maskormenacelogs | what have you got to lose --

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what have you got to lose --

WHO: Chilton and OPEN!
WHERE: All Around Heropa.
WHEN: July 8th to July 30th -- just indicate what day in the header please!
WHAT: This thus includes: psychiatric sessions, dinner reservations, coffee gallivanting, whimsical meetings of any any sort.
WARNINGS: Will update if necessary.

The sweltered gasps of summer whispered heavily onto his cotton button-ups and tailored blazers. Inspiring as the warmth and light might be (what better way to flesh out the contours of darkness?), Chilton struggled with his composure in the heat. And the heat flickered in more than mere temperatured conception; there was the metaphorical heat of sparring individuals, his own psychiatrist's history of violence and Borderline Personality Disorder, the cannibalistic ghouls of his past (and future) swaying back into his (endangered?) life. The stress was remarkable, plastering itself in the crooks of his neck, in the curve of his spine. There were fleeting fantasies, when he wondered if Christine had the right idea: escape Heropa for something more remote, something more brisk. But of course, that proposition was contrary to everything he had worked for -- Frederick Chilton was now an Attending Psychiatrist at his hospital, with a fascinating flow of imPort minds to analyze. This was a system he had wanted, the structure he craved. The brief hiatus from work he had taken lasted only three days, and even that was wholly in response to Karla Sofen's physical aggression (and consequential revelation). A minor setback. But with newer patients like Billy Kaplan (General Anxiety), Tommy Shepard (Anti-Social Personality Disorder), Erwin and Levi (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder), and now Godot (... in which the jury's still out), there was a cemented allure to remaining within Heropa's embrace. Not to mention his longer-standing patients, the individuals who suffered the verge of identity crises (his favorite crisis), like Doctor Connors and Kanaya. Not to mention his project with Danger, a situation that sparked new height of unethical relations. And certainly, his promised patients, the ones he was only starting to sink his fingers into their synapses...

There was no true impulse to abandon any of that. He savored every atom of that foundation.

The sun implored blistering antics against his back, and he weathered the heat graciously.

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Chilton, conveniently, had not yet left for work. He was in fact running the risk of a late incoming -- but ever meticulous with time, he had schedule a buffering zone of additionally fifteen minutes. Just in case. He strode onwards towards the front door, keen on making due his exit, when he heard those poignant, exact knocks. Even that sound reminded him of Danger, but the idea of her presence perplexed his subconscious -- perhaps he was simply nostalgic, because of their last engagement.

He opened the door, revealing her form.

"This is odd," he said. Chilton peeked out, almost expecting an entourage. "And you're alone?"

She was rather meticulous with her own time-- as evident by the way she ignored his question, allowing her presence to answer it as she brushed by him to go inside. If she had any sense of decorating aesthetics, perhaps she would have commented on the place, but given how void of personal touches her own living space was, the furnishings were beyond the scope of both her experience and interest.

Instead: "I am going to perform an inspection of the premises. No doubt your residence is rife with security flaws, and as I cannot be bothered to babysit you constantly, I will make some preemptive adjustments now."

Clearly, she was not asking for permission.

"Are you so unconvinced of my ability to keep my nose clean?"

It was mostly a rhetorical question, born from his mouth. Naturally Danger didn't trust him; she mistrusted him on multiple levels. Despite his queried and implied protest, Chilton stepped aside to allow her infiltration of his shared home facility. How fortunate for both Nill and Kate that they were soon moving out. Pity for Troy. Chilton, however, did not let Danger survey in privacy; he followed her, just a by a step's breadth, breathing down her neck as he wriggled into her perspective, like some maggot squirming for attention before a god's eye.

"What are you planning to do, I wonder? In the name of security?" He connected one hand to his hip, his other clutching his ever-present companion, the black and silver cane.

"I have other housemates, you know, who might not appreciate your tender concern."

They were, of course, nothing but an afterthought.

