sojournerdeep | Location - a disturbing hallway

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Location - a disturbing hallway

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!]

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Finch half-smiles at 'horse,' and keeps his hand buried in Bear's thick fur, rubbing little circles on the back of the dog's skull. Bear settles down a little, but keeps a watchful eye on Spike.

He purses his lips, glancing towards the hallway in question, then back down at the more comforting sight of his so-called service doggie. Bear loves having his ears rubbed, so he switches to that for a little bit.

"I have no idea," he says, and more or less means it. "I'm, I'm very uncertain at the moment as to a great many things." A little helpless gesture around, at this deeply unusual place and all its horrors. Finch has calmed down a bit from the surreal quasi-panic that had gripped him his first few hours here, but the memory of it isn't hard to evoke, to let seep into his tone so that he is more effectively a rather frightened, middle-aged man with a service dog who is quite out of his depth.

This Finch chap is rubbing the dog's head as if his life depends on it. Very comforting, petting a dog. Spike watches the soft white hands as they stroke and knead the fur around the base of the animal's skull, the soft alert ears.

The dog accepts this rubbing and kneading patiently, although it shifts now and then where it's sitting, tongue lolling. Occasionally it tries to turn and lick Finch's hands.

Finch's heartrate is still up. His breathing's still shallow, and his voice has the giddy almost-laugh in it Spike's all-too-familiar with. In short, he's probably at the end of his tether.

When Dru gets like this, he wraps his arms round her and holds her close, rocking her a bit, spinning yarns for her or asking her about the exploits of her chums, the stars. That's obviously not an option here, and the bloke's already turned down the offer of chocolate, so Spike runs through options in his mind.

"How's the dog holding up? I mean, what with the change of scenery."

"Oh..." Finch shrugs jerkily. "Dogs aren't... faced with existential crises or the collapse of their known reality so... I think he's doing alright. Aren't you, Bear?"

He lets Bear lick at his hands a moment, staring at the dog's rough tongue. And thinking about how this young stranger doesn't seem... so very put-out, does he? Perhaps it's a front; young men aren't generally eager to let on about fear, in Finch's experience. And Finch is also familiar with the notion of masking one's own unease by asking about the unease of others. Yet all the same...

He lifts his head, blinks at Spike with his pale eyes. "Yourself? You seem to be taking the, the ludicrousness of-- space-ship city-things-- reasonably well."

Spike's seen people put through all manner of physical trauma- he's been both the giver and receiver of a fair amount, himself. Finch moves like an inexpertly handled marionette at times. He notes the awkward shrug and stiffness of the neck.

The dog laps at Finch's hands. The little tremor doesn't seem to be strictly from nerves.

Uh-oh, it's probing time. Spike raises his brows, shrugs, grins a tight-lipped grimace. "Ludicrousness is sort of a defining characteristic of life, innit? For all I know, I might be dreaming, or very, very high. Best to just try and ride it all out."

He's never been much for sitting still. Angelus used to clip him round the ear for it often enough when he was a fledge. He shifts position, lacing his hands behind his head and leaning back against the wall. "Car crash?"

"Well, yes, if we want to be solipsistic about all of this," Finch sighs. "Of course I can't disprove that notion here anymore than I can categorically disprove it at home, but since I can't disprove this to be a simulation or a panic attack or something other than physical reality, I have to proceed as if it is, in fact, real. So."

Bear whines and settles his big head on Finch's better knee (the dog knows which one to avoid, the dog is careful of his master's aches and pains). Finch keeps scratching Bear's head.

The question earns a short, small nod from him, complete with a little downcast gaze and thin lips. This is one of the lies Finch has told quite a bit; he knows how to emulate it, the awkwardness of a man who'd rather not talk about a traumatic incident, the little inhale of breath as he obviously decides to change subject, etc.

"Are you from London?"

Now that they've safely sidestepped awkward topic, like Spike seeming to be taking this 'captive on a spaceship' scenario in any sort of stride, he feels a bit more relaxed. He mentally congratulates himself on his ability to set a pivot.

Asking questions about where he is from is a much safer topic, and Spike leans forward, elbows on his knees, nodding. "That's right-- you ever spend much time in the Smoke?"

"Not really. A business conference once, decades ago. I don't think it counts if you spend most of your time in the hotel," Finch says with a deprecating handwave.

"Are you a rock musician?"

"Bet it was one of those hotels where the lobby's all grand and posh, all marble and lovely brass fixtures, and the rooms would be cramped for a hunchbacked mouse, yeh? You've got some smashin' hotels in the states. Free brekker and all."

Spike's mostly focussed on scripting his own persona, so to speak- after all, once you put on a persona, you're stuck with it, and since they're going to be stuck together in close quarters, he wants to be sure it's something he can live with. Nothing too far off base. Nothing that will raise eyebrows with Skywalker or Mr Kenobi, or incite Jason Bloody Blood to stick his oar in.

He grins slightly at the question about rock music. "Well, I'm into punk a bit, yeh. S' more a hobby than a vocation, though. You?"

A small rueful laugh and nod at the description of the British hotel. "Yes and half the people at the conference complaining about not being able to use the wall outlets. I'll point out I at least wasn't among them."

He listens, and he nods. "It's good to have hobbies, certainly. I don't think you're going to hear much music from home here, however." Finch takes a breath, looking out at the strange landscape. "What is it you do do, then, back home?"

Just be a little sarcastic. Just enough to show you don't take life too seriously. Cheeky. Puckish, Angelus sometimes calls it.

As Finch talks, he lets the gears in his head spin a bit, musing over what his possible persona might be. Of course, he always keeps a fairly fleshed-out persona on hand, it's just a matter of amending the details as the situation and expectations warrant.

