Maize

Solitary figure sat at the counter, slowly sipping his Coors. The young man stood out like a sore thumb, with everyone else engaged in conversation with their friends. A soft murmur of discussion filled the bar, with occasional huffs and chuckles echoing across the room. Radio was playing in the background, though Jean recognized none of the cacophony the people of this age called music. Shaking his head he wondered for the umpteenth time why he had been let go from the hell, and if this world, as real it seemed, was actually a purgatory. The other 'changelings' as the escapees called themselves had insisted that this world was real and that there was no heaven. Jean wasn't so sure about that.

Imogen had been hanging around the Scratch Bar to gather some information from the town. Sunday was some ways away to be hanging out at a Church and this town didn't have a Wal-Mart to its name. It was perhaps the closest gathering of people she could find on short notice. After being in the periphery of some conversations, without actually being part of it, she figured she might have been done with sipping on her single bottle of beer all night. She was perhaps about to take her coat and head out until she saw the oddity that was Jean. She perhaps only considered an oddity considering this person is seemingly made up of two normal, or rather handsome, people. The curiosity was enough for her to hover closer to him to see without much subtlety or preface as she likely stood out just as badly, in another sense.

"What... oh sacrebleu!" Jean swore, causing everyone else to turn their heads at him. "Oh, I am sorry." he chuckled awkwardly even as he looked at the demon that Imogen was. "I didn't quite expect to see her here." His explanation seemed to placate most of the locals who returned to their drinks. Soon the murmur continued as before. "Uh, please, have a seat." he pointed at the free stool at his side. "Didn't expect to see." the young-looking man bit his lip, trying to figure what to say. "One of us here? It's a small place?" he looked around shrugged. "Name's Jean Wellspeak."

Imogen couldn't help but chuckle at the reaction she managed to coax out of Jean. It wasn't exactly what she wanted but it was a good sign nevertheless. She had to be sure that what she was seeing wasn't exactly some additive they were putting in the beer around here. She was dressed in some red flannel and jeans. The sunglasses she had on fitted weirdly on her face of her mein, those seem more at norm with her mask. She merely gave him a nod and a smile before sitting down beside him. "Thank you."

"I'm Imogen," she said simple enough as she crossed her legs and took off her sunglasses. "It's a pretty small place but I wouldn't be so surprised. I think saw a few more around here. For reasons I don't know about, it seems to be a pretty hot vacation spot and it's way past apple picking season too."

Having been out of Arcadia for scant few months, Jean wasn't exactly used to seeing other. Changelings, He had seen fair few in Montreal and Toronto - where even the city's baron was one of their kind. The Baron Tory was a wizened, looking much like a worn clockwork. "Few more? Man, what's it with this place." the man moved his hand at the hip as if he was reaching for something, only to pause when he realized something. "Is there a Freehold here? I didn't see any signs." He could guess that she wasn't local , no-one here looked quite like her. "Well met Imogen." Jean stumbled with the name, wondering why on earth the parents curse their children with such ungodly names. "How long you've been here?" he asked, not talking about the town.

"Strange coincidences have happened," she said dryly. There weren't any examples she could think of at the moment but she was sure that a few Lost in one place wasn't the start of a calamity. It would have been more worrisome if they were here for the same reason than just random Changelings just passing by. She raised her hand and order another beer from the bartender.

"No, I don't think there is a freehold here. It seems that we're all just tourists?" She said questioningly as the coils of her head moved idly to take a quick glance at the locals. Nobody here was as pretty as they were, it seemed. "I've been here just starting today. I'll be here for a few days to gather some pictures. I was hoping to be here before the first snow but I'll just have to salvage what I can from this trip."

"Where?" Jean asked, squinting his eyes, sounding a little paranoid as he spoke. "Gah. Well. I guess that's fine." he sighed. "I got here yesterday. On the road, as they say. Not really sure where to go." His dark green eyes sought out hers. "Been traveling for a while." Despite his thick french accent, his words were understandable. "Pictures? Of this place?" he looked around. "There isn't anything here." Jean had an idea that the purgatory had a magic box that somehow recorded the reality in a painting, though a painting that you could see everywhere you wanted. He was fairly sure that the devices that captured these images contained small devils that did the work. "Also, I didn't mean that. I meant.... this side."

Imogen might have noticed the rise in paranoia from Jean but didn't really say anything to address it. It seemed that two of the two Changelings she talked to were thinking that this wasn't a coincidence. Coming from the freehold in Los Angeles, seeing others wasn't strange, it was just a different backdrop.

"Oh," she said as the new bottle was placed in front of her and she took a small sip from it. It was hard to place his accent, it didn't seem like anywhere in America. "Where are you from originally? Somewhere in Europe?"

"There are a lot of things here," she said as she nodded on a serious note. "Farms, fields, people and old architecture. It's the sort of thing that companies gobble up. It makes good money around Autumn and especially Thanksgiving. Supermarkets and advertising firms like to give the appeal of organics and grown right in America. The reality might not be the case but they can borrow someone else's reality, like a mask."

"Here? Montreal." Jean replied. "There is a pretty big freehold out there. They took me in when I..." he looked around for a moment and shrugged, figuring she'd understand. "Before that? Orleans." The name was pronounced with such a passion that there could be no doubt about his native language.

"Uhh." The all too beautiful man blinked. "Right." Super markets had already been alien enough with Jean thinking them as large indoor markets with way too few peddlers. "Advertising? You mean that stuff on TV? With people telling you things?" His confusion was all too evident.

"Mm," she murmured in acceptance before she took a swig from her beer, her long nails tapping on the amber glass. She gave a glance at the bar and contemplated asking for a cocktail instead but she imagined that rum and coke was probably the most complicated drink they could make around here.

She gave him an elongated look but was patient for now. With how their past might have scrambled their brains and concept of reality, getting normal things right might have been difficult. "Yeah, something like that. TV doesn't really have much use for pictures but print media would, like newspapers, magazines and bus shelters. Websites too, like the picture of the staff who don't actually work there or the farm that doesn't actually grow your organic tomatoes."