goneawayworld | (no subject)

Entry tags:

#rig logs

(no subject)

Who: Cuthbert Beckett and Beatrice Brewer
What: a case of horribly unmistaken identity
Where: corridors outside intake
When: during the nightwatch times
Warnings/Notes: probable discussion of horrible vampire ways

"Embrace not love, for love in My Embrace will grow cold, wither, and die."

- The Book of Nod, Chronicle of Shadows, words of Caine to his childer, on the subject of progeny

Beckett is standing in the hall just outside Intake, though not with any particular intent. It just happened to be where he came to rest; he's been pacing the corridors for days, hoping to find some sign of the killer stalking the Rig, and it's not like he needs to sleep. It isn't that he's particularly alarmed by the circumstances, no, not at all - but it keeps his mind occupied, and gives him an excuse to start making maps. Beckett appreciates maps. A good map can save your life, under the right circumstances

This is why he's propped his lanky body up against one side of the corridor, notebook open and braced on one arm, and why he's chewing lightly on the inside of his cheek with concentration as he traces out the area he's just walked through. It's not much, but he's already noticing how clumsy the Rig's construction is, how many gaps and loose spaces and sealed-off, forgotten rooms there seem to be. Which is both useful and interesting; the contradiction of the Rig's incredible technology and its amateur hour administration means something, something more than mere incompetence or disregard for the New Hires' safety. He's quite sure of it. There's something broken behind the eyes of every Jorgmund employee he's encountered, something he feels like he should recognize, but doesn't.

He's totally engrossed in what he's doing, and unlikely to notice anyone coming up on him

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Beatrice has just been set loose from her intake. She's sore and disheveled and has one arm wrapped tightly around her chest, doing her best to not think about the insurance policy wrapped around her spine. It rather reminds her of when she was first Embraced and dragged shivering, half-alive, to take eternal oaths she didn't yet understand.

Thinking about home isn't very good right now. That is why when Beatrice first catches a glimpse of a familiar silhouette from behind, she thinks her mind is playing wishful tricks. He's dressed all wrong, anyway - although so is she. But no matter how hard she blinks, no matter how many times she checks with her senses-

"Beckett?"

Beatrice hates how small her voice is as she calls out, hates how she has half reached out with her other hand. At least, Beatrice tells herself firmly, if this is someone else she can brush off the error easily.

Edited 2020-10-21 00:46 (UTC)

Beckett looks up at the strange voice calling his name, his focus briefly divided and then settling totally on the stranger - because she is a stranger, quite obviously a Kindred, and she's addressing him familiarly. He draws himself up, an expression of aloof curiosity locked firm on his face, and address her.

"Have we met, madam?"

His glasses are off, folded and tucked in his breast pocket.

What.
"What?"

Beatrice is staring at him quite openly. No, not just at him but up at him, square in the face and up in the eyes, someone unafraid of what eye contact with an elder may mean. All Beatrice can think is that she knows those eyes, has spent plenty of time staring at them. She knows less well the distant expression on his face. She blames this for why it takes her - far too long to realize she has just been standing there in silence for a minute.

It's reverse-Pygmalion. A living woman turned from life back to stone. The tentative hope and openness on Beatrice's face closes up, is shielded by a bleak nothing.

"...No. I am terribly sorry for the misunderstanding, sir."

"Nonsense." Beckett takes her retreat as a cue to seize initiative, and the upper hand. "You recognizes me, you called my name, you're clearly a fellow kindred - I don't recall you, however, so we must have met in passing, or you simply know of me - " or perhaps she's lying altogether, but that seems unnecessarily baroque for the circumstances, even for another kindred, " - or some third explanation I've not thought of, something to do with the nature of this - place."

He examines her, top to bottom, a thorough assessment of everything Jorgmund's left her with: nothing jumps out straightaway, except for the aura of supernatural cold, but he's met kindred with that before from several clans - by itself, it means nothing. She bears no obvious disfigurements, but he can't rule out his own or a nosferatu under masque, or an unusually discreet tzimisce. And her attitude is remarkably neutral - no ventrue arrogance or toreador self-absorption.

"May I ask your name and lineage? I am, as I suspect you know, of clan Gangrel."

