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About Maya Flynn

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  1. That stung. Meek. Scared. Content. Maya bristled internally: she wasn't those things, wasn't content, wasn't satisfied with the course her life had taken. ...But, a tiny voice reminded her, she had accepted it, hadn't she? And wasn't that basically the same thing as not being bold enough, or brave enough, or even resolute enough to do anything about it? And here was a Machiavellian goddess in the flesh, offering to make her more, somehow, than she was. Even in the midst of all the fearful strangeness, that part rang true. It had weight, meaning, beyond what sounded like an extremely eloquent sales pitch, or the gilded and engraved invitation to a Faustian bargain... Which, Maya reflected for a moment, it probably was. And yet, knowing that- that something was very wrong, that she couldn't possibly trust what she was seeing or hearing, that these kinds of offers in books always ended badly for the protagonist who succumbed to temptation- made her no less inclined to listen. A more resolute hero would politely refuse the beautiful, black-taloned harpy now and bear the burden of the potential consequences. A braver one, certain of his own ability, may laugh and tell her where to go, and where to find him if she had a problem with it. A bolder one might use his own irresistible presence try to turn the tables, seducing the seductress for his own amusement and edification. Maya... wasn't a hero. Which begged the question: What am I, then, that she wants to change me? "I believe you," she replied softly, studying the empty space where D'Sombra's reflection should be next to hers. "You're a woman with the wealth and the will to do almost anything- I realized it the moment I met you at the party. And now you've come all this way to meet me, to use your own time in order to speak with me. So, why?" the young bibliophile asked quietly, turning back to the raven-haired, dark-eyed temptress before her. "Why would you offer to do this for me?"
  2. What? A switch in her brain flipped from annoyance to complete confusion; the calm voice of Maya's rational self reminded her that she was smart, she was educated, and this? This was not normal. Sure, she acknowledged, it wasn't "Shrek and the talking rabbit in the library" not normal, but she knew she'd locked the door when she came in. How on Earth did D'Sombra find out where she lived, much less get into the place, and so soon after the party? Something wasn't right- something more than the fact that the gorgeous, predatory woman had very clearly had no reflection. That... It could have been an optical illusion, something to do with angles and the way light could be distorted. Not her field, maybe she could find a book on the subject. ...But that was for later. At the moment, the best-dressed velociraptor she'd ever seen in her life was re-enacting the kitchen scene from Jurassic Park right there in Christian Louboutin heels in her apartment. She couldn't remember getting into her pajamas, but she did suddenly feel woefully under-dressed. In her own home. How did that even make sense? ...As if any of this does, she sighed inwardly. "Sorry, Ms. D'Sombra, you seem to have caught me at a bad time," she began, bare feet quiet on the cool floor. "I hadn't really planned on having guests once I got home." Despite that, though, and despite knowing she should politely but firmly see her visitor to the door, Maya was curious. How? Why? There had to be a reason D'Sombra was here, instead of wining and dining some foreign dignitary, counting her warehouses of money, or bathing in the blood of a lovely young virgin to preserve her beauty. Sure, the scene at the gallery had been a little unusual, but surely not so unusual to a glamorous socialite that she'd track a person down and just waltz into their home to chat. Glancing around the small studio apartment that seemed somehow alien and not a little ominous at the present- otherwise a fairly typical furnished offering for the area, and within a reasonable distance of work- Maya considered the question she'd been asked, and the comment that preceded it. "To answer your question, though, since you've come all this way... Sure, almost everyone wants more. That's why we work, try to build relationships with people and get an education. We'd just sit around and do nothing, otherwise." She paused for a moment, and then added, "Although, if you're asking about the apartment, really the only thing I'd change is my upstairs neighbor." And maybe the security, for crying out loud.
