo? The aesthetic is still on fleek." Wait. What? Did Franky put pix on the internet? She's already siiiighing in deep and rolling her eyes, because she's not getting Insta Satisfaction vis-a-vis those gossipy details. Franklyn takes a moment to admire her nails, critically checking the cuticles as she shrugs. "I'm no snitch... Oh, me? I was going to go home and masturbate in the shower and then have a drink, put on my sheerest dress and go out and torture some fuckhead who owes me money and isn't returning my calls, /oooobviously/." Eyes, they are rooolled again then Franky snorts and looks back at Count, holding up the bag of hippy stuff. "Why do you care? You think you're just going to tag along, help me with my reading? I've got /work/ to do." Unsaid: what have you done for me lately?
"Well, I mean if you wanna send me some pictures of the aforesaid self pleasure, I would be a happy recipient. I mean it'd save me the time of breaking in and hiding the cameras, if you were a willing participant." More Banter, tho that whole camera thing might be a bit too real, considering him catching her in the drug deal. "I got time on my hands, the laundry game ain’t fucking time consuming, and here I thought, this is that Badass Babe I met the other day that shared her nose candy, I need t' chill with this Bombastic Beauty some more, what's say we see if she's down to hang out." Smile, flash of teeth, tongue lingering on a just slightly too long canine "But instead she's putting up walls like I just came up outta the blue asking her if she'd like me to bury my face in her booty, like a telemarketer making cold calls. Like I'm got gonna bring shit to share. What work you gotta do?"
What is Franky? She's a fucking liability, that's what! Skipping from feeling to feeling, that sly curiosity is replaced with laughter, and she shakes her head. Flattered? Incredulous? Genuinely amused? Why not all three. Photos/camera bit is Ignored, but Franklyn gives Count a cool look of appraisal as he banters onwards, her head tilting to the side. Is that sympathy in her eyes? Yes a bit - along with scheming. "You saying you missed me?... I know Vermont ain't California, but there's tonnes of places to find trouble..." Now she's just being coy. A short intake of breath, then she's getting serious and peering at Count -- as if that ocular patdown would tell her if he's an immediate threat to her persons. Or worth her time. "Honestly, I do have some reading to attend to. I'm trying to unlock the secrets of the universe, see." Okay, that smirk is not serious - it's BANTER, banter! - but she continues, "So unless you've got a magic key... You wanna go smoke some of that weed you undoubtably have hidden on your persons and eat burgers by Hart Pond and you can feed me some bullshit about whatever? I wanna hear a story!" A freshly manicured nail glints as she points, j'accuse! "And I sense you are /full/ of them, Mr. Wolf."
"Now, I got weed, and I'm down for burgers if we skip the really cheap fast food places, go pick them up somewhere where you can really sink yer teeth..." Food, Count /likes/ food. "As fer Bullshit, I got piles, might got some real'er shit too, but well, public parks?" he makes a face. "Lotta people watching in parks." People like him, who turn into birds. Then it registers that she calls him 'Mr Wolf' and he makes a face "No, definitely not a dog." as if such a suggestion, that casual name were somehow a grave offence. "I'm a Leo, so lets go with that." He's not actually a Leo. "I have many talents, but my Talents are my business, to share with whom I will, ya feel me? I didn't care that you peeked, but sharing my business..." a flare of his nostrils "It's just not polite." Right because he's polite. Ocular patdown: Count is casual, but like a cat is casual, he can lounge anywhere, again like a cat. Yes, come, rub my belly, it's safe. He's very aware of his surroundings, and well, she's seen him hide a gun on his person before. There's something just... raw about him, despite the human skin, something carnal, savage... feral just under the skin.
