2019-07-06 - Consequences

The sole hanging bulb in this Victorian amphitheater shines down a cone of sickly yellow light to illuminate only three items:

-A metal table, linen sheet lazily contouring around the immediately recognizable shape of a human body.

-A work-stand. A thin, waist-high steel construction on rolling wheels that contains numerous sharp -looking tools. Which is fine, only a few of them are rusted.

-Dr Lorenz Marion Bakker, bespectacled and running a few fingers through his highly bushy, remarkably grey beard. He's in his late sixties, and leaning forward with a slight stoop as he methodically checks the set of tools beside him, tucking more than a couple in to the pockets of his long white coat before he glances up to the gathered audience.

Which cannot be seen. There is but one light, after all. The only 'scenery' that can truly be made detail of would be the russet-stained stone that spreads out from beneath the table and into a seemingly infinite blackness.

But one does not need light to see the eyes of the audience. Yellow. Red. Green. Luminous. Numerous. Hovering in that empty space like lanterns floating across a lake on a moonless night. They bob and shift, occasionally seeming to swap places in a manner that would be entirely impossible were there any mass holding them in place.

But they are most certainly eyes. And they widen as the linen sheet is withdrawn to reveal the subject of today's lecture. At first, the mop of deep brown curls, pulled up from his head and clipped in place to keep clear from his temples. At last, his 6'2 frame unable to slouch.

The thick leather bands around his wrists and ankles are seeing to that.

It's not the first time Aidan's woken up restrained. And all obvious jokes aside, those have not generally been his best days. So that's the first thing that really registers, the sense of touch firing neurons before the others really get on board, and he tries to shift, to pull against them, while alarms in his head start working on trying to get everything else up to speed in a hurry. 'Now they know you're awake' is one of the first things he hears, a soft familiar mutter from somewhere he can't currently see, what with his eyes being shut, but it'd probably be rolling its eyes if it had any. It's right; he hates when that one's right. Or there at all.

The restraints aren't... right. That filters in then. The bed shouldn't be metal. Why is it metal? Things don't smell-- familiar. He opens his eyes, wincing and blinking against that light, and starts taking things in. That's a hell of a beard. That's-- doctor, okay, with... oh. His eyes widen, and start to focus better. "Wait," he says, or at least tries to, "who-- what is this?" The familiar little voice snickers; it still doesn't appear to attach to a form, but that's nothing too unusual.

He manages to focus further, catching the presence of those eyes. Then the colour, and they way they move. Oh. ...oh. Shit. On the upside, this isn't quite what his brain grabbed first. On the downside, it's probably worse.

"-And we shall of course begin to see the behavior we've come to expect."

Dr Bakker's voice slowly comes in like a radio signal with the dial turned just a touch too far to one side. Despite standing directly next to Aidan, the older gentleman's voice seems tinny. Distant. It's almost as if it manages to echo once or twice before it's even left his mouth. The accent is foreign, that's certain. Austrian, Maybe? Swiss? Whichever it turns out to be, it's certainly not an accent anyone would like to hear the words "So, I shall begin as always by accessing the limbic system." in.

Especially not when the good Doctor turns away from the gathered crowd to look down at the example for today's lecture. Unlike the audience, he most certainly does not have eyes. Mere hollows, cavernous and shadowed. Staring at them for too long, you'd begin to think you could just about catch a singular glimpse, just for a second, of a flicker of light. no more than a pinprick. "Ah!" His eyebrows can raise spectacularly, though. "Good. You're awake." He almost claps his hands together in appreciation, then thinks twice of it at the sight of an almost impractically large stainless steel tool in his right hand. It looks like a syringe designed by a meddling mechanic. It has bolts on it, for crying out loud.

"This? This is your reward, dear boy." The smile spreads too far.

And then for a moment, footsteps echo as he steps to the head of the table, out of Aidan's view to stand behind him.

Wrong. The eyes, the voice, the words, the-- not-eyes, that's the one that makes Aidan fail to fully suppress what would probably have been a small yelp but instead ends up somewhere between a muffled squeak and a cut-off whimper. The... 'tool' catches his own eye, thankfully not (yet?) literally, and when he manages to tear his attention away from that, it's right in time to catch that smile instead. More wrongness. He's not entirely sure which system the limbic one is, but he's pretty sure he's not going to enjoy having it 'accessed'. That doesn't seem like it requires psychic powers to divine. Okay. Okay, these aren't people and this probably isn't a... a real place. Think. Stall?

