Simon m*therfucking Illyan (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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maskormenacelogs2016-09-12 06:55 pm
unclassifiable) wrote in maskormenacelogs2016-09-12 06:55 pm
I can't find enough pots and pans
WHO: Simon Illyan, Frederick Chilton, Jorah Mormont
WHERE: Chilton's office
WHEN: idk we'll figure it out.
WHAT: the second installment of Simon Illyan, maker of good choices and superspy extraordinaire. Feeling around Baelish's power base, Simon decides to hypnotize Chilton, a decision which could never go badly.
WARNINGS: hypnosis, probably violence
[So far, Simon had not had much luck on turning up anything on Baelish besides Rincewind's vague but ominous pronouncement that he was dangerous. Having found almost no dirt on him at all, Simon was beginning to agree. No-one in politics kept that clean without some fairly high-level maintenance; Simon was that maintenance, back on Barrayar, even if he couldn't quite disappear problem people the way he could back in Emperor Ezar's heyday.
But the connection between Chilton and Baelish had been fairly easy to turn up and fairly conspicuous, all the more so because Baelish was funneling money to him indirectly. Sound strategy dictated that since the head-on approach hadn't worked, it was time to come at Baelish from the side, through his allies. Jorah still proved elusive. Chilton was the next best candidate.
Simon could have simply broken into the office and taken Chilton unawares, but if he had any kind of immunity to his hypnosis, things would have gotten irrecoverably awkward, and Simon had been taught better than that. Instead, he goes at it above-board: Catches Chilton outside of his office, begs to be seen immediately, citing a respectful number of psychiatric red flags. He looks like a man who hasn't slept in three months because of nightmares. Possibly because it would not have been far off the truth a month ago, when he'd still been in the thick of the Komarr rebellion, though far more dramatic than Simon had ever been in his life.]
Tha—... Thank you again, Doctor. [He murmurs as they head back to Chilton's office. Simon's stiff bearing is 100% repressed traumatized war vet whose only notion of psychiatric care is a swift boot to the head. Another easy sell. It was a very common sight on Barrayar.]
WHERE: Chilton's office
WHEN: idk we'll figure it out.
WHAT: the second installment of Simon Illyan, maker of good choices and superspy extraordinaire. Feeling around Baelish's power base, Simon decides to hypnotize Chilton, a decision which could never go badly.
WARNINGS: hypnosis, probably violence
[So far, Simon had not had much luck on turning up anything on Baelish besides Rincewind's vague but ominous pronouncement that he was dangerous. Having found almost no dirt on him at all, Simon was beginning to agree. No-one in politics kept that clean without some fairly high-level maintenance; Simon was that maintenance, back on Barrayar, even if he couldn't quite disappear problem people the way he could back in Emperor Ezar's heyday.
But the connection between Chilton and Baelish had been fairly easy to turn up and fairly conspicuous, all the more so because Baelish was funneling money to him indirectly. Sound strategy dictated that since the head-on approach hadn't worked, it was time to come at Baelish from the side, through his allies. Jorah still proved elusive. Chilton was the next best candidate.
Simon could have simply broken into the office and taken Chilton unawares, but if he had any kind of immunity to his hypnosis, things would have gotten irrecoverably awkward, and Simon had been taught better than that. Instead, he goes at it above-board: Catches Chilton outside of his office, begs to be seen immediately, citing a respectful number of psychiatric red flags. He looks like a man who hasn't slept in three months because of nightmares. Possibly because it would not have been far off the truth a month ago, when he'd still been in the thick of the Komarr rebellion, though far more dramatic than Simon had ever been in his life.]
Tha—... Thank you again, Doctor. [He murmurs as they head back to Chilton's office. Simon's stiff bearing is 100% repressed traumatized war vet whose only notion of psychiatric care is a swift boot to the head. Another easy sell. It was a very common sight on Barrayar.]
no subject
The situation was salvageable. He just had to think.
