Summary:Does man/machine have a soul? Log Info:Storyteller: None |
Related LogsTheme SongNone |
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It's raining. Not a drizzle or a shower, but a downpour. Able's looking a bit the worse for wear in his rumpled finery as he steps into Mama Iffie's. The rangy doctor is wearing, as always, a dark suit, matching tie, and a white shirt. His only concession to the rain is an overcoat that soaked through a while ago.
He's been staying busy. Setting up extra patrols to catch a kraken. Research, so they'll at least have a vague idea how to handle the monster if and when the time should come. He's finished vetting and hiring staff with a minimum of casualties along the way. Still, no matter how much he accomplishes, there's always more to do, which is why he looks like he's missed more than a few hours' rest in the last week. Today he's taking the evening for himself and his own projects, which is what brings him here.
This is his first time in the restaurant. He raises an eyebrow as he looks things over, then shrugs out of his coat and makes his way toward the counter.
Most of the dinner service was done.
Here at Mama Iffie's, when it's pouring rain down there isn't any need for anyone to come inside for a meal. Usually those in the neighborhood buy their food early in bulk, especially to be picked up after a long day of working. Soups and various baked breads, something hard fried and laid to the side. And often times on Monday's, there was a lull in business that made Mama Iffie greatful, she could work the register with no clear care or concern for the customers because they were just leaving anyways.
And if it were something of the magical sort..
..Cook would take them downstairs and cashier them himself, just to get away from the hot grill.
As Able enters the mostly empty restaurant, Ifede looks up from her phone, putting it aside and underneath the register, her hands propped against the counter surface along with forward lean to stretch a hidden tendon.
"Ain'ch-ooo about as wet as a drowned rat, walkin' in here.." She cracks a little laugh, then tilts her head back to the window. "Can I do for ya." It wasn't a question, more like a statement. Behind that big fluffy afro and above was a menu. Nothing but soulfood and an offer of food made to order. That's if she's got it. "Gone get you some coffee though. On the house. You like'n chicory flavor?"
"Certainly. Black, please. And I'll have smothered chicken, greens, and peas. And cornbread, of course. To go." He's courteous, but something about his tone makes it clear that the food isn't what brought Able here. Still, who can pass on smothered chicken?
He considers his hostess briefly. She certainly fits the description he was given. "I'm here on business of a more… existential nature. A mutual friend told me you're an authority in that area, and that you might be willing to help."
When the coffee arrives, he wraps his long-fingered hands around it gratefully to ward off the chill from wind and rain. He nods his thanks, then glances back up. His expression is politely inquisitive, but there's something different around the eyes. His hunger for knowledge is almost palpable.
With a turn, she sets about pouring the cup of coffee. There was nothing else added, just that natural flavor of the beans that she had brewed up, which come straight from Louisiana. As the cup is pressed down upon the table, she watches him as he takes it, her brows lowering as she punches in the order, zero'ing out the fee. Whatever he came here for, it will be costly. The food will just be mere pennies. "Shut 'er down after this one Cook."
The man just grunts behind the counter and begins the order.
Ifede moves from around the counter, drawing off her apron to toss upon it, heading towards one of the doors which was made of wood, and seemed a little bit old and out of place.. "Who dan tell'ya about me?" She asks, opening up the door, she doesn't step in first, offering the way towards the strange man so that she could close and lock the door behind her.
Able leaves his jacket draped over his stool and follows along. As soaked as it is, he seems intact enough underneath, save for his shock of blond hair. He ruffles a hand through it to disperse some of the lingering moisture as the door closes behind him. While the offer of coffee was generous, his forgotten mug steams next to his vacated seat.
"Your butcher," the doctor replies as the door closes behind the two of them. "Old friend of mine. He was helping me locate a great deal of fresh octopi for a little experiment and we got to talking. I hope you don't mind, he spoke very highly of you."