By the time she's standing up straight again and watching Count... Yeah. She's sold. "Whatever you say, Pussycat. You wanna go somewhere with less rangers?..." She hesitates, then mms and nods curtly - adding in a cryptic murmur, "I know a place. Don't sweat it -- but hey, you're buying burgers and giving directions. Can you call ahead? I don't want to /waaaait/." Because waiting for anything is the -worst-. Franklyn is already on the move, see; the car is unlocked, her bag thrown in, and she's sliding into the driver's side as she chatters onwards: so casual, and so... Actually apologetic? Sure thing. "Sorry babes - if I knew you were a stickler, I'd of got you to sign a photo release form. You wanna see it? I look adorable - although the lighting in your place is /atrocious/, so... I'll delete it or whatever. You know. To be polite." Crooked grin, then Frank's jerking a thumb towards the passenger seat. "C'mon, buckle up!"
Rewind. When she reaches to touch the scar, the muscles of his abdomen immediately start to tense, but he doesn't prevent her from doing so. And the odd question there isn’t 'what does it mean' it's when she asks 'What is DOES' as if a scar should /DO ANYTHING/. That gets her a look, but for now, he keeps quiet on the scarification. So, seated, he's already got his phone out and is looking for burger places. "Worst fucking thing about this coast, no In and Out burger..." he's muttering as he scrolls through until he finds some place. "This looks promising, it's got pictures..." and then he rattles off the Name, and tells her where to go as the phone is ringing. Then they answer and an argument starts to ensue "What do you mean you don't let people order ahead of time, c’mon, we're in a hurry.' 'Your Policy? We're making a big order, C'mon. Let me talk to the manager. Oh, You are the manager. I see." And then he hangs up. "So yeah, any cheap place will Do, that or you're going to have to walk in, I'll toss you the cash." Window, rolled down, eyes watching the streets, because he's still not the most familiar with the place. "Some shit... people don’t need to know... i mean especially when it involves things like human skulls..." Human Skulls that don’t look old enough to have been dead for more than a few years at that.
But then they're off! As Count goes about his job of berating local hospitality workers, Franklyn begins the idle drive throughout the tiny city they both -- for whatever fucked up reasons -- call home. Windows down, music playing softly in the background: yes, that's a house remix of Lana Del Rey's 'Summertime Sadness'. Franky smokes as she drives, silent and contemplative and seemingly content -- like she has all the time in the world. "I know a place." Simply reply re: burgers. All that's needed. Franky is turning down various side-roads and off-streets and heavily wooded routes like the well versed local she is. Is she taking him on the scenic tour? Could be. Maybe she's also taking him to the east side of town to dump Count in a mineshaft. Weirder plot twists have happened. "...Thank you for confirming it was, in fact, a human skull -- I didn't mark you as a poseur." Franklyn watches the rear view as she chatters, all calm and causal and cool and totally collected. Funny how driving can do that. Makes a person feel so very much in control. "So what -- don't tell me you're into fucking vodun?" Brief side glance. She's trying to read his expression.
"Lead the way dollface..." he encourages, and he lifts his hips so he can retrieve his wallet, pulling out some cash, and then tossing it over into her lap. "VooDoo ain’t my style, and i ain’t sure there's a name for my shit, There is a little Santa Muerte, a little bit of Mictecacihuatl..." Which he pronounces completely correctly "...this and that. I've always had an affiliation with Death, some call it a Fetish..." and then he gets a little vague. "Live through enough shit and you see things, the world opens up, perspectives change. What was it you said? Secrets of the universe?" There's a flick of a lighter and he's lighting his own cigarette. Wait, where did he get that?! Didn’t he steal a bit of hers earlier? Well there is a silver cigarette case now resting on his lap. That smell tho... that fucker is smoking a clove. Typical Goth.
Yup. #carefreewhitegirl is in full swing. "Oooh, I see -- so you don't follow a path..." Why is there a touch of snootiness in Franky's voice? Because she's -Franky-, of course. But that melts away, replaced by a wide crooked smile as Count starts talking about death and fetishes. Hell, it even gains him a curious little side-on glance, before Franklyn puffpuffpuffs on last of her cigarette and flicks it out the window. Litterbug! But she's reaching out, see, trying to grab Count's pack of cloves in her entitled, grabby, well manicured fingers. "Yeah man. Secrets of the universe. What flipped the switch for you? Hit some salvia and get a grinning ghost walking you through all your bad decisions?" Franklyn slows the car to make a turn -- in the distance, there is a hand painted sign illuminated under sodium lights: 'THE WORTHY BURGER'. It looks... Like people probably get abducted there. But isn't that like -everywhere- in New England? A weather beaten wooden shack with hand painted signs and lossa grease.
