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evilbeejPoor Harlan the Friendly Ghost. He's all depressed because his body's in the hospital and only weird people can see him, and Seishi who was nice /and/ normal is asleep, and then he has the misfortune of getting run into by one Pete Wisdom, who no one but Lockheed knows happens to be quitting smoking.
13/07/03
04:43 AM
East Main Street(#166Rs)
Skyscrapers reach into the sky like giant's hands clawing at the sun. The buildings, some framed by decorative statues that was quite the architectural rage twenty years ago, serve as the headquarters for major corporations and financial institutions. Nearly every multinational company holds some form of office in Beacon Harbor, and most of them are along this stretch of Main Street. The gleaming glass and metal of the towering buildings and majestic statues combine to create the picture Main Street known the world over. 'Facts,' one of the most famous restaurants in the city, takes up two floors atop the Metro-Towers building, serving some of the finest northern Italian cuisine found this side of the Atlantic.
It's a clear, calm, dark evening. No wind, nothing stirring except, you know, cars. With people in them. Here and there, a pedestrian. Here and there, a shopkeeper closing up, or people leaving an apartment building dressed to the nines, or just getting home. There's one guy, not especially in particular except for the fact that he's rhythmically clicking a pen as he walks down the street, walking down the street. Click-cl-CLICK-cl-click-cl-CLICK-cl-click. Occasionally he'll stop and chew on it instead, then go back to clicking it.
Harlan left Seishi sulkily at one point, promising her that he wouldn't stray too far. He explored a little, but as it got darker, he just got more and more depressed. Currently, he's slumped on a bus stop bench, swinging his feet back and forth along the ground. The strange thing is, it makes no sound when his feet hit things. People seem to ignore him completely, which in and of itself isn't unusual. Until a man with a beard and a business suit reaches an arm right across his shoulder to throw something in the garbage. When he pulls back, it appears that his arm goes right through the boy's head. Harlan doesn't seem to notice, or if he does, he doesn't care. The clicking pricks up his ears, but he's slow to lift his head.
And, well. Mister Spy, always watching. Never know when the sidewalk might bite you or something. He eyes Harlan, slowing as he approaches, clicking the pen. Stupid goddamn pen. Pete, in fact, squints. "You're new, yeah? Good idea - using powers. Bad idea - using powers in public." I have never seen you before in my life. Someone who can phase, oh yes, I /would/ know about. You are /new/.
There's a twitch across Harlan's face as he lifts his head to look at Pete. "Powers?" he sounds confused. He noticed that guy, yeah. But there was no use of powers involved. The spy is given a long, searching look. He seems broken, and a bit distraught. Getting to his feet soundlessly, he tucks his hands in his pockets. There's a woman across the way who's giving Pete a funny look, paused in her movements.
Said woman's abrupt arrest of motion gets a flicker of attention from Pete, who curtly flips her off and turns his gaze back to Harlan. "Unless you're stuck that way," he grants, grudgingly. Click-cl-click-cl-click. Aw a kid stuck phased. The Kitty he originally knew got that way at one point, almost killed herself because of it. "You /are/ new here, right?"
"Astral plane." Harlan murmurs matter-of-factly. "A ghost, essentially." And a head-bob answers the question. "Several hours ago. Met someone nice, but she went to sleep. It's weird, not to need sleep." The woman continues to stare, and when a friend of hers approaches, she nudges and giggles and motions to Pete.
At the giggling, Pete turns again and glares, eyes briefly flashing bright red. "Fuck off! I could be an angel, for all you know!" Extra-surly, he looks back at Harlan and chews on the pen for a second. "You're not a fucking ghost, that's ridiculous. I don't /care/ what Pryde says." Chew, chew. Remove pen from mouth, hold it between two fingers; take cellphone from pocket. "Who'd you meet? Nice is relative."
Harlan
Harlan Sketch is a study in contrasts. Warm brown skin is spattered with darker freckles over sharp cheekbones and an aquiline, slightly crooked nose. His eyes are deep blue and slightly tapered, with salt and pepper lashes that frame them. His eyebrows are quite dark, but his hair itself is stark blond with chunks of black framing his face, suggesting it's been bleached. His chin is pointed and ears sit low and taper very slightly, giving him a vague appearance of elfishness.
Does this boy own more than one set of clothes? It seems he's wearing the same thing no matter the weather. A tightly-knit burgundy turtleneck sweater is worn, hugging close to his still-growing frame. He's tall, edging over six feet but he still has the boniness of adolescence. Ordinary dark blue jeans are comfortably loose and rest low on his hips. His only accessory is a short silver chain with a quarter-sized medallion bearing an etched, official-looking insignia.
That is, when you can see him at all.
You paged Kitty with 'Your cellphone rings.'.
There's whispers from different people now, who pass by Pete and talk to themselves '...he talking to?' 'Should we call the police?' 'Poor man, must be schitzophrenic'. The two women are effectively scared off, and they duck off down a street, still giggling to themselves. "Not a ghost, really. But like one. Those people?" he points to them, then deadpans, "They can't see me." He stuffs his hands down into his pockets and watches the pen. That is damned irritating. "A woman named Seishi." So trusting to reveal that so easily.
Kitty pages: And is answered. "Pryde."
Kitty pages: Brisk, businesslike, et cetera.
"Oh, that's all right, then," says Pete, fractionally relaxing. He puts the pen in his mouth and opens his phone, dialing quickly; looks up at Harlan again, holding the phone up to one ear and taking the pen out again, once again clicking it, but distractedly this time. Apparently the phone's ringing. "So why can I see you if they can't?" he asks dubiously, then holds the pen up. "Wisdom. You home? Found a stray genie needs a lamp."
You paged Kitty with 'From the phone: "...you if they can't?" *pause* "Wisdom. You home? Found a stray genie needs a lamp."'.
Kitty pages: The disturbing thing is," Kitty says into the cellphone, "I have no idea if you're being literal. No, Blue Notes. Wanted to be findable if people needed."
Harlan opens his mouth to say something, but doesn't say it right away since Pete's talking into the phone. He ends up saying it half to the side, hands dug into his pockets. "'Cause you believe that I exist, that's why. People can't see me if they don't believe in ghosts."
/That/ gets an extraspecially dubious look from Pete, and, eyebrows up, he taps the pen against the air as he's talking - first to Harlan, then to the phone. "Conditional subjectivist reality? Bollocks. I *don't* believe in ghosts." That was eyes on the kid, way up there, then eyes scanning the people who apparently can't see Harlan as he's addressing the person on the other end of the phone. "No no, the /disturbing/ thing is I probably /am/. Says he talked to Seishi. Hold on a second--" Then Pete's looking up at Harlan again, distinctly unimpressed expression on his face. "How d'you feel about jazz?"
Long distance to Kitty: Pete Wisdom | Slightly softer than a second ago, "Conditional subjectivist reality? Bollocks. I *don't* believe in ghosts." Normal phone quality vocal volume, "No no, the /disturbing/ thing is I probably /am/. Says he talked to Seishi. Hold on a second--" Fainter, "How d'you feel about jazz?"
From afar, Kitty | Normal phone quality vocal volume: "Well, /I/ do. Holding." And aside, to someone else: "So, other than weird, how's /your/ life going?"
"You wouldn't be able to see me if you didn't think I could exist." Mumbles Harlan, but in a tone that suggests he's not going to argue right now. He watches the people watching Pete with a little smirk. He can sense that they can't see him. It's kind of amusing, actually. When he realizes he's being addressed again, he turns 'round with a start. Huh? "Jazz? You mean, like the old music?"
