Potato of Her Eye

[Avis]

The answer 'yes' leapt to her lips, and though they parted, her lungs did not give the word life.

With every positive came a negation. Every idea, a counter. Such was the struggle of the universe, the nature of life. With every dream of brightness and light came realities gutted by seething darkness. Indeed, it was that darkness that Avis knew best. Had known since the night her father had opened the door and accidentally let them in. The Puppeteers, she'd called them, her mind searching for a definition, a name, where none really fit. It had been people twisted by a flower that should never have bloomed that had introduce her to the brutal art of carving flesh sculptures. It had been a flower that bloomed not towards the light of the supernal, but towards the malicious void of the abyss.

Since then, she had seen the effect of other, similar flowers. The Banishers. The Seers. Others who's roots didn't dig deep but spread outward, climbing trees and smothering out any form of life that was not them.

"No," Avis replied finally, her voice softened by the sadness she felt at having to admit that Truth.

"Some flowers are weeds. Some are poison. It's the job of the gardeners to make sure those don't grow, to make it safe for other flowers, or for whoever might walk in the garden. The issue isn't that plants are getting pruned, or pulled, it's that the current gardeners aren't working for the good of the garden, their doing it for a paycheck and at the whims of selfish people that want to keep the garden all to themselves."

[Star]

It's True.

You don't give fire to a kid. Besides themselves? They can burn down the house. And those are just accidents. Who knows what the insect-leg-pulling-off little deviants would do. Then there are always the Strikers. Not accidents. Not malicious. Just... stupid.

Hands splayed in a surrender gesture.

"Okay, I'm sold." See what happened there? "Where do I sign up?"

A little smile slipped out. C'mon. A little joke never hurt anyone, especially when it's not super hard to figure out the detour thoughts had made.

"So, that's the pitch. It needs a little polishing, but you get the gist. This is Your Mission, should you choose to accept it."

Cue music. Skip the messenger self destructing.

[Avis]

"Well, I think at the end of the meal they'll bring you something to sign," Avis deadpanned, finally closing her menu and setting it aside. "Although I suppose a man of your calibre likely wouldn't pay with a card. Unless it wasn't technically his card."

A slow smile appeared, sliding into place, another clue for their charade.

"I suppose, if I do accept then we won't really be going to dance after our meal, will we? It would be...Oh, I'll have the lobster please," Avis interjected when the waitress returned. "Also, some sparkling water. Whatever brand you have will do..."

She waited for Star to order and then leaned forward as the waitress left, the scars on her arms seeming to bleed into the stark white table cloth.

"As I was saying, I suppose somewhere among the waltzing there'll be a mark? And we'll have to learn whatever we can without drawing suspicion."

[Star]

"The porterhouse. Medium rare, but closer to rare? Then sear the top? Thanks."

Being a picky order-er lets them know you care. Really. They love it.

"Oh, it's cash," a finger tapped a pocket, the Wrong Pocket, after the waitress left. "Mission stipend. No paper trails. We are invisible." One day, that might be True. Blow the dust off of the Light & Sound books, yo.

Not his card? Totally. Doable.

"And zero impact. I try not to fish in the, umm, creches unless I have to?" That's an apologetic smile. It was Totally less fun, but one thing leads to another and the next thing you know you're in Vegas with a brick of coke, a duffel bag of lifted cash, and making an escape rope out of bedsheets to go over the balcony with. It. Could. Happen. A long finger reached out to rifle the edges of pink and white packets in a porcelain holder. "Besides? It's a restaurant. A little pepper in the eyes, some non-dairy creamy to foam up the saliva, and 'Hey Presto' you've got yourself an Emergency Allergic Reaction."

Eyes skittered up and away from forearms And More. Leaning forward? That's not a hoodie, yo. Super. Distracting.

"But there might be a target, later. Or a suspect. If there is? Can you handle it? Threat Assessment, while dancing. Purse or wallet, where will you put it? Or do you double the risk and return it? Can you memorize an entire Driver's License number and address with one read? What's your play if you get caught?"

