ArchivedLogs:Subtlety

Subtlety
Dramatis Personae Isra, Iztali
In Absentia	10 July 2013 Discussions over wine.
Location <NYC> Isra’s Apartment - Morningside Heights
The apartment takes up the first floor of a beautifully restored mid-century row house. A step up from the tiled entryway, a long bar counter separates the kitchen from the living room, which minimally furnished to take advantage of limited natural light. Simple and elegant brushed steel appliances and mission style furniture give the place a clean and austere appearance, but closer observation reveals no expense spared on any level. Very little artwork adorns the living room--only a few striking framed prints of galaxies and nebulae. The capacious master bedroom can be seen through a door left ajar. Another door conceals a small bathroom, and beside it a hallway leading to the utility area near the back entrance. Right now, the entertainment center is playing the Planets suite, half-way to the dissonant crescendo of Mars, The Bringer of War. Outside the gleaming bay window, the sun is setting, its red glow matching the music. The two recessed bulbs over the entryway and the porch light outside are lit, but nothing else. Isra is stalking around the apartment with tablet and stylus in hand, but the screen of the device is off. She wears a white sports bra--a design that conveniently allows her wings to move freely without any modification--and a long white crinkle skirt. A vivid leaf green sash loosely circles her waist below the exposed midriff. Her tail lashes the air behind her, but she seems to have mastered the art of keeping her wings tucked in close enough not to knock things over. In the uncertain evening light, she looks like a caged and curiously dressed predator waiting for its quarry. Isra's door reports Tali's (expected) presence in the form of knocking. Two loud raps in quick succession, and no more. She is dressed in an airy, but long-sleeved white tunic top with crocheted hems over a pair of navy linen pants. Her hands are clad in an ever-present pair of gloves, these a soft fawn shade, though likely hellishly warm in the current weather. In an attempt at keeping cool in /some/ way, Tali has piled her heavy waves of black hair atop her head and secured them with a pair of pencils. Her patchwork corduroy bag hangs at one hip, and a floppy basket with the neck of a green wine bottle peeking from its top is held in one hand. Two inhuman strides bring Isra to the door, which she unlocks and opens without even checking to ensure her guest is an invited one. “Welcome,” she says, bowing and backing up to allow Tali passage before closing the door behind her. “I apologize for making you trek through that warm soup they are calling atmosphere out there.” Beneath the lights in the entryway, Isra looks pale and gaunt, especially when she goes completely still for a moment. “Ah, how rude of me! The lights...” She reaches out one long arm and pushes all four dimmer dials up. The lights fade in, drowning out the dying twilight’s fiery tint. Isra’s skin, however, still has an odd grayish cast to it. She sets the tablet down on the kitchen counter and forces a smile at Tali. “I would offer you something, but...” “Good evening!” Tali greets with a half-smile. “Your doorstep has been darkened by quite the string of characters. I can see why you have your lights up,” she comments with a wave of her free hand to dismiss Isra's own accusations of rudeness. “And I have brought chilled wine. I threw an ice pack into the basket, so there will be coolness soon enough. Your e-mail sounded like it needed wine.” She slips in through the front door, her avoidance of knobs and rails now such a practiced thing that it is no longer a thing to be noticed, if not looked for. Likewise, there is only the faintest favouring of her left leg as she walks to the counter to deposit the bottle of Lucas Vineyards Cayuga White next to Isra's tablet. “Are you feeling well? Your colour seems somewhat off...” Isra sighs. “My email may have been excessively dramatic,” she admits, “but this whole mess needs wine. There should have been a Students Affairs hearing--apparently there /was/ one, but I heard nothing of it. They supposedly sent a letter, but if so, the thing never made it to my mailbox. Since I ‘forfeited’ the chance to speak at my own hearing, my accusers carried the day.” She opens a cabinet and takes out two wine glasses, then retrieves a corkscrew from a drawer in the counter. “I am appealing the decision to the Dean now, but I doubt anything will come of it.” Looking down at the back of her hand, she frowns. “I was indisposed a few days ago, but have since