2019-10-07 - The Invasion

It is mid-morning, which means a night owl like Cameron Cambridge is usually asleep. The autumn air is crisp and chill, the sun still in the first half of its arc across the sky. Not a cloud mars the beautiful blue sky, and even the rain of a few days ago is but a distant memory only conjured forth by the occasional leftover puddle to step in.

And Cameron is not asleep, much as she wishes she were.

That is because her neighbor loves to mow his tiny little lawn on Monday mornings, and that motherfucker takes FOREVER to do it. He's too cheap to buy a real lawnmower and get it down in a reasonable amount of time, so he does the whole thing with a weedeater. And he's far too anal to just let the grass grow and let the neighbors sleep in.

Oh, she's talked to him about. Boy howdy, has she. Only to promptly get informed about city ordinances allowing loud noises after 9am. So now she glares at him. Motherfucker.

The dark-haired dancer stands on her tiny little front porch in front of her trailer with her arms crossed, staring eye-lasers of impotent unhappiness at the back of the man's head. He knows she's there. She knows he knows. But he won't look at her, lest looks be able to kill. Right now she's thinking about hexing him, black magic or no.

At least the cream-colored sweater is keeping her warm, large enough to drown in, burying her arms up to the fingertips. Her sweatpants are baggy and loose, with a large, block print UCLA university logo running down the leg. She wears only flip-flops to cover her cold, cold feet, because she didn't have time to put on full shoes before she came outside to flip the old man the bird.

Her super-shitty late-90s puppy-shit brown Honda sits in the little mini-driveway next to the trailer. The other vehicle that is usually there is gone.

But this morning's grumpiness is about to be interrupted by an invasion of a Dylan sort.

It isn't a screech of tires or the clack-clack-clack of a run down engine that announces Dylan's arrival. It is, indeed, rather anti-climatic compared to how many of the people of the city get around. Instead, it's just the soft crunch of shoes against the detrius of the street as he heads down the lane of mobile homes, having walked from Elm Street.

A pair of jeans clads his legs to help with the cooler autumn weather that has settled in, and he wears a plain colored t-shirt. A sweater jacket is left unzipped, the black thing helping to keep him warm without promising to overheat him. But more importantly than that? Are the three or so plastic sacks he carries in one hand, with that by now familiar messenger bag slung over his shoulders, resting at his opposite hip.

His arrival unexpected, it doesn't seem to bother him in the least as he ascends to the tiny little porch, coming to stop right before Cameron. He looks to her. Then to the sound of the god awful weedeating noise. Back and fourth he goes a few times before he declares, "Annoying." Master of the obvious, this one!

And then, a breath later, without waiting for an invitation, he dips his head towards her door. "Inside." Of course, that conclusion is softened by the beaming, pearly white tooth showing smile he gives to her, every ounce of his features jovial and joyful in her presence.

People still walk in the age of Uber and Lyft? Color Cameron surprised! Surprised AF. Slowly her brown-eyed glare turns from the object of her ire to the stranger walking down the trailer park lot. It takes her a minute to recognize the man through her bleary-eyed irritation, but soon enough she's wishing she had put on makeup and brushed her hair before stepping outside.

Why does EVERYONE come see her when she is ill-prepared and has no face on!?

She watches as the man slowly maneuvers around, up the little gravel walkway to the wooden steps, and then mounts them. She still hasn't greeted him by the time he comes to a stop, has taken stock of the situation, and given his appraisal. It makes her laugh, looking away as her face breaks into a smile.

"Very astute, Rink. Called it one."

Cameron pats him one one side of the chest. "And hi, but just so you know, I wasn't prepared for visitors." She takes a moment to flip off the back of Captain Yardwork's head over her shoulder as she reaches for the doorhandle, repeating his single-word phrase. "Inside."

The door swings inwards, and he's let into the carnage of madness. It's not TERRIBLE, but there are a few dirty dishes in the sink and someone's bra was left over the side of a chair. There's a very packed makeup kit full of dark colors still open on the coffee table. "Sorry, neither of us are much of a home-maker." Comments the dancer as she casually picks up the discarded piece of underwear from the chair and balls it into her fist.