"I don't-" Beatrice realizes she has drifted towards him without quite realizing it, and takes one firm step back again. The arm around herself tightens, stopping any spillover.

Beatrice examines him in turn, a careful scrutiny [ feel free to describe his aura if you wish.]. Her voice isn't quite even when she speaks again.

"You must forgive me, they have only just released me from their - warm welcome. You became victim of me being - out of sorts and I- I mistook you for-" Beatrice gives up on that line of thought and skips past it, not quite answering how they know each other. Besides, surely what she says next will put him off, Tremere do tend to have that effect.

Beatrice lifts her chin up. "Beatrice Brewer. Magus of the Chantry of the Five Boroughs."

Beckett's aura is much as she would remember it from their first meeting - if this is her Beckett, which - it's not, it can't be. His aura was gray, yes, and lifeless, yes, but there were flickers of rose and gold beneath it, pools of fierce faith and passionate meaning that have only grown richer as she's come to know him.

This Beckett's aura is not dead, exactly, but cold. Tired. No sudden, startling flashes of warmth and passion. Just - stoic gray and pale sad blue, a light dusting like withering veins under dead skin. If she keeps looking, past the point of rudeness, she might see scatters of the gold, the rose. But hidden. Buried so deep that he might not even know they're there.

His aura flares in some kind of annoyance or irritation when she introduces herself, but all he gives her physically is a polite nod.

"Well, I don't suppose the pyramid's ever heard of anything like this?" he asks, gesturing to the - everything around them.

The set of her jaw and uplifted chin do not get any less defensive. The flare of irritation, the aura being all wrong yet horrible familiar. Beatrice's tone is weary when she speaks, however, an undertone of wry knowing.

"If they had, don't you think the Pyramid would have used it? They surely can't be that different across worlds."

Beatrice doesn't quite wince as she lets that slip, and soldiers on. She also brushes a stray strand out of her face, doing her best to shove it back into her bun. She did just get released from the shocks-for-fun welcoming, after all. "Or - so I have been told. About multiple hypothetical worlds in this place. By that horrible bureaucrat just now. No, I daresay you know more than me on this, sir."

"How did you make it as far as the Fifth circle being such a terrible liar?" Beckett asks cheerfully, and closes his notebook with a satisfied snap. "But I don't doubt I do know more, at the moment - the people in charge aren't terrible clear or, frankly, bright. How about a tour? We can trade questions along the way."

He's got a scent now - Beatrice has secrets, secrets that involve him, or are related to him and his goals in some way. And that is frankly the most normal thing in two weeks.

He's a little bit delighted, and can't quite hide it.

She frowns at him, but there's no real way to say excuse me I have several subterfuge dots but your mere presence has thrown me wildly off my game.

"By being very good at what I do," Beatrice tells him instead stiffly. Oh, his face is doing a bit of the - oh dear. Beatrice can feel the guarded edges of her expression trying to soften in response to his excitement - Beckett's always at his best like this. It's almost familiar, which makes the reminder more horrible that it isn't familiar at all.

She lets her chin drop, looks away first. "Do not feel obligated on my account, Mr. Beckett. It was me who - who disturbed you from your night on error. As a matter of fact, I really should go settle in-" Beatrice's efforts to look anywhere else have landed her eyes on the map he was developing and she can't hide her instant sense of curiosity.

He sees her flush, he sees her look away, and then he sees her eyes light on his notebook right before he closes, focusing in like a cat who's spotted a mouse. She's too busy to notice, but his smile deepens.

"Then allow me to be of assistance. Besides, there's a murderer about - we're not to go off alone. You'll save me a scolding. And this place can be rather counter-intuitive."

Putting it mildly.

"Oh, a murderer about. Naturally there is, why wouldn't there be? Next there'll be a monologue."

Beatrice shifts, running a hand down her face in a rare human gesture. She forces herself to unwrap her arm from around her chest - it barely even hurts anymore, and besides, she's dead.

She peers at Beckett from under her hand - Beatrice is aiming for suspicious but lands solidly on tired. "A gamble to trust that the suddenly appearing Tremere is safe to gallivant off with." Where is your survival instinct, Beckett?? "What do you want in exchange for this? Only questions, quid pro quo?"