She took it was a mostly rhetorical question, leaving it without an explicit response as she occupied her attention with calculating the dimensions of the space. Despite the nature of their encounter the other night, she barely acknowledged him now, clearly prioritizing the task she had set for herself. Undeterred by his presence behind her, she moved into the kitchen, scanning over everything from windows to appliances.

No doubt she was already calculating the need for motion censors, cameras, silent alarms-- whatever was necessary to assure safety, which meant ensuring that she had eyes everywhere, that she always knew what was happening.

"Your housemates will not need to be aware of the upgrades," she responded matter-of-factly. "Despite my practical sense indicating that I should be completely thorough, I have already decided against monitoring either the bathrooms or any bedroom other than yours. I thought that would be the most considerate compromise."

"Are you not convinced of the inherent duplicity? Even if the bathrooms and their rooms are blind spots." Chilton asked, knowing deeply well that such moral qualms would hardly calculate on Danger's radar. "Or simply not made concerned by it?"

Another rhetorical question. It was all he could do, in the thrust of her agile functioning, her agenda formidable in its enactment. Rhetoric was all he had against her electrical pulse -- and he had learned that lesson well, from their last intimate meeting. What she had done to him (what she had shown in humiliating depths that he was capable of) still burned into his brain.

"Don't get me wrong, I find myself touched by your sentimental implications -- however buried they are," he said, whilst still trailing her into the kitchen. He reached out, as if to grab her by the wrist -- but his fingers floated. Lesson still learned, after all. He swallowed, and pocketed his hand.

"Do not monitor my bedroom, Danger, I did not agree to that."

Danger caught the motion of his hand towards her -- the sensors of her mechanical body missed very little. She eyed him, laying the weight of her disapproving stare on the man and his aborted gesture as if half-daring him to complete it and face the consequences of touching her without permission.

"Of course, Doctor. How inappropriate of me. Clearly it is much more practical for me to leave the place in which you sleep unmonitored so that you will be exposed during your vulnerable unconsciousness."

She must have spent some time practicing her sarcasm.

Without missing a beat, Danger migrated onward from the kitchen, having committed its details and dimensions to her flawless memory. It was down the hall then, to the bedroom in question. Perhaps it was better that there was no one around to question how she automatically knew which room was his.

"Do you have any other protests I should make note of, Doctor?"

Edited 2014-07-23 00:38 (UTC)

He did not indulge her silent dare, his hands remained with his ow body. Chilton still felt the bruise burn on his arm, where she had twisted it and forced him against a wall; his skin still tingled with her coldness. As she had anticipated, he simply resumed wearing light cotton button-ups to cover the purpled evidence of their indiscretions.

"Contrary to what beliefs you might hold," he said. His voice was soft and low, something of a conspiracy. "You do not own the space that I occupy." And the implicit nor me never hit his lips. "I am entitled to private affairs."

He followed her, hissing this, into his own bedroom. He knew that she might remain heedless of his words -- she had already proven herself a force of calculated nature, and he (in their last "session") had realized what limitations of power he held with her.

"How do I know you won't abuse your surveillance?"

Chilton shut his bedroom door, locking them within it.

The subtle click of the door locking did not pass Danger's notice, meticulous as she was-- but a mere locked door did not concern her. It was hardly even worth calling an obstacle, given the strength of her mechanical limbs, and if it ensured that she would complete her work in this room uninterrupted by any curious housemates, then all the better. Making introductions was not at all on her agenda.

She moved to the window, making a few calculations of dimension in her head as she ran her hands along the frame.

"And how do you imagine I would abuse my surveillance, Doctor?" The question was poised pointedly, as if to make it obvious that she was humoring him by even acknowledging what he had said. "Perhaps this is difficult for you to grasp, given your ego, but I am not, in fact, interested in observing every minute detail of what goes on in this room for my own gratification."

"I should not need to stress how deeply I value my privacy, Danger."

Chilton folded his arms, as if punctuating his determination with bold movement. While he didn't move to touch her (he lacked the permission, and that newly rolled compulsion remained in tact for now), he soaked his eyes over her stoic stance. Grinning lightly, cautiously, he moved closer to her body -- the way he held his shoulders back, it suggested a want for embrace, as if preparing his forearms for arcing tension.