"Let me give you the tour!" She glances left, then glances right, then back at Dylan with a smile. "Now you've seen it all! You, uh, want something to drink? I was gonna make green tea, but Madison keeps these godawful energy drinks, too. If you're one of... THOSE people."

Unphased by the lack of makeup or the proclamation of her not having expected visitors, this seems to only please the artist. "That's good." He concludes, clearly not counting himself as a 'visitor' for whatever reason, and interpreting it as her meaning she could have been expecting People-Not-Him but isn't. "I'd interrupt." It's a declaration, that whatever has brought him here? Is Artist Important enough to barge in on her even if she was... well, doing whatever she does with visitors. Judging from those links he saw before? He'd surmise Yeti Sighting Club is held here.

He steps through once that door opens and the tour is given. His head swivens left. His head swivels right. He soaks it all in, as if she was presenting to him the Taj Mahal. "Niiiiice," He comments with true sincerity and approval, head bobbing up and down until he comes to spy the underwear she so casually balls up to try and keep hidden.

Blink. Blink blink. "Underwear optional?" It sounds so serious at first, as if it might be a Rule of the house, but only the small quirk of his mouth that he can't hide gives away the tease of the thought, before his hand lifts, shooing away the thought of energy drinks. "Water!" He concludes as to his own preference, and then a hand lifts to the sofa. "Then sit." Her, he means, because he's already heading over there, but not to make himself comfortable. Instead, he crouches down in the space in front of it, sluffing off his bag, and starting to arrange those plastic sacks he brought with him.

"Interrupt? How dare you, sir." It's said in a dry tone that indicates she probably isn't upset by the thought at all. She lives in a trailer park. She likely mostly gets other trailer park visitors. And half of those seem to be meth heads. "It must be super important to come all the way to my little neck of the woods." She gestures around with both hands, holding them up, cocking a hip and doing a little half-curtsie dip. "Not that my fabulous palace isn't worth the trip."

"Not a house on chicken legs, sorry to disappoint you. Still working on that."

"Underwear is always optional, my friend. Because seriously? Bras are Satan's gift to women." She turns to walk towards the kitchen, around the counter that separates it from the living room. First, she ducks into the tiny little hallway just beyond it, opening up a small, nearly-hidden closet and depositing the undergarment into a hamper. Then she returns, kicking off her flip-flops near the counter and shuffling towards the fridge.

At least, until he asks for water. She kind of nods in an acknowledgement, opening up a kitchen cupboard and pulling out a bright yellow, semi-transparent plastic glass. A slap at the faucet handle gets it to turn on, running her index finger under it to test the temperature. The temperature in the room is already turned up to like 80F or something, almost uncomfortably warm.

The glass is filled, and she turns to find him rummaging through his bags instead of sitting. Coming back around to the living room side, the dancer saunters to the sofa and collapses her legs to sit on the thing, one tucked under her body, the other foot on the floor. The glass she sets on the coffee table and slides towards her guest with her fingertips. Then she goes about putting away the makeup kit.

"So what's this about? If you brought me more food, I actually STILL have some left over from when Love came by."

Whatever he has in there, he is quite particular about arranging it all without letting her see, and there is even a hummed tune that goes on with it all, his body writhing and wriggling in time with whatever it is. "Bras bad." Check, as if he promises he won't ever try any of them on now so educated as to the evils they present to the world.

It's only when the glass clicks against the coffee table top that his head jerks up, and a beaming smile is cast her way. "Thanks!" He says in one moment, and promptly forgets all about the water in the next as she asks why he is here. "Not food!" He promises.

Instead of cans of soup or waffles or... whatever oddities Dylan might produce in the culinary area, he pulls out a mask. An eye mask, similar to what they'd talked about before. It's all finished, and it has been carefully created and painted to create a scintillating display of metallic scales. They mostly border on dark purples, but here and there they shift to a near teal sheen. He shows it to her first so she can see, and there is something ominous looking about it. No Ariel here. It's the way the corners are sharply angled, that dark color of the scales, the shapes of the eye holes that are both alluring and dangerous.

"Put on," He explains, dangling the strap before her so she can take it to slide it about her head as he returns to the sacks.

