Ghosts [Audette]

[Jesse Fforde]

--The following transcript was a live chat roleplay--

<Jesse Fforde> It had been some time since Jesse had been to a club. Not a dance club, no - none of that ******** techno music with its space filled with scantily clad women and hot-breathed men, all drunk and full of overpriced vodka. No. There's a club Jesse likes better, down an alleyway and down some stairs. A club that he used to frequent all the time, ever since he was old enough to get in with his fake ID (or because he was friends with one of the bouncers - an older guy who comes into the shop where Jesse worked quite a lot). The music they play inside is real music. Heavy music. Metal, with lyrics that make no sense. The atmosphere is thick with vented steam - people come here to let loose. To scream and thrash around. To do the things that they can't in their ordinary, everyday lives. Jesse likes to lose himself amidst that crowd; to inhale the scent of humanity at its sweatiest, at its grimiest. Bodies slick with sweat even though the weather outside is bitter and biting. For hours he joins the crowd, enjoying fleeting moments of connections with people he'll never see again. Soon, he'll need to feed. But first - he steps outside, just past the bouncers. It's quieter outside, though the music pounds through the walls, making the ground shake.

The snow crunches beneath his boots, as he finds a space against a wall. From his pocket he retrieves a packet of cigarettes. He retrieves one and holds it between his lips, before retrieving his lighter. The flame wavers and fights against a gust of freezing air, but finally manages to light the tip of the cigarette. He takes a deep, satisfying drag.


<Audette> It was the kind of city that never changed. You could add new streets, clutter the space with new buildings, litter the grounds with the remnants of what had once been bustling warehouses. You could up the population, increase the number of attractions, but in the end....this was still the same beautiful, godforsaken, disgusting, wonderful city it had always been. Nothing would ever make this place better, to live in or visit. But maybe that was part of its charm. Harper Rock City. She snorted, reaching for the hemline of her fur-lined hood to pull it closer to her face as if she were trying to hide it away from any prying eyes. There weren't really any to see, at least not on the streets she was walking down. But that would all change soon enough. Audrey was looking, and looking hard, working the streets from memory like a little white lab mouse caught in a cardboard labyrinth. She remembered this one particular nightclub that had always seemed so inviting when she was younger. But as it was, she never had the opportunity to enjoy it legally. There were a few times she managed to slip in, but they were short-lived and muddled with a teenager's ignorant perspective. For all she knew it had been turned into some shiny new sushi restaurant.

Black and studded, her boots caught on a niche in the sidewalk and she stumbled a bit. Her trek was put on hold as she turned to look at what had caused her such an embarrassing moment. Lucky for her no one was around to see it, but she figured that was all due to sweet timing because the loud underbelly of music was thrumming just around the corner of the next block up. Maybe the club really had survived. It's not like rock had ever died.


<Jesse Fforde> The smoke does nothing to sate the constant scratch and burn at the back of Jesse's throat, but it is an equally welcome distraction. Where he cannot imbibe food anymore, and where drugs have no effect, at least he can cling to the notion that he's still addicted to nicotine - that his body still craves it, even though all the cells are dead, and they don't really care anymore. It's mind over matter. The craving isn't there in the physical flesh, but it's there in the mind. And sometimes it's better to give in to the craving for nicotine than it is to give in to the craving for blood. He has a masquerade to uphold. He cannot feed without being remembered. He has to kill, or not feed at al. And he can't kill ten people a night. It would not be conducive to secret-keeping. And so he smokes instead, ice-blue orbs zeroing in on those coming and going from the club. If he's going to feed, he'll have to lure one of these people outside. Take them somewhere where they won't be seen. Drain them. Snap their neck. Burn them. That's his forte. And he's not sure whether he could be bothered for the hassle. Not tonight. So he continues to watch. There's a sheen of sweat on his skin, but it's not his sweat. It adds to a sense of humanity, however.

Regardless of the fact that most of the humans pass him by. They veer around him. They make sure not to come too close, due to some instinctive voice within them telling them that he's no good. Inside the club it's not so bad. There are too many people, and everyone's far too preoccupied with their own release. Out here, however, it's more noticeable. It doesn't bother Jesse, though sometimes it makes it harder to feed. But, who doesn't like a challenge? The sound of footsteps has his head swivelling to stair down the road. A lone female. Jesse takes another drag of the cigarette, one arm crossed over his chest, one knee bent as the foot rests against the brick wall behind him. He stares. Because it's what he does best. What he has always done best.


<Audette> She took notice right away of the man propped against the wall outside, the flow of smoke rising and teetring about in the frost-riddled air. It looked like the sort of smoke an animator would draw for some tribal ritual, swirling over the shaman's head. She always had noticed the little things. For instance, the way the sidewalk seemed to be set off just enough that any individual with a severe enough case of obsessive compulsive disorder would near crack their head on it's slate going crazy because they were powerless to recitfy the slight angle down it took too near the road versus the too high slope it had in others.

It was a cold night out, even if she had gotten used to those temperatures back home. It was a bit easier to deal with the cold when bundled up and surrounded by comrades who never left your side for a moment, day or night. It was something she missed already, doubted she would find here. Not now. Maybe once there had been a chance for something like that. Maybe she had already gotten all she was ever going to have. But it was these sorts of thoughts that she wanted to bury six feet under with music.

The blonde readjusted her hood once before before sliding an hand down into the tight pocket of her leather pants. With the tiniest amount of struggle, she freed her identification and locked her eyes on the door. Just within those walls was freedom, liberation. Walking silently past anyone that might try to bum something off of her was the main priority. Without a word, her walk said it all. She had the step of a queen, the confidence that only a true force could possess.

