maskormenacelogs | ( closed ) I should be so lucky.

( When you've been recently murdered and your buddy is down about his lovelife, you go out. This was, weirdly, becoming something of a habit for Sarissa. She's not quite sure how that happened, actually, and she's not quite sure how the two mates in question are Dorian Gray and Frederick Chilton, who are two of the most different people of her acquaintance and who probably like dragging each other more than being civil. Doesn't matter: she loves both of them. They'd both get absurd speeches, if they gave her the time for it, and though she thinks they'd both probably enjoy it, she suspects they'd eyeroll just as much as everyone else.

Well, maybe not Chilton, but he'd probably be pleased to discover some new weird corner of the Sarissa mind. She didn't really mind that he was so analytical about shit, because so's she.

The point is this: she's at that one place he took her before, the first time she died, and he was coaxing her out of the shitpit she'd toppled into. Sarissa's still bad, honestly, but this time around she's trying so hard to be someone better. All steady and solid and reliable. Not so erratic, not so stupid. She's truly not sure how she's doing, but she's trying.

Still a bit whimsical, but. Sarissa's waiting in one of the over-stuffed leather armchairs, and when she hears the server greeting Chilton, stands up to greet him. Behold: gone are the boards shorts or jeans or muscle shirts or tanks tops with dinosaurs. Instead, Sarissa is wearing suit trousers, a button down rolled up to her sleeves and unbuttoned a few down from the throat (she's still Sarissa, after all) and a waistcoat. The trousers and waistcoat a charcoal grey, the shirt a rich blue, and she's looking crisp instead of her usual haphazard charm. )

Frederick. You're looking well.

( That's the same as ever, ridiculous grin and fingerguns - look, okay, she's trying. )

Sarissa, you as -- [A beat.

The suit. The waistcoat. The sensible gray, the flattering blue. The clean lines. His mouth is still slightly parted. The intended reference was made quite clear; Frederick Chilton had ample experience with a mirror. He knew what he was looking at.]

-- As well. Is this, ah, new?

[A light flutter of his hand indicated the aesthetic as a whole, from her shoulders downwards.]

It looks quite fetching.

[It wasn't anger in his throat, he didn't think she was mocking him. Chilton was never so self-conscious that a social ambush was his foremost thought, no, but he was intrigued.

He had questions.]

A... Job interview, or?

Yeah, been a while since I wore anything this nice. Not a job interview, but I'm definitely thinking it could be a winner for going and being charming with the fuzz.

( She grins, indicates to the plush armchair, before dropping backwards into her own. Even with the rather more classy outfit that usual, her movement were still oddly fluid and reckless seeming. )

I thought the whole being classy and drinking nice whiskey thing'd go better if I were looking classy, too. ( Sarissa does, however, reach into her pocket to grab a little box. ) I heard a rumour that your birthday snuck by without me doin' anything special for it, which was just wrong, and since we were talking a about matching things, I wanted to dress appropriate.

( She holds the box out in offering. Inside are three items; heavy silver cufflinks with a latticework design and a matching lapel pin. Her smile is crooked. ) I wasn't actually sure if matching things was how its meant to be done, and if the styles not you I can go get 'em fixed up for something better.

( Slightly sheepish, slightly nervous. She's not good at presents, gets nervous. Chilton has STANDARDS, and stuff. And then another box, that she balances on top of the other. ) Here's your matching one, but.

( Inside that one is a slightly ridiculous kangaroo pin - identical to one Sarissa holds up and starts to pin on her waistcoat. ) So. Fancy whiskey?

I still offer myself as a source of recommendation. [He pressed, all too eager to help. His eyes were still on her outfit.] If you require one. An additional one? [It went without saying that she had plenty of friends who would strive to validate her in a similar way -- that's how Chilton observed Sarissa, anyway.]