"Yeah, like the old music," says Pete, looking - er, well. Crankily sarcastic. "'Cos you're in luck. My wife believes in ghosts, and she's at Blue Notes, and you can tell /her/ your story without her biting your head off, /and/ she's friends with Seishi. But if you don't like jazz you're fucked, 'cos that's what they play there. It being called Blue Notes an' shite." Jesus, someone tell this guy to switch to decaf or something. Into the phone, he adds, "We're coming by. Don't get abducted by aliens or whatever."
Long distance to Kitty: Pete Wisdom | "Yeah, like the old music," says Pete, sounding - er, well. Crankily sarcastic. "'Cos you're in luck. My wife believes in ghosts, and she's at Blue Notes, and you can tell /her/ your story without her biting your head off, /and/ she's friends with Seishi. But if you don't like jazz you're fucked, 'cos that's what they play there. It being called Blue Notes an' shite." Normal volume: "We're coming by. Don't get abducted by aliens or whatever."
From afar, Kitty | Kitty says half-hopefully, to someone else, "Move, maybe?" - and then there's a rather long pause before she speaks into the phone. "I think /you've/ been abducted by aliens. I'm here with Jack Celliers just now, we'll probably still be here when you get in. Love you." And she hangs up.
Harlan seems to cringe at every curse. He's not /used/ to such language. Oh, his poor virgin ears. "Um, sir...?" he never did get the spy's name. "Jazz...where I come from, is pretty old. I...well, my world isn't really like this one." He shrugs and shifts his weight from foot to foot. Then a beat, as his head swivels around. "Wait...you know Seishi?" Small world. Either that or everyone who believes in weird stuff knows each other.
That would essentially be it, actually. Either knows each other or is seperated by like, one degree. "Lo--" Pete stops short, pulls the phone away from his ear, stares at it, /glowers/ at it, then shoves it in his pocket. Click-cl-CLICK-cl-click-cl-CLICK. He looks up at Harlan. "Yes, I know Seishi. And most worlds /aren't/ like this one - but jazz is pretty old here, too. Not in geological terms, but at least in pop cultural. Come on, then, will you?" He starts stalking off in the direction of the badlands, chewing on the pen, hands shoved in his pockets.
Harlan looks left, then right. But he's quite sure no one can hurt him anyway, so he starts after Pete. "Um, I'm Harlan." he offers. At least when the pen's in Pete's /mouth/, he's not clicking it like a maniac. He doesn't float, he walks along. Long legs and the fact that he doesn't need to breathe or has muscles to hurt, means he keeps easy pace with Pete. There's no sound though. No footsteps to match Pete's. And at one point, someone walks right through him, which makes him pause and shiver. Euugh.
Glance aside at Harlan. The Englishman takes the pen out of his mouth again and says somewhat gruffly, "Pete." Pause. "Pete Wisdom. And yeah, that's how I feel about it, too. 'Preciate it if you don't phase through me." /Almost/ apologetically, he adds, "Even hate it when Pryde does it, ain't you."
"What's phasing?" The boy asks as he picks up the pace. This time Harlan's more careful to avoid oncoming folks instead of assuming they'll deke around him. Some will. Some see him as whole and as real as Pete does. But others only half-see him, or don't see him at all. "My...my body is lying in the hospital. Seishi helped get it...me...there."
"The bit with the going through shit," explains Pete, "is phasing. Or at least it is in my wife's case. I don't know what you want to call it." Then his pace slows slightly, and he looks at Harlan again, distinctly less grouchy-looking. "Sorry. Yeah, Seishi's good people. She put you there under your real name? I'm there often enough, can check on you." The neighborhood's got rather less clean and safe, as they're walking along.
"Yeah, I think so. I don't have any records here. No reason not to use my real name. Harlan Sketch. I felt creepy just kind of lurking around her place. So I thought I'd go out. This place is so different from my home." He looks around him and sighs, then lets his gaze go back to Pete. "I don't think I'm phasing anything. I'm on a different plane. My..world.." he hesitates. It's awkward to speak of it that way. "...has a lot of psionics. I was in a special school for people like me. Astral projection, possession, some telekinesis."
"...and was possession an approved hobby there?" asks Wisdom drily, turning down Southland Drive. "Ain't gonna go over too well here, if you're used to doing it. Just as a bit of a warning in advance. Come on, in here." In here where there's blessed secondhand smoke. Click-cl-CLICK-cl-click-cl-CLICK. He pauses just in front of the door opening down into the little jazz club and gives Harlan a - well, there's really no other way of describing it but 'shiteating grin'. "Don't hit your head on the lintel."
Blue Notes -- Badlands
A small, underground jazz club where the smoke curls around the lighting like London fog and the music blows through the room like a so'easterner; sometimes sad and sweet and sometimes firey and joyful. A small, black, wrought-iron spiral staircase near the stage connects the lower floor with an upper 'balcony' area that offers a birds-eye view of the stage. Every wall is covered in blues of eternally varied intensity and infinite brilliance, layered over each other in broad, soft swaths. Small round tables with lacqured blue surfaces and battered, mismatched wooden chairs-all painted smooth blue-cluster loosly around the matchbox stage like groups of friends in a crowded room.
A dark staircase to the far left of the stage leads up to the streets. A pillbox booth stands sentry at the foot of this staircase, where the admitace fees are collected. Along that same left wall is a long, black marble bar, stocked with hundreds of shadow-filled bottles, novicane for the soul. Several spindly barstools, topped with blue velvetine seats, conform to a straggling line in front of the bar. The soothing blue walls are littered with posters of past preformers.
Kitty and Celliers are seated at a largish table; Kitty's hair's braided up and she's got glasses on, there's a stack of closed-laptop and papers to her left, the cellphone to her right, an empty glass in front of her, and a backpack on a chair next to hers. "No /idea/," she admits to Jack. "I haven't thought about it since I was in the whole schoolgirl-horse-obsession phase. When I was, uh, about eight."
Celliers is in his leather jacket, with the collar gleaming above the neck of the t-shirt. A nearly untouched glass of very black stout is sitting before him, and he's grinning boyishly at Kitty over it. "Well. There you go."
"It's not a hobby. It's..." Harlan sighs. "It's actually not really legal to know how to do. It's a long story..." One that he's going to tell later. He never left the PEC more than a handful of times in his life. Which means he's /really/ never been in a jazz club on the wrong end of town. Once they're through the door, the tall boy hangs close to Pete as people moving around pass through hom. Cringe.
Pete Wisdom
Not too tall, fairly thin, bright blue eyes in an almost permanently bemused angular face. Wisdom's black hair needs a cut, seriously, and it's every which way like he's just been sleeping. There are small, insistently visible scars on his face, some around his left eye; there are scars, all old, on his hands and arms; there's a big scar on the side of his neck. And the bemusement, yes, almost always there.
He's dressed in a white Oxford shirt, unbuttoned at the top; a somewhat tatty thin black tie is around his neck, loosened to accomodate the unbuttoning; a black suit jacket and the trousers that came with it (oh my god), and scuffed black dress shoes. Instead of a briefcase or something, he carries a black canvas paratrooper bag, the strap over one shoulder and across his chest.
Hanging over the front of his shirt there are two necklaces - a silver chain with a tiny St Jude pendant and a smooth-worn Star of David, and a black leather thong with a bronze medallion on it: one side an ornate triskellion, the other side the Eye of Horus.
