abraxaslogs | Others rule my destiny

[ The woman who walks into the dingy pub does not look like she belongs there. Framed in the doorway by the orange sky as the sun sets, she enters like she owns the place. Her appearance is too immaculate, she's carrying too many shopping bags -- the nice kind, with thick paper walls and tissue for wrapping inside. Several of which just appear to float next to her, at roughly hip level. But, of course, her brightest and most noticeable trait is the fact that her hair is cotton candy pink. She has no visible roots, thanks to a mysterious change making it grow that color naturally now. It bounces on her shoulders with her stride, each click of her boot heels on the floor.

She takes a table for herself, greets the barkeep with a wide smile as he comes over to take the order. Her bags are placed to one side next to her feet; she takes a book out of one of them and begins reading. A bottle of wine and a glass are delivered to her, and she leans back comfortably in her chair with the book in one hand and the glass in the other.

It's true that she could find other, quieter places to read alone. But there's nothing in the world she hates more than being alone, so she chooses rowdy public places (her favorite kind of place) instead. ]

[People all look the same. Blond hair, black, brown and grey: each regular looks as regular as another. He has a handle on their problems. The familiar patterns of depression and stress, emptiness and apathy. One drink knocked back becomes three, three becomes five - and those who indulge in ten will find themselves with a new best friend. One who listens to their problems and offers good advice.

It's advice that isn't always free. A glass of wine is payment one week, a dinner plate the next. One day sees him sitting alone at the bar, reading a book in between those moments spent observing people, his spot affording him a good view of those coming in off the street. One of whom isn't like the other. She earmarks her table, rubs herself all over as though she owns the place, and denies others the chance to sit and stretch their legs.

Does he care? No, because it's a table.

So he lingers at the bar, noting how she hooks people around her finger. Smiling at those who come to take her order, waiting on her hand and foot. Pretending to be comfortable alone but needing anything but to feel alone. It's enough to remind him of his grandmother.

He doesn't mind if she knows he's watching. It might make this interesting.]

[ For a bit, she doesn't look up. She is keenly aware of every eye on her, how people can't seem to help but watch her. That magnetism has been part of her world for years and years; while being a Summoned who stands out is enough to call attention on its own, her experience in the spotlight dates much further back than just Abraxas.

When she finally does glance up from her book -- it's used, with no jacket and worn corners, the title rubbed off of the cover and spine -- it's because she has felt most of the attention drop away from her. People who were initially dazzled into staring become aware of themselves and stop, or they return to their conversations and card games. But not all of them.

She locks eyes with pinpoint accuracy, not even flicking her gaze elsewhere in the room. No, it's obvious she has been consciously taking mental notes, as observant of the bar's occupants as they've been of her.

There are only two things she finds particularly notable about him, at a glance. The first is that his cheekbones could double as an icepick if needed. The second is that she thinks he might have the bluest eyes she's ever seen. It's almost eerie, like special effect contacts on Halloween.

Still watching him, she crosses her legs at the knee, takes a sip of wine. Then looks back down at her book. ]

[Crane busies himself deep as he might: the book on anatomical flora as illuminating as he finds it educating. He indulges in neither water or conversation and murmurs as he turns the page. Spurred on by the challenge of not being the first to break the silence.

But he is willing to shatter it - calling out first so he can direct the flow of conversation.]

Well, you're certainly not local.

[Neither is he. They're both Summoned. That's the point.]

[ Julie resumes reading, although she can still feel the lingering tension in the air. They've both acknowledged each other in far too direct of a way for there to not be any. And he's right, at least in spirit. Perhaps a dare, more than a challenge, but it's similar enough.

It's no skin off her nose if he chickens out. Sinks into his book and stays there until she deigns to leave. Most people do, she's found, and Julie has never much cared to entertain cowards. Not without something to make it worth her while.

But he calls across the tavern. Well then, challenge accepted. She looks up at him again, but doesn't say anything in return.

Instead, a spare glass suddenly lifts from a table nearby, where the patrons are too absorbed in conversation to take much note. It drifts through the air and sets at the place across from her. The chair turns toward him, untouched.

Julie Lawry does not holler across the room to speak. ]

[Leave. Remain at the bar. Accept the invitation.

There are three options as he sees it: but he chooses the fourth. To arrive fashionably late - not that anyone else but him considers one minute late for anything - and loiter around.

To hover over her table and investigate what she's reading. He sidles into his seat once he realises there is no title, no summary, no suggestion of genre. He gently pushes the spare glass aside, knowing not to trust drinks from strangers, even empty ones.]

Good evening.

[ In the moment it takes him to decide, she returns to her book. Does not look up from the pages again until he's actually seated at the table. As if his presence is an afterthought to her. But he does sit, and she delicately closes the book, places it back in one of the bags at her feet.