You do pull off the look. [Finally, he tore his gaze away. The mention of whiskey inspired a different kind of fixation.] And -- [Without prompt, the gift. He blinked, surprised, a delighted pink flush casting over his cheeks, the stalwart bridge of his nose. Wordlessly, Chilton reached out to take the box from her. Gently, he opened it.]

Oh, no, Sarissa. They are simply perfect.

[Eyes downcast as he spoke, it was clear that Chilton was touched. Surprised and sentimentally swallowed.]

Quite honestly.

[And then. The kangaroo pin. Well formed and golden and a kangaroo -- because Sarissa, that was why. Because it was symbolic of her, like a piece of her (or perhaps just a reflection) given freely to Chilton. He ascribed so much to identity, so frequently miring himself in meaning, and this was so purposeful.

He blinked. It wouldn't do to meet her with glassy, dew-threatened eyes.]

It is. Absolutely lovely, thank you.

[Chilton cleared his throat.]

Shall -- shall I take the first round? On me?

Sounds good. The reference and the whiskey, for the record.

( She takes a step back and drops back into her chair with a lazy elegance that isn't truly elegant so much as haphazardly charming.

Her gaze is dropped for a moment, though there's a smile at Chilton's response to the gifts. Much as she'd like to watch and see him be all pleased, she's also familiar with what it is to need a moment and to have a certain image of yourself you like to project. There's times to be a friendly jerk and tease and needle, even, but now isn't one of those times. He's been having it rough lately, seems like. )

I'm glad you like 'em. ( And, eager to give them both a point of conversation to topple into that isn't likely to compromise that image Chilton treasures, or at least not right away, she clears her throat. He can pick his own adventure, here. )

First order of business: car stuff, situation with your lady, witty banter about vague philanthropic ideas, or Other?

Edited 2017-03-12 23:12 (UTC)

What might Other entail?

[His voice is smooth and quick, like a deceptively fast rolling river. A sly glance slid from his eyes, savoring her expression. The problem with glowing in Frederick Chilton's good graces, of course, was that he inevitably would try to take possession of his good friend.

But always in small ways, like a drizzle of raindrops soaking your hair over an hour's walk. Only in analysis, only in questions.]

Could we talk about you? Your aspirations towards that career path?

[There was another reason to pitch Sarissa as the topic in conversation: deflection. For all Chilton's psychiatric prowess, for all his degrees, he proved to be lacking in solving the more glaring toxicities in his own relationships. That negligence would continue to haunt him, but in varied ways.]

We can talk about whatever you like. ( This was, after all, a mission to make Chilton feel better when he'd been down. Sarissa lets her hands fall into an open gesture, indicating herself and the world and possibly seeming vaguely Christ-like, if she weren't an inherently indulgent and sinful kind of soul. ) Consider me at your disposal. Your chance for a no evasion Sarissa session.

( Although she does snap her fingers and aim those finger guns Chilton's way. ) Fair warning that it seems like you're looking to evade things yourself, and I'm totally happy to let you do whatever you need to feel better, but if that means kicking your arse to make you talk about stuff we might need to figure out a signal, or something.

( Anyway, she straightens up, and hooks one leg over the other. ) Aspirations, huh? So, why I wanted to become a cop in the first place, or here?

[He perked up, visibly, at the spoken permission. Sarissa had a way of making him feel unlike an imposition -- a feeling that was somewhat foreign when in the company of most of his friends. Such was Chilton's inevitable lot in life, but the reprieve she offered so kindly was gratefully taken.]

Both, actually, but let us start with your homeworld ambitions. Was it because of her? [He could only mean Georgia.] Or had you always been interested in law and order?

[He mirrored her finger gun in response, although Chilton's was less quicksilver and more delicately angled.]

You have a knack for chaos. I find your interest to be compelling.