  3. Startled, Maya spun on her heel, instinctively swinging at- Nothing. There was no one there, just the empty rectangle of her doorway and the dim hall beyond, keys still glinting dully in the lock. Flustered and unreasonably embarrassed, she hoped Sully hadn't just seen that- she could imagine his big, lantern-yellow eyes peering at her from his usual spot on the bookshelf, narrowed in what she could only assume was laughter. The keys jingled again as she retrieved them, then closed and bolted the door with a smooth, satisfying click of the well-worn brass latch. Sighing, she rubbed her face with her free hand, dropping the keys into a small dish on the counter nearby. Something about the D'Sombra woman, or something she said, must have gotten stuck in her brain, or else Maya wouldn't be hearing her voice right now. What was it? She mulled it over as she moved through the apartment, the pleasant fog of inebriation lifting by millimeters. So much had happened during the evening, with the drinks and meeting up with Coleen and her husband, and before that the crazy woman and Mr. Horatio Mourne, and the painting... Maya looked up suddenly, staring at her reflection in the mirror above the bathroom sink. Small, frothy rivulets of lather dripped down her cheeks, and warm water gushed unheeded into the basin where she was washing her face. The painting. She'd seen something in it, hadn't she? A story... and D'Sombra had laughed. Taken her side. But... they didn't even know each other. The only people at the party she'd ever met before were Coleen, and the woman in the white dress, from the coffee shop- Oh. "Oh, fuck," Maya whispered to her reflection, as awareness suddenly dawned. The angry woman trying to talk to Mourne, the barista, was the one she'd seen in her dream. The one who fell out a window with that dark thing, that awful shape after her, and died. The one Mourne had died trying to protect. She hadn't known him at the time, but then she'd met him, and... Now his face was overlaid over the vague one she'd seen at the library, and the other woman's features snapped into place in her memory. Why hadn't she remembered it at the party?! With a quick splash of water on her cheeks to rinse off the rest of the soap, Maya grabbed the hand towel from the ring on the wall and swiped it briskly over her face. She felt sober now, or mostly so, and cold. Mason. Mourne had said the other woman's last name. Miss Mason. "Fuck." The word was an angry exhalation- angry that she was going to have to deal with the crazy woman again, angry that she hadn't remembered until now, and angry that all of this kept resurfacing with uncomfortable regularity. She was really looking forward to the warm, welcoming embrace of sleep as she turned away from the mirror to go to bed.
  4. Maya exhaled slowly, nostrils flaring slightly as she bit back a retort to Casey's nonsensical tirade. This, ladies and gentlemen, is why we do not sleep with crazy. She couldn't really blame Horatio for bailing, even if he was kind of a smarmy jerk about it, but abandoning her to the lunatic who'd chased him down while she was trying to figure out what was going on didn't exactly earn him any brownie points in her eyes. It wasn't worth the time it would take to point out to "Miss Mason" how many of her assertions were wildly inaccurate, and, in the case of touching a woman's breast without her consent and blaming it on the cell phone, weirdly misogynistic. It was irrelevant that Maya didn't go to the coffee shop every day (only once in a while in the afternoon, if she happened to be in the neighborhood), and didn't order any of the things Casey had mentioned- who would drink dark roast coffee with two sweeteners, or mochas with extra milk, when chai was a thing that existed? Maybe the crazy white woman thought she was someone else. Maybe she was having some kind of breakdown. Maybe Maya didn't care, because she had no intention of even going back to The Full Pot after this delightful little encounter to find out for sure. She watched Horatio's back for a moment as he disappeared into the crowd, then glanced at the other guests (who were very conspicuously looking elsewhere) and shook her head, turning back to the woman in the painted-on white dress. "Nice job. Real nice," she stated flatly, her voice no louder than it had been a few moments before. "I can't say it's been a pleasure. Have a lovely evening, and let's not do this again sometime." With that, she turned and strode angrily away, feeling marginally better as the full, lightweight hem of her dress flared emphatically with the abruptness of her departure. She wasn't royalty, and this wasn't some historical fiction novel, but in that moment, she could definitely see the appeal of swishing skirts for dramatic purposes. Bodices and corsets, she reflected as she headed toward the main gallery in search of food and more wine, doing her best to put her experience with Horatio and Casey out of her mind, not so much. It wasn't until several minutes later, as she was in the process of flagging down a waiter bearing a tray of glasses, that something he'd said suddenly registered. What the hell did he mean, "scouting?" Unbidden, memories of the recent strangeness- the books, the dreams, the painting, and most of this night, if she was honest- flashed through her mind. Despite the warmth generated by the wine, and the press of bodies near the tables, Maya felt a sudden, inexplicable chill.
