taxonomites | [holo] A Special Hell Reserved for Suicides

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[holo] A Special Hell Reserved for Suicides

Horst Cabal has never actually been to Hell before, but he can say with confidence that he knows someone who has, and this is distinctly not how it’s been represented to him in that person’s descriptions. There’s no desert here with an endlessly beating sun, no hopelessly complex admissions paperwork to be filled out, no crotchety desk clerk. He’s not even naked.

Under normal circumstances, on all counts, Horst would be pleased for his expectations to have been proven wrong. In this case, however, he has cause to be suspicious.

“Johannes!” he yells, uncertain if the party in question can even hear him. The room he’s contained in is circular, and silvery from floor to ceiling, the view broken up only by a single pedestal and an open door. His own voice has an uncomfortably metallic echo. Horst cups his hands around his mouth and shouts up at the ceiling in his native German, ignoring for the moment the rather obvious suggestion of the open door. “Johannes, you little shit! This is brassy, even for you.”

Horst blames himself. He probably should’ve just gone off without saying anything, walked into the sunlight without saying goodbye. Maybe he should’ve known. He guesses, in the end, he had expected that even Johannes would have the decency to let Horst die on his own terms. So really, Horst should’ve known better. Whatever pocket dimension this is that he’s been unceremoniously dumped into, he can only imagine one possible cause. One very possible, very infuriating cause.

“Come now. Be reasonable,” he tries again, outwardly cooling his temper. “This is silly, Johannes. Wherever you've dropped me for safekeeping, you can’t keep me here forever. I can still find a way to kill myself, you know.”

Perhaps he can’t fault Johannes too badly for this, though. Alongside his long-laid plans and his calculated risks, Johannes’s rare impulse decisions are usually some of his worst ideas. His brother panicked, that’s all. Maybe he'll reconsider whatever it is he's done.

Then again, it did take Johannes eight years to come down from his last panic.

Still no response. On to a second plan, then.

Horst takes a second survey of his surroundings. There little raised stand nearby with something suspiciously purple set out atop it, which seems to be the only particularly interesting thing in the room. More worryingly, however — and Horst can’t say why this bothers him so excessively — there’s a silver bracelet of some sort wrapped just a bit too snugly around one of his wrists, set with some sort of -- glassy screen. Horst likes a bit of sparkle now and then as much as the next person, mind, but he didn’t exactly pick this particular accessory out himself. He digs at it experimentally with a fingernail, but can only catch onto his own skin. He knows enough to recognize that this is probably not a good sign.

Endeavoring to remain as calm as possible, since getting too worked up might be unproductive, Horst walks over to the wall by the door, raises his arm, and pounds his braceleted wrist against the wall as hard as he can for about thirty seconds straight. At the end of the experiment, much to his chagrin, the bracelet and the wall are both still entirely undamaged. So much for Horst’s grand foray into the scientific method, then. Whatever it is, it's staying put.

The purple objects sitting on the nearby pedestal turn out to be a familiar — very familiar — frock coat, walking stick, and hat. They match the rest of his clothes, and he's fairly certain that he'd taken them off not moments ago for his little dawn appointment and left them folded neatly in the grass. (Just because one's attempting suicide is no excuse to get ash all over a perfectly good coat, after all.)

Horst approaches them cautiously, wary of unexpected gifts from unknown sources, but a bit of careful poking and prodding seems to confirm that they are, to all visible intents and purposes, simply his coat, his hat, and his cane. He can’t really make sense of why they’re there, but they’re there all the same. It seems a relatively minor risk to take them.

He puts the hat on his head and looks upward, though nothing in the metallic device on the ceiling sheds any more light on the situation. “Well, at least that’s something,” he says of his clothes, still talking to the empty room in German in hopes there’s someone there. “I suppose it makes an immediate improvement on my last stint of captivity.”

Tipping his hat to the empty room, possessions either in hand or tucked under one arm, Horst decides to try his luck with the hallway. He'll play his brother's game for now. Wherever Johannes has dropped him, it's clear this room doesn't have much more to offer him.

He hesitates momentarily, instinctively wondering if he’s about to step out into sunny midday by accident and bring on his own accidental demise — but then remembers that that was his exact intention only a few minutes ago. Putting off death just to give Johannes a stern talking-to is probably not that crucial, all in all. What does it matter?