( oh my god Chilton did fingerguns, she can die happy.
Unlike the last two times, I guess. )

We met because of my job, actually. I was in Chicago for six months on an exchange thing. That's where she's from, and why I am to this day a hardcore Cubs fan. ( And there's a whole funny story to go with all that, by the way, but she'll spare him given that it's not immediately relevant. ) No, um, I wanted to work for the law because I grew up seeing it abused, I guess, or... not being what I figured it was meant to be. My dad, he's a lawyer, defence variety.

( Her sleeves are already rolled up, but she hitches it up a little further, leaning forward and turning her arm so Chilton can see the dappled effect of scarring on her inner elbow, the skin scarred with layer over layer of small circular burns - the extinguishing of a cigarette. ) My dad is an abusive son of a bitch. I thought the law should be better. Didn't like the way he'd twist it, or that he'd screw it around so much when he made it his career. I figured— being something more hands on on, like a cop, that'd mean I could help people.

( The sleeve is re-adjusted. ) I think the law'd do a better job of protecting people than world with no law. Doesn't mean the law's perfect, or that I'm all... good at the straight and narrow.

[A solemn nod -- certain topics were intended for the therapy sedan, and even Chilton could respect that. Abusive parents or parental figures -- the nasty, sadistic sort that Sarissa was all too familiar with -- that was an element frequent among Chilton's Baltimore State Hospital patients. Frequent, but not all-encompassing. Those men had clearly not made the same choice that Sarissa had, they had wanted to hurt others instead of rebel with civil service. They had abandoned the idea of justice like the system had abandoned them.

But she hadn't. She had flung herself into aiding the law. Chilton couldn't help but read her enthusiasm as partly escape, partly rebellion -- not unlike, perhaps, Will Graham's own dedication to consulting the FBI. It was a way of avoiding the more violent path, a spat in destiny's eye.

He didn't share this with her, of course. "Had you not made that crucial choice, Sarissa, you might have become a murderer" seemed a bit gauche.

So instead he offered:]

You saw how people can abuse power. [Her dad, the lawyer.] And you knew the best way to circumvent that was getting into the system, doing some good. [Doesn't mean the law's perfect, or that I'm all... good at the straight and narrow, she had said.] ... The best way you can.

I have known a case study or two in a similar situation. Not exact, but similar. And they didn't turn out all too bad.

[His way of offering hope. Fumbling the moment, Chilton raised his right hand, forming it into a two-fingered gun again. And wiggled it at her.]

( Sarissa grins, but there is something self aware and a little wry in it. She tilts her head, makes a little ehhh, maybe sorta gestures with an uneven tilt back-and-forth of her hand. )

Unfortunately, some shit went bad and I got it in my head that being a cop was screwed up, too. Only way to help people was to be outside the law. Benevolent mercenaries, I thought, like Robin bloody Hood.

( The sentence trails off - or maybe it's just that her voice gets quiet. Her smile is self-deprecating, no matter what happened to her sentence. ) I feel like there's a sliding scale of what "all too bad" means, in your line of work. Don't give me too much benefit of the doubt about where I land on it, just yet.

( She shrugs, and in the name of the aforementioned total honesty: ) I think I have trouble figuring out where all the moral lines go, sometimes. What's too far, what's too emotional, what's justice. That kinda thing. Do you ever get tangled up in that, too? Just trying to figure out where all the lines have to be to make sure you're not warping yourself into something terrible, just because you think the cause is right?

Vigilantes, you mean. [Or, a kinder way to put it:] Consultants. Unauthorized consultants.

[He possessed his own mixed feelings about that; Chilton's experience with the FBI had yielded a lot of consultants, both authorized and otherwise. But Sarissa proved to be more authentic than any of them, he rationalized. Perhaps that was the key to remaining grounded -- lightning rods were always stapled to something else, rather than flying through the air.]

I can reserve judgement, if you wish. [Can, but would? She had already scored so well in his books. Chilton offered his own shrug by indication of compliance.] The last case I worked directly with the FBI for -- it was years ago. I was more on the profiling side of things, the hunt. My capacity as a state-sanctioned psychiatrist is working through the why, or the whisper of rehabilitation, after the individual had already been convicted and sentenced.

