1964-03-22 - Dancing With The Stars
Summary: The splendours of the universe… finally convinced to wear a coat.
Related: That Time The Sky Fell
Theme Song: None
singularity rogue 

Spring roars in not like a lion, but rather like a shivering lamb left outside on the moors by accident. Dew draped streets wait under a clammy mist marking the vernal equinox, diminishing visibility down to a few yards in any given direction. Car headlights peer in futility down lanes laced by vehicles, though they might be carriages or dugout canoes for all anyone knows. This is an hour of ghosts, a season of spectres, and the condensation dripping off everything only increases the muffled sense of confinement, cloistered from the rest of the city at large.

Scarlett wears her usual green leather trench coat, proceeding out from her home in the Albert Chambers building. Not that anyone would see her step through the doors, her silent descent in flight so well concealed by the misty world it should barely take notice. She sings an old song, old at least by terrestrial standards, the lamentation of a sailor rowing away from the familiar shores for his homeland into the unknown. The language hasn't been used in common parlance for half a millennium, and yet still it captures the heartache and the excitement for exploration, the harrowing anxiety of the unknown and the thrill in foreign notes. She moves alone, stirring up the fog with a pass of her fingers.


There is no human being watching as Scarlett exits her apartment, to be sure. The being which is coalescing near her now is not one who could be termed alive in any traditional sense. Rather, she is the stuff of life… And everything else. A literal manifestation of an entire reality separate from this one and yet somehow given self-determination within it. The girl appears within the mist, her form cloaked in it. She's distinctive despite this, the living representation of a million million galaxies and a million billion planets written across her dark form.

As before the Singularity does not bring with her any clothing, nor does she seem to have need of it. As Scarlett sets to singing the girl appears just to her left and behind, cocks her head, and simply listens. As Scarlett continues forward so too does the Singularity follow with quiet step, her body canted slightly so as to perfectly mimic the position in which the taller figure is standing. She even clasps her hands the way Rogue does and releases them as the other woman does.

It seems the Singularity will continue this mimicry for sometime if left to her own devices, all without making a sound.


Without making a sound, it's hard to sound out against the murmurs in the city, a chorus of sounds drowned under the persistent veil of grey water lingering in the air. Someone might pass within five yards of Scarlett and go barely noticed, nothing but the slip slap of their shoes on the sidewalk announcing their presence. The galactic emanation in mortal form does not offer so much as that, and by her singing, the bohemian allows others to be aware she is there, and which way she goes. Were this not Greenwich Village, and even if it were at another hour, she might be at very real risk of a groping or worse, for the dark machinations of the upset mind frequently rise to the fore in such circumstance. The lilting flow of lyrics set to the admittedly brutal, harsh beauty of Old Norse could be compelling enough to send a ne'er-do-well scurrying from her, rather than towards her, even if she's doing no more than professing the glory of a good oak strake and a full sail, the wind at her back and the spray in her face.

And let's hang a man for Odin, but that's a whole other fact. She rather glosses over that part, wrinkling her nose when memory serves it up.

A bus blunders by and narrowly escapes sideswiping at least the young woman, who flattens back against a building, and in turning to see if anyone else was recklessly endangered by the blind driver, more than likely espies Singularity repeating her mannerisms and likeness. At least the gestures, for which she can't help but pause, and then smile. No harm, no foul, and Marie's cards do not lie. "You return once more. At this rate, I ought to expect you'll need your own room. How are you, my lady of stars?"


Singularity pauses when Scarlett turns toward her. She has been found out! Wide, white eyes stare intently up into those of the auburn haired lass as she speaks, the Singularity taking her time in disseminating the information. How long does information take to travel when it is not being conveyed by electrical signals traveling along synapses to trigger the working of nerves which cascade into further electrical impulses until they have at last coalesced into something the brain can recognize as thought. Does a Singularity have anything which mimics the brain?