  5. Once the initial shock had worn off, both from the interruption and the man-handling, Maya took one look at Horatio's bewildered expression and interposed herself between him and the obviously paranoid (or drunk... or both) Casey. She didn't know what this woman's problem was, but she had already dealt with more than enough crazy for one night, thankyouverymuch, and she was not having it. Disbelief and anger engaged in an all-out battle royale for supremacy in the shelf-lined arena of her mind, with the result being the latter triumphantly claiming possession of the voluminous best-seller, Harry Potter and the Audacity of This Bitch. "Excuse me," she interjected in the overly polite, faintly condescending tone she was often obliged to use when patrons at work became unpleasant or unreasonable. She was nearly as tall as Horatio himself, although lacking his physique, effectively blocking the other woman's view of her target with a tight, aggressively friendly smile that somehow did nothing whatsoever to warm the gaze she directed at the curvy cafe-owner. "It's Casey, right?" She didn't wait for confirmation; Prince Ponytail had just addressed her as such. "Hi. I'm Maya." Again, a near-imperceptible pause before continuing quietly, barely enough time to be considered courtesy and certainly not enough to let her counterpart get a word in edgewise. "I thought, since you decided it's acceptable to intrude on a private conversation and touch my breast without permission, something I sincerely doubt you would appreciate being done to you, you should at least know who I am. Now, I don't know what your problem is, and to be perfectly honest... I, do, not, care." Her voice dropped again, now scarcely more than a conspiratorial whisper, as her forced smile abruptly vanished. "You have stepped waaaay over the line, and you are about to make an enormous ass of yourself, in public, in front of the wealthiest and most powerful people in New York." She broke eye contact long enough to spare a moment's glance at the other partygoers in the vicinity. "...If you haven't already. You two obviously know each other, so maybe you should consider handling your personal business elsewhere?" ...because it isn't welcome here, her level stare added wordlessly.
  6. "Miss... Mason?" Genuine confusion crinkled Maya's features into a somewhat less attractive configuration as she tried to place the name. Someone she was familiar with, in the gallery? "I don't really recognize the n-" "The young woman in the rather... eye-catching white dress." "White dress, white dre- Ohhhhhhhhhh!" Right. The boobs. Got it. On one hand, Maya did actually get it: Casey was stacked, and guys were into that. On the other hand, hadn't she been on his arm when they walked up? "I do remember her, I just don't think I knew her name. She works at the coffee shop...?" It was clearly a question, if a rhetorical one- more for the sake of trying to confirm her own memory than asking for information. She was already regretting not grabbing a fresh glass of wine before engaging stealth mode to track down Mourne, since now she had nothing to do with her hands. "The Full Pot. They make a good dirty chai." Her raised eyebrows and the faint, dismissive shrug of her narrow shoulders were more suggestive than anything she actually said. "I don't really know her beyond that, but... Why ask me to tell you about myself and then ask about her?"
  7. Had she imagined it, or was there a sort of... raspy edge to his voice? She hadn't noticed it earlier. Paired with the suit, the smile, and the educated conversation, the soft, near-inaudible growl just at the lower edge of his vocal range was... Well, it wasn't just the wine heating up her cheeks, now, was it? "Well, Mr. Mourne," Maya replied, switching the empty glass to her other hand to return the handshake and re-focus on the situation before she said something she'd have to blame on the alcohol later. She was surprised to find that, far from the polite, weak-wristed grip generally offered by men, Horatio's was stronger than she'd expected- not crushing, but firm. His hand was warmer than she'd imagined, too. "Apology accepted. And, if we're being honest, I'm, ah, not really that much of an art fan, either." The newly-minted VIP's grin was all conspiracy and mischief, her confidence bolstered by the wine, the late hour, and something about Mourne she couldn't quite pin down, like a scent in a crowd that seemed familiar, but also out of place. "I did have to take a couple of art history classes in college, though, so I can pull a quick analysis out of a hat if I need to."
