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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"It is unfortunate," said Chilton. "How some of us are flung into this situation, expected to streamline adaptation -- though, perhaps that's partially their angle?" He angled his head, his chin lifted centimeters into the air, mimicking well the theatrical measure of thought. "Maybe they're watching to see who adapts to what, and how?"

It was an unnerving speculation.

Chilton shrugged away his own questions, rhetorical as they were in nature. His focus was less interested in governmental oversight and far more invested in watching his current company. What an interesting figure -- polite as he was, and conversational. Chilton had the impression that his company was an educated man, certainly an observant one.

"I'm Doctor Frederick Chilton, by the way," he said by way of introduction. "A fellow imPort, in fact."

"Then thank you, Doctor Chilton, for allowing me your company." Revan offers, tapping the area of his heart gently with the tips of his fingers in gratitude. "I am Revan. ...Just Revan."

Although he did his best to hide it, Revan too examined his company when it was polite and natural. He didn't need the Force to feel Chilton's eye on him as well, following his motions. When they do meet gazes Revan catches the edge of a terribly focused mind, feeling himself being broken down to his base skeletal in those blue eyes.

Almost reflexively Revan pulls away from the gaze, finding a distraction in the approaching waiter.

Perhaps it was just his imagination. At the very least, by his manner and grace, Chilton was certainly a man of learning and class. But there was something else...

"Hmm. That would be an interesting twist." He leans his head aside, sliding a lock of hair into place over his ear. "Though if there was some sort of a nefarious plot afoot it would likely be something far worse."

Ever the optimist.

Just Revan, he has said. It resonated with some sense of celebrity almost, as those singular names tended to hum. Of course, perhaps that was more an Earth conceit than not -- a reference that would likely have been rude to bestow in light conversation with his newly acquainted guest. He wondered if the association (however trivial one might criticize his sense of pop culture), maintained any merit -- was Revan singular? Was there anyone else like him? Other psychiatrists would argue that technically everyone was an individual, and while traits may be shared, they weren't in repetitive combination.

Chilton disagreed with that. Some people were more special than others -- neurologically speaking.

His gaze didn't shift, when Revan's own leapt to the waiter. He recognized the relief of a distraction, understood that he was making his company discomforted, but that alone did not persuade Chilton to mask his baser instincts. He was naturally inclined to analyze; that alone wasn't the crime. What Chilton liked to do with his analysis, well, that was often a moral dilemma.

Or would be considered such, to a man of moral integrity.

"I'm Registered," he admitted with a small smile, one almost sheepish. "But that doesn't mean I lack reserves about our situation. Bit of a rock and a hard place, isn't it? In terms of benefit against cost."

Phrasing it so plainly, as if this was a motion of honesty he carried.

"Needless to say, I wouldn't be surprised, if a nefarious plot were to be revealed. Not all cold wars turn hot -- but some do. And if we're, as I understand it, to be the new proxies by warfare..." Chilton shrugged, finding the conversation appropriate, but feigning disinterest.

Chilton's statement draws Revan's gaze back quite easily. It helps when the topic is an ever-present cause for for import reflection and wonder. And, at least for Revan, curiosity always won over shame.

"Then you find yourself in like company. While I disagree with... the methodology of their process," He says with a gentle tap of his concealed wrist, right over the popular location of the branding tattoo, as an example. "I can sympathize with their position."

Revan closes his eyes and briefly tips his head, as if offering that concession to the universe.

"A government suddenly flooded with a myriad of empowered refugees... I can't imagine their society surviving without some kind of a system in place."

Revan gives a slight shrug, looking over his companion. He noticed disinterested tone, the disconnect from the subject. A hint that he wanted to drop the line of conversation? Or bait? While he wanted to push the subject either way, he would not in civil discourse. He didn't want to be rude to his new acquaintance.

Revan considers his words, proxies by warfare... What did he know? Or did he, like Revan, suspect the motivations for the registration were selfish in nature?

"However intent had always struck me as the most important factor of any sensible enterprise."

"I do find it interesting, the various ways that intent can be weighed." He raised his glass an inch, to complement Revan's tangent with some austere motion. Chilton was, of course, precisely the type of professional who glided over the profundity of intent; it was the vein of evidence (conjecture, as he tried to make it) that could expose his darker sins. A former compatriot, a fellow professional, had unveiled his intent before -- and that began an unpleasant domino effect for Chilton. He was wary of this particular conversation.

But he wouldn't indicate any recently mauled wounds, not at the luncheon table.

"I am, of course superimposing my worldly events onto this scenario," he admitted. "It is perhaps an inescapable bias. In many ways, Heropa's universe is not dissimilar to my own, and that's probably a quiet fallacy simply waiting to entrap me."

A light sip of his wine followed the statement, and Chilton adopted a pondering, introverted stare. It was a little fabricated, for the sake of theatrics.

"I think you're right to illustrate the governmental perspective, however. It would be difficult for them not to find our power -- and resource -- alluring." A swift inclination of his head, and he smiled at Revan.

"I'm sure they would appreciate your perspective. I can't say I'm inclined to fully trust the individuals who have shepherd us hence... But the system is not unfamiliar. The implicit rules and expectations."

Chilton swallowed, darting a more suggestive look.

"Others aren't as generous, naturally. Who knows how long, until a rebellion perks?"

"I fear you may be correct." Revan's eyes narrow, not for any perceived slight, but in an almost tired resignation. There was a pattern. Revan could see pieces moving into place, could feel an approaching upset. But how it was going to happen and in what way still eluded him. As did the part he may play.

