Friendship is Magic

Mr.Face:

"Well, I feel like a darker grey would wash you out a lot, personally... so you could go with something a bit warmer... or we could travel over to like...the ones with more than one colour in them... Black, I think we'd want to avoid entirely, because it would make you look like some guy from like... the dead people office... So...hm. What do you think of...this?" I heard a rustle of clothing and could only assume that a suit had been pulled from the rack for further inspection. I'm quite certain that whatever it was that he finally ended up with would look fantastic... because, really, these people had worked for me for years. If they didn't have their acts together, they wouldn't be here right now.

Cricket

Then he was showing me a suit. . . . It looked a bit too suit-like for my tastes. But then, all of these were a bit too suit-like for my tastes. So I couldn't complain. And it wasn't as if I knew more about this type of thing than any of these people, because if they didn't know anything about this type of thing they'd most likely be dead by this point, I'm assuming. And it wasn't as if I'd honestly be wearing it anywhere anyhow. Though it might have been a waste to simply toss it out afterwards . . . but if I tossed it in some corner of the Lowlands, some guy my size would find it eventually. So it wouldn't be wasted. Hopefully he could pull off whatever grayish color the faceless tailor was showing me at the moment. "Aye, aye. ...Aye. That's lovely. I think. A'right."

Mr.Face:

"Glad you like it." The tailor replied. "Now... if you could just go put that on for us... and then we'll have you go stand at the mirrors and pin everything up properly. I'll show you to the changing room... Oh, and do you know what shoe size you are? We'll probably have to put an order in for those actually... because.. well, I'm assuming that you don't wear a 27." And the tailor proceeded back towards where I was sitting, suit in tow. There was a hall just off the room full of mirrors I was currently drinking coffee in, which contained the changing room of which the tailor spoke.

Cricket

"Actually, I don't quite wear shoes ever."

A small while later, I was . . . in a suit. Loosely in a suit . . . but in a suit. I didn't button the thing up all the way as I'd said I wouldn't. I actually held the last button together for a second just to see how high it went, and it was a tad bit ridiculous. I didn't know how people could simply walk around like that with a piece of cloth choking like a dog collar. I whistled something about that.

Oops. Alright. No more of that. Even though this was clearly a very whistling matter. I was in . . . a suit.

. . . And actually . . . it wasn't as stiff as I thought it would be. It was actually like wearing a gigantic perfectly-comfortable hug. . . . A professional-looking hug. Aye. I felt completely different in the thing. It was a change of outward identity of sorts. I felt like a poser.

I ran a hand through my hair and muttered a quick "Oi my my". I would have to walk out there eventually, now wouldn't I?

. . . So I did. Finally.

Mr.Face:

"...You don't wear shoes? Then...That's kind of a...problem, I think..." I heard the tailor calling after him as he went to go and put it on. After several minutes and a brief moment of what seemed like the banned whistling, he came back out.

...It was one of those moments in which I almost wish I consented to eyes again. ...Well, alright, not really. I disliked eyes immensely and could make out the differences perfectly fine. It was one of those things where you could tell that the suit didn't fit totally right because you could hear the fabric dragging slightly on the ground as he walked, and his hands were completely missing. ...Well, I assume that they were lost in the suit somewhere...but that's beside the point.

"...You really are very short." I informed him. "...Like... Very short. I hope you realise that." I sipped my coffee again. This was kind of amusing, being a spectator. Typically I was the one in the suit... which... was always a bit annoying until they had everything lengthened properly.

"...Well... Come over here to the mirror so we can all see properly..." The tailor took him by the shoulder and started leading him over to the mirrors. "...Oh THAT'S where your shoulder went..." he commented. ...pfft.

Cricket

"Waitpardon, I'm short? When did this 'appen? I thought per'aps I was quite normal and everyone else in th' world was simply ridiculously tall," I said, and then tried not to trip as I was pulled over closer to the mirrors.

Oi my my. That tiny-looking kid swallowed alive in fabric, peeking out with only a hint of a glimmer of an eye, that was me? I couldn't remember the last time I'd actually looked in a mirror. Faded and distorted reflections off of water and mirrors in dim rooms, aye, but a full-lit actual mirror, no. That was what I looked like, then. . . . Aye, I was in fact different than the average Lowlander walking around the bridges. And I was, in fact, short.

"It seems t' be a small bit big, I'd say."

Mr.Face:

"...Well... yeah. A bit more than a bit... really." The tailor replied, and started rolling sleeves up to their proper locations, while someone else started dealing with his pantlegs.

"...Hmm...No. No take the jacket off. We'll take care of the shirt under it first and THEN do the coat." The tailor informed him, and then proceeded to help him with the jacket. ...Observing this all was interesting, considering the fact that typically they were extending all the measurements, for me, but at this point in time, they were reducing.

