A Basic Misunderstanding
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Date: 01/30/2018 |
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Cast: | |
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The expanse of field outside of the isolated steel mill is dotted with snow, the sky overcast with a silvery white layer that appears almost blinding. This isn't a frequented place, even by those who might be looking for a place to squat, and while some animals may have taken up residence here, they've long since gone elsewhere. To the layman's eye, they'll note large canine tracks around portions of the perimeter, large enough to be that of a Great Dane, or something of similar size. Two sets, to be exact, one more faded than the other-- a lightfooted animal, perhaps. There is one curious sight, however: that of a Mercury sedan pulled up and "hiding" along one side of the large building. Easy to miss if one wasn't paying attention (and, very possibly, Zach is not), but rather evocative once it's seen, its resemblance to an (older model) undercover police cruiser enough to give one pause. No obvious fixtures on the side-view mirror, apparently, but that might not mean anything. Inside the yawning entrance, there's the faint smell of burning firewood, and an equally faint sound. Remnant machinery caught by a stray breeze, perhaps, save for an musical-yet-atonal quality to it-- except it keeps happening, with or without the breeze's assistance. If followed (and, let's face it, there wouldn't be a scene if it wasn't), it identifies itself to anyone familiar with it-- the sound of chainlink over concrete, over steel-- and the source? Maybe it's more common to Detroit than it is in most places, seeing a woman bound in chain harnass which, itself, is latched by a good ten - fifteen? - feet of chains to a steel support beam further inside the facility, but it has to be a little jarring, nonetheless. She's dressed, at least, in warm enough clothes for the 15-degree weather - army jacket, jeans, thermal shirt, decent boots - and there's a fire going not too far from where she's pacing, back and forth. She looks-- agitated, naturally, picking absently at one of her thumbnails with the other, adding a faint *tk* *tk* noise over the sound of the chains themselves. Not far from her - within 'reach' of the chain, actually - is a tent with an air mattress inside. Whatever may have originally drawn his attention (you had him at 'foundry'), the sight of someone bound rather changes the landscape considerably. The presence of a fire is one of those mixed blessing sorts of things out in this kind of cold and out in unincorporated land. It could signal habitation or it could signal an arson getting underway. Zach's clever, and handy, but telling the difference between a campfire and a factory about to burn down and throw toxic nasty everywhere by scent alone is not a line on his particular resume. His approach is decently quiet, and he's the sort of fellow the eyes just slide off of... as long as there's something else interesting for them to slide on /to/. And herein lies the problem - out in the middle of nowhere, actual skill in stealth must be relied upon... What began as a courteous attempt at not disturbing anyone actually in habitation rapidly changes its tenor and becomes proper skulking; becomes an earnest attempt at scouting the place. Second floor entry, extra care to mind broken glass, especially such that the very heavy trenchcoat he's wearing doesn't sweep it about. It gives him the appearance of holding up skirts, really - but if he's doing this right no one's around to care, and dignity is less important than not getting shot before lunch. He's decent at this sort of thing, but not superlative. Maybe it's an unavoidable crunch of his boots on some glass. Maybe it's the swish of his trench against some corner or another... or maybe it's his voice from nearby after he's maneuvered as close to her as he can without fully stepping out into the open. That voice is... odd. Very quiet, but sounding much further away than should permit so soft a tone to be clearly made out. "How many, and how long will they be gone, do you know?" The woman's oblivious to the sounds of someone wandering around through the building, it seems, still pacing back and forth near the tent, occasionally raising the hand she's picking at to chew at the edge of her thumbnail. She stops herself intermittently, muttering under her breath, not looking-- methed out, or coked out, and not really looking like the type for it, either. If there's such a thing as a 'type.' Something's got her motor going, though, and that anxiousness prevalent enough in the enclosed space to be its own presence, with the intermittent ramp up, to slow, steady breaths on the downward incline. She goes stiff-- rigid, more like it, upon hearing that voice, holding her breath. She doesn't move; doesn't look in the direction the voice presumably came from, or in *any* direction. She's just stock-still, the layers of clothing doing nothing to hide the wave of tension that's threaded its way through her muscles. After a moment, though, she lets out that held breath, slowly but surely, a frustrated sound following it. "Not now," is said under her breath, through gritted teeth. "Get your head together, and Calm. Down." Clearly talking to herself. Coaching herself, more like. "It's nothing." Beat. "It's nothing." The pacing begins again, one hand raising to rake through her hair. "It's nothing," she says again, perhaps more of a