Participants:
| Scene Title | A Deal Between Two Devils |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Jackdaw sneaks into Isis's apartment, intent on making her another of his experiments. Things do not go as planned, ending the meeting in an unlikely deal between two unlikely people. (Fair Warning: This is a very long log compared to most. Also important to note is that Jackdaw's player changed his name to Diogenes.) |
| Date | May 31, 2009 |
A generic, open loft apartment of lacquered wooden flooring and a daring layer of dark, hunter-green paint stretched across the high-reaching walls. The only windows in this simple apartment is a wide, single pane from floor to ceiling in the eastern wall. While the meticulously shined glass lets in a fresh wash of sunlight at day, and gossamer moonlight at night, it grants only the shabby view of the crowded streets of Queens below. A set of billowing silver curtains are fastened up at either side of the window, offering their usefulness for privacy when one desires it.
The room is simply furnished. The kitchenette in the northwestern corner is stocked with simple foods you might expect of a young college student, or someone of very simplistic tastes at the least. The southwester corner is home to a simple privy - a standing shower housed in foggy glass, and a single toilet and sink in a separate 'room' the size of a small closet. In the southeastern corner stands a large king-size bed, the only lavish furniture in this apartment, bedded in blanketing of silver and green, and framed by a tall bookcase to either side in place of the more common nightstands found in other homes. Finally, to the northeast, in the area most commonly used for seating and televisions, is a stacked black desk supporting a computer and another wall-hung stretch of shelving to house a fresh array of books.
The only exit from the room is a simple, heavy wood door to the west, a deadbolt lock supported by a thin chain lock dangling above it. The air of this room smells faintly of cologne and candles.
Taking slow nonchalant steps that would almost seem wary and careful to an onlooker, Thomas would walk down the corridor wearing a dirty, worn technician's outfit. His usually neat hairdo was now a mess, and his glasses just barely clung to the tip of his sharp nose. In his right hand he carried a technician's toolbox; quite heavy, that. He wondered for a long period of time which door to knock. And, as Fate would have it, it's Isis's door. "Anyone home?", he would shout out with a heavy Russian accent whilst knocking at the door.
Isis is as she usually is in the comfort and 'safety' of her own apartment - The computer in the corner whistles out an interesting little tune, 'Walk the Line' by Johnny Cash specifically, through its tiny speakers as the little redhead lays stretched across her bed. Her latest book, Hanibal Rising, is perched atop her thighs, her dark gaze scanning the pages.
The knock at her door seems to reverberate in the poorly decorated, open space of the loft apartment, overpowering her music and pulling her from the fictitious realm of Hannibal Lector with a sharp look to the door. She closes the novel and swings her feet from the bed, making for the door. She checks the chain and opens the door as far as the flimsy metal links allow, peeking outside. "Yes?"
Thomas wastes no time with introductions, and instead he slings out a slew of words, woven with that jarred Russian accent which has no trouble in simulating: "There has been a leak of dangerous neuroparalytical gases in this apartment building. We believe the source of this… leak… is right in your apartment. If we don't take care of it now… well, I think you have seen enough Hollywood movies to know the effects of such gases." He would cock his head to the side and lifts his brows, eyeing the little redhead expectantly.
Dark, velvet lashes narrow around even darker irises. Isis turns her pale visage away from the door, sniffing at the interior of her small apartment as if her nose might support the man's words. She smells nothing. Instead that little button nose gives a few rapid twitches that correspond with her tumbling thoughts. "Alright…" She offers hesitantly, closing the door an inch and sliding the chain from its nook to free the door and allow it to swing open in a more proper welcome. "Um… Just, let me know if you need to me to move anything out of your way?" She cocks a brow curiously, only to turn away as a little calico feline makes for the door. "No you don't." She snatches up the kitten and rests it over her left shoulder. "Shut the door behind you. I don't want the other cat getting out," she offers rather dismissively.
Thomas inhales deeply before heaving a tired sigh. No doubt his day has just begun, and it is going to be a long one. He steps into the apartment in a fashion that would suggest he's stepping into a mine field; on the other hand, he does not forget to close the door behind him as soon as the young woman requests him to do so. His hand would remain on the wood of the door for a short while until sliding off reluctantly. He was distracted - his eyes were scanning the room. For the possible source of the leak? Perhaps. Or perhaps his gaze was trying to unearth something else. "Cute cats", he would remark without even so much as a glance sent to the kitten imprisoned in her grasp. "Have they been acting strangely? Anyway at all?"
