aefenglom | (no subject)

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(no subject)

Name: un: PXW
Date: Feb 13
Format: Text

[Anyway.]

WANTED-- Lodging in a respectable rooming or boarding house, with a strong desire for the latter. The following accommodations must be met: No animals kept indoors; No children; No fellow tenants who might be susceptible to the vices of liquor, betting, or marriage. The room must be clean, quiet, private, and immediately available. A locking door is most preferable.

Prospective tenant is an educated man of science accustomed to long hours, with little taste for parlor games.

Make your reply here. References to be waived for the sake of expediency and convenience ONLY, and may be requested upon inspection of the premises.

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[If there is a moment to ask questions, it must be this one. What does the man do? What was he before he came to this place? Does he have any concept of what he is here yet? Why is some solitary creature like this one willing to let a stranger into his very new home?

They are questions which either don't occur to Warthrop, or ones he dismisses as unimportant. Instead, he dusts off his hands and nods approvingly.]

Quite sensible. Then it seems all is in order. I'll take the room and the basement in whatever state it's in.

[They’re such a boisterous, open, and oversharing pair, aren’t they. Because even if further questions skip through his own mind, they are never strong enough to coalesce themselves into vocalization just yet. And Sephiroth certainly isn’t offering details about himself at random.]

Then I can show you the basement, if you want. [...] But if you’d rather take some time to get yourself cleaned up first, that might be better.

To wash the blood from your clothes. [And the like.]

[He seems to suddenly recall the pair of mottled clothes as of yet tucked under his arm, as if without the reminder he might have forgotten about them and their dubious bloodstains entirely.]

Nonsense. Show me the basement.

[Only a brief pause, before he’s turning on a heel and leading the way. The interior door which leads to the basement, and a steep set of stairs connecting, is not far from the foyer, and so the walk there is a short one.]

Just this way.

[And though they walk is brief, he does deign to ask—]

You’re not injured, are you? [Not that he knows whose blood that is.]

Do I seem injured?

[It's the prickling sort of answer which is not utterly unaware of the possibility that yes, a man with a single change of clothes and a general air of destitution about him might very well be concealing some bandaged wound beneath his clothes, but is under the distinct impression that such a descriptor is utterly inapplicable to his own person.]

One of the Mirrorbound was injured when he arrived. These clothes are from that night. —Ah, this will do. [Somewhere in there he has let himself halfway down that steep series of stairs and peers now into the gloom. He reaches up and raps on the exposed ceiling beams.] Excellent. It is so much easier to make the necessary installations when the supports are easily accessible. Yes, this will do very nicely indeed.

[He is not so easily offended to fling a retort back, but there will be no warmth in any of his replies. Though maybe that’s no different than the norm.

Sephiroth crosses his arms, shadows uneven against his frame.]

Installations?

Minor adjustments, I assure you. Shelving there - more easily hung than bracketed to a foundation like this one. [For emphasis, he knocks his knuckles against the old stone wall.] And of course, a good sturdy hook. But I won't trouble you with the details of that. It isn't for the squeamish, and we've agreed already that I keep my business contained.

[And thus he is hit with the vaguely frustrating notion of not wanting to know, versus his imagination now kicked into a higher gear at the mention of a hook and something not to be minded by the squeamish.

Dry, so dry-]

I’m not going to be hearing errant screams from the basement, am I?

Ha! [It isn't a pleasant kind of humor, but that must be what it is.] Please, sir. I am a scientist, not a butcher.

That might be so.

[That might be so, but he wonders if a scientist is just more scholarly, sometimes-subtle form of a butcher, working at the genetic level.

He could just be, you know. Biased.]

But the imagery doesn’t inspire very much confidence.

I doubt the finnicky details of most professions would, Mr. Sephiroth. Not to worry; the sausage I produce is all destined for quarterlies and conferences, and you won't have to see it being made in any case.

[The light is taken, and the basement door drawn shut as if the click of the latch will act as some endpoint to the question of his business.]

This is all perfectly adequate.

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