Kitty
As stunning young women go, this one - isn't. Young, yes, early to mid twenties or so; female, yes, with a slim and athletic build; stunning ... no, though she does manage a certain degree of girl-next-door charm. Her chestnut curls reach down to mid-back, markedly gentling the lines of her face. Her jaw, though, has a tendency to set with an almost predictable stubbornness, and there are the faint beginnings of frown lines around her mouth. Her eyes are undoubtedly her best feature, deep brown, large, expressive. Well, sometimes expressive, and sometimes rather pointedly far less readable. She's not that far out of her shell.
A deep-blue silk blouse is tucked loosely into pale, worn jeans, making her look a little taller - that is, making her look average height rather than on the short side. She sports (if that's the word for it) tennis shoes on her feet. She wears three pieces of jewelry: a silver Star of David on a chain around her neck, a pair of plain silvery rings on the usual hand, and a charm bracelet jingling on her left wrist.
Celliers
His face posesses that overbred sculpting generally only found in the lineage of old nobility: refined almost to the point of absurdity. Almost pretty more than handsome - this ivory-skinned young man's features are delicate and androgynous, though with enough strength of bone and line to keep him from looking entirely effeminate. The large eyes are a strange shade of blue, like shadows on glacier ice, set deep under finely drawn brows; the beginnings of crows'-feet etch their corners, if their owner had spent a good deal of time squinting off into the far distance. His nose is long, thin, and slightly arched, almost beakish; his cheekbones are high, with hollows underneath that give him an air of perpetual starvation. Under a thin, mobile mouth, a stubborn jaw ends in a pointed chin. Since he's no longer under the blazing Indian sun that originally bleached his hair to tow, at its roots it's started to revert to its true deep honey color - it's recently been cropped back to only a few inches long. There's a trio of small scars: one curves up from the arch of a brow, one at the corner of his lip, and the third at the outer edge of an eye.
Six foot two, and thin as a rail. He'd appear frail if it weren't for the muscled shoulders and narrow waist. He moves languidly, as if lacking energy, though he gives the impression of being quick enough when need be. Only the long, delicate-looking hands, with their calluses from rein and whip, are never still.
So much for the carefully tailored suits - he's given them up for the moment, though the glossy riding boots remain. Instead, he wears a plain heather grey t-shirt, indigo jeans, and a black leather motorcycle jacket - the golden shield ring is noticeably absent from his finger.
A very curious choice of jewelry - but around the base of his throat sits a perfect circle of silver, with no apparent clasp or opening. It's utterly without mark, save for a large nick across the long access.
And Wisdom, a good four or five inches shorter than the intangible kid behind him, slouches down the steps with one hand in a pocket and the other compulsively clicking a retractable-point pen. "Good, then. Least you're not in the habit. Here, this way--" And he leads the way over to the table occupied by Kitty and Jack, the former at which he glares. "Love you /too/, dammit."
There's one more glass on the table - Scotch, untouched, in front of an empty chair. Kitty reaches for it and offers it up toward Wisdom with a nigh-angelic smile. "Good. In that case, I'll warn you that Hawksmoor paid for this one. Don't worry, Claire distracted him before he could touch it. Who's your friend?"
And Jack, despite decades of operating under 19th century manners, is reduced to staring openly at Harlan for a few heartbeats, before he remembers himself enough to turn back to peer between Kitty and Wisdom. "Good evening," he notes, after a moment.
Wow. This is something else. Harlan wasn't expecting to meet so many people who believe in him enough to see him as solid. "Uh, I'm Harlan. Hi." Awkward. Boy needs lessons in social skills. He's started to glance around before he realizes he's being stared at. Jack gets blinked at. Um. He /knows/ there's not something stuck to his face. So the staring goes two ways for a moment.
Maybe he has a runny nose. He /was/ all depressed when Pete found him, after all. The aforementioned Pete glances back at Harlan briefly, picking up the glass of Scotch and tossing it back without looking at it - if he doesn't look, it might not have Hawksmoor-intent on it, see. It's a bit like knowing where your towel is, and what to do with it in case of emergency. "Yes," says Pete after a second, inhaling deeply, eyes closed and head tilted back slightly -- ahh, alcohol -- then looking back at the other three. "What he said. Harlan Sketch, meet Jack Celliers and Kitty Pryde. Have a seat. I know you can." That's when he follows his own advice and moves Kitty's backpack gently to the floor between her chair and the one it was on, and sits the hell down. The pen is no longer clicked - now it's tapped against the table.
Kitty does not, fortunately, lean 'way over out of her chair against Pete's shoulder, or anything else ridiculously sappy. "Hi, Harlan." She does, however, /glance/ at Pete. "Man. You had me going with the genie talk." Apparently she sees him as solid enough not to have caught on. At all.
It's just the deadness. Or mostly. But Jack's apparently sincere, as he replies, "A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Sketch," The accent's English, and completely affected, in contrast to Pete's. Hello, class war. "And please, do join us," he wishes, before giving Pete a faintly alarmed glance. "Genie?"
"Ah, your wife. Phasing?" Poor Harlan, he fumbles a bit as he sinks into a chair. Apparently ghosts can still be clumsy when they're gangly and tall. "Um, pleased to meet you all." There's a bit of a cringe at 'Mr. Sketch'. "Please, just Harlan. My dad's Mr. Sketch. And he's well, um...it's a long story." And apparently one he doesn't feel like getting into right this moment. He has an accent of his own, but it's unlike any of theirs. Faint, but alien. A suggestion that his world is quite different than this one. "I'm an astral projector. I'm kind of...stuck." That's the best way he can describe it.
"Yeh. No djinni but the ones in a thousand and one Arabian nights, Celliers, so settle your fuckin' feathers," grumbles Pete, slouching even further into his chair, one leg outstretched and the other with a foot up on the lowest chair rung beneath him. Apparently he's gonna need another drink to regain some semblance of civility. Tap-tap-tap against the tabletop; he's distractedly watching his own hand tapping the pen. Sidelong glance at Kitty, brief, and then at Harlan. He gets up again. "Play nice. He met Sei but he only got here today and, fuck if I know, maybe the portalling made you stuck. 'Less you were that way prior. The rest of him's in the hospital. I'm getting another drink."
Can't rest. Cranky husband. Kitty says cheerfully, "Phasing, right," and reaches absently to take the pen away from Pete - by passing her hand through his, and snagging the pen out through his palm rather than between his fingers. She holds it up for display before offering it back to its owner. "Astral projector. Sheesh. A year with practically no psychics, and now they're showing up in scads. Um. Stuck?" As in, stuck not projecting? Kitty's a little perplexed. And still hasn't quite caught on.
Celliers whistles at that, nodding. "Consider where I spent far too long, Wisdom, to be easy at the idea of djinn. But that's certainly the most unusual entrance I've heard of to date." He takes a hasty sip of the stout, still eyeing Harlan, curiously.
"Stuck...on the astral plane. I guess that infinity...thing that Seishi told me about, got me before I got back to my body. My body's still alive." And this is where Harlan starts to look akward. You would be too if you were talking about your own body. "...but in a coma in the hospital. It'll be hard to stop them from pulling the plug. I look...braindead to them. Because most of me is, well, here." Then, rather meekly, he steps in to correct Kitty. "Not psychic. I can't read minds. Possession, astral projection and some minor telekinesis. The last of which won't seem spectacular to any of you because you can see me. My astral body has to touch it to affect it. That is, assuming all my old limitations." He's sitting in the chair fine however, and his hand is resting on the table.
".../Pryde/!" yelps Pete, making a grab for the pen before it's handed back to him, then when it is, snatching it away out of her hand. Whether that reaction's from the intangibility or the sudden lack of prop is anyone's guess. He takes a step away, addressing Harlan, "I'll be watching. Won't let them. There a lot, I said." Hoo, /stalking/ off to get another drink. Probably another couple.
