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Once upon a time, two hours after breakfast, in a neighbourhood far, far away from the corridors of power, most of the population sleeps off their hangovers, highs, or last night's party. A few buzzing lights still flick on the dingy marquee sign of a forgettable jazz club. A ticket hangs, yellow and accusing, beneath the windshield wiper of a land yacht parked illegally under a sign explicitly stating it may not be there. Windy gusts blow detritus and posters for a finished concert, much anticipated, down the narrow cobblestone streets of Greenwich Village. Dreamers imagine their next pieces, while groggy workers in other normal parts of the city which started buzzing a few hours ago crack open their eyes with a groan. Surprisingly few people seek activity in the streets, and those which do uniformly line up at a cafe swilling out cheap coffee, croissants, doughnuts, and the occasional orange to a health conscious consumer.
There is no excuse whatsoever for Scarlett being so damn perky. Her elaborate braids resemble nothing like those around her, an elaborate style comparatively out of date by, oh, six centuries. Maybe eight. A green coat wrapped around her favours a trench style, blocking out the cold. Add a bookbag stuffed with various oddments, none of them remotely normal, and a camera in hand. Her purpose thus is clear, and why she dragged out her poor roommate to be equally sinned against at the hour where the sun is scarcely overhead. "I am looking for signs. Possibly some worth finding, perhaps nothing at all. I had hoped you might be able to assist me. At the very least, we can acquire a few pretty photographs."
*
Somewhere in Greenwich Village a desperate dreamer is looking up toward he sky, bleary-eyed from overuseof caffeine and too many sleepless nights. They are searching for inspriation, something to allow them to write the next magnum opus, to be Beethoven or Miles Davis or even John Coltrane, even Elvis if they could be known as the next musical influence that provoked an entire generation. That person is staring up at the sky right now through the window overlooking the poorly made twin-sized bed in their second story loft-style apartment and wishing upon the brightest star they can see.
Just why, pray tell, is a star visible at 10:00AM on an overcast morning? They daren't stop to think.
That star grows larger. It floats nebulously through the sky, bringing with it an uncertain form as it coagulates overhead and begins to slowly coalesce. It gains arms and legs, then a face, taking on the form of a young woman of eighteen or ninteen years. The star becomes her nose. This star child is the literal personification of the night sky, a swirling galaxy painted onto the body of a young woman,with her most defined actual "feature" being white eyes that shimmer and dance like the light of a nearby star. As she emerges from behind a building and steps out onto the street one might be forgiven for thinking it is some sort of special effect.
So bedecked Singularity, wide-eyed and metaphorically bushy tailed is now making her way along the sidewalk as inobtrusively as possible on a path which is carrying her toward Scarlett. She's latched her gaze onto the camera in the woman's bag. So far no one else trudging wearily down the streets of this residential neighborhood has looked up enough to realize she is not simply in costume. How long can this last?
*
As a contrast to the chipper Scarlett, the aforementioned roommate dragged along today is a shade of gloom. Maybe she doesn't like mornings? Either way, she dresses the part, long, red hair worn straight and loose. Most of her pale skin hidden away from the sun by the grace of a long, black coat that envelopes her slender frame neatly. Hand occasionally lifting to her mouth to address a yawn; someone has not been sleeping much.
"As always, Scarlett," the young woman starts, words spoken in a French-accented English. "My eyes are yours for any purpose you wish." After the yawn's taken care of, she raises that hand to her forehead to block the sun's light from those eyes, peering around. "Is there any special sort of sign you seek? A sign of direction, an omen, good or bad? A…"
She trails off. Blinking. Once. Twice. "…a star fallen from the Heavens themselves that walks among we mortal few?" She might have paled just a little bit further at that sight. It's really not every day you see /that./ Not every day at /all./
*
The unusual relationship between seer and bohemian takes so very many shades, and the one guided by her deck may reasonably wonder what her taller redheaded companion perceives in the world, guided by circumstance to be at a particular location under a specific temporal arrangement of season, day, hour, moment. Odd things transpire around Scarlett, that's simply a fact of her existence, and she rarely complains about the excitement — or trouble — this presumably generates in her life. Part of her credo means rolling with the punches and rising up to greet new opportunities, which can include the delight of a croissant dipped in chocolate and laden by shaved, toasted almonds, as the cafe serves up right now, or meeting the animate form of space itself.