Horst takes a last look at the room, then ducks out into the hall.

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Luckily (?) for Horst, at least one red-blooded mortal is up at this unreasonable hour of the night. His tablet fairly immediately spits out a male, British voice: crisp, educated, fairly deep, but clearly unused to pronouncing the syllables it's pronouncing. "Verstehen Sie Englisch?"

Two things happen at about the same time. First, Horst finds himself in a hallway that opens onto a -- gallery, of sorts, some sort of zoo-cum-museum. He's reminded, uncomfortably, of carnival freak shows in general, and one in particular; the things on display here have an air of the weird, the absurd, or else they wouldn't be preserved for whomever's posterity.

Second, an Englishman's voice accosts him from somewhere. While nothing, at this time, can precisely be said to be expected, this is certainly unexpected.

"Yes, I speak English," he says, his words markedly accented but obviously confident. "Are these your shambling revenants?"

From his perch on his beanbag chair with his legs crossed Sherlock considers the newcomer's holographic image. Altogether, what motivated him to contact Horst at all--aside from late-night boredom, anyway--wasn't the fact that he's clearly undead, although he is, or either wearing a costume or from the past (and a dandy to boot), although he also is. It's that he broke out speaking German. Non-Anglo individuals are rare enough in Taxon to be of more interest to Sherlock than vampires.

"No," he says in English with a shrug that Horst can't see. "You can have them if you'd like: and if you can get them. It's not an easy museum to rob." He speaks with obvious experience.

Edited 2013-02-09 19:19 (UTC)

Thanks all the same, but in this, Horst will have to pass. His face in hologram telegraphs his aversion to Sherlock's offer quite obviously. Whether or not the zombies are any easier to get at than the bracelet on his wrist was to remove, Horst isn't inclined to find out. He's had enough of the nefarious undead for the last year to be pointedly disinterested in associating with any new post-life servants. Wherever he is -- and he's still fairly certain Johannes is responsible -- he's no necromancer. He's never liked necromancy, really.

"Museum?" he echoes back. Are you sure that's what it is? "Whose museum is it? Do you work here?"

Horst looks around for a speaker system that might indicate where his host's voice is coming from -- but nothing resembling a speaker as he knows them can be seen. Odd.

The man's clearly very confused. If you can call him a man, anyway--inasmuch as any of the undead are, and with a better look at him in a better light, he's very clearly not alive. The effect's as uncanny for Sherlock as it is anytime he meets one of the living dead for the first time, and still a little bit interesting; he falls silent for a moment or two studying him and catalogues while he does. Early twenties, apparently, but could be any age: then again, not with that accent. No one who cares that much about sounding erudite would retain a foreign accent over an extrahuman lifespan. Thinks he's someone's prisoner: well, that's interesting. And angry with someone named Johannes, anyway, but that's not very interesting. Most everyone has a nemesis nowadays.

Confused and probably from the past, at that, from the way he relates to his tablet. Or rather, the way he doesn't. "I'm a violinist," says Sherlock unhelpfully, stretching his arms. "That is a museum. The building you're in. This is a prison. The city we're in."

Horst isn't best pleased to have it confirmed that he's in some sort of holding facility, even if that holding facility's as large as an entire city. When he gets out of Johannes's little storage facility, he's going to have to kill him more directly this time. This is beyond the pale.

Something about his host's words strikes Horst a bit odd: but that's what it is, exactly -- his host is odd. Odd and disembodied.

Confronted with the caged zombies, a carefully assembled dinosaur skeleton, and other ... artifacts(?) that he can't quite make sense of, plus himself, plus a queer, disembodied violinist, Horst is beginning to develop a working theory about the company he's currently keeping.

Is there a polite way to ask a ghost if they're a ghost? Not a problem he's really run up against before. Perhaps best to avoid it until he can come around to it more naturally.

"Well, that doesn't sound like very much fun," he says with calculated understatement. "I hope you haven't been imprisoned for brutalizing your Schumann, or something like."

"If only," says Sherlock with a smile. "That isn't a crime here, I fear." The fellow's trying to take things in stride, and that's a little admirable, in its way: poor man. Bagoas had to have been discombobulated too. The thought of Bagoas makes Sherlock feel a little guilty, thinking of hair and differing cultural standards, and that motivates him to endeavor towards being a little more helpful.

