Xavia woke in a film of sweat, tortured by glimpses of things she did not want to see in her sleeping hours. Her form heaved with gasping breaths, and she sat up, intent on clearing her head. It was for certain that nothing she dreamt about made any sense, whatsoever. Steeling herself, she got out of the plush, king sized bed she slept in, and padded across Berber carpet into the bathroom. She stared at herself in the mirror for a long, intense moment, scrutinizing the slashes of healing flesh across her face. Whatever had happened definitely left its mark upon her.

Awhile later, she left her suite, dressed in a crimson evening gown. It was only 11 PM in NYC, and she had been invited to a formal party in the Hudson Bar by one of her fans… At first she had declined to go, but she was restless and needed to tire out somehow. So she decked herself out, wearing her newly cut hair down, the curls tamed into straight with a flat iron, and a sparkling designer number she had worn once for a performance. The scars were covered up and none were the wiser.

As she entered the ballroom, Xavia, or in this case, Layla nodded and greeted her way through the crowd, occasionally letting someone take her hand and give a gentle squeeze. She gave some smiles here and there, but they never really reached her eyes. She remained a mystery to those who shared the space of the charming bar with her. Her eyes wandered around, and she felt somewhat alien in this environment. Sure, she admired the mural on the ceiling and such, but the crowd was a bit fru fru and boring for her. The jazz singer always put on a good face though, these people paid her wages.

“Ahh, yes, Layla. I knew you couldn’t say no to my invitation.” Dr. Lawrence leaned in and gave her a kiss on each cheek, then took her arm almost possessively, his eager gaze drinking in the sight of her like the bubbly Champaign that was making rounds as they spoke. She ignored the heat of his stare as it found her chest and detached herself from the man, pretending excitement as the tray of hours d’vours came, and she picked up a little pate canapé from the tray, “Oh, this looks divine.”

The man smirked, she always played hard to get, didn’t she. He let her eat her little snack, and then returned to her side, placing his hand across her back, marking his territory. He then suggested she take a seat at the grand piano, which she did because he would have to back up so she could play. And so, Layla began to play and sing “Ain’t No Sunshine.” The esteemed doctor backed away as predicted, and as she performed, she let her gaze wander around the crowd, hoping maybe for a face to stir her memory.

Sometimes... there were just things you had to do. Like go in the garden and get rid of the dandelions before they proliferated all over the lawn with their flying seeds. They looked quite fun when they were blown in by the winds, but soon afterwards you were stuck with a whole lot of new weeds to take care of. Just like that. Sometimes things needed doing most certainly.

Thats why Martin wore a suit today. A black suit, complete with dark-Bordeaux tie on a black shirt. He had taken this one from the high-priced segment at a store at the heart of the city. It was adorned by a mildly-well known name of the New York fashion scene. An emerging designer the salesman had said, just right for the barely-beyond teenage customer with big pockets. The cut subtly hinted at the lightness of his form, the apparent weakness, that was just as superficial as his attention for the other side of his window, and had an in woven pattern that gave it something quite avant-garde. To Martin it was just a black suit, a tie and fitting leather gloves. A disguise for one of his masks. A mask he wore at social gatherings like this one. Upper class.

His business at this event? The very reason why he wore this mask? Because there were things he had to do tonight. Just here. At this very place. An upscale Jazz-Bar at the Hudson river. Windows looking out on the lack, murky waters, that were stained by the refuse of a city and a hundred ships that traveled here every day. Even in the night there were lights, tall shadows on the water and the faint humming of engines in the wind. The air that moved white curtains of the establishment in an almost-crystal breeze. For New York. The smell of gasoline was just a distant memory in this breath of the world. Barely tainted. The small figure, standing darkly clad against the white of the moving cloth was enjoying it quite a bit. If he would just have the time and opportunity to devote more of himself to it, that might even have enhanced the feeling.

The smell of salt warranted the small delay in fulfilling his function, but not its deliberate procrastination. At switching faces. Masks. Take a breath, breathe in with me... Silence of the sea, I welcome you. Wavesounds moving lazily up to his point of observation, from whence he now turned, reluctantly, to have his eyes and ears caught by a person singing to the melodies that were performed on stage. That voice. He knew it. It meant something. He moved through the people, flowing along, to find the place where this sound, that thing, that was an iching, burning memory, came from. Moved from. The pattern for the evening was shifting, he noted with some regret. But there were more pressing things then meeting with someone who had to give him important information right now.