Isis does not watch the man for long, quietly taking her feline captive off towards the large bed in the southeastern corner of the loft apartment. She sets the kitten down and plucks up a pair of elbow-length gloves, tugging them onto her hands with meticulous attention. It's a moment before the strangers query reaches her ears, spinning her around with a lofted brow and another sweeping gaze that sizes up the maintenance man. "Not that I've noticed. Eating fine. Cuddly as ever. They seem great. Why? Could they be sick?" The first inclining of concern touches her gentle features, tugging her thin brows nearer to one another. The safety of her house pets seems to have struck some cord and convinced her that some invisible hazard is looming in her new apartment.
"Don't worry", he attempts to assuage the redhead, even if it was his intent to stir up the thoughts of concern in her mind, "Weaker, smaller animals than us, humans, should be affected first. Maybe things aren't that bad as I was told." He takes a few more steps into the depths of the apartment, now craning his neck to make up for the limited field of sight and give the apartment another inspecting gaze, a more thorough one. Once his eyes traverse throughout all of the room he's currently in, he kneels down, setting the toolbox on the ground in front of him. What he takes out is a small plastic shot glass with what looked like pills in it. His hand swung the glass too fast to examine the contents properly; he consumes the pills, without any water. Which, by the way, he asks for: "Could I have some water?.. You are going to need it, too, just in case."
The strange happenings with the toolbox set Isis's senses on alert, her dark gaze training more appropriately on man and his kit. Her expression becomes curious again as she paints her tone, notably void of any distinguishing accent, with as casual an air as she can muster. "What was that?" She inquires simply even as her sock-covered feet and pulling her to the little kitchenette. She forgoes glasses and pulls out two bottles of water from the fridge. She treads carefully back to the maintenance man, retaining a distance that has her stretching to offer the man his drink. Even with her careful distance, she gaze seeks to probe into the toolbox - curious little redhead.
The toolbox lives up to its name - it is a portable red iron box with a great many tools inside. From a comically small, yet definitely useful hammer, to a myriad of wrenches an screwdrivers. Bolts, nuts, nails… This technician is well-armed with a wide plethora of tools that will allow him to fix and maintain things of a mechanical nature, or simply any element of a household. Curiously enough, there's a line of plastic shot glasses with three pills - a capsule, an oval pill, and a tablet. All three of them were void of names on them. Presumably, that's what the man had taken. He lifts up a hand absent-mindedly to accept the requested water he was brought, and with a muttered "Thanks" he opens the bottle and takes a brief swig. "It greatly slows down the effect of neuroparalysis", he elaborates, and picks up one of the plastic shot glasses to offer to Isis. "I've nothing to offer for your cats, though, sorry."
Isis’s dark gaze follows the rise of the curious little pills offered up towards her. She eyes the trio for a moment, looking to her bottled water and back again, before shaking her head and lifting her free, gloved hand to deny the offer. “You know what? I’ve already been drugged once since I’ve moved here. Better safe than sorry. No offense meant, of course. I’ll just ah… head down to the hospital when you’re finished here. What type of gas did you say it was again?” She lofts a brow and tips her head, a few wild curls dancing across her line of sight.
Although things don't exactly go as planned, the tall man with unkempt blonde hair merely thins his lips before nodding a few times. "Okay. The gas is a powerful neuromuscular-blocking drug, with high levels of acetylcholine in it. We have no explanation of its cause, but it might as well be something to do with the blast. Or, I don't know, maybe it's one of those Evolved that got something to do with it." Closing the toolbox without insisting that the woman reconsiders, he picks the weighty toolbox up and asks: "Where's the bathroom? I might as well start there."
The description of the gas sets a little wrinkle across Isis’s dainty nose. “I guess that’s what happens when you play cheap and move in an area like this, hm?” Her chuckle is a bit nervous as she rolls her shoulders, apparently testing the health of her standing body and exposing the first hints of minute muscle hidden beneath her otherwise demure appearance. She quickly points out the ‘bathroom’, if the tiny cell could be considered such. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help,” she offers with a fidgeting comb of her fingers through her fiery curls.