Both have quite a special call, to be sure. The senses revel in the fragrance of melted chocolate and baked pastries being produced by a rather hopeful, aspiring pastry chef with dreams of one day making it to the Waldorf or the Four Seasons, a long way away from Pocatello where his story began. The girl toasting the almonds wishes she were in Rome, and not quite satisfied with her boyfriend. The line snakes around the front of the narrow shop, and the cashier hurriedly tries to usher everyone along, daydreaming of a break on shift in the next two, three, four hours. A cigarette might be just the thing. Currents of disruption pull them in and along, Scarlett joining the queue even as she tips her head upwards towards the sky, where so often she stares out looking for answers not to be reasonably had. The weavers of fate tend not to speak directly to their prodigal children. Marie-Ange draws her attention back to the moment, a dreamy blink hocking her to the knew.
"Make a wish," she says. Without any hint of irony there, she's already undoing her coat, revealing the deep plum dress beneath, but it's nothing to shrug it off. "Do you think anyone is hurt?" Hopefully not.
*
Marie-Ange shuffles her Tarot deck.
*
That dreaming heart who first cast a wish upon the falling star scrambles to his window to stare out at the street in bewilderment, adjusting his thin-framed glasses as if to be sure he isn't staring at smudges casting strange shadows and shapes cross the road below. He clutches the empty notepad to his chest, a pen tucked between his fingers and dripping ink. As the young man watches others begin to notice as well, turning and pointing, the hushed whispers of people witnessing wonderment take on its physical form.
The girl of stars seems to be oblivious to the growing din. She has focused upon a particular point, and now her goal is nearly within reach. Blinking slowly in a strange approximation of one of the most human gestures imaginable she slowly reaches out a small hand toward Scarlett's bag. A hand, then just one finger as she moves with the clear intention of placing it against the frame of the camera. Inch by painstaking inch, perched on the balls of feet built from stellar dust and given shape within the press of a miniature universe.
Briefly she looks up, those starry eyes meeting the eyes of the much taller auburn-haired woman who is now more or less standing over her. Midnight lips form an 'o' as stars shift and sway across her form, perhaps even reacting to that motion and the implicit emotions that follow. It is hard to read the thoughts of a galaxy from the expressions worn on its visage but at a guess the best interpretation is 'surprise', or perhaps raw, vivid curiosity.
It is then that her hand contacts the camera. It disappears inside of the girl's hand and simply ceases to be present. Pop.
*
Marie-Ange draws 14 Temperance.
*
It's the kind of thing that stuns a girl for a moment, realizing that not only is there life beyond the stars — she's met some — but realizing that the stars /themselves/ seem to have taken life? Oh, it was a sign of a coming apocalypse if there was any! Or was it? The question would have to be answered by the only ones she really trusted /to/ answer that particular question. Her cards.
Hand dips down into her pocket, into the pouch where Marie keeps her beloved deck, fingers search… and pull. Temperance. A card about balance. A card about relationships, and making new approaches. There's a new shading of red that crosses over the shorter redhead's cheeks as though cross her mind, before the card is tucked away.
Yes, she saw the camera disappear. No, she's not going to leave her cards out in sight — if the… woman? Is that even the right term? — wants her cards, she'll have to trespass! Instead, after a moment of hesitation, Marie extends her hand /towards/ the girl made of stars, stepping forward — and even protectively in front of Scarlett to do so. If she's wrong…
"Hello. My name is Marie." she offers simply.
As for anyone being hurt? Well… she doesn't think so, otherwise she would've said so, but this might be the ultimate test to find out.
*
Of all the people in Greenwich Village least likely to be terrorised by the sudden appearance of the galactic arms in a form with considerably more limbs and trunk and torso than any astronomy class ever covered, it may be Marie. Or Scarlett. The young woman extracts her arm from the remaining sleeve, folding her leather coat over her forearm, a banner of peace if one could possibly imagine it. Crossing diagonally over her torso, her bag strap allows for a fairly sensitive awareness for sudden shifts or tugs displacing the weight of the canvas messenger bag rested upon her hip, slipped looser behind her to allow for more efficient queuing. Columbia University does teach a girl something about lining up, even if she might not recollect the circumstances when she first discovered that mannered approach to the world. Thus the plait-crowned redhead out of the pair turns a little more to observe this phenomenon of a literal embodiment of the cosmos picking at her camera, dusting it with the radiant reflections of interstellar nurseries, and catch a fingertip upon the lens. Would she could trigger the oculus remotely! Alas, Scarlett lacks that capacity in her unusual suite of gifts, and her Kodak vanishes in a heartbeat from its place. The flap protecting the body for the camera slumps inwards for lack of any physical support, leaving a sagging inward bow in its wake.
Proof is in the pudding, when matters happen. Kindness and compassion come from the woman wielding her beloved cards, introductions and greeting. Protectiveness manifested does not quite elude her notice, though those auroral green eyes turn with complete fascination upon the skyclad newcomer. Literally skyclad. And the bohemian is a bohemian. Naturally there lies some affinity there.