[Audette (DELETED 5938)]

--The following transcript was a live chat roleplay--

<Jesse Fforde> There's something about the female that's familiar. Something... that Jesse can't quite put his finger on. Something in the way she walks, or the expression on her face. But it's a face he can't see properly, through the dim darkness and the smoke, half in shadow because of the hood. When she's close enough he takes a deep breath; he focuses his senses upon her, and only her. The world drops away and there is no snow, no music, no smoke. Just... the human. Very much a human, with her warm skin and her delicious thudding heart beat. He can smell her humanity as it wafts toward him, the scent clinging to the displaced air. But for all that, he isn't a dog. He cannot tell who a person is by their smell. Curiosity gets the better of him. The dim orange tip of the cigarette drops. He doesn't bother to grind it out with his feet. The hotness fizzles against the wet ground, and there's no threat of fire. Much to Jesse's dismay. He pushes away from the wall. There's no intention of stopping the woman in her tracks. Jesse doesn't work that way. There's no question of a polite smile or an inquisitive gleam to the eye. No cliche Excuse me, do I know you? If he doesn't, Jesse doesn't want to risk a meaningless and trivial conversation with someone.

He'd much prefer not to talk at all. So he waits until the woman flashes her ID. He follows behind her, flashing not ID, but a stamp that he gained earlier. There's no line outside of this club. It's not a well-known club. It's not inundated with hipsters and tweens. It's a proper club. The intention is to follow. To watch. To ponder, and thus try to figure it out.



<Audette> Stepping past the bouncer into the club gave the same sort of relief that would come when someone was finally able to get back into their own house and just let go of all those standards society seemed to keep people wrapped up with. The music filtered through body after body, each one rocking and swaying, oblivious to anything that wasn't the rhythm pounding against their chests. If Harper Rock was going to welcome her back home then it was doing a good job of it in allowing her this much. For a few seconds she just stood there as if she had walked in on something much more than she could handle, a deer in the headlights. In truth, she was basking in the sun, the warmth of this atmosphere. Slow, steady hands reached up to peel away the fur shrouding her face. Such well-defined features almost seemed out of place with everything a blur.

Still, something was nagging at the back of her mind. It felt like eyes. Footsteps sullying her own. Like a shadow that followed instead of mimicked. Ignoring the sting of what she assumed was unwarranted paranoia, the young woman slowly made her way to the bar, rolling up the cuffs of her shirt. Packed in like sardines, these people were. And they didn't give a damn. She smiled, only on the inside, because this place reminded her so much of the club her and all her posh friends from university would always go to. It called for vodka.


<Jesse Fforde> If Jesse is a shadow, he's not a very good one. The club and its warm welcome is lost on him - he;s already been inside, and tastes of its apples. There's no reason why he needs to be here, alone. There's an entire family that he could call on for company. This is the kind of club he could lure Ishaq to, for example. The guy would have a blast. Sometimes, however, one needs time to themselves. Even if that time is spent amongst the ruck and roil of humanity, not quite alone. This place is a nostalgic step back in time. Maybe that's why the vampire doesn't want to find a victim, here. He doesn't want to bring his present into the past. Or, more likely, he doesn't want to sully this place, or risk being recognised. He doesn't want it to be somewhere he can no longer come to.

A hood is removed to reveal hair that is almost platinum blonde. It's not a colour that Jesse recognises, so much. But the face will be easier to see, now. And so he follows the woman to the bar. Even sidles up alongside her - though he doesn't look her way. Not yet. Not immediately. Instead, he hails the bartender. He points to the bottle of bourbon, rather than trying to shout his order over the noise. Only then does he turn to the woman - only then do his ice-blues scour the contours of it, searching his memory. Something nags. Something quite significant. He is forced to look away as a glass is placed down in front of him - he indicates to the bartender that he should take her order, too. And Jesse will pay for the both of them. He'll pay for a drink that he won't touch. But he needs to blend in somehow, doesn't he?


<Audette> As she sat there soaking in the taste of salt that seemed to be drenching the air around her, courtesy of the too many dancing bodies no doubt, Audrey was approached by the man behind the bar. After a brief exchange of words and arched brows, on her part, her beverage selection was provided the man and the waiting game began. She settled back in the hard wood of the tall bar stool. It was uncomfortable, but for a temporary seat of a place she was visiting, there was really no point in complaining. Still, she couldn't help but to remember the wonderful lush furniture of the Russian pubs. She had told herself that she wasn't going to look. That she didn't care who the stranger was that had been kind enough, or desperate enough, to buy her a drink without even knowing who she was. Likely it was some good-for-nothing who had already played out all the women here and thought to try for something fresh off the boat. Not tonight.

But that nagging continued and she wondered if maybe she should look. If there really was someone following her she should at least be smart about it and get a good look at them. With a casual glance around the rest of the room, she let her eyes take in the man next to her. On the inside the woman bite her tongue in irritation. So she was being followed. That was none other than the smoker from before. Plugged ears. And a rather nice size. And inked out face. Nothing unusual. But it was the stranger's eyes that made him seem less like a stranger and more like a ghost. She didn't hear the bartender. Didn't notice the glass set before her. She sat..caught.


<Jesse Fforde> When a person spends almost half their life mute, without a voice, other forms of communication become more important. Body language. Facial expression. It might seem odd to others, these two strangers sitting side by side and yet completely aware of each other's presence. The world shrinks. The noise is a constant in the background; the music, the clink of glasses, the blender, the shake of a cocktail. Mainly shouting, as drinks are ordered, as people laugh, as they bustle and shove. Not dancing here, near the bar. But just as rough. But there is a clear space between Jesse and this woman whom he doesn't think he knows, but which...

