poly_chromatic | ☤ eighty-one

Entry tags:

house m.d. - allison cameron

☤ eighty-one

Time for our seasonal Tourist day, I see.

~~I almost miss wondering-~~

Others have already explained the situation for your benefit, so I won't worry about repeating it. Just try to keep out of trouble, and I suppose, try not to worry.

[ooc; she's s3 forever, please be gentle and don't spoil her on specifics about the future. No duplicates of existing cast without that player's permission. face-doubles or confusion or random hijinks are just fine! backdating is always welcome. <3

ALSO FEEL FREE TO RANDOM ACTION around the City if you want i am easy to please ;3 ]

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This must be what being waved off to camp feels like.

More being welcomed by the staff who'll have to clean up after you, I'd expect, but close enough.

Welcomes usually involve more welcome, I'd have thought, but what do I know? I never went to camp.

Camp counselors are paid to be welcoming. If it's any comfort, I do hope your visit's pleasant. It's just likely to be brief-- not much reason to settle you in for the summer.

Are you this brusque with all your patients, or does money buy your bedside manner? I thought the mercenaries went into private practice.

I don't diagnose over the Network. Talking doesn't make you my patient.

I have a terrible headache. I think it might be serious.

My multi-dimensional recommendation is aspirin. Or ibuprofen, if you prefer.

And a cough.

There is an emergency room.

I'm muddled with this fever. Would you happen to know where I could find a stunning medical escort?

I'd page my boss for you, but he rarely sees patients if he can help it.

The men at the top are usually overrated. In my experience you look to the assistant to find someone who really knows what they're doing.

How unfortunate that assistant isn't in my title.

[Out in the City today, there is a boy.

A young boy, with a backpack, and a small smile as he gazes in wonder around the City. Until his gaze falls upon Cameron, and then he frowns in slight confusion.]

Emma?

[He's probably a bit far away for her to hear him, but he is staring right at her. She really does look like Emma, except for the hair...]

[He's not the first to mistake her identity. There's something distinctive and strange about the sensation of eyes on you, and it doesn't take her long to meet his gaze. She smiles, as reassuringly as she can manage.]

Lost?

[she asks, loud enough to be heard though soft enough not to draw much attention from anyone around them. Her tone is friendly, even if there's no sign of recognition.]

[Well, even if she doesn't seem to know who he is, it's hard not to trust someone who looks like your mom - your real, non-evil mom - especially if they're friendly. So he walks over.]

Yes. But I think a lot of people are.

[It's said matter-of-factly, as he glances at the crowds around him. Then he turns his attention back to her. Might as well cut to the chase.]

Your name isn't Emma, is it?

You're right. It happens a lot around here,

[she confides, a wry edge to her smile. Smart kid. She bends a bit to get a good look at him.]

My name is Dr. Cameron. Not Emma. Is she a friend of yours?

She's my-- friend. Yes. You look a lot like her.

[So much so, in fact, that he might just keep wondering.]

How did everyone get here?

That, I'm afraid, is kind of a long story. Was your friend with you when you got here?

[Since if so, she should be helping the kid find her. If not, well, maybe she can keep an eye on him herself.]

No. If she's here, I haven't seen her.

[He's still curious - he has plenty more questions - but he should really put that aside and introduce himself. So he extends a hand to shake hers.]

Oh- my name's Henry.

It's nice to meet you, Henry.

[As seriously as it's offered she takes and shakes it.]

Where are you from?

It's nice to meet you, too.

[It's a very proper handshaking.]

Storybrooke... in Maine. Did you come from somewhere else, too?

[She nods, straightening a bit as she looses his hand. He's so well-mannered it's almost eerie.]

Everyone here did-- especially today, [she explains, glancing around.] Are you hungry? There's a nice cafe a few blocks up.

[ Rounding another corner of the strange City block, not too far from the hospital or so she's been told, Mary-Margaret stops dead in her tracks at a too familiar voice. Turning slowly, it's confirmation and the precise opposite of it all in one glance.

The face is unmistakable, even if the hair color throws Mary-Margaret off more than a little. She squints at first, even while approaching but that doesn't stop her from reaching for the woman's elbow, asking in a voice that suggests she already knows the response she's going to get: ]

...Emma?

[ Not Emma, her mind and some subconscious heart already knows, already tells her, but she's ready to cling to any vague sense of the familiar for the moment. People keep talking about magic and other worlds and surely this has to be a dream of some kind but somehow even that doesn't quite add up. ]

[By the end of the day, Cameron is going to be very curious about this new alter-ego; it's not the first time she's been mistaken for someone else, but more than once in a day?