"Would you like a coat?" she asks in English, holding out hers. "You may wish to wear it, if the weather is cold. Albeit space is supposed to be completely freezing, so perhaps you are not." Trailing off in a reflective statement, Scarlett tips her head in equal parts curiosity and intense equanimity bridling that feline interest that wants to decipher every last element of the unusual. In the cafe, no doubt the patrons have taken this to be either performance art or a reason to bury their noses into various books of poetry, beatnik literature, newspapers, or magazines right now. This instant.
The almonds are burning.
*
Overhead a certain young man has taken this opportunity as an omen. Still clutching his work to hischest he swivels on a foot and wobbleleggedly ambles his way back to the small, messy bed upon which he perches while he does his homework and his writing. He indulges his muse. Pen meets papr and he begins to draw out the notes and lyrics of a melody that has captured his attention, murmuring to himself as he writes.
"Twinkle, twinkle little star…"
Afterward, the man (we shall call him Philip) curses the tragedy of that particular song being two hundred and three years old. He turns again, tapping an end of the pen against his bottom lip. There is work to be done.
"Space is cold," the starry-eyed, diminutive young woman responds to Scarlett, her expression one of serious contemplation, as if she might be attempting to inform the woman towering over her of sthat simple, important fact. Her voice is halting and soft, carrying the inflections of one who has never before heard her own voice.
Then the exemplar of space-time and literal manifestation of the sentient will of an entire uiverse turns its innocent, wide-eyed gaze upon Marie. "Singularity," she chirps in a cheerful tone. "Hi. We're friends?" There's a quizzical expression then, and one can almost imagine starry brows furrowing. She seems to be dissatisfied with her words but it seems the Singularity's englis his fairly rudimentary.
Perhaps either Bohemian or Seer would like to teach English as a Second Language in space.
*
Marie-Ange draws Ten Pentacles.
*
Singularity. Certainly a mouthful of a name. Marie's wordless for a moment, lips moving but nothing coming out. Trying to teach herself how to pronounce the name without speaking it aloud first. Of course, the tone and the question posed to her afterwards suggest that this is /not/ a malevolent being.. but again, the cards are the judge.
Fingers dip in, pull slightly out of pocket… the Ten of Pentacles. A very positive omen, wish fulfillment. Apropos for one who's form is made up of the stars themselves. Ironic for the usual recipient of the Star in her readings. "Yes. We most certainly are." the littel seer replies, arms extending. Marie, around friends, is a hugger. The cards /told/ her this was a friend. So this is exactly what she's going to try and do.
"We do not have /any/ need to fear her, Scarlett." the Lyonnaise announces happily.
*
"Then wear my coat, Singularity, so you will not be cold." Scarlett continues to hold the coat out, in the event the universe would like to don proper clothes and further confound the few pedestrians wandering by on the street, possibly threatening to run into the wall out of pure shock. Someone assuredly runs their bike into a planter and curses, forcing the bent wheel away from the concrete curb and hobbling along with the wrecked vehicle.
The taller redhead flicks the elaborate combination of braids off her shoulder, a slight shake of her head freeing the dark spindle of her hair down her shoulders, hanging far down her back. Rattling metal whispers softly in a murmured chime when she moves. "Scarlett," she replies, touching her throat. "Yes, we can be friends. Are you hungry?" Basic concerns fall to her canon of knowledge easily enough, and the soul-thief resorts to such a smile. Oh dear, hugs of the Marie will be the guide to them all. "I have no doubt we need to be afraid. Have you come to the city before, Singularity?"
Oh the hugs. Envy might be in Scarlett's cards, but not under these circumstances. Happy Marie is happy.
*
How does one describe the feeling of hugging the universe? Wrapping one's arms about the span of something whch is theoretically infinite and also, within its confines, expanding at an ever increasing rate is surprisingly easy. She is firm to the touch and warmer than might be expected, almost like hugging a pillow hich has been freshly removed from a dryer. Singularity blinks in response and does not immediately do anything. She watches Marie quizzically instead, arms at her sides.
With the hug accomplished Scarlett is given a careful examination in turn, the Singularity canting her head leftward as she looks the woman over from head to toe. She shakes her head before speaking again slowly and carefully, as if to be sure she is understood. "Scarlett?" A beat, as if confirming this to herself. "Clothes are silly." This is a firm pronouncement made with all the wisdom of one who is many times older than the earth itself.
Having apparently satisfied herself with her statement Singularity looks around slowly and raises one of her small hands to her side, carefully not to bump it against Marie or Scarlett unnecessarily. There is the kodak camera, sitting in the Singularity's palm, perched delicately across her fingers. "How to use?" She asks, eyes flickering between Marie and Scarlett as she does so.
*
Clothes are silly. This is a statement that turns Marie /every/ shade of red imaginable. But she hugs nonetheless. A sign from the heavens is not to be argued with, even when scandalous.