He glances up again, and at that moment he catches the woman's eye. There's no narrowing of the eyelids. No sneer of curiosity or fear. No arched brow. Just as on Jesse's face there is no grin, no smirk, no hope of conquest. Just a gentle inquisition etched into his resting lips, and the minuscule slant of the eye. A question, without asking the question. Because there it is - there, in the other's eyes, the other's stillness. She can feel it, too. Familiarity. Jesse straightens and stands. He turns to face the woman directly. But still he doesn't say anything. His head cants to the side, and he continues to stare - because sooner or later, his brain will catch up, and he will figure it out.

[Jesse Fforde]

--The following transcript was a live chat roleplay--

<Audette> Everything melted away then. There was no warning. No tell-tale signs.There was absolutely nothing except for him. And her. Blue eyes were not uncommon. But she could have traveled the world over and over and never in a single country have found eyes like those. In a dream she might have met them once. In her past. The woman rolled her lips together as subtly as possible in the flood and flashes of what had once been. Faces. So many faces flickered before her eyes, but she was still staring right at the stranger in front of her. All around the world was still going. The music hadn't stopped, in fact the volume had only increased as the songs got harder and heavier with deeper bass and angrier drums. The guitar screamed out in sheer desperation. Maybe it was exasperation. She was far too gone to give a damn, let alone be able to tell the difference.

She knew this man. Deep down in the very core of her being, she knew him. It was there. All of it. With all her might she tried to push those little tendrils of her mind closer to the truth, but just as she came to the realization of who he was something stopped her dead in her tracks. The memory was like a knife. Not quite sharp enough to cut her to bits, but not nearly dull enough to keep it from hurting. Her throat was raw, swollen, and she hadn't even said a word.

It took everything she had, but eventually that nose crinkled up, a play at being disgusted and uninterested. With that, she finally took notice of her drink, grabbing it and tossing back a large swig in the way only a woman trying to drown her thoughts would.


<Jesse Fforde> Reading the woman’s face is like reading a book; each subtle shift in the eyes or the mouth tells a story. A very short story, but a story none-the-less. And it’s in those subtle shifts that Jesse figures it out. Because people can grow up. They can get fat or they can get skinny. They can get old and wrinkly, can change the colour of their hair or get their teeth straightened. They can do whatever they want to change their appearance, but in the end, the expressions are still the same. They can’t help the way their face twitches, and how it signposts them as who they are more clearly than anything else.

The name drops into his head like a leaf falling into his lap. Audrey. He knows that isn’t her full name, or her real name, but instead a nickname; a slight narrowing of the eyes is given as he tries to reach for another leaf – tries to turn it over only to find the back of it has gone bronze from Autumn, and the name can no longer be read. He’ll get to it, sooner or later. It’ll come to him. But for now, Audrey is enough. At the same time, Audrey herself seems to recognise something – to recognise it, and then dismiss it.

And all of a sudden Jesse is trying to remember. When was the last time they’d seen each other? Had they parted amicably, or had they not? Is this why she’s screwed up her nose, as if she suddenly remembered he smelled like **** and doesn’t want anything to do with him? Jesse wouldn’t be surprised if they’d parted due to some ******** he’d pulled. He’s soured a lot of relationships with women over the years, simply because they were looking for something that he couldn’t give to them.

But if she has recognised him – if she does know him – she’ll remember that he can’t talk. And so Jesse grins. He grins, because he can remember – and the memories come flooding back like a deluge, hardly looked at over the past seven years, but now brushing off the dust as they come into the light. He grins, and salutes her as she drains her drink. He waves over the bartender as he orders another. Still wordlessly. Still leaving his own drink untouched.


<Audette> She couldn't be bothered to give him another look. Not yet. She would need a few more good hard drinks to get up the courage. It wasn't that she was a coward, though to be honest, the idea of having met this particular man of all men again in this lifetime was a bit more than she wanted to deal with. Audrey had not worked her way through the dark streets of this mystery-riddled city, through the snow and cold, to sit here and play with ghosts from the past. It had taken years of forced repression alongside moving to another country, or back to her original country as it was, to lock all of this away in some mental chest. She had come here to the club for a night of fresh release. It was the first time she had bothered to go out and mingle with society since she had moved back to Harper Rock City. And here she was having to put up with this.

But he wasn't actually doing anything at all. He hadn't moved any closer. Hell, he had even bought her a drink. Wait... Make that two. A cascade of platinum hair fell over her shoulder as she gave a nod of thanks to the bartender. It only took a few minutes for there to be yet another empty glass sitting atop the sticky counter. But she didn't wait for Fforde to order a replacement. "Bartender. Could you get me something a bit stronger?" Her voice was like velvet. Black velvet. Something soft and luxurious among the filth and grime of the other inhabitants around them.


<Jesse Fforde> Although Audrey doesn’t look back at Jesse, Jesse continues to look at her. It’s not a sleazy stare. It’s not a suggestive one, either. It’s a stare of a person who doesn’t realise they’re staring. Or, more probably, it’s the stare of a person who’s trying to figure something out. If he decides to talk to her, he will have to move closer in order to be heard. But even then, back when he’d had no voice, he’d have had no reason to move any closer. Because he’d not have been speaking, or making any noise at all that needed to be heard.