  8. Maybe he doesn't work for the gallery, or a Senator, Maya reflected, as she listened to the brief, one-sided conversation about investigations and "surveillance footage" with growing anxiety. Just who was this guy, what was he after, and why, in the name of all the holy saints and pilgrims, was he invoking her name as someone who might be associated with whatever-it-was that she absolutely, positively, most definitely had. not. done? She was just beginning to regret having followed the Park Avenue Powerlifter (seriously, where do you find suit jackets for a back that wide?!) and sort-of-intentionally-accidentally-eavesdropping when he began to turn his head in her direction. What followed was the fastest change in demeanor Maya had ever undergone, from slightly awkward spy to immensely awkward party-goer: like a child caught sneaking down the hallway for cookies long after bedtime, the tall, willowy library assistant took a too-obvious step forward in a clumsy attempt to look as if she'd just arrived by mistake. Despite the guilt written indelibly across her face, she bravely made an effort to sound surprised at his sudden recognition. "Oh, so, hey, hi. I was, uh..." She paused for a moment, pursing her lips and briefly closing her eyes before smiling and giving it another shot, hopefully with more composure. "Sorry. I was thinking we might have gotten off on the wrong foot, and I wanted to apologize. You were right, sort of. I mean, about me." She laughed, nervously, and only after taking a sip of wine did she realize she'd just emptied the glass and now had no good excuse to pause the conversation if it took a turn. "I am. Lost, that is. A little bit. A friend invited me as a thank-you, and as you can probably tell, I don't get to do this sort of thing often." ...where "often" is defined as "never." "I'm Maya. Maya Flynn."
  9. As everyone scurried off about their separate ways, the small crowd magically dissolving into so much superficial laughter and champagne as if it had never existed in the first place, Maya became acutely aware of the blood warming her cheeks. This was not her scene at all, and despite trying to find a relatively quiet part of the gallery to just... have a glass or two of wine and chill, somehow she'd ended up being the center of attention. So, of course, she had made a fantastic first impression as some kind of weirdo party-crasher, and... ...helped sell a painting? Gotten VIP status from LexAve Lilith? Landed a gig writing a column in the gallery newsletter? She hadn't thought she was lost when Ponytail Guy walked up with his entourage, but now, now she wasn't so sure. "At what point did I lose control of my life?" she wondered aloud, before taking another drink from a wineglass that was rapidly becoming more glass than wine. Mildly embarrassed, utterly confused, and in need of answers to such burning questions as, "Who the hell are these people?" "What the fuck just happened?" "Where is Colleen when I need her?" and "How do I get the recipe for those little cream cheese cracker things?" she reluctantly headed off in the same direction as Mourne. The other two women clearly had business to discuss, and she was not about to follow the security guard and get tased or something, which unfortunately left Baron von Buzzkill as her "best" option. Maybe, Maya tried to reassure herself as she followed him, maybe he wasn't really trying to be a jerk. It's not like I was walking around with my invitation pinned to my dress, right? There was no telltale clacking of perilous stilettos as she padded quickly down the gleaming hallway; it wasn't that she'd worn flats out of consideration for the men she'd look down on in heels, but that they were uncomfortable as hell and she hated wearing them. As for this "Mourne" guy... She wasn't sure who he was, but probably he worked for the gallery, so introducing herself might make the rest of the night a little easier, yeah? Yeah, she decided, nodding in affirmation as she peered into the smaller exhibition rooms she passed.
