Participants:
| Scene Title | Control Issues |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Remi and Zachery appear to both have them. |
| Date | June 4, 2019 |
Once outside of Raytech’s gates, the telepath digs in her bag with a vengeance. One hand pulls out a dainty-looking handkerchief, which is pushed up to her still bloody nose. The bleeding has mostly stopped, but she’s still a bit of a mess right now, and she hates looking like a mess in public. The other hand pulls out a pack of cigarettes; for a moment, it seems almost as if she’s ignoring Zachery.
No such luck, however. Once she’s confident that most of the blood is cleaned up, the kerchief is replaced in the bag, and the cigarette pack is opened. One is pulled out and placed between her lips, and as she lights it with the old-looking Zippo lighter, she offers the pack out to Zachery as well.
“There’s a park across the street. Should be peaceful enough to have a chat.” Or a fight, where there is no security to interrupt. Whichever comes first. She’s still nursing a headache, so accomplishing some sort of truce seems like an ideal potential outcome, rather than a fight, but you never know.
The appearance of 'a mess in public' does not seem to bother Zachery, who has opted to stand perfectly still just outside of the closed gates, blood trickled around the collar of his shirt and his hair. Not his blood, for once. Whatever surface thoughts make it through to Remi do so through a layer of him seething on the inside, even if on the outside all that shows is him staring hard at her face. Hands clench slowly into white-knuckled fists.
The cigarettes may as well not exist.
He barely even lets her finish her sentence before answering a little louder than necessary, "No. We talk here." His tone of voice has gone cold, his attention shifting inwardly to… elsewhere. Frontal. Nasal. Parietal. Temporal. Sphenoid. Zygomatic. Distance. Lacrimal. "Cool trick." He does not, in fact, sound like he thinks it is a cool trick. He sounds like he's ready to flay a whole human being, his eye unwaveringly on Remi's face. "How close do you need to be for that to work."
Ethmoid. Vomer. Maxilla.
She holds the pack of cigarettes out a little longer as she lights the one in her mouth, before eventually giving up and tucking the little box back into her bag. Her lungs’ response to the acrid smoke filling them indicates that she doesn’t often light those cigarettes up, they’re more of a coping mechanism. “Nope. Not here. Your loss if you don’t want to join me. I’ll have to talk to Richard without consulting you first,” she replies.
Stay in control.
Not even sparing a glance to Zachery, the telepath casts a look both ways along the street (for safety purposes, right?), before promptly crossing, making her way toward that park in question, quietly working at the foul-smelling tobacco as she walks. She’s pretty obviously not waiting around for the man, and purposely not answering his questions until they arrive at a place she deems worthy to have this chat in.
Control issues are a funny thing. Especially when two people have them at once.
"That's fine." Maxil— did that one, mandible. Supraorbital, infraorbital and mental foramen. Zachery does not move, save for the swivel of his slowly dipping head as he keeps Remi in his sight. "Have all the friendly chats you like. Good bye!"
Even as Remi leaves his own ability's reach, his internal recollection of her bones and their names continues. With ever so slightly murderous undertones to go with a roll back of his shoulders, and the nails of his fingers digging into his palm as his feet stay exactly right the fuck where they are.
Across the street, Remi pauses, finally turning to glance over her shoulder at Zachery. “Do you really want to lose your job at Raytech? Or worse?” She rolls her eyes. “You know they’re probably listening to every word you say right now — your boss takes security seriously.” The funny thing is, she’s probably right — she’s sure Lou and Bob are both watching all of this amusedly.
She waits there, standing directly across the street from him, staring at him with large blue eyes as she pulls on the cigarette. “You want to keep your job, don’t you? Richard knows who I am and what I can do.” She’s not sure if he trusts her entirely — but Zachery doesn’t know that part.
Also, Richard is already in a big business dealing with her, which is probably more of an important investment than some guy. She hopes.
"Worried for my wellbeing, are you?!" Zachery calls back in jest, hatred in his eyes, voice and head all at once. "Don't you fret your pretty-" fucking "-face, I was fine before! If this is what working here is like, I'm-" fucking "-happy to walk!"
And walking is exactly what he starts doing, stalking off on his side of the street about as quickly as he can without launching into a jog. - Acromioclavicular. Won't even need to turn in my badge, lucky me! Coracoacromial. Subdeltoid -
Ugh. Ugh. What a piece of work. Remi sneers. If you don’t come talk to me in private, you’re likely to be summarily disappeared for the things that you saw. We both have dirt on each other, so come. Fucking. Talk. To me. I really don’t want your death on my conscience if I can help it. So please don’t die, okay? Her nose starts bleeding again, the handkerchief pulled out and pressed to her face with a slight squint.
What Zachery probably doesn’t know (or notice) is the bit of telepathic suggestion she just put behind her insistence that he come speak with her. It’s a strain on her when her ability is already raw, but she can’t really risk having him just walk off like that.
There’s an extra 12 hours or so of migraine for her to deal with.
With the efforts combined, Zachery's pace… begins to slow. But only so he can stand still again, on the sidewalk. Still tense, still using much of his brainpower to keep from figuratively exploding. The need to get out, to get home, or get anywhere but here is overwhelming.
Can you control this? Can you turn it off?
She remains standing in place, across the street from the man, still puffing away at her cigarette. It hurts her lungs, but she’s mad enough to not care — not to mention, her head hurts, and it’s a Tuesday, so the ship is going to be busy with workers.
No. It never turns off. It’s always on, and it’s always as loud as what you heard when the alarms went off. I have to focus to keep the volume down. She glares at the man, only briefly pulling her eyes away to look oh-so-briefly at the ash of the cigarette. Her posture reflects the fact that she isn’t her best self right now.
Please. I was stupid and impulsive and very disrespectful to you. I would like for this to not be an issue in the future, for either of us. See? She's all remorseful and stuff. She takes one more pull on the cigarette, before tossing it to the ground and putting it out beneath her heel.
Can't control it? Then I don't give a fuck.
About the remorse? About her not wanting it to be an issue? Both? Zachery is not looking at her, he refuses, once more starting to walk briskly forward. The mental pull to talk is overridden, choked out by the staggeringly strong need to — well, possibly choke someone.
Instead, maybe more wisely, he's going home.
She stays in place, brows raised slightly. This isn’t over yet. Remi watches as he walks away, a scowl on her face. Inwardly, she muses a bit about the fact that he’s not very bright, all but announcing his intent to the telepath who is obviously in his head. Your loss.
She doesn’t push it any further.
Instead, she stays in place until he’s just about out of her range, then she starts walking after him, pulling out another cigarette and lighting it up with a rather irked expression on her face; she’s at least going to find out where this asshole lives.