"You could have helped by not suspecting I'm trying to drug you and rape you or whatever", he mutters loudly enough for Isis to hear as he stumbles into the bathroom, the toolbox truly weighing the young man down. As such, it would placed on the groun as soon as he enters the bathroom; he would then turn around, this time examining the cramped space of the room. "Sit down. I don't want you to drop down on the floor and hit your head. Oh, and the pills? They do not stop the effect. They prevent it."
Isis cringes at the man’s words. “I didn’t mean…” Ugh! People were so touchy. She shuddered and slipped away to grab a chair as instructed, rolling the seat from her computer desk across the wooden floors to position a short of the bathroom door. “I’m not a big fan of anything medical. I wait till it’s entirely necessary before I have to see a doctor or take medications.” She shudders and leans back in her seat, tugging up her legs to rest her dainty chin upon her knees. She shrugs. “The episode at the cemetery parties just made me all the more anxious.” She offers a vaguely apologetic look before the other cat, a grey feline, makes itself noticed by poking its head around the bathroom doorjamb and staring blankly at the maintenance man. “Noodles, leave the man alone. Here kitty kitty.”
The Russian accent is dropped; instead, a fairly soft pronunciation now accompanies the technician's voice. That weary careless tone is replaced with a more determined, and yet at the same time somewhat uncertain one. "Unfortunately, I have no idea how to fix the supposed leak. In fact, I don't even know where the pipes are", he admits, all the while staring at the seated redhead. As he talked, his eyes would wander straight into the girl, visualizing her spine, including all the necessary details. "You didn't want to take the flu pills. I didn't really want you to know I am one of them. I wanted to make you think the pills caused it." From a distance, he would start shutting down certain areas of the spine, and Isis would begin to feel numbness in her legs…
“What’re you talking-…?” Isis’s gaze drops to her legs as her numb feet tip from their ledge on the edge of the chair, dropping to the floor with a useless thud. “What the fuck!?!” And then her sharp, dark gaze spears back towards the man crouched in her shabby privy. “Fucking freak. What the hell do you want?” Already she’s tearing off the glove on her right hand, tossing the flimsy fabric aside before trying to push to her feet. Hoisting herself up by her arms, the rolling chair slides out from under her, the slight girl catching herself with on her elbows with a jarring thud that slices up her biceps and leaves her glaring up from beneath a tangle of sanguine curls.
"Merely to talk", he replies, continuing to shut off all except the vital areas of the spine, the signals no longer reach to the woman's brain; paralysis would ascend, robbing her legs entirely of motion, and would soon overtake her torso and arms. In a matter of seconds, she would be completely devoid of motion. Breathing, albeit slightly inhibited, would still be possible, and speech was left untouched by the stranger, as well. While Isis struggled with the impending ailment, he would be too busy grooming himself, using a hand to comb his hair back. "You're living alone, you're paranoid… Which leaves me guessing you're not for company. Unfortunately, I haven't had human company for a long while, and this is my way of socialising."
With the paralysis, her slender arms give out beneath her, slumping her body to the floor with a soft knock of her head against the wood. Her labored breathing is only made moreso by the grip of anxiety and adrenaline seeking a rampant path through her veins. She closes her eyes, trying to shut out the vision of her tilted apartment from her floored position. “Oh god,” she mumbles, only to become enraged and furious with the overflowing sense of helplessness. “You need a life. Get the fuck out. Get out!” Move. Just a little. Move. PLEASE!? But, her body doesn’t obey her silent demands. “I swear to the Gods, if I get my hands on you…”
"In a time like this, it is fairly unwise to open your doors to strangers", he tuts, wandering back to his toolbox to bring it into the main room, where the helpless redhead lay motionless. Setting it a few feet away from Isis, he would open it once more. During this short endeavour he would continue speaking: "Just imagine if someone with the ability to, say, manipulate temperature came in, and would be far less… friendlier… than me?.. You'd be broiled." He appeared unphased by the swear-ridden exclammatons of the long-haired woman, picking up a thin, small hammer from the toolbox. "If I told you I was about to use these tools on you… on a scale from 1 to 10, how scared would you be?"
