Harold Finch (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rlyprivateperson) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
sojournerdeep2016-10-03 06:37 am
rlyprivateperson) wrote in sojournerdeep2016-10-03 06:37 am
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!]
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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And then gravity and light had stopped being reliable.
(The issue of darkness had almost been a comfort: not the darkness itself, but the chance to do something productive, to take control of his environment in some fashion, however trivial. Finch had ascertained that if the ship-issued comm had a 'light-up' function, it was somewhat inaccessible (for now), and had instead turned to his own cellphone, glad now of having turned it off earlier to conserve the battery. He'd used the cellphone's glow to illuminate a search for a more durable light source-- there were those glowing crystals at the park, could they be used to..... [Short answer: yes, yes they could.] )
Finch had a lantern, now. It was a strange thing, and he could not help but feel something like a character out of a novel, holding to light his way: it was a pretty thing too, a faceted cylinder of a thin transparent substance (organic, he thought, albeit with reservations-- it had been growing in tube-like formations by one of the ponds), and several blue-shining crystals inside. They reacted with water, and that reaction was to glow. Not overpoweringly, but enough to see by. So: his lantern, held together with strips of copper wire, sloshing gently with water, sending out a cerulean radiance over the dark, strange dreamscape of the ship's tunnels...
Gravity had been trickier. There was something marvelous about it, when it got light: to step without the jarring weight of the world on his bad hip and bad knee. Even though his calculating brain observed the risks of true weightlessness, it was hard to be scared of being light as air.
(Heavy was... another thing. A wretched thing.)
Finch was in the process of returning to the Wall, several notes prepared, when the lights went out. He had let out a grunt, almost satisfied for the chance to have his lantern be useful. He'd counted the steps, unwilling to come across the Wall in the dark (god what a hideous thought), and he'd made a careful, unhurried way through the corridor of smells...
And then the lights had come back on, and Finch had relaxed somewhat-- until he saw a figure some fifty feet ahead, crouched at the base of the wall.
"Don't touch it!" he calls-- but in time to be heard?
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"Mr. Finch?" she asked, as she recognized the face. She turned to look at the wall behind herself again, climbing to her feet. "Oh. I'm sorry, I've upset the..." she trails off as she looks at what the blanket was covering.
"...the blanket." she finishes, after a beat.
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Too late. Finch snaps his own eyes shut and stands there a moment, wincing in a sort of empathetic fashion as he imagines what Brier might be feeling. Or rather he doesn't have to imagine it; he's felt it twice, after all. Finch exhales and gazes down in the direction of his shoes before carefully opening up his eyes. He walks forward, gazing down fixedly at his own toes, Bear trotting along fairly unconcerned.
"Miss Brier?" he says when he's closer, hoping he can jostle her out of what he expects to be the traumatic despair-bomb of the wall's impact.
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"What is it? She asks, looking up at Finch. "You felt it too?"
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"Yes, I'd stumbled across it earlier. I put the blanket up to try and keep anyone else from doing the same," he admits with a touch of wryness. He shuffle-steps closer, and Bear is tugging on the leash now, so he lets the dog go-- Bear bounds on over to Brier, greeting her with happy whining and a blunt nose into her hands. Bear isn't bothered by walls, but he is bothered by the people he likes being sad, and Brier's managed to qualify as such.
"Easy, Bear, let her breathe," Harold murmurs half-heartedly, eyes still on his toes as he shuffles the rest of the way near. "Are you alright?"
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"Thank you both."
"I found it in the dark. It smelled like...someone I used to know. I was sure she must be here." Brier doesn't realize how telling her statement is.
I'm sorry I upset the blanket. I'll put it back up." She turns towards the wall, but keeps her eyes on the ground for the moment, inching forward towards the half covered wall. She gets a hold of the corner of the blanket and stands, closing her eyes as she lifts it back to where it was, at the top of the wall.
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"Let me help you, it's a bit tricky just with one--"
Together, they manage to hoist the blanket up, even if Finch has a stiff shoulder and an awkward lurch to get it up all the way.
"There." He makes a show of brushing off his hands, trying to radiate a calm matter-of-factness about this all.
"You're very welcome. Have you had much trouble with the gravity? Things becoming too light or too heavy?"
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"Thank you for the help, as well" she says, softly, when they have finished the task. She offers Finch a smile and absently pets Bear for a moment.
"Gravity." she repeats. "Yes. I have been having that trouble. I try to sit down until it passes. It seems smarter to do that, somehow, I suppose I should do that when the lights go out, too."
"Everyone seems very nervous."
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"Yes, unless you have some way of seeing," Finch agrees. "And you should avoid areas that don't have roofs, if you can, until this stops happening-- I don't know what would happen if you got too light and fell upwards and there wasn't a roof, but it's probably safer not to test it. If you have to go through an open area, make sure there's something nearby to grab hold of."
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With one last glance at the blanket and one last shudder she starts down the hall, keeping a slow pace out of consideration for Mr. Finch. "Let's get away from...that." she says.
"Are you hungry? I've been...trying to cook. It doesn't go well, always, with the things I get out of the dispenser. But, I can try again."
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The comment on his lantern makes him smile, demurely pleased; the question of food makes him arch his brows and smile a different smile.
"That's quite generous of you. I'd very much like that, thank you. Can I do anything to help-- bring something?"
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She looks over at him "Does that sound like something you would like?"
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He's a little wary that he hasn't actually seen John eating terribly much.
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