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Current Location: Theta's Shop

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[Location | Speares - Theta's Shop]

Paul Smecker had had his duties explained to him-- keep the shop and the apartment above it in order, clean, swept, dusted, etc. Cook meals three times a day-- but do not nag if she didn't want to eat them. The use of the in-the-building-hatch to get ingredients for the meals had been explained; he had said he'd just as soon walk to the nearest grocery store; she had shrugged and said it hardly mattered to her as long as things were on time.

And she had gone upstairs, and he had looked at his cleaning supplies, and decided what the hell, get started.

How much of this was due to a coping mechanism of just wanting to stay busy he didn't want to analyze. But the idea of having a specific task to accomplish, a specific simple task in which he could judge his progress, was appealing. For that matter, he'd always found cleaning somewhat therapeutic.

So Paul had dug out his mp3 player from his pocket, popped in the earbuds, and lost himself in some Chopin and some industrial-grade dusting. He compiled lists of things to do as he worked, not least of which was start gathering information on everyone he ran into in Taxon, try and ascertain what if anything was the common thread binding them all. See about getting a weapon. That would (might?) require money, which this job worked towards. See about finding his own place, even if this worked as a temporary measure.

Paul couldn't focus entirely on his own internal thoughts-- possibly because dusting required he move various clockworks out of the way, off the shelves, and a lot of them were distractingly... well... alive. Little toy soldiers walked along shelves in short marches; a teapot scuttled away from his feather duster in a way that suggested wariness.

It was disturbing, but then, he was rapidly reaching a numbing point for disturbance.

He dusted for an hour, the time it took to get everything clean, and felt frustrated when he looked around and found nothing else to dust. So then he went back into the supply closet, took out the bucket and rags he found there, and set to washing the inside of the shop's display windows.

Then the outside.

By the time he had moved on to sweeping the floor, Paul had already had several trains of thought complete themselves in his head. The first was how much this reminded him of his early days in New York, doing all sorts of shit grunt work to survive. The second was that surprisingly he didn't mind it-- back then it had all been someday I'll be out of this, I'll be goddamn FBI. Well, he'd tasted being goddamn FBI. It wasn't all shits and giggles, and it was damn well never as straightforward as clean this room.

Third was plans to go shopping. For some tools of the trade, not clothes. He was developing Plans on that front. They might not work, but they were plans. He made a note to discuss them with Westen. Maybe Cain.

For that matter, four was to see if there was anyone else in this city he felt on the same approximate wavelength with (Paul drew the line at saying 'anyone he could trust.'

Fifth was that it was awfully quiet in the shop, and he was getting hungry.

He put the broom away and pondered. Finally he went up the narrow stairwell to the upstairs suite and knocked on doors. "Ms. Theta? You about ready for some supper?"

There was no answer.

After some debate, Paul started opening doors. After five minutes it was very evident that Theta was nowhere in the building.

He frowned, then dismissed it. He'd had his earphones on-- she could easily have gone down the stairs and exited the shop's back door when he'd been cleaning. She didn't strike him as the sort of person who needed to inform her subordinates of her every move. No doubt she'd be back. He went out, got himself some dinner at a little Chinese place, came back, and went to sleep in the second bedroom she'd said was his.

The next day he cleaned the upstairs, the living quarters. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen-cum-small-dining area. Dusted, swept, windows washed, vacuumed. No sign of Theta. Paul debated with himself whether or not to turn over the Open-Closed sign in the window. If anyone came by, well, he didn't know fuck-all about the clockworks.

On the other hand, the register was fairly straightforward, and the clockworks all had price tags. Paul shrugged, said to hell with it, and put the sign to open again. Bosses rewarded initiative in his experience.

He spent the rest of the morning examining one of the clockworks, out of intellectual curiosity as much as anything else, and keeping an eye out for the return of his boss-- or anyone else coming through the door.

[OOC: Open to anyone who would be passing by Theta's former shop and curious; especially open to any of the characters who were talking about buying clockworks! Paul will still sell them to you even if he has a limited idea of what he's doing...]

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Paul arches a brow in turn. "Whereas clairvoyants, if they worked and weren't just con artists claiming the same, would be just as welcome for us. So, we both have things the other lacks. Food for thought."