"Of course. Knowledge is more precious than gold, and especially around here. They treat us like mushrooms, kept in the dark and fed on bullshit."

He folds the notebook under his arm, extending his arm for her to take, the very soul of courtesy.

"I think even a Tremere can guess that co-operating with Jorgmund isn't in their best interests. You and I are in the same boat - if the lupines trapped in it can refrain from murdering us in a fit of pique, surely we can put aside any rivalries in the interests of handling the current difficulty?"

His mushroom quip gets an appreciative quirk of the lips, but it doesn't last long. The offering of the arm just rings with too much familiarity for her, of nights walking along the waterfront that she can't have back, of panic and grief threatening to well up that Beatrice has been forcing down.

She flinches like expecting - or having just received - a blow. A minute enough reaction that a mortal would likely miss it, but she doesn't look back up at him again after, not even at the mention of lupines.

"I- no thank you. I haven't any gloves. You will find it unpleasant." Her mouth twists. "Although you will find me ill company regardless tonight, but very well, Mr. Beckett. You will have your cooperation - and your questions." She knows that's what he wants, anyway. Beatrice clasps her hands in front of her, waits for him to make his move.

"...all right." The flinch takes him aback. It's subtle, barely there, but he's watching her closely. And her gaze has gone from fearless to beaten-down, almost submissive.

Beckett frowns, shoves guilt aside, and falls in beside her.

"I can imagine. They just cut you loose? What have they told you? Did they give you the rundown on how they're feeding us? We get packets from the mess hall - dreadful stuff, but it keeps you going."

Light, easy conversation, that's the trick. At least now that she's playing along.

"Only just. They told me as little as they could get away with, I'm sure." She sounds distant, and equally keeps a physical distance. Not tense exactly, but inside her head is a loop of this was a mistake this was a mistake even as she follows her tour guide. Beatrice buys herself time. "They mentioned that, yes, but failed to mention the mess hall location, although I suppose they weren't terribly concerned should I get hungry and latch upon someone in the halls."

"No doubt it's dreadful, but I have been subsisting off animal vitae the past months in any case." She offers a light shrug and glances sideways at Beckett.

It is really difficult to remember he's not him whenever she catches sight of those eyes, as striking as ever. Of course, Beatrice reminds herself, the fact that he isn't wearing glasses is more proof this isn't the right Beckett. Her mouth thins and Beatrice abruptly tells him, "If you do not object, I claim the first question to ask."

"At least you can be confident animal blood was one alive." It's a piddling complaint, and not one he's inclined to share with the mortals, but the cuisine here really leaves an awful lot to be desired. "Come, I'll show you the mess hall."

He fishes his glasses out of his pocket, wondering if they're part of her sudden change - unlikely that she hadn't noticed them from the start, but - oh, who knows. Either way, her constant glance, look away; glance, look away routine is making him feel half a heel and all a monster. So he hides behind smoked glass, like he always does.

"And of course you may. Ladies first."

She almost says something about the glasses, and then reconsiders and lets her mouth fall into a line again. There was really no winning this one, either way the familiarity hurts.

"My gallant hero," Beatrice says dryly. It could be about the questions, it could be about the mess hall. "I wouldn't be so sure, I've met some dreadful animals. Questionably alive." Rotting giant spirit werepigs... terrible. Well, she has nothing to lose by cutting straight to the heart of the matter, if only she can figure out how to say it and not sound instane.

"So. You weren't - what do you last remember? Before this exciting opportunity of Stuff. Where were you? When were you?"

His smile turns, briefly, wolfish and sharp; he'd expected this question. It's the same thing he wants to ask.

"A hotel room," he says promptly, and within the letter of the question. "In Palermo, to be precise. I was settling in for the day. The year was 2010. And you?"

"2010." There's a hint of strain in her voice. He's from 2010, and he doesn't seem to think the world had ended the year before. She's already developing a dislike of Stuff.

Beatrice's jaw clenches, then she slowly answers, "Nowhere quite as exciting as Sicily. I was on my way back to New York. In 2009. You are sure that your memories prior – that they are all contiguous? As best as you can ascertain?"