"Regardless if you're prying consistently or not, that isn't the point," he said -- softly. "I won't be treated as a patient in my own lodgings."

Her circuits channeled a series of ones and zeroes that translated into a building frustration with the good doctor. The man tried her patience as a general rule-- as if it were in his very nature to infuriate her-- but this was a particularly grating moment, if only because she would have expected the effects of her discipline to be more profound, to have him more cooperative and less challenging of her will-- especially when it came to such a necessary task.

"If I didn't know better, I would assume you were in league with Hannibal Lecter yourself. I might suspect that you have some desire to invite him into your unsecured bedroom and lay yourself out for his consumption."

She pulled away from the window, brushing by him deliberately to inspect the air vents.

"You are the one who asked me to protect you," Danger went on, just faintly irritable. "It is counterproductive for you to insist on this continuous protesting. As if you even have any semblance of privacy with me anymore."

“Lay myself out for his consumption --!”

The quantified horror calculated itself in the spasm twitches of his lips and the recoil of his shoulders; he qualified the emotions of distress and indignation and balding horror. That Danger, his intimate patient, would infuse innuendo in her worded weaponry towards him caused Chilton heated discomfort. Insinuating that he exhibit himself for consumption for Hannibal Lecter was something to make Chilton squirm. That he would allow Hannibal Lecter the privilege.

That he would want Hannibal Lecter’s touch.

Chilton sneered, and steered away from Danger, stalking to the corner window of the room. He noticeably did not suffer his cane for walking.

“Do not presume my relations!” Sharp, razored words. “Just because you hold value to me does not enable you to simply impose your electronic law upon my life! I won’t simply lie down and take it! Who do you think I am, Danger? Abel Gideon?”

A defensive instinct rose at the mention of their mutual acquaintance-- but in this body, made up of wires and circuits instead of flesh and bone, a moment's pause was enough for her to restrain herself. She knew he meant it as retaliation, for the way she had framed her accusation, her use of Hannibal Lecter's name as a weapon. Danger willed herself to exercise control, and therefore power, in what was escalating quickly into an argument.

She purposefully took her time in responding, as if refusing to allow him to set the pace of their exchange. Her eyes remained pointedly focused on her task-- though that was a conscious choice in her body language that hardly affected her awareness of him, given the various sensors her chassis was equipped with.

"I would never insult Dr. Gideon with such a comparison," the machine finally answered, her voice crisp and distinctly unfriendly. "If you wish to have my protection, I will require your complete submission to my rules, or I will not attempt to ensure your safety at all. I will not take responsibility if you refuse to cooperate."

Chilton cast his eyes downward, seething. He knew that she was highly aware of the necessity she posed towards his security; while others could defend the threatened against a predator, none could do so in such the meticulous methodology of Danger. She was built for offensive and defense. Her immeasurable calculations were ideal for fending off the intricate planning of a capable mind like Hannibal Lecter's. They both knew this.

"Fine," said Chilton. The childish, begrudging tone in his voice proved consistent. "Do what you want with my room, my personal domain. Lay down whatever rules you feel inclined to impose."

He stared at her, as she worked, with a heated glare. Once more, she had made him feel helpless. Powerless. Once more he felt that his dilemma sharpened between security and a constrained personal freedom, or Hannibal Lecter.

She preferred it this way-- with attention drawn to his need of her instead of the reverse, the motive that she often distracted their discussions from, the fact that if she had no investment of her own in his safety, she would have never bothered herself no matter how much he felt he required her protection. Their arrangement was not without its gains for her.

"You will hardly notice the adjustments I intend on making," Danger responded, finally moving away from the vents to step back and gauge the room again, perhaps calculating the best angle for a motion sensor or a camera. "They will be subtle. So there is hardly any need for your petulance."