He stands up and goes over to his desk to fiddle with the chassis of the desktop he's trying to build. Belatedly, he shrugs off his housecoat; fortunately he hasn't bothered to get undressed from the day yet. While he tinkers with the computer parts he switches his tablet to holo and a ghostly, full-sized image of him flickers up next to Horst in the Sanctuary.

"That isn't me," he says conversationally. "You can think of it as a kind of magic, but it really has more to do with Nikola Tesla, if you know him. When were you born, 1860, 1870? I'm afraid things have changed a bit."

That's odder still. Horst has always prided himself on being open-minded -- in his line of work, it's been something of a necessity -- but even he has a bit of trouble wrapping his head around his ghost friend's roundabout ways. "1862," he answers, fairly certain that that particular bit of information isn't likely to lead him to his doom. Forthcomingness usually serves a person well, so long as you calculate the right moments for it -- it establishes a bit of trust based on harmless information, which can be used, sometimes, to buy good grace for times when you find that information needs to be tilted at slightly less honest angles.

His nameless, ghostly friend appears alongside him, looking quite clear but also insubstantial, and insisting he's not actually himself (even though his lips track along with his words). That's a bit less neatly fitted to Horst's theory, of course: either ghosts know they're ghosts, or they don't, but he's yet to hear of one that recognizes its own ghostly form as something other than itself. A kind of magic, his helper tells him, and mentions Nikola Tesla. That's a name Horst knows. Wasn't he some sort of madman, some half-mad scientist? He did some things in America? He was building a death ray, or so they said?

"I know of Nikola Tesla," Horst confirms for him. "An acquaintance of yours?" The uncertain connotation is clear. Did he trap you here?

A study of his new friend's clothing puts something else in spotlight that he said, that Horst is still working on sounding out. I'm afraid things have changed a bit.

Horst knows what day it was (Walpurgisnacht) this morning, what year. His ethereal friend's clothes aren't from his time, nor from any historical fashion he recognizes. Still, he knows what time it was this morning. He looks around again, considering the slick metallic technology he saw before, the current surroundings. "Are we ... outside of time?"

The idea of being mistaken for being friends with Nikola Tesla briefly puffs so much air into Sherlock's already quite buoyant ego that it threatens to pop, but he can also tell that the man doesn't entirely mean this positively. Ah, well. Every era has had its enemies of progress. He dismisses the subject of Tesla as quickly as he brought it up, but mostly because Horst's theory interests him.

That's a thought. Still, time travel and suspended timestreams are even more science-fictional than virtual reality (or vampires): extremely low on his list of possibilities. "No," he says. "We're near the beginning of the year 2013 anno Domini. Are you a vampire or a revenant? Or something else?"

Horst smiles the smile of a man who's not sure how quickly his answer to a question is going to get him marched to the gallows. This shows his over-large eye teeth in obvious reply. "Oh, dear," he says, "Is it that obvious? I really do have to do something about my complexion, vampirism does nothing for me. Maybe rouge." He sighs in a show of greater nonchalance than he feels. "I used to be such a handsome lad."

His voice softens -- perhaps this is the best time to broach a touchier subject. It seems his companion may be able to relate somewhat. "What about yourself? Did you die here in captivity, or was it before you were brought here?"

Sherlock blinks at him rather a lot: having a hypothesis confirmed hardly fazes him, but this is the first time someone's so straightforwardly picked him out for a dead man. That takes him aback. His first reflex is to wonder if the vampire has some level of telepathic or precognitive ability, like Madelyne Pryor or Jason Blood, because there really is nothing about him to deduce that from--is there?

Then his mind hits upon the obvious. Of course. He thinks he's a ghost, or he thinks they're all dead and in the afterlife. The fact that he might be concerned about Sherlock's reaction to his vampirism only occurs to Sherlock as an afterthought, and not a very significant one.

Sherlock purses his lips. "Dying is how I brought myself here," he says with uncharacteristic bluntness, even for him. And since they appear to be playing Twenty-Startlingly-Direct-Questions: "And who is Johannes, then?"

Edited 2013-02-09 21:16 (UTC)

Horst looks away from his companion's image briefly, regret and weariness warring on his face. "A necromancer of some little infamy," he answers with wry bitterness.