"I might be able to help dissuade them, too," Kitty agrees. "I've never /changed/ anything in the hospital's records before - but keeping people from dying is, well, a good cause. Just need to figure out the right codes to insert, and how to make sure they're in all the right places." Somehow, Pete's reaction to that little stunt seems to have lent her a touch more energy.
"Everyone's been so helpful." Harlan murmurs quietly. "There was this guy Seishi and I met. He told me not to trust anyone. But really, I don't have any choice." he shrugs and slouches down in the chair. No doubt the skeptics in the place are giving Kitty and Pete strange looks whenever they're clearly addressing the empty seat. In fact, someone comes up behind him and sets their hands on the chair. The young woman smiles politely at Kitty and Pete and gently tugs at Harlan's chair. "Do you mind if I take this chair?" Poor boy. His eyes go wide and he holds on to the side of the seat for fear that the woman will yank it out from beneath him.
And Wisdom is, in fact, back from the bar remarkably quickly - he's carrying a both a triple and a perverted Scotch, the latter of which he sets in front of Kitty; still holding the former, he gives the woman an incredulous look, then remembers what really ought to be the obvious. "Uh," he says eloquently. "Mind if you take the one next to it? Waiting for a very particular mate of mine, has a thing about feng shui and chair placement or some bollocks like that."
Kitty's puzzled blink at the young woman probably makes her look like something of a lunatic, but that's perhaps to be expected. After all, she's been there for quite some time. At least the woman in rags she was talking with went away. "Here," she offers, "let me give you a hand," and gets up to help shift the chair beside Harlan's. At least she's plainly not drunk - no wavering.
Harlan sits there with is eyes closed, teeth gritting and holding fast to the sides of the chair. This act of concentration seems to inadvertently trigger something. Because all of a sudden the woman looks down at the chair and squaks, stumbling backwards. It's then looking flustered, that she grabs for the other chair and gives Kitty a sheepish smile. She backs away, watching Harlan's chair until she's back to her own table again. The young man slowly opens his eyes, looking awkward. What...happened?
Sitting back down and pretending there's absolutely nothing out of the ordinary, Pete pays rather a lot of attention to drinking some Scotch. "So you don't need to sleep. Guessing you don't need to eat or drink, either. Any particular reason you felt creepy hanging about while Sei was asleep, or was it just you having seen too many suspense flicks and thinking to yourself 'Oh god I'm haunting this poor woman's flat'?"
Well, that was ... odd. Kitty returns to her own seat, peering after the other woman with a now-even-/more/-perplexed expression. No idea what happened. At all.
Harlan either. He watches after the woman, looking vaguely startled. "She doesn't believe, but I think she saw me." he murmurs under his breath. But when Pete addresses him, he turns back and blinks. Despite everything, a sheepish smile appears. "Something like that, yeah. Felt just weird to be hovering around while she was sleeping."
"Well you're going to have to get over that," Pete points out bluntly. "Most people need sleep to avoid going insane, Pryde here included, despite any claims to the contrary." Drink a little Scotch, tap a little pen, flip pen around and start to doodle on a stray napkin. "If someone says you're welcome to hang about, you're going to have to take 'em at their word. Sei wouldn't say it if she didn't mean it, for starters." Doodle, doodle. Little blue ink spirals. What looks like a halfassed blueprint. Some kanji. More Scotch. "If it's just you were bored, see if you can't telekinesis yourself a book."
Those had better not be obscenities in Japanese, there. "I don't know if Seishi even realized it'd feel weird," Kitty muses. "She's probably used to having her roommate fussing around with chemicals and things while she's asleep." Quick almost-apologetic look directed to Harlan.
You paged Kitty with ''He's permanently intangible' it says. 'I have to get out of here. Invite him home if you feel sorry for him''.
Kitty pages: Pete can probably read that almost-apologetic look to Harlan as partly meaning 'Pete, I like him and he /seems/ harmless, but I'm too wary about people finding out where we live right now to have clear judgment.'
"It's really weird to not be able to sleep. I even tried lying down on the couch and closing my eyes. Just...not tired. Can't be tired." Harlan sighs and slumps down on the table. "Yeah. I did start feeling like a ghost, lurking around and passing through closed doors. Reminds me that I'm half dead." But he sounds more resigned about that than he did earlier. The angst will wear off once the shock starts to, and he's sure that the crew will make sure the hospital doesn't pull the plug. "I don't know what I can do. And I doubt I have many willing candidates to find out what I /can/ do." He flicks at someone's discarded glass and looks quite happy when he succeeds in making it 'ting'.
No, no obscenities. Merely shorthand. "Oh for Chrissake," says Pete disgustedly, "you haven't /seen/ half-dead. Look, you /really/ got lucky running into Seishi first, because there /are/ rather a lot of complete fuckheads running about this city, and enough of 'em /do/ believe in ghosts and fairies and whatevertheshit and would be /perfectly/ chuffed at the opportunity to *use* you. So put the angst away, there ain't room for it. Look, when you get bored again, go back to Sei's. I'll ring her in the morning and see what she's got to say, then stop by the hospital to check on you." He stands up, finishing the triple and putting his pen in his shirt pocket, briefly resting a hand against Kitty's back. "I've got unfinished business to deal with. Pryde, see you in a bit. Sketch, see you tomorrow."
Kitty tips her head a little to the side, glancing up at Pete. "I'll get on the hospital stuff now, then, and try and get enough done there won't be any stupid mistakes done during the night." She taps the side of the laptop with a fingertip. "Speaking of passing through closed doors." Quick smile darted Harlan's way, as tired-bright as the one when he made the glass make noise.
Harlan ends up being half-frozen in place when Pete lets loose. He looks like he doesn't know whether or not to be pissed off at Pete, or to thank him. He misses Kitty's quick smile because he's too busy looking at Pete like a kicked puppy. There's a few people thinking he's nuts to be letting off that line at an empty chair, but a few of the people /do/ see him sitting there so think nothing of it. After a long moment of silence, he hazards, "Night?"
Click-cl-CLICK-cl-click pen; "'Night," says Pete, really looking more Really Cranky than actually angry or anything; he turns and heads out - up the stairs, out the door, into the night. Click-click-click.
"Sorry about that," Kitty murmurs, lower-toned, as she starts to load papers and laptop into her backpack. "He's been like that for days now, and I've got /no/ idea why." Flicker of a grin. "Usually he's only /half/ as much of a jerk."
Harlan flickers a little smile at Kitty. "It's all right. He's...helping me, and he believes me. That's all that really matters, I suppose. A show of faith and what is done is more important than what's said." He pulls his head off the table and sighs. "Well, I suppose I should go back to Seishi's and...'haunt her flat' as Pete said." he mimics the accent as he does it, and fairly well too. "It was nice meeting you. If...a bit odd." But he'll quickly learn that's par for the course around here.
Kitty pauses. "Um. In case it hasn't come up yet - her roommate - well -" She flounders for a moment. "Don't worry about him too much, either. He's - not exactly /harmless/, but - well - just don't worry." The city has not yet begun to be odd, really. "I'll, uh. Get to work. On the hospital. Stuff. God help me, I'm talking like Buffy. Night?"
Harlan bobs his head a little awkwardly. "Good night. I'm just.../really/ happy to know some people can see me. At least I'm not going to be alone." The smile is warm, if a bit sheepish. He stands up as well.
"Good luck. And seriously - Seishi won't mind you poking at the books." Kitty winks at Harlan, then picks up backpack and cellphone, drains the drink Pete brought her before, and starts toward the stairs and the exit ... timing things so that she blocks enough space for Harlan to manage without overlapping people. Poor thing seems to find it almost as unnerving as Pete does.
