Troublesome times in Sanctuary

[I think I am here. he/him]

On 23/02/2020 at 2:38 PM, Sorana said:

"You wear that body well Sloane. It suits you. A beautiful body, for a beautiful soul."

I stand, quiet as he walks closer and talks to me. Beautiful soul. He doesn’t know who I am. He doesn’t know my soul, what I’ve done or not done. I’m the one who knows him. I know his name, how he came to be, what he does in Sanctuary. I know his experiments, his motives and who he is. It’s always better this way. Where I’m just the man on the street, or in the bar. Where I’m no one, and the target is everyone. 

“It’s been a long time,” I respond. “You get used to it eventually.”

I step back and stare at Raphael. Something seems to be boiling beneath my surface. Raphael, initially irritated by why I picked him. Asking whether I wanted him to juggle apples.

“And I did sate my curiosity, in fact,” I say.

“I can’t remember the last time I actually cared about any of my targets. At least, cared enough to follow them home of my own accord, not because I was being paid to by one of their enemies. You know how hard it is, to find an actually interesting person?  An interesting person to discover to talk to? Everyone else is the same, like they fit in these neat little boxes! But not you, understand?”

I step back again and wish I had my coat. It feels freeing, to talk so much, but it’s unprofessional. And it implies something I don’t want to admit. Silent, I continue to look at Raphael as the cold overhead light shines down on me.

[+Sorana she/her]

You don't follow him when he steps back, allow him the distance. At first you want to reply that you still wish you knew how you looked before, if your hair was darker or if it always had been this light. That you sometimes stand in front of a mirror and try to see the brown eyes you remember vividly. You got used to your body, trained yourself with it, until you know how to move each muscle, how it's a tool you know how to use. It's only a body. And yet, it's a symbol, a reminder who is in charge and who is not. But then your words leave you when he continues to speak, quickly, as if he is agitated.

"I understand." You incline your head. It's the reason you invited him over in the first place. "Of course I do. If I didn't care, if I didn't face the same situation, I would never have asked you to come with me in the first place." Because it's so hard to find someone interesting. Someone who speaks their own mind with intelligence coloring their words and not the hunger for power. Someone curious, who walks the streets with open eyes. You notice the way he stresses that he cares, only to soften it with his next sentence. But the word remains in your head. He cares. So maybe you didn't loose your gamble, at least not all of it. Maybe you actually managed to win some of the cards he placed on the table as well.

He is still looking at you, leaving his words hanging in the air between you, their implication heavy and alluring. You are tempted to push the matter, to drag everything out in the open, but instead you let the topic slide, leave it to him to bring it up again. Instead you allow yourself a slight smile when you extend your hand towards the door leading back in an inviting gesture.

"Would you care for another glass of whiskey?" You ask. "Or something to smoke?"

@I think I am here.

[I think I am here. he/him]

On 02/03/2020 at 3:21 PM, Sorana said:

“Would you care for another glass of whiskey?" You ask. "Or something to smoke?"

And just like that, the door is open again. He understands, he says. And now: an offer. The mystery is over and the curtains have fallen. I know what I set out to find, and here is an offer. An offer for more. But, I’m not interested in more. In knowing more. In getting more. I should leave. My goal is achieved, and I need to find work. Any night I’m not out working is one missed business opportunity.

But what about a conversation just for the sake of it? Because Raphael finds me interesting and because the feeling is reciprocated. A conversation where I’m not overanalysing where it will lead, or what he implies. I get that feeling, the one where a customer offers too much money or when a target is out in the open. A too-good-to-be-true feeling. Like a mirage of genuineness in a desert of deception and neon-coated nightlife. But I had to take a chance

“As long as I get to wear my coat again,” I say, looking down at myself. “This is clinical, but really not my style, sorry to say.”

[+Sorana she/her]

On 14.3.2020 at 6:50 AM, I think I am here. said:

“As long as I get to wear my coat again,” I say, looking down at myself. “This is clinical, but really not my style, sorry to say.”

