2022-08-29 - All That We See Or Seem...
In 2013, Jules Black went to college.
... right?
IC Date: 2022-08-29
OOC Date: 08/29/2021
Location: Washington State/University of Washington
Related Scenes: 2022-09-05 - ...Is But A Dream Within A Dream. 2022-09-06 - ... And Dreams? The Dreams Are Fucked.
Plot: None
Scene Number: 20
"J? J— you don't mind if I call you J, right?— are you okay? You were talking in your sleep? Do you do that a lot? Is it a thing? That's going to be kind of weird if it's a thing?"
This is not Jules' room on Oak Avenue. It's not Mikaere's boat, either, or any other room Jules might anticipate waking up in. And there's a perky-looking blonde, in tiny pyjamas shorts and a tank, peering at her from a seated position on the bed opposite.
It's a dorm room: two single beds, two desks, some shelves, a mini-fridge.
The other girl— and she's definitely only a girl, maybe seventeen or eighteen— peers at Jules, frowning.
J — Jules — wakes up disoriented, startling out of sleep and turning to face the sound of the voice as she sits up. The bed’s narrower than she’s used to, too, and while she doesn’t exactly sleep on a luxury mattress, it’s certainly better than the one the university has provided.
“Uh,” she says, stupidly.
A few seconds later, she gets her bearings and stills the first few questions that would come out of her mouth: Where am I? Who are you? What’s going on?
Instead, she asks, “What was I saying?”
The other girl makes an exaggerated show of patience, running her fingers through her hair before tossing it over her shoulder. "God, I don't know. It was really weird. It must've been an intense dream, if that's what it was. I didn't really understand most of it, but at the end you kept going on about some names, and then it was like you thought you had a super hot boyfriend, and I know you don't because you told me so yourself yesterday when we met, unless you were lying?"
She pulls herself off of of the bed, and adds, "You should stop talking to yourself, though. People might think you're crazy. I'm going to go shower, see ya!"
“See ya.”
Jules bites back the other half of her response — don’t let the water scald you — as she watches this unknown girl leave the room. Only then does she haul herself out of bed, looking down to see what she’s wearing. “Of course you’d stick me with a skinny little white girl,” she mutters, taking a few steps to orient herself in front of the mirror on the wall. Jules wants to get a look at herself.
Jules looks... different. Younger. She's definitely only seventeen or eighteen herself... and there's something else, too.
The power that is usually lurking there, just beneath the surface, isn't.
Bits and pieces of memory come back: the other girl is Amanda Bishop. It's freshman year at UW.
And this is her life.
<FS3> Dream On~ (a NPC) rolls 4 (8 8 7 6 4 3) vs I See Through You Veil (a NPC)'s 4 (8 8 8 6 3 3)
<FS3> DRAW!
Jules, this younger Jules, scowls at herself in the mirror. Something’s off that she can’t quite put her finger on, and it isn’t just how mussed up her hair is. Or the ill-advised haircut she got just before coming to Seattle. It’s too short, shoulder length with layers that are too obvious, and she tries to comb it into better order with her fingers.
“Okay. Shower,” Jules tells herself, talking aloud in private just like her roommate warned her not to. “I can do this.”
The showering, the adjustments to campus life, the getting over said super-hot boyfriend, the figuring out what the hell to do next, all of it. Something’s off, but it might just be how self-conscious she is navigating this new life.
Of course she can do it. She got into college, didn't she? She made all the decisions. She's standing on her own two feet and she's going to be— fine.
The giggles in the showers abruptly stop when she enters, though, and a few girls give her appraising, wary glances.
And the soap... is it just slippery or did it really fly right out of her hand?
<FS3> Jules rolls Composure: Good Success (8 6 6 5 4)
<FS3> Jules rolls Alertness: Success (7 5 4 1 1)
With her shower caddy in hand and a towel thrown over her shoulder, Jules makes her way to the shared bathroom. She’s too self-conscious not to notice the reaction to her presence—and the laughter preceding her entry.
It’s going to be like that.
It’s not an auspicious start. Chin lifted, she flashes a smile at the girls gathered there as if there’s nothing out of the ordinary and steps into one of the shower stalls to undress. She’s naked when the soap skitters out of her hand and annoyed enough to mutter, “Goddammit,” as it disappears under the partitions and out of reach.
