Jack, Molly, and the Mirror Curse

Molly Toombs

Time had passed, like water under the bridge, since Jack and Molly had their excursion to the cemetary.  It had started as an adventure and ended in paranoia and worry, with Jack calming and explaining very reasonably that they shouldn't call the police and that they should let it be.  She'd listened, and after a week or so she was able to resume her days as though nothing had happened-- that night a fact in her mind, something to be touched upon and remembered, but not a pressing worry.

Since then they'd hung out twice-- once for another bookstore and coffee date, where Molly was again buying up books, but this time on the cults surrounding the worship of the dead (a sociological approach) and servents/worshipers of the supernatural in general.  The second time they went for a walk on a particularly nice night so that Florence could stretch her legs and chase things while they talked and walked.

This time around, Molly had called or texted (whatever worked to reach him) and suggested they go out for drinks and maybe a bit of dancing if his feet were up to the challenge.  She knew a place where people outside of their late teens and early twenties went, with good drinks and live bands instead of DJs and strobe lights.

They arranged to meet on a Sunday night, as there was a band that Molly figured Jack could enjoy playing that evening and schedules all worked out.  They'd arrive around 9:00pm, after the sun had time to set and settle.  The building was a squat two-level that sat on an intersection corner, brick painted an almost endearingly ugly olive-moss green.  There were double doors facing out of the building at the diagonal, the entrancing making up that building's corner.

The weather was nice.  Bare legs nice-- it was still in the low sixties even after the sun had gone down.  So Molly sat on a bench outside waiting, legs crossed at the knees and keeping herself busy with something on her phone screen.  She wore a high-waisted navy skirt with pink floral patterns on it, the hem of the skirt edging up on the risque side of a 'flirtatious' length at mid-thigh.  She had a tan belt at the skirt's waist and a loose, soft pink blouse tucked in, the sleeves of which went down 3/4 the length of her arms.  She had accompanying jewelry (pearl) at her neck and wrist and ear lobes, and wore white heels to top the outfit off.  Red hair done up, make-up meticulous.

Clearly, she was putting on the charms for this homely kid with the bad teeth.

They would probably confuse the hell out of the bartender.

Nobody

[Oh! This.]

Dice: 8 d10 TN6 (3, 4, 7, 7, 9, 9, 9, 10) ( success x 6 )

Nobody

He is Nobody special and when he is Nobody special then nobody knows where he is. Nobody does all kinds of things. Nobody stays hidden and un-bidden from those who don't have the ability to look through his veil of obfuscation and those with eyes that sharp are very few and very far. Nobody's Jack and does Jack remember the first time somebody looked at him although they shouldn't have been able to look? The first time that trick wasn't quite enough? There was somebody once (another Nobody, so not really Somebody; most've the gentry, the dark kingdom's pallid crown blood-jewels, wouldn't've cared, as is proper as is is proper because if everybody cared then how difficult the tricks would be), and that somebody'd woken into the dark world away from the sunlight so good at hiding that the somebody hid and hid and didn't know how to un-hid until the Beast grew too strong and tore them out've their hiding and bad things happened. Bad things happen in these kingdoms in these dark nations which exist overlaying the dayworld the innocent (oh, but Nobody, Nobody never thought that it was innocent, did he?) world.

Nobody exists when Molly doesn't talk to Jacky. Nobody exists. Jack. Jacky. Many faces. Many names. But usually, he's somehow a Jack. He goes in cycles of threes and fives but nobody's that interested in Nobody's method and nobody knows about Nobody's madness (is it madness? [No]), and so. And so: They've hung out a couple of times. Coffee, rich and delicious, and how pleased he'd been, how for a moment awkwardly self-aware, and conversation too. Jacky, the Jack that Molly knows, all Jacks, to tell the truth, true Jacks, is unflagging in his enthusiasm for the strange and the occult. He is thoughtful in his enthusiasm, too: he likes exploring possibilities, cross-checking references. By now, Molly knows that Jacky has a passion for references, although those references could be as simple as 'heard it at summer camp.'

Death cults! He'd practically spilled something (or maybe he had) in a fit of intentness. Death cults interest Jacky a hellova lot as it happens. Of course he'd asked her what she thought of it all. Those who worshipped the supernatural. A weird way to talk about religion, perhaps, in another age, when religion was likely to be more important to people of the ages Jack (appears to be) and Molly (is), and he'd promised to bring her a book the next time they hung out, which he had. The book was called Don't Look Behind: Night Terrors and the Survival of Orphic Mystery in the Gnostic Sects of the Byzantime Empire by V. Caldwell, Ives, Sullivan and Company, First ed., 1991.

