maskormenacelogs | AGE PLOT SHENANIGANS

[Day-to-day living means keep his head down. Sometimes he's too good at that. Sometimes seeing people can be a temptation in of itself. Mitchell no longer subscribes to embracing the world. That part of him he shed, long ago. Ignoring everything, ignoring everyone--it's easier than confronting anything.

But it leaves him blind. Attentiveness means he can protect his friends, or at least have an ear out for what's going on. In a place like this, that can be so important. And nothing illustrates that so completely as this: Kitty (because it is her), small and slight and round-faced, but marked with hard suspicion. That part is an exaggeration of her, like a funhouse mirror.

He stares at her a moment longer. And then he drops his cigarette on the ground and crushes it under his heel, grinding it into the pavement. His fingers go to his hair, smoothing it back, a nervous, compulsive gesture.]

Shit.

[Quiet, and heavy. He studies her face again, quickly. Now that he knows what he's looking for, he sees it. The queer tightness in the corners of her eyes, that's what suggested precociousness. World-weary, almost, but not resigned. Shit.]

How long have you been like this?

A day.

[ A day of feeling like this. Angry, and scared, and she doesn't know what else. Everything feels wrong. Everything just sits wrong in her memory, like a too-tight glove, like a shoe that doesn't fit. It's like the memories that she's got don't fit with her brain, and it just makes her so furious, so furious and - She doesn't even know. She doesn't know.

She jumps up off the bench. She walks a little ways past Mitchell, to glare out at the park past him. Even the way she moves is different - hunched shoulders, hands thrust in her pockets. ]

Don't think I'm mad asking this. But when we first met. The two of us. What were the circumstances?

[ She turns then to look at him, to search his eyes directly. In that moment, a little of her desperation and fear show through. Just a bit, under the hardness. ]

[He follows her, with his eyes, but he doesn't actually follow her. Not yet. The ferocity in the way that she stands, the way it's undercut by that look that she gives him, as she turns around--he stays where he is, watching her.]

You were working, selling frozen bananas. Chocolate dipped. I came and bought a couple. Didn't actually eat 'em. They made you wear a hat, it was-- shaped like a banana.

When I talked t' you next, you'd chucked the job.

[He falls silent a moment, but still doesn't go after her. Again, he searches her face.]

Why are you askin'.

[ Just what she remembers. To the letter. Is that good? Does that support the reality of this? Or does the fact that the details match up perfectly mean that there's someone ensuring that everything is identical between them? Or (most likely) was that just stated in such broad strokes that there's nothing to contradict there? It just makes her so mad. It makes her feel like she's going mad.

She drives her hands further into her pockets. ]

I don't know. Things feel wrong. Really wrong.

Well, you are kind of shorter. I imagine that changes perspectives.

[A grim kind of joke. He puts his hands in his pockets, a gesture that's almost an echo of hers, as he continues to hang back. The urge to draw closer is there, even by one or two steps, but he resists for the moment. She looks as if she might fold up into herself, or run away--not in a panic, necessarily, but a fit of anger.

What feels wrong is a stupid question. The question he actually asks feels just as obvious, and stupid--but going and putting an arm around her and saying there, there would be just as stupid. Maybe worse.]

Why did you want to know how we'd met?

Because -

[ She bites her lip. Her worry that this will sound stupid again butts up against her angry thought that she shouldn't care if she sounds stupid. She shouldn't even be tempted to laugh at his jokes. She scowls a moment later, and says, firmly as she can: ]

I wanted to see if you remembered the same things as me.

I don't trust our memories. I don't...think they're right.

You mean, your memories, 'cause--

[He gestures, toward her. 'Cause you're small are the words that he's probably looking for, really, but he settles instead for--]

--'Cause you've been affected, by-- this? You think it's messed with your memories?

Maybe.

[ She tugs uneasily at the hem of her shirt. It fits badly. That should be evidence enough that she's just been affected physically, right? That she already had clothes, but they're the wrong clothes. Right? ]

Or maybe that it's all faked. Maybe nothing we think is real.

[ She looks down and gives half a shrug. ]

Maybe.

[Mitchell is still watching her when he realises that he's got one hand pressed against his chest, a small and unconscious gesture. There is nothing underneath his hand. His glove, against the soft flannel of his shirt, against his t-shirt, against cold skin. No heartbeat, not one that occurs with any regularity to really notice.]

No.

[He drops his hand to his side.]

No, not everything. We're really here. You're really here. All right? I know you are. And I know I am. [It shades a little more bitter: like he could forget.] Maybe there's something false that they've put in your head, whoever did this to you. But it's not all false.

This'll get reversed, Kitty. It always does.

[ She gives a short, sharp shrug. She thinks that he's right, but she feels he isn't. Because it feels so much deeper, so much deeper and wronger than just something that can be reversed. She feels these lies in her bones. And she feels like...

