2014.03.17 - Metaphorical Nuns

It’s Brooklyn, so trendy hipsters abound. This is where all the artists went when rents pushed them out of Manhattan. Now they’re mostly being jettisoned from this borough for the same reason, but there is at least the pretense of hipster-y creativity remaining, with abundant boutiques and trendy cookie bars and dumpling shops and lots of people that look like they’re understudying someone from Vampire Weekend.

Etta is the exception to this. She looks like she escaped from the financial district in her black suit and heels, about seven thousand miles wide of bohemian. Still, you can’t argue with good cookies and she’s just emerging from a painfully trendy bakery with a tissue-festooned bag in one hand and a cup of tea and a biscuit in the other.

Vera Verity is dressed as the hipster of the late 40s. The Second Great War has been won, at least for Allies, and so that means long skirts and longer boots, not to mention the beige raincoat and fedora that goes along with the pastiche. Her hair is trying to escape the hat, but it's locked down tight enough, so in a sea of hipsters she scoffs. She's also not above yelling over the crowd. "Oh hey, Mata Hari!" The last word, drawn out. Perhaps she's an understudy for The Electric Company.

Mata-what-now? Etta, not actually being called that despite having professed as much during their last encounter, is slow to respond. She’s already sunk into a seat at a wrought-iron table in front of the bakery when she happens to look up and see Vera staring at her. Belatedly, everything clicks into place in her memory, the connection marked by an amused looking smile. “Miss Verity of the artistic sneakers. Good evening!” She calls out chipperly in her accented voice. She quirks a brow and indicates the chair opposite her with a flourish.

Vera Verity puts her hands on the back of one of the solid chairs and leans over it and, oh, it looks like she's forgotten to button up her blouse all the way. How ... quaint, and not at all period. "Honey, you have a good memory. I'd hate to be your mister, sister. What was his name? Doctor Baxter?"

Considering all the effort she’s gone to, Etta obligingly looks at Vera’s cleavage a moment before returning her gaze to her face. She smiles with amusement and says, “It’s something like that, yes.” So helpful. “Would you like a cookie? I have two dozen. My mister has a bit of a sweet tooth.” She confesses before pausing for a sip of tea.

Vera Verity swings herself around the seat and slides right in; no need to pull out the seat. "Wouldn't he mind? Men get possessive so easily."

“He can’t really miss what he doesn’t know I’ve gotten him yet. And I think he’ll be just as content with 23 biscuits as 24. We might even be able to get him as low as 19 biscuits before he really starts to take issue with the situation.” Etta advises sagely, artfully folding her legs to one side, neatly stacked. This is the sort of pointless bullshit that they teach in finishing school till it’s hardwired into you. She unties the ribbon bow holding the box closed and displays a small selection of the best hipster cookies in the borough for Vera’s perusal.

Vera Verity plucks a cookie from the box, as dainty as she pleases. "Biscuits," she says in a passable British accent. "I'm on vacation and you're still at work, aren't you. Been here before?"

“Truthfully, I’m never really not at work. Its sort of like being a nun in that way. Sometimes you’re working harder than others, but you’re never really not working.” Etta confesses as she watches Vera make her choice. She smiles brightly, plucking up her own cookie from its place nestled into the crook of her saucer and nibbles daintily. It’s the weirdest tea party ever. Or, if not ever, then probably today. “You vacation in Brooklyn when you need a break from wrangling creative geniuses?”

Vera Verity spins her wrist around with a flair, cookie poised between fingertip and thumb before she takes a bite of it. "I vacation wherever there's something going on, when I'm not working there too. You're not a nun, though, so what do you do, Miss Hari? Something you love to do, mm," she guesses and rests her chin upon a hand, noshing delicately at the crispy delight with the other.

“What we all do, really... I do what I know.” Etta says with continued cheerful evasion. “You do what you’re good at, and... well, I expect I would even say what I was called to do. That part might be a bit more unique. I’m not sure that every chartered accountant or systems administrator feels that they were called to the tasks set before them... but perhaps they do. At least some.” A flicker of a grin and she tilts her coppery head to one side before asking curiously. “What about you? Called to duty most glorious, or just collecting a paycheck?”

Vera Verity gasps, a little theatrically, and acts just a little bit shocked. "Share my secrets? Miss Hari, I can do a lot of things, but in my line of work, sharing your secrets is giving away too much." She then cheers up again and waves the cookie all fan-like toward Henrietta. "Yours?"

“Same.” Etta confesses with a grin and a nibble. She eyes Vera across the table and, after a moment’s consideration, she concludes with a little sigh, “We’re going to have to agree to start making up interesting stories for each other if we can’t tell the truth. You’re charming and I enjoy our little coffee dates, so you won’t be offended or take it amiss if I begin to concoct elaborate fictions about who I am and what I’m doing so that we have interesting things to talk about?”