"Reward for what?" he asks, which he'd at least genuinely like to know. "And what exactly is the reward? I-- you're welcome, I really don't need any thanks? I can just be going." It never works, even when he has a better argument. And yet for some reason he still usually tries. He pulls against the restraints, to see whether there's any give, and attempts to focus further in the background. Anywhere to run, if he could get free? Or would he have to fight? He's already taking a steadying breath for the latter, though, another familiar little voice making the suggestion he'd expect of it: burn things. Burn him. There's a tiny twitch of a headshake, warding that one off. Think first.

Aidan asks a question, Aidan gets an answer. In weird little ways, this room is more socially polite that some of the more commonly traversed grounds of Gray Harbor.

"For letting my associates know you were here. Still. And your reward is an idea." Sure, that answer comes after a small chuckle from behind him, but that's nothing to worry about, right?

The sound comes with zero sensation. It might be possible to assume that the overwhelming feeling of cold metal table on bare skin could override a number of tactile inputs, but the sound that seems to come from the top of Aidan's head, echoing around his ears really should be one that's accompanied with feeling. It's like someone slowly crushing an ostrich egg. Soft little snaps that give way to long, drawn-out crunches.

He can't see the source of the light that appears, but the many eyes of the audience widen once more as a shockingly bright blue glow casts the shadows of his upturned feet against some wooden siding of the stands. Still no sight of his many observers, though. Just more inky, deep void of nothing. "Gathered associates!" Bakker calls, sounding positively chirpy in tone. "I shall now, as according to standards, insert an idea. We have dabbled with half-truths, misdeeds, and even outright lies before, but I have no doubt that this will be our crowning achievement!"

The shadows dance as whatever Bakker is holding is raised into the air, showing it off for the crowd. Just out of Aidan's sight. Because the doctor is apparently also a bastard. "A multitude of truth! The truth that all that has happened before shall do so again! The truth that she will feel the glass in her flesh for a split second every time she lays eyes on him! The truth that his torment can only ease when spread out among those around him!"

And then the light changes. For a second, it glows green. Red. Orange. Blue. Green. Red. Orange. Blue.

Dr Bakker doesn't really have time to contemplate this, as there's a whole new light source in the room. His beard. It did not have a very high composure stat. It did have a very high alcohol-based beard oil stat. It goes up like... well, hair. From behind Aidan, there's the sound of a scream, the sound of something akin to hard glass hitting the stone floor, and finally, the scream distorts into something not all that unlike radio static.

The audience leers, for it is all they can do. And Every. Single. Eye. Looks to Aidan's straps.

An idea. Aidan mostly likes ideas, but coming from that voice and after the chuckle, while he's strapped down... unsettling is the mildest way to describe the feeling it sends down his spine. Unease. Dread, once that sound gets added in. It's not quite familiar, and the lack of sensation lets at least a small part of Aidan cling to the idea that it might be... be what? A tool or something that he can't see. Behind him. The larger part is pretty sure the first voice is right again, though Aidan doesn't take the same glee in it: 'He's going to crack your head open like an egg, you know that, right? Think he'll find anything? Maybe he'll eat your brain on toast.' The thought of 'shut up' he fires back is strong and almost automatic from practice, but he can feel his own hysteria bleeding around the edges of it, and tries to clamp down on it, teeth clenching.

The words that filter in from Bakker help not at all, even if he may not be in a position to quite work out the details at present. Okay. Don't panic. Do something. He pulls his focus together to find the source of that light and try to shred it, pull it apart as close to component molecules as he can, but ask any proponent of a given status quo just how hard it is to destroy an idea. He can feel the resistance, feel his effort slide off of the thing.

The colours of the light cycle for maybe a heartbeat before instinct and the other voice get their way, and this time that burst of Spirit power just barely precedes the sudden bonfire that is the Doctor's beard. He winces at the scream, for all that it proves his success even better than the light and heat, and tries to block out the whispers he can't quite make out. Focus. He doesn't really see the audience, doesn't catch their own focus, so he doesn't realise how closely they likely see it when he makes that next push, this time attacking the leather that holds him down. His limbs pull against them to encourage the destruction, and the straps come apart like tissue paper. One hand moves up fast to his head, but he's already starting to sit up, to try to turn and throw his legs over the side of the bed. To get away. Wherever away might be.

"Th͟e ͝i̶deas̀ ͏ar̨e ́pl͠an͝te͏d?"

"Pl͕̱͎̻ͅa̻ͅn̘t͚̞ẹd̹̖̜."

"He used the f̡l̀͡a̴͜m̶̛͏e͘."

"Easy as breathing."

"Easy as d͑̑́y̾i͛nͩ͊ͭḡͬ͛."

