Difference between revisions of "Log:Difficult Mortals and Not-Quite-Humans"

12 October, 2017

When a paranoid mortal and a bloody shadowmonster meet in a pre-dawn alley...

It's like what, not even 6am? Cold as fuck, since the skies are clear and the waning moon hangs high above: half illuminated, and spreading silvery light down into Fort Brunsett's Industrial District. Occasional there is movement in the streets -- essential workers heading out like early-birds or returning from their graveyard shifts, but they're few and far between.

Not everyone's a worker, though. Jingle-jangle. The doorbell of a 24-hour bodega rings, and out steps Franklyn -- dressed in a heavy sheepskin coat with the collar flipped up, covering some kind of outfit underneath that includes dark jeans. Are those bell bottoms? Man, fashion is a flat circle.

The Garreau girl adjusts her big black purse on one arm, while digging through the plastic grocery bag from the shop. Is she being vigilant? Somewhat - but Franky is preoccupied with unwrapping a pack of Lucky Strikes, and getting one lit as fast as possible. Is she up early? More like Franky hasn't slept -- but hey, who cares. She's got a cigarette, insomnia, and what looks like a 5th of bourbon in that bodega bag. What more could she want?

To step into an brick alcove in the side-street next to the shop, apparently - so she can have a quick smoke and a drink, no doubt.

The sun isn't up yet, which means it's Prime Darkling Time. A happy time for the most sunlight-averse of the Lost, such as Darklings are ever, you know. Actually happy.

It does happen, but never when there's sunshine involved, not really.

Ask Teagan, and they'll tell you that part of being a Harbinger is that Fate giveth, but she taketh the fuck away as well. Whether happening to already be in the alcove that Franklyn steps into, leaned against a wall and swathed in the shadows that hang on them always like the clingiest of girlfriends, is giving or taking away? Eh. These things remain to be seen. Maybe even Teagan doesn't know, yet. Their cigarette is cupped in a hand to keep the cherry's glow dimmed, their hood's pulled up, and they're leaning against the brick. Perfectly still, as shadows can sometimes be. These things were literal survival skills for Sof's Shadow, and remain so. Still, the crackle of tobacco and a burst of light from that cherry when they take a drag is a dead giveaway that something's there, the light reflecting oddly against that back-of-the-mirror metallic face they have. Congratulations, Franklyn: it's a Teagan. That fractured-mirror gaze slips over the millenial, and the greeting goes thus: "I missed those pants the first time."

What does it take to make jumpy Franklyn jump? Not much -- but the shadowy presence of Teagan greeting her from deeper in that alcove has Franklyn doing a hot-step to the side, cigarette bobbling dangerously between her lips as her hand goes to dip into her big black purse and- and- and...

And Franky stops, one foot off the pavement, eyes squinted as she -peers- into the shadow -- violently plucking the cigarette from her mouth and exhaling a plume of smoke towards the heavens, before pointing the cherry in Teagan's direction. Initial fight subsiding? In comes the scrutiny: "So you're like /what/, sixty? Sixty five?"

That's right. Accuse the shadowy horror person that they're old, Franky. Another quick puff of her cigarette, and Franklyn flicks the hair out of her eyes; shoulders squared, eyes narrowed, discontent and edgy and... "Are you fucking laying in wait for me? Are you -following-? You creep." So paranoid, sheesh. Also, from the smell of it? That 5th of bourbon will not have been her first tonight...

"Much, much older." Because of course they are. Of course the shadowy horror person is like, super old. Or claims to be. Teagan's shoulders lift, then drop: a fluid motion. If they're disturbed or even really notice Franklyn's little startle, well, that doesn't show. Like everybody startles around them, right? Ash drifts down into the permanent puddle of darker-than-dark shadow around their feet, their thumb jostling the butt end of the cigarette to speed the process along. "I'm not exactly sure." And a shrug, because apparently not knowing their birthday doesn't bother them.

"You should be so lucky, under the circumstances, to have me watching your back. But, no. This is what we call a coincidence." They tip their head out toward the street, explaining, "I sort of generally observe the leaving of people from shitty bars, if I'm bored, sometimes. Make sure drunk girls get home with the company they want, and without the company they don't." A brief flash of straight white teeth, that sharp smile like a shadow scudding across the moon, there and gone again. Apparently they're totally serious about that. It might be a convenient lie, and they're totally stalking Franklyn. Or... maybe it's the truth.

Eventually, Franklyn's other foot makes contact with the pavement again - bracing herself, so she's standing there with the body language of someone who's all too familiar with the need to run away when the time's right. Of course, look at the Darkling's teeth Frank -- is the risk of triggering some kind of prey drive worth it?

The Mortal girl smokes.

She listens. She frowns. She wrinkles her nose.

She gets kind of incredulous. "Excuse me if I don't fall down with gratitude, knowing you may-or-may-not have coincidentally inserted yourself as a saviour in my life." Snark. So much snark. It's like Franky went to school to specialise in it -- or perhaps it's a default defence mechanism... She certain is giving Teagan a once over which suggests profound mistrust. Bloody expressive Mortal. "I'm totally content with like, keeping my business in my own hands thank you."