"Of course." You find yourself smiling at his words and finally turn away from your covered creating. You are done here for the moment. He saw and while you're not comletely sure if he really understood, at least he didn't turn around to leave. This is as much as you could have hoped for. "Outside of these rooms you can wear whatever you want." Slowly you close the distance between the two of you, partially because he is standing between yourself and the door and partially because you want to.

"I have to admit, your coat suits you a lot better." You add with a slight grin, while you take in his appearance again. He looks so different from your brother, from your father who share the same light hair you have. He is fresh, unblemished by memories or associations on your side. And maybe even more important - he is yours. You found him, you talked to him, you decided to bring him here. Your father didn't choose him, didn't pick him because of some virtues, or because he wanted to strengthen the connection between two families.

Still smiling you walk over to the door and make a sweeping gesture for him to step through, a feeling of excitement in your chest. A whole evening where you can relax and talk to somebody with some intelligence behind his eyes. A whole night, if you stay up that long. You can barely remember when you did that the last time, when you talked to someone because you wanted to, without any second thoughts in your head. "Let's head back upstairs." You suggest and straighten again, satisfied with the feeling of this movement. Just like you practiced. Your thoughts return to your next glass of wine and you inwardly shake your head. Some water first, or you will be a drunken mess within a couple of hours. And this evening is too great a chance to ruin it by getting completely drunk.

Silently you rest your eyes on his figure, enjoy the moment, the way he is standing here in this place nobody but Taron entered until a few minutes ago. And despite the risk, despite the power he now holds over you, you feel nothing but satisfaction, nothing but a content excitement. It was a good decision to bring him here, to show him. Maybe the best.

[I think I am here. he/him]

“Let’s,” I agree.

I meet his eyes. There’s lots to learn, lots to find out behind those eyes. I’ve only met inquisitive eyes — truly inquisitive eyes, a couple times before. Inquisitive eyes mean trouble. Inquisitive eyes mean fun.

You’d think it would be from other private eyes, but no. They find secrets for money, not because they want to know, not because they really want answers. I met this dame once — she was interested in what I did. I told her not to worry about it, because I didn’t go around asking dames their secrets, now did I? But, she found some out, eventually. Unfortunate thing, that a mob boss killed her before she could do anything with them.

Inquisitive eyes mean trouble. Inquisitive eyes mean fun.

I look to Raphael again, walking through the white door, into the room with all the creatures. The side-projects to distract from the main project. The main piece. I continue walking through the hall, until I’m in the dressing room again, my clothing scrunched in a bundle on the floor. I have to admit, your coat suits you a lot better.

“It’s been a while since I’ve worn white,” I say casually, picking up my shirt. “Can’t say I ever missed it.”

@Sorana

Edited March 27, 2020 by I think I am here.

[+Sorana she/her]

"It doesn't suit you." You agree and take off the white shirt your are wearing. "And it shows stains in an awful way." Frowning you place the shirt on the table and accept your cloths from Taron. While you start to close the buttons you find yourself watching him, consider to get a set of dark cloths for him and then force yourself to go on. "But that is the reason why they are white. Easy to see if they were washed the right way."

Taron takes the cloths you used and dumps them all into a bag in one corner of the room while you continue to dress. He will take them away to be washed before you use them again. Before you slip into your own coat you walk over to the washing basin and wash your hands again. You didn't work, and you know that all handles and door are clean, but it is part of your routine and you already skipped the hand washing after leaving your lab. Be it neccessary or not, you have to wash them. You always wash your hands once you are completely done here, dry them and then dunk them into alcohol and dry them again.

And then, finally, a last stop in front of the mirror, to see if everything is sitting the right way. You move your belt buckle a finger to the left, your eyes looking for Sloane in the mirror. It's easier like that, when you can see him, but at the same time don't have to meet his eyes directly and you find yourself speaking.

"What did you mean, by it's not your body? Was it altered in any other way as well?"

@I think I am here.

