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Log Title: Trace Eats a Bug

Log setting: The porch of the Chez on Moss street, evening.

Log Cast:
Wendy
Trace
Jason
Benjamin

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Wendy comes down the street, from Esplanade.

Trace has perfected a sprawl across the porch swing in front of 613. One foot propped up on the arm rest, the other draping down and swinging very gently, scuffing the concrete just barely with the sole of his shoe. His canvas bag is settled on the ground beneath him, as well as a painting propped up along the edge of the porch. He seems to be lost in thought.

Wendy's steps leading up to the edge of the cement path that winds up to that porch are silent. She pauses there, not so much as a thread of her clothing going past that cement line, to watch Trace silently for a handful of minutes.

Trace isn't the most perceptive of kids when he's got something on his mind. He looks much the same as he did last time you saw him, excepting only the somewhat fresh paint staining his small hands, and the new pendant hanging about his neck from a fine silver chain. Well, it's not new, actually. Because if Wendy's perceptive, she's seen Jason wear this pendant every time she's met him. The boy sighs softly and sits up a little, making the old wood creak in protest.

Wendy is more perceptive than most, actually. So she probably does notice the necklace. All she does, however, is stand on the sidewalk, watching the boy. Finally, her raspy murmur drifts on the wind towards him. "You look terribly bored, my dear. Are we on house arrest?"

Wendy�s Fae Desc:
Bones can be seen behind almost translucently pale skin, fragile and delicate. Eyes are set deep in their sockets, colored the black of a night-time sky without stars. And black hair swallows shadows; are those .eyes. peeking out from beneath the strands? Tiny little .things. crawl through them, bodies hidden, continually setting her hair to rustling. A slightly hunched back leaves her at a mere five feet, and proves her age. So too does her voice, a grating, dry whisper of sound that's almost painful on the ears. There is no beauty here now, and there probably never was to begin with.

At the moment, this woman is dressed as befits her Kith; black blouse and skirt drape down over a body with too long limbs, too flexible a spine. Ivory lace spills out along the cuffs of her sleeves, hides her neck from view, seperates waist from hips. It's immaculately clean, a creamy off-white made more so by the contrast of black material and fish-belly pale skin. Slippers peek out from the hem of a dress that falls to her ankles, molded to her sole. Little jewelry mars the black of her clothing, or the tone of her flesh. A line of tarnished silver chain hangs on her blouse, proof of a pocketwatch tucked away, but beyond that, she wears nothing. Her hair is allowed to drift about her face, the strands ending in a page-boy bobb just below her earlobes. The faintest scent of mothballs floats around her body; who knows where she got those clothes, after all.

When Trace looks up, he hitches a sharp gasp and his fingers immediately tighten on the wood of the porch swing, gripping hard enough to push a splinter in through the soft, stained flesh of one of his fingers. He looks upon you for a moment with widened eyes. For a moment there's no recognition in his gaze, but your voice finally starts to register, and he swallows and forces his shoulders to unhunch. "Wendy...?" he quietly wonders, blinking a little now, and gives the smallest, somewhat weak smile as he accuses, "You're one of the Different ones."

Wendy's head cants to the side, at a decidedly odd angle. Necks shouldn't do that unless the person is dead first, really. "Different... yes, my dear, that's one way to put it. I see our mutual friend has given you a gift."

Trace gives a shaky nod, one hand unclenching from the wooden edge of the porch swing and clasping the silver pendant. "Yeah... I was so flattered, y'know? He's always worn it... Haven't seen him take it off since the day I first met him." He rolls his shoulders in a motion which could be a shrug or an effort to work out tension. "I saw one like you before. But she wasn't... my friend. She just wanted to scare me and Batiste." His eyes seem to be making an effort not to flicker up towards the crawly things in your hair.

Wendy still hasn't stepped onto that path. Not even her skirt is allowed to brush over it. "There are a great many of us in the city, my dear. Hasn't he ever told you?" Her head returns to the usual position. "Did she now... well, some people haven't any manners to speak of." Okay, so her rasp was ugly before. Now it's even worse, sandpaper over gravel. Just .not. pleasant at all.