recovered.” She sounds suddenly less certain. “However, I feel all right, despite my...color. How have you been since we last spoke?” Tali shakes her head, her lips pressed in a thin line. “I wouldn't call it excessively dramatic by any stretch. It's... I would like to speak with the administration on your behalf.” Her fingers drum against the handle of her now mostly-empty basket. “Actually, I would /like/ to go flip some tables in a few very posh offices on your behalf. But speaking seems more likely to have any effect aside from catharsis.” She lets out a dismissive snort of breath at the details of the 'hearing'. “I doubt any such letter was sent. It is so very easy to claim a missing letter. At the very least, we might try to argue for an /actual/ hearing? Whether one where you were present would go any better, I could not say.” Tali decides to take Isra's claims of wellness at face value for now. “I have been...better. The crutches have been relegated to holding up the back wall of a closet. And I've been making steady progress on shutting out the...noise. Of my abilities. Strangely enough, that /incident/ at the coffee shop was of great assistance.” “Oh, I wanted to flip some tables of my own,” Isra says, cutting the foil from the bottle, “but I was at Xavier’s, so the Dean’s desk was saved. However, I do not believe I am really in any position to request a repeat hearing--or a hearing at all. Really, though, it is likely to be a waste of a couple of hours pleading my case only for them to arrive at the same conclusion.” She sinks the corkscrew in and pulls the cork free with little apparent effort. “I doubt they will listen to you, but I appreciate your desire to help.” She pours two glasses and hands one to Tali, nodding toward the living room where Mars, the Bringer of War is winding down. “Please, sit. I wish it did not take painful crises to teach us these hard lessons.” Isra sits down sidewise on the couch so that her tail can still move freely. “I have been learning a lot.” “Hm,” Tali replies through a grin of amusement. “I rather think that /you/ flipping the Dean's desk would be counterproductive, where our argument is concerned.” She sighs heavily, but unwilling to be defeated. “We have to at least /fight/ it. People won't even bother to think twice if you don't make them.” She takes the glass with a nod, already sipping from it before she follows Isra to find her own seat. “It...was a good lesson. In drowning out the whispers with present reality. Grounding, I suppose? It is easier to remember to dig for the truth in what is happening, when what is happening /currently/ is deadly serious. It has been a good base upon which to build a method, at least.” She pauses to sip again from her glass, a single brow twitching upward faintly. “What have you been learning lately, aside from the pettiness of school politics?” Isra takes a long sip of her wine and sighs appreciatively, eyes sliding shut. “This is excellent, Tali, thank you. My mother loves Cayuga white--says it captures the spirit of the Finger Lakes region. I can only take her word for it.” When she opens her eyes again, they are positioned perfectly to catch the last flare of evening light, embers in the black depths of her pupils that, when extinguished, make the green of her irises look all the more unearthly. The soft piping of flute drifts from the speakers positioned around the room: Venus, the Bringer of Peace. “Grounding, yes,” she says meditatively. “Grounding /is/ vital. ‘Give me a lever and a place to stand.’” Isra is silent for a moment, studying the translucent fluid in her glass. “I have been learning to fly, and learning to fight--literally. That is why I was indisposed. But I agree we need to fight this.” She takes a sip of wine and smirks, adding, “Not quite so literally, I hope.” “I feel like I appreciate the local wines more when it is as hot as this. It may be purely psychological, but I feel that there is something of the chill of the region in their flavour. Particularly the whites. It is not a thing that I ever taste in wines from my home, at least.” Tali's hand rocks her glass ever-so-slightly, just enough to disturb the liquid therein. “Are we?” There is another twitch of brow here, before she clarifies. “Trying to move the world? I have also thought of...perhaps writing an editorial piece for the school's paper, at least. Sparked by your particular plight, but more on the overarching themes of the implications of people's discriminatory behaviour and deliberate attempts at formation of what is, in essence, a racial underclass.” She cuts herself off from what could clearly turn into a prolonged academic