abraxaslogs | I entertain by picking brains

[Crane minimally acknowledges the person standing outside his room. In the morning he is folding trousers and shirts and thanking them for bringing his cup of coffee. By the afternoon he is packing books into a box and thanking them for lunch. Come the evening he is surveying an empty room and awaiting his nightcap. He fumbles an apathetic sigh and narrows his eyes before realising he is mistaken.

He swallows his emotions and imposes calm. Severe storms had prevented him moving into his new home. Now he is free to proceed. That is a distraction from the last month if nothing else.

But is this the end of an era? Or the beginning of a new one?]

Moving is one of the most stressful times of your life, so they say.

[He turns around and looks at his guest. Oh, but we've endured worse recently, haven't we?]

So they say, but I ain't had a permanent residence a day in my life.

[Harley rolls in late which was typical for her and she settles with her back in the pointed notch of the doorframe and her arms folded across her chest, in the room but not entirely facing him with that same old smile.]

Sup, bro? How they hangin?

Well, to quote the old cliche: I've endured worse.

[Harley, for all her enthusiasm, is nothing like his grandmother. Her company is hardly as painful. He smiles to himself while unhooking the window, airing the room to clear his mind, a ritualistic coping mechanism. He inhales deeply and turns around to focus his gaze on his visitor.

Endured worse, indeed.]

Is this a courtesy call? Because I'm afraid if you're looking for a seat...

[There's none to spare. Hah.]

We all have, but that don't make it any better Craney-poo.

[The derision rolls off her tongue when she comes hard with the pet name. It's not something she's bothered to use before but since they're practically family adding a little insult to injury kept the ball rolling.

No shortage of shenanigans in this Medieval hell hole.]

What friends can't check in on each other? That's what we are, right? Friends? Unless you'd prefer to keep with the whole surrogate siblings thing. I was an only child but I don't hate the idea of claiming a brother for the inevitable emergency contact bail posting scenario.

[Crane dominates and controls his disgust, forcing it to dissolve inside his stomach. It matters not that life could be better. Life simply is. And recent events are the data he now has to analyse.]

If I were your brother, you would be the last person I would release from jail. And were I your friend I would be detained right after you.

[His calm tone hides his amusement. But those who understand him well enough may know what is there.]

But that's hardly the correct word for people like us, right?

[Sectioned might be more appropriate.]

So, what? Found family puts friends first anyhow. I'm willing to place bets on both of us getting busted together.

[And she wouldn't need his help escaping jail but would gladly get incarcerated alongside him. The more the merrier when it comes to being packed into a tin can with weak bars and weaker security. She has no doubt Crane can pack a punch of his own and carry himself in that kind of situation.]

What word would you use?

[Crane brightens as his eyes spark with interest. He rarely censors himself but he makes himself sociable. He blends in when he wants to stand out. It is a relief to speak freely.]

Well, a cohort of crazies sounds wonderful, doesn't it?

[Rather spot on, he thinks!]

If crazies were identified as a species I feel like we'd be called an institution, but I can live with cohort.

[Cohort definitely beats some of the other ideas she had fluttering around in her skull.]

Well, that answers my first question: why would we work together.

[There is a wicked undercurrent in his tone. The love and excitement one gets from destroying social boundaries, which people struggle to see, when it comes to his social engagements. Or perhaps they refused to acknowledge it.

Because they were scared.]

Now, let's solve the second. What would be our crime of choice?

Take a seat. Have a drink.

[Nestled in the backstreets, halfway down a stone staircase, is a brownstone. Three blue shutters, one blue door, two stories and an attic. Flourishing ivy covers the building and around the corner stands a tree as tall as the house. Each guest is welcomed inside and guided to the living room. Bookshelves line the walls. The fainting couch and armchair sit opposite sides of the fireplace. Between them is an old coffee table, piled with books, cups and candleabra.

Crane inspects a bookshelf, finger trailing across numerous spines, leaving the choice of seat to his guest. It matters not whether they sit and drink or pace the walls.]

Do you need a bite to eat?

[He is making pleasantries. He is not cooking anything. Not in the kitchen, at least.]

[People need to talk. Few can process what they experienced, more cannot understand what they need. Crane agrees to meet everyone inside his study; a small room full of books. Journals about psychology. Novels of classical literature. Psychiatric publications and periodicals. One guest may see him reading a journal. One more might catch him studying the painting over the fireplace. The art is desecrated by letters of red paint:

Ｗｅ　ａｒｅ　ｙｏｕ　ａｎｄ　ｙｏｕ　ａｒｅ　ｕｓ．
Ｙｏｕ　ａｒｅ　ｎｏｔ　ｔｈｅｉｒｓ．

Crane looks calm in posture but feels anxious in mind. Fingers push his glasses up his nose and cross across his stomach, lips returning to cold neutrality. But his gaze begins to wander and he glimpses his reflection in the window. Immediately his fingers clutch and clench until he enforces calm. Why does it mirror his appearance last month?]