Still, she can be sharp but isn't, as a rule, rude; so she turns at the name with an apologetic little smile, shaking her head.]

You have me mistaken. It happens surprisingly often, here.

[ Even already 'knowing' still leaves an aching sort of disappointment. Hoping against hope, they call it sometimes, but Mary-Margaret smiles, equal parts apology and curiosity. ] I'm sorry about that. I...Emma that is, well, her hair is different so I figured, probably, but...I wanted to be sure.

Um...I'm Mary, Mary-Margaret. Blanchard. [ She extends her hand, glancing around briefly as if she's afraid she'll mis someone she really does know. ]

Allison Cameron. [With a little smile, she shakes the other woman's hand. Even if she hadn't known it's one of those days, she's clearly a new arrival.] I'm sorry. For the confusion, I mean-- I'm sure this is all a bit confusing.

Just a little. [ Her smile is genuine if admittedly as confused as one might expect, a tad on the apprehensive side though not for the woman she's talking to. Perhaps it is a dream after all, which would explain the likeness to Emma who's since become a rather major factor in the lives of everyone in Storybrooke. ] But it's nothing for you to apologize about. Really.

Ah...you mentioned you've been mistaken before. Did you mean...today, if you don't mind my asking? And..for the same person or for someone else?

[ She could cut to the chase and simply ask: is there anyone else here I might know. But that's not something a stranger would be aware of anyway, so she steps around it. ]

Today and other days-- more often when it's like this, [she answers, considering the other woman thoughtfully.] Though I've never heard Emma before today. Do you know a boy named Henry?

[It's a bit of a risk, because all she knows is that the two of them both know someone who looks like her, but Cameron's always been inclined to expect the best of people. Besides, Henry seems like a sweet boy. How could anyone not have his best interests at heart?]

[ Her eyes light up with recognition and she nods more vigorously than necessary. ] Yes, yes I do. He's--

--a boy. In my class. The class I teach, that is. I...do you have any idea where he might have gone? He's very self-sufficient but this place...

[ Trailing off, she gives miss Allison an apologetic look even as she scans the immediate area for Henry. ] I wonder if it's only us.

I haven't been mistaken by anyone else. Not yet, at least.

[Strange, but no stranger than what passes for normal here. Sometimes Cameron's struck by that, the sense of how much she takes in stride. Sensory adaptation.]

I offered to find him somewhere to settle in, but he seemed like he was going to run off and explore no matter what I said, [she admits with a small smile. Self-sufficient seems right, based on their limited interaction. Whoever they are, they're interesting.]

[ Mary-Margaret seems split equally between apologetic and something like knowingly proud. It's a little counter-intuitive, the affirming quality Henry's independence inspires in her, when she figures it ought to be the other way around. But Henry is singularly gifted and...well, different in enough ways that she'd need more hands to count them on her fingers, suffice to say.

She can't help pinching her own arm (in what she hopes is a discreet way) as if to check it's not a dream, not that that's helped before come to think of it. Hm. Cameron doesn't just look like Emma after all; she is Emma in looks, which is saying something rather different about particulars, save for the hair. Unlike Emma though, Mary-Margaret detects a quietness here and she wonders what that would mean - in a dream or otherwise. If she's wrong to connect them.

Blinking and then shaking her head once as if to clear it, she then nods. ] That sounds like Henry.

He takes after his mom.

[ She says it without thinking, and then, eyes a bit wide (a bit of a giveaway) she quickly adds, half turning away, ] So um...you have...no idea which way he might've been going? Not that I'd know...my way around either but...

[ It seems strange to say she feels responsible for him when staring at a perfect doppelganger of his mother, so she just lets herself trail off there, hands folded in front of her to keep from wringing them. ]

[The phrasing is odd enough to call attention to the quick shift of expression, but Cameron bites down on asking after it. Henry had said Emma was a friend-- a bit of an oddity, but she hadn't wanted to pry and really, he was so peculiarly mature it hadn't seemed totally out of place-- but maybe there's more to it.]

I mentioned he might want to visit the park-- the zoo is one of the more interesting things here, and really, one of the safer places,

[she answers, with an apologetic upward twist of her lips. Honestly, as much as she'd like to have a more solid answer, she couldn't have kept an eye on him; especially not when he seemed so intent on setting off into the unknown. He must be a bit of a terror.]

He's eaten, at least? We had a quick lunch.

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☤ eighty-one

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