maskormenacelogs | take up my message from the veins --

Entry tags:

take up my message from the veins --

WHO: Frederick Chilton & various imPorts! Possibly you!!
WHERE: Maurtia Falls mostly, and a single De Chima.
WHEN: Throughout June.
WHAT: Therapy & conflict!
WARNINGS: Psychic driving techniques as per the Kavinsky inpatient thread.

01 MAURTIA FALLS PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL FOR ABNORMAL CONDITIONS - CHILTON'S OFFICE, FOR OUTPATIENT APPOINTMENTS AND ANY CONFERENCES

Bela Talbot. Klarion Bleak. Elena Fisher. Newer patients, some willing and some... Mandated. But Chilton had an open office for all, to include older patients and relapsed patients, and he was more than willing to treat his fellow imPorts. Bela and Elena both merited careful, kind care -- the sort that Chilton built his professional reputation upon. Klarion would be a fine candidate for a Project, much like Kavinsky was, but his powers were truly horrifying. Whatever sociopathic tendencies the young man had, they needed to be redirected in the most healthy way possible.

Chilton sat in his high-backed leather chair, contemplating his next session. His office, painted in a light blue, maintained a heavier resonance with its gold and black accents. A decanter filled with finely aged whiskey sat behind him, nestled within his fully stocked bookshelf. Greco-Roman paintings and busts and trinkets littered his office, and gold pens glinted from his desk. Two seating arrangements sat before his, parallel to each other: one soft, light blue sedan and one hard, uncomfortable wooden chair.

He gave all his patients the same choice.

02 MAURTIA FALLS PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL FOR ABNORMAL CONDITIONS - STAFF AREAS, OPEN TO ALL BREEDS OF MINGLING INCLUDING STAFF INTERACTIONS

The boon of William Walker's recompense donation, which Chilton had summarily demanded after Walker's battle with Jack had destroyed Rincewind's office, was excessive and intended for excess. The hospital's exterior was afforded a facade change, a later Georgian design, and the basement imPort Containment Centers had been updated with three power nullifiers, one for each center, officially leased from the US Federal government. These prisons ensure that once an imPort is locked within the nearly 200 sq foot reinforced glass cylinder holding, they will not be able to escape. The main lobby, which typically contained some incarnation of Reggie Mantle, was accessible to all -- staff, patients, or otherwise. The staff lounge continued to maintain a modernize, even pompous, self-important sleekness, and brimmed with the necessities required for staff consumption. All vending machines had since been removed, thanks to the Rincewind Incident. Chilton had made the cause of this consequences very clear.

Each office associated with a staff member is decorated in accordance to the staff member's taste. While Chilton won't control the design, he'll certainly watch it -- every room in this hospital is recorded. Even the ones that aren't legally supposed to be recorded.

Staff are free to bring visitors during the day, but they must be armed with a Visitor's Pass.

When he does not hold meetings in his own office, which is indeed rather rare, Chilton will host them in a welcoming reception room on the first floor.

03 MAURTIA FALLS PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL FOR ABNORMAL CONDITIONS - INPATIENT WING, CLOSED TO KAVINSKY

"Now, Kavinsky," he said, his gaze determinedly fixed on the young man before him. "Are you ready to have a little conversation?"

They were on the second floor, the inpatient wing. The lights above glowed impossible bright, ethereally white. Everything was white on the inpatient wing, to include the hallways, with the rare pop of color amplified for shock value. Distorting, dissociating, stark and brutal. Kavinsky's own room was one of many lined along, with bullet-proof plexiglass guarding his enclosure as it fit towards the hallway. Inside his apartment, as Chilton called it, was a high-tech monitoring bed, a lamp, and a table -- all bolted to the ground. The chairs that they sat in were not attached to the floor, but they also were not allowed to remain in the room while Chilton was gone.

He had security remove them after the session.

"I brought you something," he said, softly, his gaze never breaking. From his double-breasted suit he pulled out a small book. A poetry book. Howl, Allan Ginsberg.

04 THE EAR WYRM, VINYL RECORD STORE, MAURTIA FALLS

He scoured for a sound that Raina would like. The gift he sought didn't come with a purpose, this was for no anniversary nor special occasion. There was a shadow soaking his subconscious, a primal fear reverberating into his behavior. This was because of Persephone, this was because of her song. She had sung especially to him, she had composed for him a song of betrayal and isolation and disdain, and while he knew that logically his loved ones wouldn't throw him into the trash, Chilton couldn't quite shake that terror. There was a tremor in his soul, because of Persephone.

So here he was, at The Ear Wyrm, looking for an unannounced present for Raina. To delay the thought of her leaving him.