The impact of morality, or lack thereof, had since already been committed. I am the aftermath.

[Which wasn't entirely true, but Chilton had always been good at minimizing his ethical responsibilities.]

No, vigilantes. "Consultants," ( with air quotes, yes, ) makes it sound like they thought they should be answering to someone and I don't reckon they did.

( or do? Tenses when you're talking about a life that is ongoing but currently in suspension is a strange thing. She feels a bit that way about Georgia back home, too. Here, it's almost worse. More free time to think about her in. Trying not to dwell on that too much when there is so much else to discuss, when they had not yet tumbled down that particular rabbit hole and into the burrow maze or potential-mental-ill-health Wonderland of Georgia feelings. )

Do you ever wonder if there's someone you shouldn't be the aftermath for? Like thinking maybe they weren't responsible for the things they were supposedly responsible for?

( Curiosity, more than anything. ) Seems like it'd be a whole bloody extra can of worms, hey. And I'm alright with judgment, Frederick. Gotta deserve it, after a point.

"Consultants". Hah, I wonder if fewer people here would question that legitimacy. We all have the luxury of coming from the same box, I mean.

[ImPort was a hard label to buck, and a decent amount of natives associated the meaning with vigilante -- despite any oaths sworn otherwise. But that was merely a tangent, and Chilton's attention once more wrapped around to Sarissa's questioning.]

An interesting question. I so rarely feel responsible for those who have made me their aftermath, but that never stopped them. Feeling forced into that position is... Regrettable. [Chilton wasn't usually the master of his own destiny, but in this world he hoped to rectify that. This world he adored so dearly, this world that Sarissa was part of.] So yes, I would advise against that role.

Unless the catalyst means a lot to you.

[Whoever would do that to you.]

Maybe I'm secretly more lawful than chaotic, after all. ( Her smile is gently conspiratorial. ) Chaos can shake things up and get around the red tape, but... Red tape probably exists for a reason, too. Depressingly.

( God, she hates red tape and rules and regulations and procedures being used as reasons not to help people, not to go in guns blazing. They're there to protect law and justice and the good and all, and yet sometimes it seems like all it does it build a framework for people to contort about and manipulate, or to deny people what they need. She nurses her drink for a moment, before letting the glass rolls between her fingers, from left hand to right and back, a strange sort of infinity motion. )

There's some people who I hope I can be a good aftermath for. Guess you only get to take the credit if you're ready to take the blame, too.

( Which is a tiring thought, isn't it? As for her meaningful catalyst, she looks like she's about to say something before becoming a little uncertain. Perhaps too... wallow-y? Hmm.
A little shrug. )

How's your work here goin', anyway? I feel like going to take a tour of a hospital would be maybe weird of me, but it sounds like you've built up something pretty impressive. If you'd be okay with it, I'd like to take a look about, sometime.

Would you? [The interest was pointed, but he still couldn't elude the umbrage of polite discourse. Was this sincere interest?

-- Of course it was, he almost immediately chastised himself. Sarissa had just admitted to impulsive behavior, which included a disdain for the colorfully metaphorical red tape. And while good manners were not necessarily bureaucratic, and while Sarissa was not an intentionally malicious person, there was no reason to think she would ever indulge in fakery. Feigned interest might very were be a cardinal sin in her bible.]

Well! We could arrange a tour, yes. Have you met Rincewind? Or Jack? Jack... Is not in possession of a surname, but he is hardly unique in that regard.

[Rincewind and Raina both lacked a second name, as well. Chilton had something of a collection. His tight smile eased with the invitation, and he gave a quick nod.]

You will need to be accompanied by an orderly or our security, that's why I ask. Policy -- it isn't anything personal. But I imagine the experience would be more palatable with known company.

( Things Sarissa is trying desperately to stop doing: getting into public brawls. (Usually for no good reason.)

