Getting deluged with open transmissions from the rest of Taxon seems to be a part of Taxonian life, albeit not one of which Johannes is particularly fond. He's got no reason to suspect this one is more important than any other: it's from the jabbery American, the friend of Metody Green and the jabbery Englishman, and he's jabbering about something. Johannes is curled up in his armchair half-dozing with his feet tucked up in drugstore slippers when he hears Jeremy's call; for lack of anything better to do, he blinks and tunes out whatever it is the man is saying as he peers at the screen. He's been getting his sleep in short bursts and long naps, weary today from the virus and from staying up late talking to his brother.
More vandalism. How nice. None of this appears to be in blood or other vital fluids, though, and none of it is really comprehensible to him in any meaningful way, so he's nearly on the verge of hanging up the nuisance call when he catches sight of German words. He blinks and stares. The image is gone after a moment, but it doesn't take a full moment to interpret it.
His tablet hits the wall with an unsatisfying thnk when he lobs it overhand. Now he's just going to have to get up and retrieve it, he thinks, but first tugs the blanket over his head and makes an ugly face into it.
Well. Can't hide forever. (Oh, can't you, now? -- Hush.) Johannes growls an incoherent obscenity into his new favorite polar fleece comforter and then gets up to cast a spell.
Horst hasn't taken his blood in a while, anyway, not since he's been sick, so at least he's got some to spare. He spills it into a basin of water and leans over to peer into it: and pronounces, carefully, with considered American vowels, "Je-re-my Fisch-er."
A blurry, flickering third-person image churns itself into being in the still water. Perhaps that isn't Fischer's full name, or scrying just doesn't stick to his soul; either way, it's clear enough to give a decent overview of the scene--yes, there's Fischer, filming away, and a large mural, if you could call it that. Not much more helpful with the detail, though.
He sighs and picks up his tablet. "Telefonieren," he says. "Ja. Nein." Then when the call goes through: "Mr. Fischer? May I trouble you to provide us with a clearer panoramic view of the wall?"
[voice] [unlocked]
More vandalism. How nice. None of this appears to be in blood or other vital fluids, though, and none of it is really comprehensible to him in any meaningful way, so he's nearly on the verge of hanging up the nuisance call when he catches sight of German words. He blinks and stares. The image is gone after a moment, but it doesn't take a full moment to interpret it.
His tablet hits the wall with an unsatisfying thnk when he lobs it overhand. Now he's just going to have to get up and retrieve it, he thinks, but first tugs the blanket over his head and makes an ugly face into it.
Well. Can't hide forever. (Oh, can't you, now? -- Hush.) Johannes growls an incoherent obscenity into his new favorite polar fleece comforter and then gets up to cast a spell.
Horst hasn't taken his blood in a while, anyway, not since he's been sick, so at least he's got some to spare. He spills it into a basin of water and leans over to peer into it: and pronounces, carefully, with considered American vowels, "Je-re-my Fisch-er."
A blurry, flickering third-person image churns itself into being in the still water. Perhaps that isn't Fischer's full name, or scrying just doesn't stick to his soul; either way, it's clear enough to give a decent overview of the scene--yes, there's Fischer, filming away, and a large mural, if you could call it that. Not much more helpful with the detail, though.
He sighs and picks up his tablet. "Telefonieren," he says. "Ja. Nein." Then when the call goes through: "Mr. Fischer? May I trouble you to provide us with a clearer panoramic view of the wall?"