Lifting her voice, Jules asks the bathroom at large, “Can someone pass that under the door to me?”
The silence that immediately follows Jules' request is perhaps telling; and it's made more so by the giggle that follows it, loud and then muffled as if by a hand lifted over a mouth.
"I bet she's never even used soap before," comes the murmur of one of the girls, followed by a chorus of titters.
"That's mean— you know that's not true, Jenna. Just shut up."
"Make me."
On the plus side, the slap of hand on skin that follows does not involve Jules, safe in her shower stall.
On the downside...
<FS3> Jules rolls Composure-2: Success (7 2 1)
It's humiliating. Jules' face burns under the hot water of the shower. She bites her lip to force back the tears that spring to her eyes and steps out from under the spray, grabbing her towel and wrapping it around herself.
The door unlocks and out she steps.
"Say that to my face." Somehow, the eighteen year-old manages to keep a level tone.
Outside, two of the women— both white, both tall and slim and pretty— are facing off against each other. They're both dressed, with damp hair that suggests they've finished their showers and are on the way out, except for the way they've been waylaid by this stand-off. One of them has the imprint of a hand on her cheek; the other has both hands raised, as if she's about to launch herself into battle.
Except there's Jules, and that makes both of them turn.
"Going to put a curse on us?" taunts the one with the handprint. "A scary evil Indian curse? Did we build a university on your burial grounds?"
"Jenna," says the other, despairingly.
Jules musters all the scorn she can and funnels into her voice as she glowers at Jenna. "You're an ignorant racist."
And then she deliberately turns her back on the pair, hunting for the soap wherever it's skittered off to.
In some ways, overt racism is easier to deal with than microaggressions. She can immediately name it as such, and what person in supposedly woke Seattle wants to bear that label?
It doesn't make it hurt any less.
No indeed: Jenna does not like being called a racist. "Our housekeeper is from the Philippines," is, sadly, not the proof of her not-racist-ness that she's looking for— not that she waits long enough for any retort to be made, sweeping out of the room along with most of the other girls who, involved or not, would really prefer not to be tarred by the same brush.
The other girl stays where she is, hesitant, though she says nothing.
And the soap? It lurks on the damp floor, and though it was definitely brand new when it skittered out of Jules' hands, there's... is that a smiley-face carved deep into it, beaming ghoulishly up at the teen?
“Bitch,” Jules fires after Jenna, not that the other girl hears it. The fierceness is meant to make Jules feel better, somehow.
She almost recoils when she stares down at the soap she’s just picked up. Instead, she presses her lips together in anger. “They think they’re so funny,” Jules tells the girl who’s left behind.
Clearly, one of the other girls must have made the smiley face with her fingernail. Right?
Right. A fingernail. One of them must have had really long, sharp fake nails or something. Right? Right.
"They think this is their first and best chance to be the queen bee of Haggett Hall," says the other girl, approaching, her hands jammed into the pockets of her jeans, as far as they can squeeze in. "And you're an easy target. So am I— they just haven't worked that out yet. I'm Liz. You okay?"
“I’m fine,” Jules says more confidently than she likely feels, gripping the soap so the grotesque little face is obscured. “I’m Jules.”
Liz may already know that—chances are that her name has already gone around with her ethnicity—but Jules introduces herself in kind nonetheless. “Oh yeah?” Jules doesn’t inquire directly into what Liz means. Instead, she follows up with, “Aren’t they supposed to grow out of that mean girls shit by the time they get to college?”
"Some of them never do, from what I understand," says Liz, with a wry little laugh. "But I'm faithfully promised things settle down after the first week or two, when everyone realises this isn't high school, and the old bullshit doesn't matter. I hope so. Here— your soap."
Flat in her palm is, indeed, a bar of soap. Jules' soap.
Her hand grips... nothing. The soap with the smiley face is gone, as if it was never there. Her hand's not dry, exactly, but it also isn't soapy either.
<FS3> Jules rolls Composure-2: Failure (5 4 3)
Jules’ eyes go wide. “Thanks,” she manages to get out before dashing back into the safety of the shower stall.
That’s where she can have her little breakdown, out of Liz’s sight. Jules leans against the partition wall, starting to shake, and opens her clenched hand to stare at the innocuous bar of soap. “What the fuck.” Tendrils of fear curl through her whisper. The shower is still on. Maybe no one will hear.