He sits down on his cleared shelf again, then just as quickly gets up. The idea has him now, restless energy making him bounce around a bit as he walks.

"Anyway. Yes. If would get a basics database set up-- then, if something goes wrong between citizens here, at least we can maybe rule people out."

Drag on cigarette, smoke on ceiling. "I need to test my theory that I can get the hatches to make dusting equipment."

Edited 2010-12-13 12:35 (UTC)

Cain watches, silently amused by the other man's antics; he himself sits perfectly still, which in itself isn't all that difficult when you've spent the better part of the past ten years completely immobile. To think something good would come of his imprisonment. Of all the things, it had to be patience and tranquility.

Perhaps it will come in handy. He knows he could have used both in his former career as a cop and family man.

"No time like the present. Unless you'd rather not face the living dolls out there?"

"Oh, they don't bother me," Paul lied. "But I beliiiieve--"

Spinning on one Italian-leather-soled heel, Paul points with the index fingers of both hands towards a corner beneath the counter.

"--that there is one hiding like a malicious extraterrestrial vending-machine-cum-temptress right under there."

Paul sashays that direction. He is apparently feeling ever much better than he was the day they met, that horrible mind-breaking first day.

He moved to the hatch, scowling down at it as he placed his hand on the device. Ha. If they could print these-- but no, all the problems of printing an ATM; information overload.

Paul said what he wanted aloud, because he hadn't yet figured out you just had to think it, and because saying it made him feel like he had slightly more control over the process.

"Pack of Sharpies, fine point, four, black," he said with his eyes closed. "Jar of Lightning powder, black, magnetic, 2 ounces. Another jar, 2 ounces, Lightning powder, bi-chromatic. Fingerprinting brush, Zephyr, fiberglass. White and black latent printing cards, 5 each. Clear printing tape, one roll."

Paul opened his eyes after rattling all that off, looking down warily. So far his only experiments with hatches had been to make coffee, and he hadn't been much impressed.

Vlorp.

There it was, tools of his trade, and they looked... right. Maybe that was because he understood how they worked a bit better than he understood how coffee worked. Paul hurriedly scooped up his new-found wealth and spread it out on the counter, flashing Cain a grin.

It turned into a little grimace when he caught sight of the credit balance on his bracelet. Thankfully he'd only ordered small jars, but still, that stunt had knocked him down almost eighty credits.

This job had better start paying him soon, Paul thought, unaware his boss had vanished and wasn't comin' back.

Something about Paul's mannerisms brings a slight grin to Cain's face, and he shakes his head slightly in bemusement. It would seem he's in the process or habit of collecting friends from the more flamboyant end of the proverbial body of water. Not that he minds, of course. Friends are good to have, no matter what mold they're steeped in.

He watches, less bemused and more intrigued as the other man details what he wants from the hatch, and actually gets up off his stool to have a closer look once they're laid out on display. Check, check, check, not too sure about the pens (or what he assumes is a pack of them)... The names didn't ring a bell, but the actual articles look as familiar as he suspects they can, given their different origins.

He gives a low whistle, picking up one of the jars for closer inspection. "Excellent work, agent." And ever so talking-of-the-weather-like, "How about we split the expenses down the middle, what with this being a joint venture and all."

Paul smiles winningly at the 'excellent work', then snorts at Cain's next words.

"Have you figured out a way to magically transfer the currency of the realm from one shackle to another? If so, do share. No, unless we end up needing more printing powder I think we've got it handled."

Paul hrrms to himself as he looks at the materials.

"Well," he says after a few seconds. "Shall we inaugurate the database, Officer Cain?"

"Well, no I haven't," he admits in good humor. "But next time you get antsy to shop for equipment, let me pick up the bill."

Glancing at the equipment in question, he nods, and starts rolling up his sleeves. "By all means." If anything bad were to ever happen, and he was unfortunate enough to find himself in the midst of things, he'd want to be able to have himself excluded from a list of suspects. Or not, as the case may be. Because if Zero comes here, ever, he can't trust himself not to do something very, very stupid.

Call it what you want, he calls it common sense.

"Done," Paul says easily. Even if he's discovered the joys of shoplifting in Taxon, that doesn't mean he doesn't want to just spend credits recklessly.

Paul copies Cain's motion, starting to roll up his own sleeves when he realizes he's left out the ink pad. They could, of course, do their prints with the powder itself, but-- he turns and puts his hand once more on the hatch.

