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 first time he ventures down the corridor, it's because he's caught a whiff of Angelus- the olfactory tapestry of sandalwood, cognac and leather blending with that girly pomade and the underlying scent of Angelus himself. It brings up a memory so old it's faded around the edges, like an old photograph: back before he knew how to fight, Angelus standing behind him with his big hands wrapped round Spike's, showing him how to make a fist.

It's not something he consciously thinks about- the violent ballet of vampire life being as natural to him as not breathing, nowadays. He's drawn down the corridor, quickening his pace a little as he opens his mouth to scent the air, barely registering the massive slabs of rock he passes, dusted and sparkly like Vegas showgirls.

Somewhere along the way, the scent shifts. Spike frowns, because it's something heavier now, something with an undertone of musk and sweat, and-- dominance, if dominance had a smell. There's a new, second scent there now, light and floral with notes of citrus-- but that's impossible. How would she be here, of all places?

He frowns in consternation. He's confused now, and confusion has brought its ever-present plus-one, annoyance, along for company. He's even more curious now, though, and stalks along the corridor, half as swift and twice as stealthy.

The scents shift again, finally. Spike frowns, opening his mouth and breathing through it, because Angelus and Darla's presence suddenly is erased entirely and replaced with two new scents-- one human, one canine. He moves closer, very cautiously, possibilities blooming in his imagination. The dog yelps, a sharp, worried noise that rings off the high ceiling and glittery walls.

Spike picks his pace up ever so slightly. the human and dog come into sight, they're standing staring at a flat expance of what seems to be pointlessly dull wall- or at least, the human is. The dog is staring at Spike, pointy ears pricked and its own mouth slightly open, ruff on edge.

He smiles at the dog, consciously being cool, smoothing down the edges of the demon, thinking of placid seas and soft snowy valleys. He stands a non-threatening distance away from the human bloke, flicking an assessing glance over him before glancing up at whatever he's gawking at.

"Blimey, mate, you look as though you've--" Spike trails off when he claps eyes on it.

There's no reason a wall ought to make you feel this way. Like a wave of doom washing over you-- a gut punch of dismay, like all the hope and joy and good will has been sluiced out of you and there's no reason to think they'll ever come back.

Spike steps back a little, glances over at the dog. He resists the urge to sit down on the floor.

[infinitelystranger]

It is not the smell of the fresh-laundered bedsheets that brings Sherlock Holmes to the passageway, but rather the obstinate intent to plot an accurate map, starting with the cluster of buildings, if you can call them that. The sheets are an afterthought; the sheets are dismissed as a malfunctioning dispenser, from Sherlock's brief experience so far with dispensers. They get an unnerved start out of him, to be sure, but no hope: just recognition and a mote of curiosity. They are not enough to turn him off his steady and meandering course.

But eventually, his course does take him there, and the mote is satisfied. He too passes each column with an interested frown, crouching down in front of one to study the material, the way that it glisters from one angle to another.

As he wanders along, the scent changes--to something completely unfamiliar. Not only something Sherlock doesn't recognize, but of which he can't catalog the attributes; he has no idea whether what he's smelling is sweet, or musky, or astringent. It can't be placed. It must be some chemical having an olfactory effect. Having come to this reasonable enough conclusion, Sherlock covers his nose and mouth experimentally with his hand and then lets it drop. Well, he doesn't seem to be being gassed--no more than with the warm fabric and the detergent--it's just almost as if, almost like...

His feet take him around a corner and he finds a man staring at a wall. The man is middle-aged and well-groomed, carrying a blanket of some sort, though not in quite as good of physical health--he has a canine companion with the present manner and reactions of a concerned service dog. This is probably because his master is staring at the wall. Sherlock's eyes flick to the man for signs of seizure or post-traumatic flashback, and then to the wall--

The map Sherlock is making is pointless, he realizes; all his attempts to create a new frame of reference for himself are pointless. His world is gone. It didn't have much of a place for him to begin with, maybe, but it's certainly gone now, and with it his life's work. The stubborn effort to find a signal in the noise is just that--an effort, busywork. Human endeavor is as chaotic and meaningless--and evil--here as everywhere, and anything Sherlock does will make no more of a dent in it than it ever has.

His eyes come unfocused. It doesn't immediately occur to him to look away, because it doesn't immediately occur to him that anything could affect his cognition this deeply.

Then the dog whines, and something in the back of Sherlock's now deeply depressed mind reminds him: yes, but this man might be having a seizure. He glances over at the stranger--and blinks, as the depression ebbs. He looks back at the wall. He looks back at the man. It's having a very choppy effect on his serotonin levels.

[likegrier]

Brier finds the corridor in the dark.

The first time the lights went out, she wasn't sure what to make of it. Had she gotten the rhythm of day and night here wrong? The second time it had been, oddly, more comforting. From the reactions of those around her she knew - this was not a normal part of the day to day life here that she had misunderstood. This was strange. It was a problem, maybe, but it was not only a problem for her.

This time, when the lights went out, Brier feels her way to the nearest wall and feels her way along it for a few moments. She pauses as her fingers find a corner. That is when she smells it.

She can't explain what was different about the fire in her family home in the mountains than fires in the city, fires in hearths all over the kingdom, but it had a smell all its own. That is the smell she encounters, here.

Brier had gotten used to being alone, to avoiding the leers and the whispered comments of her fellows on the guards. Even the rare friendly face, like Toby Gokie or Captain Hill she had been careful to trust. She had held up against the loneliness. How was it any different here? Her concern about Imogene and Gabriel and Zara aside. People here were not even hostile the way many had been at home.

And yet, it is different here. No matter how she pretends, she longs for her mother now more than she ever had in the palace. The smell of her mother's hearth brings tears to her now closed eyes and she feels her way towards it, growing stronger.

Then it gives way to something stranger yet. Lavender, sweat and the cloth of her own jacket mixing in that peculiar way...

Zara Beck. Why is she smelling Zara Beck here?

She feels her way to the ground and buries her face in her knees until the lights flicker back on. She glances up to see a wall, covered in a blanket.