Cricket

And then everyone was fussing around me. Messing with sleeves and pantlegs, and then the jacket came off, and I wasn't quite sure what to do except stand there limply and let them crowd around and tuck away at fabric. Apparently tailors aren't ones for personal space. I avoided eyes and occasionally accidentally met eyes with myself in the mirror. It's a terribly odd sensation, that split-second feeling of haunting recognition before you remember that it's a mirror and feel stupid.

Bright side . . . ah . . . let's see here. I didn't quite like the process of this at all and I was fairly sure I wouldn't even like the end product at all. But ah . . . in the least, there wasn't anybody dying.

"Do you go through this every time with all o' your suits?" I asked at the general direction of Mr. Face, after a while of being worked around.

Mr.Face:

"Oh yes. This... This happens about once a month. I get the whole month's worth taken care of at once...which is why there's catering down here. It takes HOURS some days." I replied casually, listening to them work. They were very good. Pinning everything into place so that it all hung properly and looked... well... however it was suppoused to look, presumably.

"...If anything feels like it's going to limit your mobility in any direction... tell us." One of them requested. I wondered if they'd stop him eventually and ask him to put his arms straight up in the air or anything, just to see the mechanics of it. "Ideally you should be able to do cartwheels without it even wrinkling. ...We think. ...er... Not that anyone has ever tested that."

...I will take this opportunity to inform you that I have not nor do I ever plan to turn a cartwheel.

Cricket

"Hours for a suit?" I had to glance at Mr. Face again when they mentioned the cartwheel bit, and then they mentioned that no-one had tested it. The thought of Mr. Face doing cartwheels was something between hilarious and trippy, it was so out of character. "And a'right . . . I'll keep that in mind." The only thing limiting my mobility at the moment was them. But I figured that wasn't what they meant.

Mr.Face:

"Not just one. The whole month's worth. Some days this is fast, because the laundry has been effective... and some days it takes hours, because I have not been particularly... judicious with my blood spatter." I explained, after he inquired.

They proceeded with their work for several more minutes, before stepping back for a moment to look at whatever modifications they'd made. ...He had hands now, I noticed. "How's that? Too tight...? Too loose? ...Is there a reason you haven't got the top button--"

I cut him off there. "Work around the button issue. It's got some kind of psychological relevance." ...I did that right, right...? I paused briefly trying to figure out if I'd acted appropriately. "...My Pris---Cricket...did I do that right...?" I asked almost immediately afterward.

Cricket

I could feel eyes on me. Well, eyes and a pair of ears. It was a feeling that made me duck behind my hair some more, even if they were simply doing their job looking at their work which happened to be the clothes on my back. And then the button topic. I was bracing myself for trying to work around explaining that one, but Mr. Face cut him off. It'd been blunt, but more vague than it might have been, and I was alright with the vagueness. Of course, he probably could have left it at 'work around the button issue' and they probably wouldn't have asked, but ah well. It didn't matter. I would hopefully be out of this place soon anyway. "No, ah, that was fine . . . And th' suit's fine, thanks," I said.

Mr.Face:

I grinned. I did it right. HA. That... that was quite satisfying, to know that I'd applied an abstract concept of... er... preventing festering pits of discomfort correctly. HA. I felt as though I'd just earned my "high-functioning" sociopath title right there. "And I thought I didn't understand all that stupid emotional drivel." I stated, still grinning about my success.

The tailors then took that opportunity to re-equip the suit coat and start pinning that into place.

Cricket

That small reassurance seemed to please him. Quite a lot, as a matter of fact. So much that he threw in a comment about stupid emotional drivel as some sort of success dance, which reminded me that he was still simply playing a part based on what I'd been teaching him. He was still a sociopath. "Actually, I 'ave t' wonder if it's even possible t' understand stupid emotional drivel unless you 'appen t' 'ave stupid emotional drivel yourself, and even then. Depends on your definition of understand," I thought out loud. Then I had a jacket on again. Jackets . . . why did I need a jacket? Obviously, it was a suit and suits have jackets. But it seemed like a lot of extra fabric that didn't truly need to be on me.

Mr.Face:

"Understand. To perceive the significance, importance, or cause of a situation. I'm thinking of all of this like a math problem. You just plug in the appropriate variables, and do some rearranging and solve for the answer. There are rules to this of course, and you can't simply get rid of a variable, even if that is technically acceptable in some mathematics. I expect that once we get past multivariable algebra and move into calculus and other types of mathematics, it will get more complex and I'll have to make diagrammes. Until then... algebra is doing just fine. " I explained.

They had to do a lot of manouvering with the jacket, due to it's complex construction. The thing was probably silk lined, as most suits are, and so, tailoring for it is often done as much on the inside as it is on the outside... as it's a problem of quality on both sides of the garment. This of course explains why when modifications are made to it, it often involves reaching up sleeves and into the jacket itself. ...Awkward initally, but one tends to get over it.