Immediately Isis’s mind begins to recall and scan the tools she had seen within the box. No needles. No needles. Right? No needles? “No wonder you have little contact with people – you’re a damn idiot. I’m numb!!” If she could scowl, certainly her expression would bare the same hatred and fire that seems to churn from behind her dark eyes when they open to look upon the nearby man. “Five.” At least she’s honest, even in such a situation. She wracks her brain again - no needles.
Thomas sighs softly, placing the hammer back into the toolbox, which he promptly closed and shoves aside with a foot. He would then sit down on the floor right in front of Isis so that she could see him. Although her neck no longer obeyed the mind, her eyes could still survey her surroundings just fine. He would remain in this position for a period of time that might have seemed like an eternity to his victim. Eventually, though he would speak up. "Five's a little bit low. Don't worry, though, I am not going to mutilate you… Like I've said, I merely want to talk. So… how are things? Having any money issues?.."
Blink. Blink blink. “Seriously?” Isis introduces another long moment of silence before her own pale lips break the quiet. “You either very pathetic, very stupid, or very… insane.” She eyes the toolbox again before finally convincing herself it was indeed absent of that which she feared most and turns her attention back to the man. “No. My loans get me by just fine. The only problems I seem to be having are those I was trying to leave behind – trusting and meeting decent people.” Her words are rather acidic despite their honesty. “Hey. You ever think of…” insert a sarcastic gasp here, “asking people to have a chat?”
While Isis speaks, the bright-haired man moves to lie down on the ground, his position perpendicular to the redhead's. Once on his stomach, he would lay his hands palms down atop each other and then rest his chin on them. His visage would be less than one foot away from hers. A single corner of his lip would be twisted upwards just slightly. "Asking? Why ask when I can immobilise them?" The man couldn't possibly serious, judging by his ever-growing smirk, but who knows? "The paralysis will last only an hour; you'll regain your locomotive abilities then", he would note, before addressing what Isis has said: "Define decent. People who do small favours for you to earn your trust so that they would exploit it later? People who lie to you about everything you ask just to be on your good side? That's today's definition of decent."
Isis closes her eyes – at this point it was much the equivalent to covering her ears and singing like a loud immature child in her attempts to cut off the man’s last words. “Shut up,” she mumbles. “I’m sure you’ve had it so tough, Mr. Paralysis-freak.” She grunts and takes a moment to recollect a few deep breathes in an effort to stop the little stars swirling around her vision. She opens her eyes anew, unabashedly facing her ‘attacker’ with a new daring light glowing in her dark eyes, barely able to appropriately hint at the years of torment and trauma that fuel her hatred for the state of her very own, current helplessness. “I’m not certain decent people even exist, but at least I’m not too coward to go looking.”
Thomas furrows his brows. "Ladies tell me I take away their breath. Don't make me do that to you… literally", he warns her. And then, as if that threat was never uttered, his facial expression and his vocal tone brighten. "In today's world, a world that spins at a crazy speed, people no longer have the time to indulge in certain aspects of life. It reflects in everything, from something as trivial as ridiculous, CGI-infested films that require little thought, to human relationships. The latter is now a never-ceasing wheel of quid pro quos. You see, I'm not a big fan of that, which is why I do this. I don't want to tell you what you want to hear, I want to tell you what is, and I want you to reply with the same. Fear usually helps with that."
Silence reigns for a short moment after the threat. What is - what is, is a short woman with a temper laying paralyzed on her own floor. Niceties, no matter the threat, where highly unlikely at this point. “Because I’m sure your oh-so-wise, Mr. Antisocial. Tell me, what experience do you have with the indecencies of society? Did Daddy smack ya around a little?” She scoffs and closes her eyes again. Perhaps this paralysis might be used to her advantage? Her gently rounded features lack any expression. “Mr. Lonesome wants to learn it all. In that case all you have to do it lay a single finger on me. I dare you.”
"My father is hardly 'society'. That was pretty poor for a guess." Thomas tilts his head to the side, inspecting the pallid face of the immobilised woman. "Why would I touch you?.. That's… curious. Tell me why you want me touch you. Do you have an ability?" His eyes roam over to her chest. It might have looked lewd, but he was actually visualizing her spine again, so that he could weaken the signals coursing through the part of her spine that is responsible for breathing. Meaning, she would find breathing an even more tedious chore. "Just a slight motivator to tell me what's on your mind."