And now it is tonight. Tonight's supposed to be a nice night and Jacky, well. Jacky is not the sharpest dresser in the box of Ken Dolls, is he? He's not quite the one with the gold mesh fabric shirt and the puffy hammertime pants (hot pink, natch), or the one with the ill-fitting 'teeshirt' that was probably a barbie blouse and maybe has a stain on it, but: He's not the sharpest of dressers. When he lopes down the sidewalk, smiling, it looks like maybe he put some effort into appearing more presentable than usual. His hair is combed, such as it is. The werewolf eyebrow is still in full-effect, but it's -- combed too, maybe? A little less wild than usual, though he can't've plucked it because -- no. It hasn't been plucked. He's wearing something nice and clean and location appropriate, but not quite as dressed up as he could've been. (Jack, now. There are lots of sharp-dressed Jacks, but Jacky never quite seems to make the jump.) There's almost a bit of sleekness, of suavity, or there could've been: if only he weren't JUST a little too rumpled, if the sleeves weren't JUST a little too short.

"Hello, Molly!" he calls from the other side of the street, looking this way and that way before lanky lopester loping across at an angle. He's got something with him, and let's just call it a surprise: a little gift bag.

"Did you get a chance to look at that book yet?"

Molly also knows by now that Jacky, when he's interested in something, can forget about other things like: How are you? He does circle back to pleasantries, though.

Molly Toombs

A call on the wind, her name, in a voice that was becoming increasingly more imprinted in her mind and thoughts.  Molly blinked and looked up from the screen on her phone, eyes darting, searching, but soon enough finding Jacky on the other side of the street.  As he was glancing to and fro and crossing the street, Molly rose to her feet to wait for him to meet her on this sidewalk, this side of the street.

He carried a bag with him, she noticed (because of course she noticed, Molly is an observant thing), but she didn't let her attention linger on it for very long.  Instead, she absorbed his appearance as a whole-- dress, grooming, all of it.  He was an awkward man with a few unfortunate traits, but he'd clearly tried and that earned a smile.

It's this smile that greets him, even if his greeting is a question rather than a pleasantry (because Molly was accustomed to this by now, and clearly didn't mind one bit).

"I did!  Not all of it, but I got a few chapters through.  It's got some interesting points."  She nodded earnestly, and picked up the small white purse (really, a clutch with a strap) she had left on the bench when she stood.  The strap went across her shoulder and chest, and she nodded her head toward the double doors that would lead within the bar-club behind them.

"They're between opening acts in there right now, but it's low key and there's tables open still."  And then, to carry pleasantries forward:  "How've you been, though?"

Nobody

[Oh, oh! A Manipulation + Subterfuge roll for Molly to see through! Honey Tongued Specialty.]

Dice: 7 d10 TN5 (1, 2, 4, 4, 5, 9, 10) ( success x 3 )

Nobody

[So 4!]

Molly Toombs

[Perception 3 + Empathy 2 : Huhwhat?]

Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (4, 4, 7, 8, 9) ( success x 3 )

Nobody

Jack doesn't need vitae to make himself agreeable to mortals. He is agreeable: as long as his Mask is on, even his ugliness doesn't slow him down too much. The bartender will think that that Jack must have a personality, that that's the explanation for Molly and Jack together. The bartender will think that they're just friends, and they are just friends. Because one can dream about a friend, especially one as engaging (strange [oddball]) as Jacky. Because one can find oneself thinking about a friend often as the week goes by, especially one like Jack, hey? He doesn't need vitae to make himself agreeable; when he uses it, why, he might as well have not. Jack is too human. Jack wants to be too human, no matter what Mask he's wearing, all the Masks are human Masks.

This Mask's smile is one of those always surprised-looking smiles; isn't it? Yes, yes it is. And his tooth's a wolftooth snaggle, and couldn't he afford some dentistry? But it's sweet, for all that. Molly's nod toward the doors is met with physical agreement: all right, let's go. He gestures her ahead of him, or beside him, probably beside him because it's easier to talk to somebody who is at your side than to talk at somebody who is in front of you, and if there's a cover charge or anything like that, he'll take care of it without really thinking about it.

"Oh, ah, yes." He sounds distracted, like he forgot what they were there for momentarily. Pause, lifts his bushy eyebrows up, slow-surprised smile again, bony wrist visible when he reaches up to adjust his glasses (he's wearing them tonight), which he apparently needs to get a new prescription for because the bit of a squint is ever-present. "Tell me about the band you thought I'd like? I've been well."

There it is, Molly. How he says I've been well. Molly notices that Jacky seems to be wavering, on that sentence; that there's a bit of a shadow behind it. No, not a shadow: a sense of something wrong. Sad.

"Made a new animal friend, matter of fact, who, ah, Flo might get along with, although Florence does seem to want to get along with every animal, doesn't she? Am I being too familiar?" Warmth, again. Surprised warmth. There was no shadow.

Less rhetorical and more conversational, as in they go. Jack lets Molly lead and pick a table, a curious sweep of the crowd with his eyes while following her (or walking beside, because beside's the way to -- ah well we already covered that), marking the bar and asking her what she'd like to drink before offering to go get it. The bartender does not immediately respond to Jacky, but he gets there. They always do, honey-tongued ol' Jack no matter what voice he's using, what face he's got.