No, he’s watching Audrey because she’s changed. In the seven years that have passed, she’s no longer a girl, but a woman. There are piercings. There are tattoos – he can see them, peeking out from beneath her hooded top, crawling up her neck. Fractured patterns – artistic. Bold, strong. Just like Audrey had always been. A person is forced to be bold and strong when they’re different. If they don’t want to be walked all over, that is. They have to carve their own way in the world rather than expect anyone else to do it for them.

Curiosity gets the better of Jesse, however, especially as Audrey asks the bartender for something stronger. She’s still sitting there – that’s something. If Jesse had done something unforgivable, she’d have walked away by now. But here she is, still drinking – something stronger. Which perhaps indicates that she needs some kind of courage. Courage for what? Jesse resorts to old methods of communication. From the inner pocket of his jacket he extracts a pencil – he’s always carrying around a pencil. He grabs a cardboard drink coaster, flips it over, and writes on the back: Are you mad at me? The coaster is then pushed toward the blonde.


<Audette> Audrey looked down at the coaster as it slid into her peripheral vision. It still wouldn't get her to shift her gaze toward him. Not yet. But as she read over the written sentence it seemed to trigger something on the inside. Some part of her brain that kept those softer emotions locked safely away was somehow pushed slightly open in an unintentional crack. It wasn't there on her face. There was no typical drop of the cheeks, softening of the eyes. Nothing made her seemingly forever pursed lips pout any less than they already were. But underneath it all, her heart felt the tiny putter and half second stop. Just when it looked like she was about to open that pretty little mouth and use her words, the man behind the bar came back once more with her order.

Her fingers curled around the glass, its surface cool and moist. It was a happy relief, no matter how minor, from the sweltering heat and humidity all these bodies produced as they jumped around, thrashed, banged their heads and let their hips collide without ever shedding a single piece of clothing. Though the guitarist seemed to have lost his shirt at some point when she was too busy not paying any attention at all. There were more important things going on. With a sort of heavy sigh, Audette shook her head. She wasn't mad. She couldn't be mad at him, because he hadn't done anything wrong. Not now. Not back then. She should have said it out loud, but the only words that came out of her mouth were laden with playful insult and typical sarcasm. "What? Did you leave your memo pad at home?"

And for the first time that night, the girl from Russia turned to face him directly in her seat, spiked studs of her boots knocking against the legs of the stool. It'd be a pain if one of those metal pieces got scraped off. But if it happened she would deal with it later. There were stores where replacements could be bought. She'd seen them around from time to time. "Give me that." She motioned for the pencil.


<Jesse Fforde> Ah, smart woman. She remembers, then, the little notepad that Jesse had always carried around with him – either ratty and torn because it was nearly all used up, or fresh and new because he’d had to crack out another one. Never had he learned sign language. He never saw the point. The whole population doesn’t know sign language. There’d be only a rare few who’d be able to understand him. It pissed him off whenever someone assumed he should know it – or when, after being adopted into this new family of his, people tried to take pity, or talked to him with sign language, as if he were deaf. Ignorant fucks.

So there’s a sign, then, that perhaps all is not the same with Jesse. Indeed, he no longer carries his memo pad around with him. The pencil is a habit – not because he thinks he’ll need to write anything down, so much, but because he likes to draw when he’s bored, and something to draw on is never far from hand.

Audrey asks for the pencil, and Jesse gives it up. His own drink has been pushed aside, discarded – discretely picked up and stolen by someone else, or else taken away by a bartender who has assumed someone had left it behind, or didn’t want it anymore. The pencil he hands over is cold. It’s not warmed by his jacket or by his skin – which is pale beneath the tattoos. Once upon a time he’d looked exactly like a walking, moving corpse – but that seems to have subsided a bit. Thankfully. Now he’s just always pale, which makes his eyes seem that tiny bit brighter. Eyes now framed by an arched brow, as he waits to see what the Russian intends to do with his pencil.


<Audette> For a split second the mean girl part of her brain said to snap the little wooden stick in half, but Audrey wasn't that mean. The item didn't belong to her. Destroying property that belonged to someone else was going way beyond the realm of just being rude. And she was far from being that kind of person. The writing utensil was set up against her glass. It was being put off to the side so that it couldn't be utilized by either of them at the moment, but it was still within reach. She really would feel like a jerk if she had set it too far behind her and it got snatched up by someone passing their number out for a booty call, or if rolled off into the floor never to be seen again. Pencils and pens had an uncanny way of doing that kind of thing. Then there was the chance that the guy serving drinks could just as easily be the culprit of a stolen pencil, grabbing it up in a rush, not paying any mind to whether it was his or not as he jotted down some note for one thing or another.

"I'll give it back. I promise." She looked much more alive now than she has even when she was standing there in the middle of the dance floor earlier, reveling in the grit of freedom. That voice was strung up with pretty lilts and jagged edges, making her English sound like something to be heard on a television show. All the progress her younger self had made in fine tuning the way she spoke as a Canadian had been for naught. Six years back in Moscow had reverted everything. Once again, she was the one who the weird voice, who didn't know how to speak English 'properly'. Only this time there were no snotty nosed mannerless children to tease her for it. Actually, as an adult, having an accent in a foreign land served as a sort of 'look at me, I'm shiny and cool'. People seemed to love it.

[Audette (DELETED 5938)]

--The following transcript was a live chat roleplay--

<Audette> A few sips of her long island were taken before she cleared her throat. Then her weight pressed forward, allowing gravity the control it had been asking for. As she leaned in closer, two fingers curled. It was a cue to the man to meet her halfway.


