When Devils Become Angels


isis_icon.gif diogenes_icon.gif

Scene Title When Devils Become Angels
Synopsis Thomas, having re-imagined himself as the famous Greek philosopher Diogenes, comes to Isis to help finish change his image. However, the two unexpectedly shed their masks. Warning: This scene is extremely long, and involves quite possibly the most bizarre kiss in literature history.
Date June 1, 2009

Isis's Apartment

A generic, small apartment of lacquered wooden flooring and a bland white paint stretched across the high-reaching walls. One enters into the small sitting area which is braced by a kitchenette near the entry door. The sitting area lacks a television, instead serving as a computer room for a small, stacked black desk and two large bookcases staked high and alphabetically with a variety of texts. This room does boast a few many windows. The glass is meticulously shined and lets in a fresh wash of sunlight at day, and gossamer moonlight at night, though it grants only the shabby view of the crowded streets of the Bronx below. A set of billowing silver curtains are fastened up at either side of the windows, offering their usefulness for privacy when one desires it.

The room is set with two doors, excluding the entry, into other areas of the tiny apartment. To the north is a little room, crowded with an oversized bed done up in sheets of emerald green and silver. The plush mattress makes it nearly impossible to fit aught else inside, but for the small bookshelf hung over the head of the bedding. The southern down leads one to a small privy with the necessary toiletries and a simple, standing shower. The boring spans of egg-shell white are kept compulsively clean by the look of it.

The only exit from the apartment 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 home smells faintly of cologne and candles.

Thomas steps up before the door of the apartment that supposedly Isis has moved to. He glances down at the note the superintendent has handed to him, and sighs softly. Stuffing it back into the pocket of his jeans - being dressed the exact same way he was when he visited Isis for the first and second times - he knocks on the door or, if there's a doorbell, he will use that, instead. He wonders if Isis truly went through with his instructions - figuring out how her ability actually works before any actual training would begin. He would stand silent when or if the door opens, and merely greet the redhead with quirked brows and thinned lips.

Isis rolls over in bed with a quiet grumble. "What? Who is it?" She calls out, only to slowly swing her legs out of bed. She huffs and cusses as she's forced to depart from the comfy plushness of her matress, bending down to open a few of the drawers beneath her bed and piece together something to keep her modest - a pair of boxers and a tank top. "Shouldn't have had that last White Russian." She ruffles up her tangled curls as she heads towards the door and peers through the peekhole. "Oh!" She looks around quickly, debating whether or not she has enough to time to rethink her 'pajamas', only to pop open the door and welcome the man inside. "Come in. Just give me a second to change, hm?" She slips away from the door, selects a new outfit from her drawers, and dips off into the bathroom.

This time, surprisingly, Thomas would be with his black over-the-shoulder bag, except it wouldn't be worn over his shoulder, despite the common name this bag is recognised by. He's holding it in his left hand, instead, the lengthy strap bunched up in it. The man continues to stand in the doorway, looking the scantily clad redhead over for a few moments before he would finally speak up: "Too late, you already gave me a hard-on." As odd as it might seem to note, but he neutrally appreciated the sight before him; the comment, judging by the tone with which it was spoken, was intended to merely taunt the short woman. As the door is closed promptly behind him, he finds himself a seat closest to him to sit down, setting the bag down on his lap. "This place is a little bit fancier. Promotion from wheel-changer to window cleaner?", he shouts out.

"Keep dreaming, Mister Maintence," she call over her shoulder along the way. "I don't date my stalkers." A little crack in the bathroom door permits easier conversation and the sight of the lady's boxers and tanktop flying across the bathroom with a slight grumble. "I, uh… I had to get out of there rather quick and quiet. Sorry for the fuss." The door swings open, revealing the girl's PJ's to be properly swapped for a pair of jeans and a tanktop. She runs a comb through her curls, wrinkling her nose each time she catches a knot, and slips back towards the man. "Trusting me enough to bring your goodie bag?" She eyes the satchel with a sparkle of curiosity.

"Stalkers?.. I am not stalking you", he replies loud enough for her to hear, "Although I might suggest not undressing in front of your window - just in case someone is." With that priceless advice, he sighs softly and looks around the apartment to take in every detail, no matter how trivial or insignificant it might seem. He wanted to get used to the apartment right away, and as such made sure that his gaze fell on every nook and cranny before him to grow accustomed to the pallid redhead's new lair. "I've been preparing to come to your old place for a week. Found a place to stash the bag. Was placing random empty bags in various places to see if they would vanish mysteriously. I wasn't about to waste time doing that when coming here", he explains duly.

Isis pulls the last sweep of her comb through her hair and tosses it aside. "All that effort… While I'm interested as to what contents of that bag are, I'm fairly certain I'm not interested in taking any of them." She flashes a quick grin, which abruptly turns into a subtle frown. "Are you wearing the same clothes?" She steps forward, reaching out to carefully pinch a section of the man's shirt and rub it between her fingertips - as if this was a sufficient manner in which to test it's filth.