mutter than anything understandable, but, point made: whatever it was she heard, it wasn't what was intended. Why does he get all the crazies? Zach rolls his eyes from his distant perch. However insignificant the relative masses at work, the motion takes his head in a similar trajectory. Ground floor prestiege it is. This is a moment of absolute soundlessness, a thing that sends a ripple of something through the air - but otherwise appears (if there had been anyone alert enough to call an 'observer') to be an exceptionally good bit of footwork. For the prestiege itself, Zach simply steps out into the open space with the fire and the chained woman and the tent as if he were returning from the restroom. The vast majority of him is thoroughly concealed by an infantry trenchcoat of boiled wool. It has large faux-brass buttons stamped with the star of the Russian Federation, circa 1930. "Seriously though," he says, raising his voice enough that it will naturally carry, but only just. It still echoes about the acoustically inferior venue, but with any luck he isn't actually broadcasting his presence to the whole vicinity, "how high are you right now? Scale of one to ten, let's say." That tension returns abruptly to the woman's body. Her head turns immediately this time, blue eyes set on Zach with a kind of intensity that would probably suggest some kind of intoxication involved, but-- the lucidity there is apparent. Quite possible *that* doesn't mean anything, either, though; experimental chemicals are everywhere, and while Detroit's rave scene may have gone the way of-- well, raves, it's not as if the city's lacking for excess. But that's neither here nor there. When the woman finds her voice - after a moment of expected relief is followed swiftly by a mix of anger and something like concern - it's not to answer the question. It's, instead, to say, "Whoever you are-- whatever you think you're doing, you need to leave," her tone carrying a kind of authority that doesn't at all suit the situation. Not 'oh thank god,' or 'please help me.' "Now." Muffled by the walls of the building and the snow draping the landscape, there's the faint sound of what might be a car or some other sort of engine, somewhere out there. "Yuh-huh," Zach answers, at once dismissive and skeptical. He moves slowly. For all his apparent unwillingness to take a 'victim' at her word, he's equally unwilling to make sudden or even remotely threatening moves. He's also completely unphased by the boiling cauldron of Rage he's addressing directly - like the idea of the Curse doesn't even begin to register with the guy. Which marks him as solidly more emotionally and mentally durable than your average bloke... or a SPECIAL kind of stupid. These are not, it bears mentioning, exclusive states. "I'll be fine," he assures her. His mouth opens as if to say something, but then the sound of that motor - a sound he's specifically listening for - reaches the interior and his face tenses up just a touch; becomes more serious. "Well fuck." With more haste he asks of Sandra again, "How many?" Sandra's teeth grit behind closed lips, made visible through the tension in her jaw, no matter that there's a certain note of confusion in her expression for a moment or two. It shifts quickly to frustration, and straight on through to heated impatience. "How many what?" she snaps. "For god's sake, I'm not on anything. I'm--" It does sink in, just a little, how this looks, overriding some of the bite in her tone, though she needs more than a few moments to rein herself in, this time with a raise of both hands in a sort of feigned surrender. "I know how this must look," she says, apparently oblivious to the sound outside, "but I promise you, I'm fine. Just-- please," she says, trying to keep her voice level, and reasoned. "Please leave." "Oh," Zach says, "You 'know how this must look...'" He says, shaking his head. Still... that particular turn of phrase does force some uncertainty into his posture and his tone. He looks in the direction of where Oliver likely parks the car regularly, then looks back to Sandra, squinting. Then back to the likely nearest entrance. A more empathic or socially savvy person might've figured out that Sandra's agitation has nothinng to do with the sound of the car outside... but Zach's apparently more of the post-hoc type. "Well, if this /isn't/ a woman chained up in an abandoned factory in not-enough-degrees weather out where the police don't look..." he says, perhaps deliberately missing the point, "And instead something perfectly consensual going on..." there's no way this sentence ends with 'Then I'll be on my way,' "Then whoever that is, however many of them there are, won't mind a dude dropping in for a chat just to clear all that up." Yes indeed. 