Things Sarissa is about to do: get into a public brawl. (Hopefully, though, this is for a good reason.)

She's in a bar that's not particularly exciting. Low lighting, not all that busy, but the top shelf liquor is good. They make good chicken wings, which is apparently harder than you'd think, when some places hand you a plate of something fatty and greasy, and not in a good way. There is a good way, too, and there's no denying it. This place? Quality wings, different flavours, never soggy and depressing. The tragedy of this all is that she can see her order of chicken wings in the hand of the server, ready and poised to be brought to her, tantilizingly close, and then some dickhead comes in with a gun.

That's the thing, with America. Best chicken wings, at the price of dealing with dickheads who can buy a gun at the drop of a hat. This particular dickhead is wearing a dirty white cap, has a mate with him wearing a beanie, and they're both toting at least two handguns.

And they are between Sarissa and her chicken wings. From her place at the bar, Sarissa looks sidelong across at the person next to her, so try and gauge if they are equally ready to fight, or someone she needs to shove down before she does something stupid. Her eyebrow inches up, and she taps her finger over the currently invisible nanite tattoo on her wrist - a silent question. ImPort? ImPorts have powers. ImPorts have possibility.

There's a second, and White Cap guy barks loudly. I said put your valuables out in front of you, and your hands behind your heads.

She doesn't move to do it, but watches the guy, waits for his response. )

[ There’s a Ruckus in progress, and next to Sarissa, Ser Jorah Mormont is still browsing his fingers through a debris field of crushed peanuts like a nihilist elephant. Or a bear.

Bits of husk cling to the rough of his palm when he stops to look back at her; he’s older, rough in the face, nicked with scars and weathered grey at the whiskers. But he also has some size to him, and he’s sizing Sarissa up like a load of timber he’s not being paid enough to move rather than an insane person, jaw grit down squarish on the peanut he’d stopped chomping on long enough to follow her gesture. He knows her face. Anyone who’s been on the network for more than a few months would be hard-pressed not to.

This guy ports.

This guy also just bought the leather jacket he’s wearing. The second this month.

He eats another peanut, discreetly -- maybe even a little grudgingly, for the inconvenience Sarissa represents -- before he twists to shrug his shoulders slowly out of the sleeves. Maybe it's a valuable jacket.

Obviously it is to him. ]

( There we go, Tall, Dark and Grumpy. Sarissa grins, and though she is trying so hard to be better about no brawling and being impulsive and being generally a force of chaos and disorder, there's part of her that's riled up and far too ready for a fight at any given moment, that monstrous part of her that needs to stretch its legs from time to time.

Her reticence to follow instructions has not gone unnoticed. While Bearman removing his leather jacket could be taken as compliance - valuables, and all - Sarissa's utter failure to comply has White Cap yelling hey, lady, which might be forgivable, and grabbing her wrist hard and endeavouring to wrench it back, which she considers rather less so. Her arm goes with the motion, and so does the rest of her, Sarissa twisting so she can swing her other arm around to blast a bright white light into White Cap's line of vision. Not enough for permanent damage, not to blind or burn, but enough to make seeing very difficult for a couple moments. Sure they had powers, but getting shot was still horribly easy, and she's not so sure if they have more backup outside. Seems plausible.

Violence is wrong and she hates it, but there's still part of her that finds it incredibly exhilarating in the moment. )

Come up, Peanut. These morons won't beat up themselves.

[ Jacket laid carefully down over his peanut graveyard, Jorah turns his scruffy head enough to see the nearest robber for the first time. Filthy white hat, hostile demeanor, foisting a firearm. Mormont bristles and blanks, eyes flicked back to Sarissa, immediately unsure.

It’s too late, of course. She’s already moving.

The dazzled gunman reels, gun brought up and around blindly to --

Jorah plows him through an empty table.