Not everything needs to be riddled out.

( wanda’s words come from somewhere behind crane, as she sits in his study in one of the plush armchairs she has found herself choosing. she has an open book in her hands, casually sifting through the pages as she turns them.

this can barely be called skimming. )

Especially if it steals your calm like this.

[Crane murmurs but his attention lingers on the painting. His fixated mind imagines questions that branch off into inquiries, areas of research and fields of study.

One might think he isn't listening. But that idea is disproven when his voice - calm and quiet - responds gently.]

I find it relaxing to question why. In this case, who.

[Believe it or not, he relaxes by analysing everything to death.]

Is the answer so difficult? It seems obvious.

( but wanda is wired differently to those with a higher intellect, so to her it feels like a waste of energy to spend hours trying to understand and interpret something that, to her, feels pretty obvious. not everyone might share this opinion, though. )

End of the day, it’s not like we can do much about who this is. ( she leans back, closing the book on her lap. ) If this is a call to action, it’s a lousy one.

Perhaps. But do you suppose a prompt is all this is?

[He turns his head and looks in her direction: a curious look upon his face.]

Well, I suppose it hardly matters. I think life will carry on regardless. But it would be interesting to hear your opinion.

[Does he care about her opinion specifically? Not as much as others might. But there is something to be said for getting a range of opinions from across the board. Variable data and all that.]

( wanda shrugs when he insists on having an interest in her opinion. she doesn't personally think she would have a lot to say on the matter that hasn't been said before. )

All I think it does is cast doubt among us to the people that have taken us in. If it's trying to tell us something specific, maybe it should be specific, rather than letting us interpret it.

I refuse to accept the fate it implies we have.

It is good you are resilient.

[Crane strolls across his office, sits in the opposite armchair, poised in a careful manner. His eyes slowly close as he begins to talk.]

But to refuse accept fate one must believe it exists.

[He opens his eyes and studies her with one question written on his face. Do you?]

[It's not being underground that bothers Altaïr. He's never been in a bunker like this before, but he's spent enough time between sturdy stone walls built into the side of a mountain that he almost feels like he has. No, it's the confinement that unsettles him; he can't investigate the details of what's happened in person, he can't go off to find some solitude and part of him will always feel the need for an escape route. (He has no plans to kill anyone and run, of course, but training goes deep.)

If there's an upside, it's that the inconvenience forces his thoughts away from the other happenings of recent weeks — at least, until he's on his usual (as of two days ago) walking route through the bunker and spots someone he hasn't spoken to since a time they both believed the world to be a very different place. Ah.]

Doctor Crane. [He can sound reasonably pleasant, if stiffer than usual.] I'd wish you good afternoon, but I'm uncertain about either of those things.

[Crane is sitting on a collection of crates, glasses perched upon his nose, his hands balancing an open book upon his lap. Life underground is no bother; the loss of open air no loss to someone who stalked the halls of Arkham.]

Well, if you were above ground, you would be uncertain about other things. I sugest you think nothing of it.

[Calm. Controlled. Stiff like the other man, but less pleasant than fluid and adaptable.]

[He's the picture of calm, as if the whole unpleasant affair has had no impact on him at all. Altaïr thinks that unlikely, but right now he wouldn't think of making a solid bet.]

True enough. Men who feel certain about all things tend to die quickly.

[He's contributed to that, sometime.]

I should ask. How much do you remember?

Now, that's a polite way to start our conversation, but why don't you come right out and ask me? What do I remember about us?

[He remembers two men of opposing goals and ideals. Two beings of extremes. Two gods of insight and knowledge. He continues reading, paying little attention, affording this man as much as he did his peers, his coworkers.]

Well, perhaps I remember who brought violence into the relationship, if that matters any.

[Who tried killing who, exactly?]

Edited 2024-07-30 00:20 (UTC)

I thought that was implied.

[That answers his question well enough, though. Dared he have hoped for something different? Perhaps. Perhaps not. A man has his right to his own mind, but Altaïr himself wishes he remembered less.]

Then I suppose the part of me that still feels as if it was real owes you can apology.

I entertain by picking brains

Cadens (Sarstina)

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Libertas (Residence)

Horizon (Office)

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breaks the rules and sets this during the event

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