<FS3> Liz Can Hear, And Now She Thinks Jules Is A Weirdo (a NPC) rolls 4 (8 8 7 5 3 1) vs Liz Can Hear, And She's Concerned (a NPC)'s 4 (8 8 4 3 1 1)
<FS3> Marginal Victory for Liz Can Hear, And Now She Thinks Jules Is A Weirdo.
Sadly, Liz hasn't moved: she stares after Jules, and keeps staring, too. Her hearing must be good— or maybe she's deliberately straining to hear, because let's face it, Jules is acting a bit weird, isn't she?— because her expression shifts again.
"Weirdo," she mutters, as she turns, now, to head out the door, leaving Jules alone.
(Where did Amanda go? Maybe she decided not to shower and just left with the others. Who knows.)
That’s it. The judgment of Jules’ brief ally is the straw that broke the camel’s back, and as the other girl leaves the bathroom, Jules bursts into tears. She struggles to keep them silent, absorbed by the noise of the shower, and curls into herself with her arms wrapping around her torso protectively.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Harsh little words, spit out beneath her breath.
"Well that's not going to help anything, is it?"
Where's the voice coming from? There's no one else in the bathroom... right?
Jules immediately shuts up, eyes wide and frightened.
“Who is that?” she demands, trying to sound demanding, too, and not scared. Not weak.
"I think you know. I think you've always known."
That’s it. Shower’s over. Jules reaches out and shuts off the water, drops the soap into her caddy, picks it up, and slams out of the stall.
“Leave me the fuck alone!” she screams, all but running out the door.
As if her dorm room will prove any safer.
The voice listens— at least, it doesn't add anything else. Maybe it thinks that's quite enough for one morning?
Jules is right, of course, that the dorm room is no safer. On one hand, it is quiet when she steps back in, no voices (or roommates) on hand to disturb her equilibrium (such as it is).
On the other... Jules' bed is just where she left it. Her things.
The other bed, however, is unmade: just a bare mattress. Amanda's posters, her belongings, her shiny laptop that was sitting on the desk... it's all gone.
Indeed, there's no indication that there was ever anyone else in this room at all.
And on her desk? A candle burns.
Jules throws down her caddy with sudden fury as she steps into her transformed room. The items scatter across the carpeted floor. Her towel drops, too, leaving Jules standing naked with her hands balled into fists.
“I am not my mother,” she snarls, focusing on the candle (which certainly is restricted by dorm policy—open flames, bad!). “Leave me alone.”
Of course, if Jules is hearing voices and seeing things that aren’t there, she’s exactly like her mother.
Somewhere deep within herself, Jules feels a surge of power— and the candle's flame bursts into life, far brighter and bigger than it should be possible to be given the slender wick in question.
Smoke begins to rise towards the ceiling... and the fire alarm begins to scream.
That strange surge startles her—or is it the alarm? The immediate miniature crisis takes precedence.
“For fuck’s sake,” Jules swears yet again as s she swipes the towel off the ground. A few quick steps take her to the desk, where she throws the towel over the candle with the intention of smothering it.
For a moment, the flame resists the smothering, as if some other force is providing it the oxygen it needs to keep going— and then it dies, leaving a towel that smells of damp smoke and ash. The alarm continues to scream, however, and a moment later there's a banging on the door.
"Jules? JULES?"
It sounds like Liz, from before.
Jules lets out a gusty sigh of relief as the flame goes out. At least there’s that. Her head whips around as the fist pummels her door.
“One sec, I’m totally naked!” she yells to the person outside. “Everything’s fine! False alarm!”
First step: getting clothes on as fast as possible. Underwear, jeans, and a tank top go on, and she grabs a purple UW sweatshirt for good measure, especially since she hasn’t taken the extra time to put on a bra.
"I promise," says the voice on the other side of the door, laughingly. "You've got nothing I haven't seen before. But— ok."
Happy news for everyone: the alarm is not the kind that keeps going until you turn it off (or worse, requires a visit from the fire department). Jules is halfway through dressing when it quiets itself, apparently now satisfied that no, there really is no fire, everything's fine.
Still. Still. Jules has had enough vulnerability for one day, thanks very much.
Another sigh materializes as the alarm shuts off. “Thank fuck,” she mutters before moving to open the door. “Sorry about that.”
