HEY, i think i just saw ASTRID PALLAS-DEXICOS walking down the strip. stop by to catch up and you’ll learn the THIRTY-TWO YEAR OLD is working as a BURLESQUE DANCER AT DOLL HOUSE BURLESQUE CLUB AND AN APPRENTICE AT CASUAL EDGE BOUTIQUE and lives in THE CROIX TOWNHOUSES. given they are RESPONSIBLE but DEFEATIST, it’s likely that they ARE NOT a vampire. i bet you can find them tearing up the dance floor to BLACK VELVET BY ALANNAH MYLES and you’ll know why they’re called THE CRUSED FRUIT. ☾ .⭒˚ jennie kim. cis woman + she/her. pansexual + aquarius.
pinterest / playlist / not shipped
FACTS (to be expanded)
Childhood:
Astrid has always been the peacekeeper of her family, praised even as a child for her level-headedness and diplomacy. She was often called upon by her siblings to settle arguments between them when things got out of hand, a task she willingly assumed and excelled at.
Consequently, this also meant that Astrid was always labelled as the "responsible one" growing up, a moniker she takes some pride in but has yet to fully escape in adulthood.
A very studious and smart child, Astrid did well in school all throughout her life. But her true calling lied in the creative arts.
She began studying ballet when she was a child and continued her training well into her adolescence, developing a love and passion for the art form.
She had her sights set on the New York City ballet, and managed to score an audition and get into the company when she was 22. Though she trained and danced there for about two years, she decided to return home shortly afterwards to help support her family.
Astrid still hasn't parsed whether she truly left her dance dreams behind for the good of her family, or if a part of her was scared she couldn't hack it after all and used her family troubles as an excuse to escape the pressure.
Present Day:
Since returning to Nevada, Astrid taught dance for a while, seeking out any and all opportunities to stay connected to the world of dance and performance.
It was during those years that she stumbled into the world of burlesque and began to pursue this line of work, adoring the way she could escape into a persona and lean into showmanship, so different from the world of ballet she was used to.
Adopting the stage name "Scarlet Rouge," her persona during her act is bold and daring where Astrid herself tends to be more reserved and warm.
Burlesque also introduced Astrid to the art of sewing, since she was tasked with sourcing and making her own costumes when she first started out. It's a craft that she intends to pursue further in the future.
STATS
General Info:
Full Name: Astrid Angelique Pallas-Dexicos.
Nicknames: None.
Age: 32.
Date of Birth: February 14th, 1965.
Zodiac Sign: Capricorn.
Gender: Cis woman.
Pronouns: she/her.
Sexual Orientation: Pansexual.
Romantic Orientation: Panromantic.
Relationship Status: Available, single.
Alignment: True Neutral.
MBTI: INTJ, the Architect.
Appearance:
Faceclaim: Jennie Kim.
Height: 5′4.
Eye Color: Brown.
Hair Color: Black.
Tattoos: A poppy on her left ankle, a pomegranate on her right hip, and a series of three stars on her left wrist.
Piercings: One earlobe piercing on each ear.
Background:
Education: Bachelor's degree in dance.
Occupation: Burlesque dancer under the name Scarlet Rouge at Doll House Burlesque Club, an apprentice at Casual Edge Boutique, and an occasional seamstress.
Residence: The Croix Townhouses.
Mental Health Conditions: Anxiety, depression.
Disabilities: Asthma.
Class: Working.
Ethnicity: Korean.
Language(s) Spoken: English / Korean.
Identity:
Label: the cursed fruit.
Positive Traits: diligent, charming, practical, gracious, resourceful.
Negative Traits: pessimistic, hesitant, secretive, distrustful, rigid.
Quirks/Habits: bites her nails, bounces her leg, will idly stretch and roll her neck/shoulders.
Love Language: acts of service.
Hobbies: sewing, record collecting, putting together puzzles, journaling, dance.
Likes: floral sundresses, scented candles, beautiful journals, floral arrangements, cap sleeves.
Dislikes: talking about her problems, being perceived as weak.
Fears: losing herself, never putting herself first.
( dollhouse burlesque club, night ) @boneyardstarters
Fingers clutching an empty shot glass as wide brown eyes surveyed the rowdy crowd, the taste of her liquid courage still burning at the back of her throat, Astrid reached up to fiddle absently with the flower adorning her hair—part of her uniform for the evening. With her shift drawing to a close, a night of serving customers in her usual place of work behind her, she debated getting out on the dancefloor and joining in on the festivities for once. You'd think for someone that danced for a living (and much more scantily clad than she currently was), Astrid would be a little more comfortable with the idea of dancing to country music with strangers. But that was exactly her issue... they were strangers. And even though the brunette felt a vague sense of comfort, being in the club that she largely considered her home away from home, she was still horribly out of her comfort zone. Though she projected an easy confidence on stage, the picture of grace and charisma during her act, this was different. She didn't have a flashy stage persona to hide behind. There was no space between performer and audience to protect her. No, this was something she had to do as herself, not as Scarlet, a thought almost as horrifying as the recent string of misfortune that had befallen her. Because she didn't want to think about all the things that had gone horribly wrong lately—her unfortunate run-in with the law, a missing family friend, and a penchant for stumbling across body parts. She wanted a reprieve, even if it was something as trivial as dancing with the locals. So, with a steeling breath, the former ballerina slammed down her shot glass, marching right towards the dance floor, determined to approach the first available dance partner she found. That is, until she bumped into someone crossing her path, she shoulder colliding with them. "Oh, I'm so sorry! I was just hoping to join in. Are you okay?" came her automatic apology, nearly lost among the sound of lively fiddles, a flush of embarrassment creeping over her cheeks.
with: annaki, astrid and rosalind
where: the glitter gulch lounge
when: may 30th, 1997
"I fail to see the fun in this..." He was half-griping underneath his breath as they idled beside the mechanical bull in the lounge, fingers bunched into his jumper and casting glances over his shoulders repeatedly, perhaps flustered by the troves of people weaving in and out of the space that was normally occupied by dancers half-naked on their poles. There was a tightness in his stomach that refused to go away since he had set foot in the building — however, he had been chalking it to the wretched disgust with the thought of testing his luck on the beast for fun and games, as Annaki put it.
Trust their starlight, star bright sibling to try to wrangle up fun in the form of an urgent care trip waiting to happen. Honestly, if any of the three landed in the hospital, he was almost concerned that Maria would faint like a Victorian lass.