A tiny squint from one of those strange broken-glass eyes, reflecting back only the tiny fractions of light that come from the cigarette in Teagan's hand. "Sometimes I wonder if, like, reading a lot means you like, really always misinterpret people on purpose, or if it's just, like, a side effect of the written word." They pause with their cigarette most of the way to their mouth, adding, "I legit just said it was a coincidence, that I wasn't here for you. But, yeah, you'd be lucky if I was. Because I'm fucking good at what I do." One of those loose rolls of their shoulders follows.

"Oh, believe me. Except where our business overlaps, no one's more happy for you to keep your business in your own hands than I am. I got enough on my hands holding the back of Glitch's shirt collar and looking after my people and my work." Another fractional smile, quick and gone. "I ain't here to save you."

Franky merely frowns at Teagan's broken-eyed squint, the words they have to share about the complications around literacy. "...I was referencing those hypothetical wider circumstances." A long drag of that cigarette, then she arches an eyebrow - chin lifted as she watches the Darkling. "And what is it that you do? Lurk? Gather? Instigate? Smash? Meddle?"

Head tilted, Franky begins to smirk a little bit - puffing away at the cigarette as she shrugs a shoulder. "Yeah, you sound like a regular Shepherd, getting your whole flock in order. What's the goal, Teag? What's the mission? Because, it's like, the strangest thing? I get this -vibe- when I'm around you? That you take like, this total either-or approach, yeah? So if you're not here to /save/ something, make yourself feel all good or and useful and whatever, what's the alternative, besides smashing?"

"Yeah, well, if you're too drunk to stand, and some dude I ain't ever seen before is putting you in a car I don't recognize, I might actually get involved." A flip of one hand, and Teagan's face shifts, slides, the way it does when they're not paying attention. "Maybe." They're fluent in shrugs, at the very least, and their shoulders rise, then fall. "Yep. Yes. Unh hunh. Yes. Sometimes." They answer each of those things in turn.

"God, save me from being a shepherd." Laughter rattles from Teagan, low and raspy, as they take another long drag of their cigarette, smoke curling up from their nose. "My work isn't here to make me feel good, and it's gonna kill me eventually. It's not glorious, it's not ... it's ugly, most of the time. I hope you never see what I really do. I genuinely, genuinely do." And then there's a long, long pause, in which Teagan drops their cigarette, grinds it out with a twist of a booted foot, and then digs out another, lighting it with a ratty black plastic lighter. "Does there have to be one, when I'm not working? Like, do I have to have a utility, a purpose, on my downtime? That shit's for objects, not for people." A vague expression, unreadable, liquid and strange, slides across their face. "I'm not a person anymore, but I kinda try, now and again, to not be a thing yet."

Franklyn blinks twice, leaning back away from Teagan. Shocked? Not exactly - she's baffled more than anything. "Why would you even bring that up as a scenario?" Her brow creases and Frank shakes her head, taking another drag. "I protect myself. Don't undermine my agency, in keeping myself safe, okay?" Complete with a little scowl, as she taps ash away from the cigarette and hunches up under her coat, drawing it a little closer.

S'cold, being a Mortal.

"...Somehow, that hope of yours sounds like a threat." Franky grumbles, then squints a little more -- watching them light that cigarette, then jerking her chin in Teagan's direction. "Where's the vape you usually lug around? I was starting to associate sour apples with your presence." The frown remains as Franky listens to Teagan -- watching their rather disquieting non-expression flow across their face. Long pause to smoke, then; "That's why you're hangin' 'round Amanda, then? Get a taste of what a person could be? Oh, I get it -- it's like when people go full method, you wanna really embody the role, right? Live it, through experience -- and I mean... I don't know your details? But I don't have to -- I've seen you, the way you react when shit gets real. No wonder you don't want to be a person anymore - I'm sure you were pretty fractured before whatever creep did whatever the fuck /this/ is,"

Manicure glints as Franky's fingers wiggle in a loose figure-eight, gesturing to Teagan's general facade. "Right? So it's probably easier than whatever that was before."

"Because that's literally what I'm standing here watching for, Franklyn. That and pretty much nothing else. The boring, mundane part of my work? Is that. The easy part of my work? Is that, in part. It's what I do when there's not other work that needs doing." Teagan turns their right wrist up, and as a crackle of radio static bursts a little more loudly, their left thumb drags up the cuff of their hoodie's sleeve. A silvery tattoo, likely Hedgespun ink, glitters on the back of their right wrist, declaring, in typewriter font: this machine kills rapists.

"Fuck if I know why it sounds like a threat, maybe because I'm a scary shadow creature standing in an alleyway talking about the terrible things I swore to do so no one else ends up like me," the Darkling answers, dropping the cuff again and slumping back against the wall. "I genuinely hope you never have to see what it is that I really do. Because however terrible human beings are, things always get worse when Their agents piggyback off the misery. And whyever you're wrapped up with us? You don't -- no one does -- deserves... to see that shit." A slow shake of their head, and they take a long drag of their cigarette, and two, before answering.