Probably not the reaction Aidan expected from the audience, their sharp whispers cutting through the air like shards from a broken bottle. The eyes seem to encroach the space around him, the light from the ceiling falling in such a way that the bodies that hold them should be more than visible. There should be detail there, for crying out loud. Instead, there is only that darkness. No. Not Darkness. A willing absence of light. Dr Bakker is nowhere to be seen. He can be heard, though. His screams continue for a good ten, eleven seconds, and then there's the sound of someone crushing a paper cup.

At least, it's pretty close.

Once Aidan's legs are thrown over the side of his bed, and a hand moves up to his head where he will only find what seems to be a broken egg?, the void around him seems to start... Well. Look. There are a lot of words that could come to mind, but the one that seems to really strike home somewhere in his brain would be 'Applause.' He's being given a standing ovation. It almost sounds like someone cracking their knuckles, with whatever flesh being clapped together hard as bone. More important of a note would be a dull green glow from behind him once more. Not the idea. That seems to have scattered somewhere. No. This glow is from your every day, completely standard 'Fire Exit' sign. A beacon in the void.

"In time, you will appreciate the tragic extent of your failings, Aidan Kinney." The crowd whispers. A cackle starts somewhere, a 'Shh' somewhere else silencing it. The voice is like someone dragging a broken chalkboard over a floor of fingernails. "And they will kill you for it."

The audience wasn't foremost on Aidan's mind; he's not entirely certain what he did, or would have, expected their reaction to be. But no, not that. It's hard to think about right now, the words and the sound of their... applause? filtering in, but it's the screams that have him hunching in on himself, eyes briefly closing, a slight tremble escaping. He doesn't quite remember getting the rest of the way to his feet, but that's where he seems to be.

The urge to flee immediately is... well, not quashed. But held off for a moment, at least, as the hand comes down, and he stares at it a moment. The laughter in the crowd may be silenced, but he can still hear it echoed by those more familiar voices. No more apparent attacking, and the adrenaline starts to ebb, leaving mostly a sick sensation. He takes a breath, trying to steady both nerves and stomach, eyes darting toward the exit, then the audience again.

His weight shifts; it's set to move, to run. But not immediately. "Who are you?" he asks them, and though there's a hint of the fire that pushes the question, it's not enough to keep a shake from creeping into his voice. "Who's they? Why--?" Even he might not be totally sure what that question exactly meant to be, too many possibilities, though it does come with a glance at the egg on his hand. And then toward the exit. He finds himself already edging toward it; the voice in his head quietly but insistently voting 'leave' is identifiably his own.

The roiling mass of darkness creeps forward, the edge of it actually coming as far to knock at the table for a second, sending it rolling a few inches across the floor. Four pairs of eyes seems to swirl in a soft spiral, coming to a point in the void that could be considered 'closest' to Aidan as he asks his questions. When his words end; They blink in unison, merging together to become one. A large orange eye, almost reptilian in nature.

"We simply are." The voice is no longer nails on chalkboard. The voice is a steam train crossing a wooden bridge. The voice is a lightning strike against an old oak tree. The voice is the first crack of masonry in a tower primed to fall. "They are-"

And what follows is not a word. It's a sound. All feedback and reverb that hits like a wall. And when all is said? ...The mass recoils.
"̪̙̲̤̹͓B̰̞͟a҉҉̣̠̦̟̻̹̝̕y̗̗̭̳̘̜̝͞l͈̘͍̻̜ͅe̴̛̪̳̟͕̺͝e̹̯̘̦̲͔͈̕
E̠a̬̻͓s̱̣t̻̟̤o̳͕͈̩ṋ̻
͇͎̮̭̲̖̘A͈̳̩̟̫ͅl̟͙͎̯̬͚̦e̩͔x̗͈̫͖̗̥a͇͉̲̝̥̖n̞͖̭d̪̻̖͍e͎̙̙ͅr͙͙̖
̜͎͇̫͈͎͚G̦͉̮̬̱͔in̘̗̘̬̝̗a̝̪̹̺̺̞̲
̘̪L̠͔̞̩o̦̝̲͎ͅg̲̞̲̯ͅa͉̻͙͖̺̲ͅn͍͕
͈̺̟̘̥̗B̖̻͙̪̻i̯͓͇̠̟̝l̤l̤̫̰̖y
ͅE̼m̼̫̙̭͉̗̘i̱̲ḷ̭̞̰̼y̲̤͖
͔̼͙ͅͅL̬̭͈̹̝̖̺ex̺̘̫͍

̶͑̓̇͝B̡͛ͬ́́̀e͊͑ͯ͐͂̀n̵̶̽͊̋̃̇̀̚ṅ̢͆̊ͯ̀i̶̇̃̏̑͒̍ͪͣ̀e̶ͦ"

That not-quite-intentional edging away is the sort of movement that comes from older parts of the brain, the ones that stopped at fight or flight and have the situation boiled down to danger. And when the mass moves toward Aidan, when it seems near enough it might engulf him if it continues, the edging turns into a step back, and then another as they blink and merge. Suddenly he's still, gaze meeting the resulting eye; it's almost like a small woodland creature being mesmerized by an approaching predator.