05 LOUNGE BAR, THE HOTEL CASTILE, MAURTIA FALLS

Didn't a Sally once work here? He was fairly certain, reasoning that he had a memory of a sharp-edged woman named Sally once haunting James Patrick March's hotel. Or was that a fabrication, a deterioration in the mind? Chilton stared into his single malt scotch, repressing a shudder. Last month had been something of a collapse for him, he had suffered a psychosis that he had never before experienced: hallucination. Gore dripping from the ceiling onto the carpet, shadows turning into demons. In this hotel, beneath March's care, he had hallucinated more than once. Chilton hadn't discussed it, of course, he didn't want anyone to think he might be crazy. He wouldn't even associate the episodes with this hotel, this environment, if only to indulge the inexplicably darkness pulling at his marrow, sitting him here at this bar.

But he was lonely, sitting here. Isolated. Staring into his whiskey, ignoring the distant screaming he seemed to hear only in this place.

"Buy you a drink?"

Desperation in his voice.

06 WILLIAM WALKER'S OFFICE, SWEET IRON COMMUNICATIONS, DE CHIMA, CLOSED TO THE MAN IN BLACK

He threw open the door to Walker's office, unannounced and unrepentant. The receptionist knew he hadn't an appointment, and Chilton reveled in the minor revolution of it all. His stride was quick, determined, and sharp enough to outpace any interference from any secretary fearing for their job; he wanted to see William Walker. And he would.

"Well!" Chilton threw his hands upwards, smiling with a smug triumph unique to his mouth. "Your check had cleared! Renovation is now scheduled."

07 PLAYER'S CHOICE, OTHER, CHOOSE YOUR POISON

Threaded | Flat

As promised, Utena walks into Chilton's office, holding her copy of The Methodical Walter White in her arm. Her appearance is unconventional, to say the least; the only jewelry on her person is an odd ring, and a used button up shirt and tight pair of slacks make up her idea of professional attire. She carries herself with enough confidence to make it appear more vintage than shabby, though, and her height certainly helps with the illusion. While it may not be as striking here in America as it was next to the other girls in Ohtori Academy, she still stands taller than her peers, enough to make it difficult to decipher an exact age. However, these details aren't as eye-catching to most people as her long, pink hair or her unnaturally bright eyes. Chilton's hunch was correct: this was the girl Woden had tried to recruit back when he first arrived in this place.

Woden is the last thing on her mind right now, though. There's too much energy in her step for her to be truly relaxed, but she's not intimidated by her surroundings in the way Jaime was. Instead, she's merely curious, and trying to guess at whether or not this matches up to what a psychiatrist's office is supposed to be. Once she spots Chilton, though, she straightens up and clears her throat, remembering her manners.

"Hi, Doctor Chilton? I'm Utena, Utena Tenjou. I'm here about the book, remember?"

She smiles brightly and holds up the book for emphasis. Ta-daaa.

The appointment in his internal calendar had actually made him laugh when he saw it. Dr. Chilton. He remembered the Doctor, and that was enough of a reason to make the appointment.

He strode in, a single minute late -- down to the second -- and didn't bother knocking. "Dr. Chilton!" he greeted, slipped the sunglasses to the top of his head. He flopped into a seat, crossed an ankle over his knee, and made himself very comfortable in the chair he'd found, arms on the armrest, and he tapped a finger idly, even though he'd only been there for a scant few moments.

"Nice to see you again." As always, Stark tried to dominate the conversation, the line of questioning, the direction things went. No matter in what form, what time he was from... Some things remained the same.

CLOSED TO CHILTON

had

what?

What

OTA ( LOBBY & LOUNGE )

work,

does

looks

moderately

during

dull

“Gatdamn, Frederick, anyone ever teach you how to knock?”

There’s a horse milling around in here, its satin black coat cow licked with fresh-brushed sweat -- the faint taste of animal and salt in the air even with the vents chugging at an industrial bent. His saddle is upside down with the rest of his tack, airing out in a tidy heap near the couch.

The man in black is here too, fresh-showered and half-dressed, fastening the cuffs of his sleeves in a pair of underwear and socks. A tie hangs loose around his neck; a pair of dark pants hangs over the corner of his desk.

He reaches for those next, left-handed, creases checked with a snap that pricks his horse’s ears.

A gold band gleams at his third knuckle.

“You think I wasn’t good for it?”

Since Chilton’s here anyways, and not like to eject himself over missing pants (if his tie to Sam is any indication) he talks on as he steps into trou. A few hefty stacks of cash counted out onto his desk with his gunbelt help to drive the point home.