But thinking hurt, a vibrantly painful stab at every step as he tried to strong together a coherent chain of events. The chip was coming back alive but imperfectly, randomly. He stares down the length of his arm, at the gun pointing at Chilton's head. He closes his eyes briefly. The chip plays out a disorienting scene from an almost-but-not-quite identical perspective: Standing at the shoulder of the Lord Regent as Aral aims a nerve disrupter at the head of a fellow, green-uniformed officer. The Commander of the POW camp. Vorkosigon's voice is rough, iron. I need you to witness this, Simon. Then he pulls the trigger.
Simon opens his eyes again, focusing on Chilton as best he can while the chip tries and fails to retrieve some other relevant stream of data, driving another sharp spike of pain through Simon's head. If Chilton's looking for signs that Simon might flip out and shoot him he should be pretty alarmed by now: Simon's gone several shades paler, broken out into a cold sweat, starting breathing in shallow, labored pants. At least his aim doesn't waver, though his hand's started trembling.
It was just a damn headache. He could work through it. He wasn't even hurt that badly, otherwise. He had a vial of fasta penta in his jacket. He could hynoptize Chilton, fast penta Jorah, find the camera footage, be out in ten minutes and still be able to come back later for another round. If he ran now, he'd have to go to ground, hide, who knows for how long. If he left the stunner it could be traced back to the other Barrayarans, but it was all the way over by Jorah. No, he couldn't run, he had to fix this—
Simon makes himself focus on Chilton, meeting his gaze, trying to summon that sense of power that was his hypnosis skill. He can feel it coming to bear but when he opens his mouth to issue the order—
It feels like a thousand shards are driven into his brain at once. He blacks out, sways, hits the ground hard.]
no subject
[Hypnosis was a funny thing. Chilton had no natural persuasion against its effects, but he was a trained and capable psychiatrist; he knew the blanked outcome, the short term the memory loss that skipped time indicates. The strength and the true influence of Simon's power was still up for discussion, and hopefully those tapes would enlighten that treacle of an issue. The fact that Simon couldn't do it again, when he clearly had every intent, was cause for concern -- the pallor, the tormented expression, the hesitation.
Something was wrong. Something wrong among many, many brutally incorrect things that have happened this afternoon.
But as priorities were left standing in a crucial order: the wounded man, then "Arthur". Chilton didn't finish his halfway verbalized thought for Jorah's benefit, instead he removed his business jacket (and hung it) before stepping over Simon and gave Jorah a better look over.]
Oh, god.
[That gun had done a nasty job on Jorah's leg, Chilton could determine that from even feet away. The sheer amount of blood... Fortunate that Chilton was very used to gore at this point in his life, and what remained of his stomach could handle the horrifying imagery. Quickly, he turned back to Simon, his long fingers gently feeling around the man's waist. Once the belt was evident, Chilton unbuckled and stripped it away, and he turned his unblemished focus back to Jorah, the wounded fellow still gripping onto that tormented desk.]
Look -- I can make you a tourniquet, but you've already bled so much. Just, slide down, won't you? Better if you're fully on the floor, I don't want gravity working in favor of your massive blood loss.
[Amazing that the man was even conscious, really. Chilton glanced over, keeping clear of the fallen sword.]
Your trousers probably... Ought to go. This is... Already going to be difficult.
[A wince, a little shrug. At least it appeared to be isolated in the thigh. Chilton didn't ask for permission when he moved to partially strip down his patient, but he would have been easily stopped if Jorah took offense. Either way, the belt would be wrapped around the leg above the wound, and pulled tight to a buckled state.]
Guessing from your attire that you're one of Petyr's?
[Chilton hoped the assumption was right, because that was who he was calling this moment -- a brief conversation, a "I need your help, I was attacked in my office, I need you here now. Bring aid." Chilton was a woeful surgeon in his youth, a fact that hadn't changed with age. He wouldn't attempt any stitching right now -- but he had something else.]
I can give you something. [He said, his fingertips brushing Jorah's forehead.] A sedative. It will help with the pain.