"It's a principled thing, Danger," he retorted. Nevertheless, he kept to his corner of the room, forcibly content to watch her scheme the schematics of security. He knows it was indeed his causal responsibility; he asked for Danger's help. But with these quiet horrors reliving, reanimated in his life -- did Chilton have any other method of survival? Hannibal appeared superhuman in a few respects, so was it therefore not logical to seek protection that was also superhuman?

Fire against fire.

"That is my concern. Given your, ah, holistic approach to problems, I must fear that without compromise, well, you'll consume my life."

Consume. He was still digesting her wordplay -- and where had she learned that, he wondered. That innuendo? That weaponry? Was that a consequence of his own behavior?

Chilton habitually flattered himself.

"What if, for example, I do something that you don't approve of? Are you going to take action against me?"

"You often behave in a way that I find irritating," Danger responded at length, making her way to the closet as she spoke, "Yet you still breathe. How remarkable. Perhaps you should speak to your therapist regarding a possible diagnosis of paranoia."

But it wasn't paranoia-- not really. Not when it came to her. Danger was, as her name suggested, dangerous, and a man of the doctor's intelligence would be careless not to treat her as a constant threat, no matter how often she referenced her own self-control. She was less stable than her unchanging, impassive exterior would suggest. Violence was always just the flick of a switch away.

"My purpose in making these modifications is purely as a security measure," she went on, opening the closet door and leaning to give a better view to her various sensors. "I am not your babysitter, nor your mother, Doctor. Your space is still your own. I will merely be watching."

"Watching is what I protest."

He snuck the point in, uttering it, knowing well how loose were its empty barbs, as he had already surrendered to her desire and intent. No, he would not dispute her security measures. Yes, he would obey her requisitions. Chilton hovered a few feet away from her left elbow, sulking as she exposed his closet.

Blazers, sports jackets, tweed. Button down shirts, vertical stripes, paisley ties on a corner hanger. Everything was organized by color, then pattern: blue (navy, oxford, Carolina, Persian, cyan), green (moss, pine, teal, mint), orange (coral, tawny, champagne, apricot), and brown (chestnut, sepia, khaki). His "psychiatrist" clothing dominated the hanging space; any "casual" clothes were hidden away in drawers. He seethed at Danger, his territory invaded -- his closet, this intimate chest of identity, violated for perusal.

"What do you expect to find? A sniper's knoll?"

The top shelf held a darkly wooden box framed with copper latches.

Perhaps it was in the doctor's favor that Danger had so few opinions on what was considered acceptable fashion. Whatever sense of clothing aesthetics she had was generally limited to the old flannel button-ups that Madison Jeffries had left behind and the few pieces that Freddie Lounds had helped pick out of her. If asked, she would say that she preferred to go bare, as she did in her mechanical form. That said, Chilton's wardrobe went without comment, as did his little barbs.

Her attention caught on that wooden box though-- so carefully tucked away. She tilted her head at it, calculating the possibilities of its contents before she reached for it, her height allowing her to retrieve the item with minimal effort. This, of course, had very little to do with Chilton's safety. This was mere intrusive curiosity.

Without asking for permission, she set the box down on the bed, deftly flipping open the latches.

The box itself lacked a lock, or a key, its latches proved purely decorative. There was a functionality to that, as well, and it was fashioned in a nearly nihilistic way: there was no point to locking it, thought Chilton. The electronic tablet encased was encrypted. It was logical to calculate the slimmed likelihood of anyone coming into close enough proximity to even touch the box, much less hack into the mainframe -- the narrow line of exception, however, rested solely on Danger's shoulders.

Subconsciously, at least, Chilton knew that Danger was capable of hacking into his personal profiling of his patients. Within that white, crisp tablet was all of his observations, analyses, and facts about his patients that couldn't be put to official documentation -- coalesced.

Including Danger's project.

"Return that!"

Chilton jumped to action, his fingers leaping for Danger's wrists.

"Give that back to me! Now!"

She was, even in that moment, already making a preliminary analysis of that little device, just on the precipice of attempting to interface with it, to open up its secrets to her. But then he moved towards her, grasping her by the wrists-- and while her grasp failed to so much as waver, her arm strong under his grip, it paused her efforts, drawing her stern attention towards him with faintly narrowed eyes.