Time stretches out, and in the silence a car door slams up the block, an engine starts. "No, Franklyn. I hang around Amanda because I love her. And she loves me." Their head tips forward. "Because she persisted. And saw me." Another small pause. "I warned her that I'm going to die ugly, and she persisted. I told her I can't get involved, and she refused to accept that. And despite the fact that it's not a good idea for one of us to love one of you, I do. And she does."

"That's not an act. Not in the least." A vague, genuine smile slips across their face; their expressions are quick and gone, more often than not. "You assume that 'not a person' is a desired state, rather than an accepted one. You assume a lot about me, actually. I accept that I'm not human, but I try not to get less human. I don't want to be a thing again."

Their thumb rubs along the inside of their opposite palm, along the broad horizontal scar that bisects it. "My vape's in my pocket. It's strawberries, though. And I've got weed oil in it right now, I don't wanna be stoned when I'm working." Hand into their pocket, and the forest green item's produced, flipped casually between long fingers.

There is a long silence, as Franklyn glances down at Teagan's wrist tattoo, then back up at their face. Further silence. Is she listening? There's that radio static, the crackle of her cigarette, the cold winds and not much else. Franky... Franky is not speaking, although she is watch Teagan - with the same kind of wary uncertainty as before.

Huh. It's like she's trying to look -past- Teagan and see something that's possibly not there, only... Why? Little Mortal must be a touch paranoid - she certainly gives off that hyper vigilant edge. Distrust; may as well be a flashing neon sign above her head.

Then there's the mention of love -- and Franky, in her boozy haze, looks uncertain before a veil of chilly indifference settles down over her features like a blanket of snow. "Well you know that's the thing about humans; we evolved as like, persistence hunters - we might have streamlined everything with technology, but that inherent drive to get what we want has been sublimated into our social realm, instead..."

As for the assumptions... Franky's brow goes up a fraction of an inch, then she shakes her head. Yet no clarification is given - she just looks down at Teagan's hand scars with a vague frown. She squints again, and glances up at Teagan with a way expression. "...What do you want from me?" A beat. Then she glances left-and-write down the street, flicking her hand dismissively. "What's your goal here?"

Shadows lurk around Teagan, spilling over their shoulders like a sentient scarf, curling around their legs animatedly, like Teagan's shadows are some sort of cross between a faithful hound and a boa constrictor. Their face shifts and shuffles as Franklyn stares at them, and they tip their head to one side, then the other. Waiting. Watching.

Ambush predators can be reaaaaally patient when they have to be, and whatever else Teagan is? They're that. So they wait, and they wait, as Franklyn tries to look through them, or past them, as their face slides, the shadows shift, and they smoke. The vape's tucked away again, dropping into their right pocket. And then their shoulders roll. They do that a lot. It's like one of the stock gestures that they have, as if they had it programmed in when they were pulled out of the vat in Dread Commander Sof's version of Westworld or what the fuck ever was done to them. "Yeah, that's true. And she was. And is. First person I've agreed to have a priority relationship with in a hundred years." Not that they exactly agreed to the prior priority relationship buuuut that's a whole other story. You must be at least a Level 3 friend to unlock that portion of Teagan's tragic backstory.

"Why do I have to want anything from you? I was just standing here, smoking a cigarette. Why do I have to have a purpose for every damn thing?" They slouch against the wall, click their tongue against the roof of their mouth. "Maybe not being grossly mischaracterized all the time, if anything. Y'ain't gotta think I fart rainbows -- that's Iris, I'm sure -- but I'm not here to hurt you, Franklyn. There's a very limited set of types of people I hurt, and you don't fit any of the descriptions. I'm an asshole, but I'm a benevolent asshole. And whatever else I am, I'm Green's primary partner. So if anything? It'd be nice if you could see that I'm a largely benevolent horrifying bloody machete-wielding shadowmonster."

"But like I said. I ain't gotta have an agenda. Sometimes I don't. Sometimes shit just is."

There is a long pause.

Like a really long pause.

A really, very long pause as Franklyn listens to Teagan -- standing still in the chilly gloom of pre-dawn, smoking her cigarette and watching. Has she entered some kind of frozen CNS response? Has she dissociated? Is she just kind of drunk and zoning out? It's nearly impossible to tell - but she is moving, smoking, breathing, occasionally remembering to blink; so Franky is probably here.

She's probably not sleepwalking.

"...Right." Franklyn says eventually. The figurative neon that blinks 'distrust, distrust, distrust' has not gone off, or even flickered -- but Franky's expression does, moving from uncertain to distracted, as she looks on down the street. Two more seconds pause, and then the Mortal girl nods her head curtly and just turns and starts to walk off into the night -- her beetle shell green manicure glinting, as Franky raises a hand and gives a vague swish-swish wave of g'night.

Mortals, man.