As she reaches for the case, Count's hand comes down and smacks hers away with a sharp and unerring precision. "Oi, settle." He murmurs and then picks up the case, tarnished silver with the residue of old stickers long peeled away. He pops it open and there is a mix of smokes and joints, and he pulls out a clove and hands it over. Now, as one is well aware of, finding a good real clove these days is hard, but Count, well... he's found a mix, and has a cigarette roller and manages a pretty damned close replica of the old Djarum Blacks, even if the paper is white. The Filter even tastes like candy the moment it hits the lips. As the burger place comes into sight, Count smiles, and being the gourmand he is, he knows the place, or at least, not THIS place in particular, but, of places like it, hole in the wall gems out in the middle of nowhere. "Yer good that this, questioning people shit, don't act like I don't see it." and then he goes a little falsetto "Oh you don’t follow a path then." not a verbatim quote. Voice back to normal he says "it's like when yer checking out a place, and you insult their security, nine times outta ten, they will go on the defensive and start telling you where the cameras are and how many men they got stationed at all times." he shakes his head "When did it start? I mean, I gottas question for you, how close, have you come to dying in yer life?"
Fingers curl in the air and Franklyn clicks her tongue in disgust - disgust! - as Count smacks her away, giving him a rather /sharp/ side eye before u-turning into a smile. Smokes are getting served up on a silver platter! "Oooh la..." The reward is a wink, then Franklyn is lighting up and looking surprised. Wow! So sweet! Is she even old enough to have ever had a genuine Djarum Black? "This tastes /amazing/." So happy! For the moment -- all that earlier maudlinness evaporated, replaced with quiet contentment... And amusement. As Count starts to read her like a book, Franky laughs and rolls her eyes -- pulling into the parking lot of the burger joint, she chatters on as she parks up. "Aw c'mon Pussycat, why you gotta break the illusion? You go to magic shows and point out the smoke and mirrors there too? Babes, I'm =curious=, and I'm just guiding you along to say what you wanna say to me anyway... You don't wanna come for the ride? S'fine. I don't mind." "Oh, that's a good question, tho'..." Clove bobs in her mouth as Franky gathers up the rogue cash, stuffs it un her bag, then turns off the car. Key pocketed, seatbelt off, she opens the door and slips out to stand in the lot. It's there that Franklyn moves, and lifts up the back of her shirt to expose her back and ribcage. There's a scar there - well faded, but noticeable in the lights as pale shinny skin: a long, many-forked fractal pattern that comes up from her waistline and curves up her back towards her shoulder. A Lichtenberg figure, stretched out. "Babes, I've already died once: this is my second life. I'm hashtag blessed."
He gets out of the car and walks around, taking a drag of his cigarette, savoring that crackle of clove before dropping the butt on the ground and crushing it under the tow of his boot. He's about to say something else, but then she's showing off one of her scars, and while she hesitated at personal space? He does the fuck not. He touches with faintly calloused digits and the definite indication that his body temp runs high, even at the tips of his fingers. "Only once?" there's a grin with the words, a bit of sarcasm to hide the tone of impressed surprise. Not a very good deception however. I may not look that old, but I've been around the block, more than a couple times... more than I'd like. Death is a familiar friend... whatever form she takes, and I have walked a path with her for some time now, and she has taught me things..." he takes a breath and then looks at the restaurant "I'm fucking starved."
