She awoke with a start, this amnesiac woman who had yet to have a glimmer of her past. This soul had been wandering for quite some time with no hope for recognition, not one single glance of an end in sight. A heavy heart became a burden since her return to the states, scarred, broken, a misfit mutant with one too many pieces missing to her jigsaw puzzle. Unfortunately for her, the one thing she did not get rid of with her memory, was the dreams that haunted her at night.

Oh, these dreams weren't anything too frightening as of late... In fact, they were kind of monotonous. The same sights, SSDN, right? She awoke from the same dream she had seen for the last month. Fun. So why did she still break out into a light sheen of a sweat? Was it because she was running? So many freakin' questions, she thought as she lifted a hand and palmed the base of her neck. A heavy sigh huffed passed her sleep-swollen lips, flushed cheeks puffing only slightly with the passing action. The plant-girl pushed out of her cotton cocoon and bare feet hit the fine, burber carpet.

Her suite in the hotel she had been staying in had a teriffic view of the skyline. As always, she padded to the french doors that lead to the balcony, and out into the cold air, wincing at the sting of the wind against her tender flesh. She hadn't thought to don a robe, and now regretted it as welts formed on her arms and face. She retreated back into her room and looked for some layers to pull on over her filmy night clothes.

When she was bundled up, seemingly more than one would need for a simply brisk, autumn night, she headed out of her suite and into the hallway. From there, she took the elevator down to the lobby and headed out the revolving door, walking slowly through the courtyard and onto the busy sidewalks of New York City. Xavia shoved her hands into her pockets and shuffled down the walkway without a word to the random strangers and passerbyes. No, she simply walked and pondered in her usual way, about the things she did not know, the things she did not understand, and the things she wanted to find out. Such was the day in the life of Xavia.

On this particular night, though, things would take a turn for the interesting as she rounded the corner and stopped dead in her tracks... There was a pub, McCullin's Hole... It seemed to strike a chord with her more than anything had in awhile. Intrigued, she walked up to one of the windows and peered inward, watching silently as the crowd drank and laughed their pocketbooks empty. Something about this pub was slightly familiar, and she pressed her forhead closer to the glass, her breath fogging up the pane as she exhaled.

Squinting her eyes, she stood there like a fool, trying to tap into a distant memory. Xavia didn't know what it was about this place that could possibly be of interest. She knew that none of the occupants would know who the hell she was, and she just knew that they would probably laugh at her for standing there as she was. With a frown furrowing her delicate brow, the lass stepped back and turned to leave... But then, with her foot still poised, she pivoted and stared again. What if someone DID know who she was? Could she take the chance of leaving without ever knowing?

After a moment of indecision, she reluctantly, and timidly strode into the pub.

"No, no, I swear! It was terrible!" Duncan, the bartender, laughed at Anthony, and a few of the patrons down towards the end of the bar laughed with him. "Imagine it for a second. There I am wearing nothing but a sock on my right foot, a girl similarly undressed on my arm, when a half dozen nuns walk into the garden! Well, she bolts for her clothes, and forgets to let go of me, and so I go down face first in the mud. I stand up, and they notice me, and begin screamin' something about incubii and sin and Satan! Suffice to say, I did not get lucky that night."

Anthony laughed with the rest of the men, regulars in McCollin's Hole. Anthony had been coming down, couple of times a week, for about a year. He'd only met Seamus McCollin once during that time, but Duncan O'Toule and a few of the others had been regular faces he'd come to know.

Sitting at the bar near the door, he shook the hands of each man as they left, or entered if he recognized him. Looking around at the low key Irish Pub, he thought about how lucky he was. Just about a year, and he hadn't gotten into a bar fight, been kicked out, or been arrested. Well, not when it was related to the bar. In fact, the worst thing that had happened to him in this bar was his first night there, and Duncan's first week. For the first time in some time, Anthony thought about that night.

"Duncan, do you remember when we met?"
"Well, it was the first Scots-Irish I poured in New York. You chatted up a couple of ladies, one got pissed at the two of you, and you two chased after her."
"HA! She got pissed at us, and pissed on brandy. But, by god, she was a looker. Vitriolic, kind of messed up, but good looking. The cat was too. What were their names..." Anthony kind of squinted at the the door, and was trying to remember. He could visualize her pretty well. She was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt... no, she was wearing more layers than that, and she had been standing in the doorwa-

Anthony startled himself. He'd saw her at the bar that night. She was standing in the doorway RIGHT NOW. He stared at her face. Her name came to him, her ID flashing before his eyes. He hooked a thumb in the silver chain around his neck.

"Xavia."

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?

Xavia stared him down, then looked away and wandered off to a table. She was clearly doing better then before. Her clothes looked a little questionable on the taste side, but quality and expense were there in full force. Anthony brushed it off and turned back to his drink.

Or he tried to. He really did.
You don't just brush of Anthony Davids because you've become some Nouveau Riche parvenu.
"Duncan. Brandy, on my tab." Anthony stood up, fixed his collar, double checked his buttons, took both glasses, and proceeded over to her table.