"Bras bad. Yes. You are wise to recognize this truth." Cameron presses her lips together in a little smile, before gesturing at her chest, more specifically tracing a line across her torso just under her breasts. "It's the underwire. It's the worst. To give the lift and support? It just claws through and digs up into you. Not a fan. Sometimes small boobs are a blessing that way."

As he finally reveals what he's brought, Cameron's mouth forms a little 'o', her eyebrows almost touching her hairline, leaning forward with her elbows on her lap and her hands together in front of her. For a long moment, she just kind of stares at the mask like that. "Wow."

Carefully, like she might break it, Cameron reaches out for the costume bit and cradles it in both hands while she inspects it. The scales, the way they shimmer depending on how she tilts it. Her thumbs rub across them, feeling the texture. "Oh. Honey. Thank you. You didn't have to do all this. That's... aw, thank you."

The dancer slides off the couch, mask in one hand, to her knees to scootch towards the crouched man with one arm held out for a hug. She gives him a generous squeeze before scooting backwards and letting go, her ass finding the couch cushion once more.

The mask is gingerly placed over her face, adjusting it so the eye holes line up and fiddling with the strap to find just the right place for it to sit. She tilts her head up and back, fluffing her wild, uncombed mane of hair with one hand, the other propped on her hip as she strikes an imaginary sitting pose. "What's it look like? Am I- Am I pulling it off? Do I kick Ariel's ass?"

"Free boobs," It's offered up in that same far too serious tone, with those expressive features that always betray him with his amusement at it all. His head bobs up and down as she explains the problems with underwire, and up his hands lift, cupping the air. "Softer. Better." For... support. Riiiight. It's a bat of innocence eyes towards her before he returns to the sack, which means he doesn't see the hug coming.

A gargle of noise comes in surprise, but once he realizes he's not in any danger of witch craft voodoo magic and necklaces, his own arm wraps around her to return the hug, giving a big squeeze.

"Not done!" Because once Dylan gets an idea, it /has/ to be fully done until it's all out of his mind. "Hot. Dangerous." This gets a thumb up once she poses, but then he pulls out a little stick of skin adhesive, along with... more shimmering scales. It's just a tiny patch, perhaps an inch by an inch. "Don't move." He warns her, giving a dead eyed stare that shows this time? He's Really Serious.

Carefully he applies the glue to the back of the scales, and then he presses them onto her cheek, just above her jawline on the right side. He leaaaaans in to stare at her skin, a low 'hmmmm' of consideration before he pulls out something more. It's as close a match as he can get to her flesh, this light substance, and he applies it around the edges so that they seem to be emerging from beneath her skin, rather than just looking stuck on. "Use mirror." He'll wait, obviously, while she does so!

"Yeah, okay." She raises the mask up off her face enough to rest it half in her hairline, half against her forehead. "You got me there. Soft, free boobs are better than... hard, expensive ones. ...How'd we start talking about breast augmentations? I blame you." Because it's always the man's fault. It's in the women's handbook.

"Not done? There's more?" Cameron slowly lowers the mask back down onto her face, like sudden moves might cause it to crack and break in half. "Okay. Lack of moving." She confirms, her lips pressing together into a Totally Serious frown of compliance.

It's probably difficult for her, this part. She tends to be emotive with her gestures, and never sits still for too long, even if it's just swaying in place to some music. Like there's too much energy inside of her and the body must burn it off before it reaches critical mass. At least, that's her typical 'evening' and 'late night' persona. For now, she seems able to remain perfectly still. Probably because it's too early for her to be on any pills yet.

Scales are glued to her face, and then a foundation applied over them to make them blend in more naturally. Not talking during this application process is a real chore for her, but when he's finally done, she gingerly reaches up to feel the finished product. "Wow, you're really thorough at this. Let me see where she put it..."

First, she turns to the makeup kit, but no mirror. Bending to the side, she glances under the coffee table, but no dice, there. With an 'ugh', the dancer gets up and walks towards the small one hanging on the wall near the door. She lifts her face up and turns to the side, poking at the scales with a finger a bit.

"Hey, that's... pretty damned good! Geez, I feel like I should pay you for this. ...You ever thought of going to Hollywood? Becoming a costume designer?" She glances towards him. "Working for a fashion company or something?"

