maskormenacelogs | The impossible meets the improbable! [OPEN]

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The impossible meets the improbable! [OPEN]

WHO: William Sherlock Scott Holmes and YOU
WHERE: Heropa
WHEN: Late November
WHAT: Trying out a job, paper crowns and flowers, moonlit technopathic mistakes
WARNINGS: None
A. Social Work isn't the same as detective work and there's a lot more crying:

The only reason he decided to try it out was because he really needed the money and he didn't want to ask for help from anyone. Normally he wouldn't ever consider it. Sherlock's still planning on opening a consulting detective business of sorts but he needs to save up first. For someone who is used to money just being sort of 'there,' it's a new and uncomfortable world.

Okay, he needed to to buy clothes and he wanted proper shirts and suits.

Regardless of his motives, he found himself to be very good at the cases he was given. All it would take was one meeting and he'd determine who was a hoarder or who was neglecting their children. It was alright when he could just meet with them at the office, but they forced him to make house calls--the nerve! Just as well, because his 'minder'--he would not use the word supervisor or boss because he refused to accept the fact he had one--was this close to kicking him out all together since he never paid attention to work hours or rules like not smoking in the office or not reducing the receptionist to tears when he deduced her boyfriend was cheating on her. Also every single appliance and computer in the office broke and needed to be replaced for 'unknown' reasons.

Oddly enough, he was successful at saving a few children from a neglectful daycare and they'd made him a paper crown and flower necklace that he couldn't say no to wearing lest they all burst into tears again.

He was attempting to leave the scene and run towards the nearest alleyway to take them off before someone saw...

B. Technopathy for fun and profit:

It didn't take long before he started experimenting with what he could do.

He found that he had a range as to how he could affect machines, the closer the better control he had. But if he could tap into a network, he hypothesized that he could reach further through there. He wasn't able to control things without a digital interface--he could only turn off the lights if they were controlled digitally. But considering how many things did have a computer chip in them...

Sherlock experimented with small things first. Calculators. He sat on a desk and willed the numbers to appear. They did, easily. Then he moved into communicators. To his surprise when he brought up displays they would appear in his vision--words skirting across his vision. If he had accessed maps, the map would appear in his vision.

He was extremely pleased with these turn of events. As put off he was about being trapped in a different world, this was not a bad consolation prize.

But then he tried to access the Internet with his mind one day--he couldn't remember where or when he actually did--because the next thing he knew he felt like he was being pulled in a million, billion directions at once. Information overload was blasting through his skull, he cried out and gripped his head. He couldn't stop it, couldn't disconnect from the onslaught of pages. Every thought he had would cause a new page to be brought up or a search engine to fire off into a new slew of results. It was too much, too much all at once--

--Sherlock was wandering the back streets of Heropa, holding his head and blindly stumbling like he was in a trance. His eyes weren't focused, flicking back and forth wildly and rolling up into his skull occasionally. He had a scrape on his cheek where he'd fallen and not noticed, and he was mumbling like a madman.

"Too many too many too many too many too many TOO MANY!"

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Wanda happened to be flying overhead when she heard someone who was... well, clearly having some sort of problem. She touched down on the ground gently, a few feet away, and the trailing wisps of scarlet energy dissipated behind her; the wisps also stopped dancing around her hands, where they started from. She approached slowly, cautiously, and with a slight frown on her face and concern in her voice, asked:

"Do you need some help?" Well, help that she can offer, anyway.

Sherlock hadn't noticed that someone had actually flown and landed right in front of him. He was mumbling and shaking, his eyes clearly not focusing on anything but what he himself could see.

However through his pain and confusion he managed to hear something.

Help. Someone was offering him help.

"M-my c-communicator..." he mumbled. Still clutching his head.

His communicator was in his right pocket. It was on, and the Internet was on the screen, and scrolling through pages impossibly fast. It was so rapid it looked more like flickering lights than anything else.

If she knew this were, exactly, a form of technopathy, she'd be able to relate. Her telepathy had much the same effect on her when she first got her powers back in her home universe. Too much information flooding in all at once from various sources -- it's a recipe for a guaranteed migraine, that's for sure.

"Would turning it off help? I can do that for you." Presumably, if he were in any condition to do so himself, he would have by now.

He's scarcely able to respond, but he nods and mumbles in the affirmative, still clutching his head. He can't exactly see who his benefactor is at the moment, nor does he recognize their voice. Female, was all that he could determine.

"Y...yes..."

The communicator was still going absolutely wild, occasionally making buzzing sounds as he made half-hearted attempts to regain some kind of control over it, and failing miserably.