"No, they're merely identical clothes. I have plenty of them. What can I say, I'm unimaginative", he admits with a faux feel of shame in his voice. He would appear noticeably uncomfortable when Isis approaches close to enough to pinch his shirt, most likely not one for close contact. "Or perhaps I simply don't have any clothes because I've arrived to this country with just this bag, and I've about as much money as a monkey playing a jukebox on the street", he considers. "I'm still taking a shower daily, though, you don't have to worry that I'll have the scent of a man."

Isis frowns slightly - whatever thoughts that swirled about behind her dark gaze bothering her enough to turn down the soft corners of her pale lips in that delicate expression. "To this country? Where are you from?" She asks off handishly as she withdraws her touch, turning about smoothly to claim her gloves from the edge of her desk and pull them up around her small hands with a few meticulous little pinches here and there. Obviously the man's secretive nature is getting the best of her curiosity rather quickly.

"Oh, I hail from Eastern Europe, a country called - hey, wait a minute… You almost tricked me there." Needless to say, he was purely leading up to that punchline, and hasn't intended to share the exact location of his origin. Rising from the chair and leaving his precious bag behind on the seat, he notes curtly: "You want an interesting story, read a book. I came here to help you come to terms with and get the hang of your ability, so that hand-shakes would be less awkward for you. Did you try and figure out the details of how it works, like I asked?"

"Do you have a bug permenantly stuffed up your ass?" Isis returns when her polite question is met with such a snippy remark. She sighs and rolls her shoulders back, trying to stiffle the growing little irritation of having her curiosity unmet with any true success. "A bit. I've had a few occassions lately where it's almost as if the swap hesitates…" A subtle blush rises to her features as she turns her attentions away from the man and idly fidgets with the beltline of her denim jeans. "If my consious is given enough reason and desire to stay in my body, it seems less instinctual for it to jump. I haven't toyed with it too much - didn't really have the time, but it seems as good of a thought process and avenue as any." She shrugs.

Thomas decides to ignore the snide riposte Isis offers in return to his own snide remarks, realising that the conversation will be far more fluid if they don't stumble over every biting comment. "There can't be that many reasons for you to blush, considering that you've balls of steel. Metaphorically speaking. And you're fidgeting with the beltline of your jeans. Are you saying sex delays the effect of your ability? Actually, don't answer that." This time, there was no playfulness in his tone. Tom actually seemed irked at the idea. His taunting tone returns in a more harmful shape when he continues to speak, walking past Isis: "There is that, or you could grab someone off the streets with my help, and switch bodies often enough with him or her so that you get accustomed to the act. It's kind of like folding paper planes - folding your first paper plane must be weird, and the following ones are going to be crooked and fly a couple of inches. Fold enough planes and you're getting better at it."

Isis grunts. "You're going to make an amazing tutor, I can tell," she snips. It was not a pleasant experience having her sexual endeavors and their affects on her ability shared with such a strange, secretive man. She promptly stuffs her hands into her pockets. "I'm not going out and groping strangers and starting a panic around New York. I'm unregistered, have no intentions of registering, perfer to keep my ability secret, and … if you don't mind … do not feel like being dragged off once the wrong people catch on to such a scheme. Yeah?" She steps back, catching her calves on the edge of her bed and flopping lazily down onto the matress. "When you said you'd help, I assumed you'd be my test subject in all of this. I'm not suggest anything funny… Trust me." She seems a little perterbed by the man's reaction. "I'm saying that with enough concentration and an actually desire to stay in my own body, I can delay the swap, and hopefully prevent it with enough practice." She shrugs again, lifting her gaze to follow the man.

It would take a while for Tom to find a fitting answer. And even then, instead of offering an actual reply concerning the matter, he quips: "Are you saying you don't like my body enough to learn not to use your ability? I have feelings, just so you know." And then he would heave a sigh. A long, weary one. "They're sloppy at picking up Evolved to register them. I've wandered hospitals healing people, and stole from countless shops to get my ticket to come here, and I don't have anyone on my tail that I would be aware of. Then again, that's me. You're most likely different, no matter the guts." He looks out the window in an almost longing manner. "I miss my home", he suddenly says after a brief moment of silence.

A subtle smile breaks the tension at the man's comment. "Though I doubt it helps and sounds only strange instead, I liked being in your body. It was… empowering." She falls silent, though, only to straighten up in an attentive posture when the man quips in with a curiously heartfelt comment about his homeland. She lofts a thin brow and steps forward, turning her attention towards the window. "Then why did you leave?" Her tone is not prying, though there is a pleasant lilt of curiosity she cannot deny, tucked softly beneath the tones of a socially-expected, polite concern.

He opens for but a moment, after which he turns to face the redhead and, with a tone distorted with sarcasm to disregard what he said less than a minute ago, he jests lightheartedly: "I wanted to get laid with a hot American chick. And the first one I met says she likes being in my body." He walks over to the armchair he sat in earlier, where he left his bag. He opens it up, and starts to dig inside for something. "A more interesting topic would be - why don't you want to register? It's mandatory, you know", he remarks, seemingly having trouble in finding whatever it is he wants to find in that secret over-the-shoulder bag of his.