"No harm done, right?" says Liz— and it is Liz, now with some dark eyeliner to accentuate her blue eyes, though she's otherwise gone for casual over the 'let's dress like we're going to a club' mode some of the freshmen have inevitably gone for— at the doorway, grinning crookedly at Jules. "I mean, presumably you haven't burn down the building... not that that wouldn't be a fun way to start the year, right?"
She gives Jules an appraising look, faintly apologetic, and then adds: "I just wanted to check in. And I heard your roommate didn't show, so... come have breakfast with me? I think I remember how to get there."
Jules is already off-kilter, and the invitation just seems to startle her more. “Um, yeah,” she agrees after a hesitation, blinking at Liz. “That sounds good,” she adds, warmer, making an effort to be, well, less weird.
“Just give me a minute? I need to put on a bra.” She doesn’t particularly mind if Liz remains in the room while she turns back to her drawers; her back stays turned, and like most young women, she’s mastered the art of slipping on a bra without fully exposing herself.
“Ready,” Jules announces with one last glance at the dorm room, the desk with the candle and the towel. It’s true—she’s quite ready to get out this room.
"Great," says Liz, and her smile seems genuine enough: as if she genuinely wants to get breakfast with Jules, and isn't just asking out of some misguided pity. She turns her body towards the corridor as the other woman gets her bra on, though, lazily unravelling the already-unravelled patch on her jeans.
Once Jules is ready to go, she straightens, gesturing dramatically towards the corridor and the stairs beyond. "You're so lucky," she says. "Getting a double to yourself. I mean, maybe they'll assign someone later, but— I've never had to share a room before, and it's beyond weird, you know? Have you thought about your major? What classes are you taking?"
It's a perfectly normal college experience. Everything is fine.
Jules is all too eager to leave this room behind, to fall into normal conversation and push all the disturbances of this morning to the wayside.
Maybe it was just—what? A dream? But no, it can’t be readily dismissed. It’ll be there to haunt her thoughts just as soon as her focus drops.
“I thought I was getting a roommate, this girl Amanda, but I guess she withdrew or something,” Jules says as she steps out of her room and locks it behind her. “I’m thinking biology, so I’m taking Bio 101 and Chem 101 to get those requirements out of the way, still deciding on the rest. What about you?”
"Comparative history of ideas," says Liz, promptly. "That's the plan, anyway. UW has some pretty amazing coursework in this area, and— look, it's probably hopelessly impractical, but that's what college is all about, right? Engaging with ideas. Seeing the world through new eyes. I bet you and I see the world both the same and completely differently, you know? And that's exciting."
Liz leads the way down the corridor, down the stairs, and out into the greyish morning light. "Why biology?"
“Is that like…philosophy?” Jules ventures, nodding as Liz explains but looking a little uncertain, like she doesn’t completely follow.
She’s glad to have the light sweatshirt in and amidst the fog. It’ll burn off, but for now, there’s a bit of a chill. “I want to work with wildlife preservation,” Jules answers as they step outside. “Salmon preservation, to be specific. Bio’s probably the best path for that, I think.” She falls squarely on the practical side.
"Partly. And comparative literature, and history, and cultures, and— just, I guess, engaging with ideas and evaluating them critically. Why do we do things the way we do? I really want to understand the world better, and then... I mean, if we're being bright-eyed optimists, make it a better place. More inclusive; more accepting of difference."
Her nod's thoughtful as Jules explains her intentions, lips twitching upwards into a smile. "That's awesome," she says. "Salmon... okay, look. I don't know which tribe you're from, and there's a lot I don't know in general— excuse my ignorance, I am trying— but salmon's important to a lot of the tribes, yes?"
Up ahead, as they walk down the path towards the dining hall, a woman in a 1950s-era dress barrels towards them: a direct hit, if she doesn't move out of the way.
<FS3> Stand Your Ground (a NPC) rolls 4 (8 5 3 2 2 1) vs Move It Move It (a NPC)'s 4 (8 8 6 5 1 1)
<FS3> Victory for Move It Move It.
“That sounds cool.” She means it (as far-fetched as pursuing something without direct career implications seems to her), and more than that, she wants to mean it, wants to find like-minded people to make friends with.
“Yeah. It’s not just the indigenous people though—it’s a huge economy here in Washington, and if something isn’t done soon, by which I mean like ten years ago, there won’t be any more wild salmon.” Jules starts to explain, warming to her subject, when she sees the woman coming towards them. Jules hesitates, a split-second assessment of whether 50s-girl is going to veer, and then breaks to one side to let her by.