Trace bites his lip and nods a little. "I-I know there's others... Jason, 'course. An' Rosie, and the one guy I met in the chapel, and.. Lily, who shared a picnic with me once." He sighs softly, pulling his legs up to his chest now and draping his arms around his knees. "She didn't have manners, the other one I met like you. She.. she gave magic to Batiste, and he's not allowed to have it. Coz a Beastie in the Crossroads ate him once, and now he's scared to dream. Coz he remembers, and it scares him terrible. He just starts tremblin'... It's sad. Jason was *pissed*."

Wendy murmurs, "I imagine he would be, yes. All that fear..." She lets that one trail away before the hunger is visible. Musn't scare the little boy. "May I join you, there on the porch, my dear? My voice isn't quite suited to long distance conversation." And strangely enough, it doesn't look like she'll be moving forward without permission.

Trace only hesitates a moment before bobbing his head in a nod. "There's room for you." He scoots over on the swing. Way over. But isn't it enough that he invited you over in the first place? "I... I'm sorry I didn't see you right before. I sometimes don't remember things so good..." His brow furrows a little as he watches you, lips pursing, as he stays huddled and still. Okay. Okay, maybe he can get used to this. "I know this stuff, you mix this powder in a drink and it's poseta make yer voice feel better..." He offers softly. "Does it hurt?" Because he *has* noticed that it's gotten somewhat worse since last time they spoke. Of course, so has her appearance in general... Ah, this is all so confusing!

Wendy's feet aren't visible really, beneath her skirt. Which is good, because you don't have to see .why. she's walking so... smoothly. Like she's on wheels, almost. Instead of accepting the swing offer, she folds down to sit on the steps of the porch itself, hands interlocking on her lap. "No, my dear." Up close, the tones are a bit hollow. As if her body is hollow inside where the bits and pieces should be. "It doesn't hurt me at all, nor can it be fixed."

Trace bobs his head and flushes. "Alright. Just making sure it wasn't sore, is all..." He twists his hands together and finally gives in and studies your hair. Kind of morbidly fascinating, really. Almost neat. He looks down shyly -- he was taught staring was rude, after all. "Are they bugs?" he finally wonders, and then giggles self-consciously, "I been sleepin' in these bushes, and I think I got lice or fleas or somethin. So I mean, maybe we got somethin' in common... It's hard not to scritch at it. But I ain't wanted anyone to know. Gonna pick up some shampoo today or somethin'."

A pale hand lifts to the strands so one of the little buggy things can crawl out onto Wendy's finger cautiously. She twists her upper body (eew. Bodies shouldn't do /that/ either, dead or alive) to offer it up to you. "Not quite, my dear. They're... memories, of a sort. The last sight seen by the people down in my morgue." Looking closer, human features can be seen warping the bug's face. Is that a little girl with bright blue eyes?

Trace blinks but holds out a finger to let the bug crawl out towards him. He's a young boy, and bugs don't scare him, after all. Just sucks when they make your scalp itch. But upon seeing the human face, he nearly draws his hand back. *Weird*... But he looks up at you and makes an effort to keep his hand out to accept the offering. "She.. what... did she see last?" he wonders, wincing a little in preperation for the creepy scuttle of buggy legs on his paint-stained skin.

Scurry forward it does, with only a few seconds of hesitation. Once there it goes very still, but for the blinking blue eyes. Wendy murmurs, "You have to take it into yourself to see, my dear. They wiggle going down."

Trace blinkblinks, looking up at you. "I-I gotta *eat* it...?" he murmurs, faintly incredulous. Hazel eyes flicker right back down to the little memory bug on his finger. "What'll happen, if I do? What'll I see?"

Wendy whispers, "For a split-second, you'll see what she did, my dear. Then she'll be a part of you, forever. You might catch bits and pieces of her life and death, while you sleep, for years to come. Not everyone does."

Trace pales and looks at the bug. "I... I'll have a girl inside my heart, then? Will it all be bad?" He flips his hand so the little crawling critter will remain where he can see it and not disappear on the underside of his palm. "Why aren't her memories with her spirit..? Are they trapped?"

Wendy shakes her head. "I don't know, my dear. I'm sure there were happy times in her life. And they jumped free right before the body was put in the freezer." Her murmur is idle. "Most of the time, my dear, they only keep the very last thing they saw, not everything."