  10. Maya had been considering this particular piece for the better part of twenty minutes. and she still hadn't decided whether or not she liked it; the colours worked well together, with the general impression being a bit like a sunrise coming out of a dark night, but something just didn't sit well with her. She had almost nailed down exactly what it was when a man who looked like a department store manager, complete with mid-life crisis ponytail, interrupted her train of thought. Who did this Steven Seagal wannabe think he was? "Lost?" No more than you are, jerk. Who's your Journey tribute band opening for tonight, hm? Fifty scathing retorts rushed to the tip of her tongue in response, but before they had a chance to spill out, Maleficent's sister slithered up out of nowhere and intervened. It wasn't exactly on her behalf, but an intervention nonetheless, and she silently thanked whoever was listening that she hadn't had the opportunity to open her mouth. She didn't know who either of these people were, but the fact that Prince Charmless was visibly unhappy with the other woman's presence made her feel just a teensy bit better about essentially being politely accused of sneaking in without an invite. It didn't, however, make her feel any more at ease with the situation: the tension seething between the two made her feel like a very small pawn in a heated, long-running game of chess. For a brief moment, the world shifted in front of her eyes, and because she was still looking at the raven-haired woman who'd just spoken, for that fleeting instant she saw not a gorgeous socialite, but the rapacious Beldam of the book she'd so recently read to the children at work, all hunger and malice. No, no no, not here, this is not happening here, she told herself as she tore her gaze away, directing her attention back to the painting and taking a slow sip of wine to steady her nerves. Not tonight. "Oh, all sorts of things," Maya replied breezily, only the faint hint of a tremor in her voice betraying the fact that something- either the timing of the woman's question, or the appearance of the trio- had clearly unsettled her. She clasped the stem of her glass in both hands to stop them shaking until she could calm down, and skimmed the abstract shapes of the artwork again; focusing on the here and now always seemed to put things back to the way they should be. Her teeth caught at her lower lip; what exactly was it that bugged her so much about this painting? It was driving her crazy that she couldn't make heads or tails of- Heads or tails? That was it! It wasn't positioned correctly. Tilting her head to re-assess the art, much to the mixed amusement, bewilderment, and exasperation of her audience, she felt her pulse quicken as the pieces started to fall into place. "Here, this looks hopeful, yeah?" she asked them rhetorically, glancing back at them before waving at muted whorls of rose and orange shot through with bright gold, cerulean, and white. "It's lovely and soft, like a spring morning, especially when you contrast it with this part." Here, she pointed at the sharp, angular interjections of muddy grey, violet, and deep black that jutted out in irregular patterns. "So, it looks like an aspirational thing, like looking toward beauty and light as you reach out from the darkness, clinging to the hope that will get you through the worst of times." The more she looked at it, the more sense it started to make, as if she were piecing together the plot of a complicated novel. The warmth of the wine hummed pleasantly through her body as she paused, allowing her audience a moment to draw their own conclusions. "But it's not!" she exclaimed, shaking her head, the words coming faster, more easily now. "There's no real hope in this at all. Yes, there's the acknowledgement of joy and all that, it exists, but these are things the artist believes they cannot have. They have seen and, and felt transcendence, something celestial, unfathomable, something ah... ah... supernal!" she stated emphatically, taking another drink of wine. "And now it's utterly gone, shattered, destroyed. They can still see beauty in the world, but they can't touch it, and every time they try something is irrevocably broken. This painting is all about the incredible longing the artist feels for what's lost, tempered by overwhelming remorse and utter despair, because..." Realizing suddenly that there were now more than four people gathered around, and that she was gesturing animatedly while everyone stared, Maya suddenly felt intensely self-conscious and dropped her free hand, which had come just short of touching the painting. "Because they know it's their fault," she finished somewhat more quietly. Making a very small, vaguely circular motion with her finger, the tall, grey-eyed 'interloper' added, "and, ah, it's upside-down."