Without responding verbally, scarlet wisps glowed around her hands again and trails of them found the device and she pulled it gently into her hands, trying to turn it off. It seemed to be going pretty crazy, and it was a bit distracting, especially with the buzzing, for a moment when she pressed the off button and waited to see if it would in fact turn off. Her eyes went from him to the device a few times while she waited -- it felt like an eternity for her, probably more for him.

Once the connection was cut by the phone being turned off, the onslaught stopped.

Sherlock crumpled to the ground, scarcely catching himself, and just sat there, trying to catch his breath and take stock of what happened. He still held his head and had an incredible headache.

"Gone...they're g-gone. It's gone."

Wanda lowered herself onto her knees, her legs tucked under her as she sat. She waited a couple of seconds before speaking, giving him that time to catch his breath and feel maybe slightly more sorted out.

"Are you alright now?" She cleared her throat slightly. "What, um -- what was that?"

Sherlock looked up, rubbing the tears out of his eyes embarassedly. He squints, realizing where he was and that he had been helped by the woman sitting next to him.

"Better," he admitted. He took a deep breath again and closed his eyes a moment before opening them again. Nothing in his vision. It was gone.

He held a shaky hand out for his communicator back. "I apparently have been 'gifted' with something called technopathy. I made the stupid mistake of trying to access the Internet."

A pause, as he remembered his manners.

"Thank you. For turning it off."

She nodded and handed him his device back. Said in an understanding tone: "Probably best to slowly work your way up to that one, yeah." Which she also knows from experience. An experience she is still learning to this day, too, as she tests her limits. "I have a sort of similar ability that I got back in my own universe, and that kind of information overload took me down more than once since I also lacked a user's manual." Information she relates to him to let him know that he shouldn't be to hard on himself for it since he's not alone in that boat.

"I'm Wanda Maximoff, by the way." She also thought a proper introduction would be useful and also polite.

He pocketed the device, not wanting to try that anytime soon. His head was pounding relentlessly.

Sherlock listens to her, still rubbing his temples occasionally as he nods. It made him feel a little less stupid. He couldn't manage to control this--he should be able to, he was supposed to be a genius--some genius--but her words did encourage him. Maybe it would have happened to anybody.

"How'd you overcome it?"

"Sherlock Holmes," he said in return. He was fairly famous in his own world and it seemed like some people recognized his name here, but it was pretty hit and miss. It didn't matter either way to him.

"Mostly? Slow practice, mustering up more patience than I thought I had in my body, and a lot of hot water bottles to the face and taking over the counter pain killers as directed on the bottle." She never said it was easy, to be fair. Possible and easy seems to more often than not do that to one another -- not be the same thing. But that makes the encouragement all the more relevant.

In a world like this one where people from all different times and places get pulled into, what is reality in one world can presumably be fiction in another and vice versa, and so she knows the name from a certain fictional context in her world. But that doesn't make it not simply a coincidence here, or another instance of fiction versus reality -- so either way, she doesn't take it by surprise. "It's nice to meet you, despite the circumstances."

"Sounds...pleasant," he wrinkled his nose with a slight groan as he tried to sit more comfortably. He looked up at her, attempting to deduce what he could from her appearance. She had helped him, perhaps she wished to gain some sort of favor?

A slight smirk. "Wishing the circumstances could be better...how long did it take you to master...whatever it is that you can do?" He was a very impatient person and really, it sounded like tedious business. Plus he knew he probably should stay away from any and all kinds of pain-killers.

Some people might have that motive, but no, she's just that compassionate. See someone who looks like they need help, offer help.

"I've been doing this for..." ('this' meaning her abilities). She trails off for a moment. She almost doesn't want to say it's been years, but she figures she has to. "Around three years. If you ever need someone to train with," Well, she's around.

That's...actually a really good offer and he's keen to take her up on it. There was no point in him stumbling around like this, getting into situations he couldn't control or could possibly harm him. He doubted this was at all healthy for his mind.

"If you're suggesting it, I am very much interested," he said, rubbing his forehead.

"Definitely suggesting it. Just say when -- I live in Nonah, work in De Chima. Occasionally visit the other porter cities." Like she was now. "Right now you kinda look like you might need a nap more than anything, though."

"That's...thank you," he managed to say, as he held his head with his other hand, like it weighed too much. "A nap sounds brilliant right about now."

John came down to Heropa today to see how Sherlock was handling his new job. It surprised the doctor to learn he was actually doing the job the government assigned him to. He's always chafed at taking orders from authority and money has never seemed to have been a particular concern for the detective.