The next breath comes as hungry wheeze seeking to rush air into her straining lungs. Isis’s heart skips a beat, in naturally unstable rhythm stunted by a newly growing anxiety. She tries to recollect her thoughts, to try sooth her pulse that strains in her ears. She grunts first. “Yes. I share thoughts.” The paralysis combined with the labor of her words cover her lie better than she could have hoped.
Thomas lets the tiny jolts of electricity go about their business, letting the little redhead breathe as she did earlier. "Okay, then", he would reply, and place a hand on Isis. The only problem was, that hand was placed on her butt. "Hm, strange, this isn't exactly working, is it", he would quip mockingly, looking into the woman's eyes with his own, mischief glimmering in those grey eyes of his. His hand remains to rest there, with the mocked redhead capable of doing little to avert that.
“Really, genius?” Isis spits back when her plan does not work as intended, and when the angle of the man’s arm reveals to her the rude contact despite her inability to feel the touch across the back of her dark slacks. She falls silent, though, unwilling to press the matter further and instead hoping that the man’s sense of curiosity might press him to try an area of her bare skin.
"Not exactly the reaction I expected to get", he admits. "I honestly anticipated something more along the lines of… 'Take your fucking hands off me'." His has simply rested atop the woman's butt cheek up until now, when it slides off the hip and the man gathers himself to rise to his feet. As he starts unzipping the zipper of his coveralls, he reveals his usual outfit - his shirt with the top three buttons undone and his grey denim jeans. "You know what could happen if I touched you? You know what I could do if I touched you?.. I could make this whole thing permanent", he states as he steps out of the clothes he no doubt has stolen, unless they sell dirty coveralls.
“I’m not like most people,” she remarks in turn, opening a single eye to spy on the man’s movements. At the initial sound of the zipper, Isis’s mind kicks into overdrive. She can feel her conscious trying to leap from her skin, to find an escape from the prison of her own immobile body, only to lash back upon itself and whip across her mind. The wild, fleeting sensation fades, however, when the man reveals a set of more casual clothing beneath his coveralls. She takes a deep breath, holding it of her own according, before releasing it slowly with a little wheeze past her peachy lips, her dark gaze honed on the man. “You seem to have a good control of your ability…”
Tossing the coveralls aside careless of where they will land, he crouched down in front of the woman with a wide, self-content grin. "You should have seen the look on your face. What, you thought I was going to rape you?.. That would be pretty awkward. And a desperate move for a virgin, as well." His eyes survey the room once again, as if in search of something. In the meantime, he answers to the compliment regarding his ability: "It took me a few years… and I've still quite a few kinks to work out in it… Why? You can't control yours?.." His gaze falls on the redhead's visage once more.
“You’re a virgin?” Of all the information to pluck out of their ‘conversation’, Isis’s mind initially focuses on this point. When your life has been forcibly focused around sex for nearly its entire length, it is hard to think outside the gutter. Her amazement with this fact is evident in her chocolate eyes. She watches the man now as if he were so rare treasure. How does one make it in this cruel world untouched? How does it feel? She blinks a few times, reigning in her wildly wandering thoughts and focusing on the man’s hands. “Not in the slightest. I haven’t been given the opportunity to practice – only hide it away. The slightest touch to my skin…” She looks up to the man’s countenance from beneath the fan of her dark lashes.
"As virgin as the Virgin Mary herself. Then again, I always found that term rather unfitting for a man. It's not like my penis is shrouded in hymen." Thomas chortles softly and inclines his head. "I haven't exactly come here to discuss sex", he notes, and shifts his position to kneel in front of Isis. "I'll help you train it. You are an idiot to treat this ability of yours like a plague. Of course, if it will melt my hands or outright kill me… I won't be as eager to help you."
Isis tries not to chuckle. How awkward and wrong it might have been if she took visible amusement in her attacker’s joke. She bites her lower lip to hide the little twitch attempting to tug at the corner of her lips. She need not keep to the effort long, the man’s last remark wiping her mind and what she can manage of her expression blank. Confusion winks behind the deep pools of dark chocolate. “No. I told you. It’s not a harmful ability. You… really want to help me?”