Trace nods. "A-alright..." He looks to the bug and quirks a tentative grin. "Do you think she died gross? Like all splattered or hacked up or something?" Does he *want* that? It's hard to tell, from his tone of voice. He almost sounds like a kid inquiring about some cheesy horror flick.

Wendy leans forward, planting her elbows on the step above her seat. Her chin settles into her palms so she can study you through cobwebby eyelashes. "She may have. I don't remember which one she was, my dear. If so, you'll only see, not feel."

Well, that decides it for Trace. He flickers a glance at you, then peers down at the bug. Alright, bug. You're going down. "I ate worse things," he decides easily enough. The fact that it's a bug really isn't so much the problem as what he might see upon gulping this squirmy little thing down. He nudges at the little thing with one finger to get it closer to the center of his palm, then lifts his hand up and slaps it up against his mouth. No chewing -- just a frantic gulp, and a little cringe as he feels little buggy legs clawing at his throat and, as you warned, wiggling in protest on the way down.

And for just a moment, a heartbeat or less, the porch around you is gone. Instead, you see a tiled floor, and cupboards; are you lying on the ground? And just before the vision fades away, a spreading pool of blood can be seen inching along those tiles. Then it's gone.

Trace blinkblinks as the image washes over him and disappears again just as quickly. Almost gone before he could fully wrap his mind around what he was seeing. "Blood.." he murmurs quietly, and then shakes his head, as though trying to shake off this annoying vision of the porch he's seeing and get back to the interesting happenings in that tiled kitchen. "Does it always fade so quickly...?" he wonders, almost plaintively.

Wendy murmurs, lips quirked upwards in a very faint smile, "You get to see what she saw for the split second before she died, my dear. Nothing more."

Jason comes down the street, from Esplanade.

"Oh... okay," Trace relents, his arms curling about his legs again, but now decidedly more relaxed. "It was kinda cool, though. There was blood on the floor." He looks up at her creepy-cool hair again and finally giggles, "Yer lucky though. Yer bugs do cool stuff. All mine do is itch me." His fingers twitch, but he keeps them hooked around his legs with effort. Will. Not. Scratch.

Wendy is sitting on the porch steps, twisted about with her elbows on the one above her seat and her chin in her palms, watching Trace. Who's sitting in a swing seat above. "I'm glad you liked it, my dear," is her rasped answer to his praise.

Also, Trace's canvas bag is on the floor beneath the swing, and his painting is propped up against the porch railing.

Jason has been in a daze all day today, and apparently an aimless wander around the bayou hasn't really helped him. Prolly lucky that some gator didn't snap up the bushy tail of his when he wasn't looking. But here he comes, wandering up the sidewalk, tail just barely held above the dirty concrete and ears in some sort of flat, emotional limbo. And he, honestly, doesn't see the both of you until he's on the walkway to the porch. That's when he sees two pairs of feet and pauses, eyes raising to follow legs to their owners. The ears flicker back once, tail mimicking the motion, but then they come up to a more genial position as he gets a crooked smirk. "I'm thinkin' I'm smellin' another fox in the henhouse," he murmurs.

Wendy untwists, joints be damned, to look up at Jason. "Didn't we have this discussion already, my dear?" Her forehead shifts upwards; that'd be an eyebrow arching if there were hair there to make up an eyebrow.

Trace blinks and looks over towards Jason, a smile blooming and erasing the last of whatever pensiveness might have remained in his expression and posture. "Jason!" He smiles and uncurls a little, announcing, "Look, Wendy's Different." Um, duh. Belatedly it occurs to him that this might not be anything new to the redhead. "I mean, uh." He finally just shrugs. Anyway, it was news to him.

PensiveJason isn't always NiceJason, coz he thinks (usually the worst) about stuff. He meets Wendy's beady little eyes with his own bright orbs, just smirking. His tail flicks about him slowly. And then he just looks to Trace again and smiles a much more genuine, warm smile. "Just because she's different doesn't mean it's polite to stare," he murmurs playfully. Mom did have some good saying to twist around. His eyes go back to Wendy. "Jus' hope she's much diff'rent than her sister."

Wendy clicks her tongue lightly against the roof of her mouth. The sound produced is strange, a hollow sound. Don't people usually have, like, muscles and such like up there to muffle it? "Cousin, my dear. And I've had more than enough opportunity to poach. If I wanted to, you'd be too late in arriving to prevent it." Her raspy words are almost-gentle.