She knows how well someone can get deep in your head and leave you never knowing, after all.

Beckett doesn't quite stop the little frown at the date she gives - but she isn't lying. But if he doesn't know her, and she's from his past - she must be lying, or mistaken. Or time traveling? Which is absurd; if true brujah can truly time travel then why would one be here, claiming she was a tremere?

Fie. He snorts a little.

"There's no gap in my notes or diaries. I don't have any of that here, of course, but if there's an elder lurking around somewhere I'd like to think someone would have noticed by now."

Well, there's a possibility for their murderess that he hadn't considered. Horrifying idea.

For once, not knowing anything about Trujah gives truth to the idea that ignorance is bliss. She's frowning faintly too - this is a very unpleasant and frustrating puzzle. Although Beatrice opts to half-conceal her frown by watching carefully where they are going, mentally mapping out this new land.

"I suppose they would have taken your recorders as well," Beatrice murmurs, her brows furrowed. She continues on after dropping that casual nugget, "Would they truly have noticed? That feels optimistic. So far the brands of people here I have been informed of are murderers, corporate, and corporate murderers." Sounds like Elder Territory to her.

Beckett does a double-take which she hopefully doesn't notice at the mention of the recorders. Admittedly, it's a very poorly kept secret, but it's not general knowledge in the slightest that he's always got one on and running - or did, before he came here.

"We also have monster hunters, super-heroes, and the Easter Bunny," he informs her. "And at least one lupine, which I've mentioned. There was another kindred, a young brujah male, but - well, apparently people will occasionally vanish as mysteriously as they arrive, and this happened to him. I have to admit I don't like that at all."

She does notice the double-take, which adds another question mark to the puzzle she's putting together. It was one of the first things Cesare told her, surely it can't be that strange she mentioned it? Beatrice gives a curious side-eye.

But there are other as interesting pieces, and Beatrice taps her lips thoughtfully as she goes down them. She also thinks he is completely joking about the Easter Bunny. "That's an - eclectic collection. Yes, may as well be everything including the kitchen sink and the Easter Bunny, hm? Hunters are ever an inconvenience, although I have dealt with wolves before." Beatrice realizes how ominous that sounds, quickly course corrects. "Not like that. But are they the sort of lupines from our world, most definitely? Those prefer to be called Garou."

"I.. was traveling with a brujah neonate when I got here, but that was - I am sure that was merely a coincidence. Do you know-" God, she hopes it's a coincidence. Does she actually want to hear more about this unfortunate fellow?

"He called himself Kevin Ingstrom. Very young, not someone of particular import. So far the hunters have been a sensible and tolerant sort - we've all agreed the current situation is enough trouble to be getting on with."

He files the garou tidbit away for later, coming to a stop beside a closed double door with CAFETERIA written across it. Next to it is a little podium with a screen atop. The screen has a big yellow grinning smiley face on it. It says, as you might expect, SMILE.

It is not a request.

"This is the mess hall. You have to smile at that - thing - to get in. I will demonstrate."

Beckett says this with the grim, steely nerve of a warrior headed to battle. He stands before the dread contraption, leans slightly down to put his face fully in view, and smiles. It is the most vicious, infuriated parody of a grin Beatrice has ever seen. He has to hold it for a good ten seconds before the door hisses reluctantly open.

"And move fast once it's opened - there, it's shutting again - "

She barely even seems to register any of this, she's gone stock still since he elaborated on the brujah, flushing fight-panic pale. Her mouth isn't open, but her fangs have definitely made themselves known.

"Kevin. Kevin was here? They put one of those contraptions on his spine as well and now he's gone? You don't - and no one knows what happens to those disappearing?" There's a yawning pit of grief opening up. This isn't how she thought this would happen - death in New York, yes, but to lose one of them to some other entity altogether, one that also has stolen Beckett? For him to have winked out before she could even get there?

Beatrice turns and stares at the horrid SMILE poster. She looks, at this minute, like she has never smiled in her life, but it's not reflected in Beatrice's perfectly cordial and stiff - perfectly lifeless- voice. "I see. Thank you for informing me, Mr. Beckett."

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 1 of 3