She'd cleaned up really well. Her hair, which was unkempt before, had the healthy glow of good care over time. Her movements weren't the scared and shaky movements from before. She was pretty much only picking at her food. Then she slammed her glass down and slumped into her chair.

"Well, aren't we grumpy today. Do you have any moods that aren't sullen or angry?" Anthony set the glass of Brandy down next to her glass and took a seat. "It's been awhile, remember me? I dare say, you are prettier then last time we met, Xavia." Anthony smiled his most winsome smile and leaned in, chin on the back of his clasped hands, elbows propped on the table.

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? Was she not Xavia? Had Anthony made a mistake? This was not possible. Anthony didn't make mistakes, not about pretty women. It was something that just didn't happen. Except that time with the twins, but that was a one time thing.

Or was it?

"Ah, Well, Layla, you wouldn't happen to have a twin? You see, I have this thing about knowing women. I met one, here in fact, who was amazingly beautiful. And we shared a drink, sorta. She did most of the drinking, and the freaking out, and the getting us hurt." Anthony watched for any recognition, some kind of hint that she WAS the woman he thought she was.

" We met a tall woman, a Cat, named Sarah. But the surprising part of all of this? I remember three things very clearly. Xavia could grow plants from her self, or flowers anyway. I remember Xavia Amethyst Worshahlai. Well, there is more, but if you aren't her, it's not important."

Anthony wasn't going for dramatic. He was going for noble. It was coming off as dramatic.

"She drank a rather portionable amount of Brandy. Even if you aren't her, that drink is for you. Call it a gift, or not. It is very nice to meet you, Layla." Anthony raised his own half-full glass in a toast.

"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.

Anthony watched the girl go through several phases in the grieving process. Or so he thought. It would have made about as much sense as whatever process she really was going through.

""Who are you? And who am I?" Anthony was a little confused, but it reminded him of something, but he was kind of drunk when it happened. She was laying on the sidewalk, and something about an important piece of paper.

"You obviously know me, but I don't know me. Help. Please...." That jogged the next piece of information out of his head. She was in trouble, someone was trying to kill her, and she didn't know why.

When she slammed back the brandy, Anthony finished his mock toast and took a long gulp. He steepled his fingers and leaned back, staring at the woman in front of him.

"You don't remember who you are? At all?" Dryad nodded, and Anthony sighed.

"I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry. That's... that's terrible. Whoever you are not, you aren't who you were, that much is obvious. We met, and I thought you were snubbing me back there. I'll do what I can. Someone was trying to kill you, or you thought so. You had a piece of paper, and it was scribbled like a journal. Sarah, or rather Sara as she pronounced it, helped you when you got hurt... I'm sure there is more, but I was little into my cups at the time."

Anthony smirked. "That means I get to make a better first impression, right? I'm Anthony. I'm a mutant too." A broad, beaming grin made it's way onto his face.

(Edited: For Durr level grammatical errors)

"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.

Anthony watched her settle into thought, and as a waitress walked by, he ordered another drink for himself. She was very together. She was... she was still a nutter. But she was much friendlier.

Anthony's drink arrived. There was something terrible to be said about this world, where a beautiful girl can be terrorized, forget it all, and then be obsessed with remembering what she's forgotten, even if it is terrible.

He looked at her over the brim of his glass as he sipped the dark, pungent brew.

"I used to play the violin. I had a friend who was very important to me. She was..." Anthony caught himself playing with the silver chain around his neck, and stopped. "She's gone, so I don't play anymore. Not everything about the past is great." Anthony sighed. "I miss playing. If you were as distressed and lost as I thought you were, it's good you forgot. I'm not saying you shouldn't try to remember. But you seem to be doing well, so you might not want to be Xavia again."

"Well, Layla, if I can help you, I will. Here is my cell phone number. It's... well, it's not here right now, I think it's in my hotel." Anthony snagged the pen from the waitress' apron as she passed, and wrote it down on a bar napkin, and slid it towards her. "Take it, even if you don't want to keep it. It'll make me feel better knowing you can call me if you need me." He replaced his pen as the waitress wandered past him, mumbling something about office supplies. "Another drink?"

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..."

Anthony chuckled and sat back after she finished her, justly earned, mini-tirade. She seemed to really REALLY hate rich people, which was almost entertaining to him. He didn't think she actually hated blue bloods, but rather the socially gauche and flagrantly decadent kind of wealth that only groups of the pretentious can manage, regardless of money or family.

But she offered him a drink, which he graciously took. He pondered her words when she abruptly changed the subject.
"Tell me about you and stop worrying about me, now. Please." Anthony grinned.
"That, my dear, is a subject I can indulge you in. I am Anthony Davids, Blue Blood. Technically. My family is social elite in New Hampshire. I think Caviar is fine, but the same amount of money is better spent on a half-dozen bacon cheese burgers, or even better, a dozen beers in a bar. I was raised to be the perfect son for taking over the perfect family and running the most successful of businesses. Or, that's what it was supposed to look like. Around 17 I sprouted fur and my DNA make-up shifted closer to mongoose then monkey, and my father publicly disowned me. Publicly, not privately. Saved face, and I don't have to worry about all the responsibility. And, look, I have the most beautiful fur coat year round. Dry clean only, though." Anthony winked at Xavia and smiled.

