They're callin' again

[restingstitchface]

WHO: Crane and open.
WHERE: A jail, prison, in Maurtia Falls. Call it as you like.
WHEN: Four weeks during November.
WHAT: Crane loves having visitors. If your character wants to come and tell him he's a piece of trash through plexiglass, let's do that. A disappointment? It's all good. Should they want to seek his advice for some nefarious scheme, let's do that too. But don't clue in the guards.
WARNINGS: Crane is here, saying Crane things. So, though he's powerless, visitors are likely to see this develop into an impromptu session. Visitors will find their powers are nullified.


I | CARL | 11/2


[It had been so easy to find his test subjects. So, so easy - and none of them had realized it!

His lips smirk slightly and he gently folds his hands in his lap. It's easy to pick out the weak-minded from the figurative haystack of the network. Open the doors of their imagination and leave slivers of fear inside. Make their minds twist in horror. Not a single one could exist in silence. It would be terrifying and cruel. He would force them all to see how empty and meaningless their lives were, and then drive them all towards him for answers. To hope their fears would cease when they see he is nothing but a man.

But he's more than Jonathan Crane. Plans come alive in his mind;

In here, they believe him powerless. They couldn't be more wrong. His eyes dart around; right, left, up and down. These walls cannot hold him. He wields the considerable power of his mind and his insight. All he is doing is collecting his thoughts and biding his time. His eyes are half-closed in thought as he says nothing about his latest visitor for a good while. To have this freedom - to not care about the consequences - is so liberating that he doesn't feel like speaking at first. But eventually he has to.]

Good afternoon, Carl. Today I thought we could discuss something you like to talk about. [A pause] I know; why don't you share your thoughts about your relationship with your adoptive father? I would be highly interested in hearing your thoughts.


II | HARLEY | 11/3


[Crane sits alone in the box-sized interview room. It has been four weeks since his imprisonment. Twenty-eight days since he's felt the natural wind. Nearly two months since his - Dr. Crane's - interment. No, nine, he reminds himself. Time flows here. Nine months; the process of birth. He had been alone in Arkham with his thoughts; held in isolation and separated from other patients. He had said no words and rebuilt himself. Integrated his own desires and needs, rather than keep them at arm's length or behind a mask. He had let the shadow - all his fear - take him over. He had suddenly found his own field of view narrowly limited - but at the same time it had given him a new perspective.

The harsh flourescence of the overhead light strip casts Crane in shadow - giving his pale skin a pallor. He tilts his head and carefully eyes his visitor. The ice-blue eyes he stares with aren't the eyes of Dr. Crane any longer. Scarecrow or Crane. One or the other... or both?]

There's no need to be so quiet. This isn't home, after all.


III | OPEN - WILDCARD | 11/2-30


[Feel free to write your own starters!

Crane's a dick. If he can deny your character a visit because it'll press them under his thumb, he will. Feel free to assume this has happened for your tags. He'll agree to a session if they're persistent. If your character wants to yell at him for this, pester his inbox. If your character prefers a video call over a face-to-face encounter, especially if they're a minor, log it here as a video conference.]

Comments

[christmaspun]

[Kristin would still call it pretty damaging for the time being, whether Crane agrees or not. She's still in the stage of being broken where she hasn't pulled herself back together completely yet - she hasn't brushed glue over the seams, or repainted the blush on the cracked face.

She draws a deep breath in through her nose, releasing it in a soft hiss through her teeth. There's a moment of thought, of deliberation over whether she really does want to do this:]

Let's start with you, shall we? You and your father?

I don't expect you really care about what happened to me, anyway. Let's cut to the chase.

[restingstitchface]

[Oh, but he cares. Her wounds, her manner and her behavior are providing information. She's still broken and he's looking to steal a piece. One morsel that's part of the whole. She seems to understand nothing about who she is, or was, to have suffered so - nor who she could be with appropriatesupport.

He tilts his head, birdlike. He glances at her through half-closed eyes.]

Well, it's become public knowledge that I was raised by my great-grandmother. It was the month before you came here. [So there's no harm in repeating it.] Do you want to know my father's name? It was Gerald. I believe you're aware of that. Now tell me what you know. That was our agreement.

[christmaspun]

You keep talking about this 'agreement' as if there IS such a thing. I've consented to nothing, and I will tell you what want I tell you, until I do not see fit to tell you any more. Pressing me will not serve you, not when I am finally willing to be forthcoming.

[The tone isn't cruel, nor is it angry - it's level, clinical. Like reading a file. She's detached herself from the situation. Detached herself from everything, really.]

Yes, I know his name was Gerald. But - to my knowledge - HE was the one who raised you, Doctor. There was no great-grandmother in your file.

[restingstitchface]

[That tone gets Kristen... no reaction. Crane's detached himself from the situation. Like Kristen's done, but he had scissored his rope years ago. This behavior is new for her - and better than the old, he thinks - and he appreciates frightening change.

His eyes turn colder and there, inside that human mask he wears, is a sign of the man who had experimented on his patients without fear of threat or retribution. Does she think he's afraid of her? Of her threat of silence? Ridiculous.