"I'm sorry," he says gently. "To die is a hard thing. But," he says perceptively, aware of 'I brought myself here' because it hits so close to home, "neither is living easy."

Horst wanders back into the hallway, away from some of the more unnerving exhibits and their guttural groaning noises. Interestingly, though his companion doesn't seem to be in motion, he does travel with him when Horst moves.

There must be an exit to this building somewhere.

This conversation is straying dangerously into Feelings territory. Sherlock isn't much prepared for Feelings conversations with his friends and family, inasmuch as he has either, much less complete, undead, historical strangers. But it appears that wherever and whenever this man's come from, he's got quite a lot of bitterness to vent.

That categorically isn't Sherlock's problem. His interest in the matter of Johannes, whoever he is, has paled considerably facing the prospect of having to hear about someone else's personal or romantic or necromantic drama. But--he remembers the circumstances of his own arrival, too, and it gives him a little pause on saying anything too cold.

A little, anyway.

He clears his throat. "I'm an image projected from the device on your wrist," he says brusquely. "It's where my voice is coming from as well. Think of it as an advanced, wireless telephone. I'm some distance away in my own flat at the moment. I can see you because everyone here--" he puts a delicate emphasis on everyone "--can see you. Say hello, Herr...?"

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trojanhorst - 2013-02-09 22:56 (UTC) - Expand

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infinitelystranger - 2013-02-09 23:12 (UTC) - Expand

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trojanhorst - 2013-02-09 23:38 (UTC) - Expand

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infinitelystranger - 2013-02-09 23:51 (UTC) - Expand

"Ah, Deutsch, wunderbar," a man's voice says some time later. It's a deep voice but the German is spoken like a native's, with no hint of an accent. Additionally, the bracelet starts displaying a little image, a man's face-- in contrast to the fluent German, the features are Asian, and the complexion dark.

The smile, however, is politely welcoming.

"Good evening, Herr. Have you had an opportunity to read the introductory file, yet?"

(OOC: Got your tag up, sorry for the lapse!)

Horst is in the midst of trying to decide whether 'we do have sunlight here in the daytime' is meant to imply that it is daytime outside presently, or is not -- a conundrum of semantics with unfortunately significant consequences if he misinterprets, but such is the nature of communication.

He's looking at the bracelet on his wrist with the little glass screen, which he assumes is the wristwatch Mr. Holmes was referring to that has something on it for him to read. Horst would've preferred a pocketwatch, honestly -- wristlets being a modern fad in women's fashion to his most recent knowledge, and pocketwatches being generally more attractive than this mystical glowing monstrosity -- but he supposes it has to do with the fact that the thing is, to all practical purposes, fused to his person. Either way, the little marvel of magic and mechanics with its changing sigils is certainly interesting.

(Ah, there's the clock -- and so it's night after all, then. Horst supposes if he's still on Earth at all, and not some timeless pocket dimension, that puts him somewhere in the Americas, most likely Canada or the United States. If he's not still on Earth, the reliance on 24-hour time, if it is 24-hour time, is curious. Horst begins to wish he was more a man of science.)

Something flashes, and then a portrait of a man's face appears on his wristwatch of a sudden, startling Horst anew. To his relative pleasure, however, the voice that accompanies this new face speaks in very easy, very conversational German. There's something incredibly comforting about fluency to someone who's been far from home for a long time. Horst smiles readily even though the opening salvo to the conversation already has him at a loss.

Whether in English or German, the word 'file' would have proven baffling in one way or another (though "good evening" is very helpful and very clear, bless Horst's new conversant). Another individual from the future using futuristic words, he supposes.

What a file quite is, and how he was supposed to have known there was one he needed to read, he doesn't know. He's put in mind of a recurring dream he used to have, back in his university days, going to his examinations and discovering he'd enrolled in a class without knowing it and now had to give a lecture on economic theory for which he was completely unprepared. He hopes the introductory file had nothing to do with The Wealth of Nations, and that not having read it won't result in hot irons being pressed to the soles of his feet, or something equally dire.

"Introductory file?" he repeats back with the wide, blank smile of someone who is hopelessly from the past.

Long pauses slightly, eyes flicking up and down as if looking Horst over (and of course, he is, albeit the hologram of him, displaying on Long's own tablet), and then he makes a small noise of understanding.