[Or it would have, if not for Jorah's power negation.]
What should we do with him?
no subject
He probably shouldn’t be alive, nevermind awake to mount a defense against whatever effort Chilton makes to do away with his pants. The tourniquet will have to go on over them, thank you. No answer, as to whether or not he belongs to Petyr. Nor to anything else.
Maybe he feels his “attire” speaks for itself.
Maybe he’s slipping in and out of consciousness on his own.
Delicate fingertips over the ridge of his brow rouse him back into an unpleasant reality. His eyes cross into fuzzy focus, heavy-lidded, and he twists his hand into Chilton’s collar to lever him back towards Simon with force enough to put him on his seat. If he didn’t have blood on his shirt before, he does now. ]
Take the gun.
[ He’s helping, voice thick with gravel. ]
And the rest of his clothes.
[ Gods only know where he might have more of them hidden. He’s already produced two more than he was expecting. ]
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[Chilton shot a doubled look back at Jorah, incredulity lining his brow. The gun made sense -- Chilton had tried to kick a gun out of reach once already. But the man's clothing? Just, all his clothing, a strip search rather than a pat-down? The raised eyebrow Chilton wore said it all; perhaps Jorah thought one humiliation demanded another in return.]
Oh, yes, you are one of Petyr's.
[Nevertheless, Chilton gingerly walked over to Simon's unconscious body without further complaint -- a nasty glare at Jorah perhaps once or twice, but no audible complaining. The doctor was already bemoaning his soiled shirt, his own slacks now bloodied by proximity; his mood wasn't fantastic.
The boots came off first. A long knife clattered to the floor. Then, with great chagrin, did Chilton relieve Simon of his trousers, and then his jacket -- a capped syringe was found in one of the pockets. Chilton thought it suitable to leave on Simon's shirt, but he switched the jacket backwards and forced Simon's limp arms through the sleeves. He pulled hard, wrapping the sleeves around and tying them together.
A makeshift straitjacket.]
You really should get something for the pain. My concern is your heart rate, honestly, a little sedative would help.
[Chilton tilted his head, still looking down at his handiwork done on Simon, but clearly addressing Jorah.
I am Doctor Frederick Chilton, which I hope you knew already. [A beat. Baelish had mentioned two from his world, but Chilton wasn't about to act with presumption. This was likely not the woman, but in case Baelish had other familiars up his sleeves...] And you are?
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Hard to say if Jorah’s silence has more to do with high bred manners or massive blood loss, but he’s downright baleful in the face of Chilton’s assessment. He takes up an interest in Simon’s bare ass just long enough to convince himself there’s nothing worth worrying about rammed up in there before he zeroes blearily back in after the good doctor. ]
Mormont, [ he says, finally, and nods. Late. Distracted. He knows who Chilton is.
That’s a neat trick, with the tied sleeves. With luck, he’ll remember enough of this to make use of it later.
In the meanwhile, he’s doing a fine impression of a wight, lips tinged blue, older blood cooling black in his clothes and against his skin. ]
What happens when we die here?
[ Just curious, no reason. ]
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[Because Chilton already knew how that scenario tended to turn out. He staggered over, checking the tightness of the tourniquet once more. The bleed out had slowed to a minimum, but Jorah had already spilled so much -- and clearly he wasn't regenerating at a superhuman speed. He might be too far gone, if his drained face and lips were stalwart indicators.]
But. In that unlikely event, well -- usually we come back.
[Usually. Chilton knew of three exceptions: Abel Gideon, Walter White, and Freddie Lounds. All people with close ties (for better or worse) to him.]
Resurrected. We come through the Porter again, sometimes we've spent time back home. We never remember this place, however. I've called Petyr, you know, Mr. Mormont. I -- I hope he brings an imPort with abilities.
[The implication being that Chilton thought Jorah was too far gone for mundane medical blood infusions. Too much had already been lost.]
I appreciate you coming in here, to be sure. Saving me in such a way.
