ArchivedLogs:Mew!

Mew!
Dramatis Personae Granuaile, Parley, Claire	2013-03-11 Two empaths and a (budding) telepath meet in the park.
Location <NYC> Tompkins Square Park - East Village
Small but popular, this tree-lined park is a perfect centerpiece to the eclectic neighborhood it resides in. Home to a number of playgrounds and courts from handball to basketball, it also houses a dog park and chess tables, providing excellent space for people watching -- especially during its frequent and often eccentric festivals, from Wigstock to its yearly Allen Ginsberg tribute Howl festival. Sometimes, life is easy. Usually you don't realize when life is easy until things change - ease is oft looked back upon fondly, and rarely appreciated for what it is until greater adversity comes to call. Granuaile has not, precisely, had a normal life - but it is only now that she realizes how easy she had it. Currently, the twenty-something young woman has come to the small, tree-lined park in search of solitude. Its not the largest park, and being NYC, there are always people here - but it is better then her apartment, or the public streets, for the moment. The young redhead is trying to stay as far away from other people as she can. Walking along one of the cement "trails", she leaves the playgrounds and courts behind, and heads into one of the small wooded areas, still visible from the trail. Rubbing her ears constantly, and fidgeting with her hair, she sits down underneath a tree, pulls out some rosary beads, and begins counting them, muttering to herself as she does so. The muttering is of uneven volume and tone, changing in pitch, but is clear: Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen When she repeats the hail mary once, she does something with the rosary beads and begins reciting it again, a pained, tired look on her face. An older woman -- 40s, perhaps? -- is dressed in a dark green wool coat. The collar is 'flipped' up, masking her jaw -- a pink-and-white striped scarf bundled up tight underneath it. There's also a dark green flower hat -- which leaves scarcely enough room for a few fuzzy copper and gray curls to poke out, framing a pair of /furious/ hazel eyes. Furious, because she is currently in the midst of conversation -- her cellphone nestled against her ear and mouth, her grip on the walking cane she carries tight enough to leave her knuckles gleaming white. "Mr. Law, I want you to listen /very/ carefully -- because although you do not speak the language, I know you have an /exceptional/ memory, and I hope you will take the time to look the following words up." What follows is... a litany of French curses that is nothing short of /magnificent/. Even if you /don't/ know the language, it's probably enough to make your ears smoke. Granuaile may not not notice it immediately, but she's picked up a tail at some point. Parley is a quiet presence, perched initially on a bench with eyes half-mast, casting out feelers of empathy in what by any other means would equate to intent people-watching. Surface thoughts are a rarity, but emotions, memory fragments, physical gut-responses, all wash through him, and was him out into /them/. Though maybe less zen, that kid over there is FEVERISHlY engaged in stomping through slush while making airplane sounds, that woman pacing by the fountain in her crimson Sergio Rossi heels is putting the /fear/ into her slim hipster cigarette. ...That guy? Over there? Sitting under the tree? That guy... is so mellow. Mmmmm. Parley takes it all in with elbows on knees, chin on fists, ankles crossed in a rather neutral attire of flannel, gray shirt, jeans. You might not even notice the tawny fur visible between his flannel collar and the nape of his hair, which /stands up/ in its follicles listening to That Woman's fantastic use of French - which he's whispering to himself in translation. Because wow. Granuaile is in no emotional condition to notice a plane falling from the sky, let alone a tail. She continues reciting the Rosary, sometimes whispering it, sometimes screaming it at the top of her lungs before whispering it again. She's clearly quite agitated, and begins rocking back and forth. After a moment, she opens her eyes, throws the rosary beads on the ground, and begins fishing around in her pocket. Taking out an android cell phone, she begins blasting music out of its speakers, which she presses right against one ear, as if trying to block out the world. "Shut...your...bleedin...mouths! I don't care about your stupid dog or your cigarette! Stupid blather!" she almost growls, fairly loudly. She continues muttering various iterations of this while rocking back and forth, before standing up, cell phone still in hand, and pacing back and forth. One hand holds the cell phone against her ear, while the other hand is clasped over her other ear, as if digging for ear-wax or somesuch icky public activity. "Yes, I will look into it. Now, please -- as a final act of gallantry -- do me the service of /losing this number/. Or so help me, I will make it my life's work to inspire in you a phobia of legal proceedings so deep and absolute that you will piss your britches merely at the /sight/ of a gavel," Claire Basil continues. Her tone has the slightest inflection of French to it; particularly when she is in full-on-fury mode. And she is currently in full-on-fury mode. "Strike that -- you shall piss /two/ britches. You'll put the second pair on, /just to piss them/. Have I made myself perfectly clear?" CLICK. A swell of relief washes out over Claire Basil as the call is completed. This swell is, perhaps, a bit stronger than it should be -- it rushes out in a wave that seems to make /contact/ with the very psychic landscape. Around her, minds grow calm and tranquil -- a parent angrily lecturing a child over sharing his toys grows less frustrated, more gentle -- an accountant on a nearby bench fretting over whether or not he left his oven on back home suddenly remembers he absolutely did not. And in that instant of wallowing silence and calm, Claire Basil refocuses on the world around her -- just in time to catch Granuaile's outburst. And, nearby, Parley on a bench. Her mind focuses into a the edge of a razor's blade on the former. She's moving toward the girl -- all that tension and frustration melting away, into something more like concern. Her voice is gentle, a bit husky and cautious as she approaches -- she is still attempting to deduce if Granuaile is mentally ill or not. "Pardon me, dear," she says. "Are you alright?" A moment ago -- when on the phone -- Claire Basil's mind was a whirlwind of fury. But even the fury was structured, crystalline, directed, *focused* -- now, it's pure and transparent, like an uncolored jewel. She is an /extraordinarily/ structured thinker. Parley also washes off the his seat at the sudden rise in voices. He casts a scan of the faces turning towards the noise, curling his hands against his abdomen, taking a few long steps around the bench to skirt into the dappling shadows of the winter trees. Totally stealthy. Except that his type of washed-out presence soaks up so much ambient distortion, it's one more layer of obfuscation to stand in, very still for a moment and listening to the girl's distress. Finally, a resolve firms with a lick of lips and, delicately, he slips towards Granuaile along with dear Clair, though he lurks back /awkwardly/ behind her, with a shoulder leaning against a tree. His own mind is as obscure as his presence; a silent vacancy where others might be a medley, touching a cool mental hand along the parameters of Granuaile's mind in small nudges. Peanut gallery: empath edition. He looks distinctly uncomfortable about it, too. As the wave of calm washes over the nearby populace - and Granuaile - her chaotic, emotional mind begins to clear. The din of voices is still loud, and annoying, and terribly distracting; but not everyone in life has an emotional breakdown when they are stuck in a loud crowd - so staying calm is an important step along the path to dealing with said powers. Or at least, not seeming like another sterotypically crazy New Yorker. Feeling suddenly calmer, but with her hand still holding the cell phone against her ear, Granuaile turns towards Claire and Parley. She seems much better now - not good, but much better. She closes her eyes for a moment, breaths in deeply, and is silent for a moment. Opening her eyes, she glances at Parley, then puts her cellphone on mute, then glances at Claire. "Well god bless me." she says, in a thick, lilting Irish accent. "I'm sorry, I...em..." She pauses for a moment, shaking her head briefly, as if distracted by a noise. "I didna not mean to startle you." She points to her head. "Just a bit of a headache, I'm afraid. Just feeling a bit under the weather." She tries to smile reassuringly. She fails miserably. "It's fine, dear," Claire explains, and every bit of her seems to radiate warmth and sweetness, *despite* all that previous vitriol she was dripping into her cell-phone. As she speaks, she waves reassuringly to the woman, leaning heavily on her cane as she starts to move forward -- and then, Claire's mind is /focusing/ on Granuaile. It's not an... intrusion. Not quite. More like a wave of calmness, of /clearness/, sweeping down to crash down on the girl's mind from all sides. A sense of control; of serenity; distracting sounds and irrelevant noises becoming less noticeable. "Are you sure you're alright? You said something about people blathering about dogs, and cigarettes." Mild amusement touches her face; her mind, meanwhile, regards the woman with careful, concerned suspicion. "I don't mean to pry, of course!" Parley's presence... Claire seems aware, but /not/ aware. Background noise. Not important. But she /knows/ someone's there. Nibbling at her thoughts. Parley is the ultimate toe-nibbler feeder fish of the mental sea. He lurks to the side, arms crossed and eyes sharply skipping over the other pedestrians of the park. The effects of soothing and evening seem to mostly wash past him like autumn leaves; he allows it in for a small sampling, like a shaving of chocolate melting on the tongue, and then disperses around the rest. "...Do you feel 'under the weather' often?" he inquires. Granuaile smiles at Parley's question, almost despite herself. Its a funny question - to her, at