Match, Sharon: Night Light
Aug. 24th, 2023 02:26 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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xp_logsSharon's pursuit of an interesting scent leads her straight to Fuck Around and Find Out.
Most people had a scene. What they ate, what they'd touched, how active they'd been, and, of course, the pheromones they exuded -- in her experience, every individual had their own olfactory signature. Whoever she was following now, on the other hand, had a quality. It smelled to Sharon almost like the inside of a lit stove; a quality of heat and warmed ozone. Curious. It didn't provide her with much information about the individual's biological qualities, but it still left a trail. She'd followed it to one of the residential suites. The fact it was after two in the morning was an unimportant detail. If other people failed to appreciate the benefits of a nocturnal lifestyle they had only themselves to blame.
The door was unlocked. Sharon slipped inside and beheld little of note; the standard trappings, but nothing very personal. She did spend a few moments nosing a bag that turned out to contain a large amount of empty cans. Her interest dwindled once she'd determined they'd been washed clean of anything edible. The cat continued her investigation.
She found what she was looking for in one of the bedrooms. At first she'd assumed the light beneath the door came from some kind of lamp, but when she nudged her way inside the bedroom she saw it was in fact emanating from the figure in the bed. The illumination was soft, and orange, and it pulsed steadily, like a heartbeat. The temperature in the room was higher, too. Compared to the omnipresent air conditioning in the rest of the mansion this place was almost cozy.
The smell of burning was strongest here. Intrigued, Sharon placed a forepaw on the bed and lifted herself up for a better look.
Which was the moment the bed erupted into flames, the figure shooting up into a sitting position and looking around the room wildly. Haloed by the open flame, and the suddenly might brighter glow emitting from under his shirt, Match finally caught sight of… something at the foot of his bed.
He should have been panicking at that, but the pillow was on fire. His stomach twisted into knots as he mentally begged it to stop, to not repeat Chicago, just go away. It was spreading and instinctively his hands shot out to slap it, wildly kicking the sheet and blanket off his fully clothed form in hopes that at least they wouldn’t start up.
The room darkened a touch, flames stopping as Match panted on the bed, though he was still illuminated by a glowing patch of flesh that had spread. The burst that had started to peak up from his neck had raced up like a lightning bolt up his throat. And finally he turned on the creature, anger flaring up now that the fear had stopped. “Can I McFucking help you?”
Clarice might have had the ability as a consequence of her mutant power, but the real secret to teleportation was motivation. When the conflagration began Sharon had been on Match's bed. Now, a fraction of a second later, she was on top of a dresser on the other side of the room with every follicle on her body expanding it to twice its natural size.
"You were on fire!"
"I'm always on fire," he spat out, though saying the words gave him pause, as he was finally forced to face something he didn't particularly like but that was in fact true. Realizing that he'd lapsed into silence he mustered the best glare he could at the... cat... thing on the dresser before confusion won out. The light pulsing out of his skin could only do so much for his vision so slowly, keeping his eyes on it, he got out of bed and turned the light of his room on for a better look. "Oh, I thought it was a trick of the light but you really are purple, but not Madin or Blink purple. Are you... new here?"
"Yes. I am both new and purple. I have met the others. We are a beautiful rainbow." With the stranger now conversing Sharon's coat began to smooth back to its normal position, though her tail continued to twitch stiffly. She peered around Match to the bed behind him. "Fire is gone," she noted, puzzled. "Burnt out?"
"Purple rainbow, happy for you," Match deadpanned as he turned his attention to survey the damage. It didn't make any sense to him, she didn't seem to have any fire control, but he'd never done that before. Brows knitting together he began to worriedly tug at his jacket sleeves. "It's never happened before, I guess it just was a flash fire. That's a thing right?" He finally made eye contact with her, eyes pleading as he tried to remember if sudden fires going out was, in fact, a real thing.
"It is a thing. Usually in presence of fuel. Flammable gas, or dust, maybe?" Her fur was settled now. Cautiously, Sharon jumped from the dresser. She paced a little closer, but kept a respectful distance. "Apologize. Your scent is unusual. Did not realize bed was occupied by a person. Thought it might be heating implement."
"Uh thank you?" Wait, no, that felt wrong, but he wasn't about to draw attention to it. With a sigh he sat back onto his bed and looked at the cat expectantly. "You, uh, you can have a seat at my desk if you want. It's not like I use it anyway. I'm Match, I think the reasons behind that are obvious. Do you - are you hungry? I probably have something if you want." He'd begun to dig through his backpack as he spoke, pausing to pull out a few cleaned cans he'd forgotten to add and setting them aside for later.