He was walking across the parking lot when Sherlock left the day-care centre and darted into a nearby alleyway. Looking bemused, John picked up the pace and followed him.

"Sherlock?"

"John!?"

Sherlock quickly grabbed the paper crown and flower necklace and tried to stuff them in the pocket of his coat. He didn't want to admit to John the reason he'd kept this job for now--honestly he doubted he'd be gainfully employed for long if his 'minder' had anything to do with it--was more than half out of vanity, at the very least he'd want to save up a bit first before moving on.

He seemed terribly embarrassed and looked around like he was being watched.

Too late. John already sees the lovingly handmade paper jewellery before Sherlock has the chance to whip them off and stuff them into his pockets. He doesn't say anything, but his mouth stretches into a wide smile and his eyes twinkle in amusement

"I was just coming to see how you were getting on." John explains, scratching the side of his nose. He thought he was running into the alley to escape a technology overload, not the children who made him that adorable paper crown.

"Are you okay? You look flushed."

Sherlock rubs his face and tries to fix his collar and regain what was left of his coolness. It probably wasn't working.

"I'm fine," he said quickly.

He looked back towards the day-care center and back at John, his embarrassment wasn't ceasing.

"It's a good way to get information and learn how this world works," he explained as if there was an unspoken question. "Besides I'm far better than anyone else at this so I'm really just saving time for everyone. The other idiots couldn't tell if there was neglect if it was written on someone's forehead."

John's lips twitch when Sherlock pops his coat collar until he mentions neglect and the smile fades rapidly from his face. He looks at the side of the day-care centre with a frown. Regardless of being an expectant father himself, that kind of abuse has always shaken John.

"Oh God." He exclaims softly, aghast. "You've reported it, right? To your superiors?"

"Of course."

Mentally he activated his communicator and sent a text, smiling a bit as to throw off any suspicion that he hadn't already yet. He actually was going to 'visit' the owners beforehand and give them all a proper fright. At times like these he wished Mycroft were around to really ruin their lives. Perhaps he'd have a good chance to before their inevitable investigation.

"Must you use the word 'superiors'?" He said with distaste. A wrinkle of his nose.

If John had an inkling that Sherlock was thinking about taking matters into his own hands, then he doesn't show it. He would've just quietly looked forward to the front page newspaper headline the next day: native manages to fall out of their window seven times.

"Sorry. Your co-workers, then." John doesn't hang around to hear if that word is worse than superiors. He turns on his heel and walks out the alley. He looks from side to side, and then shouts back to the hiding detective.

"You can stop hiding now. The coast is clear."

Sherlock smirked brightly with the thought of how terrible of a day it was going to be for the day-care owners pretty soon. And hoping that there were no unattended children about bestowing them with macaroni necklaces of honor, he stepped out of the alley.

"Ugh," he can't help but mutter under his breath at the word 'co-workers'. Honestly who invented money in the first place? What a tedious concept. Once he had enough he was out of here. Though he looked back at the day-care center and felt a bit better that he was able to help right some injustices. Bringing balance to the universe was actually a big motivator in many of his actions, even if a case wasn't a 7 or higher if, if it was particularly infuriating he would jump right on it, like the poor woman whose father was posing as her online boyfriend to keep her money coming in.

"Welcome to the world of work."

It's not the greatest consolation but John at least has the decency to look the tiniest bit sympathetic. Apart from this world, he never imagined Sherlock could be capable of holding down a job that wasn't benefiting him in some way... although his work today has no doubt given him the same satisfaction as solving a case.

As mildly not-boring as the cases were sometimes, it was barely enough to keep him gainfully employed for the moment.

A shudder.

"A world I hope not to be in much longer."

At least it was helping him to get a feel for how the people of this world thought and behaved, and that was good too. The whole saving children's lives thing was just a side benefit. Maybe. That's what he kept telling himself, trying to seem cool and aloof.

"Speaking of which, how are you doing at...whatever it is you're doing?"

See, Sherlock hadn't completely deleted what John had told him about his own work. Well, mostly.

"Really?" John feigns surprise and then looks over at the day-care centre, linking his hands behind his back. "That's a shame. I think the kids will miss you."

His eyes slide down to Sherlock's pocket and back up again, lips twitching. If only he had been quicker -- he could've taken a picture. He can think of one person who would appreciate it.

"Yeah, it's fine. Bit dull, but it's money."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "They'll be fine. They'll all be fine, now that I've gotten it all sorted and they're not you know, in their previous situation." There is something slightly softened in his eyes though.