Almost.

Something in there feels the tingle of-- something, a push, an intrusion, and rather than actually freezing, it automatically pushes back with all its might, throws up the walls. Go back to the shadows. You shall not pass! Fire in his eyes again, though not out in the world. The wall that is that sound crashes into the wall that stands to meet it, and each thread comes clear, felt more than actually heard. Each name, the feeling of each person to him. The reactions within him tangle together as well, the level of belief in the potential varying wildly from strong defiance to almost matter-of-fact, and... in one case, confusion. His brow furrows. It's a thread to cling to, out of place among the rest, which have one definite thing in common. "Billy?" He'd think he misheard 'Baylee', but he knows he heard that too, and heard it right.

He takes a step toward the exit, but it's more intentional this time, followed by another that's much the same, and through it and those that follow he's still keeping his eye on them. It. Them? Them. He wants to know. But he also very much wants to be Not Here. Not with them.

The void roils, rolls and other such alliterative words, the top of the void cresting and receding like waves. There's even a little bit of the ol' Moses action going on when Aidan replies to the un-gentle probing with the full force of his instinct.

And for a second, just a second, light hits the interior of the mass. Sliding, oozing limbs of chitinous plates catch the dull light from above, a glimpse of fingers, a glimpse of faces. All eyeless, almost featureless, jaws locked open in an eternal scream. But only for that second. The mass coalesces, slapping together like an ungodly oil pudding that would not win any British baking contests. It also happens in silence. In fact, any movement this creatures makes is silent. There's a moment there to think about about how well it would hide in a corner if it only deigned to close its eyes.

The largest of which blinks, and it may as well have never been there. With the eye closed, there's just a wall of darkness. "Strength is good." It actually takes a moment to form the words, the eye lidding open slowly as it mutters, with the sound echoing off of the stone around as Aidan carefully retreats. "Strength will be needed. We tried to tell you the truth."

The thing makes no move to follow. The thing actually sounds a little resigned as the distance between them increases.
"Remember that we wished to see you grow."
" see you grow."

"Your friends will fear it."
"Your friends fear it."

Aidan's eyes widen a bit again at the vision of that interior. There've been... things, things in dreams and Dreams and fictions, that those revealed aspects recall. But there's something about the silence of it all, the quality of the darkness that hid it before and swiftly hides it again, that feels somehow real, on a different level. That makes his stomach clench again, even when the scent of burning hair's no longer tugging at him and the screams are only in his memory.

He's seen a lot of movies in his life. Some sense in him says this is where he's defiant, where he takes a breath and squares his shoulders and tells them they're wrong, they don't understand humanity, his friends would trust him, he doesn't want to grow their way, he doesn't want their kind of strength. Where he tells them to shut up just like the other voices. Where he tells them no.

He takes a breath, squaring his shoulders. His gaze falls on the table, with the ruined, familiar-but-not-familiar straps. A low, familiar, insinuating snicker floats bodilessly somewhere just behind him.

"...maybe."

It comes out as almost a whisper. And this time he turns entirely when he heads for that exit.

There's no movement from behind him. Of course, there's no sound of movement, but there's no physical movement either. The mass just stops, a nictitating membrane sliding back and forth along the one large eye one single time as the only human remaining does his best attempt at retreat. Unhindered. But also unaided.

It's only when his hand reaches the handle of a door, the outline of it dimly visible from the green glowing sign that a voice reaches his ears from somewhere along the unseen walls to either side of him, a whole new row of eyes opening like an ocular galaxy map. Not only are those eyes numerous, they seem to stretch back forever, the entire hallway acting as an infinity mirror. The voice this time is soft. Almost soothing. There's no thunderous boom, no scratchy wail. Compared to before, this is a silken slip brushing against the back of one's neck.

"'Maybe' is enough."

Aidan stops with his hand on the handle. He doesn't otherwise move; doesn't turn around to look toward the source of the voice or turn his head to focus on all those eyes, all those eyes in his peripheral vision. The tension is stronger through his body again, a reprise of the earlier trembling just barely visible to any of those eyes that might be watching for that sort of thing.

Silence. Then some more silence, with a side of silence to follow. The pause stretches out like those rows of eyes. Whatever's going on in his mind, it does it quietly from any other point of view. Eventually he swallows, takes a breath, and nods, still not looking back.

"It's enough for me," he says, with all the determination he can cobble together, and finally turns the knob to leave.

Maybe he even believes it.

Maybe.