When he returns:

"How are you? How are things at work?"

Molly Toombs

As they walk, Molly plump pink and pleasant at long, gangly, hairy Jacky's side, conversation flows comfortable and easy.

"Oh, it's a couple of local guys that try really hard to sound like Mumford and Sons.  They're not terrible, but it's pretty obvious that they're ripping on the albums."  And then:  "Oh, I'm pretty sure that Florence doesn't mind if you give her nicknames."  This one, dusted with a small wink.  "What kind of animal friend is this?"

Conversation carries along these lines as they move their way into and through the club.  The interior of the place is classic and understated-- red on the ceilings, lights recessed here and there, old green wallpaper on the walls with dark dark wood on the bar and furniture.  Wood on the floors, fake candle lights on the walls.

Molly chose a table around the corner from the door, in the shadows, and requested an 'old fashioned'.  Jacky went off to the bar, and Molly settled in at the table.  By the time he'd come back, she was leaned forward against the table with her arms folded to brace her weight with her elbows.  She smiled brightly at Jacky when he came back with the drinks, accepted hers graciously with a sip and a look of clear approval, and then slipped back into conversation with him.

"There's a new doctor in my emergency ward that's got all of the nurses in a twitter and vying for his attention.  It's annoying, but it could be worse.  He could actually be molesting girls like that guy from a few years back."  There was a brief blip about it in the local papers-- a trauma surgeon who would blackmail nurses for sexual favors at St. Lukes.  It was no longer relevant information anywhere but in that particular workplace.

She'd noticed the flicker of sadness when he stated he was 'well', so she followed this up by flexing her eyebrows together in mild concern and bringing her glass to her lips to act as some kind of a shield behind which she could ask:  "Are you sure you're alright, though?  Nothing's going on?"  And then, another sip, something to taste while she watched and waited.

Nobody

The first time (the coffee & bookstore date) they'd got together for discussions of death cults after the cemetery, Jacky'd remarked with surprise that her hair was red (again). He wasn't always quick to notice things in the physical realm, or didn't seem to be at least. He'd been abashed and shy, though shy isn't quite the word. He wasn't really shy; he just seemed to be more in his element when he was talking about things to do with another realm entirely. He wasn't uncomfortable in the here-and-now: He just had to be reminded about it sometimes. The point is: it takes him a moment, sometimes. Here's our Jack, bringing two Old Fashioneds back to their shadowy table. The drink of Don Draper, so it must be good - right? Because if any fictional character would know (but probably wouldn't care). One is garnished with a cherry. The other is garnished with lemon peel, and isn't there something alluring about how spirits slosh and light-catch in a joint like this which so consciously wants to be a joint. He brought over a napkin of peanuts too, ready to be cracked, and when he sits down he starts to crack into one with his (rather ugly, kind-of-bumpy, he-should-cut-it) thumbnail. That little gift bag bumps against the table and clearly Jacky forgot that it was attached to his wrist. He ducks that hand under the table, and then, well. No, no sheepishness. He just pulls his hand back up again, untangles the gift-bag from his wrist, and pushes it across the table toward Molly. He doesn't say Here A Gift. Apparently it just is.

Now, Jacky, for all his one-track mind when it comes to Esoterica, is a good listener. (The animal friend? A big black dog who could be named Shep. Nicest dog ever. Was a rescue dog, saved from a dog-fighting ring, and on that subject - well. Perhaps they'll circle back to it. Does she remember hearing about that fire - the illegal dog-fight dog-breeders, or whatever - ? Sometime last year?) He listens and he seems to absorb whatever whoever he's listening to says and to think about it or at least to hear it. Not just noise, but: okay. That happened. Will be remembered. Has an effect. So he listens to her work woes like he's really listening to them, with a nod of understanding about the twittering nurses and maybe a noise of maybe I remember that about Trauma Surgeon's Traumatic Sex Policy. 

Is he sure he's alright?

"Oh." The silence goes on just a touch too long. This doesn't seem to be because Jacky is thinking about something else. That's the silence of: what to say, what to say. When he swallows, his adam's apple bobs against his collar, and maybe his collar is too tight. Somebody should teach him how to buy things that fit properly. "Ah. Well."

A liar would've lied. Put-it off. Jacky seems not startled into honestly, but unwilling to just hand-wave her question away.

"Do you ever feel as if nothing will change?"

Molly Toombs

Jacky's a good listener, and Molly is too, though often for different reasons.  Usually when Molly is listening, it's to glean information that she could cache and make use of later.  If she asked a question of somebody she would carefully hear the answer in return.  This held especially true because a lot of recent conversations she's had gave her information that could be used to save her life in this Big Scary New World of hers.