[Even if it was entirely messy.]
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Chilton’s answer on the subject of death falls into line with his basic understanding of what was in the brochure. He doesn’t do much to acknowledge reassurance past a hazy nod. He doens't bridle under the title of “Mister Mormont” either.
Given the state of things, he might’ve earned the downgrade. ]
He was doing something to you.
[ Simon, he means, changing the subject in the face of Chilton’s graciousness. Baelish is coming. ]
Don’t let him wake up.
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So you think I should sedate him?
[It was a point of pressure he wasn't yet easing up on, the needling of his own Porter power, a demonstration that he wasn't useless. With bloodied streaks against his cheek, Chilton rose to his full height; no more awkwardly clamoring over Jorah's fallen form.]
I do not want this garnering any attention. [Which is the final reason as to why he called for Baelish, subtle and effective Petyr Baelish. The man had a knack for assessing bad situations efficiently.] It would be a rabid scandal. So I suppose that... Consent isn't really viable in this situation.
[Said Chilton, as he took a few steps towards Simon, his fingers bare and outstretched. A cautionary pose, ready and rearing to strike in case the subject woke up most inconveniently.]
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Doctor Chilton?
[ Petyr found the door unlocked and opened it, entering the scene with a look of surprise. There was Jorah, bleeding out on the floor. And there was another man, bound in a jacket. And above it all stood Frederick Chilton -- completely unscathed. If the situation wasn't so dire, he may have smirked at the psychiatrist. They were more alike than either of them had realized. But top priority was healing Jorah, which meant Haen was the best choice for the job. ]
This is Haen Hithiel. She can manipulate the DNA of an individual to some very incredible results. In this case, she will be able to accelerate the healing process. [ Petyr headed over to Jorah to get a better look at the injury, furrowing his brow. ]
What happened here? And is that man dead? [ Did he have to call March to dispose of a body? ]
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Well someone's been a little liberal with spreading their platelets everywhere, good guanines dear, there are better ways to accent in red. Let's take a look, shall we?
[ On her right hand, a flexible metal glove with faintly glowing, opalescent filaments, and she lays it against his thigh. The light brightens, and Haen's lips move as if she's reading something they can't see before she speaks again. ]
Look at that, you've got a clever little backup already coded in! Just needs a bit of a boost, that's all, your healing is being a bit slow on the uptake, don't worry, I don't assume the rest of you's like that, Jorah.
Did you know that there are about 180 base pairs in your homeobox DNA sequence? It partly controls regeneration, in both animals and in plants. And wouldn't you know it, in people too! Let me just put a few more of those in you for the moment.
[ From an outside observation, it really doesn't look like Haen does much of anything, but the slowly healing tissue jumpstarts at a hyperactive rate, Jorah's ability abruptly supercharged on a cellular level. ]
no subject
He knows who Haen is.
He’s less certain about base pairs and DNA, but she has her metal glove on his thigh before he’s mustered the strength to do much more than stiffen away from her touch, suspicion flinty grey in his eyes. The breath he has clamped behind his teeth lets off in a rush at the sensation of tissue knitting itself back together at speed, and he cuts an extension of that same look to Baelish, worry compounded by distrust. What?
Even with superpowers of his own, this feels like sorcery. Also she went right in there for the thigh, is this normal? This doesn’t seem like it should be normal.
He has a lot of questions.
Chilton is probably in a better position to answer Baelish’s at the moment. ]
no subject
This man attacked me -- well, he ventured into my office under the pretense of requiring severe help, I obliged, and then he did something to me. I don't... Quite recall exactly, but I know he did something to me.
[He needed that footage.]
I know I lost time. And Mr. Mormont, he interrupted this man. They fought -- and weirdly so -- and, well. That fellow passed out, and Mr. Mormont has lost so much blood that I couldn't take him down the hall.
[Chilton knelt beside Simon, his fingers cupping the man's left cheek. Shallow breath, no immediate consciousness rising. Not yet. Vital signs still evident.]