"Sacrebleu," he huffed unhappily and threw his hands up in surrender, "Fine, what if we play old-fashioned to decide who will go first? Rock, paper, scissors. Like when we were children, no?" / @scarlctheart
"Yeah... are you sure this is a good idea? One of us might get hurt," the brunette fretted, wide and fearful brown eyes turning in the direction of her younger sister. On the best of days, Astrid wasn't the impulsive sort. It was simply her lot in life to perpetually worry about her own well-being, as well as the safety of her siblings, which didn't leave much room for spontaneous adventures, nevermind voluntarily taking part in an activity that had the potential to injure her. Leave it to Annaki, the brightest and most optimistic of the Pallas-Dexicos triplets, to wrangle her more dour and level-headed siblings into riding a mechanical bull.
"Oh, I like that idea," the dancer seconded her brother's suggestion, punctuating her agreement with a firm nod. Because there was certainly no way that she or Atticus would volunteer to go first. It was better to leave it up to the universe. Not that the universe had been much of a friend to Astrid lately. When the people she was growing to care about weren't skipping town, it was one thing after another in Sin City itself, almost as if Vegas was determined to remind her that she was fated to lead a life where tragedy loomed around every corner. There was no escaping it... not here at least. "What do you think, Naki? Does that sound fair?" / @wiithstars
cartwheel convenience & drug store, 23rd march / @boneyardstarters
CAP— 0/4
This year had taken off a pretty rocky angle for Tomo. That should have been enough on its own but, somehow, with every ticking hour, his reality seemed to descend further into some great tangled mess of bullshit. And now, on top of all that, his stepbrother had been targeted like that? Death, following after death, one thing after another. It boggled the fucking mind. (And that was without thinking about what was going on with Tomo himself. He really didn't want to think about that, actually.)
Tomo wasn't sure what had brought him to the convenience store this late at night. Wanderlust? Snack cravings? (The urge to buy a pack of cold sliced ham and eat in one sitting?) Either way, it was where he'd wound up, leant against the end of one shelf. His fingers tapped and clicked away at the buttons of his Game Boy Pocket. Being put on an enforced hiatus from work had left him with enough free time to finally pull out that copy of Pocket Monster Red (the boons of being bilingual, he supposed), but even he could admit that fidgeting with the device was an easy means of alleviating his own aimless anxieties.
A nearby presence, the scuffing of feet against the floor, pulled his attention from the screen for just a moment but he kept his gaze fixed, disinterest feigned. "Can't answer any sensitive questions about recent events right now," he said, flatly. "I'm busy trying to catch this weird duck." Tomo knew the Vitelli situation was running laps around the rumour mill at this point and, as an actor, he was a recognisable face. Then, with a short laugh, he finally turned to face his company. "Ew, never mind. That serious shit is so not me. Do you, like, need help or something, or am I the one crossing boundaries now?"
The last few months had left Astrid a shell of herself, to say the least. It was difficult to ignore the constant buzz of fear coursing through her lately, given the recent events around town. She had always been tasked with looking after her siblings, making sure that they were staying out of trouble and taking care of themselves (especially when it came to the rest of the quadruplets). But how could she possibly be expected to rise to the task when it seemed that Vegas as a whole was intent on constantly throwing her and her family in harm's way?
As a way to remedy the hypervigilance settling into her bones, the brunette had been all too happy to pick up extra shifts at both the burlesque club and the local boutique. It was harder to fixate on her fears and the whereabouts of her siblings if she kept busy. And it was as easy as taking a breath for Astrid to lose herself in the act of dance or garment creation. Still, despite her best efforts to fill every last minute of idle time with something productive, the dancer was still left with pockets in her day with nothing to occupy her mind. Naturally, this called for a late night visit to the convenience store.
Aimlessly shuffling down the aisles, Astrid barely even had time to contemplate the ideal snack to bring home and share with Alizka, when a voice pulled her attention. Grateful to be distracted from her impending reverie, her brows scrunched together thoughtfully. "'Sensitive questions?' I don't..." Trailing off, her brown eyes lit with a belated spark of recognition at the Vitelli son. "Oh, I'm not here to hound you or anything like that," she rushed to assure the man, a sheepish smile overtaking her formerly ragged expression. At his abrupt shift in demeanor, Astrid breathed an audible sigh of relief that she hadn't somehow managed offended him in her overworked state. "Actually... I'm looking for a snack that's good enough to distract my sister from... well, everything. One of the women in our neighborhood went missing recently. She's a family friend." Pausing for a moment to blink the exhaustion out of her eyes, she mused, "Or maybe a weird snack would do the trick? Either way, I'm too tired to make a decision right now, so I wouldn't mind the help." The performer blamed the late hour and her recent professional over-extension for the slip of her usual diplomatic filter, too exhausted to assume her usual, well put-together persona.
WHO: Ivan Burke & Astrid Pallas-Dexicos (@scarlctheart)
WHERE: Doll House Burlesque House
THERE WERE VERY FEW PEOPLE THAT IVAN LET HIS GUARD DOWN AROUND. His family was an obvious choice (although he was becoming more guarded around his brother after the incident with their sister occurred), and Dominic had been a familiar presence since childhood, but other than that, new people were often held at arm's length. The exception was SCARLET, a burlesque dancer that Ivan had grown acquainted with over the months.
His trips started off as a way to distract himself from his work and the worries surrounding the fate of his sister, but as the trips went along, he grew a fondness for the dancer. There was something about her that drew him in, and it felt nice to talk to someone who didn't have any expectations from him or preconceived notions about him.
He spotted her the moment she left the stage, and he couldn't stop himself from wandering over. Other employees tried to catch his eye, but he ignored them and focused entirely on her. He slowed to a stop near her, hands tucked in his pockets as he nodded, "You were great up there." He glanced over the area before adding, "Do you have time for a drink? My treat."
When a young Astrid attended her very first dance class—back when her family was still struggling through the foster care system in England before her entire clan of siblings was adopted and relocated to New York—the dancer never considered a life as a burlesque performer as the end goal for that fledging training. The lofty dreams of her childhood were instead made up of grand halls, worn-in pointe shoes, and glittering tutus. It was the kind of dream that a disciplined little girl could slip into whenever the cruelty of a difficult childhood, surviving through neglect and poverty, became too much to bear. For years, it had been something to look forward to, a dream that felt more and more like a tangible reality when she finally had a mother figure in her life with the means to encourage her to pursue it. But dreams were not a substitute for reality, not when harsh reminders of the world's indifference seem inescapable in those grueling practice rooms. So, she planned her escape out west, content to give up her youthful aspirations in favor of making a life for herself closer to her family.
