Location - a disturbing hallway

[rlyprivateperson]

There is a passageway in Sojourner dotted with irregularly-placed stone plinths that serve as columns for a latticed ceiling. The first thing one might notice about it is the scent wafting forth; a sweet, warm smell that is... well, what is it? A scent from one's childhood, surely, a comforting scent. Fresh bread for some. Mown grass for others. But it's a scent that tugs one's lips into a smile, and twinges a string of nostalgia in the heart, and more often than not, draws feet in that direction.

Finch has one such pair of feet. He limps down the corridor, his leashed dog at his side; and he pauses occasionally to sniff the air, to smile absently, then to resume his forward progress and idle inspection of each of the rough-hewn stone monoliths he passes. There are no markings, but they glitter as if fine mica or quartz had been dusted along their slate-dark surfaces.

Another scent, replacing the fragrance of (for Harold Finch) a pot roast dinner. This one is... thick in the air, cloying, and Finch pauses with a slow blush creeping up his neck. (For Harold Finch, it's now the smell of a former lover's aftershave; for others it might be any number of scents that bring to mind intimate moments.) After a long, hesitating moment (while Bear whines in confusion, his canine nose registering entirely different things than a human might), he keeps going.

And any others who follow this fascinating olfactory trail to its conclusion - well, they find Harold Finch standing at a blank wall that fills the passage floor to ceiling. It appears to be steel - or something like it - its blank, ugly surface scarred and pitted with gouges and gashes, like a spoon put down the garbage disposal.

And for those viewing it? They feel a curious sense of existential dread, visceral, dwelling in the gut rather than the mind. There is no obvious threat. There is no sense of a knife-wielding maniac or a monster about to devour you. There is only that wall, flat, scarred, final as a summary execution, and the slow flooding awareness that all is meaningless, has been meaningless, will always be meaningless.

Harold Finch stands and stars, stands and stares. There is a cold sweat beaded on his brow, and he looks somewhat grey around the gills.

The dog barks, a worried sound, unsure what is wrong with his human but knowing that something surely is.

[ooc: Open to any! Finch is going to stubbornly return to this wall a few times, so multiple people should feel free to jump in and we'll assume chronological jumps if necessary. Feel free to add any details about this hallway you think would be interesting!]

Comments

[vampapalooza]

The dog's ears are straight up, eyes bright and focussed, every muscle in its body alert. Spike holds his hand open and relaxed as the dog barely moves its head forward to sniff.

The animal doesn't growl or indicate its about to try to make mincemeat of Spike's hand, so that's encouraging. He keeps a steady eye on the animal, not quite a defiant eye-lock, he doesn't want to challenge to dog, just to establish a little bit of an understanding.

"Norah Jones is smashin! Very fierce. Got a good, strong voice, hasn't she? Sweet, but strong. Reminds me of a sort of special lady I know, sometimes."

The corner of his mouth quirks slightly at the thought of Darla. What would she make of this place? A cosy little rock hurtling through space, quietly going off its rocker, complete with nihilistic walls and temperamental goody-dispensers.

Finch might be surprised when it isn't McCartney who gets the reaction. Instead, Spike grins, a little groan evident in his voice although he doesn't turn his head to look at Finch, keeping his eyes on the dog.

"Oh blimey, Michael Buble, really? Well, I suppose it takes all sorts, mate."

Spike has heard Aphex Twin-- popular amongst some of the necromancers he knows-- but would not in a million years consider the group's work in any context related to Finch. Michael Buble and McCartney went hand-in-hand with his mental stereotype of the music preferences of a quietly posh ...network administrator (? Are network administrators given to low-key poshness? Somehow Spike's always assumed they were more of the sort whose shirts were polyester or emblazoned with comic book logos). He grins in a harmless sort of way as he carefully leaves his hand within sniffing distance of the alert dog.

"Is he on the job, then?" Spike asks.

[rlyprivateperson]

A nod and a blandly polite smile at the talk of Norah Jones, then a credulous blink to go along with "What's wrong with Michael Buble?"

But that other question, well.

"He's a service dog," Finch murmurs, eyes back on Bear, as Bear sniffs all around that pale, extended hand. "I suppose he's not really 'off' the job much, are you, Bear."

Bear rolls a doggy eye his direction and lets out a single soft bark at the sound of his name, more a whuff than a real bark. He sniffs again at Spike's hand, then settles down, pointedly, paws folded one over the other and his chin resting on them.

"He's probably a bit worked up from the wall too," Finch says, quasi-apologetically.

[vampapalooza]

There's no tail-wagging and tongue-lapping. The dog gives a disgruntled little wuff at the sound of his name and then lies down, which suits Spike fine. He gives an almost imperceptible little nod at the animal, not breaking eye contact.

That's right, doggy, you lie there nice and quiet, and I'll sit here, nice and calm, and we'll all understand one another. Spike wipes his hand casually on his jeans.