"Hard boobs?" He looks down at his hands and the cupping gesture they make, and then back to the wiccan. His brow furrows, peering at her with a look that borders between curiosity and concern. "Hard boobs?!" But that's for another day. Hopefully. He either can't surmise the reason why they are discussing boob composition in just two words, or he decides discretion is the better part of valor.

Dylan returns to the bags. Shuffle ruffle dig dig dig! He grabs a few more things while she rummages for a mirror, only to pause momentarily as she gets up to head to that small one hanging there. A scoff comes as she talks about Hollywood, a hand lifting to wave back and fourth, "Art. Not," Costumes, one would surmise, given his glance at all the things around him. It's a beat of a pause, and then he grabs a handful of things, springing to his feet. "Not done!" He exclaims, as if she might have thought that was the last of it.

He steps in behind and to one side, so he doesn't block the mirror. Another patch of scales is held up, dangling them at her neck. Over where her collarbone is at. "Apply wherever." He advises, and he sounds like he means it. Whatever strikes her fancy!

Then comes the seaweed. Not /real/ seaweed, thankfully, but it does look dark, and fresh, a good sort of fabric plastic combination. He dangles it into her hair. "Uhm. Nicole," He advises as how best to get them in and looking natural. Hair? Not his thing.

And then comes the teeth. Oh yes. There are false teeth. The easy to wear facade sort. They aren't vampire teeth, but rather make everyone of those front teeth look like they have sharp ends. She's handed them to try in, to see how it all might look together. "Nails. Claws," Is his recommendation, but this too is left to her own devices as to how to figure out. "No help," He plucks at her sweater, a hapless shrug coming. Clothing? Not his thing either, apparently.

"Don't be an art snob!" Declares the dancer as she Prima Donnas in front of the mirror, giving herself a pair of pouty ducklips like she's posing for a selfie. She rummages fingers through her hair, straightening bits of it, teasing other bits up, getting it just right to get the full view of how she'd look all made up. "Lots of things can be art. Like architects and car design and advertisements. You just have to- Wait, there's more?"

Of course there's more, then man brought several bags! Still, Cameron looks to the side at the male as he approaches, starting to look mildly apprehensive about things. "Oh geez, now I'm going to owe you forever!" She plucks at the scales her holds in front of her neck, holding them up in front of her at different positions, turning her shoulders to get this angle or that. "I hope you accept lap dances and dollar bills. Because that's about all I got. Unless you take payment in weed? I have that, too. Not a lot. But some."

The seaweed has her reaching to touch it with a nod at her reflection. "Oh, yeah, Nicole. I need to see her anyway. That's a good idea! I wonder how much she charges for aquatic extensions and aquamarine highlights. Probably not the kind of the thing she gets asked for very often." A beat. "Or I might be really, really surprised at how exciting a haircare professional's life is. Ah! Another good example of art!"

The teeth are taken, held up dubiously for examination, made to chomp-chomp. She thinks about asking if they've been washed, before deciding worse things have been in her mouth, like Taco Bell. They're placed in so she can give her reflection a big, winning smile. It makes her laugh, which looks just strange and unsettling with a mouth full of fake, sharp teeth.

She takes the teeth out, turning away slightly to rub them dry on her sweater, as if her spit were a dirty thing not meant for male eyes. Then she turns back to cup one side of Dylan's face, leaning over to plant a warm, moist smooch on his opposite cheek. "Thanks, Rink. This was too much." Not that she's showing any indication of remorse at accepting the gift. "If you ever need ANYTHING, I'm there, okay?"

The mask is lifted up and taken off, and she gently pulls the fake seaweed out of her hair as she moves back towards the sofa. "I can put together an outfit to match. That part, at least, I'm competent in! Hey, speaking of things that are too much..." The dancer manages to have the grace to adopt a look of contrition. "How's Mae? You know, things between you two. I didn't get to talk to her supermuch last night, but she said she wasn't going back to her hours that night, so I can't imagine things are TOO rough after I donkey punched my way into Not My Business."

"Concept art!" He explains, brow furrowing as he wants to produce more words, but can't. At least not until several moments have elapsed. "Movies. Settings." A whistful sigh comes from him at that, clearly knowing it is all a pipe dream, especially with his Issues.