least. She gives him a wry grin, almost an impish smirk, before feeling the /focusing/ of Claire. She's not quite sure what Claire is doing, but she does have the particular sensation that Claire is doing it, as if an umbrella were suddenly held out amidst a thunderstorm. Her natural impulse is to lie, of course. She is not particularly fond of mutants, much less the thought of being one - but, sensing an effect, but not quite sure what it is, she instead tells the truth. It goes against the grain, but it comes out. "I am now." she says, honestly. "What did you do? I havn't felt like this in a week." Claire hears Parley's question -- she perks at the sound, and turns, as if noticing him for the first time. Funny, she had almost forgotten... oh. The calico patterns. The old woman's tentative smile gets a bit wider. "Oh, dear," she says, "I seem to have stumbled into a /bundle/ of curiosities!" It is followed by a sly look Granuaile's way, followed by a sweep of her pinched fingers across her mouth -- zip it up! Loose lips sink ships. "Magician's secret," she says, and then: "How do you know I did anything at all? Maybe you just need to focus." That steady swell of calm remains stable and focused upon her. It's difficult to even /describe/ the feeling, beyond this sense of... ordering. The mind becoming less chaotic; more structured. More /functional/. The distractions -- the pain -- the voices -- they're all still there. But suddenly, it's like they're not such a big deal. It's like her brain suddenly knows how to /handle/ it. In a delicate skate across surface ripples, Parley conveys to Claire a thoughtful << (...useful.) >>. It's said more in concept than word, a precisely laid observation that might be a compliment, if reserved. A businesslike compliment. To Granuaile, he says aloud, "-- what have you been experiencing?" Flannels and jeans, his tone is the neat edge accustomed with librarians or those that are or work regularly with scientists. Another quick-glance over his shoulder adds, "We should perhaps be moving on." Take a hike. "Em." Granuaile says again, pondering for a quick moment what to do. The mental affect is ... quite welcome. Certainly, she doesn't think she would have been able to keep up as she was forever; or at least, not while being as upset about it as she was. But as helpful as the woman is - if it was the woman, she seems to have an aversion, either to the young man, or to the public area.... And then Granuaile realizes she's been walking around for the past few days muttering like a crazy person. Well, at least she's in New York, where such things are not terrible uncommon. When in Rome... But, regardless of what the woman meant, it is easier, and safer, to fall back into a lie. Lies come so easy. "Just very tired." she replies to the two. "Sorry if I disturbed you. ... It -would- be nice to get a bit of exercise." she admits. "The trees are a welcome respite from the city streets. Its a very pretty park. Wish I'd come here before." At the ripple of thought in Claire's mind, there's scarcely a twitch of her eyebrow; her mind is practiced in the art of such communication, her mental voice clear and crisp. Even if she herself is incapable of it. << Sometimes, >> she responds, and now there is an image of Granuaile in her mind, crisp and clear and focused -- followed by the thought: << Telepath? >> "I live in New York, dear. Bizarre outbursts do not disturb me; rather, their absence leaves me with a creeping sense of paranoia. That being said: Would you care to walk a little with me, perhaps? Maybe it would clear your head. Don't say yes merely out of /politeness/," she quickly adds, a rush of vinegar in her tone. << I have never encountered someone who does this without words, >> she tells Parley. << Unusual. Interesting. I also notice I keep nearly forgetting you are there. >> << (empath = me.) >> Parley answers quietly, a polite echo of mishmash ideas and sensations cobbled together haphazardly in conveyance. << (i'm not very good/easy to miss.)(blank smile?) >> The two concepts fit rather well together with a delicate ducking inward. A moment later, he creeps up again, a few 'inches' to the left << (you are? a what?) >> He steps back to invite the other two to walk within his vicinity, though in careful heel-to-toe steps maintains a slight, polite distance. Maybe he's NOT WITH these people. << (she is. too new. no shielding.) >> "I'm from Dublin. Much like you New Yorkers, we don't really do things to be polite." Granuaile says. Well, not entirely true, sterotypes being what they are - but anything for a chuckle. She is completely oblivious to the telepathic conversation going on around her; even if she catches little french bits of it...hey, she's probably hearing tiny little bits of a dozen other things, too. She wouldn't know the difference if her life depended on it. She walks beside the older woman, smirking humerously to alieviate some of the vinegar of her tone and the tension in her words. "My head could certainly use some clearing, aye." << {I make things more clear.} >> Claire explains, and there is an image of a mental storm cloud suddenly evaporating. << {Or less clear.