"Yeh, I reckoned as much. Don't want to bother him when he's working. Good point-- that wall wasn't made by humans, so it stands to reason it wouldn't only affect humans. What the hell do you suppose possessed them to make a thing like that?"

Spike knows very well the wall doesn't only affect humans. He slouches comfortably on the bench, fishes in his coat pocket, and withdraws a spicy beef jerky stick, offering it to Finch.

He's feeling pensive now, thinking about the wall, and the way it made him feel. This segues into other thoughts- why any of them are here, how they will get out of here, whether he's going to wind up the only person on a ghost ship, just him and Siri, eternally drifting through the silent void of space.

"Bit worried about her, really," this is soft, maybe too soft for a middle-aged chap like Finch to fully discern, and devoid of the veneer of cocky cheer he's been affecting.

[rlyprivateperson]

"I couldn't begin to theorize," Finch says with a shrug that accentuates the stiffness of his shoulders. "Sadism? Existential installation art? Maybe it's intended to be cathartic. Like horror movies."

He shakes his head at the offer of the jerky stick, no thank you, and bumps one of his feet up under Bear as a substitute for actual petting contact.

The murmured bit makes him glance over. "I'm sorry? Worried about who?"

[vampapalooza]

Why he's said it aloud, he isn't entirely certain-- maybe he'd wanted to broach the subject. Maybe he'd wanted to say it out loud to someone, to see if they'd laugh in his face.

Finch is obviously a swotty chap, his taste in crooners aside. Maybe he'd thought the bloke might actually understand. Maybe his inhibitions were severely lowered by a dopamine crash after the Wall Experience.

He peels the wrapping off the beef jerky, breaking off a piece. Without batting an eye, he remarks, "My-- the girl I mentioned before. My sister."

Except it was Darla he'd been thinking about before, and now he's claiming it's Dru. It's inconceivable to worry about Darla, even for lying purposes. Besides, she'd clip him round the ear for cheek. The pause between 'my' and 'sister' is almost imperceptible. "She's... well, she's got some difficulties. The Olds don't understand her. And she's back there, and I'm here. Reckon they're probably tearin' their hair out, wondering where I've got off to. Can he have a bit of jerky stick?"

Spike holds up the snack food between pale thumb and forefinger, tilting his head to indicate the prone dog.

[rlyprivateperson]

Finch looks over, attention drawn by the pensiveness in the tone of his young punk-rock acquaintance. Wretched enough to be taken from all you love; worse if there's someone back 'home' that depends on you. If Finch were a tactile sort of person he might attempt a small shoulder pat-- but he is not, particularly.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he murmurs. "I'm sure your parents are taking care of her, though." It sounds like the thin comfort it is, but there's really no social script that Finch knows of for 'we've all been abducted by aliens.'

There is, however, a polite social script for dogs and jerky. "Oh. Yes. That's fine-- I try not to spoil him normally but.... I think this counts as a special occasion. Bear, say thank you-- blaffen!"

Bear sits up and lets out a single bark; Finch smiles a little, a touch of amusement amid all the darker thoughts.

[vampapalooza]

Spike gives a little nod, and heaves a sigh. He doesn't entirely have to fake this. He is concerned about Dru. He can only hope that they're in some alternate dimension and time isn't passing back home-- if he's just gone, that's going to surely be upsetting to her. Imagining her thinking that he's just up and left without saying goodbye is like a corkscrew in his chest.

"Sure, yeh, they do their best. It's just, well... they're, old. Generation gap, yeh? Me and her, we understand each other. Always have."

It occurs to him that Finch probably assumes Spike's parents are somewhere in their mid-forties. Maybe fifties. Somewhere around his own age. He almost laughs at the thought but manages to turn it into throat-clearing.

Brightening, he breaks off a piece of jerky when Finch gives the all-clear for the dog. He notes the command, remembers being dragged all over Bruges so Angelus could look at Van Eycks and Bosches and cathedrals. He thinks of mussels and frites, beer and chocolate. The faceoff with the Janssen clan at the aptly-named Basilica of the Holy Blood.

Out loud, he remarks, "Clever dog. What's that, German?"

He flicks the bit of jerky dog-ward, thinking Don't say I never did anything for you, pooch.

[rlyprivateperson]

"Dutch," Finch responds absently, watching as Bear scarfs down the jerky enthusiastically. He remembers that when the dog had been new, it wouldn't have gone for a dropped tidbit without an inquisitive look at John.

But John's spoiled him. And Finch supposes he has too, a little bit. The dog is no longer the tightly-disciplined military creature he had been: crossed the line over into pet, companion.

As if reading his thoughts, Bear settles his big head on Finch's knee after wolfing down the jerky and Finch gives the canine a little smile, a fond head-scratching behind the pointed ears.

"The way to his heart is through his stomach; of course, now he'll want treats every time he sees you," he mock-warns.