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

[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.