Dr. Frederick Chilton (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
slightlyoffchilt) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
maskormenacelogs2014-07-12 03:34 pm
slightlyoffchilt) wrote in maskormenacelogs2014-07-12 03:34 pm
I don't need you or your brand new Benz --
WHO: Karla Sofen and Frederick Chilton.
WHERE: Karla’s annexed office.
WHEN: July 12th, 2014. Afternoon.
WHAT: Chilton and Karla’s professional relationship culminates in a splash of the titans, so to speak.
WARNINGS: Two jerks. One jerk gets manhandled.
For the first time since their mandated sessions had begun, Chilton felt confident upon entry. More than confident, he enjoyed a swelling smugness rising from his abdomen. His stride to Karla's office was more of a swagger; here he was, armed with the informational loaded pistol that he had bargained with Norman Osborn for. The price was, predictably, steep -- but far from impossible, and the factoids gained were deeply valuable.
She was located in one of the annexes associated with the hospital facility, and it would take Chilton ten minutes from his office, assuming he took the scenic route around the hospital's light blue tiles and through the palm tree prone courtyard. Along the way, he licked at his teeth, as if tasting the words he had calculated for impact.
Karla killed her psychiatrist.
As salacious as that notion was, the concept itself wasn't his bullet. It was the context, the implication: he had navigated through her network and took this information from her past. He had invaded her history, her privacy, her conceptual space. Chilton grinned a little to himself, closing his eyes to enjoy the submersion of sunlight storming earthward. He felt he understood the glow of those photons, in that second, even if he envied their slanted immortality. Photons moved at the speed of light, were defined by it, and time was stock still from that perspective -- if a photon held consciousness, it would know itself to be timeless. This was not a fate Chilton enjoyed, and it was made all too apparent some hours before, when Hannibal Lecter had returned to the scene of Heropa.
His Hannibal Lecter, this time around.
It took an hour of repression, of scheming, to compose himself for this shining moment -- Chilton found it nauseatingly coincidental, how Hannibal Lecter could ruin even the most removed of things for Chilton. History had a fondness for rhyming.
Hannibal the cannibal. Chilton closed his eyes, regretting the metaphor that born that rhythmic association. Not now, he chastised. Not when I have her.
He knocked on her office door, his timing impeccable.
WHERE: Karla’s annexed office.
WHEN: July 12th, 2014. Afternoon.
WHAT: Chilton and Karla’s professional relationship culminates in a splash of the titans, so to speak.
WARNINGS: Two jerks. One jerk gets manhandled.
For the first time since their mandated sessions had begun, Chilton felt confident upon entry. More than confident, he enjoyed a swelling smugness rising from his abdomen. His stride to Karla's office was more of a swagger; here he was, armed with the informational loaded pistol that he had bargained with Norman Osborn for. The price was, predictably, steep -- but far from impossible, and the factoids gained were deeply valuable.
She was located in one of the annexes associated with the hospital facility, and it would take Chilton ten minutes from his office, assuming he took the scenic route around the hospital's light blue tiles and through the palm tree prone courtyard. Along the way, he licked at his teeth, as if tasting the words he had calculated for impact.
Karla killed her psychiatrist.
As salacious as that notion was, the concept itself wasn't his bullet. It was the context, the implication: he had navigated through her network and took this information from her past. He had invaded her history, her privacy, her conceptual space. Chilton grinned a little to himself, closing his eyes to enjoy the submersion of sunlight storming earthward. He felt he understood the glow of those photons, in that second, even if he envied their slanted immortality. Photons moved at the speed of light, were defined by it, and time was stock still from that perspective -- if a photon held consciousness, it would know itself to be timeless. This was not a fate Chilton enjoyed, and it was made all too apparent some hours before, when Hannibal Lecter had returned to the scene of Heropa.
His Hannibal Lecter, this time around.
It took an hour of repression, of scheming, to compose himself for this shining moment -- Chilton found it nauseatingly coincidental, how Hannibal Lecter could ruin even the most removed of things for Chilton. History had a fondness for rhyming.
Hannibal the cannibal. Chilton closed his eyes, regretting the metaphor that born that rhythmic association. Not now, he chastised. Not when I have her.
He knocked on her office door, his timing impeccable.
no subject
Chilton wrapped his arms and legs around Karla, as best he could, his whole body trembling with shock and exhaustion and paradoxical adrenaline. They were in the sky, flying, and the bright, frosted air sank its teeth into Chilton's body. This was not the sort of air he felt when his feet had been kissing the ground, this was not that warmer, coastal feeling. The oxygen a couple thousand feet upwards had thinned -- and perhaps someone who wasn't in shock, and consequentially exhausted from his tenth surge of adrenaline, wouldn't have suffered the threat of hyperventilation.
"Don't drop me!"
His first words barreled out of his mouth. The moisture of those low hanging clouds had electrified him out of silence.
Chilton pressed more tightly against Karla, his wild eyes in a staring contest with the earth below them.
"I want to go back!"
It was a childish request. He lingered on the cusp of death, completely at Karla's mercy, his own body flightless and yet soaring against gravity. And still, he implored without a please or thank you.
Adrenaline didn't translate into manners for Frederick Chilton.
"I really want to go back now!"
no subject
Karla considered what would happen to her, the outcome she was flying them both towards. Back to the be arrested or go on the run choice that seemed to present itself to her every time she'd gotten used to not having to make it. Of course. Just as she'd begun to forget how growing comfortable always ended. As if she'd expected to go on playing house with Tony Stark. No repercussions from her life back home. Disgust curled her lips -- not for the violent reaction that had gotten her here, but for having somehow begun to expect things not to go this way. She wasn't good; there was no need to be complacent and stupid, too.
Her chest shook once, a silent burst of humorless laughter.
The ocean sparkled below them, rows of foam lapping against the beach. Calm day. Karla didn't enjoy the irony there.
“I’m sure you’ll be tempted to register this as positive reinforcement for that little show of investment you put on back there.” Her voice was clear, now, intended to cut through the breeze to Chilton's ears as she descended.
"Try to restrain yourself."
Her decision had been a snap one -- it was the first thing to suggest itself as a way to get him removed from her immediate presence while she composed herself, and to startle him out of making it worse in the interim. She'd remember it and cringe, later, having calmed, waiting for the fallout, as she thought of half a dozen less tactically asinine things she could have done instead.
Now, though, a few feet above the gentle waves, not far from shore, she peeled Chilton's clinging form off and dropped him into the water.
no subject
That was the indignant, incredulous cry that bolted from his mouth, like some syllable-bound bullet. She dragged him off her body, and he felt that horrifying weightless glee that human flesh knows, between land and ocean.
"Wait!"
His last word -- Chilton always had to get in the last word, didn't he? -- as she threw him into those serene waves. The shock wasn't the warm, salted water (though that had hurt), nor was it the secondary panic of sharks; rather, it was the explicit evidence of what event had just occurred. Or, rather, the absence of what had occurred.
Karla Sofen had not killed him. Her command of restraint -- was that directed to him, or herself? Because the latter certainly demonstrated unquestionable self-control. The latter listened to him, and his persuasions, and now he was soaking in the Atlantic, his brain still in tact.
As Chilton kicked in the ocean, keeping himself head above water (formal wear was not intended for swimming, and the weight of his cotton slacks reminded him of his remaining predicament), he looked up to watch Karla in the air. Here he was, seabound, oily and versatile and embracing his personal darkness -- and there she was, airborne, fighting for control and personal freedom.
Devouring a gulp of air, he started to swim to the shore.