Liz nods, first pleased with Jules' assessment of her planned major and then more thoughtful as she considers the plight of the salmon— likely something she's never given any consideration before, wherever she's from (her accent's not distinctive enough to make it immediately obvious).
The slightly perplexed expression on her face that follows as Jules veers, however, is rather more obvious: she frowns.
"Jules?"
Subtext: what the fuck are you doing?
<FS3> Cover Up (a NPC) rolls 4 (8 4 4 3 2 1) vs Confusion (a NPC)'s 4 (7 6 6 4 2 1)
<FS3> Victory for Confusion.
“Getting out of the way.”
Her own tone falls somewhere between obviously and what do you mean?
The woman is still there, right?
Sure, the woman's still there: barrelling onwards without sparing Jules a glance let alone a thank-you-so-much. She's clearly a woman on a mission.
But Liz, who dutifully turns her head to try and look around and see... well, something, seems genuinely bewildered.
"Of... what?"
<FS3> Jules rolls Alertness-1: Success (7 2 1 1)
“Of—“ There’s been so much weirdness today. Jules’ brain catches up with her, even as she swings her head around to stare at the woman who’s just gone past. “Nevermind,” she finishes lamely.
After a few more seconds, ducking her chin, Jules comes up with some sort of excuse. “Sun in my eyes.”
<FS3> Liz Believes That, Sure (a NPC) rolls 5 (6 6 6 2 2 1 1) vs Liz Isn't Convinced, But Sure (a NPC)'s 5 (7 7 7 5 3 3 2)
<FS3> DRAW!
Liz gives Jules a searching glance, visibly caught between belief and disbelief, one hand on her hip as, head tilted, she considers the situation.
"Okay," she says, then, shrugging her shoulders. "Sun's a bitch sometimes. Come on— it's just around this corner isn't it, right? And that'll take us out of the line of the sun, all the better. I'm desperate for some coffee."
A couple rapid blinks and a quick shake of her head come next, like Jules is trying to come to.
“Yeah. I don’t think I slept very well,” she says in return, piling one excuse on top of another as she hastens towards the dining hall. “Here’s hoping coffee and a decent breakfast will help me get my head on straight. Sorry. I feel kinda spaced out this morning. It’s probably sleeping in a new place, all the changes, stress—who knows. Maybe my carpet’s off-gassing,” she tries to joke, though none of the dorm carpeting looks like it’s been replaced in the last ten years.
Liz's expression turns sympathetic, aside from a twitch of a smile for that joke. "Yeah," she says. "It's such a huge transition, isn't it? Enough to fuck with anyone's brain. I hear a bunch of freshmen crack up every year, just can't cope. So much freedom, so much... well, change, I guess. So we're going to have to stick together, make sure we've got each others' backs, so that doesn't happen to us, right?"
The dining hall looms in front of them, and Liz leads them forward, joining the throng of strangers with similar plans for coffee and breakfast and maybe some new friends to start this first day of a whole new life.
Ahead, there's a short, plump girl with red hair who looks, to Jules, very faintly familiar... but from where?
<FS3> Una? (a NPC) rolls 4 (8 8 7 3 3 2) vs Who The Hell Knows (a NPC)'s 4 (8 7 7 3 3 1)
<FS3> DRAW!
“Yeah,” Jules agrees, sounding relieved. It’s not just her. It can’t be just her. “It’s a lot, isn’t it?”
She grabs her tray and slips into the line behind Liz. The redhead draws her attention, and soon enough, Jules is squinting at her and trying to place her with a frown. “Is she on our floor?” Jules wonders, indicating the object of her attention with a nod.
"A lot," agrees Liz, placid despite the emphasis she places on the word. She turns, trying to follow Jules' line of sight towards the unfamiliar redhead; she shakes her head. "I don't think so. But maybe I just haven't met her yet. We can introduce ourselves, if you like?"
A weird recollection pops into Jules' head: she's arguing with the redhead in an unfamiliar kitchen. "I still don't know what you're talking about," the redhead says. "I barely know what anyone is talking about. You left me completely in the dark, Jules. You put the emotional labour on Della to make sure I knew even anything at all, and then you put it on Ravn, too, to explain, since he assumed I already knew."