"I am always hungry." Sharon wasn't sure why causing the boy to set his bed on fire resulted in an offer of food, but she also wasn't going to question the result. At his invitation she hopped into the desk chair, watching curiously as he rifled through his bag.
"You have many cans," she observed. "Smelled no fresh food. Dietary preference?"
"Fuckin mood, bro." Match huffed from inside his bag. Following a moment of more rustling, he emerged, four held between hands which he set down. "Got pumpkin, jackfruit — can you eat jackfruit? If not ignore I said that — coconut milk, and, oh, got some canned chicken.” He looked at her rather wryly looking down to the can top. "I assume you'd want the chicken. It's got one of them peel lids if you wanna open it for yourself."
"Your assumption is correct. Preferably not canned whole chicken, though. Perfectly edible, just unnerving." Sharon accepted the can and hooked a claw over the tab. The lid did indeed peel away as advertised. "You are always burning?" she asked conversationally. She stuck her fingers in the can and scooped out a few chunks.
"Nah, just the bits," he offered conversationally as he watched her with a bland interest, as if he was seeing something he saw everyday, startle forgotten or more realistically filed away for something to react to once he truly woke up. "Just on the inside as far as we can tell, but it usually just stays there. This makes the third time, but the only time it's stopped."
Sharon grunted around her chicken. "Not my doing. Have caused too many greasefires for me to not know about secondary mutation of that sort. Pyrokinetic, maybe?"
"Well now you're just a purple werecat in my eyes, instead of, like, a fire powered, purple, werecat." And though his words were dry, a lopsided grin flashed for a moment before disappearing. "Eh, don't think so. Might be something in the room because they know I start 'em."
"Perhaps. Jet beneath basketball court does imply the potential existence of advanced fire suppression systems." Sharon glanced up from the can, licking her whiskers. "Normal to keep cans by your bed? I am always eating. Fast metabolism. Wonder if you are the same, maybe."
"Mhm, jet, basketball court, same shit every day, makes me glad I was cross country." Turning the point over, he shrugged. "I think they think it's the same. Good to have something on hand, at least in case of anything. If you're done you can just leave it on the dresser to get cleaned out tomorrow. Are you always a cat-person? 'Were,' that's the one, innit?"
"Technically aliuromorph," Sharon replied, "but 'were' means man in Old English, yes. So that is a go-bag? An excellent idea. I was chased out of home with only the clothes on my back, which were none. Would have benefited from such preparation."
And as was becoming a habit with Match, when words were used he did not understand and could in no way feasibly learn them, he nodded along. "Yeah, that's what it's come to be really. Ya never know what's gonna happen tomorrow. You can probably get a bag from one of the people here if you want your own. Just to keep stuff you might need."
"I am a cat. I need no things." She paused. "Except iPad so I can access bank account and credit cards, maybe. Capitalism comes for us all." Sharon stuck her muzzle into the can as far as she could manage and began to lick up the remaining contents. "Like you. Sensible, willing to feed me, and natural heat source. We are friends now."
"Oh, cool, 'aight, thanks, glad we're friends." He'd opened the can of jackfruit and had begun to fish out pieces for himself. Tiredness had returned, as he chewed and he cocked his head. "What do I call you? It seems rude to assume and call you, like, 'cat'."
"Not so rude. Have gone by Catseye on internet for years. Was not a creative child. Sharon is fine also." Sharon fished a fugitive chunk of chicken around the bottom of the can with a clawed finger. "But, always nice to be asked. I will politely not refer to you as 'bed warmer'."
"Years," the word was dragged out, brows raised in question, but again he didn't ask and opted to ask in the future, if he remembered. "Catseye's a cool name, though, and thanks, yeah, just Match is fine. Space heater was the previous occupation."
"An important job. Air conditioner seems to run 24/7 here. Unpleasant." Sharon noticed something and peered over the edge of the chair. "Were you wearing shoes in bed?"
"Yeah, that's probably because of me." He looked down to his feet, as if he'd entirely forgotten they were attached to his body. Looking back to her he shrugged mildly. "Yup. Always gotta be ready."
Sharon considered the go-bag by the bed, the piles of cans in the kitchen, and now the full set of clothes she realized Match had worn to bed. These said a few things to her, and they used words like "food insecurity" and "hypervigilance." Serious words that implied serious issues.