And there was one thing about her new profession that the world of ballet had never offered her: the chance to assume an all-new persona, to slip into the role of someone else, even just for a few hours a night. It was the thing that made her fall in love with the art form of burlesque in the first place, the chance to craft an entire act and character of her own design, free of the oppressive input of overbearing dance teachers and creative directors. Scarlet was a chance for self-expression in its purest form. And it didn't hurt that her persona provided a kind of armor, leaving the brunette free to engage with patrons of the club in a way she wouldn't dream of once the costume and stage make-up came off.
One patron in particular had piqued her interest more than most, something her fellow performers had taken note of, always letting her know whenever he was in attendance, often with a teasing lilt to their voices. He seemed... almost as guarded as she was, perhaps one of the reasons that the former ballerina found herself drawn to him, week after week. Their conversations always seemed to leave her with more questions than answers, the perfect momentary escape for whatever fresh horror awaited her out in the streets of Sin City.
Making her way off stage to the sound of applause, Astrid couldn't help the genuine grin tugging at her painted lips, her focus narrowed to a point at the sight of her mysterious admirer. "Ivan," she greeted warmly, brown eyes alight. "Thank you. Not too bad for my first time incorporating a chair into my act, huh?" A light peel of laughter slipping easily past her lips, she nodded her acceptance at his invitation. "Oh, I've got all the time in the world for you. At least, until closing time. I'd love to join you for a drink." In her daily life, Astrid would've never been so forward. But the anonymity afforded to her by her stage persona was too intoxicating not to lean into during interactions that took place in the club. Taking a seat on a stool at the very end of the gleaming bar, the brunette crossed her legs primly beneath her, fishnet stockings lightly scratching against each other at the motion. "Anything new to report since I saw you last? Things certainly stay... interesting in Vegas, don't they?" she attempted to jest, unwilling to admit that the recent headlines had been wreaking havoc on her already heightened sense of anxiety. She couldn't risk shattering the ephemeral illusion they'd crafted together.
with: @scarlctheart
where: astrid's townhouse
when: late evening of january 9th, 1997
"Are you quite sure you're alright?" The thick French accent cut through the quiet hum of Astrid's kitchen, whilst the other sisters had traipsed off to prepare for bed — and probably steal the chocolates they weren't meant to consume right before it for their blood sugar's sake. ( The capacity of self-restraint he had not to strangle one, but two diabetic siblings was award-winning, at this point. ) Astrid was quite capable of hiding her emotions, the brother and sister were alike in that way, whereas Alizka and Annaki wore their emotions in plain sight. It was for this reason, perhaps, that his radar was detecting that something was amiss. There was a soft frown imbued upon his features, a sternness detectable that he didn't want to let the conversation get away from them under the guise that all was well. Las Vegas was peculiar — but what city wasn't? Even New York had had its rumors of the macabre, stories that frightened adults or were perhaps fabricated under the meticulous intention of keeping them disciplined. ( Eliana Moschetti was a wonderfully compassionate matriarch who would've never dreamed of such thing, and he worried that the sheltering was partly to blame for Rosalind and Annaki's ill-adjustment to the perils of the world outside. ) "Is it... nerves? Ah... I hear, Ros is looking for us." Annaki was the odd sheep out, who thought their foster sister had nothing to do with their mother's demise. There were mixed opinions, by and large of the siblings. Seeing the best of others didn't always work out in their favor. Especially as innocent children who had their purity used against them. Reaching for the mug of tea that had been poured out, he sipped it slowly, finding a chair to sit down in, and gesturing for her to approach. "You can tell me, if you like. You seem... distracted. There is no issue with the charges against you?"
Attempting to still her mind by busying her hands with the task of cleaning up after their family dinner, Astrid smiled to herself at the sound of Annaki and Alizka talking and shuffling around upstairs, the sounds of her sisters getting ready for bed acting as a balm for the former ballerina's nerves. But despite her best efforts to put on an unaffected and cool facade in front of her brother, she should have known better than to assume her usual tricks would be enough to fool Atticus this time. Among the quadruplets, the two of them were far too similar to pull the wool over each other's eyes. They had always been the steady pair of hands, twin pillars of stability for their band of colorful (and occasionally troubled) siblings. Though they each had their own struggles, they had shouldered the expectation to keep their family afloat with grace over the years. Still, a girl had her limits. The move out west was supposed to act as a reprieve from their lives in New York, leaving the world of ballet behind her in favor of something that might bring her fulfilment and peace of mind, away from the hyper-competitive world that had begun to eat away at her from the inside out. But the reality of what awaited Astrid in Sin City seemed far worse than she could've ever devised in her darkest nightmares. Not only was there danger lurking around every corner (as she had stumbled across not once, but twice), it also seemed that the ghosts of her past lives seemed determined to hunt her down, no matter where she ended up. Of course Rosalind would track her down here, too. But Astrid had no intentions of seeing her younger sister, at least not any time soon. Not when there was still so much doubt about Ros's involvement in their adopted mother's murder.
Letting out a long breath, the brunette braced herself on the edge of the kitchen counter, her back turned on her brother. "Is it that obvious?" she wondered, her gaze unfocused as she stared down at the contents of the sink. "Even Naki could tell that something was wrong. Am I getting that bad at hiding it?" Steeling herself, the dancer turned to face her brother, managing a weak grin as she peeled herself away from the task at hand and moved towards the kettle on the stove, pouring herself a cup of tea. "The whole Ros thing definitely doesn't help how I'm feeling," Astrid admitted, shaking her head at herself as she added a dollop of honey to her cup. "I don't know what I would even say to her." Gingerly moving to take a seat next to Atticus, she took a sip from her cup, the tension in her body melting visibly at the warmth of her drink. "No, no issues there. All of the charges were dropped, and there shouldn't be anything on my record, thank God," she informed him, hoping to wipe the Halloween incident from her brain entirely. It was just a blip, a stress-induced anomaly. Certainly not a brush with the supernatural that escaped all rational explanation. But really... how else could she explain losing control of her body and attacking someone like that? / @pcisxnivys
His head tilts, a small smirk playing at his lips, a slight shrug. "Rock bottom builds character." Max lets the idea that she sees him as better than he is sit there, uncomfortable and heavy, like a coat he doesn't know how to take off. Her faith in him is the part that chafes uncomfortably. It presses right into the fault line he works so hard to plaster over, the place where he knows exactly how easy it would be to disappoint her if she ever saw him clearly. Max exhales through his nose. "Well, if people think that they'll expect me to use it responsibly, won't they?" There's no heat to his tone, he tries to wrangle some of that jest back into it but there's something tired in its wake -- they both know he won't change, not any time soon, anyway, even if his secret identity, as she seems to claim it to be, is discovered by their shared peers. "That's the real tragedy."