"I am well," Singularity responds thoughtfully to the question, tilting her head so that literal tresses of midnight can cascade across her shoulders. She takes a slow, measured breath as she considers something for a moment. "You were singing," She states then clearly by way of question, pursing her lips as she awaits a response. Then she adds, "How is Scarlet?" Singularity toes the ground then, pursing her lips once more before she finishes with her final statement: "Where is Marie?"


Blame the bus for causing the redheaded bohemian to turn, concerned for the welfare of any stray pedestrians caught up by puddles and belching fumes. Less concerning perhaps for the pocket reality on the move, but nevertheless, Scarlett shows the same care she would for a particularly chirpy cat or Marie or a student. All said and done, nothing about the young woman's bearing would indicate she makes fun of Singularity nor asks a stray question out of reflex. Perish the notion, she'd probably die on the spot if someone implied she truly had no care.

"Marie stayed abed, for I believe she is feeling a touch unwell. Usually she does not rise so early." Scarlett's own patterns tend to be erratic and not exactly kept to a regular schedule, but her morning yoga routine to the dawn she pursues in defiance of weather or hour. Some of those backbends are gravity defying and impossible, if anyone bothered to see her, though not so much for someone made of space compressed down to that narrow container. "Yes, I was. This is a way to remember language skills." A sunny nod follows, her braids skimming in fiery serpents along shoulders and spine. "I am happy to see you today. Any day, really. Life is… good, I think." Oh, child, little does she know what the Norns mean for her. "I feel uncertain but I am delighted once more to have your company."


Serenity listens to this carefully and then nods once, apparently satisfied with the answer she has been given. The literal avatar of the nothingness that is Space takes up a spot to Scarlett's left and blinks once as she turns her head to look around at the street in front of her. "Language skills. Nihao, Scarlett. Comment allez-vous?" Singularity cocks her head at this, watching the woman beside her as if she expects to be able to respond to such fragmented speech.

"Languages are weird. No one speaks the same." With this observation she turns her attention to the street ahead, staring into the mists with no indication of what it is she actually see.s If, indeed, the thick, cloying clouds of condensed moisture see fit to allow the 'girl' to see anything at all. It does not seem that Singularity intends to elucidate upon this particular perplexity. "I am happy to see you too. I want to be with my friends but they can't fly."


"My Mandarin is awful. Ca va bien, et vous?" See Scarlett. See Scarlett adopt French without a second thought, transitioning into the language as smoothly as she might possibly allow, though her accent trails a delicate level of English behind it. Not distinctive, but there, for someone who knows how to listen.

"No, we do not speak the same. Language developed in different places among different people, and when people traveled far away, they sometimes changed the language they knew into something else. It is easy to make those changes when you are encountering new things or hearing other people speak something you do not know." Her neroli scent lies light upon her skin, a whisper of citrus in the dark, another thing to follow. "Where are your friends who cannot fly?"


Singularity points at Marie after that question is asked of her, cocking her head slightly as she does. "Planes cannot fly to space," she adds, as if this might explain everything she means. The Singularity's brows furrow delicately now and she turns her gaze upward, through the mist and toward the sky, and perhaps the sun as well, wherever it might be hidden behind the veil of so much mist.

The Singularity stops walking abruptly and watches the road in front of her, that quietly thoughtful expression intensifying. She stares deep into the mist, turning her gaze slowly downward toward the ground as if she is following something on its way across it. The Singularity does not speak further or announce that she has stopped, remaining transfixed for long seconds as the mist breaks across her slender frame.


"No, they cannot. It is lonely sometimes being down here, isn't it? Do you miss being in space?" Steepled fingers point upwards, palms pressed lightly together where the redhead draws an elevated point towards the concealed sky. Scarlett's ephemeral green eyes follow, tracing from the ever-changing star patterned body of her friend to the sky. "Not everyone here knows how to go to space. Most of us, in fact, cannot. We build things to try — rockets, ships, balloons — but so many of these are very young, very new technologies. I would dance among the stars to be closer to them, rather than only walk the paths of the sky."

Whatever does she see, whatever so fascinates the strange girl, Scarlett does not broach. Privacy is a watchword she well understands.