She laughs -- although it could be that she's ticklish, since she also squirms and dodges away at the warm touch. Her skin is cool, and the scars have a faintly silky feel to them, flush to her skin. Like they've grown in somehow. "Hey! Watch it, bucko." Franky may be in a good mood, but she's not in a /great/ mood. Shirt comes back down immediately, and is tucked in as she chatters on, "Once. So more than most people, yeah. Why you think I smoke Lucky's? I wanna see if it happens twice." Franklyn watches Count carefully as he speaks, motioning for him to follow her as she starts gliding towards the burger shack's order window. She hmms low, ashing the clove before replying, "Death teaches a lot of things - humility, limits, power... I'm getting the feeling you eluding to like, something else? Or? You're an /amazing/ fucking actor, and you have to come audition for something soon. How fast can you cry on command?"
After that he moves outta the way for Frank to order, and goes to sit at a nearby bench to wait for them to prepare. He gave her cash, so presumably she's paying. He's not quick on the answers however, and he is glancing around here and there, even this remote, he's either paranoid, or checking his surroundings is so ingrained he cant help himself. "I'll tell you this then..." his tone growing a bit more serious, his voice lowering. "The moment Green left and CB and I were alone..." they weren't alone, Lulu was there, but he is omitting. "...he dropped the fact that he's got loose lips and has opened yer eyes to shit that could get you killed, especially if he's gonna blab it to a stranger he met five minutes before, you following me?"
"...Can I have a cheese burger, fried pickles, and a strawberry milkshake?... Thanks." Franky goes about settling the bill - still looking rather Star Struck. Order number in hand, Franklyn dreamily glides over to the bench - puffing on the last of that precious clove, before it's crushed under foot and abandoned like a bad date. Graceful in that entirely Earthen and /tremendously/ human way, Franklyn slides up to go and sit on the edge of the bench -- no hyper vigilance, she's only got eyes for Count. He obviously needs to be watched like a =hawk=. Case in point: those serious words. "Huh?" Franklyn's head tilts to the side, as she looks up with an expression of oh-so-mundane naivety. Look at her: she's confused. The brow knit, lips pursed ever-so-slightly, and a twinkle of concern in her eye -- looks like the girl just isn't following what Count is saying. "I don't... Didn't you say he was saying nasty stuff about me? Oh man, I like, totally told you -- that kid's got a screw loose, he comes up with all sorts of wild ideas. It's not his fault. The Alexander's aren't the most, like, nurturing families - sometimes things just get knocked loose. Know what I mean?" Deflection over, Frankly compresses her lips into a sad yet grumpy little frown and shakes her head. Such innocence, marred by concern for her poor, delusional acquaintance.
When she lies to him, it's a good lie, a lie good enough that, had Count not been part of a SECRET WORLD full of crazy shit, then he would have believed her. Even now... she could be telling the troof, I mean CB is a stranger. He /could/ be fucking with Count, some 'welcome to town' hazing ritual, tell him he's spilling secrets to random THEATER PEOPLE. This is how a midsummer nights dream got made people. FFS. His surveillance slows and his eyes lock on Franks face, and then his brow furrows. "Huh." He says after a few moments. "Maybe I was misinformed, maybe yer not walking a bit of a tightrope over hell." he even lifts his hand to scratch the back of his head, shrugging and fishing in his pocket for another smoke from the old silver case. Lighting it up he takes a drag, filling his lungs, all while watching her "But, I mean, looking at you, you weren't this angry like forty seconds ago, were you? I mean, being stabbed in the heart, betrayed, that shit hurts right?" Flash of a smile. "We all got Secrets, many of them, and you are, what did you say? Looking for ways to unlock the universe? Offered answers are tempting things, things that one can't go back from. Whats the phrase? You can’t unsuck that dick?"