13/07/03
04:43 AM
East Main Street(#166Rs)
Skyscrapers reach into the sky like giant's hands clawing at the sun. The buildings, some framed by decorative statues that was quite the architectural rage twenty years ago, serve as the headquarters for major corporations and financial institutions. Nearly every multinational company holds some form of office in Beacon Harbor, and most of them are along this stretch of Main Street. The gleaming glass and metal of the towering buildings and majestic statues combine to create the picture Main Street known the world over. 'Facts,' one of the most famous restaurants in the city, takes up two floors atop the Metro-Towers building, serving some of the finest northern Italian cuisine found this side of the Atlantic.
It's a clear, calm, dark evening. No wind, nothing stirring except, you know, cars. With people in them. Here and there, a pedestrian. Here and there, a shopkeeper closing up, or people leaving an apartment building dressed to the nines, or just getting home. There's one guy, not especially in particular except for the fact that he's rhythmically clicking a pen as he walks down the street, walking down the street. Click-cl-CLICK-cl-click-cl-CLICK-cl-click. Occasionally he'll stop and chew on it instead, then go back to clicking it.
Harlan left Seishi sulkily at one point, promising her that he wouldn't stray too far. He explored a little, but as it got darker, he just got more and more depressed. Currently, he's slumped on a bus stop bench, swinging his feet back and forth along the ground. The strange thing is, it makes no sound when his feet hit things. People seem to ignore him completely, which in and of itself isn't unusual. Until a man with a beard and a business suit reaches an arm right across his shoulder to throw something in the garbage. When he pulls back, it appears that his arm goes right through the boy's head. Harlan doesn't seem to notice, or if he does, he doesn't care. The clicking pricks up his ears, but he's slow to lift his head.
And, well. Mister Spy, always watching. Never know when the sidewalk might bite you or something. He eyes Harlan, slowing as he approaches, clicking the pen. Stupid goddamn pen. Pete, in fact, squints. "You're new, yeah? Good idea - using powers. Bad idea - using powers in public." I have never seen you before in my life. Someone who can phase, oh yes, I /would/ know about. You are /new/.
There's a twitch across Harlan's face as he lifts his head to look at Pete. "Powers?" he sounds confused. He noticed that guy, yeah. But there was no use of powers involved. The spy is given a long, searching look. He seems broken, and a bit distraught. Getting to his feet soundlessly, he tucks his hands in his pockets. There's a woman across the way who's giving Pete a funny look, paused in her movements.
Said woman's abrupt arrest of motion gets a flicker of attention from Pete, who curtly flips her off and turns his gaze back to Harlan. "Unless you're stuck that way," he grants, grudgingly. Click-cl-click-cl-click. Aw a kid stuck phased. The Kitty he originally knew got that way at one point, almost killed herself because of it. "You /are/ new here, right?"
"Astral plane." Harlan murmurs matter-of-factly. "A ghost, essentially." And a head-bob answers the question. "Several hours ago. Met someone nice, but she went to sleep. It's weird, not to need sleep." The woman continues to stare, and when a friend of hers approaches, she nudges and giggles and motions to Pete.
At the giggling, Pete turns again and glares, eyes briefly flashing bright red. "Fuck off! I could be an angel, for all you know!" Extra-surly, he looks back at Harlan and chews on the pen for a second. "You're not a fucking ghost, that's ridiculous. I don't /care/ what Pryde says." Chew, chew. Remove pen from mouth, hold it between two fingers; take cellphone from pocket. "Who'd you meet? Nice is relative."
Harlan
Harlan Sketch is a study in contrasts. Warm brown skin is spattered with darker freckles over sharp cheekbones and an aquiline, slightly crooked nose. His eyes are deep blue and slightly tapered, with salt and pepper lashes that frame them. His eyebrows are quite dark, but his hair itself is stark blond with chunks of black framing his face, suggesting it's been bleached. His chin is pointed and ears sit low and taper very slightly, giving him a vague appearance of elfishness.
Does this boy own more than one set of clothes? It seems he's wearing the same thing no matter the weather. A tightly-knit burgundy turtleneck sweater is worn, hugging close to his still-growing frame. He's tall, edging over six feet but he still has the boniness of adolescence. Ordinary dark blue jeans are comfortably loose and rest low on his hips. His only accessory is a short silver chain with a quarter-sized medallion bearing an etched, official-looking insignia.
That is, when you can see him at all.
You paged Kitty with 'Your cellphone rings.'.
There's whispers from different people now, who pass by Pete and talk to themselves '...he talking to?' 'Should we call the police?' 'Poor man, must be schitzophrenic'. The two women are effectively scared off, and they duck off down a street, still giggling to themselves. "Not a ghost, really. But like one. Those people?" he points to them, then deadpans, "They can't see me." He stuffs his hands down into his pockets and watches the pen. That is damned irritating. "A woman named Seishi." So trusting to reveal that so easily.
Kitty pages: And is answered. "Pryde."
Kitty pages: Brisk, businesslike, et cetera.
"Oh, that's all right, then," says Pete, fractionally relaxing. He puts the pen in his mouth and opens his phone, dialing quickly; looks up at Harlan again, holding the phone up to one ear and taking the pen out again, once again clicking it, but distractedly this time. Apparently the phone's ringing. "So why can I see you if they can't?" he asks dubiously, then holds the pen up. "Wisdom. You home? Found a stray genie needs a lamp."
You paged Kitty with 'From the phone: "...you if they can't?" *pause* "Wisdom. You home? Found a stray genie needs a lamp."'.
Kitty pages: The disturbing thing is," Kitty says into the cellphone, "I have no idea if you're being literal. No, Blue Notes. Wanted to be findable if people needed."
Harlan opens his mouth to say something, but doesn't say it right away since Pete's talking into the phone. He ends up saying it half to the side, hands dug into his pockets. "'Cause you believe that I exist, that's why. People can't see me if they don't believe in ghosts."
/That/ gets an extraspecially dubious look from Pete, and, eyebrows up, he taps the pen against the air as he's talking - first to Harlan, then to the phone. "Conditional subjectivist reality? Bollocks. I *don't* believe in ghosts." That was eyes on the kid, way up there, then eyes scanning the people who apparently can't see Harlan as he's addressing the person on the other end of the phone. "No no, the /disturbing/ thing is I probably /am/. Says he talked to Seishi. Hold on a second--" Then Pete's looking up at Harlan again, distinctly unimpressed expression on his face. "How d'you feel about jazz?"
Long distance to Kitty: Pete Wisdom | Slightly softer than a second ago, "Conditional subjectivist reality? Bollocks. I *don't* believe in ghosts." Normal phone quality vocal volume, "No no, the /disturbing/ thing is I probably /am/. Says he talked to Seishi. Hold on a second--" Fainter, "How d'you feel about jazz?"
From afar, Kitty | Normal phone quality vocal volume: "Well, /I/ do. Holding." And aside, to someone else: "So, other than weird, how's /your/ life going?"
"You wouldn't be able to see me if you didn't think I could exist." Mumbles Harlan, but in a tone that suggests he's not going to argue right now. He watches the people watching Pete with a little smirk. He can sense that they can't see him. It's kind of amusing, actually. When he realizes he's being addressed again, he turns 'round with a start. Huh? "Jazz? You mean, like the old music?"