Her panic subsides, ebbs just enough for her to breathe again, and he feels the echo of it in his own chest. Max isn't completely fucking blind; he can see how much more there is bubbling under the surface. He's shocked she's allowed him to see this much after so long, it grates how easily it is to fall into step. She needs a friend, a steady hand, and Max is the last person who should offer something like that, but he'd already inserted himself into the scene.
There's a softening to his pinched features at her jest, a line clearly drawn between them not to cross into territory left unsaid in the years before. "No, I can't be around mental patients, I'm far too pretty," said swiftly and surely, perhaps only a hint of humor in it. Even if maybe he might benefit from a padded room himself, sometimes. "Neither can you, for that matter, so I guess it's for the best we keep you out. No one can pull off a straitjacket."
Mentally, he makes a note to keep an eye out for her -- maybe if anything does come of it, he could get ahead of it. He's not sure how the fuck he'd manage that, but Max would try for her; regardless of any past they might have, she doesn't deserve to have her life ruined for this, an anomaly no one can pinpoint. He supposes stranger things have happened.
Regardless, he simply nods. There's a pause, rubbing his thumb along the side of his own knuckle, eyes drifting briefly to the ground before returning to her. A weight lifted, but a different one presses entirely too close. He can't fucking stand it. A soft sigh, there's only so much beating around the bush he can really take. "How long until you're done here?" he asks suddenly. "I didn't mean to interrupt your shift," not that he thinks she's missing much anyway, leagues above a burlesque club. Not his place, but he also can't seem to just get in the car and drive away, either. It feels too brisk. Max meets her eye, head tilting. "I can wait around. Or come back later -- I think we kind of owe a better reunion to ourselves, don't you?"
Rock bottom builds character. With that one sentiment, a sense of genuine levity settled over her chest for the first time that night, the whole ordeal beginning to shrink down to something... manageable for the dancer. In that moment, it wasn't an unexplainable psychotic break that nearly sent her to prison, defying all of the logic and good sense that she stubbornly clung to. It was something funny that she could laugh about at dinner parties in a few years, a means to "build character," as he so aptly put it. She'd almost forgotten Max's gift for taking a dour situation and turning it into something a lot less frightening, a misadventure they could laugh over. But the amusement in her smile dimmed for a moment at the flippant tone of his next remark.
It wasn't a new sentiment to Astrid, that Maxim didn't necessarily agree with her implicit and steadfast faith in him. His reaction didn't surprise her much, though it did illicit a tender ache in her chest, prodding at the bruised spot in her heart that she incorrectly assumed was entirely healed over. A veritable Atlas struggling dutifully with his burden, she wondered if he'd shoulder that weight atop his back alone for the rest of his days, denying any offer to help him carry it. "They might. But I think you could handle the responsibility if you wanted to," she remarked simply, hoping that the sentiment would eventually reach him. He'd swooped in during her hour of need, after all, even after years of radio silence on both of their ends. Maybe it was naive of her, to think that she could see past the veneer of the Crane family name and the persona he'd so carefully crafted for himself as an unfeeling rogue. Maybe it felt safer to him, hiding behind that mask. Although, she wasn't one to talk about making the safe choice. It was the whole reason for their estrangement: her willingness to give up on her childhood dreams when the reality of it became too difficult to handle.
A hearty peel of laughter slipping past red lips at his jest about mental hospitals and straitjackets, Astrid shook her head, deciding to play along with the joke, rather than assume her retired role of the designated wet blanket in their friendship. "Right, you can't risk mental patients trying to claw at your pretty face. I mean, the horror—whatever would you do?" Her features tingeing with a genuine warmth, she allowed the smile across her lips to reach her eyes. "Deal. I fear no amount of sewing prowess on my end could make a straitjacket look chic, so we'll have to make sure I don't get committed." Astrid wasn't sure what possessed her to refer to the two of them as a unit, but she brushed right past it, glad for the abrupt shift in topic.
"I just finished my set, so I should be free to go in a bit," she replied, her foolish heart swelling with hope at the chance to properly catch up, to fix what she had broken in her cowardly retreat from the city. "No, it's okay," the brunette rushed to assure him, unable to help the sincerity coloring her tone. "I don't mind the interruption. It beats our reunion on the beach." She managed a breathy wisp of a chuckle, restlessly tucking stray strands of hair behind both ears, uncertain how to hold the budding anticipation in her body without fidgeting. Nodding in agreement, Astrid attempted to rein in the warring emotions bubbling beneath the surface. "Yeah, I'd love that. As far as reunions go, we're 0 for 2 right now. I'd love to hear what you've been up to."
Did you end up going through with your marriage? Do I owe you a belated wedding gift? The thought was at the front of her mind before she could stop it, just another thing to tuck away for further examination some other time maybe even never. She stopped short of checking for a wedding band on his left hand. Despite the general sense of familiarity that his presence afforded, the fact that Max had already witnessed her break down twice in the last few days was almost too much for Astrid to bear. Christ, she had some pride left. "Just let me check in with Sol and get changed, and we can get out of here, okay?"
( parking spot outside of twice sold tales, night ) @thoroughfxre, lux
Staring down at the deflated front tire of her beater car, the sound of shallow breathing filling her ears as her eyes went glassy, Astrid wondered distantly if she'd done something to deserve all of the recent misfortune befalling her. Was there a family curse she wasn't aware of hanging over her head, waiting to strike whenever she dropped her guard? Or was one of the secondhand antiques in her home haunted, committed to ruining the life of every person that owned it? Was she simply its latest victim? After everything that happened over the last year, it sure felt like it.