<Jesse Fforde> At this juncture, Jesse has a choice. His writing utensil has been taken away from him, for reasons of which he is not yet aware. Whether Audrey likes it better when he had to try to play charades – probably a game they played a lot as children, until Jesse decided he didn’t care and just stopped communicating. Temper had always been a very strong part of his psyche, but it normally took a back seat, only ever coming to the fore if threatened physically. Patience comes with muteness, and insults and teasing hardly made a mark.

These days, of course, things are a little different. Jesse’s fuse is a very short one; he’s often accused of being far too serious. But of course he’s forced to be serious when otherwise, people don’t understand. He tries to joke around but people call him condescending. They take offence. Because they’re all too ******* sensitive. So now he’s too serious, and he wears it like a shroud. So be it. There is no anger here now, though. Just a mild curiosity as to why his pencil was stolen. He’s assumed she was going to write to him, just as he had written to her – just as most people always seemed to do, when he instigated that form of communication. But she doesn’t.

Instead, he finds himself inching forward, his eyes dancing between his pencil, out of reach, and the ghost from his past, now very physically and solidly in front of him. It’s surreal, really, but not entirely unwelcome. Perhaps not to last past this one encounter, maybe – though he’s not too sure how he feels about that, just yet – hasn’t even given himself time to think about it. Instead, he’s trying to decide whether to continue on with the farce; to make Audrey believe he’s still mute. Or to give up the game, and talk to her. Whatever the case, he says nothing just yet. Just leans forward, closing the gap, as she has indicated he should.


<Audette> And just like that the two of them were mere inches apart, their faces so close that even in this boisterous environment she thought maybe they could still hear each other whisper if they dared try. She opened her mouth, moving it around as if she were saying something really important, but there was not a single sound to come out. It made her laugh, though, if only for a second or two. Something in the back of her mind hit hard at her skull saying that it was rude. Doing something like that was akin to mocking. She hadn't meant it like that at all. Back in Russia at the Blue Lounge, her and her companions would always yell at the top of their lungs and still not have a single clue what anyone else was trying to say.It had become an inside joke of sorts. It was not a joke shared with him, however, and she quickly had to remind herself of that as she waved an apologetic hand. "Sorry. It's something I always did with my friends."

With that tiny tangent out of the way the initial path of intention was resumed.What did it consist of? A lot of things Audrey wasn't quite sure she was comfortable with. A hand reached out as if she were going to press a palm against his cheek. But the . movement came to a halt, hand coiling back. Their eyes were locked.Dead set. The hoop in her nose was jostled with the large intake of breath that came through her nostrils only to be let right back out in the form of something other than oxygen. And it came. His name. Like rain falling down night after night on the thirsty dunes of the Sahara. "Jesse.." She needed a moment. To clear her head. To swallow down the lump that popped up in seconds flat. To settle her fluttering eyes and pattering heart. "I..."

She what? Never thought she'd see him again? Had missed him? Wanted to come visit him all those years? Was sorry she never sent word? What? She what exactly? Audrey wasn't sure. There was just too much. And no matter how she wanted to just throw something out there, anything, something nonchalant as ****...her vocal chords had braided themselves up.


<Jesse Fforde> Serious, yes. Once upon a time Jesse might have played this game as far as he could – for days, weeks, months, until someone else maybe would tell Audrey that he’s pulling her chain. But his humour seems to have taken a back seat. These kinds of games are played less often by Jesse Fforde, now, given how most people react to them. The once-asshole who could not care less about what anyone thought about him had changed. He gives a **** now. He doesn’t want to, but he does.

He doesn’t know what he was expecting from Audrey, but he sure as **** knows it wasn’t the stuttered response that he got. A sentence that started but isn’t finished. An apology, for what? A name. Yes, that is his name. He nods, and grins, accepting that name, as if it is a crown placed upon his head, and he wears it proudly. Acquiescence. Yes. Jesse Fforde, the one and only. He licks his lips, and his throat is cleared with a rough cough.

“Audrey,” he says, canting his head to the side. The voice is rough, disused, like boots ground into gravel. It’s never become a robust voice. Jesse assumes some damage was done in the years that he never spoke. His voice will never be robust or full – and it even scratches, slightly painful, to have to raise it over the noise. But he does it anyway. He’s no stranger to a throat that burns and claws. Why not make it worse? “You what?” he asks. Classic Jesse. He doesn’t let the focus linger too much on him.


<Audette> A smile instantly set upon full lips. He had spoken her name. It was crazy how a gesture as simple and normal as hearing her name could make her so incredibly happy. The smile was short-lived though, replaced by something more serious. A lot of people had told her over the years that she always looked as if she were super mad about something. Audette Levin had been blessed with the curse of the resting ***** face. It made everyone she ever came into contact with wonder if she were plotting some extravagant revenge. Just a few moments earlier it had earned her a dampened alcohol coaster with the words 'are you mad at me' etched over top of some beer logo. It was the same old song and dance everywhere she went. It wasn't so bad back home, though. A lot of her Russian girlfriends seemed to have the same exact problem. Maybe it was a Russian thing. She brushed the thought away for now. There was no way she was going to expand on just what she had been thinking before. Not after hearing him say her name, and so loudly.

"You said my name." She quickly added more to the previous comment in an effort to make her seem less soft in that moment. Audrey was no gentle dame, but everyone had their moments. "Here I didn't think you would remember it." Leaning back and turning around she grabbed the pencil and held it out to him. "I promised."