When she says Nicole does art? This gets his head bobbing up and down with enthusiasm, clearly a fan. "Hair Fairy!" He offers up in a cheerful chime of positivity, and then his head swivels to peer into the mirror when she gives that smile. His laughter comes along with her own, delighted. "Uhm. Lap..." His eyes blink again, giving her a peer over either in consideration, to see if she is serious, or wondering if it's some sort of secret Wiccan Strip Dancer Code that just sounds alluring.

"No payment." He concludes, and then freezes when that smooch to his cheek comes. His features scrunch up, watching her carefully, weighing back and fourth in his mind if he wants to admit to what he finally says. "You're friend." And that is that, as far as the man is concerned. "Was fun!"

When she mentions Mae, a hand lifts, a single finger waggling back and fourth before it comes out to tap Cameron right on the tip of her nose. "Talk her." He states with a pointed look, that he isn't an inbetween in it all. But there is a reassurance given, a flash of a smile, "All good." He promises on that particular front.

"I'm totally your friend." Cameron confirms, waggling her eyebrows a couple times with a sly grin as she retakes her seat on the sofa. "Whether you like it or not. I get attached to people and they can never escape me. I'm like... a land barnacle. That is what I am. ...Does this come off, or do I need some special... thing?" She tugs at the scale patch adhered to her face. "Sweat won't make it fall off, right?"

While she works on removing the last piece of costume without damaging it or her face, the Wiccan looks up. "I'm glad. It shouldn't have been necessary for you guys to have to talk. I have this... ish. I can't see something wrong and not want to fix it. I just scream 'Witch's Oath', but that's not even really true. I mean, it is, but swearing that oath before the Moon was a means to an end. I guess I just want people to like me. I like you. I like Mae. I just... I'm that old lady that's in everyone's business."

"So there's gonna be payment!" The would-be sorceress declares, folding her hands between her thighs and jamming them there. "Just in the form of return favors. You know. When you need them. Like if you go missing, I'll come find you. Or I'll heal your arm again. You know..." Eyes narrow speculatively. "...you never told me how you got hurt in the first place."

A hand comes out from its temporary protective housing between her legs as she pats the sofa, and then points at the chair. "Take a seat. ...Or was there more? Have you ever, like, given serious thought to the movie thing? I think that'd be great. But how do you get into something like that? That seems like the kind of thing you have to know people for."

"Land barnacle." He watches as she tugs, and it cracks the foundation. It stretches just a bit, but it will peel away without anything more than a tug to the skin, though it does leave behind a sticky residue. "Makeup cleanser." His head shakes about sweat, confirming that a bit of water alone won't be enough to have it come peeling off. She's all good on that front, at least!

"Needn't fix," He offers up with a soft smile, one that speaks volumes to understanding of what might well be an obsession when it comes to her and fixing things, similar to him and his sketching, at times. "to like." It's spoken like a solemn promise. It's when she speaks of favors that his brow knits together, and once more his head shakes, but this time in denial of them. "Friends." Like that should answer everything! "Favors strangers." Yeah, let her make sense out of that!

It's when she asks how he gets hurt that a warm bit of laughter comes from him, a puff of air given out. "Bad seafood." Really bad, by how that tone speaks it, a small shiver coursing through him. Down to the couch he comes with a plop once invited, confirming there is nothing more, but his foot does tap the bags. "Supplies." More scale patches. More seaweed. All for her mermaidy enjoyment. It's that question, the crux of the problem, that has his shoulders lifting up into a hapless shrug. "Yeah. People."

"Friends favor strangers. Right." Cameron nods as if she understands, but the way her slightly-narrowed eyes flicker away as she keeps up that small, steady nod says that she has no damned clue how to interpret that part, or that she even understood it was supposed to be two separate declarations. "Yeah, I- I feel you. Totally. That's deep." Maybe she thinks it's from a poem.

"Bad seafood. Okay." There's still that uncomprehending flick of the eyes to the side, as if she's searching for a cue card over by the door marked 'Studio' that might tell her how to decipher that word-clue she was given. "That... makes no sense. But I'll give that one to you. I guess some things should remain a mystery, or it will drain, just, ALL the romance out of our relationship."