And his father. Ridiculous. Not being raised by that insane woman. He would say unbelievable, and yet, and yet... He knows the difference it would have made. He'd wager he knows more than anyone.]

Oh that's interesting. Just a lovely story. You should tell me what happened at the end of it.

[christmaspun]

[She's come to expect no reaction from Crane when she speaks. He's too self-absorbed, too holier-than-thou - in the end, much too immature and stunted to express anything.

He's just another man thinking he's better than her.

He doesn't mean anything, really, and it's that realization keeping her cold.]

Well, since you are so determined to hurry me and skip the details - it ended with him experimenting on you. He worked with fear, like you do now.

...Perhaps not EXACTLY like you do, actually. His focus was different.

[restingstitchface]

[That, too, results in no reaction.

It is not that he believes himself superior to one woman; it is that he believes himself better than everyone. He's enlightened. He's a genius. Those are the words of his therapists and doctors. Joan had lamented the loss of his mind to society. He feels nothing for society save the need to analyse it. And if he has to kill a few rats to stir the rest, so be it.

But there is also no reaction because he simply isn't afraid. No reaction to being experimented on in another time and place. He feels no fear.]

Yes, well, firstly I asked you to skip nothing. Do not force words into my mouth. Your vertical thinking is simplistic. Not everyone processes their thoughts in the same manner as you. In the middle lies dear Gerald's motive. Now, his focus. That's interesting. Internal not external. A sense of emptiness in the self. The fear of failure? To correct something instead of furthering his own understanding. It's quite fascinating, really.

[christmaspun]

You asked for the end, and I gave it to you. If you don't want words put into your mouth, stop opening it while I am trying to speak.

[The mean streak is new - and actually, it's a little exhilarating, speaking point-blank like this. It feels good.]

Gerald's intent was to completely remove fear in a person. In himself. In you. He scared people to death, and then harvested chemicals from their brains. He made you help, I do believe.

[restingstitchface]

[That piece of information catches his fascination - he blinks, once, and tilts his head slowly to the other side, listening to her story with mild interest. He feels like he should be mad. Some version of himself got to work with his father on his research. But he cannot feel angry. He isn't scared. It's a simple matter of processing the information and choosing where to pick it apart.

At least she hadn't referred to murders. That was too simplistic a description for his work. Their work. No. No. His work.

Made him help? She was making him sound like a coward.]

Nobody makes me do anything. [His gumption, his gall. It's natural. He's not frightened to speak like this.] It sounds like some emotional event impaired your child's sense of development. To follow that man down such dark paths. [He tucks his chin to his chest.] He was likely experiencing extreme anxiety. Attachment ties. Affection bonds. It is likely he did not separate for long from his caretaker. What happened to his mother?

[He could think of his other self's suffering, he could think of his loss, and boy did it make him smile.]

[christmaspun]

[Well - NOW he's interested. She watches him carefully, studying every little reaction. This visit is just as much about gathering information as it is about giving it.

So even that sick satisfaction is committed to memory.]

Maybe not the Jonathan Crane I'm talking to now - but he certainly made the child help. Manipulated him, whether he meant to or not, just because they were all each other had left.

The mother died in a house fire. Gerald blamed himself. It haunted him.

[restingstitchface]

[Crane slides his fingers together and steeples them before his face.

The act hides his smile, which is threatening to crack his seamless mask. Not that well, mind: not that he cares. His sick satisfaction warps it deeper, twists it tighter, when she mentions his mother's name. That weakling is being eternally tormented. Gerald had suffered terribly. His mother had died in a frightful manner. Fire and brimstone. Collapsing walls. Shattering, ashen means. He can imagine all their screaming.

He breathes it in, now he's free from having to show restraint.

What an operatic ending.

Beautiful.]

Atychiphobia, the irrational, persistent fear of failure. [His voice is brighter than it had a minute ago. He flashes a boyish smile.] Though not so irrational in his case, wouldn't you say? It's certainly had a devastating affect on his indulgence in certain... activities. That poor man.

[And there? He has to stifle himself from laughing.]

[christmaspun]

[Kristin catches the smile that he tries to hide. It doesn't matter to her very much - she knows he's amused, delighted even, by the misery of his other self. She might have called it sick before, but she's come to expect so, so little from this man at this point.

Little other than arrogance and warped personality, that is.

When he smiles, she smiles right back - chilly. A mirror. Or maybe she finds his amusement amusing in her own way.]

That poor man indeed. He was shot to death because he wasn't afraid of the bullets. The dating pool was the least of his concerns.

And the child? The child may never be the same. His file said that he should be dead, but he's just...trapped in terror. Maybe forever.

[restingstitchface]

[His eyes wander to the ceiling in contemplation.]

We may hide from horror only in the heart of horror. [He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms behind his head. His hands are used as a cushion.] It is at such frightful times that mankind has prayed for help from benevolent spirits. But too many of us are unable to endure the approach of beings so different from mankind.

Plus it's all superstition, you know.

[And now his eyes pin her to her chair. He doesn't intimidate, mind. He watches. He observes. He learns.]

Dear Gerald got himself gunned down. I suppose the pool of hell-fire was his concern. Was it yours?