He had to find a bit of important information of his own. All alone, the young seeming one, among the bigger fish that needed neither water nor salt. Both of which were essentials to him and his work. Flowers rarely grew without. Or with too much. His blue eyes were scanning with unusual accuracy. Over the people. Through the people. Flowing through the masses. A dangerous fish. Doing things. Hunting.

“Ain’t no sunshine when he’s gone,” she sang, scanning the crowd with an easy sweep of her eyes, which had the peoples’ gazes plastered upon her. She wasn’t looking at any one person, it seemed like a fruitless effort, and she vented her frustrations in the song, “It’s not warm when he’s away… Ain’t no sunshine when he’s gone, and he’s always gone too long any time he goes away.” Her eyes closed and she lovingly arched her fingers into the keys.

“Wonder this time where he’s gone…” Layla opened her eyes and saw a gentleman approaching, but he was just as unfamiliar to her as the rest. She gazed at the incognito fellow for a moment, then turned her head and sang into the microphone in a morose kind of way, and she wasn’t actually performing, this was the real deal. It was no wonder eyes were transfixed on the young woman, why she was the up and coming artist. “Wonderin’ if he’s gone to stay… Ain’t no sunshine when he’s gone, and this house just ain’t no home any time he goes away.” Her playing became fierce.

“And I know, I know, I know, I know….” She felt anger that she couldn’t remember her life before waking up. Her search for the real her was fruitless and long. She knew she wasn’t who everyone thought she was, she just knew it. “I know I know I know I know!” Her body was getting into the playing, moving and swaying, beads of perspiration forming in her head as the familiar throb found her temples. “I know Iknow I know I know! Better leave that young thing alone, cause there ain’t no sunshine….”

She stopped suddenly and just sat there taking in deep breaths, licking at her lips and trying to focus on relaxing. The silence was suspended for a moment, but not too long, just a few seconds, and she played the last notes of the piano very softly, “When he’s gone…” The final measures sang out loudly, and then the applause seemed to burst from the mass of bodies. She stood up and bowed slightly, ignoring the offered hand of the good Dr. and stepping away from the Piano.

Layla found herself pushing her way through a sea of reaching hands, not making eye contact as doggedly moved toward the bar. She snagged the first available seat and asked the tender for soda water. With her drink in hand and money paid, she grabbed the bottle of asprin she kept in her hand bag, palmed two, and took them. And lucky for her, Dr. Lawrence was detained by one of the excited guests of his party, he could be seen craning his neck and standing on his toes trying to find her in the crowd.

'Ain't no sunshine when hes gone' The melancholy of the song caught up with another nondescriptly suited person, that was, in imitation of an unspoken rule a young appearing chronomancer also followed, dressed as to fit into the surroundings. Unlike Martins', the attire was little strange enough though, to discourage conversation attempts, but nowhere near strange enough for permanent engravement in the depths of memories. A fake mustache did the rest at obscuring a face. That none of the people present knew. And that he had taken great care of showing no one in this city for fear someone not quite of the right kind to do would take notice. In a city this size an almost ridiculous notion, but nobody knew when or where guarding oneself would become necessary.

He was the one who had requested a meeting with the person that was known to some as Stone, Stein to others. A young man with interesting blue eyes that looked quite dull and ordinary most of the time, but could, as his employer had quite vividly claimed, change at an instant. A boy he is by looks, but he is very dangerous. Watch out for him. These had been the words. And today he had requested a meeting with Mr Stein through some very informal channels. Some would even call them questionable. And his contact in Romania had assured him that the message was delivered and he would attend. But Mr. Stein was overdue. By two minutes now. There was nothing to worry about, yet. But if the boy ran, that might mean trouble finding him. People that certain client wanted were always found during some stage of their life, most often the sooner, but it was much better for his reputation if he did not loose the target. A meeting in a crowded environment had been a risk in the first place. A calculated one. Before he would kill a child, he need to assess the situation himself. But Mr Stone was two minutes late, despite his quite empathic message. This was a very strange thing. And somewhat sad. It looked like he might have to kill him.

The prospect, though nowhere near revolting, made him slightly less embracing of this job. A crack, as his trained mind noted with some accuracy, in his emotional armor. Mr Stone was a danger to some very rich people. And he was someone working for very rich people. It was a good bar. Good music, good location. He would enjoy this evening no matter if Mr Stone had just run into a traffic jam (unprofessional since avoidable, tsk, eliminate stray thoughts) or actually found out something he should not yet suspect.

