What the deuce?(Attn: Mongoose/Open)

Xavia thought that if she walked into this quaint and rowdy little pub, that she would recognize some faces, perhaps, or maybe some of the areas of the establishment. She even heard someone shout a name out, her real name in fact, but it rang no bells. She was still Layla the loung singer, She had no identity outside of that little pretend world that she thought was reality. Ho hum.

The winsome woman did not look as her real name was called, a blank, neutral expression lingering on her young face. She advanced into the pub with slow footsteps, making her way to an abandoned table and began to peel off a few layers. It was nice and warm, no need to be bundled up, right? She wasn't wearing the clothes of a homeless person any more, her form was clad in designer duds... Legs encased in leggings, and torso in a belted tunic, silver jewelry with flora design twinkling at her throat and ears, but nothing too flashy. Her boots were the knee high kind and of patent leather... She was a somebody now, but she still didn't know who.

Why was this pub so important? She pondered silently as a waiter came toward her and offered a menu. She nodded and gave a soft thanks ad she took the plastic bound volume and ordered a soda water in the meantime. Her finger skimmed over each page as she rpoured over the words, and decided to order fries. She closed the menu and glanced around, finally noticing a few stares... Especially from that of the man at the bar who was... furry?

Huh, she thought, staring back for a few moments. She didn't recognize the man, though, her eyes remained blank pools of caramel. Xavia/Layla did not even tilt her head, she merely met his stare with her own for a pregnant moment. It was she who also broke the lock of gazes. She shrugged and turned back to the table with a mumble to herself. As her legs stretched out in front of her, the waiter came by and she ordered her fries while he set her soda water in front of her, and she curled her fingers around the glass.

He left here there, deep in contemplation, sipping on the flavorless club soda as if it was fine champaigne. And for some reason she felt more at home than her fancy hotel with the fru fru parties and the stupid concert piano she was always expected to play, and.., Gah, she slammed the cup down and slumped in her chair... Why couldn't she remember?

She had not been eating yet, but just before the man she had stared at went to sit down at her table uninvited, a basket of hot fries were placed in front of her. Her fingers were grabbing for a tater when the man sat down, and she paused for a moment as he spoke to her. "Sah.... ve ah?" she repeated, her real name still not ringing a bell. she then nommed upon the fry that was pinched betwixt her forefinger and thumb, and groaned in pleasure. Oh, word, the greasy food was amazing compared to caviar and pate that she was used to being shoved at her. She grabbed two or three and crammed them down the hatch. So good.

"My name," she explained after swollowing the bite, "Is Layla..." Of course, she wouldn't divuldge that she was here for information. Who could she trust?? "I don't know who you speak of, but I am sure if you mistake her for me, then she is pretty awesome." There was complete honesty in her voice at this one. She nommed on some more fries, "And I am not pissed off, I am frustrated. But... Eh." She took a swollow of the soda water.

And still, this man in front of her was not familiar. Her hand stilled over the fries for a moment as she concentrated on his face... He clearly knew her, but who was he? And why was he speaking to her as if she was a friend of his?

"Layla" didn't know what he was talking about... At least until he mentioned the plant manipulation. Her attention was rapt on him now and she stared at him. So her name was Xavia, then? Pretty name, she thought, holding a french fry poised, halfway between her mouth and the basket. The fry eventually dropped because she wasn't paying much attention to it, and she flattened both palms against the table, completely ignoring the offered brandy.

"Who are you?" she asked, just above a whisper, her face having gone ashen by this point. Her eyes stared at him intensely as she tried to figure him out. "And who am I?" was the question she tacked on after that. "You obviously know me, but I don't know me. Help. Please...." She pushed the fries away by that point, and took the glass of brandy, more because this occasion warrented a strong drink. She drank it down and set the glass in front of her, shuddering as the amber liquid burned its way down her esophagas.

For a minute after the drink was taken, she was silent. There were no words that came to mind except for the questions that constantly nagged at her. She trully didn't remember, and she still had no recollection of her past when he mentioned things he knew about the real her. Nothing rang a bell, not her name, nor her prior actions in her life... She didn't remember him, or this pub. She only had nagging feelings of dejavu in occasions such as these. The young woman looked at the man with her mouth slightly open as if to ask more, but there were no words. And where as in her prior life, she would run away like a fool, she didn't do it now. Aside from the lack of memory, she had changed alot as a person.

That much was clear by the way she stayed in her seat. She didn't ask for another drink, nor did she want to. She didn't push the man away, she didn't look around like a deer caught in headlights, her attention was steadfast on the person who obviously knew her from her previous life. Who was this man and how much did he know? So many questions were in her mind about the fellow that it was hard to ask one first. So she remained silent.

Eventually, however, she did offer a soft thank you for the drink. She didn't touch the fries again.