When she first moved to town, she would've laughed at such a mystical notion, quick to turn her nose up at the mere idea of curses and silly superstitions. But that was back when her biggest concerns were ensuring that Annaki didn't get robbed in the city and making it to ballet company rehearsals on time. And to think, Vegas was meant to be a new start for the brunette. Her life out west was supposed to be one of much-needed tranquility, away from the constant chaos of New York City and the never-ending task of restitching and breaking in new pointe shoes. But the reality of her current life proved far worse than any fate that would've awaited her if she'd just stayed in the city—inconvenient and fruitless romantic feelings for one of her closest friends be damned. As it turned out, she couldn't outrun her problems anyways, so why bother running at all?
So, despite the years of practice in maintaining an unaffected calm in the face of whatever misery life threw her way, the dancer felt her usual resolve crumble away, replaced by the primal urge to do the exact opposite of what she'd always done.
Setting down her tote bag of newly acquired reading materials onto the curb with a gentle toss, Astrid sucked in a fortifying breath as years of pent-up anger bubbled to the surface, simmering beneath her skin. Before she knew what she was doing, the former ballerina braced her hands against the frame of the car, kicking the useless tire in a fit of momentary rage as tears of frustration welled up in the corners of her eyes, obscuring her vision. So much so, that she failed to noticed when a figure approached, bearing witness as her tantrum escalated, her kicks now paired with guttural grunts and shouts. It was only when she paused for a moment to take a breath that she noticed she wasn't alone anymore.
Whipping around to face her new companion, a barrage of apologies fought their way out of Astrid's mouth as she wiped at her tears, fighting to regain her usual composure. "Jesus, I'm sorry. I... I didn't think anyone was around. This is such a stupid thing to get so mad about—I'm sorry."
with: annaki, astrid, alizka
where: alizka and astrid's townhouse
when: january 9th, 1997
Las Vegas had finally embraced wintertime, in the barest sense. The lows of the evening were chilly, leaving the radiator of the townhouse to hum softly while they sat around the table in the middle of the den, a low hum of a kettle on the kitchen burner boiling water for hot cocoas and hot teas. "I tried to tell her not to bring the pig, Mochi is enough..." Atticus trailed off while Pickles frolicked around at his own leisure mere feet away, hands folded over the cards in his hands, a game of Uno he was floundering at as the seconds passed. None of them had raised questions about the elephant in the room, yet — or perhaps, skeletons in the closet was the better terminology; the four of them were haunted by the remnants of their mother's murder, and they hadn't broached the topic of their sister's early release from the state of New York's women's penitentiary. But more to the point, they hadn't crossed the topic of Halloween. ( At least, in terms of Astrid, and the legal ties looming over her; they'd all heard an earful about Annaki's holiday horrors. It was certainly an interesting session of catching up for their quadruplet who'd only unpacked their bags right around Hanukkah. ) "Can someone edify me on what is the point of this again? If I run out of cards, I am to give up playing? I'm getting thirsty." Petite hands shuffled what was confiscated in his grasp, lips pursed when he gave them second glance. "I hear word that the Night Stalker has struck again this week... or so they are saying in the reports. Astrid, if you'd like us to spend the night... we could run next door and grab a few of our things." / @scarlctheart
In the warmth of having all of the quadruplets under the same roof again, Astrid could almost will herself to believe that the events of the last few months hadn't really happened. Between discovering a dead body and a severed head all in the span of six months, not to mention her unfortunate incident with what she still struggled to reconcile as a haunted object and a subsequent brush with the local police station, the former ballerina could hardly believe that she once thought an escape to Las Vegas would solve all of her problems. But for tonight, she was simply glad to see her and Liz's townhouse full of family, comforted by their presence. "Don't give Naki a hard time. Pickles is always welcome in this house," she reminded her older brother playfully, lips tugging into a teasing grin as she spared a conspiratorial glance at her youngest sister. Idly sorting her own hand of Uno cards by color as she waited for her turn, she supplied for Atticus's sake, "No, Atti—if you run out of cards, you win. Once you're down to just one card, though, you have to be the first one to say 'Uno.' Otherwise, you'll just have to draw more cards, and the cycle never ends. You'll be stuck in this purgatory forever." A light-hearted laugh slipping past her lips easily in the company of her siblings, Astrid felt her posture relaxing from her spot on the carpeted floor of the den, both legs folded into an idle butterfly stretch of habit. At the mention of the Night Stalker, though, her brown eyes widened, front teeth worrying her bottom lip as Atticus directed a question her way. Concerned expression softening to one of gratitude, Astrid spared a glance at the sister that didn't share a roof with her, her gaze open. "I'd like that, actually. That is, if it's not too much trouble for Naki, with the animals and all. You and Atti can share the couch, or you and I can share my bed, if you need them confined to a room with you at night. What do you think?" / @wiithstars
( dream of dance studio, night ) @a-ghost-with--a-beating-heart
Heart pounding behind her ribcage as she crept across the dance studio and towards the nearest payphone, Astrid struggled to even her labored breathing as to not alert anyone of her abrupt and panicked departure from the dressing area, hands shaking as she reached for the handle and worked to quietly open the door to the booth.
A head... a severed head in my locker.
No matter how hard she tried to move past all of the horrors of the last few months, to tamp down this freshest hell and banish it to the back corner of her mind, she couldn't shake the image of what awaited her in her locker. There was something... stuck in its month. And as much as her survival instincts were screaming at her to cut her losses and go home, a nagging feeling deep in her gut told her that she couldn't just leave it there. What if it was evidence? Or worse: some twisted message meant for her.
Slipping into the phone booth, fingers trembling as she dialed the fellow dancer's number from memory and sending up an internal prayer that she was home, wide brown eyes cut across the studio for any signs of movement, maybe even the intruder that had planted the head there in the first place. "Annisa, hey!" she blurted softly upon hearing a greeting, working to keep her voice measured and even to not preemptively stress out her more anxious friend. "Listen... I'm at the dance studio, and..." Sucking in a breath, she trailed off, briefly weighing the options: either feed Nisa a white lie to get her down here quicker or tell her the full truth. Knowing Annisa, she needed to approach this carefully. "There's something... really weird going on, and I don't feel safe being here alone. Do you think you could come down here?" the burlesque dancer asked, dropping her voice to a whisper.