He was touching her-- without permission. She so disliked that.

"Is that an order, Doctor?"

"Yes, it's an order!"

Chilton, boiled with a thrust of panic and anger, allowed the organic sedative to once more soak over Danger's body. It had no effect, of course, given her metallic tissue (metaphorically speaking), and it was highly evident that he didn't commit the action out of some inherently conscious effort. He was upset. He wasn't in control of himself.

"I order you to give that back to me!"

He wasn't. Thinking. Clearly.

She was remarkably calm on the surface. For a moment, the machine simply stared at him, watching him as his temper and panic escalated. She was immoveable and unyielding, not so much as flinching despite the twinge of annoyance that steadily worked its way through her circuits. There were few things Danger hated more than being commanded to do anything -- especially by a man. Apparently her issues with patriarchal authority figures had yet to be worked out.

Despite his grip on her -- no human strength was a match for her own -- she moved to set that pristine device back down into its box, if only to prevent it from being damaged. If broken, the little thing would be useless to either of them. Only then, with the tablet nested back into its place, did she speak.

Her words were sharp. Precise. Dangerously quiet and clearly a threat.

"I am giving you a single opportunity to reconsider what you have said to me, Doctor."

Chilton hesitated, his fingers twitching on her arm. He flinched at her words, her tone, knowing intimately the damage that she could wield as promised. The psychiatrist swallowed, before pulling back, his balled hands transformed into tiny white fists that stood anchored at his sides.

"I have a right to my private belongings," replied Chilton. His patient information was locked away in that tablet, the darker opinions and (while applied to fewer patients) his sinister methodology, his plans. His constructs involving Danger.

"You would do well to return that to me, because -- as a guest in my house, it's only the mannered, the polite thing to do. And -- clearly -- a host wouldn't order his guest.

Her blue-lit eyes visibly followed his hands as they retracted and curled into tight fists at his sides until his words, their pointed emphasis, drew her attention upward, towards his face. These were words that only had some detached meaning for her: private, guest, polite. Manners were a tool she used to coax humans to cooperate with her, something to smooth over their interactions-- not something that she utilized as a matter of propriety. Perhaps if her father had thought to teach her manners.

"One would think that being a man of your intellect would be more careful with his electronics when fraternizing with an artificial being of my level." Her tone may or may not have been slightly condescending. "Her blue-lit eyes visibly followed his hands as they retracted and curled into tight fists at his sides until his words, their pointed emphasis, drew her attention upward, towards his face. These were words that only had some detached meaning for her: private, guest, polite. Manners were a tool she used to coax humans to cooperate with her, something to smooth over their interactions-- not something that she utilized as a matter of propriety. Perhaps if her father had thought to teach her manners. "Perhaps you have become too relaxed, Doctor."

Nevertheless, she seemed content with the threat of accessing his secrets. The man was uncomfortable, nearly negotiating with her now. That was enough, for the moment. She shut the box and closed the latch. He could have his little device back-- but this was something else for her to pay attention to.

Edited 2014-08-12 21:31 (UTC)

"Most individuals are not allowed within my quarters, much less my other patients." Chilton frowned, crossing his arms. He resisted the urge to surge at the box now latched, but the iron wall curbing his impulse was that realization that Danger had already seen him unseemly. She already knew the fractured desperation he felt.

"And, to be quite honest, I hardly expected your interference with my personal belongings. We rarely engage in my housing unit -- yours is, for some reason, more palatable to your tastes." Chilton turned away, forcing himself to look out the bedroom window, keeping his shoulders trained to an even composure. He wanted to sublimate his emotions.

"Are you satisfied now? Having sent your metaphorical tendrils into the crevices of my privacy. Have I anything left without your touch, now?"

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heartlessglitch - 2014-08-15 05:57 (UTC) - Expand

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slightlyoffchilt - 2014-08-18 17:56 (UTC) - Expand

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