"Yeah, like the old music," says Pete, looking - er, well. Crankily sarcastic. "'Cos you're in luck. My wife believes in ghosts, and she's at Blue Notes, and you can tell /her/ your story without her biting your head off, /and/ she's friends with Seishi. But if you don't like jazz you're fucked, 'cos that's what they play there. It being called Blue Notes an' shite." Jesus, someone tell this guy to switch to decaf or something. Into the phone, he adds, "We're coming by. Don't get abducted by aliens or whatever."
Long distance to Kitty: Pete Wisdom | "Yeah, like the old music," says Pete, sounding - er, well. Crankily sarcastic. "'Cos you're in luck. My wife believes in ghosts, and she's at Blue Notes, and you can tell /her/ your story without her biting your head off, /and/ she's friends with Seishi. But if you don't like jazz you're fucked, 'cos that's what they play there. It being called Blue Notes an' shite." Normal volume: "We're coming by. Don't get abducted by aliens or whatever."
From afar, Kitty | Kitty says half-hopefully, to someone else, "Move, maybe?" - and then there's a rather long pause before she speaks into the phone. "I think /you've/ been abducted by aliens. I'm here with Jack Celliers just now, we'll probably still be here when you get in. Love you." And she hangs up.
Harlan seems to cringe at every curse. He's not /used/ to such language. Oh, his poor virgin ears. "Um, sir...?" he never did get the spy's name. "Jazz...where I come from, is pretty old. I...well, my world isn't really like this one." He shrugs and shifts his weight from foot to foot. Then a beat, as his head swivels around. "Wait...you know Seishi?" Small world. Either that or everyone who believes in weird stuff knows each other.
That would essentially be it, actually. Either knows each other or is seperated by like, one degree. "Lo--" Pete stops short, pulls the phone away from his ear, stares at it, /glowers/ at it, then shoves it in his pocket. Click-cl-CLICK-cl-click-cl-CLICK. He looks up at Harlan. "Yes, I know Seishi. And most worlds /aren't/ like this one - but jazz is pretty old here, too. Not in geological terms, but at least in pop cultural. Come on, then, will you?" He starts stalking off in the direction of the badlands, chewing on the pen, hands shoved in his pockets.
Harlan looks left, then right. But he's quite sure no one can hurt him anyway, so he starts after Pete. "Um, I'm Harlan." he offers. At least when the pen's in Pete's /mouth/, he's not clicking it like a maniac. He doesn't float, he walks along. Long legs and the fact that he doesn't need to breathe or has muscles to hurt, means he keeps easy pace with Pete. There's no sound though. No footsteps to match Pete's. And at one point, someone walks right through him, which makes him pause and shiver. Euugh.
Glance aside at Harlan. The Englishman takes the pen out of his mouth again and says somewhat gruffly, "Pete." Pause. "Pete Wisdom. And yeah, that's how I feel about it, too. 'Preciate it if you don't phase through me." /Almost/ apologetically, he adds, "Even hate it when Pryde does it, ain't you."
"What's phasing?" The boy asks as he picks up the pace. This time Harlan's more careful to avoid oncoming folks instead of assuming they'll deke around him. Some will. Some see him as whole and as real as Pete does. But others only half-see him, or don't see him at all. "My...my body is lying in the hospital. Seishi helped get it...me...there."
"The bit with the going through shit," explains Pete, "is phasing. Or at least it is in my wife's case. I don't know what you want to call it." Then his pace slows slightly, and he looks at Harlan again, distinctly less grouchy-looking. "Sorry. Yeah, Seishi's good people. She put you there under your real name? I'm there often enough, can check on you." The neighborhood's got rather less clean and safe, as they're walking along.
"Yeah, I think so. I don't have any records here. No reason not to use my real name. Harlan Sketch. I felt creepy just kind of lurking around her place. So I thought I'd go out. This place is so different from my home." He looks around him and sighs, then lets his gaze go back to Pete. "I don't think I'm phasing anything. I'm on a different plane. My..world.." he hesitates. It's awkward to speak of it that way. "...has a lot of psionics. I was in a special school for people like me. Astral projection, possession, some telekinesis."
"...and was possession an approved hobby there?" asks Wisdom drily, turning down Southland Drive. "Ain't gonna go over too well here, if you're used to doing it. Just as a bit of a warning in advance. Come on, in here." In here where there's blessed secondhand smoke. Click-cl-CLICK-cl-click-cl-CLICK. He pauses just in front of the door opening down into the little jazz club and gives Harlan a - well, there's really no other way of describing it but 'shiteating grin'. "Don't hit your head on the lintel."
Blue Notes -- Badlands
A small, underground jazz club where the smoke curls around the lighting like London fog and the music blows through the room like a so'easterner; sometimes sad and sweet and sometimes firey and joyful. A small, black, wrought-iron spiral staircase near the stage connects the lower floor with an upper 'balcony' area that offers a birds-eye view of the stage. Every wall is covered in blues of eternally varied intensity and infinite brilliance, layered over each other in broad, soft swaths. Small round tables with lacqured blue surfaces and battered, mismatched wooden chairs-all painted smooth blue-cluster loosly around the matchbox stage like groups of friends in a crowded room.
A dark staircase to the far left of the stage leads up to the streets. A pillbox booth stands sentry at the foot of this staircase, where the admitace fees are collected. Along that same left wall is a long, black marble bar, stocked with hundreds of shadow-filled bottles, novicane for the soul. Several spindly barstools, topped with blue velvetine seats, conform to a straggling line in front of the bar. The soothing blue walls are littered with posters of past preformers.
Kitty and Celliers are seated at a largish table; Kitty's hair's braided up and she's got glasses on, there's a stack of closed-laptop and papers to her left, the cellphone to her right, an empty glass in front of her, and a backpack on a chair next to hers. "No /idea/," she admits to Jack. "I haven't thought about it since I was in the whole schoolgirl-horse-obsession phase. When I was, uh, about eight."
Celliers is in his leather jacket, with the collar gleaming above the neck of the t-shirt. A nearly untouched glass of very black stout is sitting before him, and he's grinning boyishly at Kitty over it. "Well. There you go."
"It's not a hobby. It's..." Harlan sighs. "It's actually not really legal to know how to do. It's a long story..." One that he's going to tell later. He never left the PEC more than a handful of times in his life. Which means he's /really/ never been in a jazz club on the wrong end of town. Once they're through the door, the tall boy hangs close to Pete as people moving around pass through hom. Cringe.
Pete Wisdom
Not too tall, fairly thin, bright blue eyes in an almost permanently bemused angular face. Wisdom's black hair needs a cut, seriously, and it's every which way like he's just been sleeping. There are small, insistently visible scars on his face, some around his left eye; there are scars, all old, on his hands and arms; there's a big scar on the side of his neck. And the bemusement, yes, almost always there.
He's dressed in a white Oxford shirt, unbuttoned at the top; a somewhat tatty thin black tie is around his neck, loosened to accomodate the unbuttoning; a black suit jacket and the trousers that came with it (oh my god), and scuffed black dress shoes. Instead of a briefcase or something, he carries a black canvas paratrooper bag, the strap over one shoulder and across his chest.
Hanging over the front of his shirt there are two necklaces - a silver chain with a tiny St Jude pendant and a smooth-worn Star of David, and a black leather thong with a bronze medallion on it: one side an ornate triskellion, the other side the Eye of Horus.
Kitty
As stunning young women go, this one - isn't. Young, yes, early to mid twenties or so; female, yes, with a slim and athletic build; stunning ... no, though she does manage a certain degree of girl-next-door charm. Her chestnut curls reach down to mid-back, markedly gentling the lines of her face. Her jaw, though, has a tendency to set with an almost predictable stubbornness, and there are the faint beginnings of frown lines around her mouth. Her eyes are undoubtedly her best feature, deep brown, large, expressive. Well, sometimes expressive, and sometimes rather pointedly far less readable. She's not that far out of her shell.