So, when Jacky was put on the spot and paused in quiet thought and looked uncomfortable (and Molly looked sympathetic and apologetic for putting him on the spot as well, but did nothing to take her question back and waited for his answer all the same), Molly was still and patient and waited.  When he spoke, she listened.

The question he posed earned him a raise of eyebrows and a sharpening of the clear blue eyes that looked at him from under straight-cut bangs.  Then she was looking down at her drink, the one with the lemon (give him the cherry, the classic and true recipe, the man's drink).  When she finally answered, it was with simple truth and a return of her eyes to his face and glasses lenses.

"I used to.  But then pretty much everything did change."  She should follow that up with And then I learned to be careful what I wished for, but if she were to be truthful to anybody, including her friend (so charming and sweet) Jacky, then she wouldn't speak falsehoods.

The drink swirled a little before setting the glass down on its coaster.  Under the table, Molly switched the direction in which her legs were crossed.

"I do remember what it was like, though.  I was about to just find a new country to live in so that things would be changed up."  A pause, and a meaningful glance to follow.  "Are you feeling stuck?"

Nobody

Jack. There's a certain tautness around This Mask's eyes right now. And they're dolorous, those eyes. Most people, no matter how ugly, they have nice eyes. Somebody can say that about them. And Jacky, why, his eyes are nice, sure, but first you've got to look past the strangeness [get used to it] of the mal-shaped pupil, bleeding out, the clear signs of glaucoma, the faint squint. He draws the Old Fashioned with a cherry nearer to himself once she's claimed the lemon and then he takes another peanut and cracks it open, but slowly. Under the table, which isn't, after all, a very large table - place like this wants to be a joint is about the intimacy, Molly's foot bumps into his shin, and his eyebrows furrow.

"Not precisely," he says, a little softly. "But that's probably a good analogy to it. I'd like to get un-stuck." Be un-sad, Jacky. Behind the sad, there's a simmer of anxiety, and maybe a - gathering. Yeah. He's gathering himself. He unfurrows his werewolf eyebrows and says, putting his elbow on the table and right into some peanut shell crumbs, "How did you make everything change?" 

Molly Toombs

For Molly, the peanuts were left alone.  Not that she was allergic to them or anything, she just had no desire to chip her nail polish (bright spring-time blue) cracking them open, nor did she want peanut dust all over her blouse and chin.  She settled for periodically sipping her drink and leaving it there for now.  Under the table, her foot bumped into his shin.  She moved so that the contact ceased, but she didn't hurry or jump to do so.  Familiarity was coming quick and easy with this man.

His brows furrowed and Molly watched sympathetically.  He asked how she made everything change, and her answer was accompanied by a small smile.

"I didn't make anything happen.  It all just sort of happened to me.  I'd be inclined to say it was just chance, but then we'd find ourselves talking about the theories of chance versus fate and evidences therin."  The smile shifted to something a little more teasing, but affectionately so, before fading to neutral entirely against the cool rim of a glass with a lemon to twist the flavor.

"I just got caught up in something I didn't ask or intend to.  And met a couple of people that..."  She was going to get on a roll, but stopped all at once realizing that she was a sentence away from making herself sound like she had some sort of semi-religious enlightenment.  Instead, she took her sip hastily, coughed a little on the strong gulp, and rubbed a hand at her chest and throat to coax away the alcohol's burn.

Looking apologetic and maybe a little embarrassed, she cleared her throat again and pressed on, having bought herself a little more time to think and reword.

"Excuse me.  I met people that have made things a bit less boring.  The grind is less awful that way."

Nobody

But then we'd find ourselves talking about the theories of chance versus fate and evidences therein, she says, and Jack's eyebrows prick just like a dog's might if the dog's chin was on its paws and it was sad-eyedly waiting for somebody it loved to come home and then they hear the voice of that loved one, but they know they're not supposed to move, that maybe they got in trouble, so the chin stays on the paws, and, and, and - and maybe there's also the ghost of a self-aware smile. This Mask is not always self-aware and it is awkward for him to be so, but not uncomfortable. He does not get very uncomfortable, except for whatever's got anxiety simmering beneath what Molly read from him.
The ghost of a smile fades as she continues and he listens to her. Elbow ungainly on the table cupping his weak chin with its unfortunate scurf of facial hair (shave better, Jacky) where such thing can bring itself to sprout and then listens.
"Do you, ah," a pause. A rueful, wistful smile. His smiles make him look surprised always, don't they? But there's a touch of sweetness, too. "I don't suppose these people would do for me, too."