The little redhead turns to meet her strange aquintance's gaze, only to find her expression sinking at the snide remark she is met with in turn. Humorous though it is, it is not the honest answer she'd been hoping for. "Crazy Americans," she mumbles half-heartedly as her gaze follows the man's steps. She does not encroach by moving nearer, instead merely leaning to the side and trying to spy around the man's body from the slight distance presented between them. "I was told that an ability like mine would likely have me dragged off and put in a test tube, should I register. I know they are locking up 'dangerous' Evolved without a thought to civil law. I'm not willing to have my ability debated by people with such questionable morals."

"You switch bodies, you don't kill people like I do." Oops. Diogenes straightens up and looks at Isis with a dazzled look on his visage, and quickly tries to correct what he said: "Which isn't to say I actually kill people… but, y'know. I could." Having turned his attention back to the mysterious contents of his inventory, he ultimately pulls out a rectangular carton box of hair dye; he shows it to Isis - it has an asian woman with a pearly white smile on her face and dark, dark hair framing it - and says: "Hopefully this will just change my hair, I kind of like being Caucasian." Said box is tossed to the short woman. "You like being in my body so much, here's your chance."

That slender, Irish frame snaps back upright - not at the man's words, no those are caught belatedly, but as the man's attention is shifting back to her place amidst the low-income apartment. Only then, with her thoughts rightly reclaimed from wondering just what was in that mysterious satchel, does she process Diogenes's comment. "What?! Killed?" She barely has time to process whether she should be worried, running, or consider herself lucky to be on the man's 'good' side. Was she on his good side? He was visiting, tutoring her ability, and… she reaches out to catch the projectile instinctively, looking down at the box … dye his hair. "The only men that dye their hair are those with something to hide," she teases. "Thought no one had caught on to you." She grins and tucks the box under her arm, reaching to pull of her gloves before extending a hand. "Trust me with that dangerous body of yours?"

"Relax, they were nobodies", he attempts to assuage Isis. Was it another jest? It somewhat sounded like it. But it wouldn't be too surprising if the man's words were true. He doesn't dwell on the issue, however, apparently more interested in having his hair dyed. "Just… don't look at anything that has a spine. I suggest you stay in the bathroom and we talk through a slightly parted door", he explains, his gaze dropping to the bared hand. With the shake of his head, he adds another comment: "I hate the switcharoo itself. But I also have no idea how to dye my hair and we need you to get used to your ability, so have at it."

Isis seems only to thrilled at the oppritunity of being back inside the man's skin. "Stop yah bitchin'," she mumbles, her Bostonian accent slipping for but a moment ebfore she reaches out and grabs hold of the man's hand. Not missing an oppritunity to practice, there is an uncomfortable sensation of tug-of-war upon one's conciousness, as if the psyche were debating whether or not it was truly compelled to shift from its rightful place. The awkward suspension lingers for only a few moments before that horrid jolt of being yanked by a sharp hook one's bellybutton, sends each psyche reeling off into the other's body. Isis grunts and blinks away the haze of stars winking at her vision, looking down to note masculine hands in place of her own smaller palms.

Diogenes, now in the body of the redhead American paddy, stumbles away, and, in a clearly joking manner, murmurs in the woman's voice: "Wooaah, Nelly." With his head still spinning somewhat as if he was spun around a dozen times, he staggers over to the armchair and places both of those dainty hands on the seat's arms for support. "Right, don't get carried away, don't jerk off, and don't cut my hair. That's about all the rules I can think of for now." With a heavy sigh, he falls to sit into the armchair which he then reclines against. "Pity you don't have a bigger pair of breasts. It'd be interesting to see how it feels to look like a slut", he adds. Yes, he certainly was a weird one.

Weird ones - they made an interesting pair. The male features turn up in a grin bright enough for a child in a toy store. Isis does not dare turn the man's eyes upon her redheaded body across the room, though. Instead she heads off purposefully towards the bathroom, idly snatching back the box of hairdye along the way. The man's shirt is torn as she goes, tossed over the door, his eyes pointed upon the mirror to observe the flesh that newly revealed. She rolls back his shoulders and tips her head from side to side in a quick scrutiny before opening the box and calling back her own rules over her shoulder as she prepares the dying chemicals. "No bad touch to that body, boyo. I'd offer to let you play dress up, but you're not gettin' a free show of the goods." She chuckles, her mood brightened with this little gift of the day, as she pulls on a pair of plastic gloves from the box.

