ArchivedLogs:Definitely No Angel

Definitely No Angel
Dramatis Personae Isra, Iztali
In Absentia	2013-05-04 Being a mutant is not a walk in the park...except when it is.
Location <NYC> Morningside Heights
The eastern edge of the Columbia University campus terminates in a retaining wall that overlooks Morningside Park. Despite the chill breeze, the thousands trees sporting bright new foliage lend even the watery sunlight a cheerful warmth when it peeks out from between gray clouds. Students, residents, and visitors stroll the meandering paths, a world apart from the tense, mid-semester grind of the campus. Eyes follow Isra as she walks along Morningside Drive. She has tucked her wings in as close to her back as they will go without physical restraints, but there was little mistaking the horns on her head or the tail that sways from side to side beneath the hem of her black abaya. Even at an extremely casual glance, her smooth, loping gait draws the eye. She looks as though she would very much like to hide her face in the broad, leaf-green shawl draped over her shoulders. Instead, she presses on to the trailhead leading into the park’s youthful green shade. Iztali has curled herself into a nook behind the Seligman Fountain, perched on a large rock, with her back supported against the retaining wall. Her head is down, causing stray dark locks to escape from a messy bun and fall into her eyes. She is oblivious to the manner in which her posture mimics that of the sculpted bronze faun of the fountain, hiding away eternally under a bronze-stone outcropping. Wrapped in an old, grandmother-grey button down sweater over a white cotton camisole and stone-grey slacks, she looks as if she might be testing camouflage developed for just this spot, precisely. She has a worn hardcover book cradled in her lap like an infant creature, which she is reading with the fervent attention of a penitent seeking guidance from a holy text. Tali has even managed to place her reading glasses in their functional position, balanced low on the bridge of her nose, though they fail to obscure the dark smudges that have collected under her eyes. The only motion betraying her presence is from a black-gloved hand turning a page, brown eyes traversing the newly revealed words. Isra descends the stairs and pauses beside the fountain, rotating in place until she came round to face Tali. Her wings flex of their own accord, and she darts an accusing glance over her shoulder. As the other woman clearly did not notice her, she took one gliding step forward and, clearing her throat, said, "Good day. I apologize if I am tardy. The meeting with my adviser took longer than anticipated." Tali startles a moment at the sound of a voice, having lost herself thoroughly in the book. Said book finds itself closed rapidly, revealing its yellow cover with a dreamy image of smoky black blocks forming a vague spiral shape. In stark red letters over the image the title reads /Final del Juego/. “Isra,” the young woman offers by way of greeting, recognition breeding relief and relaxation of her tensed muscles. She stands, the book curled within her left hand. “Do not worry. I am simply glad that you have come at all. I also apologise for the…volume of my e-mails. I understand that it is not typical of an acquaintance to press contact so vehemently, particularly when it is not reciprocated. I hope it is taken only as a sign of my desperation in this matter and not as an invasion of your personal space.” Frowning, Tali looks down at her hand, which she had nearly offered in a conventional gesture of greeting. “Please also forgive me for not shaking your hand. I am having some difficulty with my condition and physical contact with…anything.” This last bears all of the hallmarks of extreme understatement. “I thank you again for the referral to your physician. It was a relief to confirm finally…that this condition is physical and not psychological, as I had worried. The wait for genetic testing is quite…impressively long. However, I now have no clue as to how to proceed. I…” Her teeth meet with her lower lip, finally halting the rapid spill of words. Tali’s look to Isra is nothing short of /pleading/. Isra waits a beat, either to gather her thoughts or give Tali a chance to add further addenda. “It is quite all right,” she replies at last, “on both counts. My delay in replying to your inquiries is not an indication of any reluctance on my part. Rather, I have been...unwell. However, I think I have pushed my employer’s rather generous medical leave policy quite enough, and my academic advisor has little patience for excuses.” She cocks her head to one side, a gesture that looks singularly animalistic on her. “He became abruptly cooperative after I spoke to him in person, however. It looks like I will not be kicked out of the program just yet.” Nodding