The Changeling's Fate

Three: The Meeting

Hi! Above we have my inspiration for Robin (Puck). On the left we have Ken Bek, and on the right Fenn Sean. Which one is more in line with how you see him?

Please comment and vote! :)

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Three: The Meeting

The scents of soy, Sichuan pepper, and frying rice tickled my nose, competing for attention and keeping me company in the cramped restaurant. The sparse lighting cast long shadows across the room, making it impossible to discern whether the many sit-down diners are friend or foe. Even the store's entrance is poorly lit, the outside bulb sporadically painting the entryway in a deep yellow glow only to fizzle and crack moments later, creating a haunting flicker effect straight from an old horror movie. Every time I catch the opening chime of the door's small bell my heart starts and my eyes dart over, only for the thumping in my chest to calm as I hear the distinctive flowing tones of Mandarin and recognize just another delivery driver, returning from a run. Usually the combination of dimmed lighting, overcrowded tables-haphazardly shoved together, and the cacophony of pots, pans, and the occasional curse coming from the kitchen were enough to make the place feel full of life, stuffy even. But on this night I might as well have been alone.

The laughing wind from earlier had stopped me in my tracks, and I'd spent a good ten minutes looking around for my watcher, hand groping through my bag until I had latched on to my canister of pepper-spray in a white-knuckled grip. After that first rush of adrenaline, fear had transformed into anger. I was sick of this shit, of these games, of whatever twisted bastard was getting his rocks off following me around. I didn't tend to start fights, but that didn't mean I wouldn't finish them; Judy hadn't always been around to prevent the inevitable friction that arises between socially maladjusted teens. You'd end up with the 5:30 A.M. milking duty for a month straight if you started a fight, but you only got a week of dairy duty for defending yourself and finishing one. So I shoved my fear aside and I marched up and down the 800 block of Timber Street, glaring around corners and dumpsters into alleyways, once frantically apologizing for shining my phone's flashlight into the home of a sleeping bum. It wasn't until an older man in blue-collar garb approached to ask me if he needed call someone for me that I realized how I must appear. A lanky, above-average height girl with frantic blue eyes and curly brown hair, tangled every which way, a few strands plastered to my face and neck with cold-sweat, marching around alleys and side streets like I was in a divine mission. I must've painted the perfect picture of an impending mental breakdown. I made some joke about hearing a sound, and we both laughed my behavior off, the polite chortles a stranger makes to detach themselves from an awkward situation.

A quick internal debate then had me soldiering on in my original direction - the restaurant was both closer and occupied. Unlike my empty apartment, devoid of any roommates, and if I was honest, any sign of habitation, even from myself. The sensation of a watcher persisted the entire way, lingering between my shoulder blades, a lick of fear lingering in the depths of my subconscious, warning caution, present even now as I continue to sit in the restaurant, awaiting my order.

Three things happen at once. The cashier calls my order number, holding out my food with a smile. I rise from my chair, twisting towards the counter, returning her smile even as I stumble, falling over what feels like an invisible wire pulled taut above my ankles. And the bell rings, signifying the entrance of another customer, one who doesn't waste a moment before he reaches out, catching a handful of jacket and pulling me upright.

I'm struggling to change my frown into a smile as I turn to thank the man --- as a child I was never clumsy, and I can't recall the last time I took an unintentional fall, even in icy weather. My face feels stiff as my smile freezes when I lock eyes with a pair of sparkling green eyes that could be twin to Liza's or even my own - an almond shape, made bright and alive with a mischievous glint that gives coy hints of both pain and pleasure, veiling the intent of the holder. The man himself is tall, taller than me even, and I'm quickly acquainted with the unfamiliar intimidation inherent in the presence of a male looming over me. My next impression is that of the color black. Black jeans cling to his legs in a manner that manages to display as much as they conceal without being lewd. A simple black V-neck with a teasing collar reveals a hint of a chest sculpted by hours spent in the gym. The ensemble is finished with the presence a similarly dark leather jacket concealing most of the pale luminescence of his skin. But more than just his clothing gives the impression of the dark of a long winter's night - the shadows seem to hold onto him, pooling about his person. The overhead light fails to soften his demeanor; it had fizzled out with his arrival and failed to turn back on. Only three pieces of color disrupt his monochromatic ensemble -- the flash of silver signifying a ring on his right index finger, the sparkling green of his eyes, as alive as any forest, and the wild deep red of his short but unruly hair, mussed about and just begging to be tamed.

The stranger blatantly ignores my gaze attempting to connect with his, moving his own eyes slowly up and down my body in a manner that sets my cheeks aflame. When he finally meets my eyes again he flashes his teeth in a Cheshire grin, a smile that reminds me of the one sported by the Neko Fortune Cat sitting upon the counter, relentlessly swinging its arm back in forth in a manic wave.

"Hello," his smile doesn't drop, but it doesn't reach his eyes either. "I'm Robin."