<Jesse Fforde> Jesse snorts and nods. A woman of few words, it would seem, and one who stated the obvious. Yes, he had said her name. And at first he assumes her smile and her surprise was due to the fact that he had said her name. Out loud. When she’d have never heard his voice once, ever, in the time that they had known each other. How long had they known each other? Longer than they had been apart. Jesse isn’t judgmental. He could ask her why she had left and where she had gone, but maybe that was her business, and he shouldn’t pry. He doesn’t pry. He’s never been the prying kind. Instead, the flashing lights gleam in his already gleaming eyes, a gaze of which doesn’t shift from his old friend’s face. The ‘21’ on his cheek is stark against his white skin – his own tattoos peering up from beneath his collar, and scattered across his hands.

“Yes. How does it sound?” he asks, of course referring to the name that he had said out loud. He takes the pencil back and waves it momentarily in front of Audrey’s face, as if to remind her that he’s always written to her, rather than speaking. He pushes the pencil back into his pocket.


<Audette> "Amazing," she admitted. Here the woman to try and change the subject so that a nice safe distance could be kept from the way seeing him again made her feel, but obviously he had other plans in mind. Even so this was hardly the place to get into a heart to heart with someone you hadn't seen in more than half a decade. One hand slapped the bar, the other grabbed out her wallet again. There was still a hefty amount of foreign bills layering the masculine fold of leather. No purses for this girl. "I'd like to go ahead and pay for these drinks, please." She paused, looking Jesse over. "His, too." She hadn't seen him drink anything at all, but there was a distinctive memory there of him having been touching one at some point earlier. It was altogether likely that it had been stolen by someone with low standards and an empty bank account.

"I want to hear you say all kinds of things." It was almost unbearable, the stretch of her lips. "So come walk me back to my place. It's too loud in here." As the exchange of money came to an end, she stood and gave her torso a good long stretch, leather glossy and shining in the muted lights of the club. She reached out to take his hand, if he'd let her. There was nothing else to say. Never had she been one to beg and nag. If he decided against joining her on the trek home, then so be it. Something told her, that there would be no walking home alone tonight, however. "It's not far."


<Jesse Fforde> Is that suggestion that he reads in her tone, and in her words? Of course. He remembers the kind of relationship the two of them had had. She isn’t just the girl who’d lived next door and who’d metaphorically played in the sandbox with him. Not just the girl he’d seen at school and around at parties. Some weekends they practically lived together, with his own mother’s absence – or her lack of care. And as soon as they reached that age where curiosity had blossomed about their own sexuality – well, that was that. Whether there’s suggestion there or not, Jesse reads it that way. Because wouldn’t he have been the same, if circumstances were different? There’s no denying that Audrey is attractive. Has always been. She’s got that inner strength that he admires so much.

But still, when she tries to take his hand, he pulls it away. He’s not the kind of man who’ll insist that he pay for drinks – and he doesn’t, not now, because he really doesn’t want Audrey to get the wrong idea. And he won’t hold her hand for the same reason. But he does nod. He does stand. He does quickly overtake her so as to lead the way out of the club – the club she’d only just got to, but now wants to leave. Although it may not have looked like she’d drunk a lot, she had consumed a fair bit in a short amount of time. Maybe that’s all she was after – a couple of drinks. And now she’s ready to leave. Or maybe she’d only wanted to leave with someone.

It’s been a while since Jesse’s had to reject anyone – he’s avoided situations like these. But he’d been unable to help himself; there’s a kind of glee in his soul at seeing Audrey again. She isn’t just anyone from his past. She’s Audrey. She holds a special place in his memory. He shoves his hands into his pockets once they reach the outside world. He again pulls out the cigarettes, offering the box to Audrey with an inquisitive arch to the brow. Does she want one?

[Audette (DELETED 5938)]

Audette Levin was not the kind of girl who usually took up a cigarette no matter the reason. It had been ingrained since she was little that smoking was bad. It caused cancer in the lungs, blackened them into grim reaper fancy. Everyone knew that cancer killed and there was no cure no matter how many times all the doctors and scientists and researchers claimed with smiles on their faces that they were making huge leaps and bounds toward a solution. A polite shake of her head was all the decline she needed to give. But even if she herself wasn't big on smoking, it wasn't something that bothered her. The relief that so many people got from it was understandable, at times making her wish she had gotten addicted the first time she smoked one. Instead there had been nothing but hacking and coughing, a whole lot of embarrassment that she was glad only a handful of individuals had ever witnessed. It had taken place right here in good ole Harper Rock City the summer before she turned sixteen.

Nevertheless, she didn't mind him smoking. It was enough of a release for her just to be around someone puffing away little clouds of smoke into the air. Outside again, she pulled her hood back up over her head, hair mussing up under the friction, but no one could see it so it didn't really make much of a difference, she figured. But now everything seemed so awkward. He hadn't taken her hand, which was fine by her because to tell the truth she had started to pull away as soon as she realized she was reaching out to him. What would she have done if he really had clasped hands with her? She wasn't sure. She wasn't even sure she wanted to think about it. Jesse Fforde was a part of her past that she had left behind, of her own accord, and the idea of diving right back in so easily like she had started to do inside the bar tonight was more ludicrous than imaginable. It was easy. Too easy. And it made her uneasy.

But Audrey wasn't stupid. More than anything she wanted to settle those unrealistic assumptions he had tangling together inside his head. This wasn't about sex or rekindling old feelings or even trying for a one night stand to just drown out the multitude of things running through her own damn head. It was just about catching up, maybe even apologizing if it came to that. She felt like she needed to, but there was no actual urge to confess. "Look Jesse, I don't want you to get the wrong idea here. Nothing's going to happen between us." It couldn't. "I wasn't exactly expecting to run into you, of all the damn people in this city."