Tom - or Isis, rather - looks up towards the door of the bathroom. A playful, subtle smirk appears on the pretty lips, and he calls the admittedly gorgeously and effeminately shaped feminine body to its feet, the daze having, for most part, faded away. He looks over the window, down at the street, shouting out to himself, as odd as that might have been for him: "Do you mind if I strip in front of the window?" Although, apparently, he doesn't go through with it. This body might not be his, and it might be enough of an incentive to cause more mischief, but that sort of mischief still required an effort of will and a battle against his conscience, and while he didn't have it in spades, it wasn't easy to force himself dance naked for the bypassers to possibly see. No, instead, he wanders around the apartment, looking about. "You know, I think I need an alias… You know, just so that I don't have to share my real name… I've been thinking Diogenes."

The man's head pop out of the bathroom, risking a quick glance to assure the modesty of the female form. "Har har," the masculine tone rumbles before lips part to reveal a childish effort of sticking out a pink tongue in the woman's direction. The head, mopped and slick with greasy, pitch-hued dye, disppears back into the bathroom. The words echo off the tiny, accoustic chamber. "Like the philosopher?" A thoughtful hum, and then, "No one is going to get that, you realize. It'll just be a headache. Besides, until I'm special enough to get a real name, I'm calling you Mr. Lonesome." She nods assertively at that masculine face in the mirror and spikes up Thomas's hair with the sticky dye into a fashioned Mohawk. Only then does that male form come sliiiiiiding dramatically out of the bathroom in socks and pants with a wide-eyed amusement and boyish grin, hands held high. "TAHDA-" *THUD!* "Ugh!" Thomas's form is sprawled out on the form, chuckling through a grunt of pain. "God, Karma's a bitch."

"I don't care if others get it. I'll feel badass when I'm looking to get someone, walk up to him, and refer to the Greek philosopher by saying, 'I'm looking for an honest man'. Come now, that is the definition of badass", he muses aloud in that dulcet tone of the girl he's currently in control of, while his true body is busy fashioning a mohawk. That was a large enough mistake, and as Isis discovers, showing it to him wasn't exactly a good idea. Isis' body turns around to face the man who has messed up the dramatic entrance, a cold, condescending appearance dominating her face. It's highly likely that the true Isis would be surprised either to see how she looks when she's majorly ticked off, or that she can actually pull off such a facial expression, with so much contempt brewing in it. Still, Thomas is far from the aggressive kind, so he doesn't shout. "If that thing stays on my head, I'll shave yours bald", he warns. And then… "You okay?" Of course she is, she didn't fall from a rooftop. "I'd, uh… If I find a bruise on my body when we switch…" The redhead's face brightens slightly, but before a look of concern would be noticed, Isis's body would turn her back against the man.

Isis is, actually, not in the least surprise that her features can contain such malace. She is, however, surprised that someone else foreign to her body can manage to shape those soft features into such a display. It had taken her a while to prefect an appropriately angry look that would not be scoffed at by those larger than her in that slight, short frame. She sighs and pushes up to her feet, rubbing at the man's tailbone and resisting the urge to give the manly rear a good grope. Instead she looks back over his shoulder, trying to look at the rear end as if inspecting for bruises. "Relax." She begins and turns towards the kitchen. "Jesus. Maybe their really is a stick up my ass," she mumbles as she pulls a bottle of white wine from the fridge. "It's going to be a half hour while this sets!" She calls over. "Want a glass of wine?"

Thomas fails to conceal the broad smile that appears when Isis notes that there may indeed be a stick up her butt. He spins around in his new body, eyeing his old one. "You're proving to be far more interesting than I initially thought. Or, at least, entertaining", he remarks, even if it may have sounded like he was talking to himself. He follows her into the kitchen… or she follows him into the kitchen - it was complicated - and answers with a nod. "What I like to drink most is wine that belongs to others", he announces haughtily, his tone elevating the significance of the spoken words, which he soon elaborates. "Diogenes said that. He was the first cynic."

Isis chuckles as she dishes out two glasses of white, sweet wine. She keeps the man's gaze averted at all times as she slides a glass along the countertop. "That's what I like to hear. I thought I'd have to threaten you with taking picture of this body in this lovely ensemble if you didn't brighten up a bit." The silhoutte of her smirking grin is visible, despite her downcast gaze. "Next time you bring the wine, Mr. Lonesome. I'm more entertaining with a good drink, I assure you." The glass claimed by a more masculine hand is lifting in friendly salute before a sip is taken.

The fiery-haired woman, however, hesitates to take a drink. It was more than just bizarre to converse with oneself without a mirror, even more so when the 'You' you see behaves and thinks in a completely different way. It was dream-like. It was a situation Diogenes had no control over, and it's these situations he normally despised. But not this time. There was a sense of uncomfortable vulnerability, yes, but he didn't rush to retake his body, paralyse Isis, and walk off with a scoff. "Everybody's entertaining in one way or another after a 'good' drink", he notes, "it's how entertaining you are sober that counts." And with those words, he lifts the petite hand holding the glass of wine he accepted from his own body to catch a sip. "And what do you plan to do when you gain control over your ability?", he shifts the topic all of a sudden.