Well, she thought as she finished the can of chicken, if that was what made him feel comfortable, that was his business.
It was probably fine.
Most people had a scene. What they ate, what they'd touched, how active they'd been, and, of course, the pheromones they exuded -- in her experience, every individual had their own olfactory signature. Whoever she was following now, on the other hand, had a quality. It smelled to Sharon almost like the inside of a lit stove; a quality of heat and warmed ozone. Curious. It didn't provide her with much information about the individual's biological qualities, but it still left a trail. She'd followed it to one of the residential suites. The fact it was after two in the morning was an unimportant detail. If other people failed to appreciate the benefits of a nocturnal lifestyle they had only themselves to blame.
The door was unlocked. Sharon slipped inside and beheld little of note; the standard trappings, but nothing very personal. She did spend a few moments nosing a bag that turned out to contain a large amount of empty cans. Her interest dwindled once she'd determined they'd been washed clean of anything edible. The cat continued her investigation.
She found what she was looking for in one of the bedrooms. At first she'd assumed the light beneath the door came from some kind of lamp, but when she nudged her way inside the bedroom she saw it was in fact emanating from the figure in the bed. The illumination was soft, and orange, and it pulsed steadily, like a heartbeat. The temperature in the room was higher, too. Compared to the omnipresent air conditioning in the rest of the mansion this place was almost cozy.
The smell of burning was strongest here. Intrigued, Sharon placed a forepaw on the bed and lifted herself up for a better look.
Which was the moment the bed erupted into flames, the figure shooting up into a sitting position and looking around the room wildly. Haloed by the open flame, and the suddenly might brighter glow emitting from under his shirt, Match finally caught sight of… something at the foot of his bed.
He should have been panicking at that, but the pillow was on fire. His stomach twisted into knots as he mentally begged it to stop, to not repeat Chicago, just go away. It was spreading and instinctively his hands shot out to slap it, wildly kicking the sheet and blanket off his fully clothed form in hopes that at least they wouldn’t start up.
The room darkened a touch, flames stopping as Match panted on the bed, though he was still illuminated by a glowing patch of flesh that had spread. The burst that had started to peak up from his neck had raced up like a lightning bolt up his throat. And finally he turned on the creature, anger flaring up now that the fear had stopped. “Can I McFucking help you?”
Clarice might have had the ability as a consequence of her mutant power, but the real secret to teleportation was motivation. When the conflagration began Sharon had been on Match's bed. Now, a fraction of a second later, she was on top of a dresser on the other side of the room with every follicle on her body expanding it to twice its natural size.
"You were on fire!"
"I'm always on fire," he spat out, though saying the words gave him pause, as he was finally forced to face something he didn't particularly like but that was in fact true. Realizing that he'd lapsed into silence he mustered the best glare he could at the... cat... thing on the dresser before confusion won out. The light pulsing out of his skin could only do so much for his vision so slowly, keeping his eyes on it, he got out of bed and turned the light of his room on for a better look. "Oh, I thought it was a trick of the light but you really are purple, but not Madin or Blink purple. Are you... new here?"
"Yes. I am both new and purple. I have met the others. We are a beautiful rainbow." With the stranger now conversing Sharon's coat began to smooth back to its normal position, though her tail continued to twitch stiffly. She peered around Match to the bed behind him. "Fire is gone," she noted, puzzled. "Burnt out?"
"Purple rainbow, happy for you," Match deadpanned as he turned his attention to survey the damage. It didn't make any sense to him, she didn't seem to have any fire control, but he'd never done that before. Brows knitting together he began to worriedly tug at his jacket sleeves. "It's never happened before, I guess it just was a flash fire. That's a thing right?" He finally made eye contact with her, eyes pleading as he tried to remember if sudden fires going out was, in fact, a real thing.
"It is a thing. Usually in presence of fuel. Flammable gas, or dust, maybe?" Her fur was settled now. Cautiously, Sharon jumped from the dresser. She paced a little closer, but kept a respectful distance. "Apologize. Your scent is unusual. Did not realize bed was occupied by a person. Thought it might be heating implement."
"Uh thank you?" Wait, no, that felt wrong, but he wasn't about to draw attention to it. With a sigh he sat back onto his bed and looked at the cat expectantly. "You, uh, you can have a seat at my desk if you want. It's not like I use it anyway. I'm Match, I think the reasons behind that are obvious. Do you - are you hungry? I probably have something if you want." He'd begun to dig through his backpack as he spoke, pausing to pull out a few cleaned cans he'd forgotten to add and setting them aside for later.