The truth was, even if she knew deep down inside of her gut that Harper Rock was the forever home of this man, she had really hoped when she first decided to move back here that he had maybe settled his own life somewhere else, started fresh with a family of his own, or gotten some great job making the big bucks. She had really hoped for good things for him, good things far away from this hell hole of a city. Seeing him had been bittersweet for that reason, among others.

"And now you're talking. I just-" The blonde shook her head, taking a moment to appreciate that little fact. Jesse was talking, using his voice. And that was something she wanted to hear all about. When did it happen? How? Who or what helped him to get to that point? She wanted to hear all about it. "I think we have a lot to catch up on. You and I both know that this is no place to try and catch up. So let's go find a diner that's open late if you don't want to walk me home."

[Jesse Fforde]

Audrey rejects the cigarette and Jesse shrugs, extracting one of the sticks and placing it against his lips. It’s a habit that has increased, lately. The realisation that the nicotine will do nothing to harm him is only encouragement to continue. And there’s something about the smoke as it caresses the back of his throat – the sensation that makes first timer’s cough and splutter is exactly the kind of sensation that Jesse is now addicted to. It’s not the chemicals within the cigarette that he craves, but the momentary relief it allows from his constant thirst. He’d gone into the club to enjoy himself, not so much to feed. But that doesn’t mean he’s not still harped by his blood lust. His constant companion. And he cannot lose his cool. He cannot lose his control around this woman, because if he bites her, he will have to kill her. And that’s not something that he wants to do. Not just yet. Not… well, probably not ever.

Jesse laughs as Audrey justifies her actions; as she explains to him that she’s not after anything. The way she says it, nothing is going to happen between us, as if it were Jesse himself who’d made the advance. He shakes his head.

“Even if that was something that you were looking for, it still wouldn’t have happened,” he says. He doesn’t clarify, just yet. Instead, he finds himself gazing at the other woman, from head to toe and back again. Those blue eyes snag on the ink again. On the piercings. He gives another shrug of his shoulders – shrugging is another habit that he cannot shake. It was once his response of choice; people would ask him questions and he would shrug, and he would never actually answer them. And people would just stop trying to get answers out of him. Now, however, the shrug seems always to be followed by some thought or other.

To go to a diner would be to sit and not eat, and not drink. To give himself away under bright lights where his skin would be too pale and his eyes too bright. To risk being seen, when he has such high expectations of others, in regards to their association with humanity. He turns his eyes ahead again, as he breathes the smoke in, and releases it.

“I can walk you home. I like the fresh air,” he says. And then turns back.

“Where did you go?” he asks. Simple, neat. Like they’d seen each other only the day before, and he was asking where she’d eaten dinner. Or breakfast or lunch. And why not? Time may have passed, but that doesn’t discount the fact that they do know each other. There’s no reason to be awkward. Is there?

[Audette (DELETED 5938)]

"Saint Petersburg." She paused, and it was obvious to anyone that she had meant St. Petersburg, Russia, what with her being of the proper descent. Nothing about her accent seemed to scream Florida, United States, but every little thing about her herself was one huge 'look at me, I'm Russian.' That, she was completely fine with. It had bothered her as a child when she was the new kid in class who didn't speak English very well or French at all, like all the other children in school. Now, however, Audrey was more than proud to be exactly who she was.

"Do you remember all those brochures for Saint Petersburg State University that my aunt used to mail me every time she sent gifts?" She shook her head, trying to hold back a little laugh as she recalled a certain memory of it. "You opened my desk drawer and they spilled all over the floor because I just kept piling them in there instead of throwing them away." That had been so long ago, back when they were in high school, before he decided to drop out, before things had gotten too tense, and long before she had ever seriously considered taking her aunt and uncle up on their offer to house her while she attended one of the most prestigious universities in Russia.

It wouldn't have honestly mattered where she decided to go to obtain a higher education, so long as she decided to do so. Her uncle, a man of the bratva, had made a promise to her mother while she was still unaware in the womb, that when the time came, he would take care of her as if she were his very own, only ever having boys himself. Audette was the family princess, so to speak, with nothing but male cousins everywhere she looked. All her family spoiled her very chance they got.

"I went there to study." Why she had never bothered to tell him she had sent in her application, no one would ever know. In fact, her younger self had went to great lengths to make sure that her entrance essay was never left open on her laptop in case he came over and saw it sitting there half finished. She had reminded her mother everyday to make sure that any mail she got in the box was put safely away from prying eyes and not left out on the kitchen table, just in the event that Jesse dropped by unannounced, as he was prone to do from time to time. But the mail and the essays were the easy part. Keeping it out of conversation had been oddly effortless for the Levin women. Even the packing had went off without much a hitch. That was probably because they spent the majority of their time together at his place, with a mom a lot less strict. The hardest part of it all, had been looking at him every single day knowing she had been keeping this huge secret and knowing that she would be disappearing without a trace from his life, like the last years had been some crazy dream. Surely she would have made for the most realistic imaginary friend ever.

Audrey kept her head down as they walked back through the dark streets, her step anything but driven. Inside her fleece-lined vest pockets, her fingers curled in against the palms of her hands. They used to take walks together all the time back then. It shouldn't have felt weird at all. In some ways it did. In other ways it didn't. She wondered what he had thought when he woke up one day to find that his closest friend had suddenly vanished. More interesting than that was what he thought now knowing that she had left just to go to school in another country. Though, that really hadn't been the only reason, had it?

[Jesse Fforde]

There’s a whole gamut of things from his own past that Jesse doesn’t remember.