Vera Verity doesn't stop herself from canting her head with a sly grin and purring out, "Why, Miss Hari, are you telling me that you've been less than honest? I'm not offended. Or at least, I wouldn't be if you ordered us some coffee. How's that for a deal."

“It seems eminently fair, honestly. Back in a tick.” She says before rising from her seat to go procure Vera an Americano. She even leaves the cookies, clearly a demonstration of both burgeoning faith in her integrity and an expression of her continued desire to make amends. It may actually be two ticks before she returns, but in her defense the knitted beanie and slouchy boots girl in front of her was very particular about her soy chai latte, and she comes bearing a small pot of cream and a few sugars along with the coffee. All are deposited before Vera with graceful aplomb before Etta reclaims her seat. “So, in light of our new arrangement and understanding, I should mention that I am a renowned Egyptologist who is trying to recover stolen artifacts from a Nazi cult.”

Vera Verity is smart enough not to mouth the word 'eminently' as she tries to figure out what it means, but never gets that far. "Nazis. It's not legal enough to kick them around. We don't get many over in Gotham. The Arkham boys and girls think they're not serious enough. Cheers, darling," she says and poises her cookie in her mouth to free up her hands for the ceremony of Pouring A Good Cuppa.

“Well, in fairness, most of them would be at least ninety-some-odd at this point, which is why you don’t see them running about and causing the same level of havoc and upset as you would even just a few decades back. Not that there aren’t some terribly spry Nazis, I’m sure, with the vim and vigor of a less evil man of seventy-two, but... “ She salutes Vera in turn with her teacup and grins. “It does make them easy to catch. Those scooters only go so fast, after all. Which, as a preeminent Egyptologist Nazi hunter, affords me plenty of time to hang about cafes having tea and biccies.”

"Whhf ffh," starts the preeminent Miss Verity. It's not lady-like to talk with your mouth full, but it's not lady-like to keep your cookie in your mouth, so she rests it atop cup of coffee where it soaks up the steam and softens. "You said you were catching relics. Are you catching everything that catches your eye?"

Considering this is a conversation about entirely made-up stuff, Etta gives the question a remarkable amount of thought. And, even more strangely, she ends up looking almost... sad. Staring down into her teacup now instead of mirthful and light. “Oh, well...” she mutters, seeming to have lost her taste for the joke. “No, I’m afraid not. But some things are probably not meant to be claimed and others get lost or destroyed before you can grab onto them... Fate being something of a fickle and cruel bint and all.”

Vera Verity says, “As far as I can tell, everything's fair game, and if it's fair for you then it's a game to somebody else, you can count on it. Say, these are really good," she suddenly adds, turning the remains of the cookie poised where they are, taking the liberty to make one free cookie last as long as it possibly can. "Never had anything like it, I don't think.”

“I think they’re made with ancient elkhorn flour and butter from sustainably raised free range goats that play the xylophone in their spare time. And maybe a sprinkle of unicorn tears.” Etta adds with a wan smile. She shakes off the sudden moodiness though, blowing it out of her with a sigh. “I expect the problem is that I care about more than just winning, which complicates things. It’s alright, though, I don’t mind a bit of complication.”

Vera Verity now turns the cookie over and gently puts it down, just in case it does something even more disgusting than elk horns, rangy goats, and xylophones. Well, at least there's the coffee and nobody can mess up how coffee is made, unless someone were to unwisely mention civets. "How can it be that complicated?" she asks teasily.

“Well, if you only care about the winning and the claiming, then of course it simplifies matters greatly. You win, you go home. But, if you have the terribly poor judgment to also care about the other people in the race, then it becomes less easy to snatch and flee and everyone else be buggered. For any number of reasons as diverse as the other people...” She purses her lips with thought and is forced to conclude, “Your way is much simpler, of course. I think I may give up Egyptology and Nazi hunting and take up being a Nun. I’ll garden and make lace and harangue children about their penmanship. It’ll be terribly restful.”

"I thought you /were/ a nun," says Etta's teatime companion, either losing focus or doing a good job at looking the same.

“I think I was mostly a metaphorical pretend nun before. Then I was an Egyptologist Nazi hunter. But now I’m leaning towards being more of a literal pretend nun. “ Etta looks sternly across the table at Vera before draining the last of her tea. “Really, if you’re not going to keep up with my fictional career I’m not sure that our pretend friendship can flourish and grow to the next level.”

Vera Verity now wears one eyebrow higher, disappearing into the mess of black curls pushed down by her hat. "Are you asking me out?"