So while she may smile derpily with concerned and clueless sympathy, giving a little puzzled nod to Count's words, "Yeah, I guess you were - sorry 'bout that, buddy. But hey; it happens - best to just take whatever that guy says with a grain of salt." Hear that? She's being -helpful-, no judgement, no snark, no fucking with him. Yeah. That's a lie. Even if normal people could never prove it -- the emotional resonance, underneath the cool, compassionate facade? Seething irritation. Seeeething. Theatre is great for one thing: LIES. What else? Sheltering highly complex emotional hot messes like Franky here. Franklyn keeps the act up as Count begins to smoke, and starts to get real -real- with her. Her eyes dart across his features as he mentions her anger: now a smidgen of fear joins it, as her hand oh-so-slowly slinks towards her purse. Subtle movements. Only for the hyper-vigilant. She's sucking on her cheeks, biting at the inside of her lip: micro-expressions that give her discontent away under all that calm. Then? Then Count says the magic words: 'unsuck that dick'. "What the fuck are you playing at?" Holy 180, Batman. Franklyn is hissing a whisper now -- leaning in close as that cool evaporates completely, and a pointed beetle green nail is prodded in his direction. "You don't know /shit/ about me, bucko -- and have zero fucking interest in you rooting around in my business, d'ja get me?" Eyebrows raise, then she snorts and lifts her chin, eeeeeying Count carefully. "Ugh, is that why you were hanging out by my /fucking car/? Because of some bullshit /C.B. Alexander/ said to you about me? You're sooo fucking gross. That's it. I'm done. You can walk home..."
He stands up then, right in her face, close enough that their foreheads almost touch. "Your business? Yer fucking business?" the words seething and slithering through his teeth. "It stopped being yours alone when loose lips made it mine. You think I wanna play Daddy here? Fuck no, I wanna get high as fuck, get drunk and touch some titties . I like simple, but..." he then raises his hand ti his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. "...But some people, are fucking MORONS." he snarls the word. "And me, I'm here, tryna let you know there somone might be putting a target on yer back. I'm here, offering you some options, that'll let you see what's coming at you, rather than stumbling yer pretty ass around in th' dark. Your right Frankenbooty, I don't know you. Not well enough to judge shit, but I'm sittin' here tryna remedy that shit, so don't go all primadona rageface and storm off on me. This is a goddamned olive branch not a tribunal." his voice remains low, his expression... well, his mask is cracking and theres frustration there, a flash of anger, mourning for a world full of idiots, even a pinch of pleading. "We already payed, I'm fucking hungry, Strange fucking shit in this world exists. I know it, and I know you know it, and beating around the bush is gonna give me a migraine." It really is, Beasts dont think to good. Still, through it all, his voice is low, not traveling far.
It may be too late. When Count gets all up in her face, Franklyn goes stock still. Stock. fucking. still -- the only thing that moves are her eyes as she tries to keep focused, and the tone of her cheeks as they drain from annoyed red to frightened pallor. My, what big teeth Count has... It's obviously an effort for her to keep up -- brow furrowed as he pinches his nose, then her body jerking back a bit as his voice is raised in a snarl. Franklyn is not meek, no -- but she is Mortal. The world is /frightening/. Count? Maybe a little more so, whether he likes it or not. "...We can parley, over... Burgers." She says, but only after Count has said his bit and mentioned that hunger. Does she look comfortable about this? No, no she does /not/. "But be warned, my girl keeps tabs on me, and I'm not fucking /going/ anywhere with you." So paranoid! Franklyn is eyeing Count over again, like she's trying to /read/ him, trying to pick up on clues about... About what exactly? She has no proof. No token of his truthiness. Only a vague understanding that C.B. said some stuff to him, and a whole lotta assumptions. "I have no interest in..." She squirms a bit, squinting. Then an exasperated sigh and she looks off to the side. Subject change. "...That fucking stupid piece of shit. I /TOLD/ him not to /fucking/ talk about me." The burger shack PA squawks to life: Order number thirteen, you're up!
Then the order is up, and he gives her a long look, but since he is still standing, he goes to get it, watching her as he does, and then brings back the food. "Now, we c'n stay here... or go somewhere else, your choice, yer destination." Is he going out of his way to make her feel a bit more safe? Aww, ain’t that nice. Tho perhaps it's also calculated. He's already got a hot onion ring in his mouth, chewing with a look of divine pleasure, like a man lost in the desert finding water after four days. it's not been /that/ long since he ate, right? His demeanor is already back to that lazy smiling default, just some normal chill dude, nothing conspicuous here! But Frank has caught glimpses, and it's almost unnerving how easily he puts that face back on. "No interest in what? Conspiracies? Illuminati? Magic? Bigfoot? Faeries?" Watch for her reaction!