at the bench, Isra settles herself on it sidewise, one leg folded under herself. It looks a little awkward, but probably not as awkward as it /could/ look. “I congratulate you, but feel compelled to point out that our genetic condition does not preclude comorbidity with any number of psychiatric conditions.” Preternaturally still now, she studies Tali with green eyes that do not seem to blink as often as they ought to. “As for how you should proceed--that is entirely your choice. You have no medical recourse to do anything about it, if that is what you mean, though I understand plenty of researchers are working on that. You have no legal obligations to do anything about it, either; the city ordinance recently passed seems unlikely to affect you.” “Ah, you were /away/,” Tali summarises with a nod, freeing more tendrils of hair from the confines of the hasty bun. “The unsettling of customary interactions that comes from a sudden change in typical raiment can be enough to give one the higher ground in negotiations.” Chocolate eyes trace over Isra’s form, in an idle fashion… Wait, was that an attempt at levity? Maybe. Tali eyes the bench warily as she approaches, as if it might be electrified. Her jaw sets stubbornly as she perches herself just at the edge of the seat, like a bird on a wire. Her gaze becomes distant for a moment, then she settles back, letting the bench take on much of the responsibility for keeping her upright. “This is a happy bench, at least. There was a young mother feeding her child.” Tali’s arms draw toward her chest, as if holding something dear. The gesture is like a dance, but crumbles as Tali’s eyes return to Isra, her look more present. “I…I’m sorry. I still get so distracted when that… No, I truly thought this was all in my mind. But it is not. I hadn’t…even considered that there might be medical…” Her jaw sets again. “I need to /control/ it.” Gloved fingers rub against one another. “The gloves and staying away from certain things, they help somewhat, but… I can’t lose myself again.” “I suppose both the advantages and disadvantages of your idiosyncratic senses are magnified in your field,” Isra muses, gazing absently at Tali’s hands. “Learning to use our...abilities to best effect is a common goal at my place of employment. Alas, I can offer you little in the way of practical advice from my own experiences. We are very different, in this respect. I have long since learned to work with and around my phenotypical variations, and making use of them is not likely to ameliorate the inconvenience they cause in my daily life. But you.” Full stop. The tip of Isra’s tail twitches, cat-like. She sits up a little straighter. “Yes, I should introduce you to the Professor.” “From what I can tell, I have been…/attuned/ to past events. The depth of my experience seems to be directly proportional to the emotional impact of the original event.” Tali’s hand finds itself resting against the left side of her ribcage, as if magnetically drawn there. “I believe this may have been happening for years, just not…to the degree or intensity that it has since…” She allows her statement to trail off as Isra mentions the Professor. A single brow lofts, as if caught on a hook. “I feel as if I should fetch my dear Dr. Watson for assistance now.” At last, that little closed-lipped smile has come crawling back! Isra flashes an indulgent smile that looks more predatory than she probably intended. "If he is Professor Moriarty, then we are all in a great deal of--" "There it is!" cries the young man coming down the path. He wears a white shirt printed with a gigantic, ornate celtic cross. "Dude, it’s like a living statue." "That's an /actual/ statue, Bro," his companion, a few steps behind, replies. "Dude, not the bear," Bro says, helpfully pointing Isra out, "/that./" "Shit, Bobby was right!" Dude exclaims when he catches up. His reversed baseball cap and football jersey both look like they belong to a man several sizes larger than he. "It's like Demona and Slender Man had a baby." "--trouble," Isra completes her sentence, watching the two youths warily. "Perhaps we should relocate." Tali’s smile twists into a wry thing at the boys’ words or, perhaps, their very presence. She regards them briefly, as if they are uninteresting, deliberately showing neither fear nor hostility. “Trouble…hm. It is not worth the noise to remain here,” the young woman asserts, rising to her feet in a languid, almost feline manner. She will not allow her movements to be hurried by these. Her left hand does tighten in its grip on the book, however, the right disappearing into her pants pocket. Isra nods, the gesture so slight it is barely noticeable, and follows suit. Her wings mantle slightly when she rises, and she folds them tightly against her back. She does not resume the low crouch she had affected