Sherlock unconsciously stuffs the things deeper in his pocket. How embarrassing. "Bored, yet? I supppse we could find one or two cases for us to occupy ourselves with."

A knowing smirk. He knew how John got when things were indeed, dull. It wasn't as bad as the fits he himself had thrown, but John couldn't stay in the suburbs for more than a month before busting down a den full of junkies. Sherlock was quite proud of him that day besides the whole getting busted himself.

[ It's a general unspoken rule that Vulcans engage in physical contact as little as possible mainly due to their natural touch telepathy, but one can hardly blame an innocent encounter like bumping into someone when turning around a corner. He automatically reaches out to steady both himself and the other person, careful to touch sleeves and clothing rather than exposed skin. ]

My—[ he starts, but his apology dies off when he observes the obvious distress in the other man's face and posture. A little more firmly, he asks instead: ] Do you require assistance?

[Sherlock is scarcely holding onto his own sanity at this point, and he can't see anything except swirling information in front of his vision. He does hear a voice, however, and it manages to break its way through to him.]

C-communicator...left c-coat pocket--turn--turn it off!

[ Spock's hand is already moving toward Sherlock's left before he even finishes the instruction, not wasting time in asking why either. There's a brief fumble as Spock fishes it out, but he does pause for a split second to actually look at the communicator, trying to assess the reason for Sherlock's distress. ]

[The communicator is going absolutely mad, pages of pages of internet sites are flashing across the sceeen. It buzzes and flickers, it's clearly not behaving in any programmed way.

Sherlock mumbles and mutters, clutching his head, and some of the words that he mumbles are the subjects of the pages that come up as it keeps responding to his thoughts. Sherlock's mind naturally worked at an incredible speed, making associations instantly, but this was likely what was causing the horrible feedback loop with his technopathy.]

[ Spock catches on quickly enough, both to the organic/non-machine-like behavior of the communicator as well as the apparent link between it and Sherlock's mind. While manually shutting the device off would relieve the problem, Spock estimates the normal device shut down sequence will take too long—immediate relief would be more efficient.

Since Spock wouldn't destroy the machine outright unless there were no other choice (it would also be incredibly rude to someone he just met), he instead reaches for that part of his mind where he feels his granted powers reside, pulling them into active mode. His employs his cyberkinesis to reroute the device's power, feeding it into a harmless loop to shut it off approximately .71 seconds later. (Y'know, approximately.

Until it dies though, Spock's mind is connected through his powers to the device for that brief time. It's like a window rather than an open door though, a cool observation from a distance instead of an open invitation—or a gross violation—into each other's private thoughts. That mental barrier Spock keeps raised for himself shields both his own mind as well as Sherlock's from one another before it blinks away with the power source. ]

[The relief is almost instant, but there's a moment of connection in those .71 seconds where Sherlock gets a glimpse of the mysterious benefactor. Also possessing a mind that was as fast as lightning--which accounted for half the problem that he had at the moment where his racing mind proved to be a burden when coupled with an out-of-control mishandling of his new ability--the mental barrier likely prevented anything much but Sherlock could feel his presence at least, in that cool observant way. It was an odd feeling anyway. If observed closely, Sherlock's mind would present itself as one with extreme, intense emotions tempered and controlled by reason and logic.

And then the communicator was off and the onslaught of images had stopped. His vision and his mind were no longer being overloaded with information. He realized that the odd 'presence' was in fact another person. Not recognizing him, and still possessing an absolutely awful headache, Sherlock managed a bleary,]

Th...th...thank you.

[ He doesn't look too closely since it would be overstepping a line (blah blah telepathy ethics), but the initial sensation that lasted past the information onslaught and overload was ... actually somewhat familiar. Like he was touching upon the mind of another Vulcan, perhaps? An improbable yet intriguing impression.

But the .71 seconds is over quickly, and Spock remains quiet while Sherlock gathers himself. After a few moments to allow him to catch his breath, Spock offers back the communicator. ]

Do you require further assistance? Perhaps a beverage and a more sedate location would be beneficial.

[Sherlock takes the communicator back, and gives a thankful nod.]

Please. If you wouldn't mind.

[That was certainly an experience. And the weird brush with someone else's presence was...that's what it was, wasn't it? Sherlock's kind was neatly ordered, using a 'Mind's palace' or method of loci to sort everything he'd ever seen and learned, and he knew what was his and what wasn't.

Now he was incredibly curious as well, despite the pounding headache. He also feels slightly stupid for getting himself in this situation.]

A suitable place is located approximately 129 yards away.