[AonEne he/him]

1 hour ago, Sorana said:

Before you slip into your own coat you walk over to the washing basin and wash your hands again. You didn't work, and you know that all handles and door are clean, but it is part of your routine and you already skipped the hand washing after leaving your lab. Be it neccessary or not, you have to wash them. You always wash your hands once you are completely done here, dry them and then dunk them into alcohol and dry them again. 

Quote

I just wanted to compliment your portrayal of OCD here, because the line “Be it neccessary or not, you have to wash them” just...is so exactly it. And the knowing that it’s not necessary, but you skipped before and you have to do it now... All the thumbs-ups for you. (I say that because I’m out of upvotes for the day, but I will give you one tomorrow!) 

 

[I think I am here. he/him]

On 28/03/2020 at 3:37 PM, Sorana said:

“What did you mean, by it's not your body? Was it altered in any other way as well?"

“Not altered. Swapped,” I say with an intentional vagueness as I slip on my shirt, shoulder scar disappearing under a layer of black as I go through the usual movements. My gun lays rests holstered against my leg, my black coat settling over me like a shadow. I leave the too-clean white clothes by the floor in a half-heartedly folded manner, flicking my gaze to the figure that stands by the mirror, checking himself.

A thought strikes me, and I pull out my revolver, and I hold it out, look at my own reflection on the cold, dirty steel. The reflection of my face distorts over the chrome barrel, and I stuff the piece back where it belongs. A slight itching of my fingers told me I needed another cigarette, and like I was a machine on autopilot, I had one lit and in my mouth before I could think once, let alone twice about it.

I draw in a deep breath, and tilt my head back, exhaling thin wisps of smoke barley visible in the harsh medical light.

“This body was never my own. And the one I was born in was never altered, either. Unless you count a bullet hole in the head as altered. Which, I guess I would, thinking about it.” I draw on the cigarette again, thoughtfully.

[+Sorana she/her]

19 hours ago, I think I am here. said:

“This body was never my own. And the one I was born in was never altered, either. Unless you count a bullet hole in the head as altered. Which, I guess I would, thinking about it.” I draw on the cigarette again, thoughtfully.

You turn around at his words, for once have no idea how to reply to that, while your mind rushes through the different possibilities. A bullet to the head was one of the easier ways to kill someone. Every injury could be healed but a severe injury of the brain had a tendency to leave traces. But there weren't any. His speech was clear, his thoughts sharp as knives. And the body, the clue was the body. He wasn't born with this body, instead it was a replacement. Someone had transfered his mind to another body.

You can't help yourself, and have to admire the art, the grandeur behind this. If you knew how to do that, you could create the perfect body and afterwards inhabit it, with the perfect mind. The ideal creature, not merely the result of your surgical skills, but of something else as well.

Trying to come up with a good reply, you look him over again, how he tilts back his head, how he's drawing on the cigarette. The way his fingers twitched right before he lit the next one. "A body is like a piece of clothing." you finally say, walk a little closer to him, look him over again. This time you take your time, judge his bones, the skin, the way he stands. You take in the look of his fingernails, the way his fingers hold the cigarette. "And it's a good one you ended up with. Healthy, strong."

Your thoughts return to him, the one wearing it and you find yourself looking into his eyes. "It is nothing but meat and bone, but sinew and blood without the mind inhabiting it." He had kept this information behind a veil until know, had hinted at his body first, and that he was shot came second.You try to piece the little parts together to see the whole picture, to look beyond what he is offering. Is he satisfied with it? Does he feel lost, nearly threatened, as if he was robbed of everything he is? For a moment you want to speak about yourself, tell him that you can understand, that for your years you wished for nothing but to have your old body back, to be yourself again - but you keep the words in your mind, restrain yourself from uttering them loudly. This is about him, not about you.

"If someone else used this body, they would behave differently. Their gestures would be different, their posture." You say instead. "I could alter it, if you want to. Make you taller or shorter, your shoulders broader and your hips slim. Change the colour or your eyes and hairs, make you look any way you want to - but I could never change the spark in your eyes or the way you look at me right now." A slight smile touches your lips. "Although I do hope you used your chance and shot that bastard right back."

Edited April 30, 2020 by Sorana