It's so confusing. Because she remembers learning so much, and she remembers looking back on her younger self and thinking, I was nothing more than a tool. She feels now like the image that her older self had of her. She feels like a little fool, but it's in the here and now, and it's...it's hard, it's - strange, it's...

She feels mad.

She rubs her eyes. ]

I just - What if they're using us? What if it's all lies? What if they've done something so that we don't...disobey, or...

[ She looks up at him. ]

I don't think they've got that much control.

['They'. He looks steadily back at Kitty. In his pocket, there's half a pack of cigarettes, and he wants very badly to go for one right now. Smoking cuts both hunger and tension--only a little, but sometimes that little matters very much.]

Any control they've got, it's the same as anyone else's. Government, laws, prisons and police--whatever media propaganda they use for keepin' people in line, if you want t' start sounding paranoid. But controlling us, so we don't disobey? They can't do that. And if they can, it won't stick.

But there are people who've forgotten. People who've been made to forget.

[ You sound paranoid and mad. Yet in spite of that, in spite of that mad paranoia, she can't shake it. She can't even stop herself talking like this. ]

You hear all the time about...imPorts who go home. Come back without memories. When you go through the Porter, right, then...things happen to your brain. Or - it might be these nanites, right? I mean, they're powerful enough that we can just look at something in ancient Greek and read it like it's our native language. If they can switch the language in our brains, why can't they switch other information? Right?

Yeah.

[There's no arguing with any of that. And the impulse to tend toward the paranoid--Mitchell barely needs any encouragement in that direction. It's all a web, isn't it. It's all interconnected.

Except--]

But then why don't they do it all the time? If they want to make us forget everything, by poking around in our heads--then they could leave it so we didn't remember at all. So that we didn't even question if they could do it or not. If they were really keen on tying up loose ends, they'd pull all of it out of our heads. And every time we thought to question it, they'd wipe us clean.

But they don't. Because I don't think it's something they can control. Maybe they say they can, maybe it seems like it. But it's beyond then. See, that's the thing, about bein' in control. Nearly half of your power comes of convincing people you can do anything. They get to thinking that and they start giving credit for stuff you can't possibly do.

Maybe - maybe they do do it all the time. Maybe tomorrow or later, we'll lose memory of this conversation. Maybe it's happened before, or...something.

[ But it is true...If they have control, why would they make her be someone who remembers fighting so ferociously against the government? Why would they give her this undercurrent of anger? Right now, she wants to go and fight. They'd make her different if they could...Right?

She reaches up and tugs on a strand of hair. It's weird. It's too long. It feels wrong, being this long, not sitting just below her ears. ]

I don't know. I must sound like a complete bloody nutter right now.

Hey.

[He's not all that tall, but he's still got to crouch down to get more on her level. It feels a little ridiculous--but it would be worse to take her by the shoulders and stare down at her, right? Like he's imparting some great wisdom on her.

So instead he crouches, to meet her eye, very seriously.]

It doesn't. [A beat; fairly, he adds--] Or it does. But that's only 'cause we're here in the first place, and all of this sounds mad.

But we're going to remember this conversation. Just like I remember all the other conversations we've had. And you remember them too--I know you do, 'cause you've probably got a better memory than I do. [Not true: vampires forget nothing. But it's nice to say.] And whatever's done this to you, it'll get reversed, the way that it always does. They'll figure it out. And if it doesn't, we'll find a way to turn you back. I swear we will.

All right?

[ That catches in her throat. He looks into her eyes, and he looks so earnest, and so certain, and...It's stupid, but for a moment she just wants to fling her arms around him and cry. She's so scared, and so unsure of herself right then - and she thinks that it was probably nothing at all that made it happen. Just this stupid pointless thing. Getting aged down. But - Kitty's always relied on her cleverness - her wits and her luck have always acted together to get her out of trouble. They've always worked to help her accomplish things. The thought that her wits are so easy to dislodge -

It scares her so bad. She holds herself together enough that she doesn't grab at him - except for one little gesture, a hand hooked in his coat. And she doesn't cry - except for the tears that well up in her eyes and get blinked back. Neither of those count. Definitely - definitely neither of those count. ]

Yeah.

[ And if her voice sounds shaky...If her voice sounds shaky, then she's sure he'll overlook it. ]

You're right. I'm...

[ A breath. ]

Thanks. Thanks, Mitchell.

[He reaches out to grip at her hand without thinking, pulling her hand close like this somehow seals the deal. And of course he doesn't say anything about the shakiness of her voice, or any shininess in her eyes--even if he notices, he doesn't say anything.]

Hey, yeah.

[He gives her a smile, encouraging.]

You're going to be all right. Now come on, let's get out of this park. I'll buy you a deep-fried chocolate bar.

