1964-09-01 - Ears are Burning
Summary: It's all about you, Strange.
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
tigra rogue 

Cafe au Go Go breathes smoke and smothers sound. The way it should be for the generation of taste makers and ground breakers present here, really. The crowd stands, not a chair in the house for anyone in need of it. On the relatively low, flat stage are a set of musicians with heavy overtones of the British Invasion; clanging bells and growling rhythms are promised by the poster slapped up in the tiny foyer. It's really the sort of place where someone sinks into the basement and joins the anonymous masses to catch up with the music, the revelry of madcap creatives spinning out the future. Of course it's the sort of place a girl like Scarlett would be, absorbing the atmosphere if not the lives. So many of them; so many dangers.

Not that anyone here knows the risk they run. Nor the intense sorcery necessary to consume the threat, turning it back on itself. Nonetheless, they might think her long sleeves and gloves are just a hip, happening thing since she looks like what she is — a total hippie, before such things are named it, swaying to the beat, smiling faintly. But she's here for another reason, one stalking trouble and mischief. Or to forget.

Hopefully this British Invasion won't include a burning of the White House like that last one. Does terrible things to insurance rates. Between the lights and the music and the press of bodies, Tigra's floating in a sea of sensation, but there's no way she would come here in human form if she could avoid it. She wears long sleeves, long skirt, broad hat, and long, light coat to keep a lower profile than normal, and with the crowds, her tail is very, very carefully tucked in against a leg. A familiar scent draws her attention, even here, and she pushes through the crowd with deceptive strength, coming up near Scarlett. "Keep watching," she says. "Rhythm guitarist's G-string is going to break."

Too bad; the last involvement of the British brought some positive changes of one kind or another. They're probably lamenting the paint job at the White House, and a few redcoats with mop tops would be just the right thing. Nonetheless, the crowd might welcome them rather warmly. They're too cool to act like total idiots, swaying more than grooving or dancing like mad, and they're all kinds of relaxed. It works for the vibe, since the Animals are a particularly moody, thoughtful band.

Scarlett, redhead that she is, sticks out particularly less here than she would above ground. But the neroli scent of her perfume can't be ignored, for a certainty, nor can the way she keeps a gap around her in part by being the one who does move a little more. Tigra shouldn't have too much issue seeing that, or the opalescent gleam of her burning green eyes, too bright here. "You think so? And hello."

No sooner said than twang; the mess of a noise rumbles through. The guitarist picks away and scowls; his band mates are too good to turn their heads.

The feline steps into the space Scarlett keeps cleared about herself, moving gently with the same rhythm to keep from bumping into her. "Mmhmm," she answers, as the string goes twang. "Could hear it," she explains. "Wasn't keeping true to the note like it should." Her tailtip taps against her leg with the beat of the music, and her own brightly green eyes shine under the brim of her hat. "Doing well?"

"Well." She uses it as an interjection and a musing reconsideration. "I suppose so," Scarlett murmurs. "Entirely detached in the last of my summer, as my classes in Columbia are about to begin anew." Not the sort of casual discussion for the coolest cats in the vicinity, but then, the actual cat probably thinks differently than the kids considering dropping LSD. Nothing like disrupting the status quo, which involves the howling of the lead singer to tell them all of the perils of everything. The guitarist has to figure out what he'll do, adjusting and compensating. "How are you? Life exciting as it should be?"

"Ahhh, classes. I remember those," Tigra says, a bit fondly, a bit wistfully. "What are you studying this term?" Considering the sorts of people they hang out with, talking about classes is probably one of the few times they approach anything like the mundane. She smiles a little, listening to the guitarist doing the best he can, which isn't bad, but it won't make five string guitars catch on anytime soon. "I'm not sure how exciting it should be, but it certainly is exciting at times. Speaking of, I've got an artifact I should tell you about, just in case. Need to talk to the Captain about moving it to the mansion, also."

Classes; the thing no one in their right mind exactly enjoys, really. The redhead sighs through the fall of her braided hair and shakes her head. "Same trouble as ever. History, political science, and the things which hopefully prevent us from self-destructing." Her concerns would make a psychiatrist run for the hills, no doubt. "I lament that the world seems to be holding its collective breath, and I worry what happens when it releases that." Mundane. There's not much to count for that. Her head shaken, she knocks the sprawl of her long hair back across her shoulder. The musicians are having a good time at least, and then she blinks. "An artifact? I trust you've possibly mentioned such to Doctor… ah, if you aren't familiar, I've an address for a doctor specialised in those things in Greenwich Village."

"Well, keep in mind, many of the people in positions of power have studied such things themselves. Or at least are advised by those who have." Tigra doesn't say whether it's a good thing, or bad. She resists a brief urge to bat at the sprawl of hair. Manners, kitty, manners. "Mm? A doctor? A certain odd one, maybe? Strange, even," she adds, mimicking a certain cartoon moose. "I have spoken to him." Her lips twitch as she tries to fight a grin, and fails. "More than once. The second time I was afraid he was going to burn down my apartment."

"True. They are not entirely ignorant of the world, nor do they concern themselves entirely with the present, but the past. More my concerns lie in the direction that those in leadership may choose not to listen to good sense and take it upon themselves to be big damn heroes when we require a consensus. The Cold War is bad enough." Her nose wrinkles, and the topic is left squarely alone. Now is not the time to talk about interstellar politics, which is something she's bizarrely familiar with compared to some. "Yes, that strange doctor. Ah, did you speak to him? I cannot imagine why he would burn down your apartment. Was it possessed?"