A deep-blue silk blouse is tucked loosely into pale, worn jeans, making her look a little taller - that is, making her look average height rather than on the short side. She sports (if that's the word for it) tennis shoes on her feet. She wears three pieces of jewelry: a silver Star of David on a chain around her neck, a pair of plain silvery rings on the usual hand, and a charm bracelet jingling on her left wrist.
Celliers
His face posesses that overbred sculpting generally only found in the lineage of old nobility: refined almost to the point of absurdity. Almost pretty more than handsome - this ivory-skinned young man's features are delicate and androgynous, though with enough strength of bone and line to keep him from looking entirely effeminate. The large eyes are a strange shade of blue, like shadows on glacier ice, set deep under finely drawn brows; the beginnings of crows'-feet etch their corners, if their owner had spent a good deal of time squinting off into the far distance. His nose is long, thin, and slightly arched, almost beakish; his cheekbones are high, with hollows underneath that give him an air of perpetual starvation. Under a thin, mobile mouth, a stubborn jaw ends in a pointed chin. Since he's no longer under the blazing Indian sun that originally bleached his hair to tow, at its roots it's started to revert to its true deep honey color - it's recently been cropped back to only a few inches long. There's a trio of small scars: one curves up from the arch of a brow, one at the corner of his lip, and the third at the outer edge of an eye.
Six foot two, and thin as a rail. He'd appear frail if it weren't for the muscled shoulders and narrow waist. He moves languidly, as if lacking energy, though he gives the impression of being quick enough when need be. Only the long, delicate-looking hands, with their calluses from rein and whip, are never still.
So much for the carefully tailored suits - he's given them up for the moment, though the glossy riding boots remain. Instead, he wears a plain heather grey t-shirt, indigo jeans, and a black leather motorcycle jacket - the golden shield ring is noticeably absent from his finger.
A very curious choice of jewelry - but around the base of his throat sits a perfect circle of silver, with no apparent clasp or opening. It's utterly without mark, save for a large nick across the long access.
And Wisdom, a good four or five inches shorter than the intangible kid behind him, slouches down the steps with one hand in a pocket and the other compulsively clicking a retractable-point pen. "Good, then. Least you're not in the habit. Here, this way--" And he leads the way over to the table occupied by Kitty and Jack, the former at which he glares. "Love you /too/, dammit."
There's one more glass on the table - Scotch, untouched, in front of an empty chair. Kitty reaches for it and offers it up toward Wisdom with a nigh-angelic smile. "Good. In that case, I'll warn you that Hawksmoor paid for this one. Don't worry, Claire distracted him before he could touch it. Who's your friend?"
And Jack, despite decades of operating under 19th century manners, is reduced to staring openly at Harlan for a few heartbeats, before he remembers himself enough to turn back to peer between Kitty and Wisdom. "Good evening," he notes, after a moment.
Wow. This is something else. Harlan wasn't expecting to meet so many people who believe in him enough to see him as solid. "Uh, I'm Harlan. Hi." Awkward. Boy needs lessons in social skills. He's started to glance around before he realizes he's being stared at. Jack gets blinked at. Um. He /knows/ there's not something stuck to his face. So the staring goes two ways for a moment.
Maybe he has a runny nose. He /was/ all depressed when Pete found him, after all. The aforementioned Pete glances back at Harlan briefly, picking up the glass of Scotch and tossing it back without looking at it - if he doesn't look, it might not have Hawksmoor-intent on it, see. It's a bit like knowing where your towel is, and what to do with it in case of emergency. "Yes," says Pete after a second, inhaling deeply, eyes closed and head tilted back slightly -- ahh, alcohol -- then looking back at the other three. "What he said. Harlan Sketch, meet Jack Celliers and Kitty Pryde. Have a seat. I know you can." That's when he follows his own advice and moves Kitty's backpack gently to the floor between her chair and the one it was on, and sits the hell down. The pen is no longer clicked - now it's tapped against the table.
Kitty does not, fortunately, lean 'way over out of her chair against Pete's shoulder, or anything else ridiculously sappy. "Hi, Harlan." She does, however, /glance/ at Pete. "Man. You had me going with the genie talk." Apparently she sees him as solid enough not to have caught on. At all.
It's just the deadness. Or mostly. But Jack's apparently sincere, as he replies, "A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Sketch," The accent's English, and completely affected, in contrast to Pete's. Hello, class war. "And please, do join us," he wishes, before giving Pete a faintly alarmed glance. "Genie?"
"Ah, your wife. Phasing?" Poor Harlan, he fumbles a bit as he sinks into a chair. Apparently ghosts can still be clumsy when they're gangly and tall. "Um, pleased to meet you all." There's a bit of a cringe at 'Mr. Sketch'. "Please, just Harlan. My dad's Mr. Sketch. And he's well, um...it's a long story." And apparently one he doesn't feel like getting into right this moment. He has an accent of his own, but it's unlike any of theirs. Faint, but alien. A suggestion that his world is quite different than this one. "I'm an astral projector. I'm kind of...stuck." That's the best way he can describe it.
"Yeh. No djinni but the ones in a thousand and one Arabian nights, Celliers, so settle your fuckin' feathers," grumbles Pete, slouching even further into his chair, one leg outstretched and the other with a foot up on the lowest chair rung beneath him. Apparently he's gonna need another drink to regain some semblance of civility. Tap-tap-tap against the tabletop; he's distractedly watching his own hand tapping the pen. Sidelong glance at Kitty, brief, and then at Harlan. He gets up again. "Play nice. He met Sei but he only got here today and, fuck if I know, maybe the portalling made you stuck. 'Less you were that way prior. The rest of him's in the hospital. I'm getting another drink."
Can't rest. Cranky husband. Kitty says cheerfully, "Phasing, right," and reaches absently to take the pen away from Pete - by passing her hand through his, and snagging the pen out through his palm rather than between his fingers. She holds it up for display before offering it back to its owner. "Astral projector. Sheesh. A year with practically no psychics, and now they're showing up in scads. Um. Stuck?" As in, stuck not projecting? Kitty's a little perplexed. And still hasn't quite caught on.
Celliers whistles at that, nodding. "Consider where I spent far too long, Wisdom, to be easy at the idea of djinn. But that's certainly the most unusual entrance I've heard of to date." He takes a hasty sip of the stout, still eyeing Harlan, curiously.
"Stuck...on the astral plane. I guess that infinity...thing that Seishi told me about, got me before I got back to my body. My body's still alive." And this is where Harlan starts to look akward. You would be too if you were talking about your own body. "...but in a coma in the hospital. It'll be hard to stop them from pulling the plug. I look...braindead to them. Because most of me is, well, here." Then, rather meekly, he steps in to correct Kitty. "Not psychic. I can't read minds. Possession, astral projection and some minor telekinesis. The last of which won't seem spectacular to any of you because you can see me. My astral body has to touch it to affect it. That is, assuming all my old limitations." He's sitting in the chair fine however, and his hand is resting on the table.
".../Pryde/!" yelps Pete, making a grab for the pen before it's handed back to him, then when it is, snatching it away out of her hand. Whether that reaction's from the intangibility or the sudden lack of prop is anyone's guess. He takes a step away, addressing Harlan, "I'll be watching. Won't let them. There a lot, I said." Hoo, /stalking/ off to get another drink. Probably another couple.