As Able descends down the stairs, he could hear a soft *click*. The door would lock behind them, her steps following just behind. As soon as she touches down to the bottom, her shoes were slid out of. They were nothing really, a pair of old nike sandals with ridges that massage her feet. Typical standard.
"Ah. Mouth of the south that one ehh." But she really didn't mind, she was already working. "Catch a seat there on this couch." She gestures.. a pair of loveseats in the middle of the vastness of the basement, which seemingly doesn't mix with the upstairs.
There were shelves upon shelves of books, altars, wall decor that speak of magic, other shelves that hold roots and herbs, and a counter that contained more.
Daggers. Skulls. Feathers.. it was a magic shop after all.
But perhaps the most thing that was out of place was the Keurig; in which she immediately sneaks to so that she could make tea for the both of them.
"Tell me though brotha. What you here for? You say existential but.." She clears her throat, immediately switching to a more Americanized accent. Which she does, a lot. ".. I can count on many fingers one says that but they're only looking for blessings in bedding."
No sidearm today, which is a surprise. Able rarely goes anywhere unarmed, especially when he's there for the first time. Then he turns slightly to the side, revealing his trench knife is sheathed in its usual spot behind his hip. He's not entirely fangless, but he was also told that trouble rarely visits people here unless they're asking for it. Leaving the gun and keeping the knife seemed like a reasonable compromise to him.
He's so caught up in inspecting his colorful surroundings that he almost misses the question. He looks away from a particularly wicked-bladed dagger and raises an eyebrow. "Hmm? Oh, no. I don't customarily have sex," he says, completely unselfconscious. "It's a bit too messy and undignified for my tastes." The change in accent doesn't go unnoticed and elicits a small smile while he sits where he's bidden. "I have questions about the soul. The animating principle. The immaterial essence. Whatever you choose to call it. This is your field, yes?"
"You ain't gonna know who you are until you become a beast. No?" She asks. Though, her words may seem a little bit out of order.
But she lets that subject ride as she continues to prepare the tea. Nothing extravagant, everything completely basic. A few dollops of a special herb was added to both drinks, stirred, placed upon a tray and soon brought to the table in between the two sofas. Ifede takes her seat, scooting forward just to reach her cup, then bring it to her lips to soothe away the heat with a blow of breath.
"In a sense. Though it really depend on the question. There are others more well versed in the soul than I am." She takes a sip, then clears her throat. "Ne'er really deal with white people, ya know. Y'all got this juju that be more for wicca than anything else." Though, she wasn't bothered by his presence, in fact, all walks of life were welcomed. This one was just a rarity.
Able lets out a half-breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, relieved to know he's in the right place. "I hope you find my 'juju' to be compatible with your own. You'll hear no complaints from me about your expertise, though I'm a man of science, so I apologize if I seem dubious at any point. Doubting things is part of my job." He rubs his hands together and considers how best to form his question. "I am unique in this world. There are a few others like me who have many similarities, but no being exists with my particular construction."
There's a pause while he tries the tea and considers the woman opposite him. By all reports she's a learned and skilled mystic, potentially a very dangerous person. After weighing and measuring how much of that reputation is likely to be based on rumor versus the possibility of her telling a secret that would interest few and benefit even fewer, he decides to forge ahead. "I am both man and machine. I need to know if I have a soul. Something that makes me more than the sum of my programming."
Iffie leans back upon the couch, not saying a word.
In fact, she allows her silence to set the tone as he begins to speak and explain why he was here. Both man and machine, a wonder if there was a soul there. Her own brain working to find the right words that would seem sincere or put him onto the path without her doing much, if any work at all. But this was a tough one, man and machine. At this moment, she too was curious. But all the while he tries the tea and she tries hers, he could possibly feel the effects of what was dropped into the tea weigh his shoulders down.
So she starts, "There was this one time.." She still keeps her American accent.. "..a magician came by. Had him bring me an ounce of weed delivered by a phooka. Interesting choice. But I can tell you have no offering on your person to give. So I had to take." She pauses. "Oh, from my own stash. What you be feelin' now is a mixture of my own making. Something to make you pliable and not resistant while the Ori weigh what's in that flesh bag of yers." She wriggles her fingers. Clearly, she had drank some too.