A tilt of Tigra's head, an expression of curiosity and query. Something worse than the cold war? Well a hot one certainly would count. But she doesn't ask about it at the moment. Lighter subjects, for the moment, her grin winning the struggle for possession of the Lipstopia. "Well, it would have been…collateral damage, I think is the term? I had a bit of fun at his expense I'm afraid." She sounds contrite in the same sense that bricks can be said to be airworthy.

Worse than the Cold War; yes, that's a statement out of her mouth. Scarlett could be talking about the pernicious issues of, say, DDT. She does know about such things well, after all.

"Collateral damage in handling anything with him shouldn't involve fire. Fire is typically a terrible outcome, but not unreasonable." Scarlett should know. She grins at Tigra over the sussurus of motion. "Fun at his expense. Oh dear. Is it truly so problematic?"

"Weellll, I did try his patience," she admits, grin broadening, showing a hint of fang. "See, this particular item is…well, it's frighteningly powerful," she admits, the grin fading for a moment. "When we first spoke, he made it quite clear that it would be wiser to entrust it to him, but I felt that it had come to me, and so should stay with me." A shift in her position to keep clear of a clubgoer. "When he came back to check up on it, and me, well, I gave him a pawn ticket. Said I pawned it for money to buy hats." The grin returns, quite broad. "He was -not- amused. At first."

"Trying his patience," comes with an element of sheer amusement. "I'm sure of it. That would take very little effort and a great deal. It's the long-term patience once has to worry about. True with most doctors; they have a slow burn and when that goes, it's Nobel and his dynamite all over the place." Levity for the unlikely. The others around them might be listening, but it's hard. "Ah, I should fear three things with him. His anger, his curiosity, and his pride. You might have slain all three in a stroke. Good for you."

Tigra's still grinning. "He almost ignited the ticket. It actually started smoking in his hand. I mean, he didn't think I actually would have pawned it, but I did a good job selling the story," she says. "Finally, though, I 'fessed up." The grin turns to affectionate smile. "He was quite modest in admitting that I almost had him going," she says. "Definitely has pride, but also humility."

"Ignited the…" Scarlett gives up, her high, warm laughter melting over the dark, droning music for the next musicians taking the stage. She can't help it, her hand covering her mouth in a futile effort nonetheless. But oh, the music played is honeyed and brilliant. "I don't even know what to say. You nonetheless got his goat. Has he trusted you or do you have any invisible guardian monitoring your every move? I thought I might sense such, but I could be wrong."

The feline's grin is even broader for the laughter her story gets. "That's right. Stood there with it smoldering in his fingers. I told him he probably shouldn't do that, as the pawn shop I pawned it at was very strict about having the tickets. It's why I thought I could trust the sword there," she grins. The grin turns wry. "If he has someone or something monitoring it's not anything I can hear or smell. I'm pretty sure he's trusting me, though," she says. She briefly considers mentioning Taliesin, but thinks better of it, without the good Doctor's permission.

"Fortunate that we are all intact. I have often wondered how close the world brushes to total annihilation." Especially with all the proud mutants, monsters, magicians, and middle creatures wandering about. Her eyes hood slightly in the burgeoning laughter striving to get out, even as she edges back through the crowd. Probably better than to be overheard much. Scarlett sighs, but it comes out as a hiccup. "I imagine that you probably understand. You have what you have, then. How are you going to give Steve a conniption?"

Gracefully Tigra follows in Scarlett's wake, not afraid to use a hip to edge a music fan out of the way as needed. "It's something that's kept me up at nights," she admits. "Thinking about the power concentrated in some individuals. I try not to think about it too much. THinking tends to get me in trouble," she quips. "As for Steve, well, I'd like to move the sword to the mansion so it's better protected. Still in my care, but not hidden in my apartment. That's not something I would do without asking him first, though. He needs to know what might be at stake."

Turn and turn again, worship the sun and swirl up the blue smoke gathered from those flaming embers and burning fags in the mouths of angels. Or thereabouts. Scarlett makes a simple pivot elegant, rising up onto her toes. "Does it? I can imagine so. You become the guardian and one has to wonder if the person who sought it in the first place is coming back." When such joys present themselves, she's forced to contend with the possibilities; an open gap here, a pause in the dancing there, leading Tigra further towards the stairs. "We could hide it under the stairs and see if anyone notices. It beats a Swiss bank."

Though not dancing, Tigra's movements are fluid and graceful. "And that's why I didn't let the doctor have it in the first place. It came to me, and I felt it was for a reason. Handing it off would've felt like shirking my duty." A glance left, and then right, and then another of her quick grins. "Don't tell anyone, but right now it's in the box spring of my bed. Under the stairs might be safer." Maybe they could hire someone with magical talent to live under the stairs with the sword. Hmm…

Dance so prettily, thou lovely creature. The rest of the world is unkind upon that front. "I don't disagree, though should that artifact have a mind of its own, he would probably be your best choice. Duty or not, it's just plain sense on that front. For safety's sake if naught else." Her gaze flickers and she laughs. "I shan't tell. One day I shall ask to see it though, for I have some passing experience with such things and how to keep them quiet. Nothing profound, but it comes with the territory of the magic I study." Studied. And to say nothing of what's in her skull. "This is about dead for me. Homework calls, alas. Should we get together tomorrow, same time and different place?"

"I'd be happy to show it to you," Tigra says. "Come by the apartment tomorrow?" she invites. "I can show you there, give you the whole story, and we can have some tea while I do. And it would be good to have someone else who knows what it looks like, just in case," Tigra adds.

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