Benjamin comes out of the grey house marked 613.

"I weren't starin'," Trace protests. Not much, anyway, considering. But that second announcement has him slightly worried, and he looks to Wendy with renewed apprehension and asks, "Yer cousin..? Y'don't mean Bonnie, right? She's the one what scared me an' Bat so bad, and did stuff when we tole' her not to, an'..." He shakes his head a little. "I don't like her. She's mean..." He extends his hands to Jason, wiggling fingers in a comically childish gesture. C'mere! Allll this room on the swing.

The frontdoor of 613 creaks a bit as it opens, Ben pushing the screen door open with his back. His hands are full, with two large binders taking up most of his carrying apparatus, and a bottle of juice and cigarette package twined in his fingers. For, as everyone knows, lounging on the porch requires a great many accessories. If he could have dragged a pillow out with his toes, he would have, but sadly his toes are not prehensile.

Wendy is sitting on the porch steps, leaning back against one while her gaze is up on the almost threatening Jason who stands in front of her.

Okay, I admit it, Jason isn't being warm and fuzzy to his neighbors right now, but he's been under a little stress lately. Just a wee bit mind you. But that kinda gets Jason's hackles up... almost literally. His ears lay back and the tail freezes it's usually incessant movement for an instant. Jason does NOT need to be reminded that something's been around his Dreamer far too much for comfort lately. "M'glad ya read the 'No Tresspassin' signs. Hate ta..." Go snake hunting?

Wendy murmurs, heavily lidded gaze still on Jason, "That would be her, my dear. A cousin, yes... we're all related, somehow." Her lips quirk upwards in the very faintest of smiles to the standing boy. "I read them loud and clear, my dear, you needn't worry about that."

Jason has that 'all bristled up' look going when Ben comes out, looking at the older woman on the stairs to the house. But Trace's begging fingers come at just the right time to keep anything from escalating. His eyes flash up to the boy, and then Wendy gets a grin and a shrug, like nothing was going on, and then he trots up past the woman. The emerging Ben gets a smile too, but then Jason busies himself with piling onto the porch swing. Mmyeah. Eyes go to the painting opposite him, and then to Trace, eyebrows raised questioningly.

Whoa, voices. Ben pauses, half in and half out of the door, blinking about at the people gathered here. Wendy's presence earns a curious tilt of the head and a few moments' outright stare. One of these things just doesn't belong.. ? But more important, for the moment, is the appearance of Trace and Jason, at which a slow smile unfurls over Ben's expression. "Hey, guys... Dr. Criken. You two all right?" Obviously, the young'uns are meant there. "I was getting worried, you don't usually stay away that long." Soft, genuine concern without the parental accusatory overtones.

Wendy turns on her seat to watch the group actually /on/ the porch. Ben gets a murmured, "Good evening, Mr. Ashley," in greeting before she falls silent.

Trace sneaks an arm around the redhead to squeeze a quick hug, glad his beckoning was heeded, and tugs the boy into a lean against him. The questioning eyes make him bite his lip a little, as he glances over towards the painting propped up against the porch railing. "It's, uh. It's finished. I jest, I came home first coz I gotta call her an' find out where t'meet her, an' prolly shower and stuff..." All that stuff to do. So why's he lounging on the porch like a bum? Well, he's lazy. And tired. And fond of this swing. "It kinda sucks... I couldn't think'a nothin' t'draw... Finally just kinda rushed somethin' out, an' that's it." He shrugs. Blowing it off. His eyes flicker over to Ben, and he grins a little. Actually, you know, Trace doesn't belong either, at least considering his week-long absense from the Windholm household. "Hi Ben," he greets softly. "Well, I'm back. Finally. Did what I needed t'do."

Well, shoot. Jason isn't about to turn down a hug, a tug, and a lean. Especially not from this one. He slides his arm around the other boy's shoulders (god, the neighbors must just WONDER about this place) and leans as tugged, head tilting as he regards the painting some more. Shit, she paid the 2 grand in advance, doesn't matter what she gets in return. Heh, Jason has NO scruples when it comes to money, nope. But then Ben gets another smile as Trace announces his Official Return to Holly Walker's House of Bois. Jason, of course, is alright. He just flicked the 'look alright' switch.