"...you can get the next thing after this."

VWORP, and there's a simple little ink pad. Paul grabs it, and lays out a print card for himself before opening the lid of the ink pad and starts to carefully press his fingers to the ink, then roll them precisely onto the card.

That certain brand of meticulousness is something Cain more than approves of. Once he's done, he lifts up the card and gives Smecker a nod. It's good, in so many unspoken words. Then all that's left is log whose prints they are, date, and so on and so forth. He jots everything down neatly, his hand showing the telltale signs of a guy who's learned to appreciate legibility. The pen squeaks unpleasantly against the paper - or perhaps he's just imagining it. He's been imagining a bit too much lately to his own liking.

And then it's his turn to get his hands dirty. "Been a while since I did this."

"It's like falling off a bike, you don't forget how," Paul says airily, holding a card still for Cain. He waits patiently as Cain rolls his own fingertips, his mind jumping ahead to the difficulties of doing this across the city, with all the various odd people they've run into.

Paul uncaps the Sharpie via his teeth as Cain works, ready to label the cards.

"Charming simile, that," he notes dryly. "There. Two down, how many more to go?"

Paul scrawls down Cain's info on the card as well-- his handwriting not quite as neat as Cain's, but reasonably readable. Date-- he chews briefly on the end of the Sharpie, then consults the date Cain himself had put down on Paul's cards.

Time in Taxon, who the fuck knows.

"Only the entire city," he grunts. "Well, the real people. I've met a guy named Michael Westen who might be on board with this project... he's not law enforcement exactly, I don't think, but he seems, well, rational enough. If people'll give them voluntarily, great. If not..."

Paul shrugs, capping the pen again. "Well. 'Due process' doesn't really... apply here."

Date and Time in Taxon = whatever the bracelet tells you. Cain's stopped wasting energy on caring about the little things that don't make sense, when there's so many more gigantic ones that scream off.

"I think a lot of things that apply here shouldn't, and the other way around," he says, not without a tinge of bitterness.

"Well, yes," Paul grants, and rakes his fingers through his hair.

"However. There's not much we can do about most of those. There's... a joke back where I'm from--" (Paul refuses to say 'my world' yet) "--about a man who's playing in a card game, a rigged card game, in a small frontier town.

"He loses hand after hand, and all the spectators can see the others are cheating. Finally one man can take it no longer and says to the losing player-- 'You know this ain't on the level, man.'

"To which the player wearily responds: 'Hell, I know it's rigged; but it's the only game in town'."

Paul spreads his hands, with their fingertips dark with ink. "The rules as our Alien Overlords are giving them are the only things we have to work with, Officer Cain. Don't like it anymore than you, but it doesn't appear we have a choice to not play."

He tilts his head to the side in half a shrug, looking the other man over - faint streaks of ink in his hair and all. "The thing about rules, the way I see it, is they're meant to be circumvented when necessary."

He looks around for a towel, or something else fitting for wiping your hands on; he finds a soft rag on a work bench, probably used for wiping off excess oil from the clockwork automatons. It's relatively clean, despite a slight greasy feel. It goes a long way in getting the ink off. "Within the confines of the law, of course. But seeing as we have no law here..."

He throws the rag over. "I see no reason why we shouldn't get creative any way we can."

Get used to Paul having streaks of things in his hair. At least ink is easily explained and more or less hygienic.

"Nor do I," Paul agreed, taking the rag bemusedly then realizing it was for his hands. He wiped on automatic.

"I'd just as soon not let the city at large know we're going to try and fingerprint-- if there are those who don't want their prints known, well, now they'll have a very good reason to wear gloves, won't they. So..."

Paul closes his eyes, takes a slow breath and lets it out. "Hatches. Stores. The palm print things. Difficult customers might require a tail, wiping off the hand scanners...."

He is half blithering to himself, yes.

"Because it's the ones who'd refuse we really want to print," he murmurs, draining the last mouthful of coffee with a slight grimace. There really is something strange about the food and drink here.

What doesn't feel strange is the way things are looking up; looks like he'll get to do some good again on a more basic level than Saving/Restoring the World/to its Former Glory(tm).