Molly Toombs

"Actually," Molly informed him in a tone of voice that had the kind of renewed energy that suggested she was trying to perk the conversation back up.  What's ironic is the least chipper thing she could possibly say is what she went with:  "You would be better off if they didn't.  Lucky, I'll even go so far as to say."
And, immediately from that, Molly's attention shifted (finally) to the little gift bag that had been sitting otherwise politely ignored, put off for later.  Fingers found the corner of the bag so she could pull it delicately across the table top (naturally, she gauged the weight of the contents while doing this).
"Now Jacky, this is sweet.  What is it, though?"
This question posed even as she shifts tissue paper aside and peeks inside.
Jack is sharp, he has the collective knowledge of Nobody, after all.  He doesn't miss the obvious swinging door that was her veering away from the previous subject.  She had said a little too much, and she was worried about the questions that would come if they kept talking about these people, these circumstances.  She (thought that she) had a good thing going here, nice, sweet, normal.  Much like work, she didn't want this and her involvement with the supernatural bleeding together.
Little did she know, they've always been one in the same.

Molly Toombs

[Intelligence 3 + Occult 3]
Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (2, 2, 3, 6, 10, 10) ( success x 3 )

Nobody

What's that? When Molly says the least chipper thing she could possibly say? What's his expression? A snag of wary hope, though the smile fades, that simmers away when Molly's attention shifts (or maybe she hadn't seen it at all?) to that little gift bag, which she pulls across the table toward herself. The bag is very, very light indeed; it weighs almost nothing at all. When she shifts the tissue paper aside, she sees the corner of a little brown box, and Jacky is saying nothing, staying mum, watching her open it. If she pauses, or if she looks at him, he says something pragmatic like - "Ah, open it. I've been told that, ah, that's part of the 'fun.'"
And when she does, why, it is jewelry.
But it is very specific jewelry. A small silver talisman pendant set on a fine chain, a chain that is short enough to not let the talisman dangle and get in her way, but not so short she can't tuck the talisman underneath a shirt if the shirt were high-collared, and anyway, chains can be changed. She recognizes the talisman for what it is: the names in Arabic of the Seven Sleepers of Ephesus, and their dog, and if she turns the talisman over, looks at the other side (it is a weathered, beaten-looking thing), she'll see a dog etched into the silver, slumbering on wolfsbane. It is pretty.
It is a protective talisman; a ward against evil.
Harald called Jacky: it was never going to be anything normal like perfume.

Molly Toombs

The fact that the bag is light has her curious.  She had thought that she had him figured out initially, and assumed there would be an interesting little book in there.  But no, the bag was too light for a book, and when she looked back up to Jack to see if she could pick up clues from him he simply told her to find out, as that was where the fun was.
With an almost-coy smile, she raised her eyebrows as if to say Oh, really?, and pulled tissue aside to locate the little brown box.  It's recognizable as a jewelry container, but it wasn't rich colored felt with a hinge or anything so luxurious.  That would have spooked her and sent her away.  The modest little box, though, piqued her interest more.
Upon finding the amulet inside, Molly looked at the symbols inscribed upon the drop-shaped pendant.  It took her a second, but the last six months she's spent most of her spare time reading, or researching things on the internet.  She's had to set up a couple of new shelves on her walls at home to accommodate the books she's been buying.  While doing her research, she often slipped in and out of tales from religious texts.  She glanced back up to Jack, eyes all alight in the way they got when given the chance to utilize her recently gained wealth of knowledge.
"The Seven Sleepers?"
She'd look at the back too, find it pretty and rub a thumb over the surface to feel the inscriptions.  Then she smiled back across the table at the awkward but sweet man in his glasses and ill-fitted jacket.  "Thank you, Jacky.  A ward talisman's probably the most appropriate gift I've gotten in a while."

Nobody

He grins. And his grin isn't surprised. Look at how it crinkles up his eyes and his cheeks and it's just a nice sweet thing, that grin: surprising, but not surprised. Molly's seen it before. He grins when she looks up at him her eyes all alight at having a chance to put her mind to work.
"I figured you could use it," he says, begins to say, stops; glances toward the door, then glances at Molly, his shoulders squaring with determination. "Ah, Molly. I like you, very much." He doesn't sound awkward as he says that, no; like he doesen't realize it's an awkward thing for some people to say. "And you're sharp and notice-y, so I want to tell you something before I, ah, lose my nerve."
"That's why ..." He trails away. Jacky. He's not the sort of person who pours out emotional problems, but he isn't exactly closed off. "Look. Hmm. You know all this stuff we've been talking about? Theoretically?"