Because Professional Curiosity.

Or Improbable Mission Force interview.

[Avis]

"Oh really? That's how the improbables handle a check that's too steep?" Avis asked with a laugh, straightening back up in her seat. She could imagine it all too well. Scarlet lines etching themselves across the whites of his eyes, tears erupting between his lashes, complete with some nice guttural groans and a visceral stream of drool. Funny, because of how effective of an illusion that would be.

"I'm almost wishing you'd forgotten your wallet. Of course, then you might just turn to me, and then I'd have to get creative. I'm not as much a fan of props. I'm more improv oriented. You know, some word salad, throw in a nice dressing of convulsion, maybe add a little garnish by biting into a lip. You have to be careful of your head, especially when the tables are spaced this closely together, but a little audience involvement is never a bad thing." She shared another smile with him, the expression feeling odd beneath the color the make-up person had added to her lips, and then shrugged.

"Of course, both of those things might make the second part of the assignment more difficult. The trick there is to blend in, instead of stick out. I mean, unless you have a partner to play off of. Then a distraction wouldn't be a bad thing. Say you faked a reaction there, it wouldn't be hard to get a purse from the coat check, one which might have the urgent medicine, or to get a wallet from a rubbernecking onlooker. If I couldn't get such a distraction then I suppose I'd just have to do a classic lift. Then, disappear to the bathroom, take pictures, then go give it to the lost and found. If I got caught, well, I'm not sure what I'd do. Whatever inspiration came to me in the moment, I suppose. You?"

[Star]

"Well, with a little prep we could have been food critics for the Bee."

A grin flashed.

"Word salad? I'm a fan too." No, really. Salads had been getting tossed, not Chris Rock's Tossed Salad, for months. "And, sure, the props have some, ummm. Lingering effects? But the foamy saliva really," a hand formed a fist and made a small punching gesture, "Sells it."

Sells it better than a chinchilla selling a punch, at least.

"So maybe skip the pepper. You got me there. On the second part? But it's solid for a one-act set. I knew this guy, this is a true story, I knew this guy who could...." Fingers lifted a pink packet of Fake Sugar, and slid over it. "Read what a card was by feeling the ink. Pretty cool trick. Not so hot on something laminated, like a driver's license, but still pretty cool. I'm not sure if he could do actual writing." The packet settled on the back of knuckles and slowly began rotating, twining over and under fingers in a slow circuit around the hand.

For a moment? A grin and silence. Just take another moment, listen to the laughter, watch the glimpse of teeth in the smiles.

"Me? I'm always in for the classic bump and lift. At the bar, shouldering in for a drink. At the bathroom, bad timing on the door entry. Dancing's easy. A twirl too far. A flinch from a stepped on foot. It's like a distraction factory. I'll go for memorizing the card." A light shrug. Who ever said the Eyes can't see? ...And remember. Some people train to be murderbots, others... Xerox machines.

"You know," the free hand pointed. "I did get caught. Recently. I had this thing I was doing with a couple of chicks. Both were a little wet behind the ears, one of them was cool, the other can be a real B." Soft laughter chuffed out. It's just a story, yo. "Anyway? Hotel lobby. I made a solid bump and grab but the mark caught it. I don't know if he was a pro or just got lucky. What do i do?"

Expressive hands flared out in a questioning gesture. In one, two fingers held up a white package of sugar.

"Lucky for me, he was mistaken. It wasn't his card."

That's not exactly what happened -- but close enough. This isn't a park. Nobody's making butterflies to Impress The Girl.

"I think we're good, though. For later? As long as you can fake being a little clumsy on a dance floor."

Under the mop, an eye slowly winked.