"Space may be cold," Marie offers, a little bewildered after the hug — but hugging a pillow fresh from the dryer? It's a nice feeling! "…but Si… Singularity is not." There's a quick look to the walking universe to see if she said it right; she was close, at least! Even if the heavy French that colors her words doesn't let her be spot-on. The effort's there!
Of course, being the thoughtful little creature she is, she's mindful of things like, you know, Scarlett not being able to touch people freely. So in a more jovial mindset already, she nearly floats backwards to nestle against the taller girl's side — Scarlett may have removed /her/ coat but Marie wears hers, and she's mindful of where her head lies. It's a practiced thing, to be sure.
As for how to use the camera? "I… I know you look through /that/ part there…" Sheltered Marie hasn't had much experience with them, other than being the object of pictures on occasion.
*
A potentially complicated scientific explanation might actually go over well from the musing skald to the starshine girl, though not so much for someone learning English from a French stance. Therefore, adjustments are required on the fly. "That is a camera. It creates an image and stores it inside, on something called film. Light enters the lens, here," she points to the glass, "and enters the box, which is dart. The light is recorded on the film to create a still image, and a piece of metal inside controls how long a time the light will be inside the box. I can use the film to print several of the same image, if I want to. You can take a picture, if you wish. Lift the camera, and point where you wish the image to be. I can turn the camera on for you, and you press the button to take a photograph. That's another name for the picture, or the image."
Simple English is simple, unless one does not speak it natively. She is, however, willing to simplify and clarify as necessary, far more useful about that. Should Singularity not wish clothes, she's not going to push that front either, slipping the garment over her shoulder and pinning it beneath the book bag's strap, allowing her to free her hands. "Where did you put it, before?"
Marie is someone she accommodates well, not quite stiffening when the redhead leans against her and tucks herself into the hourglass profile of her side.
*
"Singularity is warm," the quantum disturbance made manifest agrrees, nodding once as she does. Then she blinks, frowning faintly as she adds, "…I am Space," she adds, as if unsure if people will be able to deduce this fact about herself without that added reassurance of pronouncing it aloud for herself. The contradiction is apparently vexing. Next Singularity tests out a smile. She does so with care, her features erupting intinto a surprisingly cheerful grin that makes her seem to be all the more human for its existence.
Singularity is, in fact, slowly evolving. Her movements and mannerisms are already taking on shades and nuance appropriate to that of a human being, her form moving more naturally and also better defined in subtle ways. As Scarlett is describing the camera she is watched with rapt attention, Singularity neither moving nor drawing breath. Because… Of course she doesn't. What use has a Singularity for breathing?
There's a nod once the explanation of a camera is finished and Singularity lifts it so that she can position the device carefully, holding it up before her face so that she can look through the port and observe the world through that lens. She points it first at Scarlett as she looks upward and then shifts that gaze slowly to Marie. "I was holding it!" She announces firmly as she is doing so, answering Scarlett's question.
Singularity blinks, tilting her head slightly as she watches Marie with wide eyes through the camera. "You are scarlet," she notes firmly asshe considers the flush in the young woman's cheeks. Followed by… Click. The moment is firmly recorded in the annals of history to be cherished by posterity.
*
"You certainly appear to be," Marie confirms softly, green eyes watching Singularity with shameless curiousity. Because it's not every day that space itself lands on the Earth and takes the shape of a girl. Of course, the occasional thought crosses her mind that said space is skyclad and… well. She's not entirely sure whether she should be blushing or not.
Which means that the littler red is /staying/ that way for the foreseeable future.
The explanation provided by Scarlett brings a slow not from Marie — she /definitely/ didn't know the technical specifics behind the device, but every day lived is another day with the chance to learn, yes? Yes.
…of course, she didn't expect to be the subject of photography quite so quickly; so the picture taken reveals a contented Marie rather than one trying to put on a brighter smile for the camera — more geniune is the image captured. "Oh! Would you like to have your photograph taken, Mademoiselle Singularity? It is the least I can offer." Then there's a pause and she adds, "I think you misunderstand… when you held the camera… where was it? It did not appear to be in your hands… was it invisible…?"
*
"I put it inside," comes the response to Marie's question bout the camera. She frowns faintly for a second then, adjusting her weight from left toright. The frown soon becomes anotuher insouciant grin as the camera is being adjusted in the Singularity's hands. She bounces slightly on her feet.
"We are friends! More photographs later." With that announcement Singularity presses the camera back into the case where it belongs with both hands. She fiddles with it for a moemnt and then gives a nod, retreating back a step afterward. "I have to visit the sky. …Goodbye!" With that vaguely cryptic, extremely cheerful statement Singularity disappears. Apparently she isn't one for belaboring a farewell.