Deceit was a dangerous game. He was quite renown for playing it well. And he was sure he was not the only one that played in this city.

* * *

'Ain't no sunshine when hes gone' She had quite an amiable singing voice, the young boy with blue eyes noted as he passed through the crowd with a practiced effort. An invisible effort that took him quite near the stage. Close to it he stood. And he was hypnotized. The woman singing there in a red dress carried features that were... familiar. So familiar.

Transfixed he stood. Staring into headlights, that face, that he knew was important, tried so hard to remember, not noting the end of her song, her untimely disappearance from stage, but only the flow of his thoughts, as his wrecked brain tried to recollect the pictures of the past into an order that was determined by actions that lead up to one another...

Down the rabbit hole he went, staring into broken mirrors, seeing a refraction of himself. Belododia. The name had something to do with her. Meant something. Romania. There it was. Fighting. He and her. Side by side. An invisible war. Fragments. Thousand different pieces. Enough for some general information. She had not come back with him from that mission. Why he could not tell. It was lost. And without some time with his book, he was not going to know much else. Only pieces of his masks remained in this future. And he knew she was important.

“Watch where you're stepping, Mister.” The voice that interrupted Martins silent processing of half-a-year of memories, maybe more, was quite annoyed. And it carried an accent he could not place. Something from around. But noting from around Romania. He had been in Romania. Warring there. Ringing. Bells ringing. Church bells? “'S'cuseme” He heard his voice speak words that were almost inaudible. A mingling of consonants with an apologetic undertone. He did not look at the person he had supposedly bumped into. But he was somehow glad that his lack of focus at this particular location had brought about nothing worse than a bump by a stranger.

He ha dto find the girl. Hey. He had to. He detached himself from the voice, not even noting whether it was still speaking. It was unimportant. Everything else as unimportant. Just the girl. He felt his masks shift. Professionalism was creeping in. The ice was there, just beyond sight. Ah... welcome old friend. Its so good to have you back. Long time no see. Yes. It was true somehow. Somehow it was always true. His eyes shifted. He was another person. Bumped into a few conversing self-important couples. And did not care. Aim, lock, fire. They were of no concern to him. Posed no threat. They better not.

Her head was hurting more by the second. The hum of the crowd, the bright neon of the lights, and the sound of someone beginning to murder a song on the piano had her feeling like she had been hit by a Mac Truck. She set her empty glass on the bar and pushed away, thinking it was a mistake to have brought herself into the party she never wanted to attend in the first place. She moved back into the crowd, her destination was the door.

As she wound around one form or another, she could hear snatches of conversation, compliments to herself and to the host of the party. People speculated that she, perhaps, was in a relationship with the host, but it was false. She had no intention on addressing the gossip because she thought it was stupid in the first place.

It was when she was about to round a portly fellow who was blocking her path, that someone was shoved into her, and she nearly bowled her former partner over. She put her hands out to stop herself from falling and came in contact with Martin Stein, the incognito one. She didn’t touch skin; she merely had her hands flat against his back for a moment before she righted herself. “Apologies,” she mumbled, a hand rising up to rub at a temple before she skirted around Martin to head to the door.

Of course, she did not get very far before the host of the party curled his hand around her upper arm a bit too firmly for her liking and pulled her around to face him, “Layla, where are you going? You just got here.” His voice was chilled and caused a shiver of apprehension to go through her. An image of an old man came to mind, an old man with a leering smile and a roaming hand. But when she tried to break free from this one, he at least dropped his hand and had the decency to be embarrassed about his own actions. “I’m sorry, darling, maybe that was a bit too harsh.”

Layla didn’t reply right away, she was lost in thought. The man’s words faded from her mind as she focused on the first, clear image she had in her head since arriving in New York. She had no idea she was seeing Beledodia in her head. The jazz singer would have focused on it for awhile, but she heard her name being repeated, and threw out a reply, “Many apologies, Dr. Lawrence. I should not have come here tonight, I am not feeling well.”

People. People everywhere around him. Some in more casual attire than others. Some amusing themselves. Some listening. Some just being there to be seen. Some here, some there. People everywhere. And the lady in the red dress was nowhere to be found. For a second Martin stood in shocked silence as he realized that he might be chasing ghosts. He. Chasing ghosts. Btu then there were… hands on his back.