Aw nah, bitch -- do not enter negotiations with these fair folk. Hasn't anyone told her /anything/ useful?! As the order is called, Franky just stares back at Count -- making a slight incline with her head, a silent prompting: 'go on then, darling. Get the food'. Mime school was kind to her -- there's a whole lot she can express without even chattering on about it. With Count walking off, her hand slinks into her bag; her phone is pulled out, as it has just buzzed. Yes, she's going to text. Typical millennial. So when he gets back with that onion ring? "It's weird if I /don't/ reply, so don't be a fucking dick about it... Ugh." Franklyn rolls her eyes and looks up, frowning even though Count's gotten all chummy again. "Who the fuck cares about Bigfoot? Or -your- stupid business. Huh. 'Laundry man'. Whaaatever. Ugh. Everybody makes everything so -unfun-..."
Slowly, she reaches into the bag and takes out the strawberry milkshake. Some things can't wait. "Do I now?... And if I was to not cut you slack, what then?" So sharp. Damnit, Franky! She raises the straw to her mouth and sips as she observes Count with surprising coolness. Underneath that icy exterior? The annoyance? Odd twang of sadness echoes. Crush it down, Franky, crush it doooown. Her eyes narrow a bit as Count says 'pinky promise'. She watches him for a good few seconds. Ya gurl? Does not look convinced. "...What do you want from me?" She murmurs, slightly too harsh and definitely suspicious. "You, like, have no credit with me? What even /are/ you? I don't understand your intentions? Everyone says they want to help me out, but that feels like bullshit, so yeah. Maybe I do want you to shut up. Like fucking Chekov says, man: don't tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass." Strawberry milkshake is lifted, as is an eyebrow, as Franklyn stares at Count. Staaaaares.
Changing the subject with an easy smile, looking back over his shoulder. "You want th' light on the broken glass?" He asks, and then shoves the rest of his burger into his mouth, chewing until it is gone. "Tell you what, make a deal with me, fer a week. Keep yer mouth shut about our Conversation, and I wont bring it up again unless you ask me to. Break the deal and well, there are consequences, but keep it, and It'll be a good week fer you, hell, me too." he wipes his hand on his pants before continuing. "I ain’t selling you any scheme girl, this ain’t some devils bargain, I ain't looking t' cramp yer style." he sound a little resigned now, tired, slumping forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Yer a real hardass bitch you know? Pain in my ass i swear to god.." but there's a pleased gleam in his tone, a touch of laughter.
So human. So tremendously human. "...Let's not get ahead of ourselves. You know what happens to over eager dudes?" Yeah. They end up spilling the beans and getting chicks like Franky in TROUBLE. Still. It isn't a no. But the other part. Her eyes narrow in consideration; manicured finger tap-tap-tapping against the side of that milkshake cup. All the time in the world. Franky slurps on that straw while she considers - patient as fuck. Or? Purposefully drawing things out in some kind of bizzaro power move. "What part of our conversation, exactly?" Guess who's been Told Shit. Franklyn takes in a small sigh, then tilts her head. Her resistance is becoming less apparent, as that ambition for Brand New Information takes a front seat to, well, common sense. "Look. I won't immediately go and firebomb Mr. Alexander's collective, how about that? But I'm not going to just say I've never spoken to you. This said?... Nobody who's not already in the know is going to know about what I know in terms of this... Crazy bullshit. Talk shit, get hit -- I'm not interested in fucking up my face, know what I mean? I just... I have some questions. Maybe you'll get to hear them. But whatever... Fucking... Anime villain bullshit you've /really/ got going on? I won't share the secret with nobody you don't want it shared with. Does that make sense?" And now Franklyn is smiling: big and wide and bright eyed, all curious and keen. Yeah. There is a term for hard ass bitches like her: La Belle Dame sans Merci.
