2019-09-08 - Invasion of the Replicants


Priscilla finds something is wrong with Jimmy.

Log Info:

Storyteller: None
Date: Sun Sep 8 20:39:41 2019
Location: The Cockerel

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It's been a little while since Priscilla last saw Jimmy, but this afternoon, he sends her a text inviting her to meet up: late afternoon, at the Cockerel dive bar, in that twilight zone between his shift ending and hers starting up.

He'll be already there by the time she arrives. He's taken a seat near the corner, and just sits by himself, taking his time with a glass of rum. Huh, in her experience he usually has soda. His expression is mostly neutral, and his feelings a mishmash of those tired people in the bar with him, as he soaks up what they send out.

Priscilla nearly called off the meeting, given how rough she is feeling. She has only just managed to pull herself back together after the explosion, and she's still spitting up or cutting out tiny gears. She still has to go to work, though, or risk that they'll hire another headliner and she'll have to move on.

Shocked as she is to realize it, Pris doesn't want to move on. Not yet.

When Priscilla comes in, she doesn't quite walk with her same level of smooth and easy grace and power. She doesn't look like she's a mess - shapeshifting is handy for that - but she's still not all healed. She sweeps the room carefully, taking in the look and the feel of everyone around, and then advancing on Jimmy. In this environment she can't pick out any scents that aren't right, and she settles into a chair across from Jimmy quietly.

Pris catches the drink, and knows that's not right. And though he is always carrying echoes of others' emotions around him, she can usually feel Jimmy himself; right now, that seems muted, or missing. But Pris also knows she's not feeling 100% herself, so she doesn't leap to any conclusions just yet.

"Hey, Jimmy. What's up?"

While it takes a second for her to find Jimmy, he can catch her with one glance towards the door. Even if she's not at her usual standards of grace, she's still at her full standards of… Priscilla-ness. He up-nods to her, lifting his glass in greeting. Maybe he sees how she looks at it, or maybe he feels the surprise. "Experimenting," he says, his voice low and smooth. "Never really seen what my tolerance is like." He looks her quickly up and down. There are questions in his eyes, but he keeps it simple to start with: "Are you alright? You don't seem all yourself."

Priscilla would assume - so far - that Jimmy's empathy is picking up her condition; the real Jimmy is not quite so observant as all that, visually speaking. Not in her experience. "Aches and pains. Things got a bit more exciting than I wanted, yesterday." the dancer offers. She sighs and hitches her shoulder a bit. When the only barmaid finally arrives, Pris asks for a tap beer and peanuts. The alcohol won't affect her, and she needs all the protein she can get while she's still healing.

"What's up? How's Darcy? Haven't seen her at the club. And no call for lessons."

Jimmy tilts his head at Priscilla's answer. "Do you need any medical attention? I always keep a first aid kit in my bag." It can be a remarkably good way to meet girls. Okay, one girl. He's met one girl from that. But it worked out. Speaking of whom, Jimmy gives a one-shouldered shrug. "Very busy with work; I've hardly seen her myself." There's just a hint of disappointment at that; distant to her empathic senses, but enough to show in his tone. Yet, there isn't the awkwardness and blush she might expect at the reminder of their planned lessons. "I've been wondering. With your shapeshifting — how does it work with clothing? How much 'actual' clothing do you usually wear?" He peers at her shirt, as if trying to figure out whether it's actual fabric or a facsimile. Fabricsimile?

Pris just offers a tiny shrug of one shoulder, noncommittally. "Enh. I'm OK." She doesn't bother to explain about how well she can recover or how quickly. She wouldn't really have the language to explain it, anyway. Being ill-educated does have its drawbacks.

What twigs Priscilla's empathic radar isn't - at first - the question of Darcy or the lessons, but that Jimmy stares at her shirt, at her chest, and doesn't blush. That's what gets her. But she plays careful, not yet sure what's wrong. Not yet. "I don't usually do clothing. Changes, sometimes. If I costume-up for a hunt, maybe, without prep time. I can do it, I just don't bother."

But the question itself is also jingle-jangling her instincts. Something is very wrong. Jimmy wouldn't ask that question.

Hey now. Jimmy is staring at her shirt. He pays as much attention to her sleeves as to her chest. When she speaks, he lifts his gaze anyway, looking back to her face like there'd been no staring in the first place. "If you're sure. Even regenerators can benefit from medical intervention; some of them can end up 'healing wrong' if they're not set right before they finish. Superhuman medicine — I'm studying it as an elective." He tilts his head, back the other way, at how she's looking at him. She hasn't asked the question outright, but he can tell, on many levels, that there are a lot of question marks popping up in her head. So he volunteers it. "I'm fine; I'm just tired." He takes another sip of his whiskey, having almost forgotten it when the conversation started.

When Priscilla's beer and nuts arrive, she picks the beer up and sips, slowly. She's not a bad actress, but she's not perfect. It's not impossible to realize something is wrong. But it would be very inconclusive.

Until she throws the bowl of peanuts at Jimmy and literally rolls backwards, taking the chair with her and then rolling backwards up to her feet. Again, more of that incredible speed. The beer - what was left of it - is now everywhere, including over her blouse. "You're not Jimmy. Which means you're like fake-Sarah yesterday. Now. Leave these people in peace." Because if not, as much as it goddamned hurts, Priscilla is going to scoop this mechanical bastard up and get him out into the streets. Or burn trying.

Jimmy frowns as he watches Priscilla. There's something wrong, but he doesn't—

Peanuts in the face. Fortunately, he doesn't have any allergies. He's just left frowning, his expression a good facsimile of confusion. "What are you talking about? What happened to Sarah? I didn't even know you knew Sarah." But he sighs and shakes his head, rising from his seat. "Fine. I don't know what your deal is, but if you want me to go, I'll go." No sudden violence, no launching into an attack; he turns to head for the bar's exit. There's just a hint of cold anger, deep in his suppressed heart; offence at the accusation, perhaps, or frustration from that same watcher that radiated rage from Sarah.

Either she has the situation misread, or this one is considerably better at preserving its cover.

This one knew that his cover was in danger before he made the phone call earlier. Priscilla watches 'Jimmy' go, and grabs her phone from her jacket. "Friday, dial Darcy." She lets the phone ring, and then when it connects she leaves a message. "Darcy, this is Pris. Listen to me: something is wrong with Jimmy. You need to stay away, honey, until you hear from me. Sorry, I can't tell you more right now. Be safe."

That done, Priscilla's next call is to Eve. "Hey, goth gal. I need to warn you: something is wrong with Jimmy. I suggest you stay away from him until you hear from me again. More later. Take care. Hope the garden is going well." It always is.

Done with that, Priscilla glances at the bar, digs out a couple of bills and tosses them across. Then she stalks towards the door. She's not going to try to follow Jimmy - whatever he is. That's the thing that triggered Sarah-bot to go boom. So she lets him leave, and instead she stalks towards her bike.

She still has to find the money to get her bike's paintjob fixed up. Damned botbombs!

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