Molly Toombs

The Jack that Molly knows is a tall lean thing, like the Beanstalk that a Jack would find adventure above the clouds with.  He was smart, thoughtful-- not just in that he was polite and sweet, but also in that he would ponder and theorize and debate and wax philosophy with her.  He was reserved (controlled was probably a better word [meticulous, even more so]), but not shut off.
They'd been doing this dance for a little while now, occasional dates here and there, getting to know one another after a chance meeting reading about occult in a book shop.  She'd never invited him to her place, nor had he taken her back to his.  It wasn't a courtship quite on that level.  Molly had been curious initially, enjoying the conversation if nothing more, not necessarily seeking romance but not closed off to the concept.  In the past few weeks in particular, though, he's been on her mind more often, distracting her in a way that didn't entirely make sense but that was probably because it wasn't often you found yourself wondering over a homely boy like that.
But you had better believe that when Jacky straightened up and squared his shoulders and started to speak directly, sincerely, Molly paid close mind.  He'd said that he liked her very much, and that he had something to say before he lost his nerve.  This has Molly straightening up and leaning nearer to the table.
She doesn't look disappointed, but she does appear surprised and blink curiously when he shifts gears with a 'Hmm' and a 'Look' and asks about the things they've been discussing in theory.
"Oh.  Uh, the musings of life and death and points in between?"  If she weren't cool under stress and pressure, she may have shifted uncomfortably or glanced away or cleared her throat here.  Instead, she inquired simply, then nodded her head and added:  "Yeah....,"  The way she trailed off left it to him to continue on.

Nobody

He is an appealing conversationalist at least. Jack. This Jack. Most Jacks. He is a (honey-worded) smooth thing, in his fashion. Interested, and interesting: and good thing, because with that mug. Yick. Yugh. Yugg. But even ugly people get friends. They don't need blood to tie people closer. Truth: Jack doesn't. He didn't, did he? Molly: already willing to go out. Enjoying this Jack's company, because - because why not? They were interested in the same things. He isn't a liar. Not really. But the blood: that's a nail, that's to fix something in place. That's a canny trick. That's an open door. That's Jack and Molly, important to each other. This Jack: Shaggy to her Velma and Florence's Scooby, he notices things. He has to notice how she straightens and leans and then notice her surprise, too. But it's this Jack, and he doesn't look surprised or stricken or struck with revelation, like, dude, that was your moment to make a move, seriously.
He does pause; he puts a hand on the table like he'd like to hold hers. Then frowns at himself, pulls the hand back, scratches behind his ear, what no uh I was just nothing.
"Ah. Yes, kind of. But rather the rest of it. The, erm." His leg is jerking up and down. He's jiggling his knee. He swallows; adam's apple bobs. "The magical aspect of it all. The existence of, ah, well."
"I just want you to know I really do believe in it. And have good cause. Not everything, of course, that's what poking around is for and learning and..."
"But I do have cause." He sounds concerned, but as if he's trying to play it down. "That's partly why I'm in Denver, you see."

Molly Toombs

That hand on the table, for a moment, was responded to with a tensing and movement of Molly's shoulder and arm, like she was going to bring her hand from her lap to comply with the message she'd perceived.  When his hand went to scratch his head instead, Molly's smoothly and seamlessly went for her drink, which she sipped at while listening attentively.
Her demeanor shifted, just a little, when he pressed on.  Something slightly more serious settled over her, as though this conversation, the situation as a whole were suddenly broader, deeper, and more grim than a date with a not-so-cute man.  Mostly, her face smoothed free of the little crinkles that occurred with smiling eyes and the corners of smiling mouths.  Her eyes sharpened, seemed clearer and more crisp.
He said that he had a cause, and that was when she set her drink back down on the table, folded her hands together on the tabletop in front of her (wrists against the table's edge nearest her, so her hands poked up over the tabletop at a jutting angle).  She leaned forward to rest against her arms -- the pink blouse she wore was high-necked enough that this didn't create issues of immodesty.
She wasn't laughing at him.  He said he believed, he said he had a cause, and she'd seen enough lately to give him a chance.  So, clearly interested and invested, she asked:
"And what is that cause?"

Nobody

"Do you know what an urban explorer is?"

Molly Toombs

She looked surprised-- taken aback, really.  Clearly, that wasn't what she was expecting to have parried back at her.
All the same, she nodded and answered:  "Well, yeah.  The guys that go looking in old subway tunnels in cities and find the old prohibition tunnels and all."
"What does that have to do with what we were talking about, though?"

Nobody

Nobody knows quite a lot about Molly. More than Molly has told her friend Jack(y). Lucky Jack. Jack who is a luck's child. They might've said that when he was born whenever that was: here's a luck child. They might've kissed his forehead and rubbed rabbits feet on him so that they'd suck up his luck and could there-after be cut-off. Nobody knows quite a lot about Molly: and Jacky has had ample time to observe how Molly's interests operate -- hasn't he? How she questions things; what she might be invested in. It's nice that these are things he is invested in, too. Sincerely. Truthfully, whatever that might mean to a creature who changes his Faces as Nobody does. Nobody: how many people does he wear? Anybody he can remember? They might never die. So: Molly gets serious at last and Jack ( - oh, Jack; is this a gallant Jack? - ) takes a deep breath.
He smiles, but this smile doesn't reach his eyes because his mind is clearly on what he is trying to tell her. Rip the band-aid off. Magic.
"I promise you the question was not without purpose. You see, I used to be very into it. Not the strenuous stuff, not the stuff that verges on parkour -- no. But I enjoyed it, ah, quite a lot. Prohibition tunnels! I thought them fascinating, and then, ah well, I have always had an interest in the sort of matters we discuss."
"Something happened to me while I was exploring on my own." He pauses, and he frowns, as if realizing how leaden those words could be to someone who didn't believe him. "You're not supposed to go on your own, but it's easier, isn't it?" There: old frustration - can't she hear it? Old frustration. "And I was cursed. I don't mean a hypothetical curse like lycanthropy or anything like that, I mean a hypothetical curse like misfortune or a geas I suppose."
He pauses. "I do realize that I sound credulous."