Cameron slaps her hands together once Dylan indicates the bags, popping up from the couch. "Oh, right! Shit. Probably shouldn't just leave that all over the floor like I do everything else." The dancer steps around the coffee table on long legs, before folding herself downwards into a crouch. She reaches for the mask, carefully tucking it back where it belongs, the faux-seaweed, scale patches, and adhesive going next.

Once she has the plastic carriers in hand, with a little grunt, the Wiccan stripper rises up again, taking the one small step required to reach the door with the sign on it, turning the knob with two fingers and hip-bumping it open. She stands just inside the frame, setting the bags down on a horizontal surface, before reaching for the door to pull it closed again.

"Eh, people. You know what, Rink?" The brunette stands there, door knob in hand, her nose wrinkled up with a scowl. "Fuck people. They think I'm crazy. They think Isolde's crazy. They think Madison's psychotic. ...Okay, fair point there, but they won't let you do movie sets. And- And you know? Just fuck anyone who can't appreciate the ones who are a little bit different from them."

"That's what I got to say about THAT." Slowly, those brown eyes track back to the male. "...I... might have some work on a kind of movie-adjacent thing for you, if you want. But... it'll be a little weird."

Dylan offers not one iota of help in trying to interpret what he meant by favors and strangers, and surely danger belongs in there somewhere too. He just offers up that pleased smile, beaming and happy, and it continues when she gets to seafood. The one sign that he might elaborate more on this? Is that he pulls over his messenger bag when she goes to drop off the bags, and starts flipping through them.

"Fuck people," He coos out in support, at least Those People that Don't Get It, "Hollywood's expensive." He also points out, a face made at the prospects of what it'd take to get by in that particular city while... you know, not being able to tell anyone in words what you do. "Oh!" Out his phone comes, his features scrunched up, and out he taps a text. Her own phone will buzz, or ding, or tweet, or make weird witch sounds, whatever she has for alerting her of a text.

"Little weird?" He looks dubious at that, not the weird part, but that it'll only be a /little/ weird given his past experiences with Cameron. Nonetheless he sounds intrigued, watching her attentively as he holds over the sketchpad.

That sketch? It depicts shrimp boats. LITERAL boats that are shrimp. On them ride an army of crabs with tri-cornered hats. The tails of those shrimp boats are like catapults, prepared to fling prawns as they ride high on the waves. It's a whole fleet of them, each boat pulled by a flounder, ready to storm the beaches of... well, who knows where. "Bad seafood."

Over by the side of the couch, the two-generations-ago iPhone *PING*s out an alert message as it receives a text. As it does so, she glances suspiciously at her guest, before Cameron leaves the door she's next to behind to saunter over and get it. She doesn't walk the way she would at the club, there's no provocative roll to her hips, just a gentle sway here in the comfort of her own house, where pajamas rule and fuck putting on pants.

Or bras.

But before she can check on the text that surely didn't come from Dylan himself, she looks at the sketchpad that is held up instead. She puts a hand on it, looking down at the drawing. "You showed me something like this before. Bad seafood." The little crustacean reavers make her smile because they look so darned cute. But eventually even a Valley Girl brain puts a few clues together and comes up with the only logical explanation (for her).

The brunette glances at the text as she slides down to sit on the coffee table facing the male. Leaning forward, setting her phone aside, Cameron taps on the book with an alarmingly engaged, almost eager face.

"Rink." The way she says the name is shockingly like that of a reproachful mother calling her child. "Have you been astral projecting into the spirit world where you fought some kind of Lovecraftian horror from the deep and not telling me? Because that is totally foul to make me think you don't know magic if you have."

"Uhhmmmm..." Comes his rolling sound of stalling as he tries to process just what she was saying. Astral projecting? Spirit world? Magic?! He watches her with a touch of suspicion at all of this, for clearly i tisn't how he sees the world, but an answer does start to come, if slowly. "On beach."

Obviously. His head wobbles back and fourth, "Didn't foul!" He never /said/ he can't do magic. To the point, he never says much at all! His features scrunch up, his eyes narrow, and it's all like watching a myriad of emotions, a whole play of thoughts pan out in front of her very eyes as he thinks through just how much he wants to tell her.

Finally, his hand lifts, giving a tap to her head. "Feel emotions." He explains, drawing a line in the air from her to him, his shoulders lifting up into a hapless shrug, "Not always." A beat o fa pause as something else occurs to him, giving her a meaningful look. "Usually accidental."