"I like short walks in the park, because everytime I step foot in central park, something mildly ridiculous happens. Otherwise I'd probably enjoy a long walk there. I prefer martini's over jagerbombs, but I like beer or wine equally. And, honestly, expensive clothes don't make someone instantly fashionable. An ugly outfit is ugly, regardless of how much it costs, and sometimes jeans and a tee is perfectly acceptable." Pulling on the sleeves of his long, black silk shirt, and touching the collar, Anthony frowned. "But it's okay to spend money on the perfect shirt, by god."

A man leaving the bar called out to Anthony, and joking about turning him into a rug, so Anthony turned and made an insinuation about the man's mother's sexual habits. The two of them at the table were probably the only mutants in the bar, at least it seemed so, but no one had ever been genuinely rude about it, though jokes about fur were as rampant as jokes about alcoholism and inbreeding.

"We are all just people. No one is even marginally perfect, except me, because the world needs a standard." Anthony winked again, and took a sip of his drink. "Oh, and my favorite color is blue or black, which is handy, considering the color I turned out. If my fur was hot-pink, I'd have ate a bullet."
((Edited for spelling.))

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.'"

Anthony leaned back in his chair. He was getting another lecture about "perfection." There wasn't a lot to this argument. Someone taking the oh so controversial perfection isn't everything and is probably bad side. Anthony entertained some scathing retorts, but instead just let her do her flower power thing.

As she wrapped up, complete with a bouquet and a ham handed analogy, Anthony smiled and clapped. "Very clever, now pull a rabbit. I mean, really, was that entirely necessary? Or were you just showing off? Because I can't see arguing against perfection requiring such a display. A messy display. I do hope you plan on cleaning up your debris, it'd be a might pretentious and inconsiderate to make someone else do it." Anthony was holding back a frown. "You still have kind of a short indignity fuse, you pulled the flower thing on us last time too. Albeit, you were kinda messy at that point. Hey! I have a question! Can you do hibiscus? Because I think you should wear one in your hair above your ear. Very aesthetically pleasing, and kind of exotic, without being too gauche."

Anthony yawned and stretched. "Sorry, I didn't intend to be rude. We are all people, it's true, but there is nothing wrong with wanting to be the best you that you can be. Anyway, this thing called Perfection really does prefer to be called Anthony, if you don't mind." Anthony tilted his head and smirked at Xavia.

As Anthony grew short and sarcastic with her, so her temper flared. But rather than sit there and let him continue to insult her thusly, she gave him a measured stare and refused to retort. After all, he was probably fishing for such a thing, right? Looking for a fight. Well, she wasn’t in the mood to fight with the mongoose man. In fact, she was far from in the mood. She planted her palms calmly on the table, a look of hurt kind of flashing across her angry face, and she stood up. From there, she gathered the few belongings she had with her and put them away.

With that, Layla, or Xavia, pivoted and walked away, not looking back and ignoring the sounds of the men who were heckling around her. Red spots formed on her cheeks to show her anger and otherwise, but she remained tight-lipped, her chin raising a notch. When someone reached out to touch her as if to stop her, she gave them a frosty glare, one which would cause a grown man to whimper like a newborn.

The bell over the door jangled to mark her exit.

********

It would be some months before she ventured back into the bar. She was different, though, she had shorn her beautiful locks into a chic cut and bleached it. Dark sunglasses covered her still healing face, and heavy make up was applied to try and hide any green that remained from the bruises that came from the blow she had been handed across her lovely face. Her full lips were gently glossed, rather than red like they would usually be, and no jewelry twinkled at her throat, hands, and wrists.

She wore a black dress, not formal, mind you, but casual. It had a cowl neck and capped sleeves. The skirt reached her lower thighs, and her legs were bare. Her shoes were slingback wedges. Over the dress, she wore a sheer, white sweater to keep what little chill there was to the day from reaching her arms. She had just had a meeting, otherwise she wouldn’t even bother to dress as she did that day.

Xavia didn’t even care if she was recognized, she just wanted something to drink. She moved easily onto a stool and raised her hand to grab the attention of the bartender, “Apple martini, on the rocks. Stirred. Open a tab please.” When he set off to do the task, she set her handbag on the counter and then pushed her shades upward, blinking to adjust to the light of the bar.

She didn’t look around, didn’t respond to anyone who might be trying to flirt with her, she just... wanted... a drink... End of story. This was the only place she knew, at the moment, that she wouldn’t be bombarded with questions regarding the incident at the hotel she had been staying at. Naturally, she had moved herself out of that hotel and into another.

In the time being, she received her drink and was sipping it thoughtfully, staring off into nothing.