Too Human, Count is... if anything, envious. Count is one of the few Lost in this town that actually values his humanity. He cherishes it, he revels in it, he fights constantly to prove that he is more than what he was made, more than a simple animal, thinking rather than relying on instincts. Of course part of the problem there is that instinct is close to the surface, and count's brain power wasn't the best to begin with. So he takes his time, and he watches her. Her answer, does not seem to please him, at least the first bit. "A single week, I'd like that, before I get a Trigger Happy Redneck knocking on my door. As I think we've both noticed, the man aint the most stable stick of dynamite in the bundle." Count's already gotten a glimpse of his temper, he opens his mouth as if to say more, but then closes it, considering tact, and moves onto something else instead. "I appreciate yer discretion, just like I ain’t gonna go telling folks that you might know shit you shouldn't. There's a paranoid breed that seems to come to this town, like gravity." The Anime Villain like earns her a smile "One day, maybe, I'll let you in, tell you why I'm really here. But trust goes both ways, I know you half think I'm a, what was it? Armenian Sex Traffiker? You gotta test me, i gotta make sure I c'n trust you." But by bit, the cheery count is creeping back, his breathing becoming more normal again. "What kind of questions do ya have?"
Lies. She wants a script of lies -- and she asks so sweetly! But she's nodding, glancing to the side. Conflicted maybe. "Fine. Trust is a two way street. You hang out with me, realise you're not too keen to share more? We shake hands and go our own ways - yeah, we go our own ways." Yes, she just sing-song those words - there was even a little theatrical shimmy and hand flick to accentuate them and cut through some of the /grim vibes/ that she's serving up. This while conversation makes her nervous. "And the questions I have... Require a very long prologue. And right now? Dude. Fuck." Franklyn siiiiiighs and leans back, slumping down like a marionette who's strings have just been cut. In comes her best stroppy tone: it's spot on. "All I wanted to do tonight was get stoned and eat a burger with you in a vineyard. Was that too much to ask? Really?"
Now he looks in his bag, snatching another beer battered mushroom and goes on. "So, like I said, this week, don't tell peeps the details of our conversation, concerning what you know about this and that. Seven Days. I don't care if you say we hung out, got something to eat, got high, whatever, just these, secrets. Shit will hit the fan if you spill, and it wont be me enforcing it, but for the week, well, you'll have to give me a ring and tell me what's up." then he offers his hand, palm up. "And I promise, I aint trying to pull one over on you, or keep yer ass on a leash. I don't do leashes. I mean, unless it's a special occasion and it's kinky." Count, stop rambling Damnit. Her slump, ugh, Count is /WEAK/ some nights and says "I'm sorry, I really did wanna get fucked up and chill with you, I owe you one? A big one?"
Well. At least Franky obviously feels remorse when let's something slip. That has to be a plus, right? By the time Count gets tired and gives up, laying down some Real Talk, Franklyn looks straight up relieved for the subject change. That lasts just about as long as it takes the words 'turn you into a slave' to process through her brain. Oh god, /this/ again?! Her shoulders slump, and she silently slurps on that milkshake while watching the yet-to-be-really-seen Beast go about his explanation. Soaking up all dem deetz, saying nothing in return. There's only a gentle, yet not very pleasant squint when Count says that info's free. Aw shit. It's gonna be like /that/ in the future, eh? Franklyn slowly, after some consideration, nods. "Fine. For one week, I won't talk about your... Obviously very complicated and precious secrets. But do me a favour? Make it obvious? You're fucking freaking me /out/, man -- and... Tell you what's up, in what way?" See? Cautious! She's almost paranoid. How delightful... "Oh man, we are nowhere near leash territory -- you're lucky you're allowed to say my name and fucking speak in my presence right now, honestly." But her hand is reaching out... Manicured fingers pointed in Count's direction... Oh Wyrd, contact is being made. Her fingers squeeze, and she shakes - a little /too/ firm, perhaps. Franklyn is teetering on the edge of defiant/sulky. It's showing. "Yeah, you totally fucking owe me one."