"You're not reiterating that it's telepathy relying on touch. Which means it's not. Which begs the question - why lie about a supposedly harmless ability?" He pauses to exhale a heavy, troubled sigh, bringing his fairly bushy eye-brows down, frowning. "Right now, you're pathetic. You wake up, go take a shower, brush your teeth, possibly go to work, then come back home and read books. And it's the same every day. And just out that window, outside… there's a silent war going on. You watch TV lately?.. They say the US is building up an army of superpowered people. And rumours have it, their idea of recruitment is synonymous with kidnapping. And what would you do if someone broke into your house? I came here just to screw with you. To show how vulnerable you are. And is that what you want to rely on? Fooling someone into touching you?"
“If you are going to analyze someone, make sure you’re good at it first. Perhaps shelling yourself up is what you do, but not I. I go out each night, to watch, to learn – To a diner, to a cemetery rave, anywhere. I watch them interact and toy with one another.” She chuckles and closes her eyes. “There are some pretty disturbing things one can find to observe in the great New York, New York. I wake up each morning, study, go to the gym, and then head out on the town. God forbid – sometimes I even participate in social interactions.” She opens her eyes, a new viciousness returned in the dark gaze. Her moods seems a fickle thing. “No. I don’t wait to be made a victim – I’ve learned people will come to hurt you whether your waiting for it or not.”
"Good, you know how harsh the world is, and that it isn't picky when it comes to victims of Fate. So do I. The difference is, that I am currently superior to you, who is completely paralysed and has to struggle to breath. Right now, I have two options - touch you, make it permanent, and walk off without a single stain on my conscience, -or- finish you off because you have seen my face and know that I have an ability. You have two options, as well - be made paralysed until you die, or die right now. For someone who tries to regain her composure by saying she knows how things work, you're still too much of a bottom feeder." After this long-winded speech, he brings himself even lower, so that his face would be just slightly above Isis'. "And I want to change that."
Isis closes her eyes as the man’s new threat sinks over her. She doesn’t respond. Not a word, not a sound – only the slow, shallow rise and fall of her labored breathings.
"So, let's go about doing that, shall we?" Suddenly, with no hesitation, and with an amused smirk painted on his full lips, he places his hand on the woman's hand; the one she bared when she was getting up to get closer to the man when he was inducing paralysis unto her.
CRACK! The instant sensation was like running one’s body through a brick wall for both parties involved, crashing through the limits of caging flesh to exchange the psyches between the touching bodies. Isis stumbles back with Jackdaw’s body, falling over his feet and hitting the floor with a quiet runt as she catches her back on the side of the bed. Isis hold closed her eyes, his eyes, for a long moment before peeking open to see… Holy hell! It worked!! “Oh fuck…” The masculine tones startle her further, setting her to conduct the stolen body hurriedly up to its fully, lanky height.
The experience is even less pleasant for the man who becomes caged in the redhead's body. For someone who's sensitive to pain, the journey to Isis' body is a bit unexpectedly rough. Confusion overtakes him when the darkness fades, and he finds himself immobile. It even takes him a few seconds to figure out what had just happened - the paralysis, the odd sensation of a new form, different point of view… All of it is simply too much to take, at once. As he flutters the redhead's lashes, he murmurs in that effeminate tone: "That is a messed up ability…" He would attempt to trigger his ability, only to notice that it's gone. It doesn't take him long to add two and two together. "I'd suggest not trying to trigger my ability. In fact, I suggest closing your eyes, unless you want to spontaneously kill your body or your cats."
“Shut up! Just shut up, and don’t move.” Instantly he lifts his hand, bopping himself in the head. Then Isis moves into action. He steps forward, carefully keeping this new body away from the bared areas of his original shape. Isis reaches into the slacks still tucked around the feminine form, pulling a small butterfly knife from the back pocket. With a few broad paces he crouches down in front of the immobile form. “Tell me about it. You messed with the wrong bitch.” Isis tips his head before rising again. “Now what am I going to do with you.” He paces back and forth, glancing to the clock to estimate the remaining time on the paralysis. “If you’d like to keep with your original plan, we could just kill that body with you inside?” He grins, glancing down to the helpless little frame. This power could be useful, and much easier to train than her own, after all. “Or…” He swivels back down to eye level. “We can come to some other agreement?”