ramble. “Flying? And fighting. I hope neither of those was the cause of serious injury?” Isra’s pointed ears prick forward ever so slightly. “I am not very familiar with wines from other regions, actually, having few occasions to /imbibe/ outside of holiday dinners.” She takes another sip and leans on the straight back of the couch a little more heavily. “We may as well be trying to move the world. Protests, petitions, editorials--against that current of intolerance and fear and hatred. Yet it has been done before, and can be done again. I should /hope/ that the audience in question would respond better to an anthropological argument than the general population. I had thought this a very liberal university, but it is a world apart from Cornell.” Suddenly, she chuckles. “Though I may be deceiving myself, imagining that this would have gone all that differently at another university. The same thing happened to one of my new coworkers from the U.K.” She drops her eyes, free hand tugging at her intentionally wrinkled skirt as though she expects to smooth it out. “No lasting harm came of either. I lost a bit of blood my last sparring match, which I thought explained the complexion change. However, since it has grown more noticeable rather than less as I mended, I can only surmise it is just another manifestation of...whatever is happening to me.” Though her voice is steady while she says this, the hand holding her wine glass trembles. “Worth it, though--to live, yes?” “Perhaps the academic circles here are slightly less fond of dinners followed by discussions late into the night, made more impassioned by a hint (or more) of intoxication? Wine has seemed to be the drink of choice for such events. But. I suppose it is another world I come from. You would not believe the intoxicants my cousins down in Chiapas get into...in a strictly non-academic fashion.” Tali's lips quirk into an amused almost-smirk for a moment. “It is hard to say. Cornell is somewhat unique in atmosphere. That...entire area is like its own little country, in a way. Regardless of whether it would happen there, it ought not to be tolerated /here/.” Her eyes widen slightly at the mentions of 'blood loss' and 'sparring match'. “Well, that sounds about too exciting, really. I think I am reassured that it is another physical mutation rather than /blood loss/ that has changed your skin tone? It seems likely to be healthier, at least.” Another drink from her wine glass seems to be required. “It is hard to say. What /living/ takes or even entails anymore.” “Your floor of the Ivory Tower sounded so much more exciting than mine,” Isra explains, smiling toothily behind the rim of her glass. “I figure I might as well do a little catching up now that I have the time. That is not even sarcasm, Tali. I really feel like I have not lived, like I have been hiding behind lens and mirror, numbers and images.” She drains the glass and sets it down on the coffee table without needing to lean very far at all. “I guess I would also rather it be something so cozy and familiar, as new manifestations of my mutation have become of late. My blood work shows hormonal fluctuations roughly analogous to, though distinct from, human puberty. This may well be just the next stage in it.” Her shrug only moves one wing, the other being pinned against the couch “Khalida took more samples and sent them for analysis, but with no model, no standards of care, we can still only guess at what is ‘normal’ or ‘safe’ for me. That is kind of how I have been /living/, though--not caring anymore what is ‘normal’ or ‘safe.’ I am not sure this is a particularly exportable philosophy, but...it is where I am now.” “Perhaps I've hit against another of those humanities versus sciences walls? Anthropology straddles the line a bit, but I was, in addition to following my current academic path, a literature major. Terrible bunch of romantics majoring in literature,” Tali comments in an offhanded way, her smile returning for a moment. “To hell with normal, Isra, but do try to be safe where the option exists? I mean the real option, not the 'sit back and do nothing' option.” Her fingers drum against the stem of her glass, as the basket has long since been abandoned to the floor and is no longer providing a handy drumming surface. “It would fit with puberty. At least, with adolescent behaviour that tends to run concurrent with pubertal hormonal changes. The sudden discomfort with life as it has always been, the desire for new challenges and dangerous situations. Perhaps you are simply getting to be a /teenager/ many years later than the appellation defines?” There could be a hint of teasing to this