And to conclude it, down his hand comes to tap against the sketchpad. "Baaaad seafood." Yup. That's his explination for a broken arm and a concussion!

"On beach. With freaky monster shellfish. And I scare you?" Cameron places a hand over her chest with a scoff, her mout agape, AGAPE, in astonishment that she could possibly be scarier than giant crab monsters with a penchant for making people bleed. "If I didn't know what I know about this town, I'd say your life was a bad Herman Melville novel."

As the man of few words tries to find a way to explain what he wants to say in as few syllables as possible, Cameron leans back, her hands wrapped around her knee. She squints at the man in front of her. "I can kind of tell, anyway. You can just sort of... see who has it. You know what I mean? It's in the aura. Most people don't have very strong auras. But the ones that do, they really shine. It's like a multicolored bubble that floats around them and lights up everywhere they go."

"Feel emotions." She repeats, before brightening up her expression and straightening her posture. "Oh! Like Madison. You kind of like connect to people's minds... what's that called... the emotion thingie... Um... Empathic! Yes. Like a mood ring. That's what you are. A human mood ring."

"Can I level with you, Rink? If it won't freak you out?"

Cameron doesn't look at all sure she's not going to freak the poor guy out and have him running from the trailer muttering 'Baba Yaga' under his breath. He can say it, too, it's only two words! Even she's picked up on his speaking habits by now. "There's a LOT of people in this town who can do magic. I can heal, well, obviously. You saw that."

"I know some other spells we probably shouldn't get into. But... be careful, okay? People keep disappearing. Me and Mads are trying to find the lady that owned the bookstore. I think she might have gotten pulled into the Spirit World. I think it's happening more frequently, and to people like us. So watch your back for me. Okay? I don't have enough friends that I can afford to lose you."

It's a sorrowful look when she puts two and two together about those injuries, the beach, the shellfish. "Beaten up..." By prawns. A dramatic sigh comes from him, but it all brightens when she seems so offended that /she/ freaks him out. "You do!" He coos out cheerfully, as if that should be something to be proud of, and cue up one lopsided, dimple producing smile from the man.

"Drawings. /Feelings/," Maybe she saw some of those that really just seem to capture a particular emotion, and that all might make more sense now. "Talk in," Up his hand lifts as he explains, but she seems to already get it, to know. That finger taps against the side of her head, motioning to her brain. Now there is a scary thought!

"Realizing that," He murmurs about this town, and it brings those features to twist into a frown. It expresses the dismay at realizing you've been someplace all your life but didn't /really/ know it at all. "Always careful." He assures, that hand withdrawing so fingers can cross over his heart. "Bookstore lady?"

Cameron scoffs again, rolling her eyes as the male grins at her while affirming that yes, she does freak him out. To be fair, she would probably freak less people out if she stopped calling herself a practitioner of witchcraft, but COME ON! It so fits!

Instead, the brunette leans forward to poke a finger into one of those dimples. "Stop that! Put those away! I'm trying to be upset at you, put 'em- put 'em away. I will light your hair on fire with my mind and hex your junk if you don't." Would she? Would she really? Is that even a 'spell' she can cast? Who knows (without looking at her Book of Shadows over there on the bookshelf)?

"Okay. So you draw emotions and you talk... in people's heads?" The brunette pulls her hand back, scowls as her guest touches the side of her head, and then slaps Dylan on the thigh, just above his knee. "You've been able to do that this whole time? And you tried to make me think I was crazy! You're totally the worst. Person. Ever!"

She tilts her head to the side a little, pulling her frown into a grimace, then a smirk. "Okay, maybe not the worst. I mean, Lindsay Lohan's still out there somewhere. Hmm. I guess people can hide all kinds of things when they don't wear their heart on their sleeves."

"Oh, right!" Realization dawns on the dancer's face as she un-sidetracks herself back to the more pressing topic at hand. "Right, yeah. Have you been to the Memento Mori? Really cool antique place where they have all these really old books and knick-knacks? Most of it's junk, some real normie shit. But every now and then there's something really good there."

"So I hadn't been there in a while, and me and Mads went because I was going to get a book rebound and see what new things they've had. I mean it'd been like... six weeks? They had to have some new stuff by then. But we get there and it's closed. No one's there. Door's unlocked."