"My apologies, of course the word would be unfamiliar," he says with a quasi-rueful smile at his own expense. By his wardrobe, this new arrival has as little odds of familiarity worth the word as he had had a hundred years ago.

"The device upon your wrist contains, as well as pictures, written words-- documents, even. One of them is something of an explanation of this place-- not an altogether satisfactory one, but one does what one can." A slight shrug.

"My name is Mayland Long, Herr. If you would like to meet in person, I should be happy to answer questions. Or, if you prefer this method of communique, that will do as well."

The method of presentation may be completely new to him, but Horst is canny enough to recognize that a dimensional prison with its own introductory pamphlet says a lot about its expected intake volume, as well as the relative availability of management that he can appeal to about being sent home. He considers that he's probably lucky that this Herr Long (he mouths the name to himself again), as well as Holmes before him, have decided of their own volition to be helpful. There is very clearly no welcome wagon to speak of on the part of whoever sent him here.

If that's the case, he definitely shouldn't pass up any opportunity for help or information, even if (especially if) it comes from a fellow prisoner, as both of Horst's new acquaintances allegedly are. Time to make some new friends.

"If you wouldn't mind," he agrees gratefully, "I'd very much like to get out of here, Herr Long. Well. I mean, I'd also like to get out of here -- " Horst gestures vaguely to the air above him to indicate this world -- "but I'll settle for 'out of this building' for a start, if it's not too much trouble for you to travel. Is there somewhere we can meet?"

Horst doesn't bother with saying 'I'm no danger to you.' It's true, of course -- he certainly has no intention of harming his new guide -- but it's his experience that the only people who preemptively offer promises of their own benign intentions are those who lack them, and that this only puts people ill at ease. Better to act on the assumption that no one habitually considers you a threat until you make yourself one.

"It is simplest perhaps if you remain in the Sanctuary so I can most easily find you, but-- hm," Long says with a thoughtful head tilt. The thinks a moment, then nods.

"When you exit the Sanctuary building, bear left; you'll come to an intersection within a hundred yards. Left again; you'll be heading east along a broad road. There is an intersection perhaps an eighth-of-a-mile along where several streets converge at an angle. This is halfway between where I am, and where you are, if that's acceptable."

Long doesn't consider Horst a threat, and should Horst clarify that he is not, he would be merely politely bemused. For starters, he's not as habitually prone to analyzing everyone he meets as Holmes is, and thus has not realized Horst's nature; secondly, he has a certain innate inability to realize others may be threats to him.

Although, ironically, it does occur to him to give a warning of sorts to Horst, the temporally displaced: "--ah, there are many sorts of-- vehicles on the streets of Taxon. Please do not be alarmed; nothing here is very likely to hurt you, or try to."

Edited 2013-02-11 19:13 (UTC)

An eighth of a mile. This place may be quite large. It's lucky that Herr Long knows his way around.

Something about the man is very reassuring, even though he's just a voice and a tiny face on a screen, and it takes Horst a moment to place what it is, exactly: Mayland Long speaks with the voice of experience. He sounds calm and certain, like he knows exactly what he's doing and nothing worries him whatsoever.

Horst knows what that sounds like -- he's faked that tone of voice for a solid year, now, and plenty often enough in his life before. But it's been a pretense for the benefit of others, nothing more. He's always out of his depth. Whether bluster or not, Long sounds like he knows what he's doing. He sounds safe, and that's unbearably tempting just in and of itself.

Is it sincere, though?, he finds himself thinking.

God, perhaps he's been keeping the wrong kind of company for too long. What a cynic he's become.

"Thank you," he says with his own sincerity. "Much obliged."

In the normal course of things, Horst is used to moving at very high speed. It's perhaps evidence of a lack of temperance in some regards -- some sources might frown on using one's superhuman abilities at the drop of a hat -- but Horst has never been much of a conservative in any particular regard. Where's the fun in asceticism? This time, though, wisely, and slow. They stumble that run fast.

It takes him a few long seconds of confusion to figure out how to 'find' the introductory document in his wristwatch (though he's fortunate his first instinct was, at least, not to try dismantling it, which would've been a pointless waste of time, given the durability of the bracelet and the limitations of his own mechanical knowledge), but once he does, he spares a minute to read it through, not wanting to meet Herr Long without having at least boned up on the relevant materials. First impressions are everything.

He takes his time with the walk once he finds the exit, taking in the details of this 'Taxon.'

