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?"
Nobody
ooc: Ugh, chat!
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.
[the rest of the posts in e-mail will put up later]
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