He has to play to expectations to a degree. The personal presentation can only do so much. He knows he's got certain fixed variables he has to inevitably contend with, like his sodding face.

Angelus couldn't have waited five sodding years Spike thinks, a little wryly to himself. Maybe ten.

What do human twentyish-year-olds do nowadays? Spike runs through his options, considers what he could possibly claim to do that would be in the realm of stereotypical expectations.

Military is right out. He's arguably had over a century of military training, but even when he has posed as a soldier in human warfare, it's not been in any sort of sanctioned, official, capacity. More like battlefield scavenging-- a lone jackal, looking for opportunities on the fringes.

Human warfare has moved away from the kind of training he's had. Broadswords are very passe. Hell, no one's even using a crossbow anymore.

Spike grins dutifully and nods with a laugh and light, forgettable quip about the difference between Yank socket fittings and British. Throws in a light anecdote about what passes for hotel service in Poland.

"And the towels, mate-- well, you seem posh, so I expect you're used to a bit of luxury, but I reckon I never saw anything like 'em."

The sense of residual euphoria has worn off now. Spike feels a bit spent, generally. Slightly light-headed. "I dunno-- maybe I'll find some other blokes who can play three chords and we'll form a punk group. I'm workin' on a few punk adaptations of some modern pop songs. You ought to hear what I'm doin' with Taylor Swift."

Now, just what does he do back home? Spike mulls this over for a nano-second, considering the possibilities versus what stereotypical expectations would demand.

"Well, er, I'm a bit of a jack of all trades, as it were," Spike finally settles on this as an acceptably non-specific answer. "Sort of a... freelance troubleshooter. Bit of this and that. What sort of conference was it?"

Edited 2016-11-06 19:33 (UTC)

You seem posh. It's a light-hearted comment but behind Finch's own mild, diffident expression, a camera clicks, so to speak, and notes it, finds it worthy of consideration. Finch happens to be very 'posh,' but he also goes to some pains (even if slight) to hide it. His suit, for instance: it's an expensive suit, but it's a quietly expensive suit. Most people look at him and guess something along the lines of professor, accountant, librarian even; all respectable, comfortable professions. But not quite posh.

So his suit-- or something else, something in his mannerisms-- has twigged as 'posh' to his new friend. Finch notes this in his organized mental cabinets, offers a distracted-and-slightly-bemused smile, lets it pass by...

"I'm afraid that's all beyond me," he says with a self-deprecating laugh at the talk of punk, or pop, music. "Taylor Swift? Is that the one who did the.... the 'tweaking'?" (Look at this middle-aged man just trying to sound like he knows what's 'hip,' indeed.)

At jack-of-all-trades, Finch smiles, slightly: he thinks of Will, Will the drifter, Will the perpetually-taking-this-or-that class, Will the undecided, a young man with the luxury not to decide. He supposes he is fortunate Will never took to black leather and tattoos, anyway.

"Keeping your options open," Finch says deadpan. "I see. Hmn? Oh-- computers. Networking and database management. I'm in technical support."

He's just about feeling back to himself again. The dread's receded and the relived euphoria's ebbed now, as well. And now he's talking to a middle-aged chap who, in the world's most earnest tones, just tried to use the word twerk.

Spike grins, face lighting up. "Look at you! Twerking, mate. Miley Cyrus, though. Not Taylor Swift."

He decides to chance letting the dog sniff him, to see if it will tolerate petting. As he settles on the bench seat, extending a cautious hand in the vicinity of Bear's muzzle- but not crowding him, he doesn't fancy having any fingers snapped by those jaws- he says, "Taylor Swift is a ...sort of country/pop girl power icon. She does songs like Shake it Off and Mean."

Now that he's said it, he reckons Taylor Swift might not sound bad as a punk cover. "You, with your words like knives
And swords and weapons that you use against me
You have knocked me off my feet again..."

He glances over to see if there's any recognition on Finch's face at the song, lets it trail off to silence with a grin and shrug. "No? What sort of music do people in networking and data base management listen to, then?"

Bear looks less than thrilled about the hand reaching his way; the ears are still up, but there's no growl, just wary alertness. The dog sniffs deliberately at Spike's pale hand. Finch muses on this; he tends to trust Bear's judgment of people, as a rule, but he sees nothing terribly concerning about the young man's behavior. The picture he's assembling of 'Spike' is one of someone from an affluent enough background to recognize 'posh'ness-- and who knows his science-fiction-- but who is doing his best to dress like a poster child for rebellion: a slumming rich kid, essentially. Rather nerdier than the wardrobe would suggest. There's no threat in that.

Maybe Bear just dislikes the smell of the hair product and the nail polish, he thinks absently.

Polite non-recognition marks his expression at the little burst of singing. "I'm afraid not, no. Hm? Oh, um, I don't know if we have a specific sort--"

Finch quickly considers and discards Kenny G; lying for covers is all well and good but it's a lie he may have to live with. Let's see, who's a perfectly-statistically-average musician for someone of his age and apparent background to like? Aretha Franklin. John Denver. Paul McCartney-- there, yes. (Bonus points for the awful crime, to a Brit, of appearing to prefer McCartney to Lennon, no doubt.)

"--but I've always liked Paul McCartney," he says innocently. "As far as newer stuff, Norah Jones has a nice voice. And Michael Buble too."

Being boring is hard work but Finch has practice. He wonders if Spike has heard of Neulander or Aphex Twin.

Edited 2016-11-09 11:57 (UTC)

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.

Edited 2016-11-10 19:17 (UTC)

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.

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.

Edited 2016-11-15 16:22 (UTC)

"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?"

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.

Edited 2016-11-16 17:16 (UTC)

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.

Edited 2016-11-22 07:30 (UTC)

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.

"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.

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Location - a disturbing hallway

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