'If you've got nothing to hide, then there's nothing to fear,' applied to apparent hostage situations. "Seriously though, how many people are about to walk through that door, 'cause if it's like six or more I'd rather have cover and a plan before it goes pear shaped, eh?" There is a distinct sense of holding back that comes with the way Sandra looks at Zach. It's clear as day that she's trying her damndest to come at this from a point of view other than her own, however Stockholm Syndrome'd that may well be, from his perspective. Nonetheless, her hands drop to her sides, balled into fists, hard enough that it's likely her nails are pressing into her palms. Again, there's silence-- the look of someone scrambling to come up with an answer, and finding none. It likely helps not at all that there's a kind of desperation seated into that gaze, no matter how much anger is being choked down, but as she finally unclenches her teeth - lips tensed into a thin line finally relaxing - and opens her mouth to reply-- "Back off." It comes from the door nearest Sandra, the tones sharp and clipped and very decidedly British. During Zach's most recent comments, it became clear that 'whoever that is' was indeed related to 'here', as the sound of the engine got slightly louder, and then, rather than getting softer again, stopped. The sound of a car door, and then another, may well have led him to expect at least one arrival at any moment. He likely expected one or more men, possibly fairly fit, and the form half-silhouetted in the doorway supports such an expectation. He probably didn't expect the kettle. It's a proper, standard kettle, held by the handle in one hand; the other hand's carrying a large, handled paper bag. The well- and appropriately-dressed bearer of these things looks ready to drop them at a moment's notice if need be, but has not done so yet. He does, however, seem to have bristled. The glare he gives Zach is fairly fierce, sizing him up, and his eyes stay on the trench-coated man as he speaks presumably to Sandra, this time: "Are you all right?" Oliver's first words to Zach don't have more impact than another roll of his eyes, this one communicating a sentiment of, 'and here we go...' Zach's attention does properly shift towards Oliver in the next moment. More than just the eyes, Zach's whole body language turns towards Oliver, making clear that he's at least open to the notion that Oliver's a threat. Then Zach spots the kettle. That gets a lifted eyebrow, and gives Oliver the window to address Sandra. Something about that makes Zach bristle just a touch, though he's far from the volacno of anger that others might be. "Niiice," he says, dismissive of the sentiment expressed by Oliver's words. "Look, I know everyone's got their own taste in decor," Zach's English is probably noticably without placeable accent to someone accustomed to hearing various flavors of the American dialect. His phrasing and use of idiom betrays that he is, indeed, American - or at least learned English from one - but nothing else is forthcoming from the fellow's voice. "But seriously, bro. Metal conducts heat both ways, and the shoulders really get to aching like that." There's a thumb in Sandra's direction, just to clarify what 'decor' is being spoken of. There's a bit of provocation to Zach's tone, as well. He's calling someone a knave and a scoundrel, at the very least. Could be that voice is a calming presence, even if it's a little startling that it shows up out of the blue. But while Zach bristles, Sandra nods once to the question - in that so-so sort of way - looking like she's about to actually breathe again before her would-be saviour begins to speak again. This time around, though, upon hearing the response-- she gives a quick shake of her head, and turns to look elsewhere, likely doing that counting to ten thing they've all heard so much about. She takes a breath-- a slow one-- and lets it out just as slowly, letting her eyes stay closed for the exhale. In with the good, out with the murder. "There are things," she says carefully, "that we're under no obligation to explain, and probably can't explain, but I'm here because I *want* to be here." She raises her eyes to Zach again. "I'm here because--" There's a pause-- she grits her teeth again. "Everything I say, he's going to think you're coaching me," she says to Oliver, visibly and audibly exasperated, though it's clearly - or, well, *maybe possibly* clearly - not with him, whatever follow-up she has to that starting and ending with something like a growl as she turns to pace closer to the tent, and towards the fire. [Qui Curat] Sandra says, "I should just change now, scare him half to death, and let him wonder what the hell he saw." [Qui Curat] Oliver gives a brief mental laugh. "It's a thought," he says, "but perhaps not yet. You ARE all right, aside from him being here?" A slight pause. "Any objections if supposed-reasons get untoward? Just in case it needs to go there." [Qui Curat] Sandra says, "I don't care. Just keep him outside the perimeter. I'm not going to be responsible for another corpse just because he has good intentions." [Qui Curat] Sandra belatedly adds, "And I'm-- fine. I'm just-- crawling out of my goddamn skin, and I don't know how long I can take this." "Rather fancy mid-century modern, myself," Oliver says; his body language is just faintly more relaxed after the confirmation from Sandra, if still alert and prepared to react if necessary, but the tone isn't particularly less crisp. It could be said rather to befit someone being called a knave and scoundrel, at least one who doesn't feel the shoe fits. He moves further into the building, between the other two, and whether it reads as protective or possessive might well be in the eye of the beholder. Doesn't stay there -- moves fairly swiftly to set what he's brought close to the nearby fire -- but when he straightens, that's the spot he returns to. "Look," he says, meeting Zach's gaze again. "There are some whims one might now and then wish to indulge which a flat is not really properly equipped for. Particularly if one has neighbours. I promise you, we both know what we're doing, and if she wants to be released, she has only to say the word." There's something about that very last bit which suggests it COULD be