Troubles of Faux

CHAPTER 1.2 || THE FAUX GIRL

"When's the action going to begin?"

Since she stepped foot into the house, she'd been eagerly waiting to meet with the Bloids. Her travel up until the forest, she'd been kicking herself on the inside, excited to map out a battle plan and join an inevitable war, which, if she was to be honest, would be majorly fatal to the Bloids or what they called their revolutionary group. Yes, she'd been to the Vaux Nation, the Vaux Grounds to be precise, for some time. And honestly, it was the worst two years of her life, credits to dear old Terin.

She sat at the table, staring at the half-filled plate sitting across her chest. All around her now smell nicer, or maybe she was the one that now smelled nicer. When she entered the house, the atmosphere was tainted with the mouthwatering aroma of her favorite meal. She was the only one reeking of forest and mud. The wet clothes, which had already begun to give her an itch from staying too long glued to her skin, was now replaced with a fitting wool-knitted black turtleneck top with sleeves that reached all the way to her wrist. She had on fitting matching black pants, and a white sneaker. It felt so floaty and comfortable over her feet that she practically bounced when she walked all the way back to the dining. Around her left wrist was a thin golden bracelet. It complemented her dress just fine.

She loved it, the dress. It was as if they had prepared for her to come. And if they'd said they did prepare, she would believe it because she had just eaten her favorite meal halfway, and the clothes were perfect.

All that was left was the action.

She raised her head and looked to Jeryl. He'd showered and changed into a white top and a thick coat, black pants and a pair of sandals. He was sitting upright on the dining chair directly opposite her. His hair was the same, full and thick black, and a cute running down of side beards. He was young, and comfortably so. His expression was...well, expressionless. Even when they shared eye contact. There'd been no one in the house except him and the Professor. She wondered if the Professor did smother him with boring tales of old and revolution and jabbering, and how long he'd been here to endure that.

"I asked when the action is going to begin," Jenrette said, with the edge of a spoon gripped in her right fingers. She looked straight to him, into his eyes, reading his expression.

"Would you rather eat while the Bloids begin the session? Because once they come in, there's not time to waste."

"I think I'll take my chances. I'm the one with the special abilities after all."

Jeryl shifted in the chair. But it wasn't from discomfort, so it seemed. Rather to adjust because as soon as he made that move to sit upright, he crossed his arms over his chest and kept his gaze on her. "Don't get so high and mighty, Jenrette. You don't look tough."

"Ooh!" Jenrette mellowed and smirked. "Tread lightly, Jeryl. Even the Professor shows a sense of respect for me."

"Because he's an old man."

"No," she said and then pointed the concave end of the spoon at him, then she lowered her head for emphasis. "Because I'm a Faux."

"Yeah, right," Jeryl sighed and tightened his lips, throwing his face away.

Jenrette felt a small warmth of pride and smiled with the cheek sucked in and her lips closed, pouting and bent to a side. She watched Jeryl for a moment, and then looked down at her food.

She slid the spoon on the plate, below a small section of food and just as soon as she raised it up, a pounding sound shook the door, and the entire house.

All heads were overtaken by instinct and snapped towards a common direction. The Professor came jumping out of somewhere in the sitting room and moving gently, carefully, too slowly for her liking, towards the door.