It might just be like that in the future, depending on how far the trust goes. "Yes I do, I can be gracious, I know I sprung all this bullshit on ya, and awkwardly too. Next time, I promise, you'll get the story of my scars, and maybe some other shit, and a High like you never tasted before." There's a smile then "You should be a bit freaked out, I'm serious, that's what I'm trying to tell ya homegirl." then he makes a face “I just meant, like, bah, you'll see, nothing bad." Count is... well, he's slipping and behind the mask, he's fraying a bit... there are more cracks showing. His foot is tapping again.
Little fear. Little sadness. Innocence lost. "...I would like that, please. Stories are my third favourite thing." Franky says quietly, nearly-but-not-quite smiling as she crosses her arms, hugging her elbows as she leans back on that bench. Burger and fried pickles? Abandoned and forgotten. She gnaws on her lip for a moment, then sits up straighter - trying to put on an animated front, step back into that #carefree role. It's falling a little flat. Hair is flicked out of her eyes as she observes Count and his cracked mask of composure. She stares. No smile, no reassurance at the mention of 'nothing bad'. It stretches on for perhaps longer than what is comfortable. Then? Laughter, and Franklyn is moving -- going to grab a cigarette, while taking in a deeep lungful of air and looking around the empty lot of the burger joint. "Ohmygaaawd, I am just like, totally over the place? Man. I still didn't get to put on my dancing shoes and make it back to Fort Brunsett to give that mumbler at Homepage Books a what for, eh? Do you read much? Kindle or hardcopy? I can never choose... Uh..." So hard to keep up the carefree. "You wanna drive fast and pray we don't hit a deer, while I take you home?"
Count, forget food? Not on yer life, or someone else's life, just not his life. "Fuck yeah I read. Right now? I got no choice, paper it is, I used to have a fuckin' kindle, but I left a lot of that shit back in 'EaaahlSanfrancisco." From his pocket, he pulls out the cigarette case, the silver one, all tarnished and whatnot and offers it over to her "Hold onto that yeah?" he asks "Consider it my down payment for fun. You drive... I... I need to stretch my wings ya know?" Stretch his wings? As he speaks he's backing up a bit, taking a walk until he's out of line of sight of the counter, but still watching her, holding up a finger to make sure she is paying attention. "Call me, my number is in there." Then he finds a place to stand, and he takes his food bag, much lighter now, and tosses it up into the air. And then suddenly, Count is gone. Well, sort of. Where Count was, is now a large Raven and, flapping to gain height, and catching the bag as the corvid circles above a few times, and then flies off into the distance. Trust right? From the sky, a single black feather drifts and circles down, slowly falling towards the mortal.
But at the moment none of them are particularly mean. Franklyn takes Count's cigarette case without protest, rolling it over in her hands to examine it as he listens to him, nodding along vaguely. "Sure, sure thing - I think the bathrooms are over..." She fades out, lifting her head and looking puzzled as she realises Count's trying to catch her attention. A brow is arched. "Huh? Yeah of--!" What the fuck just happened? Franklyn's mouth falls open as she watches, no lie, the Goth Boy transform into a fucking Raven, and fly off with her lunch. His lunch? /Lunch/. That's not the fucking point. The point, the-the point-- the... A fucking RAVEN?! She can't even. Honestly, Franklyn can't even begin to work out what the fuck just happened -- yet happened it did. Nobody is around to see the clashing cacophony of emotions that twist about her: shock, wonderment, delight, and just a little bit of 'that fuckhead!' thrown in for flavour. Never is she so stunned that she freaks out - her eyes try and trace the flight pattern as Raven!Count gains altitude - leaving her to stand up, twisting and turning and going in a little circle, like she's totally fucking mesmerised with what just happened. Then there's that feather and... Franklyn's got a good hand-eye coordination thing going on. Skip, hop, twirl, and flounce -- she's reached out, and nabbed it before the feather hits the ground. Once in hand, she paws it over rapidly, checking that it's real. It's =real=. RIGHT? Alone in the burger joint's parking lot, cigarette case in one hand, feather in the other, Franklyn turns and gawks up at the sky... ...and then starts to laugh again, quiet and stunned and, yeah, just a little enchanted. Fucking faeries! | |