analysis, but it is difficult to tell. It may just be /analysis/. "Literature?" Isra echoes. "I befriended a literature enthusiast recently--Xavier's new librarian, in fact. I should introduce you to her, once it is safe..." She trails off, smiling wryly. "Safe! I still look both ways before I cross the street, if that is what you mean, but I cannot walk five blocks in /Morningside Heights/ without being accosted. Everyone keeps telling me to stay out of the City, avoid walking alone--it is not safe." There is a gleam of defiance in her eyes when she shakes her head. "No. I /will/ be seen and heard. That is rather like something an /actual/ teenager might say..." Isra tilts her head back, then winces when one of her horns digs into a wing. "I just wish I had a better idea what to expect, both personally and societally. Am I going to wake up tomorrow ten feet tall? In a burning house?" Her tone does not betray much in the way of real concern. She rises, retrieves her tablet, and skips the music ahead to Mercury, the Winged Messenger. "By comparison, bleeding a little in a fight seems trivial. Maybe that is the hormones talking, though." This last she allows with a sharp grin as she drops back down onto the couch. "You will let me know if they start bothering /you/, right? If you keep speaking out on my behalf--/our/ behalf, really--you might acquire a reputation for being 'disruptive'." “Latin American literature, to be precise. So it is somewhat related to my primary field of study,” Tali elaborates, shifting her position to sit a bit straighter. “I do tend to appreciate people who appreciate books.” Isra's assertion draws a little frown. “Getting noticed doesn't seem the best idea, but I could not in good conscience suggest that you do otherwise, in the long term,” she finally admits. Her frown is turned on her glass for a moment, as if it were /upsetting/ wine, before twisting into a wry grin. “They knew I was disruptive before they accepted me into the program. I did share some interesting stories as part of my application process. Not to mention that my father is an alumnus and occasional guest lecturer. Let us just hope that this is seen as another of a darling bull-headed, liberal-minded girl's pet causes? At the very least, they might find it just a bit more difficult to turn general sentiment against me. I have the blessing of...subtlety, yet.” She shakes her head slightly, fully aware that Isra, of all people, truly does not need a reminder. “This is no longer a matter for me of good or bad ideas,” Isra says, “it is a matter of living or not living, which is a different thing from /dying/, but not far off.” Then, frowning a bit. “You are subtle, yes, but you may yet be branded a traitor to your own, ironic as that may be. I hope that you are right, though. We need your subtlety as much as we need my...” She extends the one wing that is free as far as she dares in the limited space of the narrow row house. “...Lack thereof?” Folding the wing back in, she rises again. “Another glass? I know /I/ need it.” “Mmn. Isra, I am beyond used to being branded a traitor. My parents and their families are of two very different cultures, two nationalities, two races. Someone is always feeling betrayed by my /existence/. I honestly could not care less at this point in my life.” Tali finishes what remains in her glass, conveniently leaving it empty. “Oh, would you look at that? It seems I do.” Isra quirks a smile, one long fang briefly exposed, and fetches the wine. "They feel betrayed over culture and skin color? Sadly still common... If they only knew! But then, it would just be one more excuse, I suppose. Bigotries don't exactly cancel each other out." She sits back down, refills both of their glasses, and sets the bottle on the coffee table. "So, Latin American literature...please enlighten this heathen." “Culture and history more than anything,” Tali explains further. “My mother's family is mostly distributed in remnant native farming communities back home. My father is the only son, adopted no less, of real old money in Connecticut. One side has some...expected mistrust, at least initially, I suppose? The other has never hidden the fact that they find me little more than evidence of their golden child's most inexplicable error in judgement. Hm. /They/ would likely pretend this mutant thing is no surprise.” She adopts a tensed manner, speaking in a cold tone through mostly-closed teeth in a way that implies an impression. “Flawed genetics, you know. It figures.” Shaking her head, she drops the mannerisms. “Thank you for fetching the wine, dear. Are you familiar at all with the 'Latin American Boom'?”