  11. Maya had been to parties before. She had even worn a nice dress to one, when her sister got married. This little shindig, though? It was on a whole other level. Sure, she knew the Richardses were well-off, but this level of glitz and glam was like, Vanity Fair, where she'd been expecting maaaaybe The New Yorker- or, since it was supposed to be for the work of "mythologically inspired artists," maybe some niche-market mag dealing with the zoomorphic gods of pre-colonial Egypt. She'd imagined chunky dichroic glass jewelry and caftans, not designer ensembles straight from some high-end boutique. Under normal circumstances, she'd have felt pretty confident. Rather than straightening her hair, she'd just pinned it up, and the long-sleeved maxi dress was both comfortable and what she thought of as "casual sophistication." She was tall enough to get away with wearing ballet flats instead of heels, and she was also one of the very few women not showing skin. It was a look that suited her, but after a quick scan of the room following Colleen's departure, it definitely did not suit the party. Slipping over to grab a glass of rosé from one of the tables, she smiled politely and avoided eye contact as she moved through the partygoers. Everyone just looked so rich, and so beautiful- or at least the kind of beautiful that being rich could buy- that just catching glimpses of faces and suits and dresses in the crowd was almost an art show on its own. As she sipped her "basic white girl" wine, the knot of anxiety that came from being keenly aware she didn't fit in gradually loosened, and she resigned herself to making the best of things. She knew Mrs. Richards had intended the invitation as a gift, a sort of 'thank you' that she'd thought Maya would enjoy, not as a means to make her feel uncomfortable or out of place. Besides, it wasn't as if she was likely to run into anyone she knew here, so what was the harm in trying to have a good time? Things had been a little weird, lately, and getting out of her comfort zone and into another glass or two of wine might actually help. It wasn't too difficult to make her way to the outer edges of the thronging glitterati, and into the actual exhibition halls. It was an art gala, and if she was gonna be here all night, she was gonna see some art.
  12. Name: Maya Flynn Nature: Explorer Demeanor: Sage Concept: Frustrated Underachiever Age: 25 Physical: Strength ●●, Dexterity ●●, Stamina ●● Social: Charisma ●●●, Manipulation ●●●, Appearance ●● Mental: Perception ●●●, Intelligence ●●●●, Wits ●●● Talents: Alertness ●●, Athletics ●●, Awareness ●●, Brawl ●, Carousing ●, Empathy ●●, Expression ●●, Intimidation, Leadership, Streetwise ●, Subterfuge ● Skills: Animal Ken ●●, Crafts, Drive ●, Etiquette ●●, Firearms, Game-Playing ●, Larceny, Melee, Performance ●●, Stealth ●, Storytelling ●, Survival Knowledges: Academics ●●●, Computer ●●, Culture ●, Finance, Investigation ●, Law, Medicine, Occult ●, Politics ●, Science, Technology Backgrounds: Allies ●, Contacts ●●, Influence, Resources ●● Background: Works at Yorkville Public Library, lives in a small furnished studio apartment on E 79th St., Upper East Side. Can drive a car (and has a license), but who drives in NYC? Smart people ride bikes. Studied Anthropology, had difficulty finding work after college and took temporary employment with the Yorkville branch of the NYPL at the request of a family friend. She’s still there, beginning to despair of ever accomplishing anything meaningful with her life. Saving up to travel overseas- she has a list of “must-see” places gleaned from magazines and friends who’ve actually gone. Had an opportunity to study abroad for a summer in college, but a family health scare caused her to miss out. Owns precisely one cat. Just one. She blames him for a lack of dating prospects. He doesn’t seem to care. Her social life is largely limited to reading aloud for the children during story hour on the second floor of the library, and helping her friend Mason create a weekly podcast about a lonely, fictional town in upstate NY. Has one sister, Leticia, 2 years younger, married to a financial analyst. Is occasionally called upon to babysit her niece and nephew on “date night” because, honestly, what else does she have to do? Sometimes screens her mother’s calls, despite concerns over her health, because she is tired of being compared to her more successful sibling. Lists her ethnicity as “colonial.” (Her family is of Irish, English, Kashmiri, and Maori ancestry. It’s complicated.) When in the neighborhood, stops by The Full Pot for an afternoon pick-me-up Bonus Point Costs/Expenditures Attributes: 5 per dot Abilities: 2 per dot (x6) Ability Specialties: 1 per dot (max of 3 per ability) Backgrounds: 1 per dot Virtues: 2 per dot Humanity: 1 per dot Willpower: 1 per dot (x3) 3
  13. Disoriented and confused, Maya fumbled for something to write with, tipping over an ancient owl-shaped mug full of brittle pencils and dried-out markers in her haste. Her hand fell on a green felt-tip pen with the cap still intact, and she jabbed the point repeatedly on the back of an old receipt until the ink reluctantly started to flow again. The result was legible, but only just- it didn't matter if the information was coherent, just that she needed to get it all down. She could always figure out what to do with it later. Mason A name? Job? Org? Soulless Ginger? What? Woman + Window- Accident ---Obits Man + Shadow = WTF Pooka Rabbit Troll -Seth Chosen ??? Dreams & doors She jammed the scrap of paper into the front pocket of her purse and left it there, and for the next 45 minutes, as she finished tidying up and getting everything ready for that sticky-fingered slag in the morning, Maya let the entire experience just sort of... go, like leaving the radio on in the background while focusing on other things. She didn't have time to really sit down and process anything just yet, and despite just having awakened from a nap, she felt completely exhausted. There were no other interruptions, no strangeness that didn't already exist in New York. When the young assistant librarian finally locked up, the utter disinterest of the city that never sleeps was almost a relief.