Her head cocks slightly to one side. She watches him for a beat before she speaks, as if appraising him more in depth now that he's close. ]

And yourself. [ When she does speak, the accent is most likely not what he's expecting. Even among the Summoned, her voice is unique -- a honey-thick American Southern drawl. Two years in Abraxas has done only the lightest softening of her twang. ] Is there somethin' I can help you with, or do you just whistle across the bar at every girl?

[ The glass stubbornly returns to him, followed by the bottle that she knows damn well he saw the bartender drop off, that she poured her own glass from. She doesn't intend to be examined like an insect from across the table; he can either have a glass of wine like a civilized adult, or he can get to stepping. After all, wasn't he the one who wanted her attention?

Much more importantly, is he willing to be the first one in this game to blink? ]

Ah, I was wondering.

[About her accent? About her manner? He doesn't say.

Fingers curl around his glass but instead of seizing the wine, he lifts his other hand to call the bartender. Spring water, thin wedges of lemon and lime, but no ice. He watches them work, watches them leave, waits two seconds and then slides the wine glass beside the bottle.

There is no permission to control what he drinks. No willingness to follow her lead. No weakness that suggests he will blink.

He also prefers not to dull his senses with alcohol. One mark of respect for intelligent opponents, perhaps. Or perhaps he acts out of spite.]

At this point, I have grown used to people coming from all kinds of places. But there is still something strange about hearing someone from home.

[Her accent is denoted and filed for later.]

[ The water barely garners a glance. Fine. For the sake of not getting stuck in a loop, she can stop pushing. She takes a sip from her own glass, her eyebrows arched, and gives a dry chuckle. ]

For your own sake, I sure hope we don't have the same "home".

[ She doesn't elaborate. She knows that the American Summoned generally regard themselves as being from the same place, and normally she can go along with it. Everyone else's America is similar enough. Hers used to be like that too. But her world, her America... it appears to have been unique. And that's for the best. ]

What year are you from?

[ Not where, but when. Most of the Americans in Abraxas are from roughly the same time period, the late 2010s and early 2020s, but there are outliers. It can make communication a bit more complicated. ]

Ah, the early 2000s. Soon after the turn of the millennium.

[He is quiet and thoughtful about his words. Soft in speaking but having the confidence to react and the intelligence to read between the lines. People ask questions, they pry, they interrogate and inquire to have the upper hand. He draws his fingers together and folds his hands upon his lap.]

Not that it matters when we are drawn from different periods in time. Different histories, different circumstances...

[Which creates its own mystery, doesn't it?]

Christ. [ Is her only response to his time period. But she doesn't bother to explain that he is still a comparative outlier of the American bunch. ]

Mm, you'd be surprised at how much it helps to know the shared stuff. Explainin' what Christmas and dinosaurs and blenders are gets old, fast.

[ Yes, these are all things she has explained to people. Or at least attempted to explain. It's sort of nice to be able to toss out a reference and trust that the other person will understand the cultural language. ]

But you're from, like, before Instagram. Might as well be from the eighties like the guys in Solvunn. Or from Robin Hood times, like that monk guy.

Oh, I am hardly that behind the times: I know how to work a VCR.

[Video recorders. CDs. Disposable cameras. Old inventions from the eighties. Yes, that's the joke.]

But I presume what you mentioned is classed as social media? I can't say I enjoy engaging with it, myself. There's not enough ways to tell somebody they should stop posting.

[Tl;dr If any messenger had a fuck-off button he might have considered using it.]

I can think of three or four dozen ways.

[ It's not that she doesn't understand the inclination to tell people to shut up and sit down -- God knows she understands that. But social media made most people so easy to read. She liked that. She also has the attention span of gnat, generally, so the constant content was a big plus, in her eyes.

But she's adjusted to life without that. After two years in Abraxas, she usually doesn't miss it very much. Except when she looks particularly glamorous and sexy, those are the times she wishes she could post a picture. Who knew she'd have so many important events to dress up for all the time? ]

Where are you from?

[Crane holds on answering as their waiter brings his drink. He offers his gratitude and keeps his movements minimial before focusing on the conversation. The willingness to share information about himself depends on his circumstances. Small facts that she can discover elsewhere? Of course he can share. Personal information about his life? That is one part of himself he keeps private.]

New Jersey.

[Did she want more than that? Too bad, so sad.]

It's been a change coming here. Still, I would be a poor man if I backed out a challenge.

[ There is no indication that she wants or is looking for more than that. Julie doesn't have the interest necessary to push harder; he was the one who wanted this conversation, so it's his responsibility to carry it. If he just wants to play an inane game, he will find himself with a frustratingly indifferent opponent. ]

A challenge is one way to think of it, I guess.

[ She allows her attention to visibly drift, watching the front door open and close as she takes another sip. This man, who has not introduced himself or asked her a single question (which, honestly, is just peak man), is not proving to be the entertainment she'd initially hoped for. ]

[Did he want this conversation? Hardly. He was observing her, yes, but was willing to sit alone. And she was observing him as much as he was observing her. He waits as she pretends to look elsewhere and speaks at a random moment in the silence.]