It’s not that he’s lazy with his memories. It’s just that they’re hazy. Like a dream, or scenes remembered from a movie. And not just one movie, but a whole bunch of them, mashed together in odd combinations. Some scenes dull, some funny, some completely insane. Truth is, Jesse had launched himself into this new life with zest and fervour. Why? Because he hated his humanity. He hated his life. He hated the things that had happened to him in his youth which had shaped him and turned him into the man he had become. Disenchanted and disillusioned with everything and everyone. With no trust to give, no respect. Because who really deserves it? The amount of curve balls life had thrown at him, Jesse had soon realised that there aren’t ups and downs. For some people, it’s mainly just down. That’s the funk that he’d worked himself into.

The path that he’d walked since being turned had been no better, really, but at least on this path he’s discovered that for all the assholes in the world, there are some true gems, too. He had discovered that if one searches long enough, and if one sticks to one’s beliefs and to the things they hold dear, then one can find someone to trust. Someone to respect. Someone to whom they can go should life ever kick you swiftly in the balls.

So when Audrey asks if he remembers the drawer full of brochures, he remains silent. All the times that he’d spent in her bedroom – and she in his – are all blurred together in some nasty oversized memory that makes no sense. There are snippets – of blowing smoke out of open windows, of scattered pages covered in writing and amateur sketches, CDs with their covers pulled out, blaring music, shouting parents, feet slamming into the asphalt of the streets, twilight and rushing home, of fried chicken dinners or pizza ordered with stolen money. Somewhere in there, sure – he can see those brochures. But it doesn’t matter if he remembers or not.

The answer is simple. She went to Russia to study. Jesse chews on the words silently, digesting them.

“Your postcard must have got lost,” he says. “You know. The one telling me where you were going?” He is smiling that small, smirking smile of his. The street lights gleam in his eyes, perhaps bluer than they once were – like gems. Unclouded by human substances. Clear and unhindered. He smiling because he let it go. Even back then, it hadn’t surprised him too much; if it had hurt, that his closest friend had left without saying goodbye, he hadn’t admitted to it.

Truth is, she’d been the last of his good friends. At least until he’d met those in his new lineage – in Andras, in Tytonidae. In Fforde. And even then, only a very select few are considered close. Only a very select few are allowed glimpses at the cogs which make Jesse tick. Because sentiment, he’d long thought, is a weakness. It only leads to grief.

“Why have you come back?”

[Audette (DELETED 5938)]

"Why have you come back?" The question was just one more that she had been asking herself from the start. At first she thought that she might not ever come back at all and that was fine and dandy in its own right. But the idea nagged at her over and over. Even before her plane ticket had been purchased, her tuition transferred in completion, Audette had been plagued with the thought 'should I come back?' And even from the very first time that question had entered her mind, the answer had always been yes, even if it wasn't big and bold in her heart. But when it came to reasons, she had to constantly think of something to use in place of the truth. The truth: For Jesse. At least, he was the reason she had always said she was going to come back. But years of being away from Harper Rock City had changed at least that much about her.

The woman turned her head in his direction slightly, not quite looking at him. He was important, but so was keeping her eyes open for danger at night. She was so used to walking alone and keeping strangers at bay that it had become second nature to do this even in the company of others.

Basically all of her family had moved back to Russia from wherever they had traveled to before. The closest family members she had to Harper Rock were those residing in New York, and to be quite honest she didn't much care for them. Twin cousins who thought that their **** smelled like roses and were fashion clones of the rich and famous, hanging off of every word any supposed celebrity said. They just weren't the kind of people she wanted to spend her time with.

"I have my reasons."

Even if Audrey had never fit in much, she had spent a good portion of her life here in Harper Rock. She didn't really know if it was a place she could really call home, but she liked it enough to stay a while and find out.

Her shoulders rolled back in a shrug. "I like Russia, don't get me wrong, but I would really prefer to make my own choices without being influenced by family and tradition and expectations of who I should be." Maybe it was something he wouldn't understand.

[Jesse Fforde]

Jesse doesn’t know what Audette is talking about. There are some things in this world that Jesse hasn’t experienced. Having a family as Audette had explained it is one of these things. Growing up, he was a rogue. The only family he had was his Uncle and his Mother; his Uncle fucked off (much to Jesse’s absolute happiness) and his Mother fell into a depression from which she hasn’t yet come back from.

Maybe Jesse is cold-hearted, that he doesn’t care about his Mother. He knows where she is. She’s in the slums somewhere, having moved out of the apartment complex he’d grown up in. Probably evicted. No doubt evicted. Jesse can hold a grudge when he wants to, however. He can be vindictive. Leaving his mother alone is exactly what she deserves. She had a family once. She lost half of it, and so thought that was a good excuse to neglect the other half.

Now? Jesse has a family now, but the only expectations they have are the ones that he’s imagined they’d have. The ones that he places upon himself. Where once Jesse was a rogue with little to no honour, now he’s a man with far too much responsibility on his shoulders. The rogue comes out to play every now and again, but the majority of his fun-loving mischief has sloughed away, lost to history. He smirks.

“Welcome back to the Rock! Where your dreams can come true, and the sky is your limit!” he says. He’s being sarcastic of course, harkening back to their childhood. Perhaps the years have caused Audrey to forget, but Jesse, at least, knows the city back to front and inside out. More so now than he ever had. It’s not entirely untrue that new limits can be met within this city’s perimeter. But Audrey doesn’t know all that.

“What’s the plan, then? What are you going to do here?” he asks, each word enunciated properly. In the beginning he had struggled. He’d had to clear his throat every five seconds, and his tongue had felt heavy and uncooperative. Now, he speaks much like he had written – with capital letters, neat and evenly spaced.