"So the man who think sex is barbaric.." He didn't say that. "..want to know if he got one of them in there.." She razzle-dazzles her fingers at his chest. "Off with your shirt, brotha. We going ta test ya."
And with those words, she stands, carefully placing her own tea onto the saucer that she provided. "Move the couch and the table, while you're at it."
"I'll bring a proper hosting gift the next time I call on you." As a doctor, Able is accustomed to telling people to take their clothes off. It's not a request made of him very often. He cocks his head to the side a fraction, making him look for all the world like a curious dog trying to identify a far-off sound. Then, shrugging, he moves the furniture as indicated. Still standing, he untucks his shirt, removes his tie, and starts undoing buttons.
"The tea…" now his head cocks to the other side. "…is medicinal?" It's not a question so much as a verification. He blinks, shrugs, and tosses aside his clothing. "Good sex is usually barbaric," he clarifies. "But still optional, and often distracting."
While he heals too efficiently for scars, his lifestyle has still left him with an array of recent wounds. A few bruises and scratches from training the new recruits that are already starting to fade, plus one larger gash that's low on one side of his belly. It's been stitched and it looks like the stitches are ready to come out. He's more muscular than he appeared at a glance, but still far leaner than most.
"Of a sorts. Has a hallucinigenic property." Iffie says of the tea. As Able begins to prepare the area as she instructed, she walks towards the counter and then behind it, retrieving a pestle and mortar, as well as a few choice herbs. This wasn't a quick task, Iffie doesn't often spend time in the basement. If there were buyers and sellers, she would send someone else to do the work, all the while she counts that glorious green called money.
But she knows her stuff.
A large jug of water was placed upon the counter top, which was opened and poured just a bit into the bowl. She then begins to mix the herbs, finally looking up towards Able with a slight smile. "You ain' one of them types that get rid of medicines quick, no?" She asks. "Like your bowl movements or sweat." Yes, she said bowl. "Take a seat in the middle. This is gonna be a bit. Try to relax."
She continues the grinding and mixing, adding a bit here, a touch there.. this time picking up the bowl to rotate it in her hands as she finally begins to stir. It almost looks as if she were cooking up dinner, but it was paste that was meant to be smeared.
"Why?" She asks. "Why you so curious as to what you got up in there? You got a brain. You think for yourself. You feel for yourself and you is aware. Clear you feel pain, you get hurt. You feel curious. Not enough? Any children from that body?"
"I do have children, though it's been some time since I've seen them. And my body purges contaminants at an accelerated rate," the doctor confirms. "But often has to acclimate to new substances. This feels… new."
A part of Able wants to sit, but he hasn't been told to. For now, he resists the urge. "I have to know," he says simply. Then, realizing that in no way answers the question that was put to him, he pauses to think before elaborating. "Christians believe that God made man in His image," he begins tentatively. "My creator did the same. I wasn't made to be like him, I was made to become him. That never came to pass, though I still have much of his essence up here." He stops to tap one temple. "Now I need to understand more about myself. Am I person, or am I a thing? A tool, a piece of equipment? I doubt the answer will give me any peace, but not knowing is… difficult for me."
"Course. It the only one like it." Iffie grins. She was proud of her 'teas'.
She finishes scraping up the sides of the bowl, the pestle placed upon the counter top, her hands gripping them as if they were delicate to handle. Nothing spills from the bowl, but a thick, oddly green paste settles upon the sides and in the middle. She approaches him, then tilts her head to the ground indicating for him to sit. And if it weren't clear. "Sit. Fold your legs and keep your arms on your thighs." It was time for arts and crafts!
"Ah. Each religion has a creation story." Iffie explains. "You have your Christian. They believe that yes, man created first. Woman created from man's rib to give companion, though most stories state that woman was created at the same time of man but she held her own mind and was not apart of him."