"How could you know? I... Can't just walk up and be like... Hey, I am some stranger... Who the hell are you and do you know me? Because, gee golly, I don't know myself...!" She wasn't shouting this, but talking just above a whisper as she said this to him, and it was also obvious that it was NOT said angrily. "I... really don't know who I am. I woke up in the countryside of Romania, and... The person who cared for me didn't know me either... He didn't offer any information..." And the fact that this was all said in her somewhat thick Hungarian drawl, made it seem slightly humurous. Even though it really wasn't that funny.

She palmed her forehead and went on to reply to him, "So you are telling me that someone is after me and is trying to kill me? This is worse than I thought... Someone obviously did try to kill me, but are the two things connected at all, or is this just getting better and better? And... I still don't remember, I... You tell me things and they don't come back to me... And... " By that point, she was starting to get slightly emotional. She went quiet for a moment or two, and stiffened herself up. No, no matter how much she wanted to let loose, it wouldn't help.

"I suppose the only thing I can do is to thank you for your time... Anthony... Please forgive me for not knowing you..." She meant it too, and the alcohal didn't seem to affect her as much as it had before... She was quite used to champaign and eating weird foods, most of which were laced with some kind of alcohal. Being stuck in with a bunch of bluebloods meant getting alcohal a bit more than one was used to... Oh, and if she had to eat another slab of foi gras, she would puke. Seriously, duck liver? Gag.

Xavia set her elbow on the table and stared off for the moment, trying to piece together this new information that was practically handed to her on a silver platter by this fellow in front of her. She now knew her name, she knew some dude or chick was after her, and whatever else he told her. There was so much to take in with what little he could tell her about herself. She still wanted to know more about him, though, which is why she kept trying to poke for at least his name.

As she regarded him with a level gaze, she tried to figure him out from her point of view, as well. He seemed a bit odd to her, but it wasn't because he was... well... hairy... It was mainly his mannerisms.

The woman who came to be adored by rich bluebloods with nothing better to do than to throw money around and pretend their lives are awesome because they have everything they want, well, she looked at him silently after he stated the thing about not remembering. She grabbed a french fry and pinched it, looking down to watch tater guts burst through the crispy outer layer, and contemplated her words while mulling over the poor piece of root vegetable. Her face was a mask by this point, it wasn't emotionless, but she wasn't showing what she really felt at the moment. She listened to the man's story about playing the violin and whatnot, simply squeezing the fry.

When he went silent, she remained thusly for a few moments, continuing to contemplate and mull. Xavia chose her next words carefully, hesitant about her reply, but steadfast in doing so, "I know it seems easier to you to forget about the past... To... Simply want to move on with your life after something bad has happened... But what about the good things? Like... Remembering about your mother's chocolate chip cookies, or the smell of your grandfather's suit jacket? I may have been chased down and I may have been hurt, but forgetting about the things that make me happy... Well, it hurts. I don't remember my mother, my papa, I don't know if I have siblings or where they live... I forgot who I am in every sense of the word, not just the hurts. Anthony, forgetting those things is what is worse than remembering the bad things. I don't care about those memories anymore... I just... want to know who I am... And you did more than you can comprehend, I think... You gave me my name... That is.... It's more than I knew an hour ago." She dropped the destroyed fry, and then flattened her palms on the table once more, leaning in closer and looking straight into his eyes. "You hurt over your past, but you have it, and I tell you as someone who has lost hers, not to forget what you just told me about playing the violin. You shouldn't let that memory go, because it is important. And you should play again sometime when you're ready, because it's important." Her eyes danced left and right as they peered at him, and she reached out and put her hands over the one that offered the napkin, and she held firmly.

"If I was lost and distressed before, well.. I guess I will deal with it when it comes... But I can't be.... this woman... Layla... She isn't the real me. She is some figment of imagination, she is a made up character, stuck in a world where she doesn't belong. I may be wearing these designer clothes and have money, but I hate the taste of caviar, and I despise duck liver. I can't stand the way rich people think and speak, or take s**t for granted... I hate being adored by people who think they know me, and then spread rumors that I am dating some rich blue blood or another and cheating on him with another rich blue blood, and pregnant with his baby, or whatever they want to make stories up about. I want to know what makes me happy and sad, and... I want to know who I am because this form of me is not making the world go round. If you choose to forget the things that make you who you are, then you are a fool." She took hold of the napkin and tore it in half, keeping the number and pocketing it, then reached into her purse and grabbed for a pen. She scribbled down her hotel, her suite, and her own number on the blank half, then slid it to him with a solemn expression on her face.

"Sure, I will take the drink, because maybe I owe it to you. If I was mean to you in my previous life, I am sorry. Maybe I had a chip on my shoulder or something. I trully am sorry. I don't think that if my memory comes back, I will take back these words, because I probably won't act the same as I did before..." She leaned back in her chair and then went on to say, "I can pay for the next round if you'd like... I have more money than I know what to do with..." Everything she said came out as she meant to say it, and it was all honest and deep down. It was the kind of crap that landed in those silly Lifetime movies that made people gag with the sickly sweetness, but she meant every word and wouldn't have said so otherwise.