It's all a bit much for him -- the things in the document, the other universes, the speed of the vehicles they have on the streets these days, the clothes people are wearing -- but the thing that settles the heaviest in Horst's stomach as he navigates his way to where Long suggested they meet is the final sentence. While some frictions are, perhaps, unavoidable, it behooves us all to remember to attempt to be understanding and patient when resolving our differences and realising that we have a common enemy in our abductors, and that division within the city does us little good in the long run.

It should be reassuring. Horst certainly approves of patience and understanding, obviously. But instead, what he sees in the document is weary resignation, the tired sentiments of a people who are long past hope of escape. People who are making the best of circumstances that they expect will persist indefinitely. Taxon is a strong prison, and these -- glitches -- well, Horst has enough of a working knowledge of psychology to hazard a guess as to their purpose: to remind the inmates of their powerlessness, of the transience of anything they think they can control. He may not care very much for his own well-being, but if there are other people here in that situation, being kept hobbled by someone more powerful than they are, that sits very ill with Horst indeed. It's cruel.

The cold doesn't bother him, but he turns up his collar against the wind anyway, as more of a psychological comfort. A few of the people he walks past, these 'backdrop' people, look at him with middling consideration -- but if they find his vivid purple suit strange, as their own clothing would indicate that they ought, none of them pulls him aside to say anything. He smiles nonthreateningly at them anyway. It's a habit.

Horst arrives at the corner where he thinks Herr Long has indicated they'll meet, and tries to spot his familiar face. Horst doesn't do well inside his own head -- left to his own devices, his mind quickly goes down unhappy paths. It'll be good to talk to someone before he gets carried away with himself and lets his composure give way to panic.

Long is here: a man in a heavy coat, perhaps somewhat slighter and smaller than the deep voice might have suggested. He is standing outside one of the city's cafés, stamping his feet a bit to stay warm-- he does so hate the cold-- and scanning for anyone other than the city's Extras.

When he sees a man in a decidedly purple suit moving purposefully through the crowd, Long smiles slightly, and raises a hand in greeting.

"Hello," he says over the intervening feet, and offers half-a-bow rather than pull his hands from the warmth of his pockets. The other man has not volunteered his name yet, and while Long has read the man's name from the map, he makes a habit of not calling people by their names until they've volunteered that information.

"Would you care to talk inside the warmth of the café, sir?"

He studies Horst: a pale-complexioned fellow, taller than himself (but then, most men are, especially most European men); an amiable sort of face. That splendidly purple suit. Long favors monochromatics himself, but can appreciate color on others.

If Horst is studying Long in turn, right now the most singular detail might be that the other man's eyes are faintly glowing, golden in the night air.

Long doesn't offer his hand to shake, so Horst doesn't either -- but that's just as well, since his skin's only chilled further in the course of the walk, going from room temperature to outdoor temperature after not too long. Long bows instead, and though Horst doesn't share his same custom, he prides himself on being able to make do in social situations in a pinch: so he plucks the top hat off of his own head, spins it in the air and crosses it over the chest, cutting a stage bow in return.

"Horst Brauer," he introduces himself, pleased to have an idea of the rest of Mayland Long to go with his face. Horst realizes that there's a possibility that his real name is available somewhere in this world for its other inhabitants to access, whether readily or otherwise, but that doesn't mean he'll throw caution to the wind just on the possibility that his identity's already been compromised.

"I'm afraid neither the warm air nor the food is likely to make much difference to someone with my condition," he allows with an apologetic smile, since Holmes has already pegged him as a vampire, "but the cozy restaurant milieu is a comfort I've long missed. Let's do."

The smaller man's eyes have an otherworldly glow that catches Horst's interest, though without his brother's studied expertise in supernatural matters, he can't place a particular folk tale that he might attach to it. Horst thinks of his childhood Bible studies, of the fiery wheels of the Ophanim -- but he also thinks of what Johannes said once about demonic possession, of how it taints the senses, the eyes and ears and nose and tongue. He has no guess.

Whatever the case, he's braved the late hour and the cold temperature to take mercy on a complete stranger, and that makes Horst more inclined to rank him among the heavenly choir than the demonic army.

He gestures toward the door, preferring to let his more experienced companion handle the social niceties of navigating a futuristic restaurant.