[ That actually draws a smile from her. Not a laugh, but a smile - a little sad, a little shaky, but it counts. And she says: ]

That sounds completely foul. I definitely want it.

[ She's too caught up in herself right now. If she were a little more aware, she'd remember that she's careful about touching people - that she always is careful to make certain that her power won't be dangerous to them, and she doesn't know whether her power is dangerous to him. They never figured that out. But she's so wrapped up in her problems - so she just shifts her hand, and just tightens her grip on his fingers like they're a lifeline. ]

[Mitchell smiles at her answer, and starts to respond--make some joke that will get a real laugh out of her, however weak, it'll be a start--

But her fingers grip at him, a momentary squeeze of pressure--and somewhere deep in his chest, Mitchell feels an echo of that pressure, a pulse, like the kind of jolt you get when you touch your fingers against an electric socket. The shadow of it passes across his face, deadens his smile--]

What's--

[--Or so he starts, but the word smears. And for a moment--just a moment, the span of two heartbeats, two real heartbeats, steady and sure--under the grip of Kitty's fingers, his hand goes warm, almost hot, a flush of life.]

[ She feels that warmth, but the cause of it doesn't really register. She just sort of looks up at him, puzzled, and puzzled by his expression. He looks...pained? Unhappy? Miserable? She honestly can't tell, and she doesn't understand. So, hesitantly, tentatively, she asks - ]

Mitchell...?

[He tries to raise his other hand to press against his chest, but the gesture is cut off midway through, a reach that isn't completed. He sucks in a breath--or tries to, at least, but his inhalation is more of a rattle in his dry throat--]

Th--

[Whatever he's going to say, he doesn't even manage to complete the word. Instead, his gaze fixes on the grasp of her fingers, and he tugs backwards, once, sharp, and pulls his hand free.

And all that warmth goes out of him all at once, sucked neatly away, and the tight feeling in his chest lets up in that same instance. With a gasp, Mitchell stares down at his hand, at his fingers that still retain some tingle of warmth to them.]

Jesus.

Oh -

[ My power. Kitty goes a little pale as she realizes - the warmth in him, the pain, it'll be because of her. Because she nullifies powers. Including vampirism -

She draws back at once, face going pale. ]

Oh my God - Mitchell - Are you all right?

Yeah--

[He flexes his fingers, experimentally--and then shakes out his hand, quickly, a single sharp movement, a twist at his wrist. Christ.]

Yeah, yeah, I'm-- [And slowly, it starts to become true, as the whole thing fades altogether. Familiar cold and familiar stillness, and a feeling rather like emerging from beneath the surface of the water--a rush, as everything fills in and filters out all at once. Uncertainly, he laughs.]

I'm fine. [With more strength, he looks up at Kitty, and sees the fear written there. For a moment, as everything in him struggles to readjust, realign--he likes it. The look of fear. It plays on some sense in him, some dark little space.

He shakes that off too. The smile that he gives her is still a little unsure--but it's real.]

Sorry. Yeah. Look, it's all right. No harm done. It was just-- weird, for a moment.

[ It doesn't look all right. He still looks like he's been slapped, or nearly electrocuted. Maybe the latter comparison is better - given a short hard shock through his hand, one that kicked life through him again, like one of those paddles they've got at the hospital. God, how awful. How miserable. Did it hurt? She wonders. It must have, right?

But...What, then. Her touch warmed him. Her touch made his heart beat again. There's a stupid part of her that thinks that's enchanting, and that thinks about the fact that - Well. They can touch. She can touch him. That's nice, right?

Stupid being stupid. ]

All right.

[ She swallows past her dry throat. Her arms cross over her chest; her face is uncertain. ]

Sorry. I didn't even...think about that. About my powers. I ought to have done.

[ And then, hesitantly: ]

Should we...get you to a hospital?

No.

[He refuses the offer, quickly--and then, relaxing, he repeats:]

No. It's all right. Hospital's more of a hassle for me than anything else. Doctors don't like anyone that hasn't got a regular heartbeat. Prejudiced.

[But he glances down at his hand again, on heartbeat, as the memory of that small moment overtakes him again. Without the actual warmth, without the grip of Kitty's hand, and the course of sudden life, he's got no way to frame it. His best comparison is the froth of blood under his teeth, in his throat. It had felt like that, only-- backwards, somehow. A heart's pulse, and the thrum of blood in veins, alive.

He looks up at Kitty again, and drops his hand. His smile this time is slightly stronger.]

It's fine. Really. And don't apologise. Neither of us were thinking--and no harm's been done. There's nothing to be sorry for. And if you apologise again-- [Heading her off, with a quick flash of humour; see how totally fine he is?] --I won't be buying you any deep fried chocolate bars at all.

Edited (oops) 2015-04-01 17:04 (UTC)

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kittenjones - 2015-04-01 17:12 (UTC) - Expand

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