"N...no." Jules stutters over the word before shaking her head. She's gone a little pale beneath the summer tan on her already bronzed skin. "That's okay. I don't want to be that weird creeper who just pops up randomly to be like, 'you look familiar!'. I probably just saw her at move in. We'll all probably end up meeting soon enough."
She is not about to tell Liz that she's having flashbacks of that redhead in another time and place, one which she can't remember.
Liz's expression is very sympathetic, really, and she allows that particular topic to fall easily enough. It helps that the line is moving quickly enough, and they need to work through the process of obtaining their food, eventually ending up with a handful of empty spots at the end of a long table.
There's something familiar about the tall, brown-complexioned man sitting next to Jules, too, though he's older: too old to be an undergraduate, but perhaps he's a PhD student, though most of them don't live in the dorms, do they?
(Tattoos. Curving lines tracing over his ass... what, wait? Where did that come from?)
"There's a party tonight at Chi Psi— do you want to come, Jules? It could be fun." Liz lifts her eyebrows across the table, eagerly.
<FS3> Jules rolls Stealth: Success (6 5 4 1 1)
Maybe Jules is just eying the man next to her because she thinks he’s cute. She tries to be surreptitious about it, though that doesn’t quite explain the spots of color rising in her cheeks.
“That sounds fun,” Jules answers Liz, trying to turn her attention to the first year student across from her and stop stealing these little sideways glances at the older man. “Count me in. Are you going to do Rush for any of the sororities?”
"Yeah, well," says the familiar-unfamiliar man, in an accent that is equally familiar and unfamiliar. "We have to stop Haggleford before it's too late. He's got no idea."
The knock-off airpods he's wearing, and presumably speaking into, have no place at all in 2013, and ought to be equally unfamiliar... but they're not. It's off, everything's off, and there are more and more things lurking around the edges of Jules' consciousness that all say one thing: you don't belong here.
Or worse: the world isn't real.
Liz doesn't seem to have noticed. "Great! I'm told they do good parties. We'll see, right? My mom pledged to Alpha Chi Omega, so... but I don't know. I'm not sure how I feel about the whole sorority thing. Is it just kind of fake?"
Jules is utterly failing at paying the man next to her no mind. Another sidelong glance as she takes a bite of her omelet. She’s a beat slow in answering Liz. “Yeah, I don’t know. I guess the community can be nice? I don’t really know what they’re like, outside of the movies.”
She steels herself with a sip of milky coffee, and then, with a deep breath, turns to address this man she does and doesn’t know (and whose ass she can visualize all too clearly). “Excuse me,” Jules says. “What was that you said?”
"Mom still talks about her sisters," allows Liz, looking thoughtful. Further musing on this subject will have to wait, though, because she's giving Jules a quizzical glance as her new friend turns to address the stranger alongside them.
The unfamiliar man— and that's weird, he's just wearing normal wired earbuds— blinks when he's addressed, and he, too, gives Jules a long glance.
"One moment, Alan. Sorry? Are you familiar with Professor Haggerty?"
Haggerty. Not Haggleford.
“Sorry.” He’s too old for her. Jules looks so young in this instance, fumbling for an answer and a way out, suddenly just an embarrassed teenager. “I thought you were talking to me. I heard wrong. Sorry to interrupt.”
She deliberately turns back to her omelet and her conversation with Liz. “I might go to a couple events just to get a sense of what they’re like, but I don’t really think I want to rush. Not now, anyway. It kinda feels like a popularity contest.”
"Freshmen," says the man, turning away again— maybe to his phone buddy, but who knows.
Liz gives Jules a sympathetic glance, though there's wariness to it now, too. "Yeah," she agrees. "More high school drama, too, probably. Are you..." But she stops, shaking her head.
(A little voice in Jules' ear murmurs, then: She thinks you're cracking up, you know. Who can blame her? Dodging people who aren't there, getting freaked out by soap, bursting in other people's conversations... She's not wrong. Are you even sure who you are anymore? Did you come to college now... or did you stick with Joe? Until you found out about his cheating, having wasted your twenties? Can you open doors into other worlds... or are you just hearing voices, just like your mom?)