Molly Toombs

Molly tried to be careful and cautious just in general, for she was a woman in her twenties living alone in the city.  Her family was in another state, she didn't have a husband or children or roommates or anything like that.  She had to look out for herself.  But, cautious as she may be, she always slipped up.  In a few nights she would forget to remove her work badge from around her neck and it would provide a stranger with her name and where he can find her.  So she may try to be careful and cover her tracks and keep her home and workplace both safe, but Jack had his ways, and he was able to find her, watch her, learn about her.  After all, he was investing a bit of himself in her, wasn't he?
"I think my concept of what qualifies as 'credulous' anymore has changed.  We both know that I've seen things--  I don't doubt I sounded that way when I was telling you my ghost stories."
Drink and necklace were both forgotten on the table.  She was leaned forward against her arms, her arms leaned against the table, hands in front of her chest with fingers laced together.  Invested in, and very much worried about, where this was going.
Her voice was softer, hung on suspense, when she asked:  "What happened?"

Nobody

"I know, Molly," and he sounds sad, when he says that. "That you're ... That you've had experiences, too. But this feels different to me, ah, because ... But I want to tell you. I ..."
He puts both elbows on the table. He stops jiggling his knee at last. That knee-jiggle: it was shifting the table a little back and forth back and forth. His gaze is a little distant: Jack's. Not for lack of investment. He is invested. There are hairs crawling up the back of his hands, because for as much trouble as This Face seems to have growing a beard, the eyebrows and the arms: they don't have that same trouble. He covers his left hand with the fingers of his right, rubbing and cracking them now. A moment's quiet, see, and then he puts his hands down, rests both forearms on the table, and leans forward too. It's intimacy: it had to be.
"Oh. It's nothing that will rub off on you; nothing infectious. Nothing that, ah, not unless a witch-hunter finds me, and ..."
"There was a mirror," he tells her. "And a great deal of darkness. I didn't know what I was looking at and it asked me a question. I answered it wrong; I must have answered it wrong - " frustration, again, bleeding through " - and it took my reflection. And it said that I won't get it back again unless I find it. Again. It. I think it was a Her. I don't know."

Molly Toombs

The two of them are leaned forward at this table tucked into the shadows, against a wood-and-wallpaper wall around the corner from the front of the establishment in which they sat.  Music had been playing on a stage at the back of the place, but not so loudly that they couldn't speak.  Molly, no longer concerned with the musicians that she'd claimed to have brought Jacky here for, was instead wrapped up in and swept away by the discussion she was having.
He mentioned a witch hunter, and her expression went blank for a moment-- intentionally blank, purposefully hiding whatever inner dialogue or reaction she was having in her mind.  She was trying desperately to draw conclusions and find the answer to what Jack was telling her-- was he saying that he was cursed with some kind of magic that would have him hunted for whatever reason?  Should she believe it?  Where did she draw the line in the dirt between the unbelievable things that she knew were actually real and the imaginations of crazy people?
He continued on to speak of losing his reflection, and now her expression shifted only so that her eyebrows could drop and furrow heavily over clear blue eyes.  She looked down at his hands, watched him scrub at his fingers and saw the little lines of frustration that bled into the atmosphere both from his motions and words.  It was clear-- this was such a specific and far-fetched thing, unlike what she's experienced before (though, rest assured, the mind worked and whirled over details about how stealing a reflection, or an image, or a likeness was the same as stealing a soul, which was why cameras were so horrifying for people when they started sweeping the globe) -- that Molly wasn't sure whether to believe him or not.  She was on the fence, hovering, needing more.
She didn't press for proof or ask for details, though.  She liked Jacky, she wanted to reciprocate that for him, not to scoff at his clear stress and belief in his account of what happened some unmentioned time ago while exploring city depths.  Instead, she provided thoughtfully:
"Find what again?  The mirror, your reflection, or the thing that stole it?"