Heaving an audible sigh that carried an alien tone, he - or she, if one was bothered by semantics - mutters again: "At least the hour is nearly up and paralysis will fade away soon." Looking up at her former body from the ground where she lay paralysed, she lets out another sigh before speaking up, inserting random pauses here and there, as the tone is truly something she had to get used to: "If you injure me lethally, I'll kill you right after you switch bodies again. Which, I am assuming, you can, otherwise I am going to be really pissed, and no arrangements are going to cut it."
“Oh. Sure. It can be reversed. If you can find me.” Without pause he rises to his feet, awkward and ungraceful in this taller, lanky frame. Isis steps over the redhead body, making for the door. “I suggest you come up with a new plan to keep me interested in swapping back, yeah? It’s rather nice playing the virgin…” He hums thoughtfully and begins to rummage through his own pockets in search of a wallet or other form of identification within. Cell phone? Weapons?
Although Thomas, now stuck in a woman's body, was quite perturbed by the current situation and the plausible outcomes were not ones she anticipated, she tried her best not to show her state of utmost agitation. "Find you? Why would I want to find you?.. The first thing I am going to do when the paralysis thaws, is masturbate. And then I am going to head to the nearest night club, grab the first chick who's into tribbing, and what I've only seen on my computer's screen so far will become a reality. You, on the other hand, will have to juggle a great number of lies I've concocted and avoid people I've screwed over." As her eyes spot her former self's hand reach into the pockets, she resumes her speech, trying to conceal the worrisome tone with nonchalance: "All of my things are in a bag I always carry with myself, but stashed for now. Provided my assumption on how your ability works is right, only I know its location. So, without any ID or money… what are you going to do?" She tries to catch her body with her gaze, her glance.
“Oh trust me, I can get by. Without a name or ID, I can consider it a fresh start.” Isis raises his hands and heaves a sight that quite plainly speaks of a new freedom. “Wow. This body really needs a work out. But how interesting – an Evolved, virgin male. Could I have asked for a better body.” Isis hooks her thumb into her belt and peeks down into the contents at the front of the jeans. “Hm.” She makes no comment at what she finds within, instead looking back to the limp body that used to house her fractured psyche and lofts a brow. “Last chance. Make me an offer I can’t refuse, or your welcome to enjoy being trapped and powerless in that body for the rest of your life…” Thicks fingers turn the butterfly knife in a practiced flick of the wrist that opens and shuts the folding weapon.
The tables have truly turned. The former body of Isis, still lying on the floor, still paralysed, would rest on the unforgivingly rough floor for quite a while until she would speak up: "The offer of honing your ability still stands. You have screwed things up for yourself in the body you have left me, and you will continue your self-destructive path untl you meet a dead-end of misery. I can give you purpose, I can grant you meaning. Something to strive for, something above the mundane goals you have set yourself." Since the hour was up, she tried to wiggle her toes or fingers, even though her ability - now belonging to Isis - wasn't exactly precise when it came to time. "Unless you stole my expertise with the ability… expect randomly paralysing and possibly killing strangers."
“You give me more credit than I deserve – I can live with the killing of strangers. Most will deserve it, I’m sure.” Isis tucks his thumbs in his pockets, taking on a slow strut that speaks of a growing appeal and comfort with this new body. He places a broad sneaker on the back of the feminine figure’s neck, looking down over the shelf of his thigh with a lofted brow. “You’ll help me with my ability. We’ll talk. Chat. Like… buddies.” Isis grins at the term. “We can help each other. Trust me, sweety…” Isis makes a subtle gesture towards the frame he wears. “You could use some assistance as well. If you ever use this power on me without my consent again, though. Someone will hunt you down and do more than kill you. I promise.” To make a point of it, he leans down again and plucks a little cherry-red cellphone from the broad’s pocket. A few buttons beep and chime before a message is scent of – presumably to the someone that would avenge her should something go array. “Deal?” He backs off then, keeping a distance as he notes the growing hour.
"No. We will be less than buddies", the voice that once belonged to Isis states. "I am going to aid you in polishing your ability so that you don't have to wear winter clothes during the summer, and then I am going to leave you alone. I have no intention in babysitting you for the rest of your life." After a cute grunt, her tone attains a higher level of frustration: "One of the very first thoughts I had when I discovered this ability of mine is to kill. You're above that. You want to be Evil, but you're not. Killing is nowhere near what they show on the television. Trust me, I know. With that said… You don't leave me any choice. It's a deal. I help you, and that's it. Now, mind reverting the changes?"