She steps to the side to slip off her shoes, then slowly kneels down where she stands, waiting for him to settle.
"Others believe that woman create the life. Woman was the one who spread her tears over the dry earth and sprouted green." She dips her fingers into the mixture, then begins to spread lines along her forehead. "But we, brotha, believe that we were molded by clay. Olodumare take us from the dirt of the earth and form and shape us. Equal. No one greater than the other, all part of the same Ife. Olodumare set fire to Ife and we were born as the first people. Ife Oodaye." She nods her head, then paints the last line from lower lip to chin.
"Your man create you. You create your children. How can a soulless one create ones with souls? Think about that while I paint. And tell me your thoughts."
"I don't know," Able admits. "My creator's soul, if he has one, could use a good washing. He's not what I'd call kind or stable. What does that make me? Or my children? I have no country, no culture. They aren't 'my' Christians. I have no faith to guide me."
Seated, painted, and more than a little drugged up, this is an experience outside of his considerable repertoire. As he relaxes his eyelids sag their way to being closed. "No myth or legend exists to define what I am, or why I am that thing. That's why I came looking for you."
Instinctively, he wants to stay alert. To asses and understand each step of this process. Not only is that not to be, Able is aware that it might not be in his best interest. Though it's difficult, he does his best to divest himself of those emotions and simply let go.
"Mm." Is all Iffie says. She doesn't paint the exact same pattern as she does on him, a dot here and there upon his cheek. A little on his nose that makes her laugh. A scruff of paste onto the beard and a line down the neck. Those same dots, tribal in nature along his shoulders, sigils soon drawn into the pecs, a line down the middle of his belly and into the button, stripes on the sides. Even the arms were lined, and if one were to study the asian culture, they would see that the chi paths were marked. Paths of energy, of the soul.
In theory.
"You selfish." Iffie states. "My children. Mine." She states, then nods her head, looking into those heavy lidded eyes.
The touches to him stop, and a quiet little *tink* is heard and movement felt. If he were watching, he'd see the way her hand reaches out, her telekinesis beckoning a set of drums to reveal themselves, the sticks playing upon them a slow cadence with a skip-add to the fourth beat. "You say you were made to become him." She states.
"Does that make whats yours his? Are those children his?"
Very, very blue eyes flash open and fix upon Ifede's. His anger is visible, almost radiating off him in waves. "They are my children moreso than anyone else's but their mother. You know nothing of what has been sacrificed to keep them safe."
A blink, then that anger is gone, replaced by the contemplative and calculating air that always seems to be a part of his presence. Now his voice starts to sound thick. The drugs are wearing on him, but he's still able to maintain his physical and mental capacities for the moment. "I will let you paint me. I will answer your questions. I will pay whatever fee you require, but don't presume to know me until you truly do."
It's during his last statement that he finally notices the drums, though a widening of his eyes is his only sign of surprise.
Good thing he didn't move.
Granted this place was considered a magical safezone where peace was held, but the only one allowed to break it was it's proprieter. She was sure, that he could probably kill her with one move, but she was sure to put the hurtin' on him, as her grandpappy would say.
"Strong words. But you already told me what I needed to know."
It was sudden, the movement, her hands reaching out to smack against both cheeks. If anyone were to look upon them, they would immediately assumed that it hurt. But it didn't. Or at least it shouldn't. Her paste covered hands grip his cheeks to keep his head still, her eyes slowly beginning to bleed white as she quietly chants in her native tongue.. "Mu mi wa si ile, Eshu. Si awon ilekun, lati rii sinu emi eniyan funfun.."
It almost sounds demonic in nature, the words that were uttered from her lips…
A low growl is heard in the distance..
..along with the rattle of a snakes tail..
..an eerie wind flows through the room, whatever candles that were lit were no longer..
..the lights that lit the room begin to flicker and dim.. and soon?
It all goes black.