While Wendy's busy watching, (spying? Hey, who said that...) some of the little bugs in her hair start scurrying down. Onto her neck they crawl, not that she pays them any attention. Slowly but surely, they form words across the pale skin, much like marching bands do: 'REDRUM'

Jason's tail dangles out the back of the swing, and brushes back and forth against the wood of the porch as he sways there. Ears are back in a genial position. A few moments ago didn't happen, as far as he's going to let on.

Jason catches some movement out of the corner of his eye, Wendy-wards. When he looks over there, though, he suddenly bursts out giggling. Whoops.

Wendy arches a brow Jason-wards at his giggles. Her own lips quirk upwards in the faintest of smiles, though she doesn't say a word.

Trace looks over at her and laughs too, then sends Ben a blushing look and mumbles around a lingering big grin, "Wendy, y'oughtn't make faces..." He chuckles again and shakes his head. Jason gets a fond little nuzzle with his cheek, but then he smiles into the boy's hair and draws his cheek back, (Dude, that is SO gay.) straightening his head a little. He looks shyly at Ben and asks, "How've you guys all been? Things better since I had to head off for awhile..?" His hand reaches down to scritch at one of his knees briefly.

At least not -everyone- falls silent when Ben steps on the scene. Thank you, Trace. "I'm glad you're back," he murmurs toward the blue-haired boy with a half-smile. "Glad you're safe, too. We were worried, hon, leave a note next time?" Just a suggestion, from your friendly local Ben. Seeing as how most available seats are taken, he finds himself a perch on one of the porch railings nearish the steps, setting the binders nearby to balance precariously. One is marked 'Cupid Art' in red script, and the other 'Magic Moments'. Cheeeeeeezeeeee. Ben arranges his things fussily, stealing a glance down at Wendy. "Are you looking for someone, Doctor?" Obviously, she can't be here for Trace and Jason... can she?

Okay, actually that knee scritch thing Trace did was nothing of the sort, just a tiny brush at the much-loved tail, trying to coax it up into a more pettable position.

Wendy's body unfolds from the porch steps, hands brushing bits of unseen dust from her coat. "I came to call on our young friend, Mr. Ashley... but I'm afraid I have to go now." Does she mean Trace? Her rasp is colored apology. "Do take care, my dears." And with that, she's turning to walk down the path to the sidewalk.

Wendy's body unfolded alright. Too smoothly. Odd. The bugs all race back up to their place in her hair when she starts away.

Trace's mouth opens in protest when Wendy makes her smooth escape, and he looks to Ben and pouts a little. "Scar't off my Wendy Maiden," he mumbles, then grins a little and shrugs. "She's m'friend. She comes by and brings me chocolate and tells great stories..." That reminds him of something, and he blinks over at Jason, recalling, "Oh... I nearly forgot. I promised her I'd share a story with ya, but I never did..."

Jason just watches Wendy slide off with a tilted head and a slight smirk. Once she's gone, he grins to Ben again, murmuring, "Oh, c'mon, you enjoyed the quiet-time with Walks, admit it." The hand on Trace's shoulder slides up to play with the blue braids (despite their state of 'desperetely need a shower'-ness). He starts to say something else, but Trace's sudden memory makes him pause and blink to his smaller friend. "What story?"

Benjamin's forehead furrows as Wendy moves off, and he turns toward the boys apologetically, shrinking back against the porch-roof support. "Sorry," he murmurs, but otherwise falls quiet. He's busy lighting up his cigarette and uncapping his juice, after all. Important stuff.

Trace grins broadly and leans into where Jason is playing with his braids. "S'the story 'a Evil Jack. She tole' me it on Halloween, 'fore the party. An' she made me promise t'share the story with you, like a gift." He looks around and decides, "I oughta tell it when it's night, though, don'tchya think? It's a nighttime kinda story. Makes fer better mood."

Trace's coaxing gets more insistant, since he doesn't have a lapful of pretty foxtail yet. It isn't being obedient. He pinches at a tiny bit of hair and tugs, just once, somewhat gently but probably still sharp enough to startle you. He veils his grin as best he can, eyes sparkling.

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