capitalized, perhaps. "Now, in most situations I would offer you a cup of tea," just faintly amused, with a tiny tilt of his head toward the kettle by the fire, "but we were just about to have breakfast. And I'm afraid I've not really got enough for three." Nothing Zach had in mind seems disturbed by Oliver's positioning, though he continues to re-orient himself as Oliver moves around. The other fellow makes no move to stop anything Oliver might be about, either. When Oliver presents his case for why he might have a woman chained to the wall, Zach follows along - nothing that Oliver presents here generates the sort of prudish shock or moral outrage that would've made such an explanation possibly extra inconvenient. If anything, it seems to put Zach into a quieter, contemplative state. He glances back and forth between the man in front of him and the woman on the far side several times. Zach's shoulders soften their set just a little bit after a few moments of this, and the pieces come together in something like an acceptance of Oliver's cover story. "Fun Fact," Zach says, as a preamble to his verbal response, "you've got neighbors out here, too. Might want to consider a place with locking doors and intact windows next time." His attention is on Sandra as he speaks, even though he's speaking to Oliver; this might be one last test to verify what presents itself as a basic misunderstanding. Certainly all the words are correct. Sandra's still visibly on edge, from the look of it. Everything about her movements and demeanor has a 'barely contained' aspect to it. She doesn't look startled or offended by the rather torrid implication, either, at least once she settles into a pacing routine a bit farther away from the two men. She cannot, for the life of her, seem to stand still, a look that practically shouts 'WHAT?' at Zach's rather pointed attention shot in his direction. "We'll keep that in mind," she says, that temper starting to flare again, though she manages to keep from saying the words through clenched teeth-- albeit just barely. "In the meantime, if--" There's a pause. She can try to temper her expression all she likes, but the furrow in her brow is distinct enough that, when paired with a slight slowing of her stride, it reads out as visible concern. "If it's all the same to you," she continues, raising a hand to pinch at the bridge of her nose, though this-- really doesn't help anything, "I'd *really* appreciate it if you'd just--" [Qui Curat] Sandra says, "Oliver. Did you bring frybread?" [Qui Curat] Oliver says, "I did. And--" The cheerful tone he gets sometimes when he's got something nice to surprise her peters out into a slight pause. "Do you smell it?" [Qui Curat] Sandra, urgently, replies, "Yes." It's a 'fun fact' that gets Oliver glancing out the doors, at least those visible from where he stands, through the quick scan looks more toward the ground than out toward where potential neighbours might be. Whatever he sees gets a slight lift of one brow, though there's then-- maybe it's the tone of Sandra's voice, but he glances toward her, and whatever he might have been thinking to say likely disappears along with the expression. There's just a hint of what might be his own concern when he looks back to Zach. Nevertheless, it doesn't show up in the tone, not quite so crisp as it was before, but still calm and a bit dry. "Less widely available and not quite the same ambiance," he says, "but the point is taken. Still, for today, if you wouldn't mind terribly...?" Quite polite in delivery, even if the unspoken portion is rather clearly 'going away now', and it's accompanied by a movement that resembles nothing so much as beginning to see a guest out. Nothing sudden or aggressive; it's really a very host-like move, actual surroundings aside. Zach hesitates juuuuust that extra second. It might be an instinctual bit of machismo, a signal that Zach doesn't take orders from anyone. It might be a signal that Zach isn't fully convinced, still, by all assurances and appearances, even if he's dropped below an actionable threshold of certainty. Regardless, the result is compliance, of a form. "Yeah, yeah," he says, waving a hand to brush off the remainder of what isn't said anyway. "Enjoy your breakfast and have fun, yadda yadda." The hands go into his the pockets of that trench and he starts making for a door, probably one opposite the direction Oliver entered from, a direction that implies someone heading deeper into Measure 2's urban waste. Some of his gruffness may be simply the stroke of humiliation or awkward sense of lost dignity grounding itself through anger. Nobody likes looking like a fool. But the tone of his voice suggests it's at least a garment he's accustomed to wearing. Sandra is quiet as Zach makes his departure. There's still tension in her, clearly, but it seems to drain from her as he states his intention to leave, a slight relaxation present in her shoulders. If there's chatter to follow, it's not heard through the door. What *is* heard-- Something to be said for a strange cracking sound that seems to come with the jangling chain. Not untoward; visceral. Organic. Like several bones breaking all at once, but that can't possibly be the case. Not so rapidly, anyway, and with the sound itself so indistinct-- who's to tell what it was? That it's followed by a short, nasal, almost canine whine doesn't provide any additional, or perhaps even useful, information. Just offers another opportunity to bask in what is, at best, a decidedly surreal encounter. | |