previously, but, balancing loosely on the balls of elongated feet, stands at her full height of six feet. Without deliberation, she leads Tali back toward campus. “Why you hang with that freak, Girl?” Bro asks as the two women pass him. “I was about to say she’s a dyke,” Dude offers casually, “except I can’t tell if it’s female or just a /fag./” Tali offers not a word to the boys, pausing precisely one step to fix them in her gaze. It is a glare that was /bred/ to sear disapproval into students in the classroom, where Tali is well used to having such at her mercy. The look is almost too brief to be a stare, scathing though it is, lasting a mere breath. And the next foot falls in place, as if her stride were never interrupted. Each hand twitches just slightly on its choice of weapons, in the unlikely event that they should prove necessary. Book. Concealed item in pocket. "That's right, mutie-lover, run away," Bro calls after them. "You'll regret it when they start trying to make you one of 'em." "Shit, they're already doing that!" says Dude. "Didn't I tell you about the FEMA camps?" On the trail, the boys' voices fading behind them, Isra darts a sidelong glance at Tali. "I daresay you were more ready for a physical altercation than they," she says. Though her words sound casual, her body is taut and her eyes wild like those of a cornered animal. Spindly fingers pluck at the tassels on the shawl. "I do apologize for failing to anticipate the interruption. I am inured to a subtler species of bigotry. Perhaps we should stick to Butler's reading rooms. Or, when you are ready, to Xavier's School, for that is where I work. I can convey you there, when your schedule permits." That little half-smile has returned, as if Tali were truly amused by the entire exchange. “I have spent quite some time in places that would be considered…less than savoury to gentler souls. One learns to regret waiting for obvious signs of violence to prepare oneself.” Her right hand finally releases its grip on the item in her pocket and frees itself to wave dismissively at Isra’s apology. “It is not your responsibility to apologise for the poor behaviour of others. Truly, I think they may have just bought the Dudebro store out of all of its cheap insults and the goods were burning holes in their pockets. As is all too common in youth, they proved quite the spendthrifts, squandering them all in one encounter,” she muses. Perhaps…this is another joke? It can be difficult to tell with her. Tali draws a breath, her tone slightly more earnest and leaning naturally toward the didactic. “In the creation myths of the Maya, humanity did not Become until the third attempt. The first people were made of clay, but were too soft and crumbled to nothing. The second people were made of wood, but these had nothing in their minds--no respect for the gods or their creatures. They just wandered about, accomplishing nothing. A great rain was sent to wash them away, and those that survived were driven to the woods by the creatures they had abused. Their faces twisted and they became monkeys. The third people were made from a dough of ground maize. They could express themselves and comprehend the world around them; they thirsted for knowledge.” In the ways of most who speak in myths, she takes quite some time to reach her point. “There are those of the second people, I believe, who escaped the floods and did not have the good sense to become monkeys. Some people are still made of wood.” This last is spoken like a secret being revealed. Tali moves as if to rest her hand on Isra’s shoulder, but stops herself before the motion can do more than telegraph its intent to observant eyes. “If you are more comfortable remaining in places of learning for our meetings, I am amenable to this. Wooden people generally are not great seekers of knowledge.” The thread of playfulness that had woven itself through her words frays and is quickly lost. “I am ready for whatever help can be offered. I fear I am a danger until I can control my visions.” That hand, not seeking Isra’s shoulder as it originally intended, returns to its customary resting place—as if protecting her ribs. Isra has settled back to her usual walking height--still tall, but not uncannily so in and of itself. “The third people,” she echoes, half to herself. “I don’t suppose the gods made a fourth people. Or perhaps Monsanto got to their raw materials.” The smile on her face is uncertain, and her green eyes still track every movement in the forest around them. “I have led an almost embarrassingly sheltered life. Much of it has been dedicated to academia, and my field of study does not require travel to unsavory locales, especially not in the Information Age, if we are still calling it that.” She cants her head at Tali. “That I fail to understand the danger you might pose bespeaks my