This woman wasn't the same as she was, she wasn't the girl who ran in fear... She was doing the opposite now because she had no choice. She wasn't afraid to know about the bad things, she was afraid to lose everything forever and be stuck in the life that she hated. Xavia had grown up since her trip to Romania. She was not the foolish little chit she used to be... Well, not nearly as much. Yes, she still had her faults, but who the hell was perfect? Certainly not her, and she was betting that not a single soul in the pub that her and Anthony sat in was perfect either. Yes, she was still slightly nuts, but she couldn't help it. Neither could the man sitting across the table from her. She trully did want to be his friend, because... Well, he needed one just as much as she, it seemed.

It was after she ordered her next round, a less potent drink of beer, and whatever he ordered for himself, that she spoke to him again. "Tell me about you and stop worrying about me, now... Please..."

As the man beast began to talk in earnest about himself, she nodded and uhm-hummed in the proper places, forcing herself to not put a hand up and shush him. He was a pleasant fellow, but when he talked, he made it seem like he was trying to get a date from her, or something along the lines of nervous chatter, perhaps. That may not have been the case, but that was how it seemed, and she wasn't interested in that sort of way. Not with anyone, actually, not just him in particular. She hardly had time to date someone, let alone harbored any sort of interest in the male populace for that sort of reason. But she was polite and let him go on as he was, propping her chin on the butt of her hand, and her elbow on the table, while her fingers played idly on the glass of beer that was eventually set in front of her.

Her eyes focused on his face, and she took a steady sip of the frosty brew, then set it back down gently. Eventually, she started to get a little ADD, though continued to listen of course, and played with her powers a little bit. Her palm lifted upward, and a few tendrils of vine began to curl around her hand, leaves unfurling in their dark green glory. She was like this untill her companion was heckled a little bit, causing her to look up with a quizzical expression on her face.

"Perfection is boring," she said after a bit of time listening to the mongoose man. Xavia watched her creation wither and brown at her command, and dried leaves fell to the smooth surface of the table. She was listening, she really was! And she was interested in what the man had to say, but being the odd one that she was... Well, you get the point. She then leaned a bit closer, and tilted her head, brow slightly knit, but not in a disgruntled fashion. "Even a tender rose could not be perfect." As she spoke, she held her palm up and concentrated. Bigger plants hurt to produce, so a few beads of persperation popped onto her forehead as she demonstrated. A few tendrils reached out from her fingers, and climbed toward her shoulder. Thorns protruded from the green branches, pressing into her flesh, but not hurting her. "You see, they are all unique, as are we all, as you so said a moment ago, Anthony."

She took a breath and willed the tendrils out faster, and they finally found her shoulder after a moment. Blood red buds began to form and grow, their photosynthesis somewhat breathtaking, especially given that they were there within moments of nonexhistance. One by one, roses burst open in their full glory, perfect spirals releasing their musky-sweet scent, which permeated through the air all around the table, even covering the scent of stale beer and cigarettes. "They look perfect, but what purpose is that perfection but to lure the unsuspecting bumblebee into their layers? Is their nectar as sweet as their scent, or as perfect as their blooms seem to be? Are they really as perfect as the eye percieves them to be?"

Xavia, careful not to stab her own finger with thorns, picked the largest bloom first, then followed with the rest, about a dozen or so in all. Once they were picked and laid gently on the table, she sort of shook her arm and the remains of the rose bush that she grew herself, fell to the floor and began to wither like the vines: something she seemed to have willed into happening. She gathered the roses, and set the bundle in front of him. "Even the dozen roses that the florists supposedly sell... Are they not, in fact, thirteen to make the bouquet seem more perfect than it is with one less?"

Pause.... Breath.

"Perfection is cliche and impossible, my friend, but we still strive to achieve or say we are such." She smiled at him then, something she didn't do in their entire aquaintanceship up untill that moment. Her smile was not the full, 32 toothed smile, but a mere lifting of each corner of her lips. Sadness touched her eyes, though. "You say yourself that perfection, or the perception of such a thing, is ugly." She gestured to her garments, the designer clothes that her lithe frame was encased in, the rich tones of dye marking it as a newer garment. "You speak of clothes, such as mine, these designer garments, as if they are cursed, and in the same breath, say that you are perfect, and I know it was in jest... And you are correct to say they are boring. But I wear them because I was told where to go and what to buy, and how to wear my hair, and what color suits my eyes, and it is part of my job to pretend to be perfect... But it doesn't define who I am. I said it before that I don't know who I am or who you are... But I do know that I would hate to be this.... Thing called 'perfection.'"