"Noted," is the reply with a lighthearted tone on the matters of entertainment and liquor. "I'll take it as a compliment, then." Mr. Lonesome's question, though, instills a sudden quiet and weight upon the air. "It's hard to say. I'll enjoy a Summer day a lot more, that for certain. I - part of me craves human contact…" Isis's stolen, male features furrow with a mix of feelings - reluctance, confusion, and anger. "The other part of me despises the mere idea of the implications of touch, though." She shrugs the man's shoulders in a way that almost appears casual - apparently the ability to decieve is a matter of the mind, not the body.

"It was a compliment. My compliments usually are carried through truth, and as such, without the redundant layer of sweetness, they might not seem as such", he explains before taking another sip of the wine. "If I'm Diogenes, you are Eve", he tells Isis, stepping behind his own body… but only to walk right past. "Capriciously, you crave for the forbidden fruit you're lured to, but you're also afraid of the ripples your action - or needs, in this case - might cause. Well… I've tasted the forbidden fruit, and I have to say… It tastes like an age-old leather boot. There's nothing magical in human contact, be it physical or verbal. Human relationships are either too mechanical, or too emotional. There is no balance, whatsoever." After another sip of the wine, he adds as a belated afterthought: "Then again, I'm Mr. Lonesome, what would I know?.."

"Eve…" Isis chuckles at the new name. "Too fitting," she mumbles when the speach behind her has come to a close. "Too true. Not like Diogenes - a disguise." Her smile is half-hearted and quickly covered by the rim of her glass as she takes a healthy, or unhealthy perhaps, sip of wine. "I don't like calling you that, you know," she begins, risking a quick glance of the man's gaze to the corners of his peripheral vision, seeking to take in the expression on what are naturally her own features, before fixating his attention back to the counter. "I vote for an exchange of appropriate names and a pinky-swear we won't share them with anyone else. Deal?"

Diogenes, still 'trapped' in the other woman's body, tips his head tot he side, letting more of the long hair drape over a single shoulder. He was feeling unsafe in this body as it was, and receing glances from his body would always cause a shiver to crawl its way up his spine. "Pinky-swear?.. What the hell is that?.. Do we… raise our fingers and make…" Instead of the sentence being finished, an effeminate chuckle unwittingly escapes him. "You have to be joking, right? We're not five, just because we make an arbitrary motion whilst making a promise doesn't make it any easier or harder to break a promise."

Harsh lines of a deep frown encompass the man's features as Isis finds her idea so plainly ridiculed. "Right - what was I thinking putting trust into a man that invaded my home under false pretenses, fakes friendly to drink my wine and take favors." She dismisses her glass with a sharp click as it is set to the counter and slips away, carrying the man's form off to the bathroom. She swings the door shut with the intention of having its loud slamming reverberate through the tiny apartment, only to find the man's shirt halting the door's swift motion. She grumbles and slaps on the bathtub faucet, running a stream of hot water and preparing to rinse the dye. A string of murmurs, in the tone of rightly assumed cussings, flow amidst the sounds of running water.

Isis's face, still touched by a tinge of amusement, switches to that of entertained surprise. In the wake of Tom's body scurrying off to the bathroom, the soft voice of the woman calls out: "I'm not 'faking friendly'!" With his glass of wine still in hand, he steps over to the bathroom and leans against the doorway, looking at his body and listening in on the vaguely heard frustrated muttering. "Getting angry over hearing what you don't want to hear is silly, don't you think? What, would you rather I sucked up to you, and proposed to fall into bed with you the moment I get my body back?" He takes a deliberate pause, during which he takes another sip of the wine, which he seems to like. "If it means that much to you, we can pinky-swear, even though I have no idea how you do that."

The man's head is plunged into the stream of water, knelt on the floor and bent over the edges of the tub, to try and drown out the sounds of Isis's god-given voice calling back at her. The Mohawk dies instantly under the warm waterfall, disappearing completely as thick fingers begin to massage the dye out under the flowing water. "Getting upset when you take one of the few things I actually put some worth in, and remind me of just how odd it is to be conversing with you under the circumstances - Yeah, I rather approve, thank you muchly." She grunts and flips his head back when the rinsing is finished, staining a perfectly good towl by beginning to scrub-dry the man's freshly dyed hair.

Thomas lets out a weary sigh, looking down at his glass he's hugging with his currently womanly palm. "Knock off the hysterics, Eve", he states in a calm, firm voice, albeit it's not as stern as he would have liked it to be. "If you flip out every time someone puts your beliefs and values to the test, you must be having a harder time socially than me", he remarks as bitterly as he can, "Because I certainly didn't show any sort of negative emotion when you mocked my past by saying I have daddy issues. Or when you called Mr. Lonesome. More than once." Pushing the lithe body away from the doorway, he steps forward whilst taking another, lengthier sip at he same time. "If 'sorry' is what you want to hear, then I apologise. But don't ruin your own imagine in my mind. You're potentially the only person in this shithole I can stand."