"We went in, lights are off, dust is just..." She sweeps a hand out, level. "...everywhere. On everything. Some other people came by while we were poking around, and totally thought we were robbing the place. But we go upstairs, and just nothing. Like nobody! Not even a dead body. What was her name... Viola? Violet! Yeah, she worked there. It's like she just up and walked out. Nobody has seen her in a while."

"So me and Mads, we did this ritual, and we got a lead. We might know who to talk to to find out more. I mean, I'm not a cop, but like... no one is investigating? Everyone seems to think maybe she just sold the place and left? But I just think... how would it feel to be missing and know that no one was looking for you?"

Dylan just stares at her for a long moment at her surmise he's the worst ever, at least behind Lindsey Lohan. Ever the optimist, he just offers up that sweet smile, that one that is sincere and honest and full of hope, and then? He leans over, planting a kiss right on top of her forehead, like that? Will just magically make everything better.

"Uhm," His eyes squint, dredging the depths of his mmeory, before he comments, "Seen it." In passing, it sounds like, but never been within, and given the fall of his features, he seems rather disappointed he hadn't ever gone in given the description she paints of the place.

"Closed... unlocked." He eyes her dubiously, as if pondering wether he should add casual breaking and entering onto Cameron's list of skills. It's the mention of all that dust that has his nose wrinkling up, and a slow, 'Huh' comes from him at how they found the place.

"Reported it?" He asks when she mentions that the cops aren't looking, and maybe they don't even know she's missing? "Any family?" His eyes crinkle up in concentration, a low 'hmmm' of thought, before his hand lifts, tapping against his chest. "Good researching." He offers up, as if that might be of some benefit at some point to the duo's escapades, should she need it.

The kiss to forehead makes Cameron stare at Dylan, her lips pursed, a little look on her face that tells him 'Well played, sir.' She reaches up to rub at the spot his lips had just been. "Sweetness won't get you out of this, my dear. A Cam remembers. Oh yes. She does. Always. Forever. Like the Originals, but with less of Daniel Gillies smoldering good looks."

For a moment, though, she goes silent, and then finally shakes her head. "Um, no. No, we didn't report it. I mean, like... not yet. We kind of... had to take a few things for the spell to work. But now we've done it, so we're totally gonna put them back! I'm not- I'm not a thief! I just want to find out what happened."

The question about Violet having family again makes Cam look away. "I don't even know her last name. How would I even find out something like that? I've never tried looking for a missing person before. Everyone else just keeps assuming she isn't missing at all. Like she just moved and left all her stuff behind. But, like, I went upstairs."

"I know there's a sign and everything that says not to, but I was worried maybe someone was hurt up there?" By the description of the dust, someone would have been long, long dead up there. But she's an optimist. "Like, all her stuff is still there. It was this tiny little studio apartment, that was badass by the way. Would totally buy the place if I had money. But... who sells a business and leaves all their personal stuff there when they go?"

"And who buys a business and doesn't open it? Like, if they were going to tear it down or renovate, wouldn't have sold and had all the stuff removed?"

The dancer looks hopeful at the idea that Dylan might be able to research something. She perks up, leaning forward. "Yeah? You'd help? That'd be awesome. Because we're just, like, flying by the seat of our panties here, and I think she got snatched. I mean, maybe not. But in this town? Definitely evil spirits."

Dylan listens to all of it, his head tipping this way and then that, soaking it all in like he would a canvas before he'd start to paint. He casts her another dubious look about having taken stuff, but it isn't judgemental, just trying to suss through intentions and truth and the potential harm that might come now that her finger prints are probably all over the place.

"Always records." He states with certainty. He didn't go to school without studying hard, cause he sure doesn't get by with charming words! "Sale. Owner." A hand lifts, a finger tapping against his chest again, and there is a reassuring smile cast her way. "I'll look."

It's only when she mentions flying by the seat of her panties that one of those brows arch upwards, and his hand lifts, a finger pointing back to That Room. "Uhm. Those panties?" Cue the batting of eyes, and then he stuffs away his sketchpad, beaming her a smile as he rises to his feet. "Classes." He explains, before offering one last problem, "Will text."