<FS3> Jules rolls Composure-4: Success (6 )
For some reason, Jules looks devastated by the man’s remark—surely more than she should be. But then, these first few days of college are an emotional storm, with all the jitters, excitement, and self-consciousness of beginning an unknown life stage. Still, she’s biting her lip like she’s trying not to cry, visibly struggling to hold herself together. It’s a near thing, but she takes a deep breath and another sip of coffee.
“Am I what?” she manages to reply to Liz while steadfastly ignoring the man next to her.
"Okay," says Liz, which could just as easily be a general response— or a conclusion to her abortive sentence.
"You're acting weird. Again. And I'm not judging, and obviously, it's all overwhelming, but... is everything okay? Was everything okay at home before you came? Are you homesick?" Beat. "Can I do something? We could spend some time getting your room all decorated properly, make it feel like your room at home?"
Her room at 5 Oak. Her room at her grandparents' place, now taken over by Alex. Which is it? Both. Neither.
Jules sets down her fork and presses the heel of her hand against one of her eyes, trying to maintain her composure as Liz asks questions. “I broke up with my boyfriend to come here,” she answers quietly, though she doesn’t sound entirely sure of herself as she replies. Did she? “And now I’m wondering if maybe he was right, maybe this was all a big mistake. The girls this morning didn’t help. And my mom—“
Jules doesn’t finish that line of thought, though, drawing in a big breath instead. “Thanks,” she says, lowering her hand and giving Liz a tremulous smile. “Maybe tomorrow? I think I’m gonna go for a walk, try to clear my head. We’ll catch up later, get ready for the party?”
Something in Liz' expression eases when Jules mentions the boyfriend, no matter how uncertainly: it's a good excuse. "Oh Jules," she murmurs, reaching out to try and grab for that hand and squeeze it. "He's wrong. He's so incredibly wrong. You belong here. This is exactly where you're supposed to be. It's real, you're here, and you're going to be amazing. It's the best possible outcome."
Outcome? Timeline? World?
"Go, go. Clear your head. I'll come find you tonight and we'll work out what to wear— got to make sure you forget that dope and meet some crazy hot college boy, right?" Her smile is warm and winning and absolutely sure.
It helps. It’s grounding, a convincing reassurance that she’s not crazy, that this is real, that this truly is Jules’ life. “Thanks,” she tells Liz once again, squeezing back. (How could this be false, when the other girl’s hand is so warm and solid?) “Seriously. I don’t want to be a mess—I really do want to be here. Really.”
Really.
Jules disengages, picking up her tray of half-eaten food. “Okay. I’m going to go walk down to the lake. I’ll see you later.”
Of course this is real. How could it be anything but?
Liz gives Jules a mock salute in farewell, then turns her attention back to her own food her concern— at least temporarily— ameliorated.
It's a pity the remains of Jules' omelette are less sanguine. If she glances down, she'll see it: the way the pieces shift and move on the plate without her (or is it without her?), forming into a ghoulish smiley face similar to the one in the soap from earlier.)
“Fuck.” Jules sees the movement out of the corner of her eye as she heads for the dish return. She violently dumps her plate of unfinished food into the food waste receptacle (that’ll teach it) and disposes of her tray, then quickly heads for the nearest exit.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Jules breaks into a jog, despite the fact that jeans are hardly running clothes. “What the fuck.” She’s muttering it under her breath, trying not to draw attention (though really, students running around campus cursing is hardly newsworthy), but with a vicious and panicky undertone. She only vaguely knows the way to the lake, but the campus is well-signed, including those for the boathouse and botanical gardens. All Jules wants is some privacy.
There's a group of boisterous men wandering off in the direction of the boathouse, but the path towards the arboretum is relatively clear: it may be the better choice for today, with all those meandering paths to get lost along.
Maybe that's where her brain wants her to go— better her brain than some other force, right?— because along the edges of the path, the daisies cut back by scrupulous lawn-mowing have started popping into bloom leading her onwards. One by one: pop, pop, pop.
And every sense is awake in her, somehow. The sun is warmer; the air crackles with power. It's like she's just come to life... and nothing will ever be the same. It's all too bright, too intense, too real.
(Or not-real.)
Jules slows to a walk as she enters the arboretum, following the daisies.
“I don’t understand,” she whispers, not above talking aloud to whatever it is that’s been tormenting her all morning. It doesn’t feel so much like torment now, though. It feels like being high, except with this one tainted by paranoia and the feeling of spiraling out of control. Her fists clench at her sides until she deliberately relaxes them and reaches down to touch the silky petals of one of the flowers opening before her.