Their meeting today, informal upon request, had two purposes: one, the obvious, to discuss Jonathan Crane and see if he couldn't persuade an honest opinion of him out of Dr. Chilton. He suspected that, of the three names given, Chilton's would undoubtedly hold the most clout when it came to reinstating Jonathan to his practice. He also suspected, however, that as (hopefully) a professional, he would be the most difficult to persuade. The second, to get his own impression of the doctor, and to understand better what type of person he was. After all, he suspected that the porter didn't bring in your average psychologists, and he's personally never trusted a single one he's ever encountered... for more than one reason, really.

His office upon entering leaves an immediate impression, extravagant in nature, especially for someone of his field. He wondered that didn't speak to an impression of himself above his patients; a sort of emperor in his own right. That may give him an advantage as Bruce Wayne over Batman, he thought, bespoken in only the finest suit and strolling in with his commanding gait.

"Doctor Chilton," he begins with a smile, hand extended. "Bruce Wayne. I appreciate you taking the time to speak with me today."

[ Usually when Kaneki visits the Hotel (once a week, without fail; some might see a pattern in that), it's solely to grab what he needs. Not that he thinks it’s a bad place, but he is still waiting for the day when someone will find that basement (or room, or hidden hall, or garage or whatever) full of dead bodies belonging to March’s victims and Kaneki doesn’t want to be there when it happens. But that doesn't mean he can't socialize a bit or at least see who is around; some of these people might never leave this place, that’s for sure.

So before he goes to his room, he stops by the hotel's lounge bar to ask for a cup of coffee, and that's where he spots Chilton. With a small smile, he nods ]

Coffee, please. How are you, doctor?

[the boy in the chair looks slightly different from how he used to. less skinny-- a couple less grams of cocaine a week will do that to you, along with a regular diet of codfish and eggs and potatoes and steak will do that to you. hair a little longer. less the fidget and humming, badly bridled energy of a poisoned soul trying to escape its skin. color in his cheeks. he could use a haircut but

but

in a very real, objective sense, he looks better. healthier.

but the posture is still the same. hips jutting, belly concaved by his no good hangdog slouch, shoulders caved. he regards dr. chilton with less animosity than most people probably would, if their volitary commitment turned into weird brainwashing and penis stuff. (it's a change from three weeks ago, when he'd fought a guard to keep his therapy chair and bit the man's hand so hard he'd felt the tendons separating in his teeth.)

(but even then, he'd mostly wanted to taste the blood.)]

I don't read, [kavinsky says, but he takes the book anyway, opening it in that automatic way that people do. a glance over the cover. alan ginsburg. alan gibsburg.] This guy was gay too, huh? What, by queers, for Queens?

[the language is new.]

[ the clinic is an intimidating thing, all clean lines and professionalism, expense in every accent of it. not the kind of sleek but pragmatic utility that the ark was constructed with, where you could find the age in it if you looked close enough. not the shadows and dirt and rough concrete walls and floors of the prison he'd visited kavinsky in before. that, at least, was familiar enough to him, having spent most of his teenage years on death row - sky box.

this place is different. it's rehabilitation. it's care, and space made for the things less necessary to survival. nothing rationed, no one left shorted for the sake of preserving the rest. it's hard for murphy to imagine kavinsky rehabilitated, but at the same time, it was hard to imagine anyone willing to try. people like them - they're punished and ostracized, and that's how the ark, and the ground, dealt with them. this entire place is a foreign concept to him.

thus, murphy's picking at the ends of his sleeves, tugged up into his palms, with thumbs punched through torn holes at the edges to fit the sleeves like gloves. there's a plastic bag dangling from one hand, filled with two cokes and a bag of cheetos, and like this, murphy shuffles his way up to the lobby counter warily, eyes shifting around the place and it's uniformed staff.

maybe it's a receptionist at the desk, maybe another staff member, maybe the doctor himself passed behind it for a moment to grab something, but whoever's there is who he addresses. ]

Hi. I'm here to see Joseph Kavinsky? [ a question, because he's not sure if this is what he's supposed to be doing to get to that end. or if that end even exists. ] Does he get visitation?

[ In his second go around, comin' in through the Porter from worlds unknown, Teddy started paying attention. Not just that he was different, but that everybody had their differences. Like this: not everybody could find somebody just by thinking about them and hitting the trail. And if it's a close acquaintance, it makes for a narrower scope.

Frederick Chilton qualifies.

And he's been browsing long enough that Teddy catches up before he leaves or even gets done with his business. Teddy enters with a little more abruptness than intended, focused like a bloodhound, and the door complains on its hinges. He stops, takes in his surroundings, its rhythms, and falls into step.

He runs his attention over the wares on display as he makes his way round to Chilton, eyeing off the man's back and watching as the doctor puts away one of the records he'd been holding.