Cricket

"I think you'd per'aps be able t' understand as an audience rather than on a personal sort o' level, is what I mean t' say."

The guy fussed with the jacket quite a bit more than he had with anything else. A lot more. I tried to not say anything. I wished they would simply do the bare minimum and leave me alone, but nah, they had to-- he just stuck his hand up my sleeve. Some small whistle of surprise leaped out of my mouth before I bit my tongue to stop it, like grabbing a bird before it flies out of the cage. Alright. Alright. That was simply odd. I'd bear with it.

Igh I really had to fight the urge to whistle. Not simply about the sleeve thing, but the whole thing in general. "Pardon."

Mr.Face:

"Oh. Yes. Emotions as a spectator sport. ...That seems an apt --Why was that necessary." My tone snapped promptly from the more casual one I'd been utilising to a more... distinctly business-y and irritated tone. He wasn't suppoused to be whistling.

It occurred to me that this was perhaps an accident, and therefore may not be considered punishable by whatever bylaws of friendship there were. ...But hadn't it been stated that we were acquaintences instead of friends...? Did the by-laws of friendship even apply in that case?

...This was confusing. Honestly.

Cricket

"I'm-- pardon. I'm sorry." That tone had more bite to it after being used to whatever calmer talk we'd been having for the past few days, I noticed. Any small snap was a small break in the friendship deal safety net. Oi my my.

Mr.Face:

...I normally didn't accept apologies. Never really understood that they could actually be sincere. ...I figured that perhaps the whole... friendship deal would probably stipulate that apologies were to actually be considered as a valid response to things. Hm.

"...How are apologies generally looked upon in the community of people who have friends?" I inquired.

Meanwhile, the tailors seemed to be finishing up with their preliminary pinning and whatnot, which would then be taken and actually sewn into reality. There would be another fitting either later this evening, or tomorrow...or... whenever was convenient, to check that it had all been done correctly and fit properly.

Cricket

Somewhere along the way I'd gone from testing my boundaries to trying to tiptoe around them. At least a small bit, I was more careful. I wondered what that meant, if anything. It wasn't as if I was being completely done fooling around. "Well, I . . . generally? They're taken seriously. Forgiven. Most of th' time. That is, if they're honestly sincere, or at least a good enough lie t' be taken that way. But friends shouldn't lie t' friends."

Mr.Face:

I suppoused that this was a minor transgression. Thought about it a bit more, and concluded that yes, this constituted a minor transgression. Not nearly punishable by any means I ever used really.

"...In that case... I will allow it to slide. To...go along with precedent and everything." I decided.

The tailors had stepped away from him again to investigate their work. "Put your hands up over your head?" One requested. "...And tell me if that's alright." He added.

Cricket

Good. He seemed to ease back a bit. That was always nice. "Thank you," I muttered in response.

Put my hands over my head why--? Ah. Alright. I raised my arms along with one eyebrow, feeling as I were under arrest or the like.

Mr.Face:

"You're welcome." I replied.

The tailors observed him for a moment, and one pin was relocated. ...I quite liked the meticulousness that this bunch maintained. Very good.

"...Alright, go change back into what you were wearing and bring us the suit back. We'll modify it, and it should be done by the end of the night." One of them instructed him.

"Can you give me an actual timestamp?" I requested.

"...Midnight-ish, sir." Came the immediate reply.

"Excellent. Thank you, gentlemen." I stated, finishing up my cup of coffee.

Cricket

Ah, the sweet familiarity of scraggly fabric and the ever-lingering smell of sea salt. I actually hadn't exactly noticed the salt smell until I was forced into clothes that smelled like . . . well, I suppose whatever new clothes were supposed to smell like.

Despite the old comfort, I felt out of place walking out there with the perfect new thousand-dollars gift draped over my arm. It really was scraggly compared to the type of thing that Mr. Face wore. And the thing had actually felt fairly amazing to have on . . . well, besides the prodding and pinning and tucking. But see, that's the thing: I could walk out feeling suddenly more sheepish about being a dirt poor streetrat, or I could walk out feeling proud to be a filthy dirt poor streetrat as was the Luna way. So I kept proud. Subtley. As I handed the fancy suit back to the tailor.

Mr.Face:

"We'll be back around midnight unless we aren't, in which case, have it ready whenever we decide to drop by." I told them all enigmatically. I then stood up, leaving the cup of coffee where it was. Someone would clean it up. Not my problem.

...Well. The question was currently 'now what'. Again. We had several hours to kill before the suit was done. I tilted my head downward at My Prisoner, who had just had the suit repossessed by tailors. "...I believe you already know what question I'm going to ask you." I stated.