Thomas's rightful body turns around slowly, the masculine visage hidden under the flap of an old, stripped towl. The male form stills, looking rather foolish with his hole head hidden beneath the worn, stained fabric. "Sorry," Isis mumbles in turn. She lifts the edge of the towel, peeking on hesitantly from beneath before pulling the cloth away entirely and letting it fall to the floor. "Touchy," she offers as her only explanation as the new dark hue of the man's hair is revealed. "Like I said - I don't like calling you that. I'm Isi-…" She stops and nibbles at the man's lower lip. "Kayla…" She offers the man's hand forward, watching him expectantly as long as she dares before turning his dangerous gaze back down to the floor.

Isis would hear herself chuckle. "Hearing myself introducing as 'Kayla' sure is creepy", he would note whilst examining the dyed hair. "I look stupid with dark hair. Oh, well." He extends the feminine hand, but before he grips his own, which would initiate a body swap, he shares his true name with the woman, as well: "Thomas. And I swear that I will not tell anyone your name." And with that, provided that Isis doesn't back out, he would grasp the other's hand and even attempt to shake it, provided the body swap wouldn't cancel that.

The message is sent along through the body's nerves in the moment that the consciousnesses are set to rights. As Isis stands there, attempting to collect her thoughts and bearings, she continues the motion already set into action - shaking the man's hand with a firm greet. "Alright then. Now that all is fair - Isis. Diogenes." She gesture to each in turn and removes her hand from the man's touch. She nudges her chin up towards Diogenes's visage, her dark gaze wandering to the mess of damp hair atop his head. "Looks better on you than I though it would."

The more masculine of the two (Diogenes, if anyone had any doubts) almost drops from the sudden exchanges of psyches, but ultimately manages to remain on his feet. He is, however, perplexed by the fact that they're not constantly switching body and mind as there's continuous physical contact involved. At the end of the hand-shake, he again glances to the mirror. Relentlessly, he shakes his head before looking back to the redhead; this time with bodies possessed by their respective minds. "Still, I'm thankful for that. You're good at doing favours, anyone ever tell you that?", he asks, half-jokingly, half-praisingly.

Isis snorts and wrinkles her tiny, buttonesque nose. "No, because I rarely do favors." She makes a childish display of sticking out her tongue before leaning forward. She pops open the mirror and steals out a comb, passing it over before leaning back against the doorframe and crossing her slender arms over the shoulder. "Don't mention it by the way - you'll ruin my image." She tries to wink, but the effort scrunches up her face awkwardly. She clears her throat and shrugs her shoulders. "You're weird," she suddenly notes of handishly. Lovely social skills. Then, after a thoughtful moment, she gives a slow nod, as if coming to terms with some thought she had not voiced aloud. "I like that."

"You rarely do favours?.." Diogenes feigns amazement, before imitating a ponderous facial expression whilst Isis fetches a comb before handing it to him. Apparently, he takes it and, as he is combing his freshly dyed hair back, murmurs in jest: "Am I going to have to make you my side-kick to disguise the favours as a collaborative effort?" Now and then again, he looks at himself in the mirror, though he doesn't walk up closer to it to diligently adjust his appearance accordingly - his hair was out of the day, and he was content with that. "I hope the next step isn't making out, because I don't know how", he abruptly replies to the woman's comment, whilst offering her the comb back.

"Sidekick? HA!" Isis lifts her chin so that despite her lack of height she looks at the man down the bridge of her tiny nose, feigning a macho demeanor. "Who you kindin'? I'm the alpha of this operation. You're the henchman." She grins brightly, the rare display warming her features immeasurably, for a moment wiping the unnerving depths from her dark gaze in an all encompassing glimmer. Then, more brightly, "Make out? Don't push your luck, boyo. If you haven't noticed, this ability isn't the greatest for all the touchy-feely bullshit…" She suddenly tips her head to the side and bends at the hips, leaning forward and narrowing her gaze. "Hold up. You don't know how to makeout?"

Diogenes is quick to remind both of their abilities and measure them both… even if ultimately, he was measuring egos, not extraordinary abilities. "You're the dream of gender-confused people, while I can kill a man just by looking at him." With a teasingly mocking snort, he adds: "And I also have in my pants what you do not, so that alone is a clear indicator of who's who." The currently dark-haired one steps out of the bathroom, or was about to, when Isis tells him to 'hold up' and asks him whether he has ever made out. The question elicits a chuckle, and he turns around in the doorway to face Isis. "If I say no, are you going to fix that?" Even before Isis can fully answer, Thomas steps boldly forward, closing the distance between the two. His demeanour switches to a far more serious one, and he says with a sigh: "The correct answer to that is 'no'."

The simple, or not-so-simple, word 'gender-confused', has Isis immediately taking on a more attentive air, a little ripple of tension stealing subtly through her small frame. She continues to watch Thomas with that exaggeratedly scrutinizing posture, until he turns back about and closes an uncomfortable amount of distance. She straightens up and falters a half-pace back, lifting her chin to meet the taller man's gaze. The momentary display of weakness has her reclaiming even that half-step, pushing to her tiptoes, and tipping her head with a hint of attitude. "You might have the goods, Mr. Macho. But, if you don't know how to kiss, than I doubt you know how to use 'em. So…" She pointedly leaves out any reply to the question looming between them about 'fixing' just such an issue.