Teddy picks it up after him, inspecting its cover. ]

Somethin' wrong with it?

[ He displays the record back at the other man, two-handed. ]

Therapy. Huh. Elena had never been against the idea--she didn't think she was above the concept, or that it was a sign of weakness. But she'd also never thought of herself as someone who needs therapy, and here she was now.

So far it had been fine. Light talk, mostly, not getting much beyond the surface level. She didn't know if that meant she was doing it right or wrong. Dr. Chilton seemed patient, in any case. Maybe that was a requirement for being good at his job.

"People talk about what'll happen when I go home," she said. "Not in a nosy way, just--you know, talking about things we left on hold, things we want to get done. And I don't lie, I've talked about the state I was in when I came through the porter, but I let them assume that I have anything left to go back to."

This again.

It went without saying, but Klarion was not looking forward to this appointment. The last time he'd had an appointment with the 'therapist' (Klarion mentally inserted the finger-quotes himself, he'd never consider Chilton a real doctor) it had been in a regular hospital. Unpleasant, but a general enough location to be considered neutral territory. The psychiatric hospital was anything but, and Klarion had the unpleasant feeling that he was walking through a monument to Chilton's ego as he stalked through the halls to the man's office. His nullifier had been cranked up to 99%, leaving him with just enough power to maintain his connection to Teekl, but not enough to teleport directly into Chilton's office and scare the daylights out of him like last time. Pity.

If he listened carefully, Chilton would be able to hear fragments of Klarion's conversation with the cat as he approached the door, snatches of one-sided dialogue that sounded like "Into the mouth of the beast, I suppose," and "Shed as much as you like." When he finally entered, Klarion looked tired, more like a resentful delinquent getting ready to sit through another detention than the self-assured brat from his last probationary period.

"Again with the chairs?" he raised an eyebrow at Chilton, and couldn't hold back a sneer. "I'd have thought that your surroundings would at least inspire some new office decor."

Time in the Castile has a funny way of not passing only to pass all at once. Sally is no longer here but the bar has the same smell, holds the same lingering temptation. Their friendly bellhop has taken on the mantle tonight and, for once, is tremendously quiet. If Chilton starts conversation, he'll talk, but he isn't poking and prodding. No screaming here.

Eventually, a woman sat nearby, in particular clothing. She either worked here or came here with her best dress on, somewhere she could fit in. Somewhere homey where she could smoke at the bar and drink absinthe if she wanted. She seemed a natural fit, and gave Chilton an uncertain smile in response. Then she looked him up and down, as though assessing any threat level, and nodded.

"Why not? It's only a drink."

She cast a look at their current bartender, daring him to say anything. He didn't, visibly zipped his lips, and then went about getting her drink ready. He already knew what she'd want.

"Say, don't I know you? Seen your face around before."

To say that Bela wasn't anxious about her upcoming appointment with Chilton would be a lie. She had never considered therapy in her adult life (it had been offered to Bela when she was fourteen after the death of her parents.) Bela was also concerned about going to someone whom she considered a close friend. While she didn't doubt Chilton's professionalism and skills as a therapist, it was herself that she worried about. Maybe she wouldn't be honest or open about her feelings.

She arrives for her appointment on time, looking impeccable. Her appearance was important to her after all.

"Hello." Bela knocks on the door first before entering, closing it behind her. Briefly, she casts her eyes around the room to take it all in. Possibly a delay tactic. Once she finishes looking Bela makes her way over towards Chilton and selects the more comfortable seat, settling back into it. Her posture is relaxed, hands folded in her lap.

Go time.

"You're doin' better with this than I thought you would."

Hard to say which glinted more - Sam's smirk or his eyes, bright and trained on the man sharing this small, metal johnboat with him. His own comfort was never in doubt. Sam had declared free reign over this last-ditch attempt at consenting therapy, and he hadn't wasted the opportunity. Balmy weather and a fluffy sky, sunlight reflecting off lake surface smooth as glass, and a cooler full of beer - you didn't get that shit in an office.

The shifter leaned back in his seat, dressed down in a T-shirt and jeans, unabashedly manspreading. No one here to judge but a few birds and some sunbathing turtles.

And Dr. Frederick Fucking Chilton, but his judgement went without saying; Chilton was the sort of man who'd sneer at a children's art fair.

"We're out far enough now I think we can just sort of float for a bit." He'd enjoyed watching Chilton's face as he'd driven them across the surface, water and wind spraying an unavoidable mess across clothes and hair. "Get you a beer?"

Threaded | Flat

Chilton's office

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VI

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MEEEEE (cw drugs, mental illness, dodgy psychiatry blah blah)