ignorance. I should not wish to pry if it is distressing to you, but has your...clairvoyance, or psychometry, I suppose, brought you or those around you harm?” Tali shakes her head in response, hair falling into her eyes with the movement. She swipes at her forehead distractedly. “If they did, it was not recorded in the few written histories that survived deliberate destruction by the Conquistadores and Christian clergymen,” she speaks with the sort of present and personal sadness one hears from historians discussing the burning of the Library of Alexandria. “Though people are extraordinarily dynamic beings in the remaining myths…” Isra’s inquiry as to the harm caused by her ability earns an incredulous look from Tali. “Truly, I think you must be the only person on campus who hasn’t latched on to this gossip. I…” She gestures for Isra to follow her away from the path, just enough to shelter amongst a stand of trees that is out of ready sight and hearing from the thoroughfare. Tucking herself behind a broader trunk, she begins to—does she mean to undress here? It certainly seems the case as the young woman lifts the hem of her camisole. But she stops prior to revealing more than the barest hint of a grey bra…from beneath which an angry scar, still slightly raised and pink, extends like a bolt of lightning down her ribs. “I tried to kill myself. Well. For adequately loose definitions of ‘I’ and ‘myself’.” Realisation of just how bluntly she has presented this dawns late on Tali, and she lets the fabric fall back in place. She stops herself from recounting the full tale, closely observing Isra’s reaction instead. Isra says nothing for a few moments, brows slightly furrowed. At length, she rubs her forehead and deliberately relaxes her expression again. “I had not heard about this incident,” she says softly, “I keep to myself and my studies, and have been away from campus much of late. However, I understand that attempted suicide in the student body is not uncommon.” Her hands are clasping each other tightly now, and she looks down at them before folding them across her flat chest to get them away from each other. “Judging by the qualifications you have given,” she resumes, meeting Tali’s eyes again, “and by your earlier mention of ‘losing yourself’, that this self-harm was in some way connected to an immersive psychic episode?” Tali’s teeth meet with her lip briefly, nodding. “I had mentioned that I didn’t used to have this problem, of seeing things so much?” Both of her hands are gripping the book now, like a security blanket. “I was at our active site over winter break. We found a ritual dagger…long, thin obsidian blade. The tip of it had shattered in the ground and we were searching for pieces. It’s…very sharp, and keeps its edge, obsidian. And is so common in Mayan dig sites. Most people who work them cut themselves eventually, even with care and thick gloves. It’d been a matter of pride that I’d managed to go so long without…” She shakes her head again. “I knicked myself on a shard, and…as soon as it bled, I wasn’t /me/ anymore. I was this boy, young and strong and just /gone/ on Vine of the Soul. I had never tasted it so potently brewed. It was a celebration. The Temple was built. It was time to Ensoul it. We held a game, and /I/ had won! I was Chosen. I had the knife. There was fire and chanting and the smoke dizzied. It was…a Chosen death. An /ecstatic/ death.” Tali is holding her book lengthwise, pressed to her ribs. The increasing pressure finally brings pain, her gaze coming back from some distant place and her eyes focusing. She sees the book and hurriedly relocates it to one hand, safely at her side. “It. I. They said the blade being broken was all that saved me. It caught…on the ribs.” Tali appears to deflate, her shoulders sagging. “Since then. It is like I cannot turn it off. It is everywhere. Everything.” She seems to be losing the ability to organise her thoughts into coherent sentences. Isra’s wings unfurl from her back and mantle over both of them like half of a bizarre, living tent. It is hard to say whether she has done this intentionally, but they are far more massive than they appear to be when held in tight. “You are alive, now,” she says, making no move to touch Tali. “We will find a way to help you manage this ability, so that it does not overwhelm you. In the meantime...” She looks at the younger woman’s gloves appraisingly. “Perhaps we can find you gloves that ‘insulate’ you better from psychometric impressions, hm?” Tali pulls her sweater closer around her frame, as if she has caught a chill. “At least most items in the world have not caught the echo of autosacrifice? It was believed to be the most powerful of blood sacrifices. Willing.” She pulls /herself/ back from this distracted musing. “I don’t know how much gloves will ever help. Somewhat, the degree