Thomas inhales deeply before heaving a sigh full of his stark emotions, instead of letting them appear on his visage. He was unsure what to say. It was apparent from the awkward, possibly uncomfortable moment of silence that dominated the room the two were in. His thoughts began to wander astray, as they often do; not that he had a short attention span. Quite the opposite, he gave too much attention to things, eventually moving to other 'things' that lead to what primarily concerns him. He considers turning to the wisdom of Hollywood and simply embrace the fiery redhead and start making out even if he has no idea how. No, that isn't an option. And so, failing to shield his incompetence in such moments, he throws his hands up before letting them plop back down unto his hips. "I have no idea what I'm supposed to say - or do - right now", he confesses, hesitantly shaking his head.

"That's what I thought." Again those dark orbs are stolen up in a glimmer that washes away the usual weight of the history the woman bears. "Don't you watch films?" Isis reaches up, pressing to her tiptoes in an effort to time things accordingly - her hand finds the man's chin in the same moment the bow of her lips find his own. The swap falters, causing an unnatural queasy sensation for both parties. Still, it allows enough time for Isis's tongue to slide along the soft tiers of Thomas's lips, welcoming a certain intimacy from the kiss before that sudden shift has both psyches shifting to the opposite bodies yet again, wrenched into the other's build with a jarring sensation.

And thusly Thomas receives his first and - without even so much as a shadow of doubt - weirdest kiss in his life. Before the swap occurs, his frail, but definitely masculine hands reach up as do the dainty ones belonging to Isis. He wraps his around her elbows the moment he feels hers on her chin and her lips on his. His eyes speak of worry and fear; fear of the unknown. Not just the kiss. He has little time to think, though, as the moment he feels the kiss, the two bodies swap again, interrupting the intimate exchange of sensuality. After the swap, however, Tom, now in Kayla's body, does not back away. Apparently, he needs time to recover from the exhausting journey to another body, but when that comes to pass, he tries to repay the favour, nibbling on his own lower lip that now belonged to Isis. Similarly, his hands were now dainty and on his chin, and Isis' hands were frail, but definitely masculine, and around the elbows.

Isis grips those larger, foreign hands more firmly around the female form's small elbows - balancing herself within this awkward form, braving through the pounding beginning to wane in his skull, and securing the touch of their bodies to one another. She opens the man's eyes, making the kiss only further awkward of course, in surprise when there is no motion made to back away. The heart within this male form is set to a wild pace of thrilling nerves and anxiety. She closes his eyes and tips his chin down, shifting one hand to the small of the female's back and pulling the slender frame to close any last hints of distance as her mind gives over the thrill of the unknown and the passionate.

As odd as it seemed to Diogenes, worry and fear were replaced with passion and confusion. These two conflicting emotions clashed together in his mind, the only thing that was truly his in the new body. It'd be odd enough to be kissed in an alien body, but to be kissed in a body of someone you meant to kiss, with lips that belonged to you pressing against your current ones? And yet, the redhead doesn't back away. She remains in the man's embrace, made only more intimate as the more fragile form of the two is brought closer. The sense of vulnerability joins the aforementioned conflicting emotions storming inside Dio's mind. A single hand runs from his chin to the back of his neck; yes, Isis's body showed lack of expertise in kisses, but that doesn't mean she didn't try. And, admittedly, she wasn't doing a terrible job at it.

Not too shabby at all. Isis's own mind suddenly recognizes the hints of passion presented so differently in this form, the entire sensation strumming over the masculine body in unique ways. A gasp is pulled through the kiss, sealed off with a last, earnest press of his lips before Isis takes advantage of the height in this body, lifting his head to break the affectionate link. She does not set his hands to stray, though, absorbing the sensation of unique dominance and protection in holding a smaller form. She clears his throat quietly and after a moment, mutters an amusingly awkward, "Well then," on a masculine tone.

The expression Isis holds is just as amusingly awkward as Tom's unseemly comment. With her eye-lashes batted, her eyes wide open and her lips subtly spread, she looked like a shy school-girl, a bookworm whose beauty was underrated, and who received her first kiss from her Prince Charming. Fortunately for Dio's mind, he wasn't aware of the facial expression he unwittingly displayed. Eventually, though, those lips are sealed, and she nibbles on both the lower lip and the upper on, as if to taste the residue of the kiss. "That…", she begins, but pauses once the foreign voice escapes her, "That was… good… and weird at the same time… Very weird." Her hands slide down somewhat, but still stay on her former body.