Long chuckles slightly at the theatricality of the hat doffing. It appeals to his sense of aesthetics. Really, the whole thing does. Showmanship, like color, is something he appreciates more in others than is capable of pulling off himself, but all the same.

"A pleasure, Herr Brauer," he says courteously, then tilts his head, one brow arched beneath the brim of a snug and cozy hat.

"Your... condition...?"

The man is pale. This in itself is nothing to Long: you are all pale, by and large. Still, it's possible Brauer is even more melanin-deprived than usual. And-- well, yes, perhaps those are rather sharp teeth.

"--ah," he says with a not-quite-a-sigh. Another vampire. Well, Brauer is certainly courteous enough, and that goes a long way in Long's book.

Besides. He used to eat people whole. He has no particular grounds to be standing on, critiquing someone else's diet. Long offers a small, wry smile and opens the door to the café.

Inside it is warm; the scents of coffee, chai, tea, pastries. Long orders a pot of lapsang souchong for himself, and this provides an excellent opportunity to demonstrate the bracelet and credits, so...

"The bracelets show one's base, hm, bank account balance," he explains. "Deductions happen automatically upon purchases, as so...

"Forgive the bluntness of the question," he says next, while the cashier Extra processes the transaction (she's a woman with apparent cat ears) "--but do you require human blood for sustenance, then?"

Best to get that sort of logistical consideration out of the way quickly.

Edited 2013-02-12 02:31 (UTC)

Horst watches the entire transaction carefully, taking in not just the apparent technicals of the payment process, but the particulars of the ordering process and of interacting with one of the -- non-prisoners.

Unused to ignoring people who are standing right next to him (that trait ended up elsewhere in the gene pool), Horst instinctively waits until their cashier has processed the transaction and moved away again before answering. "In a manner of speaking. Starvation won't kill me, though I won't be quite so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. I only stay rosy for about a week before I start to look waxy. The issue's more that the impulse becomes increasingly difficult to overcome the longer I defer it, and eventually it becomes too urgent to allow me to focus my full attention on anything else. As far as inconveniences to others, though, I hope not to give you any cause to worry. I'd sooner kill myself than anyone else, but I don't need to; I only need a certain amount of blood at a time. I won't be any trouble."

Considering, as he did with Sherlock, that tit-for-tat is the most socially acceptable way of getting information, Horst decides to venture out on a limb a very short way. "Can I gather from your rather," he waves vaguely at his own eyes with one hand, "unusual radiance of face that you're something other than simply human yourself, Herr Long?"

Long recalls how the Extras used to be the equivalent of moving mannequins. They've certainly become more realistic since then, but Long still is fairly uncaring of what the Extras hear or overhear, but Horst can hardly be expected to share that trait.

He listens, nodding slightly, lips pursed thoughtfully. "There are animals in the forest; I am given to understand several of our vampiric inhabitants hunt them. In dire situations, some voluntary contributions have also been given."

He thinks of Mick, and sighs briefly. He'd liked Mick. A pity. The bit of nostalgia fades away before Horst's question, and he looks at Horst with all appearance of genuine perplexity.

"Unusual radiance of face?" he echoes, blinking up once at the taller man.

In the light of the café, there are other things that appear slightly off about Mayland Long: the abnormal length of his fingers, for one, especially as they're no longer hidden in his pockets; and the fact that, while any glow can no longer be seen due to the café lighting, his eyes seem currently to be a rich golden color which is rarely seen in humans save with cosmetic contact lenses in play. Which, of course, are things unknown to Horst Brauer anyway.

Horst nods thoughtfully at this information. He's not sure how he feels about the prospect of other vampiric inhabitants. Hopefully none of them will expect him to join their colony.

"Animal blood's no use to me, I fear." It keeps his strength up, but does nothing for his hunger. "But I can hold out for a very long time, if need be. Please don't trouble yourselves."

He's a bit more surprised by Long's reaction to his other statement. Horst is fairly certain he doesn't have any special abilities that let him perceive Long's eyes any differently than a normal human being, but he knows he didn't imagine the light. "There's a glow about your eyes," he explains. "It's very striking in low light. I've never seen anything like it before. I beg your pardon for being unclear earlier; I thought you must have known."

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*eats your lovely long posts with a spoon* *and whipped cream*

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eats your lovely long posts with a spoon and whipped cream