A game would be another.

[He doesn't need introductions to put a name to her miserable face. And there is more than one way to make an introduction.]

Julie Lawry, is it?

Edited 2023-07-25 00:55 (UTC)

[ She only observed him because he stared. If he truly didn't want to speak with her, he was welcome to look away, or decline the seat, or just fucking leave like most creeps do when caught. All she'd done was be herself. It's not her fault his foot was snared in her sparkling net the same as everyone else. ]

A game. [ She chuckles softly. ] What's the prize for a game that lasts the rest of your life?

[ Julie doesn't seem particularly shocked that he knows her name. She's highly identifiable and has been in Abraxas longer than all but a handful of the Summoned. She has ties to multiple local businesses. In a group as small as theirs, it's not uncommon to have her reputation precede her. Her gaze returns to him. ]

Depends who's askin'.

Somebody who doesn't take himself too seriously.

[If he did then he would dwell on this conversation but come the end of the day, it will be denoted and filed away under shit I don't care to remember.]

Dr. Crane. I believe we've met.

[Now didn't their first conversation go well?]

[ There is a moment where her eyes go genuinely blank as she tries to place the name. Much like arguing in a comment section, she takes almost no mental notes on random squabbles via the network. That conversation was basically erased from her mind the second she lost interest in it.

It takes her a second to kind of recall the discussion. ]

Okay. Did you... want somethin'?

[ The memory is coming back into clearer focus. Yeah, the vibes here definitely track. Just as weird and sus in person. He's lucky he's pretty. ]

[Fingers leave his glass and glide across the table. Nails draw parallel to the edge. Slip over the edge. Hands collect in his lap, eyes close in thought. He exerts control in the face of danger. Or frets with the nervousness of a nerd who appreciates when somebody can beat him up and shove him in a locker.]

A pleasant conversation. If that is no trouble?

[Yet that nervous man dared approach her table. How strange.]

[ An expression of bemusement crosses her face, and her head tilts to one side. A pleasant conversation? She doesn't feel like she's offered anything but that. She's done the polite thing, asked normal questions and offered small talk. ]

Wasn't I tryin'? Usually a conversation goes both ways. [ Placing her elbow on the table, she perches her chin in her hand, and something in her eyes seems to sharpen just a bit. ] 'Course, given your attitude before, somethin' makes me feel like maybe you aren't lookin' for just an innocent chat.

[ Know what she's never done? Identified someone solely from their name on the network, enough to spot them in person and try to lead to them into some kind of weird psychological game.

The corners of her mouth curl slightly as she watches him. He's more transparent than he thinks. Most men are. ]

So go for it. Pleasant conversation.

[About what? Telling her to pick the topic would provoke a cold response. It would be entertaining but she has become so predictable with her mood it has become boring. He remains calm in the face of provocation, controlling what lies inside.]

About what? The weather?

[He will not insult either of them by asking something so droll. Still, innocent chats. Well, they're kind of boring, aren't they?]

Let's play this differently. Would you prefer to ask or hear a question?

[ Okay, fine. She'll pretend to buy that he doesn't understand the basic tenets of idle conversation. She'll pretend it isn't patently absurd to disturb someone when you have nothing to actually say. Anything, if it moves this along. ]

I already asked you questions. [ She sighs. ] What's your question?

[ He must have been percolating this, she decides. His entire approach is strange -- none of this is how two people who have never met act. He's from New Jersey, not Mars. He has known who she is since that single back-and-forth, and he has thought about her.

Because she legitimately cannot think of any other explanation for this behavior. He must have some specific question he didn't get to condescendingly ask when she called him out. People seeking friendly conversation with a stranger don't do these things. ]

Edited 2023-07-26 00:14 (UTC)

[Different strokes. Different methods. Some like her beguile, ensnaring those who believe she only desires company. He prefers to dissect and dismember - to examine and explore what makes people tick. To poke his fingers into all their frustration and anger and see what happens.

So her frustration cascades like water off his back to collide and flood the floor. He's seen it before. Students who expect deference because of their status, assistant attorneys who expect he will break and fall apart.]

Well, I could ask for your story. I know nothing about you but assume most find you fascinating.

[But those who find her fascinating are wrapped around her finger. But the present demands his attention.]

But I'll keep it boring and simple. What do you do here?

[ The truth is, Julie is a rather fascinating person, almost by default. She has been through things that most people can't even conceive of -- and that she doesn't like to talk about. Asking for her story generally gets nothing but a blithe dismissal, if not a full-blown lie.

So the fact that he doesn't ask is actually a point in Crane's favor. Similarly, she doesn't care much about his background beyond where and when he's from. The pieces that let her know how to speak in a way he'll understand. ]

I do what I please. [ Which sounds vague, but is actually quite true. ] I co-own a lifestyle brand. For the past few months, I've been sprucin' up the house I moved to. I mentor someone. Were you lookin' for somethin' more specific?

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