Is this what going mad feels like?
The petals blossom even further beneath Jules' fingers, and the thrum of power passing between hand and flower is unmistakable.
Too much power, maybe: a moment later, the plant dies in her hand, withering to nothing.
Did she do that?
Is this real?
Is this what it felt like for your mom?
It's just a whisper.
Jules stares at the withered flower with incomprehension, unable to withdraw her hand for several long seconds as she crouches there on the path.
“I’m not her.”
Jules’ own whisper rises from her lips. “She’s schizophrenic. She sees things that aren’t there. I’m normal. Please let me be normal.” Tears make tracks down the side of her nose by the end, as she makes her plea to whatever powers are out there, unnamed.
It's been a morning of normal things, hasn't it? All those things that are really, truly there. Right?
It's another of those intrusive thoughts that doesn't even sound like it comes from within Jules' head. Out of the corner of her eye, there's a flicker of movement— a butterfly wing?
I could make it all go away. That's what you want, isn't it?
<FS3> Wise Up, Jules (a NPC) rolls 4 (7 6 5 3 3 1) vs Still Seventeen And Making Bad Choices (a NPC)'s 4 (6 4 4 2 1 1)
<FS3> Marginal Victory for Wise Up, Jules.
<FS3> Jules rolls Spirit: Good Success (8 7 6 5 4 3)
“Yes,” Jules breathes, though there’s a tremor of uncertainty rippling through her.
Don’t make deals with things you can’t see. With beings out of legend.
The voice of caution sounds like her grandmother’s.
She hesitates.
She pulls back her hand.
“You don’t decide for me,” Jules suddenly snarls. This time, when her fist clenches, she grabs at that power she can’t see, but which she knows thrums through her on some deep level.
In a flash, all the daisies shrivel to dust. They’re out of season, anyway.
If anything, the unknown force is pleased with this turn of events. It laughs.
Good, it says. Good. Decide for yourself, then. You're stronger than your mom. But are you strong enough, Jules Black?
There's a long pause.
Or are you just deluding yourself? Sane people don't think they control plants.
<FS3> Jules rolls Spirit: Success (8 5 2 1 1 1)
“Strong enough for what?”
Jules is suddenly, wildly angry. It’s not just the daisies that receive her attention. The perfect lawn pisses her off. Forests aren’t meant to be tamed. It can go to hell—hell for gardeners, that is, as wild grasses push through and upset the manicured green space.
“For what?”
To hold on to your sanity. To fight back the darkness. To live. So many things.
And another little voice, too: you could just burn it all.
And: tear it all apart. Burn it, tear it, open wide the doors.
It’s so tempting. The rage burns through her, fire in her veins.
“Who are you?” Jules asks instead. “Is that what you want me to do? For all I know, you’re a fucking liar.”
She straightens, trying to decide which direction to face, to locate the inchoate voices.
“You’re not the boss of me. You can’t scare me like you scare mom. You can’t make me run away.”
I'm the voice in your head.
It laughs again, this bodiless voice.
Only crazy people have voices in their heads.
“Well then fuck you.” Jules has nothing nice to say, it seems. Determined, she starts down the path again. She’s going to walk through the whole of the arboretum if it kills her.
It laughs again, that voice. It laughs, and laughs, and laughs.
Only crazy people have voices in their heads, it repeats, right as—
—Jules wakes up again, safe in her own bed.
... the laughter ringing in her ears is just an echo, right?
<FS3> Real? (a NPC) rolls 4 (8 7 5 3 1 1) vs Real. (a NPC)'s 4 (8 5 5 3 2 1)
<FS3> Marginal Victory for Real?.
Jules draws in a gasp of air as she sits bolt upright. It takes a moment for her eyes to focus in the dark, and when they do, she stares at the outlines of her furnishings like she’s waiting for them to shiver and fade.
There’s no going back to bed now. Only getting up, padding downstairs to make herself a cup of coffee, and trying to convince herself that her mind isn’t playing tricks on her.
This is real. Right?
It feels real, but then... so did college, right? And— at least for now— the recollections of that Jules are strongly present: the Jules who made different choices nine years ago, and went to college and met a girl named Liz.
The Jules who cracked up. Or didn't.
It leaves the world with an eerie uncertainty.
Was that a Dream?
... or is this?
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