Thomas's chest jumps with an uneasy chuckle. "Agreed." One hand drops from the female form's elbow, as if reluctant to break contact and so carrying through the process in slow steps. The male's gaze it turned away, finding an awkward angle off to the floor. There was nothing there of interest, but that was just the point. "After you've helped me with my ability. I want another favor. Teach me yours. I… like this." She dares to reveal a bit of herself before dropping his other hand from the girl's elbow, breaking the last of the contact on his half of the equation.

Isis - or her body - is slightly more reluctant to break contact. How fitting for his current form, one would think. However, the magic of the kiss was over. Sensibility slowly crawled back into its throne in Tom's mind, previously ruled by emotions that so recently and inexplicably (to him) took over. Eventually, the hands slide off the masculine body. Isis clears her throat, looking up at Diogenes. "It… It's not that simple. Mine is a lot more complex", she elaborates, "You would have to learn how a spine works, all the biological details regarding the nervous system and some minutiae of… locomotion." Still, for some undisclosed reason, he didn't want to shun that possibility aside. "I can lend you a book I have…"

"If I can ace Calculus and brave Organic Chem…" Thomas's head gives a tentative nod. "I appreciate it." The man's shoulders slump with a soft sigh, daring a quick glance back to her rightful body. Somehow she looked different, she noted. There was a weight there, certainly, but it was a difference that radiated out in both the form's posture and gaze. Thomas's voice bares a soft chuckle. Impulsive, the personality took her at times, Thomas's body tips forward without warning a steals another kiss, initiating yet another swap. Not wasting an opportunity to hone her ability, and perhaps even caring for her companion's comfort, the transition is controlled. It helped that she found a strange sense of comfort in this more masculine frame. The psyches seem to bleed through one another, seeping back into their rightful bodies with only a slight bump rather than their usual catapult.

Thomas certainly played his part, quite like Isis played hers. Following the ages old stereotype (or archetype?) that women are fickle, the short redhead shows hesitation when another kiss is gifted, whereas moments ago she was reluctant to get her hands off the taller man. Still, albeit not as enthusiastically as earlier, she returns the kiss before the swap is initiated again. Needless to say, Diogenes is thankful that the transition is smoother this time. Once in his body - and he looks down just to make sure that he is in the right one - Tom looks down at Isis with a faint grin. "You're learning. And, going by what you said earlier, that you would stay in your body if you really liked your new one, I guess it won't take you long to hone your trickster ability", he chirps. Yes, he certainly was more at ease in his 'home' body, obviously.

"Leaving?" The word is out before she can collect it, but her naturally guarded state does manage to blanket the query in a casual tone. After a moment she lowers her glass a bit and adds, "No more favors, I mean?" She chuckles, only to give a quick jerk as the book slaps against the tabletop. She clears her throat and moves over to the large textbook, popping open the cover and scanning a random page. "Oh!" Her attention pops back up. She snags a pencil and paper from her computer desk and jots down her number, passing the slip over. "Just on the off chance something like last time happens again. It'll be easier to get in touch with me." She hooks her thumb into her front pocket. "Be safe out there."

That particular text book was the culprit behind sleep deprivation medicine students are sorely familiar with. It wasn't the usual book or encyclopedia to read instead of a newspaper in the bathroom. It was riddled with paragraphs of medicinal terms the author of the book assumes the reader already knows. It wasn't a general book on biology, either - it dealt with the nerve system, locomotive abilities, the spine cord, what and how it controls, its interaction with the brain… One's head would spin just thinking about how much it covers in such - at first glance - narrow subjects. "Yep, no more favours. For today, at least", he notes, watching Isis scribble something on paper. And when he takes it into his hands and notices that it is a cell phone number, he looks up at her, in doubt. "I… don't have a phone. I suppose I can get one, though." Diogenes looks back down at the note again, before safely tucking it into the pocket of his jeans. "I'll send you an SMS or simply come over to you next week or so. And you're the one who should worry about your well-being, not me." A smirk. Oh, yes, Tom and jibes were like butter and bread. Or… something that goes well together.

The little redhead lofts a brow at the strangers statement. "Your cute, but not cute enough to be making jokes like that with all you've pulled." She slips past him and turns open the door to the apartment, holding it open for him. "Come on, smartass. I have some online course work I need to get done." She makes a slight gesture towards the door, even though her pale lips cling to an amused smile.

"The world is on a downward spiral, but death and taxes aren't going anywhere, right?" With that odd and seemingly out of place remark, Thomas steps out of the apartment, but turns around before fully departing. He pouts his lower lip, furrows his brows and imitates the famous 'puppy face'. "But I don't wanna sleep in the doghouse", he comments, and, before Isis can respond, he would mutter lightheartedly: "Okay, fine, be that way." And off he trudges, thankful that his torturously heavy bag was much lighter now.

Isis snorts, laughing brightly with a quick expression of surprise stealing over the soft contours of her features. She's still grinning when she peeks out, watching the man's back as he slipd down the hall. "Weird," she whispers to herself, pausing against before giving that same, thoughtful nod as she had before. "I like it." She slips back into her apartment and shuts the door, the deadbolts and chain locks grinding across the wood.

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