Nobody

[Oh, but I want you to be convinced, at least later: once you think about it. This is even the truth! So Manipulation (Specialty!) + Expression. -1 diff, blood-thrall. + WP.]
Dice: 6 d10 TN5 (1, 6, 6, 7, 9, 9) ( success x 6 ) [WP]

Nobody

"Wouldn't it be nice to know?" he says. And, look, Jacky. Jack. He stops fidgeting for the most part now, because that was clearly the hardest thing to say: that thing he knows sounds so - insane. That story of his - that madness of his, to tell the truth, because he is telling the truth. Telling it slant, telling it for his own purposes, but oh it is true, too. Jack. He doesn't look at the world the way the other creatures who inhabit it and are no longer human look at the world. Jack and Flood: they live in the same world, but they do not live in the same world. And this is not because they are both technically dead. Technically? Difficulties.
A faint smile. It still doesn't meet his eyes; he looks anxious, but not mad. "Not the mirror. I actually," he glances side-to-side, before confessing, "took that. Stole it, I guess, but ... It's in storage. The thing is what I need to find, I think. Her. Or perhaps the reflection, I... It's confusing, and it's made it ... Well, I will never stop looking into anything that sounds promising, trying to know more about everything."
"I just didn't want you to think I was a demon if you noticed or anything like that. And if you do decide to go urban exploring, be very careful. I still go sometimes."

Molly Toombs

Something was there, in that Nobody across the table that Molly would never call a 'nobody'.  She cared about Jacky, sincerely.  She didn't realize that this care was being cultivated and grown and altered and guided by his blood (or something different, for it was no plain human it came from) in her system.  At first she was skeptical, not that she thought he was lying or anything but she wondered if maybe she was about to find out a sad truth and learn he was actually unhinged, for that would be just her luck.
But no, something was there.  It was in how his expression sat on his face, how he scrubbed at his hands anxiously.  It was in his voice especially, for how real the story was that he recounted, and how genuine the confession and sense of loss and directionlessness were about him.  It wasn't defeat quite yet, but he had the tone of a man who had been trying at this for some time.  It was an old mystery, an old Curse.  He didn't have the zeal of a man still fresh on the hunt, determined to undo what this Her-It thing had done.  He'd stolen the mirror that housed the thing that stole a part of him, but it didn't balance out.
She knew of another with no reflection as well.  Those pieces wouldn't fall together, though.  Not just now anyways.  No, she heard the truth to what Jacky had to say.  She wasn't there yet, not entirely, for Molly was cautious and smart, but by tonight she would absolutely believe.
So she put on a bracing smile and adjusted how she had been leaning so her arms were no longer pinned between her chest and the table.  "A cautionary tale."  She sounded almost amused at herself, then her right hand moved to rest on the table between them, palm turned up.  Clearly, an offer (with only the faintest hum of request underlying).
"Well, the good news is that I don't make a point of exploring abandoned buildings, tunnels, or ruins.  Or occupied ones, at that.  But I'm gonna look into my books and try to read what I know about this kind of thing...  See if I can come up with any clues of where to even start."
See, Jacky?  She wants to help.

Nobody

Molly put her hand on the table. Jack. He hesitates. He hesitates because of what he just told her, perhaps. Then he puts his hand in hers. He does not feel like a corpse. He feels cool, perhaps a bit clammy, as if he were what he appears to be: a nervous young man. He squeezes her hand and there is gratitude there.
Look at him grin. This Face's sweet grin. Because she offered to help even if she does think him mad: and he appreciates it. The grin fades though so that he can respond, seriously, putting into words:
"I'd appreciate it. And I'd like it if you did. But I want you to know I didn't tell you because I wanted somebody to help me. That's, ah, not quite what I mean, it's just, I do want help, but I want to help as well. So. I mean, equal partnership, or not partnership, that sounds very official, I … " He trails off. This is as close to actually awkward as he has been: tongue-tied, almost. "What I'm saying," he says, deliberately, "is I am happy for anything you find that might help me. But I would like it if you trusted me as well. With anything of similar … with anything about that other world."
"I've learned a lot of true things," he says. "And no witch hunter's found me yet." By which he means:
He doesn't blab. Molly: she's a special case.

Molly Toombs

Jacky's hand paused before going over and into her own, and Molly smiled for it.  He squeezed, she did as well, and then smiles faded away and they were talking again.
Or, well, Jack's smile faded away.  Molly was (somehow [we know how]) happy simply to be holding his hand.  Her smile dimmed, but did not vanish.
She listened, further, and considered what he said.  She wanted to be honest with him, she liked him, after all.  He could see that she wasn't keen on telling him everything just yet.  That was apparent (though her reasons for not wanting to tell him everything were not so clear).  But she did nod to him, agreeing-- to some level or another at least.  She wasn't writing a contract or anything.
Jack was a Lucky thing.  Molly was a Bold one.  She renewed her smile and took her drink up in her free hand to finish it.  Then, having done that, she brought his hand (if he allowed it, of course) high enough for her to kiss a hairy knuckle.  Immediately after that, she grinned, let go of him, and gestured toward the stage with her empty glass.
"That band I invited you for is setting up.  Shall we move a little nearer?"
And, more likely than not, they did.