"Truth be told I'm not sure some kind of conflict is anything but inevitable. Hello." Revan pivots, greeting the young man who arrives to take his order.

"I will have..." After briefly assuming a pensive expression, he tosses Chilton a fleetingly apologetic smile. "What my friend is having. Sadly my appetite is overwhelming my courage. And it does look quite nice."

"I think you've made a fine choice," he replied, encouraging. Chilton referred both to Revan's cuisine and his conversational detail -- it was comforting, to know that he was speaking with someone who understood this pattern. When the waiter had left, Chilton was careful to watch him walk away, before he resumed his quiet discussion.

"I find the atmosphere most unnerving. Do you also get the feeling that they're simply waiting for a few imPorts to make very bad decisions?"

He didn't need to clarify who they encompassed, and besides that, every time Chilton explicitly mentioned the government by name he grew anxious in increments. What if they were listening? What if their very tattoos could transmit what they were saying, or even doing?

"This world may not be as advanced as some," he continued from that mental tangent. "But the technology these people have invested in seem to be more for surveillance and offense than anything else."

"It feels like... we're all sitting on a leaking powder keg. And in every direction is a flint." He punctuates his point as he speaks by smoothly tracing a circle on the table with the tip of his index finger.

"Be it unchecked imports, as you suggest, giving the government justification for worse than their condescension and second rate treatment. Or one of a multitude of other volatile aspects of this situation." For a brief moment, Revan falls within his own musings -- eyes open but a thousand miles away, Clouded...

"It's almost... infuriating. How spectacularly unaware and unconcerned everyone is. Blind to how terribly wrong this could all turn out."

Recognition, however late, of Chilton's point draw's Revan's gaze back in and leads it to the covered area of his wrist once again. While his expression is passive as he turns his hand up to better see there's an edge to his voice and a coldness creeping into his eyes.

"It may sound a little strange, but I'd almost rather find out they were spying on us."

"I have little doubt that they are," he confessed, either taking the strangeness of the desire in stride -- or finding it perfectly natural. "But we know they've done this before. That's what Holiday claims, isn't it? The other imPorts, the mysterious figures that have come before us."

Chilton leaned back in his chair, picking idly at his food. He didn't resume eating, choosing instead to wait until his company was mutually served his own identical dish. Besides, the conversation at hand was far more interesting that how soft any creamily-treated French beets could taste. That distinction was more likely because Chilton was growing so tired of beets.

"Whatever mistakes the government had made before, with the others, we can assume they learned how not to repeat such failures. Which means," he said, nodding at Revan. "We really ought to be more concerned. Just as you said, it's highly frustrating that most of our number isn't overtly worried about this situation. Or maybe they're too afraid to express it? Maybe they've indulged in cognitive dissonance."

It was a thought worth a paper or two.

"Have you met anyone else here, who is willing to talk about this?"

"We get the honor of their "practiced" care." Revan shakes his head. "I assume that's part of the trouble. They've learned how to cloud our vision. Operate in a way that saves face while masking their agenda. Whatever it might be."

It was to his great chagrin that he shakes his head in response to Chilton's question, peering at his companion with a sympathetic tilt of his head.

"Most of those that object to registration do so to sue for some misguided grab at independence. As if that will spare them from the coming storm."

They could be so lucky. Sadly the simple fact of their presence spoke to quite a different course of events.

"When a line is drawn, it doesn't matter on what side you stand. War has already found you."

It was a chilling sentiment. War has already found you. Chilton shot Revan a sideways glance, as if on the precipice of inquiring: how often as war, then found you? But he restrained himself; it was inappropriate to bring up, right now, in this setting. If ever he could persuade his company into his office, however, and onto his mint blue sedan...

Well.

Chilton had the feeling that Revan possessed a lot of interesting experience.

"What about infiltration?" He asked, feeling somewhat insecure. Chilton himself was Registered, after all, and while he didn't trust anything authority that wasn't his own, he still found it easier to capitulate to the system. To work with the system. And every day, every hour, he was scanning for opportunity.

"People, imPorts, who Register. Who get as close to the workings as possible -- a useful gathering of information."

"If I was to take the time to indulge in such a fantasy, I don't think I can fault your logic." Revan returns the look straight on. His earlier discomfort at Chilton's perceptive nature becoming much more endearing. His mind was quiet interesting to experience.

Truly, this was someone who knew their way around a scandal.

"Those that pose no threat to the government will do so openly, peacocking their impotent rage at the world for all to see."

Reven though, was still unsure of his own feelings. Systems were necessary, especially to contain a crisis. But this particular system had the hallmarks of corruption.

Loyalty, indoctrination. Succor and dependance. Nationality and the fostering of bigotry. And unless it was curbed before it escalates to a point of no return, there will be blood.

"Though I'm curious. What would someone, as you say, infiltrating this system get out such a commitment? To what benefit to them?"

"They'd be able to move more unseen -- or that's the hope, anyway," he replied, in that submerged whisper he had so recently adopted. Ideally someone who played the game, for all outwardly appearances, would be lower on the list of threats (if not the list of suspects).

"And if they have that sort of cloaking benefit, well, then whatever influence such an individual can wield won't be immediately categorized as manipulation," he finished, with a quick wink. Chilton had, in this scenario, designated the hypothetical infiltrator as someone cunning an manipulative -- he calculated those qualities to yield the best results. And while not everyone was comfortable with this kind of talk resulting in this kind of person, Chilton knew his company would appreciate the subtlety, the necessity. This had, after all, already been proven.

"Do you know many who can manage that much, is the question."

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what have you got to lose --

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Skeletal, elements. Sure phone, that's the same thing

it can work!

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