} >> she adds, although she provides no mental image for /that/ particular aptitude. There is also a lingering flavor of self-directed disapproval toward that aspect of her power. << {A type of empathy, but not emotion. More like optimization/deoptimization.} >> The image of a computer being defragmented; running faster, sharper, more /cleanly/. Claire glances to the girl as Parley mentions the newness. << {That was my first guess. That or mental illness. I would like to help her, but I suspect she is resistant. I have never seen you before, despite being in this part of the city often. I try to make a note of telepaths. New?} (Mew?) >> She can't stop that last thought from sneaking in through the back door. It's accompanied by an /adorable/ kitten. Her left lip quirks up. "Good!" she responds, and suddenly her free hand has come about to give Granuaile a warm -- although quite firm! -- pat on the back. The woman shakes her cane as she starts to walk -- giving Granuaile a wink: "Oh, and don't fret; I'll keep my pace nice and slow so as not to leave you behind." Tap, tap. "These headaches, they have only started recently, yes?" << {If you follow, I do not think she will notice.} >> << Ah! >> Small firespark of recognition, like finding a missing puzzle piece! Parley's mind notches in amiably beside Clair in quick recognition of function that's flushed warmer suddenly, mentally quoting a tidbit of Granuaile's words through their shared mindspace: his recital of /other/ people's speaking is, compared to his own, /rich/, it rolls with full sentiment and transcends the English barrier - it isn't /in/ French. It's just not in... anything. It's in /everything/. << (clarify-language/communication). Mew. >> Mew. DAMN - /mew/. That gets stuck in his head INSTANTLY, peppering his further dialogue. << (not seen you either)mew(maybe all are new)mewmew. >> Then, a transmission most telepaths and empaths must know well by now: ($*#^#) He is following along beside the women, watching with a great deal more curiosity, eavesdropping on his PREY. (It is easy prey. He doesn't even have to stalk through the bushes.) "I'll try not to dawdle." Granuaile replies good naturedly. "Yes, quite recently. Makes me a bit grumpy and irritable, hard to sleep when your head is pounding. I never used to be subject to...migranes. I was hoping the park would help me relax - that seems to have worked." "When I was a child, I had a friend and classmate with a similar problem," Claire explains. "It was quite traumatic for the poor duckling. She would actually hear voices...!" Clair clucks her tongue, as if this was so very unfortunate. "Even stranger -- she eventually discovered the voices were not from her head, but rather, /other/ people's!" << {How pawsitivly wonderfurrl!} >> Oh, goodness. Whatever Parley's got, it seems to be infectious. She is mentally /giggling/. << {The empathic camouflage -- it's part of it, isn't it? When a translator is doing their job purrfectly, you don't notice them doing it at all.} >> Then, on a more serious note: << {Are you safe? Do you have somewhere to stay? This city is dangerous for your kind. Even if you are hard to notice.} >> << (yes; I am useful)mew. >> Parley suggests a drear smile with the words, even if manifested in a subtle glance towards Claire and Granuaile from beneath his tipped-down eyelids. << (I've had practice; do you want to hire me?/I can help.) >> For how quietly stated, it's not /shy/. A bold step forward. << (tomorrow; be here maybe?/only if you like. meet then.) >> His dispersement seems to take permanent affect... in that at some point, he seems to have veered off to travel in a different direction. He's GONE. Save a last polite reassurance: << (I'm safe. You be, too. And her.) >> A companionable /grooming/ is exacted along the exterior of Claire's mind, raspy-edged in just enough manner to align a few mental hairs. And then he's gone, and the two women are left to the park. And self-discovery. Granuaile frowns. "Yes, we've all heard of that." she says, a slight hint of dissaproval entering into her voice. "I hope I shall be more fortunate and that the migranes will pass. Not every headache is something to get alarmed about." She checks her cellphone momentarily, and then puts it back. "Some thoughts hold less relish then others, that is all. If you'll excuse me - I'm afraid I don't even know your name, but...I do thank you for walking with me. I really must be going, however." << {I will be.} >> Whether that's an answer to Parley's question concerning Claire hiring -- or if she'll be here tomorrow -- or if she'll be safe -- she does not answer. And by that time, Parley is gone. At Granuaile's response to her 'my friend has these issues' ploy, Claire smiles politely; when she mentions she must be going, she nods her head. "Of course, dear. I beg your pardon for prattling off like this! Perhaps we'll see each other again, sometime." She gives Granauile's mind one last *wash* of that cleansing focus... then she releases. The effects will linger -- but without reinforcement, without practice, without /training/ and /shielding/, that endless feed of information will creak back in. Inevitably.