[ Spock makes a subtle gesture with his hand down which street side he means, giving both of them plenty of room between to reduce any risk of contact again. He begins to lead once he's confident Sherlock can walk without assistance.

As he leads, Sherlock can probably notice more details about his rescuer now that he doesn't have the entire internet firing through his brain: larger than average build, obviously keeps in shape judging from the pull of his clothes around the bigger muscles groups of his body, walks upright with back straight, hands folded behind his back, and head held higher than what might be considered casual. Clothes are impeccably clean so this man cares about his appearance or at least his cleanliness. There are loads of other such details Sherlock can tell at a glance.

And then there's the incredibly obvious details that even John Watson would notice: the pointed ears, slanted eyebrows, and an underlying tinge of green to the man's (man???) skintone. Not fake, those, not someone playing at dressing up or even immaculate if eccentric self-grooming. Not human.

But as Spock promised, a small hole-in-the-wall coffee house was just around the corner (129.84 yards to be precise), and Spock takes a 2-person table in the back far corner. He takes the chair that forces his back to the rest of the store, allowing Sherlock to have full view of the place with a back to his wall. ]

[Sherlock's suffering from dizziness, but it's fading and he manages to walk without falling over. The headache doesn't feel like it's going away too soon.

Still, it's not enough to stop his deductions as he finally gets a good look at his benefactor. The ears are obviously the first thing he notices. The green tinge to his features. His build, his gait, the way he spoke. In a world where there's superheroes, the first thing he wouldn't think of was 'alien', but then again, his world did have certain sci-fi shows that John's seen that would give him the knowledge to place just what exactly this other man is. Sherlock just takes his appearance in stride and chalks it up under as 'human-ish but possibly not'.

What was just as interesting to him was the other person's behavior. Altruistic, military-like bearing and grooming. He didn't get the impression that he was out for anything other than an honest desire to help. Likely military then, or some kind of organization similar to it.

Sherlock sat with his back to the wall, placing his communicator on the table and nervously spinning it with a finger, not daring to turn it on. His coat and shirt were rumpled but otherwise he was immaculately groomed as well.

He could feel the presence of other communicators and similar devices in the area, and was hard-pressed not to instinctively 'open' any of them up. He could feel the presence of the cash register and a stereo system. It was completely ridiculous, what he was having to put up with now. Such a far cry from the ordinary world he had come from.]

...thank you again. For all of that.

[A handwave to indicate everything that the other man had done to assist him. It could have easily sank into dangerous territory very quickly.]

[ Having a moment to simply sit and observe the man in front of him as he fiddled with his comm allowed Spock a closer inspection as well. The similarities of this individual to the man named Khan Noonien Singh in his own reality were remarkable; physical build, eyes, voice ... the only apparent difference was the hair, and even that was superficial.

There was a moment when Spock paused to observe the effects of the comm that he noticed the strong resemblance, the rogue thought/remembered emotionally-charged memory of Kill him before he has the chance to hurt anyone else flickered through his mind before he quashed it. Because of his acquaintance with both Miles Vorkosigan and knowledge of Hermann Gottlieb, he knew that cross-dimensional doppelgangers could be a consideration. That alone stayed his hand and allowed him to help the man before him.

Yet there still could be the possibility ... one Spock doesn't discount. Perhaps that's why Spock acknowledges the gratitude with a small half-hour, really just a lowering of his chin, a gesture that might be considered somewhat cold when followed by a flat statement of: ] Then need for aid was readily apparent.

May I inquire of your identity? [ follows immediately after with Spock paying close attention to the man's reaction to the question. If he was Khan, and if he had the same memories and experience as Spock, would he attempt to deceive him? ]

[He's not warm, certainly, Sherlock notes. Even in London, a big city with everyone hustling and hustling about, he still got smiles and kind reactions in various daily interactions. Even Sherlock could be friendly and warm on most occasions, the reason people called him cold was because of his reactions to gristly murders or his rude treatment of people he didn't like (which was a lot of people). Plus it stemmed from his lack of social experience, he sometimes simply didn't realize his behavior was 'not good'.

But this man seemed a different level of cold, one that far surpassed him. Interesting.]

Well, good you were around, then.

Sherlock Holmes. And you are...?

[Sherlock was fairly well-known in back home, and at least in London. But ever since coming here to this world he'd come to find out that he existed in fiction in other worlds as well. A very odd concept, and a boost to his ego. He wasn't exactly familiar with otherworldly doppelgängers yet, though.]

Edited (My phone betrays me) 2016-12-11 22:29 (UTC)

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The impossible meets the improbable! [OPEN]

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