ANNAKI PROBABLY WOULD HAVE FOUND THEMSELVES wandering off were it not for Astrid's arm wound through hers, as they had already been staring wide-eyed and busy-tailed (no pun regarding their current whereabouts intended), just about ready to go running for the first animal in sight before the bound to her sister halted her. "Well, you know what I always say: no home is really complete until you have a furry roommate! Or a scale-y one. Or slimy, I guess, because people can have frog and geckos and stuff. And I'm not sure what category all the hairless pets would fall into..." Their vocalized stream of consciousness trailed off, as a fingernail coated in baby pink polish tapped against her chin, giving up and perking up after giving a shrug when they couldn't find the words they were looking for and ultimately, wasn't providing much to the task at hand. Bouncing on the balls of their feet, eagerness was present all over their face as they nodded along with the performer's plan. "No animal as cute as a little black cat can be unlucky. If anything, their adorableness makes them even more lucky." There was no true logic behind their words, but the Pallas-Dexicos quadruplets were no strangers to putting up with the nonsense that frequently left the youngest one's mouth. "It's perfect time now because you must be way lonelier without Mochi and I around all the time." Annaki may have been oblivious to a lot (as in, almost...all of their surroundings for the most part and generally unspoken social implications) but even they were at least partially aware that there was usually no lack of excitement when they were around, especially when they usually were followed by a troupe of animals that now consisted of her dog and newly added teacup pig, who was bound to make himself and every desire he had known with his near constant squeaking and grunting. For everyone's sake, it was only the highly-trained service dog that now was on her heels. One of their hands landed atop Astrid's forearm that was against theirs, keeping her close and giving them the chance to tug her towards the feline section of the shelter but not without giving a squeal. "Of course, I do!! Oh, this is already the best Hanukkah gift ever! What do you think you're looking for? One who has a big personality and wants to play a lot? Or, maybe we should try for one of the shyer ones, as they might not get as much attention."
An automatic grin blooming across cherub features, as easily and naturally as drawing in a breath, the brunette nodded her agreement. "I know, and I didn't really have time for a pet back in New York, with all the hours I spent in the studio," she lamented, brown eyes flicking down to the ground as she recalled their years in the city, the grueling and long days spent largely in her pointe shoes. "I want to make up for lost time. Besides, it'll be nice to have a little companion to come home to. Maybe the hairless ones are just... cuddly friends. Assuming that hairless pets like to snuggle," Astrid reasoned, always the one to indulge Naki whenever her mind drifted off to consider more whimsical musings. Those were places that the dancer rarely allowed her own mind to float off to, so it was a welcome change of pace. Allowing Annaki's enthusiasm to rub off of her, Astrid responded to her bounce with a shimmy of her shoulders. "Exactly! I can't see how anyone would think that black cats are unlucky just because of their color. They look like wisps of smoke and cinders grew legs—what could be more magical than that? They can be my good luck charm." Her bright expression faltering at the mention of not having Annaki and Mochi around her apartment as much anymore, Astrid resisted the big sister urge to conceal the full reality of her feelings of solitude. "Yeah... as nice as it is having a place all to myself out here, I do miss you and Mochi brightening up my days whenever you'd come by," she admitted, giving Naki's arm a gentle squeeze as she spared a glance over at her sister's service animal, the full wattage beam returning to her smile at the reassurance of a day out with them. "So, what better remedy for my quiet townhouse than a pet of my own?" Astrid couldn't argue with her own logic, especially when it was an attribute that the performer was well known for among the quintuplets. A hearty laugh bursting forth as her sister lightly tugged her along, raring to see the selection of cats up for adoption, the eldest sister felt a familiar and welcome warmth spreading throughout her chest at Annaki's excitement. "I knew you were the right person for this job," she remarked, grateful for the spark of childhood magic that Naki always brought out of her. "Hmm... that's a good question. A playful kitty could be fun, but I'd be open to a shy one too. What do you think? What kind of pet do you think would be a good fit?"
There is a simple truth that has always lingered above Maxim's head whenever the two inhabited the same space: she is too good for him. As the smile spreads across her face, almost a forgotten thing, that thought pulls at him again. "I was going to say the same thing." He is genuine in his acquiescence, even as his own small smile dims; this fact fundamentally keeps him from her. One merciful act, he will not be the one to hurt, not this time.
Max huffs a small laugh, shaking his head slightly. His tone is light and teasing when he says, "Most places are nicer than the matchbox." He can appreciate the banter for what it is, grateful for the preliminary lightheartedness before they recognize the elephant in the room. He does not brush off her earnestness, simply nods once, accepting, even if it wasn't true -- he signed a check, but he was no knight on horseback, hadn't even been the one to drop the check off. A hollowness in his voice when he aims to joke, "Just don't tell anyone else. Got a reputation to uphold."
He struggles heavily not to reach for her, even now. Self-restraint was not well practiced in the youngest Crane's vocabulary; perhaps it's the surmounting respect he has for her that keeps his hands to his own sides as she regales her side of the story. He's not sure what he expected -- the chance of her having any more answers than he did was slim to none already, and now all he feels is the wracking guilt for making her relive it. Shit.
Max studies her face, so much smaller now, panicked and pulled inward by the weight of the memory as she meets his gaze with an unspoken plea. It's jarring, holding the image of the girl he used to watch from velvet seats and dim balconies against the woman standing in front of him, glitter still clinging to her skin, hands faintly trembling. Astrid, who could have been a star in marble halls and mirrored studios. Astrid, who chose something smaller, louder, messier. He wonders, again, selfishly, if the world wore her down, or if she simply got tired of bleeding herself dry for an audience that never stayed.
Two versions of the same person, and now a third -- reconciling the past, present, and the girl he pulled away from her own ruin.
The panic in her engulfs the space between them, burning up like smoke, and Max cannot stay back anymore. So he takes a few heavy steps towards her, hands settling on her arms, rubbing, trying to calm her. He was shit at this, couldn't give her a decent word of comfort if he tried. So he keeps it easy for both of them, meets her gaze.
"No," he says simply. "You're not crazy. If you were, you'd be in much worse company than me. I'd have warned you years ago." Max smiles a bit, keeping a safe distance between them, large palms squeezing her arms, comfort for them both, perhaps, always so inclined to touch. After a beat, he sighs, pulling his hands back, a thumb brushing against his own jaw, contemplative. "Have you been charged with anything?" he asks, mind working, how can he be useful. "I know some people. I could get it scrubbed from your record."
A small, disbelieving laugh escaping her lips, shaken loose from her aching chest as if compelled forward simply by being in his presence, Astrid shook her head at the playful comment about her old apartment. "Fair enough. Suppose I couldn't do much worse than that shithole. Nowhere to go but up from rock bottom, right?" Though she was grateful for the moment of levity—the echoes of their past that had begun to gray at the edges of her memory returning to her now in full technicolor—she couldn't shake the distant reminder of all that still remained unspoken between them.