  14. "I'm... dreaming." Maya repeated dazedly as something clicked into place in her brain, and the battle between her eyes and her logical mind ended in a reluctant truce. It was, after all, the only possible scenario in which she wasn't a raving lunatic. She realized too that it was actually quiet in the library, without either the normal city noises bleeding in from outside, or the omnipresent voice of Deb, who was apparently filling in for literally every other DJ at the station today. "Okay, that... that makes sense, I guess," she continued, staring at her sleeping self for a moment while her body's alert system ratcheted down from DEFCON 1 and her explosively racing heartbeat slowly returned to normal pulmonary function. How would her dreaming mind perceive her actual face? Would she even be able to see it, or would it be horribly distorted? As much as she wanted to lift the book that was obscuring her other self's appearance, to see what "she" looked like, something gave her pause. This dream was already going in a weird direction, and seeing her actual self while sleeping in a dream felt like it would be crossing some boundary, violating a taboo or something. "So, then, where did you guys come from? I mean, yeah," she gestured vaguely toward the two, "Alice Through The Looking-Glass, and maybe Shrek since we had it on repeat for a while, but it's been a minute since either of those has come across the desk." Then again, sure, talking animals and helpful monsters are pretty much a staple of fairy tales and folklore, and so is the whole 'hero's journey' idea. Man, Jill is gonna have to book me for an extra session for this. A pair of tiny furrows appeared between her brows as she frowned, tentatively moving away from the door and addressing the pair of interlopers into her head-space more directly. Somehow, knowing that this was only happening because she was asleep didn't diminish the level of wiggins they were giving her. "And what's this 'something big' in 'my world' that I'm supposed to somehow help you with? You just said this was a dream."
  15. The scream caught in Maya's throat, escaping only in erratic whimpers and panicked, juddering breaths; her whole body shook visibly as she pressed her back against the doors, rattling them with every terrified spasm. This couldn't be happening. It couldn't. Monsters weren't real- not like these, anyway. Monsters were people, people who lured kids into dark places, who enjoyed hurting and abusing, who were so broken inside they were compelled to destroy beautiful, innocent things. She could almost feel her grasp on reality slipping as she stared at the two figures before her, even as her mind clawed desperately at its fraying edges. No! They're just vagrants! Just a couple of weird homeless guys, a big biker dude and a- an- an albino with dwarfism, it insisted, frantically trying to make sense of a nonsensical situation, to rationalize, to figure out how to create a plausible scenario to which she could react. In this case, she was obviously being confronted by a pair of drug addicts, or maybe mental patients, but who knew what they wanted from her, and because she was panicking she'd just missed the alarm button, and the doors- Her eyes, however, dispassionately related a different story, one her rational, reasonable, mundane mind was trying so very hard to refute: An ogre and a talking rabbit had invaded her library, and trapped her inside. She wanted so badly to squeeze those eyes shut, to block out the insanity and wait for reality to reassert itself, but she was too afraid to look away. "Please," the assistant librarian, who definitely did not get paid enough for this and who was (in her estimation) far too young to die, begged tearfully as she tried in vain to melt backwards through the doors, her words scarcely more than a choked whisper. "P-please don't hurt me."
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