"Miss Space? I am Space," Singularity responds with a bright smile, like she might be n the verge of good-natured laughter. Only now does the Singularity look up, turning her gaze toward Scarlett to look her over once more, and in some detail. "I can go to Space now," she continues cheerfully. "I want to be with my friends." This statement is made without any particular emphasis other than that glowing smile as those unusual, pupil-less eyes are drawing across Scarlett's face. Not that these are any more unusual than the rest of the girl herself.

"People should fly," Singularity states finally, as if in summation. It seems that this is the final word on the subject insofar as the diminutive spatial deviation is concerned.


"Miss that space. Or are you one and all?" Naïve though the redhead might be, she can learn. Or guess, for which she's earned her fair share of unusual teachers. Some of them have a much better understanding of temporal and spatial realities than Scarlett does, though it's not to say she will never get the gist of it. "I am glad, then. Your friends would probably like to go to space if they know how. Where would you like to go today?" The curious look flickers over her lambent expression, and settles upon the truly glowing countenance of the unusual figure.

"Flying?" This has a fine element of amusement to it.


Singularity briefly has a blank expression but then she shakes her head in a way that causes an errant planet to seem to orbit one of the stars positioned along her chin. "No, I'm not that space. I just fly there," she states firmly then before laughing a soft, lyrical sound that somehow is befitting of the universe as seen in a child's ceiling observatory. She clasps her hands briefly add shifts her weight, blinking a couple times while she does so. Her brilliance suffuses the world around her, making it possible to track the girl through the mist when one knows for what they are looking.

"Let's go dancing!" Singularity chirps, apparently incognizant of the fact that this might not be possible now. Never mind that while she does not technically have the full human form she is also not clothed. That is aside from the fact she may very well not actually know one dances, only the idea of it. So many questions asked in a single statement. Some would call it impressive.


Different space, and different pieces of the universe. Someone please bring Stephen out to deal with this, because the redhead chuckles softly, a pang of easy notes rippling through. "You may be far smarter than I about these things, but my understanding of physics is that we occupy one universe. If there are other universes, then can they coexist in this one? I do not know, nor do I want you to try to explain if you do not want to. That would be rude, and I cannot bear to be unkind to you."

Dancing, then, it will be. She holds out her gloved hand and gestures, no doubt aware where one can dance. It's the vernal equinox, and she is a flaming, full out pagan, as far as the world is concerned. "We can go see the trouble in the park and try dancing there, or do you worry about being hurt?"


"There are other universes," Singularity states very patiently, in the way a good teacher does when speaking to a child. "There are a lot. Sometimes they touch. I am touching yours." This stated Singularity nods her head once or twice and then blinks, pivoting on one perfectly formed and yet unusually coloured foot.

The offered hand is taken by Singularity, who grips it gently. she is still smiling the whole while, staring off into the mist. Questions do cause her to pause, however. "Go see trouble in the park?" A beat. "I want to dance." There is no discussion of being hurt. Singularity does not appear to believe that question merits an actual consideration whatsoever. She just shrugs her shoulders again and bobs a little bit, twisting at the hip.


"Yet they do not seem to explode, which is a positive thing. Or perhaps they only explode when they mutually enjoy the idea." The bohemian shrugs her slim shoulders, the jacket rippling in motion, bits of leather tugged this way and that without imperiling her overall appearance.

The glove she wears is warm, and there is no contact skin to… whatever Singularity has. Densified space. "I would like to dance, too. But the park is dangerous, though it might be the best place to dance. Maybe Washington Square, then." It's with that in mind that she adjusts her heading, leading the daughter of the cosmos towards the green space fronting New York University. Columbia is better, naturally, but she's not particular when it comes to natural spots.


Singularity will simply go along with whatever suggestion Scarlett makes with no real thought to attempt to influence the decision. she does not appear to care about danger or anything else being discussed other than the possibility of dancing. She holds Scarlett's hand warmly, her own hand similarly so. Its' a pleasant feeling, touching the Singularity. Not quite like feeling another person, even through gloves. Singularity stands fairly close to Scarlett and allows herself to be led toward the green spaces indicated. The stars are scrolling back and forth across her in their myriad revolutions and elocutions, describing an entire reality Scarlett cannot truly observe save through the medium of its newly formed sentience.

