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)
maskormenacelogs2016-03-07 11:59 pm
restingstitchface) wrote in maskormenacelogs2016-03-07 11:59 pm
I am I
WHO: Crane and open!
WHERE: Maurtia Falls or Xavier's.
WHEN: March.
WHAT: Fear perception and meetings.
WARNINGS: Deep, dark fears.
A: Nonah or Maurtia Falls: Cafe
[Well, he finally had his freedom.
And, considering the delay in his research, he was ready and willing to get back to work.
He begins his observations in the back of a cafe in either city. It is a small place, and cozy, and quiet. A place for adults and not anybody else. He says a few basic phrases as waiting staff mill around him - no thank you, please, and good afternoon - and when their backs turn he fingers open his journal to take notes. His papers are scattered across the table as he works at an insane pace. Nobody here at this time knows who he is. He looks little like the man who had been on the news six months ago. He looks different.
Honestly? He's glad to be growing older. It means people stop focusing on his looks. Fewer want to flatter him. Fewer want complimenting. Fewer assume he cares about companionship. It all means he can indulge his privacy, and he doesn't leave the table for the entire afternoon.
The bored look on his face as he fingers his pen makes him seem preoccupied. His mood doesn't lift till he directs his gaze to the nearest table. Whoever is sitting there is watching him a little too intensely. He flips open his notebook with his left hand and immediately begins writing something down about them. Every movement, every expression. Everything he can observe. He looks at them again and quirks a brow - can I help you? - while trying to pry open their minds. What are they frightened of? How had the occupation scared them?
He doesn't bother to speak.]
[OOC: Crane's using his subconscious ability to try and perceive the fears of those around him. Permissions are here.]
B: Heropa: Xavier's
[On other days Crane finds himself nostalgic over academia.
He appears in reception one morning, wearing a raincoat, a hat, and a clean suit, with his hair cut neat and short. It would be nice to return to teaching, sometimes. Against which he reminds himself of his years spent lecturing, receiving dim-witted students fresh from high school, possessed of no intelligence nor a capacity for critical thought. Jocks who believed they could buy their grades and cheerleaders who had covered their faces in greasepaint to hide how ugly they were beneath. Their professors had believed expensive suits and clothes were proof enough of intelligence, and that their titles marked them as deserving of respect. He had brought the former to fit in, but unlike them he had earned his doctorate. It's no wonder that the state of America's education system is unforgivable, he thinks.
What a stupid bunch of people.
It's impossible to settle down in the fashion he'd become accustomed to, back in his old life. He knows that. But the control a teacher exercises when shaping young minds - it's appealing.
There is a sound of footsteps to his side. He glances around in a cuckoo-like fashion.]
Hello. Have you seen Professor Callaghan, per chance?
C: Closed to Callaghan
[And if those footsteps belong to Callaghan himself? Crane will stand still, eyes tracking him as he moves across the floor. He looks quite different to the man he'd been a few weeks ago. Older in the face; with a fair amount of stubble. His tone is dry and amused but lacks real emotion.]
Well, here you are. Safe and sound.
D: Other
[If there's something you want that isn't listened here, feel free to hit me up on![[plurk.com profile]](https://plurk.com/favicon.ico)
safekeeping or in PM!]
WHERE: Maurtia Falls or Xavier's.
WHEN: March.
WHAT: Fear perception and meetings.
WARNINGS: Deep, dark fears.
A: Nonah or Maurtia Falls: Cafe
[Well, he finally had his freedom.
And, considering the delay in his research, he was ready and willing to get back to work.
He begins his observations in the back of a cafe in either city. It is a small place, and cozy, and quiet. A place for adults and not anybody else. He says a few basic phrases as waiting staff mill around him - no thank you, please, and good afternoon - and when their backs turn he fingers open his journal to take notes. His papers are scattered across the table as he works at an insane pace. Nobody here at this time knows who he is. He looks little like the man who had been on the news six months ago. He looks different.
Honestly? He's glad to be growing older. It means people stop focusing on his looks. Fewer want to flatter him. Fewer want complimenting. Fewer assume he cares about companionship. It all means he can indulge his privacy, and he doesn't leave the table for the entire afternoon.
The bored look on his face as he fingers his pen makes him seem preoccupied. His mood doesn't lift till he directs his gaze to the nearest table. Whoever is sitting there is watching him a little too intensely. He flips open his notebook with his left hand and immediately begins writing something down about them. Every movement, every expression. Everything he can observe. He looks at them again and quirks a brow - can I help you? - while trying to pry open their minds. What are they frightened of? How had the occupation scared them?
He doesn't bother to speak.]
[OOC: Crane's using his subconscious ability to try and perceive the fears of those around him. Permissions are here.]
B: Heropa: Xavier's
[On other days Crane finds himself nostalgic over academia.
He appears in reception one morning, wearing a raincoat, a hat, and a clean suit, with his hair cut neat and short. It would be nice to return to teaching, sometimes. Against which he reminds himself of his years spent lecturing, receiving dim-witted students fresh from high school, possessed of no intelligence nor a capacity for critical thought. Jocks who believed they could buy their grades and cheerleaders who had covered their faces in greasepaint to hide how ugly they were beneath. Their professors had believed expensive suits and clothes were proof enough of intelligence, and that their titles marked them as deserving of respect. He had brought the former to fit in, but unlike them he had earned his doctorate. It's no wonder that the state of America's education system is unforgivable, he thinks.
What a stupid bunch of people.
It's impossible to settle down in the fashion he'd become accustomed to, back in his old life. He knows that. But the control a teacher exercises when shaping young minds - it's appealing.
There is a sound of footsteps to his side. He glances around in a cuckoo-like fashion.]
Hello. Have you seen Professor Callaghan, per chance?
C: Closed to Callaghan
[And if those footsteps belong to Callaghan himself? Crane will stand still, eyes tracking him as he moves across the floor. He looks quite different to the man he'd been a few weeks ago. Older in the face; with a fair amount of stubble. His tone is dry and amused but lacks real emotion.]
Well, here you are. Safe and sound.
D: Other
[If there's something you want that isn't listened here, feel free to hit me up on