He spun around quite rapidly, not caring that his elbow just so happened to bump into the back of another guest leading to pained hisses from behind him. Someone had actually touched him. Dangerous things, these gatherings really were. He was just lucky that his clothing covered most of his body. His skin. Who knows what might have happened to the touchy-feely person that had just done the unspeakable? As the world settled from the spinning, he saw indeed a person rushing through the crowd. A person in a red dress. Another second of silence followed. Of standing there in the middle of the crowd and just waiting. He had seen a ghost indeed. A ghost of the past.

And so he rushed forward, almost dashing after her, just barely slipping by the limbs of others that were here- Risking contact any minute now. Just risking himself. The crowd was unaffected by his errant behaviour. They were just as they were. Talking. Laughing. Spinning webs. He was different. Things were moving all around him. The lady in the red dress. Where was she?

Running. Not away from here. To the target.

There she was. He was almost relieved as he saw her talking to another man. This one was important. Or thought himself so, judging by his bearing, by the way people gravitated around him. And he was speaking to the woman he wanted to have a long chat with. Very good. He kept her from moving out of sight totally. And he presented him with the most perfect opportunity as well.

The lithe man in his black suit had no problem making a circle of three out of their circle of two, nudging them both slightly away from each other with a friendly, apologetic smile directed at the man. “Please excuse my interruption.” Oh so light was his voice, just carrying its message to their ears. Then he turned to the woman. The one he knew. “I just wanted to laude your performance on this evening.” He even managed an appropriately impressed tone. “It was very moving.” Oh and the fact that he completely ignored the host… it was just coincidence, yes? Blue eyes on red cloth. There was nothing erotic there. Just cold interest. Despite the words. His masks were speaking. And he was just ´beginning to wonder what to do with the man.

"Don't you know you can call me by my first name by now? We're beyond casual aquaintence." The man of the hour went on to say, leaning in as if to get close to the lady in red. She leaned back some, as his breath was laced with Scotch. Her nose wrinkled to some degree, and panic became a vice like grip around her throat. She felt her back against the wall soon enough, and reached behind her, fumbling for a door handle or something.

"But I hardly know you." she finally hissed out, managing to make her heavy tongue move. "And besides, I have things to do in the morning."

"Nonsense. I have already spoken with your employer and reimbursed him for any money he might be out for giving you tomorrow off. Now, you should come with---" He was clearly tipsy, that, she thought, and her eyes rolled. She cut him off mid sentance with a gentle shove, and a soft growl.

"Please, I want nothing more than to have a day off, but I cannot afford it... And you have NO business getting into my business. Thank you. Bye." And with that, she ducked under his arm and skirted around him, angry by that point. She didn't notice the stares, and nor did she seem to care. Though she had a feeling in her gut that someone was constantly eyeballing her at the moment, but she didn't bother to scan the room. It was probably just paranoia anyways, she thought as she closed in on her destination.

Layla thought she was home free. But to her dissapointment, the esteemed Dr. Lawrence grabbed at her again, his hand a bit firmer in grip this time. He had tossed another drink down between their meetings, and this time was a bit less... Embaressed about his actions. "You tease me so? Please, just hear me out, my darling. I need to speak with you!"

She shoved at him and snarled a little, "If you touch me again...I'll..."

"You'll what, dear? Freeze me out?" He snorted and dropped his hand, sighing dramatically and getting ready to storm off when some man nudged in and insert his two cents... He then huffed and did storm off.

She had a most relieved look upon her face, and hardly paid attention to what was being said until she heard that her performance was moving. Her caramels blinked a few times before she focused them on the stranger who made the host so pissed off that he walked away like the pansy that he was. Layla canted her head and mumbled a thanks, before saying, "I shouldn't have come here, though..."

The pictures, they swam. Ripples in a pond, just sending the world=standing upside down. Like you hanging from the ceiling? Come with me. Journey. Farther. On the inside. Development goes===on? Come. His hand was raised, halfway. Between casual, between decisions hanging over them. The sword of Damocles. That hand.

"I think we are acquainted." Yes? We are?

Wonderful that the other had decided to leave. How much coincidence? How cold that young stare was. As if he had known all along. As if he was knowing. All along. (In the past they had always known as well) Welcome to the future:= IDENTITY

She caught sight of the hand raising and stopped, halfway through the door. Ever so slowly she turned her head, the lounge singer, and met the stare of the young man who vied for her attention. She stared back, blurred images flitting through her brain as if she was about to remember something important… He was… Familiar.