Did he remember it the way that she did? Did it eat away at him with the same insistency that it gnawed at her, or had it barely been a blip in his rearview mirror? Against her better judgment, she selfishly hoped that there wasn't too much history between the two to salvage the sense of comfort that his friendship had once afforded her, a shelter when she'd needed it most. It would be lovely to have that feeling again, even just a fraction of its warmth.
"What? Would it ruin your image around here to clue people into the reality that the Maxim Crane does indeed have a heart?" she jested, no real bite to her words, just a gentle teasing. It was one of the few things throughout the course of their friendship that Astrid never really joked about: her steadfast belief that, underneath all the posturing, Max was good and true at his core. She had witnessed enough people assume the worst of the youngest Crane that she had long decided that she wouldn't take part in perpetuating those sentiments, even as a good-natured rib between friends. "Don't worry, I won't tell a soul. But if the people around here have any sense... then they'll see it for themselves. It'd be no fun to spoil it for them in the meantime." With nothing but a painful sincerity to her statement, the faint smile on her features faltered, the admission leaving her feeling more exposed than any of the costumes she donned on stage these days.
Breaths coming in small bursts as her mind struggled to reconcile the events of that fateful night, the dancer attempted to steady the rhythm of her breathing, acutely aware that the spike of anxiety couldn't be good for her asthma—just another thing that always kept her from drifting off too far into the clouds where the air was thinner, both feet planted firmly into the Earth instead. But before her weary mind could even muster up something to anchor her down in that moment, she heard the crunch of gravel beneath Maxim's feet as he closed the space between them, the feel of two warm hands settling on her arms, and that was more than enough.
Watery brown eyes fixing on his troubled expression, allowing the small gesture to ground her, she accepted the lifeline he'd extended, focusing on the gentle motions of his hands and the steadiness of his gaze. I'm glad you're here. I'm glad you didn't forget all about me. Sighing softly at the confirmation that at least she'd managed to escape that evening with her mind still intact, she managed a weak laugh at his words of reassurance. "Well, I guess I can't plead insanity now. It's good to know I haven't officially lost it, though. I doubt you'd want to come and visit me in a padded room." she remarked. The tension in her shoulders relaxing as her breathing evened out, Astrid kept her gaze on Max's, even as he put some distance between them again, the comforting feel of his touch gone from her arms just as quickly as the sensation had arrived. It was probably for the best. It'd been a salve to soothe her frayed nerves, that's all. A sensible and momentary solution.
Absently dabbing at any budding tears that had been threatening to spill down her cheeks, the performer carefully swiped along her mascara-ladened lashes. Clearing her throat, she shifted focus to the more pragmatic logistics ahead, a skill the eldest Pallas-Dexicos daughter honed like an art on par with her dancing over the years. "I haven't been charged with anything... not yet, anyways. I think the whole mask component of the night freaked people out, but I'll keep an eye on things in case that changes." Her expression softening at the offer, unaccustomed to being looked after, she nodded her gratitude. "Thank you. I'll let you know if you have to call in one of those favors for me. I wouldn't even know where to start, getting something off my record."
( local zoo, december 18, mid-moring ) @nxnbinarydracvla
With Soomi and AJ's small gloved hands clasped tightly in each of her own, Astrid lead the young girls through the entrance of the zoo, listening intently as they animatedly announced which animals they were most excited to see. Both girls idly swung her arms out of rhythm at her sides while they spoke, but the brunette didn't mind in the slightest, smiling down at each of them in turn. Sparing a glance over her shoulder to make sure that her older brother was still following close behind, she offered him an amused quirk of her brow, a fond smile playing at her lips. "You still with us back there? The girls have big plans for our day out, it seems. We don't have to worry about a thing," she informed him, eliciting a round of giggles from Soomi and AJ. Cyrek had no doubt heard his daughters' loud and giddy proclamations, even from a few paces behind them, but Astrid delighted in playing along when the girls got particularly excited about something. It reminded her distantly of her own childhood exuberance for the things that she loved—dance, books, music—and of a young Annaki, fighting to see the good in the early years of their lives, even when Astrid struggled to see it for herself. In that way, quality time with her nieces served as a much needed reminder for the dancer that childlike joy was alive and well in Vegas. She just had to know where to look for it.
Slowing down her pace to fall into step with her brother, she released her hold on the girls, letting them both race a few steps ahead of them. Looking on with sincere fondness as her heart ached in her chest, she turned to her own flesh and blood, grateful to have a peaceful moment with Cy and his growing family. "I swear, AJ was just a baby a few months ago... this tiny little thing," she mused, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her black peacoat. "You think we were ever that cute?" From her own scattered recollection of her childhood, Cyrek had always been the street-wise big brother with the world on his shoulders, the one that she'd followed around like his little shadow, wanting to take care of her sisters the way he took care of them all. He'd taught her everything she needed to know about surviving, how to make a little feel like a lot. Still, she wondered whether that sense of grit was ultimately earned to their collective detriment, an Achilles heel waiting to take them down. Would she always feel like she was outrunning disaster? She couldn't be sure.
He is relieved, he realizes, to see that she seems the same as he remembers her. Not the ghost that's been pacing the back of his mind since Halloween, the girl frozen mid-scream in his memory, the version of her he almost expected to find ruined, felt sick when he thought about her nearly killing someone. Pulling her off a man and seeing her face twisted into something that wasn't hers and how fast he'd moved without thinking when it was her.
No, it was just Astrid, warm and here and good.
He wishes he hadn't thrown the cigarette onto the ground, his hands too suspended, too fidgety. He stuffs them into his pockets and looks her over, clinical at first, distant, as if he were trying to see if that warmth of her attention suddenly meant nothing to him -- so ready for the day the switch flipped and she saw him for what he really was. But she only ever saw the raw truth of it, a person standing in front of her and not a performance of one. Even now, all these years later, nothing had changed -- she would always be the girl who demanded the stage, who used to sit on his kitchen counter at 3AM with bare feet and stolen wine, talking about arabesques and exhaustion.
He sees the girl covered in glitter and cannot help but remember the one held together by sheer will, waiting in the wings like she was about to be carved into marble in New York. He wonders if she ever gets tired of performing. He certainly does.
