Oh my beautiful liar...

[deepestindigo]

Despite the sub-freezing weather, there are still a few people out and about in Chicago.

There's a whore walking the streets of Chicago, but not for the reasons you'd think. A blue-haired demon who goes by Indigo Jones has spent the day shopping, and is in a pretty good mood. She's locked her bags in the trunk of her car, and now she's searching

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[allmydiredreams]

Babel has decided to tempt fate and brave the coffeeshop, because even threats of explosion, or horrible Rakshasa that shoot her in the stomach, cannot compete with the promise of a peppermint mocha, especially when these things are seasonal.

She doesn't notice Schro because of his bodybeats, mostly because she's been keeping her walls way up lately, so he was just part of the background noise. But he looks interesting, and that is more than enough reason for her to wander over, clutching her own peppermint mocha, and peer over his shoulder.

"Language of the angels," she says, giving a quick little nod as if to convey her approval. "You don't feel angelic." Well, he doesn't!

[paradoxkitten]

"And most of the angels here would argue about it being their language." Schro grins up at her. "Still magically effective, though. And Latin, while classic, doesn't always have the requisite power." No, he's not Doing Anything with what he's scribbled on the napkin, but he is working something out.

"I'm Schrödinger, by the way. And you're clever."

[allmydiredreams]

"Is it?" she asks. "I would suppose it could be." Yeah, she's talking about the language, but conversational clues are for the weak.

She flops down in the chair across from him, slurping her mocha for a moment and leaning over the table to peer at his napkin. The writing doesn't so much tell her anything, really -- she can recognize the language but doesn't know what he's doing with it, specifically -- but she wiggles anyway. "I'm Babel," she continues with a little sharp-toothed grin that would look predatory on anyone else. "And you're magic, then."

[paradoxkitten]

"Sort of magic," he says, noting the grin and just how not!predatory it is on her. Cute. Very cute. "I'm Chicago's resident necromancer." At least, if there are other necros around, he's yet to meet any of them.

Babel may be able, if she's paying attention, to notice something a bit... off... about his bodybeat. It's not that he's undead, but there's something about him that isn't quite alive, either. It has the unfortunate side effect of making animals nervous, at any rate. No word on how it affects tiny girls who feel bodybeats.

[allmydiredreams]

Babel tilts her head a bit, raising an eyebrow. "Interesting!" she says. "I didn't know Chicago had them." Her subconscious is trying to tag his bodybeat as 'necromancer', because it's certainly different, but there seems like something's different about that, even. Maybe. She never can tell, here. "Is that why your sync hesitates?" she asks, like he's going to know the answer to that.

Because that's what it's doing. It's there, but occasionally it doesn't seem like it should be, a syncopation in a sync. It's happened before, but this doesn't feel like the usual skipping. This is more on the identity level of the beats rather than the personal level.