Now, Layla was sure she had never met the man before in her life, but there was something so familiar about him. She felt drawn, and moved in his direction, ignoring the rest of the room. She walked toward him, shouldering passed people here and there, weaving through until she was in front of him.

Caramels gazed intently upon his form, moving from head to toe, and back up again. Ruby lips parted as if she was going to speak, but nothing came out, save for a sigh. She lifted a hand to touch his face, but stopped herself, shaking her head and puckering her brow. “Who…?” she asked softly, his visage fading out as she saw blurred images again. Sweat beaded upon her upper lip and she saw a man’s face… The face was different, but not by much, it was the eyes that pierced through the fog and into a memory.

Blinking, she dropped her hand and furrowed her brow again, backing away a little. The woman looked around in a bewildered manner. She was leaving, wasn’t she? So what was she still doing in the lounge? Oh… Oh yeah, there was a man, a handsome, mustached man standing in front of her, and there was definitely a connection. Romantic? She wasn’t completely sure.

Her heart pounded against her ribcage, beating a rhythm in her chest to rival that of war drums. She searched his gaze for answers to questions left silent; who was he? Where did she know him from? Why was he there? Why did he want to talk to her? What did he want from her?

Lightly his almost touch on her flesh, just cupping around the arm in such a way, that there was warmth transmitted. Heat, intensely burning on that interactive level they were now facing: Intimacy. Without touch. Feel my HUMANITY (just to make me feel better); not though, the final step in the taking, not that. Not destruction. This was, after all, just interaction; a reciprocal illusion of their minds crossing in the infinite of possibilities. This was not yet... complete.

For completion meant certainty meant stillness meant death. Equations of equity. So his hand was transgressing on her arm, but only slightly, surreptitiously some would have said, by giving of nothing more then infrared radiation. An ideation easily forgone. There would be no traces here. Just dancing on the edge of death. A melodramatic tune. Wont you remember me? Wont I remember you? A thing of...

shatterings.

His face parting in that almost-smile, that bit of knowing. What... what made you do it? Just... the fact that I can be... different. The other hand grasping, once, emptily the air, then, with a flourish, the mustache. Yes, that half-smile said, yes. I am not who I think I am. I am an image of your minds profession/confession/condition. I am what you think I am, just, projective spaces...

Shifting. The stance, as if there was something younger underneath these clothes, something more boyish. Just rests of glue remaining in the face of the piece that was slowly disappearing in one of his pockets. Just lowly abandoned. An identity. Feel like you got the core of the onion? Speech shifting too, another dimension. Intimate, personal the address. "I think you know me." Which one I mean? Which part of me?

The warmth of my hand, cupped around your arm maybe. The warmth of certainty? Just an illusion. We are, after all, only images of our expectations of each other. IDENTITY=void; Fatal ERROR 101; Failure to compute mean value

Layla swallowed heavily as Martin moved, gooseflesh dotting her skin everywhere when she felt the heat of his body even though he never touched her. There was a familiarity about him, was it his eyes? His face? Crimson painted lips parted slightly, and pink tongue darted out to lick the sudden dry feeling away. “Who are you?” she whispered somewhat huskily, troubles swimming in the sticky caramel gaze that seemed to drink his face. Her hand lifted and reached out, stopping short of touching his face. She only touched a thin line of air. No, he had never been her lover, she was sure of it. Somewhere in the broken pieces of her mind was someone else, and he didn’t match up with the face in front of her. Still, she could easily let her guard down with this one… She knew him somehow, but… She couldn’t…. Grasp the situation.

She didn’t back away, though she was clearly shaken. She wanted to call him “Stone,” for some reason. Stone was a silly name, she thought, so why did she want to call him such a thing? The singer didn’t remember that he had given her that name to call him, she didn’t remember that he was her pretend husband in Romania. Hell, she barely even remembered being in Romania, save for the part where she had awakened while recovering from her harrowing experience.

All it would take from him would be a touch and he, as a person, would come flooding back to her… But neither she, nor Martin, knew this little detail. Time only slowed, not stopped, when he touched her. She was different to him, someone he could touch. If she only knew this information, things would be different, yes? But she didn’t. Still, why didn’t she touch him, even not knowing who he was at the particular moment? Nothing was stopping her but herself. Or was it that she had the deep seed of knowledge locked within her head and just didn’t realize it?

People were beginning to stop and stare, some murmuring that they made a handsome pair, others gossiping and speculating. One person in particular glowered. The good Doctor was most assuredly not a happy camper.