Is the cat half-alive or half-dead? One cannot truly know.


Touching space, now that's an experience in and of itself, especially for someone forbidden by the dint of a cursed set of genetics from touching others. Some small part of her psyche thrills to the knowledge, another hit by a pang of regret, and the rest in between enduring. It will be something to breathe over, later. "Do you like music? Sometimes there will be people playing on the square, though probably not this early," inquires the bohemian, and if she recognises any of the star clusters as a fairy seasoned astronomer, it may be to her delight. Secret delight; there's no reason to squeal, "That spot looks like Ursa Major!"

Manners really do rule the world.

The greenspace is, as aforementioned, boasts a lovely fountain, a magnificent arch, and altogether too many radiating paths segmenting the greenery. With the trees dormant a little longer, it's an easy place for counterculture singers and their fans to gather. Folksingers set up regardless of the need for a permit, and they can probably be heard at a distance, guitars strummed, songs on the air.


"Music? Hmm. Music changes," Singularity observes, the closest thing to a response she seems likely to give. She follows alongside Scarlett toward the musicians and the fountain without tugging or turning away. A perfectly amiable companion when one wishes to lead her along. Singularity makes it obvious over the course of moments that she prefers to be quiet, particularly when in motion.

The constellations which scurry past upon the starlet's skin are wholly different from those Scarlett knows. Whether they are of a different corner of the universe or another entirely is impossible to say. Of course, a million billion stars pass through the Singularity's purview and given time simple patterns like constellations will no doubt crop up, perfectly displayed or not. It would happen frequently enough, in fact, that Marie may well see such a one now.

This observation of the Singularity is apparently lost upon her as she is busy staring at a man who is strumming a guitar. It can't be long before those present start to stare at her.


Music changes, and music remains the same, the soaring arpeggios or riffs of a guitar responding to the murmurs of other stars and the mathematical chords defying linguistic conventions. Perhaps that's how they will communicate to one another, humans and the races beyond their planet, in the shared appreciation for sounds of some sort. And maybe not. It could be far too late for that.
Simple patterns may draw attention from stunned viewers, if they choose to look oddly upon the starlet at the right time, though the mist helps. Scarlett will not insist on wearing a coat or anything, though she murmurs, "I think they wonder why you do not wear clothes, cherie. It is the custom around here." That said, she rises upon her toes and then claps her hands twice, swiveling around in a dance to a tune that either reflects upon the one fading out or the one in her head, a smokescreen for the inevitable oddity they face. Such is life. "They aren't afraid. Curious, I think and unsure. Dance with me."


"What are clothes for?" Singularity asks of Scarlett, those eyes wide as they once again seek the eyes of the dark haired one who has led her on this journey amidst the music. She cocks her head slightly, blinking as if this question is one greatly puzzling to her. When, however, Scarlett asks the Singularity to dance she nods firmly and takes the proffered hand.

People are ignored then, in favour of moving close to Scarlett and allowing herself to wait so that she might be led through the steps of the dance. Scarlett will, perhaps surprisingly, find the Singularity a nimble partner. She does not know any dances. She will be able to fake it, and quickly learn enough to change that unfortunate state of affairs.


"They are a form of expression. They cover us and keep us warm. We wear them to avoid scaring people who think we are naked, as they firmly seem to believe we are when we are undressed." Scarlett's voice carries a sunny warmth, laughter dancing along the folds of her throat and every nook of the words. "Think of clothes as art. You can make whatever you like and wear what makes you most happy." A smile for that, too, as she guides Singularity a step forward.

If anyone asked, she couldn't possibly tell them how she learned to waltz or strike those widdershins revolutions, spinning and dancing. Years of yoga, too, she can't name. But they are there, skills left through her life's trespasses, and she is singularly light on her feet for pivoting, turning, and guiding along. It helps to be able to fly, and more importantly, give not one whit for what any viewer thinks.

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