"I am always hungry." Sharon wasn't sure why causing the boy to set his bed on fire resulted in an offer of food, but she also wasn't going to question the result. At his invitation she hopped into the desk chair, watching curiously as he rifled through his bag.
"You have many cans," she observed. "Smelled no fresh food. Dietary preference?"
"Fuckin mood, bro." Match huffed from inside his bag. Following a moment of more rustling, he emerged, four held between hands which he set down. "Got pumpkin, jackfruit — can you eat jackfruit? If not ignore I said that — coconut milk, and, oh, got some canned chicken.” He looked at her rather wryly looking down to the can top. "I assume you'd want the chicken. It's got one of them peel lids if you wanna open it for yourself."
"Your assumption is correct. Preferably not canned whole chicken, though. Perfectly edible, just unnerving." Sharon accepted the can and hooked a claw over the tab. The lid did indeed peel away as advertised. "You are always burning?" she asked conversationally. She stuck her fingers in the can and scooped out a few chunks.
"Nah, just the bits," he offered conversationally as he watched her with a bland interest, as if he was seeing something he saw everyday, startle forgotten or more realistically filed away for something to react to once he truly woke up. "Just on the inside as far as we can tell, but it usually just stays there. This makes the third time, but the only time it's stopped."
Sharon grunted around her chicken. "Not my doing. Have caused too many greasefires for me to not know about secondary mutation of that sort. Pyrokinetic, maybe?"
"Well now you're just a purple werecat in my eyes, instead of, like, a fire powered, purple, werecat." And though his words were dry, a lopsided grin flashed for a moment before disappearing. "Eh, don't think so. Might be something in the room because they know I start 'em."
"Perhaps. Jet beneath basketball court does imply the potential existence of advanced fire suppression systems." Sharon glanced up from the can, licking her whiskers. "Normal to keep cans by your bed? I am always eating. Fast metabolism. Wonder if you are the same, maybe."
"Mhm, jet, basketball court, same shit every day, makes me glad I was cross country." Turning the point over, he shrugged. "I think they think it's the same. Good to have something on hand, at least in case of anything. If you're done you can just leave it on the dresser to get cleaned out tomorrow. Are you always a cat-person? 'Were,' that's the one, innit?"
"Technically aliuromorph," Sharon replied, "but 'were' means man in Old English, yes. So that is a go-bag? An excellent idea. I was chased out of home with only the clothes on my back, which were none. Would have benefited from such preparation."
And as was becoming a habit with Match, when words were used he did not understand and could in no way feasibly learn them, he nodded along. "Yeah, that's what it's come to be really. Ya never know what's gonna happen tomorrow. You can probably get a bag from one of the people here if you want your own. Just to keep stuff you might need."
"I am a cat. I need no things." She paused. "Except iPad so I can access bank account and credit cards, maybe. Capitalism comes for us all." Sharon stuck her muzzle into the can as far as she could manage and began to lick up the remaining contents. "Like you. Sensible, willing to feed me, and natural heat source. We are friends now."
"Oh, cool, 'aight, thanks, glad we're friends." He'd opened the can of jackfruit and had begun to fish out pieces for himself. Tiredness had returned, as he chewed and he cocked his head. "What do I call you? It seems rude to assume and call you, like, 'cat'."
"Not so rude. Have gone by Catseye on internet for years. Was not a creative child. Sharon is fine also." Sharon fished a fugitive chunk of chicken around the bottom of the can with a clawed finger. "But, always nice to be asked. I will politely not refer to you as 'bed warmer'."
"Years," the word was dragged out, brows raised in question, but again he didn't ask and opted to ask in the future, if he remembered. "Catseye's a cool name, though, and thanks, yeah, just Match is fine. Space heater was the previous occupation."
"An important job. Air conditioner seems to run 24/7 here. Unpleasant." Sharon noticed something and peered over the edge of the chair. "Were you wearing shoes in bed?"
"Yeah, that's probably because of me." He looked down to his feet, as if he'd entirely forgotten they were attached to his body. Looking back to her he shrugged mildly. "Yup. Always gotta be ready."
Sharon considered the go-bag by the bed, the piles of cans in the kitchen, and now the full set of clothes she realized Match had worn to bed. These said a few things to her, and they used words like "food insecurity" and "hypervigilance." Serious words that implied serious issues.
Well, she thought as she finished the can of chicken, if that was what made him feel comfortable, that was his business.
It was probably fine.
