Jonathan Crane (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
restingstitchface) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
maskormenacelogs2015-04-02 07:23 pm
restingstitchface) wrote in maskormenacelogs2015-04-02 07:23 pm
Entry tags:
- hiro hamada | n/a,
- jonathan crane | scarecrow,
- † bruce wayne | batman,
- † dean winchester | n/a,
- † dorian gray | n/a,
- † edward elric | the fullmetal alchemist,
- † hank pym | giant-man,
- † ken amada | n/a,
- † matthew lin | abduxel,
- † melkor | n/a,
- † miles edgeworth | n/a,
- † peter petrelli | n/a,
- † walter white | heisenberg
You've come to see the healer, so don't you be afraid
WHO: Dr. Crane and YOU.
WHERE: ImPort Clinic, Nonah.
WHEN: April 2nd till April 7th.
WHAT: Crane's available to talk to about all your problems. He might be probing and prodding, and trying to perceive your fears at the same time. Maybe you're breaking and entering? Or maybe you're just visiting?
WARNINGS: Psychological discussions of a personal note. Discussion of suicide.
[A: Open]
[He doesn't make a sound, no murmur - he's silent in his chair, calm and poised, watching his visitor and dissecting them with his curious mind, trying to see what makes them tick. To see how their minds work. To see them exposed. From their word choice to their body language, every detail is scrutinized and appraised, discarded if meaningless and treasured if valuable - revered if it unveils fear.
He writes something into his notebook, resting it on his thigh while he flicks his eyes around his office. Clean and traditional, the room was sterile with few home comforts; there wasn't a single telling thing that could reveal something about himself. His copy of The Murders in the Rue Morgue was gone, replaced by Lord of the Flies, a book about human nature and individual welfare versus the common good. He likes its symbolism and allegory - and its controversy.
A restful breath, then he leans forward. The leather creaks - and he quirks a brow. He tilts his head slightly, and his body seems to twist the other way. His face is still and emotionless, intently listening to what his visitor has to say. He drums his knee with his fingers. Which must mean something, as he's clearing his throat soon after. Then saying one of three things:]
What do you want?
And you expect me to help you with that?
So. How can I help you?
[B: Closed]
[While earlier in the evening Crane may have been present, now he's nowhere to be seen. Neither can his footfall be heard; those vengeful enough to have pursued him before know his love of scaring people. His office seems unrewarding. Very, very unrewarding. From the top shelf to the bottom draw, every cushion and cranny, every conceivable place Crane can hide something, there's nothing.
There's one place for someone to look. It's a tiny drawer attached to the underside of his desk, with only one lock. He wouldn't keep anything there, right?]
[C: Closed to Abduxel]
[Crane observes.
The city of Maurtia Falls fascinates him, intrigues him, pulls him deeper into it's darker places to investigate the types of people who make its underbelly their home - and he does so using a form that's not going to raise suspicion.
He's a crow, roosting on a rooftop. He can look down across one of the gambling circuits along the canal. It's foreboding and dark at eleven at night, and the city's lights create a dim grey-yellow haze on the skyline. And the thing that interests him the most? Everyone's fears.
He can see them all.]
WHERE: ImPort Clinic, Nonah.
WHEN: April 2nd till April 7th.
WHAT: Crane's available to talk to about all your problems. He might be probing and prodding, and trying to perceive your fears at the same time. Maybe you're breaking and entering? Or maybe you're just visiting?
WARNINGS: Psychological discussions of a personal note. Discussion of suicide.
[A: Open]
[He doesn't make a sound, no murmur - he's silent in his chair, calm and poised, watching his visitor and dissecting them with his curious mind, trying to see what makes them tick. To see how their minds work. To see them exposed. From their word choice to their body language, every detail is scrutinized and appraised, discarded if meaningless and treasured if valuable - revered if it unveils fear.
He writes something into his notebook, resting it on his thigh while he flicks his eyes around his office. Clean and traditional, the room was sterile with few home comforts; there wasn't a single telling thing that could reveal something about himself. His copy of The Murders in the Rue Morgue was gone, replaced by Lord of the Flies, a book about human nature and individual welfare versus the common good. He likes its symbolism and allegory - and its controversy.
A restful breath, then he leans forward. The leather creaks - and he quirks a brow. He tilts his head slightly, and his body seems to twist the other way. His face is still and emotionless, intently listening to what his visitor has to say. He drums his knee with his fingers. Which must mean something, as he's clearing his throat soon after. Then saying one of three things:]
What do you want?
And you expect me to help you with that?
So. How can I help you?
[B: Closed]
[While earlier in the evening Crane may have been present, now he's nowhere to be seen. Neither can his footfall be heard; those vengeful enough to have pursued him before know his love of scaring people. His office seems unrewarding. Very, very unrewarding. From the top shelf to the bottom draw, every cushion and cranny, every conceivable place Crane can hide something, there's nothing.
There's one place for someone to look. It's a tiny drawer attached to the underside of his desk, with only one lock. He wouldn't keep anything there, right?]
[C: Closed to Abduxel]
[Crane observes.
The city of Maurtia Falls fascinates him, intrigues him, pulls him deeper into it's darker places to investigate the types of people who make its underbelly their home - and he does so using a form that's not going to raise suspicion.
He's a crow, roosting on a rooftop. He can look down across one of the gambling circuits along the canal. It's foreboding and dark at eleven at night, and the city's lights create a dim grey-yellow haze on the skyline. And the thing that interests him the most? Everyone's fears.
He can see them all.]
no subject
I don't know. It's not like I need to be fixed. Wouldn't expect you to do it anyway, i'm pretty sure therapists don't pretend that they're some kind of magic pill.
But no, i'm not looking for bullshit. I can get that from anyone else. You said two hours, i'm guessing i'll be out of here in- [ a glance to his watch ] - probably right around now. This place, i'm probably not the most interesting guy to step through your doors.
no subject
Least his reaction is honest. He doesn't show much interest, and this case doesn't move him. It's mildly fascinating, but not one he'll put himself out for. It's the sort of case he'll file away and come across when perusing his records. He'll stop, think, smile - and then file it back.]
Yes, you're right. You're not interesting enough. [Surgical honesty. Sometimes it's a better tool.] In respect, I won't try and convince you into bland pay-by-the-hour therapy. One thing I'll tell you; try to swallow what life's given you. Till it makes you nauseous, if it comes to that. It's a bitter medicine, but it's a more effective one.
[Peter can show himself out.]
no subject
Glad to know i'm not interesting. Also nice to know you're full of shit. Pretty sure therapists don't function under the idea of only keeping around what makes an interesting case. [ Hell, happy to know he's not worth too terribly much in the grand scheme of things. But ah, well. ]
And one thing i'll tell you is I don't need your advice. Already got more than enough from people who've lived a lot longer than you ever will.
[ Yup, that'd be the door, and yup, he'll be on his way. ]