Not dead, no. But I ought to sedate him.
[An anxiolytic and a tranquilizer. Both set only in the milligrams, with the tranquilizer half the dosage as the anti-anxiety sedative. The effect would be a deeply calming, even surreal, feeling.]
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Do we have any idea who he is or what he could have wanted with you, Doctor?
[ Baelish was glad that he had enough foresight to tell Jorah to keep an eye out on Chilton, but he hadn't actually expected anyone to attack him when he had. ]
How we approach this depends upon his motivation. But can we truly release such a man back into society? Someone so volatile, someone so in dire need of severe help? Why, wouldn't someone who fit that criteria belong under your direct care, Doctor? Isn't a man like this the reason you built your containment center? He must have been insane to attack. And what he did was a crime.
[ And Chilton was so adept a treating the criminally insane. ]
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Don't make such a face at me, I'm not the one who got you shot.
[ But her gaze does soften a little, grey eyes not so different from Jorah's own shade. The sensation of bone and tissue re-knitting ebbs back, so it feels a little less immediate for him; a side-effect she's building in, because while she doesn't think he's squeamish, being able to feel ones' viscera repairing itself can be disturbing for even the most stalwart constitutions. ]
Is that better?
[ Her hand not leaving Jorah's thigh so the Tracerie can continue her work, Haen glances over at the other two men. ]
Weirdly so? With a power of his?
I can make him insane for you, if you want? The ZNF804A genotype contains susceptibility to schizophrenia. Or I could just decompose him.
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His nose has more or less fixed itself, but there’s still blood crusted in beneath it, thick in the scruff under his chin, with more spattered dark over his breastplate.
The look he gives Haen at closer range contains trace elements of an apology after she’s spoken, not well articulated. Maybe even a little grudging. A twinge of guilt is better defined in a swallow when he nods.
It is, objectively, better. Having more of his leg is better.
Meanwhile Baelish and Chilton are discussing ‘help’ and ‘direct care.’ He’s listening without following too closely until Haen mentions making the man on the floor insane, or decomposing him.
There’s a distinct stutter in his focus before he zeroes back in on Baelish across the office, gauging his reaction. And Chilton’s. ]
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[Make him insane, that's what this woman had said. Susceptibility to schizophrenia. His breathing shallowed, his pulse quickened. Haen's words had awoken something slithering and dark within Chilton's mind, something that had been slumbering since Abel Gideon and Walter White had unceremoniously left this world.]
Let's not decompose him. [He spoke softly, even tenderly.] But.. Have you done this before? Manifested the potential for neurological aberration?
[A beat, and Chilton swallowed. He seemed to remember where he was, returned after that stolen moment, and turning back to Ambassador Baelish, he smiled.]
The man would have to be subjected to trial. I would rather we manipulate his odds -- can you impose Maurtia Falls jurisdiction on this case? Since you are... Technically. Involved.
I do not want Heropean police in here.
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As useful as those things may be in a world without nanites, Lady Haen, we do want him alive and mentally sound. [ At least to start. ] He has information that I imagine would be difficult to access if his mind was fractured.
[ He looked to Chilton for confirmation of this. Chilton was the expert in minds, after all. ]
I will make a few calls and pull a few favors in order to get him entrusted to your care, Doctor Chilton. For the time being, you can hold him here, can't you?
[ He didn't know what the legal limits were. If he needed approval now, or if he could hold Simon temporarily. But that was a bridge to cross once he left. The footage, however. Now that was useful. ]
You said he did something to you. The taped footage will probably reveal what it was. And perhaps it would be a good idea for all of us to review that before he awakens. [ Petyr spared a wary glance toward Simon. They didn't want to risk this getting even further out of hand.
He pulled his attention away to meet Jorah's gaze and tilted his head. ]
Can you stand?