Henrietta Black has to think about that. She squints a moment before concluding, albeit with a touch of uncertainty, “N...no. No I don’t think so. Maybe asking you out to go shoe shopping as pretend best friends, but beyond that, I think I am full up on romantic entanglements, my Mister and all that considered.”

Vera Verity leans back a little, keeping dark eyes on Henrietta's then she slowly nods. "Alright, so long as we're clear." Caution evaporates into most of that easy-goingness that marked Vera before, but when you're spun widdershins mentally you make sure you have one hand on the railing, metaphorically, so she keeps some suspicion for grounding. "Doctor Mister, wasn't it?"

“He might prefer Mister Doctor, but yes. Not the medical kind, though I expect he could substitute if pressed, more the nuclear physics flavor of Doctor Mister.” She grins a bit and says, “I think I’m rather fond of him. I love a man with a big, huge brain.”

Vera Verity says, “Doctor Mister, Mister Doctor, it's all the same in the end." She doesn't sully her coffee with cream nor sugar, not this late into drinking it, but some people are that way. Two sips is enough bitterness for a lifetime, for them, but Vera takes it without any additives, and sips then sips again. "So he really is a doctor, after all that."”

“He really is.” Etta confirms, perhaps the first wholly accurate statement she’s made this whole conversation. She looks fond in a way that suggests the fresh-minted adoration of the first month of a new relationship. “And /very/ clever... I feel an utter dolt next to him half the time and I’m a doctor too. Twice over, in point of fact. And its not a bit of help, I’m afraid. He’s brilliant.”

Vera Verity mmhmns and leans back with her coffee to study the specimen before her. "I knew two doctors, once. At the same time. It was kind of nice, but then they started talking and," she sighs, belabored, "it wasn't the same since."

“All femoral arteries and pastiche motifs in contemporary art, hmm?” Etta says with some degree of sympathy, clucking her tongue against her front teeth a couple times for good measure. “Doctors can be a bit tiresome if you let them get the bit between their teeth. It’s probably for the best that you put them in their place rather than encouraging them.” She grins and then asks, “Now I think it’s your turn to tell me some manner of untruth to keep the conversation flowing.”

Vera Verity studies Mata Hari for a good long moment and slowly, slowly narrows her eyes. "When I was thirteen," she says, because things never happen to girls when they are twelve; only boys are ever twelve, "I ran away from home and spent three days inside a mansion. Not a mansion with rich uncles, no, but a mansion which was supposed to be haunted. I was going to prove them wrong, but it was haunted. The ghost came to possess my soul, and I've been carrying it ever since."

You know, there’s something about the way she says it that makes Etta regard the outrageous claim with something like complete seriousness. She looks across the table a moment at the effusively coiffed and pointedly stylish girl across from her and says, “Its hard to carry things like that. They weigh you down over the years, especially when nobody else can really understand why its so hard for you to skip anymore...”

Vera Verity laughs suddenly, bursting out in high-pitched ha-ha-has. "Oh I can skip out of anywhere, and it's kept me looking flawlessly young. You know how good that is, in any line of work?"

“Priceless, I’d imagine.” Etta says, though with a lingering trace of seriousness. She studies Vera a moment longer before conjuring up a warm smile out of nothing. She reaches out across the table, closing up the box of hipster cookies and re-tying the bow. “I should get back to the temple of Amon Ra. But these, Miss Verity, are for you with the compliments of Mister Doctor and Mata Hari. Please enjoy them, you and your ghost.”

She rises from her seat, but lingers with one hand draped across the back of her chair. “And who knew the fountain of youth was skipping? I should give up giving up being an Egyptologist for being a nun and instead start doing infomercials.”

Vera Verity says, “Go into the Olympics, dear. The run-skip-and-jump will keep you young and delightful forever. Tell Doctor Mister to keep safe, and tell him to stop wandering around in public high as a kite, okay? That kind of thing can leave a guy with some bigger problems, around Gotham.”

“Oh, trust me, it’s the preferable alternative. And if push comes to shove, I expect I can get him off a public intoxication charge.” Etta assures Vera with a sprightly and amused grin. And just when she’s about to leave, impulse seems to stay her steps. She moves around the table and bends to impulsively just brush the other girl’s cheek with a kiss, deftly navigating beneath the brim of her fedora. So continental, but then she does have an accent to use as an excuse.

”Cheerio!” Etta calls out as she starts to walk off, heading towards an equally hip looking muffin place to replenish Doctor Mister’s munchies supply.

Vera Verity is left baffled and with the feeling that she brushed more than a strange British woman, that the scent of death is slightly perfumed.