Maxim's gaze does not stray as she quips, but the familiarity of it makes him relax a bit. Grateful, maybe, for picking up where they left off. Still Astrid. He huffs a little laugh and clicks his tongue, a soft you got me, before a slow curl tilts up in his mouth. "Wanted to frame and hang it up, too," he shoots back flippantly, the flirtation easy and far more gentle than he wanted it to be.
What are you doing here? She asks, and for the briefest moment, the gleam in his eye dims. Maxim never showed his cards as clearly as he had the night she left, and he was hard-headed enough to convince himself it wouldn't happen again, would never let himself lean into it, because he knew himself too well. He knew he'd wreck it, knew he'd take from her the way he took from everyone. But he allowed the small moments, never asked for more. Selfish. He isn’t sure, though, if his willpower is what he deems it to be. He sees the look on her face and thinks of her question again, and Maxim has to remind himself of the answer.
So his own visage closes off, just a bit, and he clears his throat. Looks away for a moment, decides beating around the bush will not do. "Well, I figure stopping an old friend from nearly killing someone might warrant a visit at some point," Maxim says bluntly, even his voice gaining more of that brusque, low tone. He catches her eye again, expectant. After a beat, his brows raise, and he cannot help the genuine earnest worry bleeding into his voice despite himself when he asks, "What the hell happened back there?"
"Ah, really? Then you should hang it next to a Rembrandt... maybe a Monet. I think it would really class up your art collection," she retorted, a genuine smile blooming easily across her lips at how naturally they fell back into their old rhythm. It was a relief to know that her cowardly retreat from New York hadn't managed to irreversibly ruin that.
She thought back to her tiny apartment in Queens that they'd affectionately nicknamed "the Matchbox," versus his more lavish trappings, all the scattered nights spent between both places. But, more often than not, ending up back at his much more comfortable penthouse, splitting bottles of wine with price tags that made her eyes bug out of her head, inciting many an impassioned rant about the ails of capitalism, when she wasn't venting her frustrations with the dance world. For a moment, it was like they were right back there again, shooting the shit on his couch late into the night. And despite herself, she let that bud of hope start to grow roots.
Then she saw the way his expression shuttered—only a fraction, but still enough that it didn't escape her detection. There was a distant flutter somewhere low in her gut, uncertain whether it was a sense of relief or unease that her ability to notice the subtle shifts in his expression was still ingrained in her, somewhere in her bones.
Brows pinched together, her expression open and imploring at she looked up at him, the dancer shook her head. "No, I just meant... you could've called. Come by my place, not here." The small admission felt foolishly idealistic for the brunette, the sort of thing that she stopped herself from even entertaining since learning of his move out west. But he was here, of all places, in the back alley of the club where she worked, and not dutifully avoiding her the way she feared he would. She couldn't help but wonder.
"I mean, a house tour feels like the least I could do, saving an old friend from an attempted murder charge. It's much nicer than the Matchbox, at least," she attempted to jest, an airy chuckle fighting it's way past painted red lips, her chest aching with the effort. "I would've been happy to see you either way, you know. Even without riding in on horseback to rescue me. Which... thank you, by the way. For writing that check and for being there that night." She looked down briefly, stopping short of saying the words that were on the tip of her tongue, but feeling them wash over her anyways: she'd missed him. No amount of logic in the world could've erased that simple truth.
At the question about what exactly happened on Halloween, her shoulders stiffened, eyes going glassy as she stared off just past him and recalled the ordeal with an awful clarity. The blood-curdling scream that ripped out of her, a sound she wasn't even aware that her throat could produce. The otherworldly fury that overtook her limbs, all while her mind was still painfully aware, like she was a patient left awake during surgery. She'd been doing her best to push all memories of that evening firmly out of her head until she could come up with a more rational explanation for what happened. But in the familiarity of his warmth, she felt her resolve to stay composed start to crumble, allowing herself to say the words she'd been terrified to utter: "I don't know."
Her voice was a reedy, wisp of a thing, foreign to her own ears. Physically incapable of performing indifference in his presence, of performing at all, a tight feeling of panic began to squeeze down on her ribcage. "I don't know what happened, I just... remember the mask, and Damiar telling this creepy story... then it was like I was floating outside of my body, watching everything from a distance. Like I wasn't in control of myself anymore." Chest heaving as she fought for a full breath to fill her lungs, Astrid blinked away the faint sting behind her eyes. "And then... just like that, I was myself again." She had a theory of what might have snapped her out of that moment of "possession," but she didn't dare speak it aloud.
Instead, she hazarded a pleading look up at him, hoping that any ability they once shared to wordlessly understand each other still flowed both ways. You know why... so please don't make me say it.
"I have no clue." Asa says honestly as he looks up at the building. There's an expression, half of awe, half of trepidation. Because he finds it so fascinating, this place. At the same time it's scary, and a museum full of items that hold spirits. Or ghosts, or... something. "That's what I wonder. Do they have someone sign off on paperwork? And who would be the ones to sign it? Ghost hunters? Paranormal experts? ...A priest?"
He picks out a few pretzels from his bag of trail mix. "Well, I think it is. I got it at a thrift shop, ages ago... and it's this young girl someone painted, holding a bouquet of flowers. I felt bad for her, being sold for a dollar, yeah? But... sometimes I think I hear her talking to me. Not a very fun thing to hear at midnight."
Astrid didn't usually concern herself with hypotheticals or abstractions. She did best when things were laid out plainly in front of her. But nothing about what happened on that night made any sense to her, so here she was, hoping that the answers she sought were nestled among the relics of a haunted museum. The performer would've laughed at the mere notion just a matter of months ago, more inclined to be frightened of a murderer on a rampage than an apparition with a supposed vendetta. One she could make sense of, the other eluded her entirely (and that reality frightened her all the more). Cocking her head to the side as she considered his question, the brunette tentatively replied, "Well... if they call themselves a museum, I would hope that they have some kind of authentication process for their exhibits. Who's the best person to do a service like that... a medium?" Oh God... did you just earnestly bring up mediums in the same breath as museums? "Maybe 'paranormal expert' is the better umbrella term for it," she conceded, feeling so out of her depths, she couldn't help but laugh, the sound hollow and airy.
At the mention of the haunted girl trapped in his thrift store painting, the dancer felt her eyes go impossibly wide, shaking her head at the thought. "No... you actually hear it talking to you?" Maybe what happened to her with that awful mask wasn't so crazy after all. Or, if it was, at least there were other people in this town inclined to actually listen to her story and lend it some credence. "What does she say?"