of contact does seem to dictate how easily an echo will be heard. Sometimes I can pick one up by stepping into a room, if it is strong enough. That…shard pierced my skin, and then the knife, as well. It was the strongest echo I have ever experienced. I was incoherent for a full day. At first I thought it was blood loss, but maybe not.” A sudden hint of a smile dances across her lips. “I am going into withdrawal, incidentally, from involuntary vegetarianism. The emotional echoes of meat? Not pleasant.” “That is...an inconvenience that would not have occurred to me.” Isra withdraws her wings, but does not bother tucking them against her back again. “Although I suspect many /voluntary/ vegetarians would agree with you.” Her eyes focus briefly on something in the distance. “The book,” she says, nodding at the volume that Tali clutches like a talisman, “it is...a form of grounding, then? Something that carries a powerful but relatively safe psychometric resonance. Could you benefit from more items like this?” “They’re quite lovely, you know.” Tali tilts her chin to indicate Isra’s wings as she folds them away. Apparently she is not entirely over musing aloud. Her attention is drawn to the book again as Isra mentions it. “I…would not have thought to call it that? But it is mine. And it has been for quite a long time. It is Julio Cortázar…he is my favourite author. He writes magical realism. Questions reality, twists it. Dreams, identity, forms. There is a story, it is only six pages.” Her fingers drum idly on the book’s cover. “But I keep reading it again and again. About a man who is in a motorcycle accident. Yet he dreams he is a prisoner of the Guerras Floridas, about to be sacrificed by his Aztec captors. By the end…he is a dying sacrifice, who may be dreaming of a strange land of metal conveyances and flashing lights. When he dies, then…who has died?” Her eyes are drawn to the cover again. “It is quieter, in my apartment,” she admits softly. “I have already touched everything there.” “Thank you,” Isra’s reply sounds reflexive, but perhaps a bit startled. The wings quiver and fold up, then relax again. “I know the name of this author, Cortázar, but I have not read anything of his. Perhaps I should...if I can ever find time for it!” She chuckles a bit self-consciously. “I have a lot of catching up to do, academically. I shall make time for you when you need it, though--even if that means you must remain in the fortress of your domicile and contact me via voice call. It is important that you understand you are not alone in this. That is what I believed for many years, years that I spent hiding in my room with the shades drawn and books for companions.” Her face twists into a pained moue, though there is a touch of amusement in it, too. “I suspect the copy of /A Brief History of Time/ that saw me through my adolescence would not make for very good ‘grounding,’ though I treasure it still. Come,” she says, gesturing back toward the path with long, graceful fingers. “Perhaps we can catch that outdoor theatre that I heard was taking place on the South Lawn, or find a quiet café and talk of ancient skies.” “Thank you,” Tali replies, sincerely. She might have been driven to hug the other woman, once. She does not. “Any help there is…is appreciated in the extreme. I am beginning to become a mad hermit.” Her smile is small and wry as her feet carry her back toward the path. “Though there is a certain poetry to that. I…quiet sounds best. I cannot always predict what will prove /loudest/ to me, but crowds are generally a poor bet for quiet.” The smile is joined but a soft chuckle. “At least /you/ would know what is wrong with me, if loudness comes.” Isra arches a bald eyebrow ridge at Tali and returns the smile. “I have walked the mad hermit’s path, and can assure you it is highly overrated. Perhaps its value to poets is greater than it is to astronomers.” Her inhuman feet navigate the moist woodland detritus with ease, though the athletic bandages that pass for her shoes did get muddy astoundingly fast. They return to the footpath just in time to pass a middle-aged man pushing a stroller and ushering a small child. The man and the child stare, with somewhat differing mixes of wonder and revulsion. The infant does not even appear to notice. “My qualifications as guardian angel are dubious at best,” she warns, “but I thought the same about my qualifications as teacher. Cafe Nana is not far, and they should have food with...minimal emotional echoes.” “Poets do tend to value things that are of little worth to others,” Tali concedes. “Artists…what is one to do?” She watches the man and his children passing briefly. “Well, at the least, you would appear to have brought an appropriate uniform,” she contends with a touch of a smirk playing at the corners of her lips. “Minimal echoes sounds delicious.”