"I might be able to help dissuade them, too," Kitty agrees. "I've never /changed/ anything in the hospital's records before - but keeping people from dying is, well, a good cause. Just need to figure out the right codes to insert, and how to make sure they're in all the right places." Somehow, Pete's reaction to that little stunt seems to have lent her a touch more energy.
"Everyone's been so helpful." Harlan murmurs quietly. "There was this guy Seishi and I met. He told me not to trust anyone. But really, I don't have any choice." he shrugs and slouches down in the chair. No doubt the skeptics in the place are giving Kitty and Pete strange looks whenever they're clearly addressing the empty seat. In fact, someone comes up behind him and sets their hands on the chair. The young woman smiles politely at Kitty and Pete and gently tugs at Harlan's chair. "Do you mind if I take this chair?" Poor boy. His eyes go wide and he holds on to the side of the seat for fear that the woman will yank it out from beneath him.
And Wisdom is, in fact, back from the bar remarkably quickly - he's carrying a both a triple and a perverted Scotch, the latter of which he sets in front of Kitty; still holding the former, he gives the woman an incredulous look, then remembers what really ought to be the obvious. "Uh," he says eloquently. "Mind if you take the one next to it? Waiting for a very particular mate of mine, has a thing about feng shui and chair placement or some bollocks like that."
Kitty's puzzled blink at the young woman probably makes her look like something of a lunatic, but that's perhaps to be expected. After all, she's been there for quite some time. At least the woman in rags she was talking with went away. "Here," she offers, "let me give you a hand," and gets up to help shift the chair beside Harlan's. At least she's plainly not drunk - no wavering.
Harlan sits there with is eyes closed, teeth gritting and holding fast to the sides of the chair. This act of concentration seems to inadvertently trigger something. Because all of a sudden the woman looks down at the chair and squaks, stumbling backwards. It's then looking flustered, that she grabs for the other chair and gives Kitty a sheepish smile. She backs away, watching Harlan's chair until she's back to her own table again. The young man slowly opens his eyes, looking awkward. What...happened?
Sitting back down and pretending there's absolutely nothing out of the ordinary, Pete pays rather a lot of attention to drinking some Scotch. "So you don't need to sleep. Guessing you don't need to eat or drink, either. Any particular reason you felt creepy hanging about while Sei was asleep, or was it just you having seen too many suspense flicks and thinking to yourself 'Oh god I'm haunting this poor woman's flat'?"
Well, that was ... odd. Kitty returns to her own seat, peering after the other woman with a now-even-/more/-perplexed expression. No idea what happened. At all.
Harlan either. He watches after the woman, looking vaguely startled. "She doesn't believe, but I think she saw me." he murmurs under his breath. But when Pete addresses him, he turns back and blinks. Despite everything, a sheepish smile appears. "Something like that, yeah. Felt just weird to be hovering around while she was sleeping."
"Well you're going to have to get over that," Pete points out bluntly. "Most people need sleep to avoid going insane, Pryde here included, despite any claims to the contrary." Drink a little Scotch, tap a little pen, flip pen around and start to doodle on a stray napkin. "If someone says you're welcome to hang about, you're going to have to take 'em at their word. Sei wouldn't say it if she didn't mean it, for starters." Doodle, doodle. Little blue ink spirals. What looks like a halfassed blueprint. Some kanji. More Scotch. "If it's just you were bored, see if you can't telekinesis yourself a book."
Those had better not be obscenities in Japanese, there. "I don't know if Seishi even realized it'd feel weird," Kitty muses. "She's probably used to having her roommate fussing around with chemicals and things while she's asleep." Quick almost-apologetic look directed to Harlan.
You paged Kitty with ''He's permanently intangible' it says. 'I have to get out of here. Invite him home if you feel sorry for him''.
Kitty pages: Pete can probably read that almost-apologetic look to Harlan as partly meaning 'Pete, I like him and he /seems/ harmless, but I'm too wary about people finding out where we live right now to have clear judgment.'
"It's really weird to not be able to sleep. I even tried lying down on the couch and closing my eyes. Just...not tired. Can't be tired." Harlan sighs and slumps down on the table. "Yeah. I did start feeling like a ghost, lurking around and passing through closed doors. Reminds me that I'm half dead." But he sounds more resigned about that than he did earlier. The angst will wear off once the shock starts to, and he's sure that the crew will make sure the hospital doesn't pull the plug. "I don't know what I can do. And I doubt I have many willing candidates to find out what I /can/ do." He flicks at someone's discarded glass and looks quite happy when he succeeds in making it 'ting'.
No, no obscenities. Merely shorthand. "Oh for Chrissake," says Pete disgustedly, "you haven't /seen/ half-dead. Look, you /really/ got lucky running into Seishi first, because there /are/ rather a lot of complete fuckheads running about this city, and enough of 'em /do/ believe in ghosts and fairies and whatevertheshit and would be /perfectly/ chuffed at the opportunity to *use* you. So put the angst away, there ain't room for it. Look, when you get bored again, go back to Sei's. I'll ring her in the morning and see what she's got to say, then stop by the hospital to check on you." He stands up, finishing the triple and putting his pen in his shirt pocket, briefly resting a hand against Kitty's back. "I've got unfinished business to deal with. Pryde, see you in a bit. Sketch, see you tomorrow."
Kitty tips her head a little to the side, glancing up at Pete. "I'll get on the hospital stuff now, then, and try and get enough done there won't be any stupid mistakes done during the night." She taps the side of the laptop with a fingertip. "Speaking of passing through closed doors." Quick smile darted Harlan's way, as tired-bright as the one when he made the glass make noise.
Harlan ends up being half-frozen in place when Pete lets loose. He looks like he doesn't know whether or not to be pissed off at Pete, or to thank him. He misses Kitty's quick smile because he's too busy looking at Pete like a kicked puppy. There's a few people thinking he's nuts to be letting off that line at an empty chair, but a few of the people /do/ see him sitting there so think nothing of it. After a long moment of silence, he hazards, "Night?"
Click-cl-CLICK-cl-click pen; "'Night," says Pete, really looking more Really Cranky than actually angry or anything; he turns and heads out - up the stairs, out the door, into the night. Click-click-click.
"Sorry about that," Kitty murmurs, lower-toned, as she starts to load papers and laptop into her backpack. "He's been like that for days now, and I've got /no/ idea why." Flicker of a grin. "Usually he's only /half/ as much of a jerk."
Harlan flickers a little smile at Kitty. "It's all right. He's...helping me, and he believes me. That's all that really matters, I suppose. A show of faith and what is done is more important than what's said." He pulls his head off the table and sighs. "Well, I suppose I should go back to Seishi's and...'haunt her flat' as Pete said." he mimics the accent as he does it, and fairly well too. "It was nice meeting you. If...a bit odd." But he'll quickly learn that's par for the course around here.
Kitty pauses. "Um. In case it hasn't come up yet - her roommate - well -" She flounders for a moment. "Don't worry about him too much, either. He's - not exactly /harmless/, but - well - just don't worry." The city has not yet begun to be odd, really. "I'll, uh. Get to work. On the hospital. Stuff. God help me, I'm talking like Buffy. Night?"
Harlan bobs his head a little awkwardly. "Good night. I'm just.../really/ happy to know some people can see me. At least I'm not going to be alone." The smile is warm, if a bit sheepish. He stands up as well.
"Good luck. And seriously - Seishi won't mind you poking at the books." Kitty winks at Harlan, then picks up backpack and cellphone, drains the drink Pete brought her before, and starts toward the stairs and the exit ... timing things so that she blocks enough space for Harlan to manage without overlapping people. Poor thing seems to find it almost as unnerving as Pete does.