Because Faking It.

  bleah, barely

Date		Action		Roll		Result
2015-08-24 23:22:00		Star rolls 8 to Swap a packet (10 Again)		8, 7, 7, 1, 5, 3, 8, 2		2 successes
2015-08-24 23:21:45		Star rolls 8 to Palm a packet Dex + Larceny (10 Again)		5, 10, 8, 4, 1, 2, 7, 4, 7		2 successes

[Avis]

"I don't think that'll be that hard to do. Or that strange to see. They've got a dance lesson to start the night out, and I've never really danced before, so, you know. Even your toes will be in jeopardy. Which makes you wonder, doesn't it? What if you're actually the mark. What if the IMF got turned onto a plant and I'm really here just to find out your identity. A few broken toes and the expense of a lobster dinner will just be the added bonuses," Avis teased, nudging his foot with hers under the table.

[Star]

"I could be. Maybe."

Eyebrows bobbed. Who's a mole? Chinchilla, maybe.

Fingers fluttered a cloth napkin open and arranged it as the food appeared. Eyes examined the cut of meat, knife slicing into it critically before offering an approving nod. Little dishes of baby carrots and shallots were deposited with the mint sauce. For her, a large brownish red crustacean with a cracked tail and meat billowing up and out of it.

Lobster? An Illusion within an Illusion. Not the meat. The price. First? You have to find out market price. And that's per ounce. Then you have to find out how many ounces you're getting. Because who would ever order it if they knew it was going to be eighty dollars?

"Thaaaaaanks."

A beaming smile was offered to the expediter. Now, shoo.

"What if I am?" A fork dipped into the mint sauce. Remember: taste it before you drizzle it. "Maybe I know you know." Was anyone at the table a Sicilian? "Maybe I've been completely honest, and my sales pitch is for the Fifth Column I'm starting within the IMF."

Long fingers holding a knife an fork paused over the meat. The meat of the matter. Unintentional? But sometimes wherever you go, there you are. Beneath the table, a foot slipped out of a shoe and ran over the proffered foot.

"I'm sorry. My seduction. Not my sales pitch."

The knife slid cleanly through the meat, and the fork dipped an edge into the mint before bringing it up to be slowly chewed.

Perfect.

[Avis]

A look of surprise filtered across Avis features at the strange contact beneath the table cloth. 'Cause no matter how committed one was to a role, or how well practiced, a role was only as stable as the knowledge base which it rested upon. For most, the idea of 'footsie' was beyond common. Perhaps cliche, or droll, for those in this wealth bracket. But tere were different things you learned, growing up as Avis did, circumstance winding different emotional bows around each parcel of experience. So that sudden contact of warm, shoelessness against her own stocking clad foot, and the strange energy which Star imbued it with, startled her. Stripped her, suddenly, of the charade, left her shivering in the sudden nakedness of ignorance and discomfort.

Her limb disappeared from the contact, retreating, an involuntary shudder rising through her body as she shifted to cross both feet and tuck them beneath her chair.

A moment too late, a hand strayed upward to tuck invisible strands of hair behind an ear, a flimsy mask for the reaction.

"Is it good?" she asked in the vacuum, bending her eyes towards her own meal.

It reminded her of a giant cockroach, suddenly. She'd actually eaten one, once. Figured it didn't look too different from a crawdad, at the time. It was an oddly unremarkable memory, though she remembered the shell hurt her gums. Thankfully, with the Lobster, she didn't have to worry about that.

[Star]

It takes a while, to get used to. Think of Sleeping Beauty. Or Captain America, frozen in the ice. Figuring it out gets easy once it clicks: the cues. That physical retreat, sudden, like an extremity had been burned, the only difference in the scale of violence.

Wait for it... the folding arms...

"Pretty good!"

A fork tinked off the mint sauce. "But I think I'll just put the mint on the last bite or two. Here..."

Hands began moving, pulling a little bread plate closer and then cutting off a generous portion of the meat. Juice welled out, pooling around the meat. That's what it was. Sure, the mint gave that peppy little clean kick to it, but it totally interfered with the meaty juice crushed out of every bite downward.

"...Try it. With or without the mint."

The little plate slid over. Besides? Lobster is easy to mess up. Just a little too long and you've got a huge pencil eraser. Seriously. Ever chew on a pencil eraser? Just. Like. That.

"And you? I mean, yours? How is it?"