Wood cracks, chairs flip, a wild shot snaps through a light bulb and leaves Mormont’s ears ringing. He has one hand around the robber’s grip, knuckles curled in to crunch bone while he bears down into him. ]

You’re going to get someone shot, [ he grouses (helpfully) back at Sarissa, voice raised over the hollow whine in his skull. ]

Not if I can help it.

( Each word seems punctuated with some kind of action, impact. Not, as she grabs a bar stool, if I as she flips it round, can help is her grabbing another patron and shoving them down as the other gunman aims his firearm, and the last two words as she slams the seat into his gut.

She can move fast, but to be fair, she's also biting the words out for dramatic effect, or maybe just around the task she's focused on. It's hard to say. The move winds him, courtesy of enhanced strength, but he still hooks his arm around the back of Sarissa's skull and slams the pistol against the side of her head. She makes a sound that's more annoyed than pained.

Maybe later she can be smug. No one shot - well, yet. )

[ Jorah’s man manages a garbled, choked cry of protest through his phalanges grinding like marbles in a sack, but absolutely refuses to give up his hold. A second shot pocks a hole in the ceiling, and Mormont stops pressing him back into the table to rock his fist hard through the younger man’s mug instead. Broken teeth scatter after the ring of a spent casing across the floor.

The gun drops like a lead weight, slithering off the edge of the table, into a chair and on under the bar.

The dirty look Jorah casts aside after Sarissa’s cocksure management of thug #2 is all the time white hat needs to flick a knife open and slip it up into the bear knight’s ribs.

Jorah hits him hard enough to break his jaw, and white hat slumps off the opposite side of the table, not entirely unlike his gun. ]

( She seems the knife biting into flesh, and it makes her fight more vicious and succinct in one.

Sarissa manages to get her guy on the ground, a messy hooking of her leg behind his and flinging him down, before she twists him around and zip ties his hands behind his back. Why does she have zip ties in her pocket? Good question. Later, though. )

Hey. Sit, we need to get you an ambulance.

( Shit, fuck. She didn't think, stupid mistake. )

[ Both hands braced flat on the table, Jorah stands with his head bowed, breathing deep and slow. Dust drifts down in a glittering cloud from the hole punched fresh through the ceiling. ]

Just give me a moment, [ he manages, polite request splintered rough at the edges when her voice sinks in, one hand raised late against any temptation she might have to get physical about it.

The knife is still in him like a spigot, blood leaking off the end of the grip at a steady drip. ]

( Sarissa nods, but it's a nod that comes as she undoes her belt, pulling it through the loops of her jeans and setting it down on the table, and barking at another patron to give her theirs. )

Not gonna knock your good, manly response, ( to be clear, ) I get it. Just, uh, these'll help hold that son of a bitch steady, and let us hold any padding real tight to keep the pressure. Reckon I ain't gonna get those on you unless you want me to, but, so I'm hoping you're gonna be fine with it.

( The guy with the zip tied hands makes some unhelpful comment, and Sarissa kicks him in the leg without bothering to look down. It's not a hard kick, more like a love tap. If the love tap was meant to be uniquely unpleasant. Also without looking, she calls over to the bartender to see if he has a first aid kit handy, and the response is to start digging around for it. )

‘Manly response,’ [ Jorah echoes, raspy, and closes his eyes at the sight of her stripping off her belt as if he cannot even.

Presently, with the one hand still raised to fend off interference, he reaches to slip the knife out with the other, like a four inch splinter or a very problematic penis. It clatters to the table under him. ]

It’ll heal, [ he says, with slick fingers and eyes slitted open enough to warn against -- just against. He just wants her to stay over there, with her belt and her zip ties, while blood fans its way across the flank of a brown checkered shirt that he’s grown fond of. Good for getting in and out of shitty bars without being recognized and provoked into a scuffle.

Until now. ]

Bind this one before he wakes up.

( closed ) I should be so lucky.

FOR CHILTON.

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FOR JORAH.

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so sorry for the slow, this month has been A Thing

saaaaaame

we can do it

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