“When the paralysis lifts, or when I have your word that you’ll remove it upon the reversal of the swap.” With that Isis makes himself comfortable, reclaiming the rolling chair nearby. He crosses his legs with one ankle resting on the opposite thigh – a quite convincingly masculine pose, in truth. He lifts a hand, plucking at a few strands of his blond hair to eye it speculatively.
An admittedly cute snort would come from the redhead on the ground. "You'd actually be willing to trust mere words?.. I could promise to lift the paralysis and simply kill you off. There's… certainly a lot to teach you." A few toes are wiggled. And then the fingers. Seems paralysis is finally starting to wear off, although it is certainly subsiding at a much slower rate than it was introduced to the frail body. "I'm not going to promise anything to you, because promises are void of purpose and meaning. Instead, why don't you let me enjoy this cute body of yours a little longer… Wish you had bigger breasts, though." Towards the end, she really did sound rather mocking.
“You and me both,” Isis mutters in a deeper tone than that which the mind is used to, setting his fingers to free the golden locks of hair and turn his gaze upon the slowly liberated form. “If I can’t trust your word, I might as well leave. I’m giving you a very, very slight benefit of the doubt. So, take it, or leave it. But, we both no the consequences of you leaving it, hm?” He cocks a brow and leans forward, stretching out a hand towards the feminine figure – when the paralysis was lifted enough for the girlish form to reach out and touch his hand, the swap would be reversed. A fair compromise.
Sleep paralysis is something Thomas has been troubled fairly often throughout his life since early childhood, and as such he knew all the tricks to help his body come back to life. Constant stimulation and invitation for limbs to move, as well as the constantly moving gaze reminds the brain that the body is still very much functional. And the fact that the paralysis has lasted only one hour adds to the fairly short period of recovering from the immobilisation. A quivering hand is lifted and brought feebly towards the extended hand to grab it. "You can't trust anyone's word."
“You’re preaching to the choir,” Isis answers dully before twitching a single digit to close the last of the distance, renewing that horrid sensation of being rip from existence before plunging the psyches back into their rightful bodies. Isis groans as her head swims with the throbbing migraine, her world lit in blinding colors for a short moment before she blinks past the fog and turns her dark gaze back onto the ‘maintenance man’.
And the man who pretended to be a technician earlier was now on his fours, slowly gathering himself to sit up on the floor, exasperated by the overpowering sensations presented by the switching of their psyches. With an absent-minded groan, he brings up a hand to his forehead to rub it, as if trying to assuage his own headache. Through a murmur, he quips rather lightheartledy: "You got to see what's under my pants… don't you think it's only fair if I see what's under yours?"
“And you came into my house, uninvited, and paralyzed me. I think you got the better end of the deal. Consider us even on that part,” Isis scowls as she slowly manages to press herself to all fours, her muscles still straining to acclimate to the knowledge that they are slowly but surely beginning to obey her command once more. She rolls over with a complete lack of race to sit on her rump, leaning back on the support of her elbows.
"I think you're overestimating your position. I could paralyse you again even before you got to me to touch again. And I am not fooled by the same trick twice." Thomas slowly rises to his feet with a sigh. Walking over to the coveralls and the toolbox to pick them up, he speaks lowly under his breath: "I think I'll be taking my leave. I will return in a few days' time, perhaps, to see about your… training."
Isis is incapable of finding enough energy to return an appropriate reply. She knew well the risks she had taken in reclaiming her own body. As much as the urge to claim Mr. Lonesome’s body as her own had tugged at her thoughts, the idea of controlling the power that haunted this original shape had been stronger. Gambling and curiosity, perhaps she should better blame these, rather than Fate, for all she the trouble she had come across in her past. Still, she remains silent, only lifting a hand to wave a tired and slightly mocking ‘peace sign’ in the departing gentleman’s direction before slumping back on the wooden floor and sprawling out.
Thomas steps out of the apartment, caring enough to close the door behind him despite the fact that his hands are full; after all, he wou;dn't want the cats running out of the flat. The streets were cruel to humans, never mind animals. No word would be granted to Isis, however. No promise that he would come back or anything of the sort; perhaps he walked out and will never be seen again. His steps become more and more muffled as he slowly walks down the corridor.