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She did note Chilton's reaction to what most people would have glossed over as her typical gene-related chatter. Someone who had understood that enough to ask a pertinent question? She offers him a smile that is soundly at odds with what she was actually talking about. ]
Once you've tweaked one genotype, you've done them all, dear! It's just like choosing the colour of your tie in the morning, it's all about the image you want to present that day.
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I can stand.
[ This is the only warning Haen has before Jorah makes the attempt. He sounds more confident than he looks, with one hand anchored at the top of Chilton’s desk to support him as he pushes up to his feet.
Granted, there are still zombie cables of exposed muscle in his quad visible through the gap in his skirt on that side. They flex and hold under his weight, remnant pain grit away. At this rate he’ll be hale and whole within seconds.
His sword is lying nearby, maybe the cleanest part of his ensemble.
The rest of him could stand to be hosed off. ]
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[It took perceivable effort for Chilton to peel his eyes away from Haen now, after she had answered his question with such matter-of-fact chipper. Her remarkable ability remained at the forefront of his mind, even as he addressed Petyr Baelish once more.]
I can hold him here for a maximum of seventy-two hours -- especially if I claim he threatened suicide. He's obviously an imPort, most doctors would rather have me deal with our kind anyway. [A beat.] Hospital insurance only covers so much for the employees. But beyond those seventy-two hours, I have no legal recourse to contain him.
[A sparring glance at Jorah, as he assessed the healing wound, and the bloodied mess that the knight had left in the wake of that near-death experience.]
Making a few calls would be ideal, Ambassador. You're the only man who can weave that together.
no subject
[ Baelish imagined it would only be within Chilton's power to hold this imPort for a day at max without intervention. ]
Those seventy-two hours are crucial for determining whether he needs to be held for much longer. I trust your interrogation skills, Doctor. But I also believe you should have a nullifying agent at hand. In case he attempts to do whatever he had done to you before.
[ He spared a glance toward both Haen and Jorah -- speaking of nullifying agents. ]
Would either of you be willing to aid Doctor Chilton in this?
[ It sounded like Haen and Chilton would get along splendidly. Jorah, not so much. But Jorah didn't really get along with most everyone, and he wasn't paid to be a friend. ]
I will, of course, pay well for your services.
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I can stay.
Assuming the good doctor needs to report this man's worrying condition to make things official, he might need someone to confirm his story, and Jorah -- handsome as you are, dear -- you're a little bit of a mess to pull off the role of reputable witness right now.
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After guiding his sword back into its scabbard, he slings the clot off his fingers and into a small trash bin nearby.
Helping.
Haen says he’s handsome and he looks distantly unappreciative in the background, as if he suspects he’s being mocked. ]
I’ll rotate in once I’ve rinsed off.
[ But short of throwing a tarp over him, he’s not getting out of this hospital without someone noticing. ]
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[Chilton swirled his finger in Jorah's situational direction, his index intending focus upon the gory smears of blood on his office floor.
I'm going to need someone to clean that up. Ambassador, I don't suppose you know someone?
[Someone discreet, someone quick and thorough. Probably someone with illicit history, he was thinking.]
Because I would rather attend to our so-called Arthur with Haen as soon as possible, and I'd much prefer our fun little episode here to be kept as quiet as possible. Better to speed along things.
[Mormont's appearance was another issue altogether; what had stuck Chilton was how Baelish had offered Jorah (or Haen) to serve Chilton as a "nullifying agent". Well, now he knew why Jorah resisted his offer for sedatives -- at least, he knew concretely one reason why, given that it wouldn't have worked at all. Clever of Baelish to befriend the sort of imPorts with the power to turn off power.
Clever and dangerous.]
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I know someone.
[ He thought he knew someone at least. Someone who could make a body simply disappear has to also be adept at spiriting away the evidence of an attack. Petyr would give March a call shortly. ]
Transporting him to your basement should not be difficult to do unseen. And Jorah and I can utilize the alleyway exit for a swift departure. So while I make the calls and you three move Arthur, can I view the surveillance footage?
[ Baelish would not let that little piece of evidence go unforgotten. He had to see it before he left. ]
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