"Mmhm. Yes. 'Xactly," Paul nodded in agreement. He chucked the cleaning rag on top of a flower (?) that slowly opened and shut, opened and shut, its petals in imitation of nature. He was half-operating on a mental suspicion that if he behaved in a manner that would annoy his boss, she would show back up. God knew that had happened enough when he'd been a very junior agent.

He jerked out of his mental meanderings on how one might go about printing the more difficult customers, looking back over to Cain. "These powders-- is this looking similar enough to what you're used to working with that you'll have no problems?"

Most of all, this is a very welcome distraction from his most recent delving into the Realm of the Unwanted Awkward.

"Yeah. Dust, brush, pictograph or some sort of adhesive film to capture the marks. I may have spent so-and-so years in a jar, but I'm not that rusty."

Paul nodded approvingly and looked over the little cache of supplies so far and their... 'database' of two.

"I'm going to get in touch with another guy I've met here who might be on board with this-- the more discreet, competent people we have collecting, the easier and sooner we will have some workable information."

Paul paused, tapping the (recapped) Sharpie against his chin as he looked down at the cards. "Dossiers," he muttered after a minute, and pulled out a notebook from a drawer. The first few pages were full of impossible diagrams he was completely lost on other than assuming they might be for clockworks; he flipped through to a new page.

A crooked smile up at Cain: "Full name for the record?"

"You have my full name," he noted amicably enough (read: with a twist to his lips that belied the gruff tone of his voice), and opted for taking off his scarf now that the last of the cold had seeped well and truly out of him.

"Strength in numbers," he agreed. It really went without saying, but that's the thing about conversation: You can't have just one of you talking, or you'll never get anywhere.

"No middle name?" Paul asked with a brow arch, but dutifully started writing. "W-Y-A-T-T Wyatt, Cain C-A-I-N, just like on the map I trust?

"And let's have your date of birth, height, weight, eye color-- that I can tell for myself and I will trust you are a natural blond, la."

He shook his head Negative, no middle name. The rest was fairly straight forward, and delivered in such a manner. After a bit of wracking their brains for how to translate O.Z dates and measurements, they moved onto the more self explanatory bits.

"Natural blond, yes. Do I look like the kinda guy who'd mess around with chemicals unless it was part of the job?" Then, holding up one finger, he added. "You know what? Don't answer that."

He'd always been pale on the side of translucent, as long as he could remember. The kid with the big blue eyes and the beaming smile. Playing outdoors as a kid and building his home when he grew into a man helped a long way in turning his shade of pale less substantial. But all the sun ever did to his skin was counteracted by what it did to his hair.

He hadn't been out in the sun for a long time, and if he ever looked himself in the mirror in the mornings, he might be reminded of the comments of his childhood. Pale on the side of translucent. The thin, gangly kid with just two things going for him that people could see. His eyes and his smile. But he had something else, too. He had a heart.

"Now, if I weren't common folk, you might get a different answer. Features of Note: scars."

Edited 2010-12-16 07:41 (UTC)

Paul wrote down 'six feet' and all the other requisites, then just grinned at Cain's 'Do I look like.....' But Cain got in a pre-emptive don't answer that so he decided to save that retort for a rainy day.

He glanced up, nodded, wrote down 'scars' simply. "Any majors should be specified beyond that fancy brow-cutter there?"

Manic cheer aside, he bit back the perversely amusing impulse to suggest the other man strip. Paul was aware of things like 'limits', sometimes.

"Ya think that's fancy?" Arch went said brow. "Try having a mouthful of four inch incisors gnawing on your thigh."

He shook his head, more at himself than at the question. It was a good one, while they were on the topic of logging stats. "Half a dozen gun shot wounds, most recent one to my right shoulder. Had a first hand experience with frostbite a few days before I came here, can't take the cold like I used to because of it. Want my entire medico log?"

Paul is able all too easily to visualize the damage from 'four inch incisors'. He makes a face. "Pass."

He jotted down a summary of the gunshots and frostbite, pursed his lips, shook his head. "I think for our purposes something that can be used for identification purposes, but I'll leave thirty-page files back in the real world where they belong."

Scribble scribble, then Paul chewed absently on the cap of the Sharpie, considering his next word.

"....this is going to sound-- paranoid, I realize," he said slowly. "But I think security questions might not be a bad idea."

[Location | Speares - Theta's Shop]

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