[open] channeling angels in a new age, now.

[priorly]

Who: Prior Walter (priorly) & you??
What: Catch all logs for October!
When: October!
Where: various
Warning(s): language, likely mention of terminal illness (AIDS). Adult themes?
Notes: Please PM me if you'd like a starter, or feel free to wildcard me anytime.

Comments

Fitz || Dreams.

[priorly]

[He wakes staring straight up into a circle of lights. Bulbs like the surrounds of a dressing room mirror cast a halo too bright to see through around his head until he gropes upward, blindly reaching for the edges of the metal lamp (too hot to touch, or it should be) and pushing it aside. Even with it gone his eyes are fucked by the afterburn, the world nothing but blotches of black and white.

He's lying on... on...

Is this a hospital bed? It feels too familiar: the metal frame, dents in the mattress where it's designed to bend. Prior's hand drops, feeling for the clean crisp cotton V of the hospital gown he has on. He hasn't been sick enough for this - no, no he was doing well. Vision slowly swimming back into focus, he makes out white sheets. Green curtains. A tray beside the bed with slim little surgical implements laid out on a tray like party canapes.

And then there's the blood. His skin feels smooth, untouched, but the floor is spattered with it. Smears and smudges across to a partly open door.]

What did they cut out of me this time? Louis? I didn't sign any consent forms for this. What have they taken? Can't be a kidney, I'm not even black market valuable now. Lou? [With a clatter he pulls himself off the bed and crouches beside the nearest pool of blood. It smells like... vinegar? No.]

Wine. This is wine? [It's on his fingers now. He sniffs it, then touches his tongue to one fingertip, just to check. Wine.] Well would you look at that. I slept though a party.

[badgerlock]

[It is no surprise that he has no control over his Skill-magic; that's always been the case. What is the surprise is that as he dreams, tonight, he falls into that old habit and finds himself walking in the dream of another. That has never been his particular gift or talent, but here he is.

He knows that this must be a Skill visit because he does not recognize any of this, anything in this dream. It is an alien place, but that is not an alien voice.]

You have such a logical name, so it disappoints that you're calling for Louis.

[This is the first time that he can talk to someone in his dream. There is no Will or Carrod or Burl here to destroy him, to sneak into his head when they hear him speak.]

Prior.

[priorly]

I don't see what's logical about it. [Prior glances up, a flicker of surprise to see Fitz here, but not so much that he questions it. God knows he has enough questions already.]

Who gets wine drunk in a hospital room? [His fingers are all red at the tips, even the ones that didn't get wet.] At least it should be something easier to sneak in.

[Prior sits back, and the red pools shrink to droplets, and from droplets evaporate into nothing, not even stains on the pristine white floor.]

In my head he's always just in the next room. That's why I call him.

Rogue || Courage.

[priorly]

[So this place is really something. This brothel. The name's not inspiring confidence that it's any less of a fetish dungeon than he'd first guessed on being told about it. Shades Darker than what? And the scenes outside would put the streetwalkers he knows to shame. It's like a cross between some ancient Arabian fairytale souk and Times Square on a Saturday. It's not not quite his scene, not really. The crowded, messy entertainment district across the way is far more his line - but then that's the problem when sex becomes professional. People start taking it so seriously. Look how literal they've gone with the color scheme, for gods sakes.

But there's something in the air designed to unwind and ease, and it's working on him just a little.

He's only here to visit a doctor. But having given the right name at the door he's been told the man's busy, he'll have to wait. And, like showing up early for a table at a fancy restaurant, it turns out the only place to wait here is at the bar.

Picking his way between people here for other purposes, smiling and shaking his head at invitations issued right into his ear, he cuts a slight figure, all in black, as he picks out a barstool and looks to attract the attention of the woman serving. Might as well take a glass of courage while he's here.]

John || Pathology

[priorly]

My, you're a busy man.

[By the time security find a space in the brothel doctor's schedule to let Prior pay a visit, he's had maybe one more drink than he should. Silhouetted in the doorway he assumes a Norma Desmond pose, grand and a little dilapidated, surveying the little room as though he owns the place. He's black clad and far too thin but no small presence, letting the door swing sharply shut behind him.]

This is practical though, even I can't deny that. I mean, how many places can there be where you can get the STD and get rid of it all on the same night?

[The sentence carries him across the room to John's desk, and is punctuated by him dropping into the chair beside it. There's a hand held in the pair, palm pressed outward: before you start-]

I'm allowed to be flippant about it, I'm dying.

[enarms]

Hello to you too.

[ there's bemusement in his face, mild, by the time Prior's flumped down into the seat and bid John be silent with the raise of his hand. it hasn't been difficult to place him - between the quiet word shared earlier in the evening that someone's waiting for him, and the frankly unmissable vocal quality, he doesn't need to be Sherlock to suss that one out.

John sets down the pen that had been raised in a vain attempt to do a little personal note taking amidst what's been a surprisingly busy night, and affords his visitor his full attention. ]

I'm not exactly precious about it. You can be flippant, dying or not.

[ permission granted, alongside a certain flippancy of his own. he hasn't exactly got the full measure of the man yet, but if their conversation is anything to go by, flippancy trumps solemnity. now, at least, anyway. ]

[priorly]

Well, now it feels distinctly less of a perk.

[Don't take away the small pleasures of a sick man, John, he should at least be allowed to shock people. A finger is wagged.]

And aren't you supposed to be precious about it? It's all free haircuts and rounds of golf, the doctors I know. Expensive doctors - they're all expensive. The bedside manners of an oiled rattlesnake and very precious about it.

[There's nothing in John's manner or speech that puts Prior in mind of a doctor at all, really. He's not even toting the show-off white coat. And that, so far, goes in his favor.]

Though you're used to soldiers, aren't you? [A little gesture around himself] At least some of the ailments and the vocabulary must be familiar.

Ramsey || Toying

[priorly]

[One benefit of having a red light district in the neighbourhood: no one gives a fuck what you're into, so long as you're paying for it. The ethos extends downwards into the various crimson painted stalls and stores lining the edge of the area. Clothes that Prior would be given long looks for paying too much attention to elsewhere in the city are free to peruse here, along with all the other trappings that go into beautifying the denizens of the district. If money weren't an object, Prior could spend a fortune. As things go, he spends hours browsing instead, coming out with kohl liner in the softest midnight blue, and a lipstick that might just suit the current pallor of his skin.

Objects palmed, he turns to find where he's supposed to pay. Only to be distracted by a display stand he'd missed before, strewn with candles and beads, and a rack of glass objects of uncertain description, discretely stacked against the wall. Candlesticks? Prior reaches to pull one a little further into the light, and notices the glass is set with ridges, leading up to a flared end.]

Well.

[The thing won't slot back the way it came, so the only possibility is pulling it further out. All twelve inches of it or more. It's almost pretty, the way it catches the light.]

Well, someone's accommodating.

alksdjflskj

[veneries]

[While there was something to be said for the way one could breathe far from a city like this, there were distinct advantages that came with crowds. The whorehouses, for instance. Ramsay has a wife, but even he isn't fool enough to press his suit on her in the name of marital duty when she lived with her two brothers. Here his needs are met, and more besides.

The coin in his pocket doesn't clink, but it's there and he takes a moment to peruse what's on sale here.

He recognises Prior, of course, handling some long glass... thing.] Someone's ambitious, whatever that is.

[It doesn't occur that some people might like some privacy while browsing in this district.]

[priorly]

[Some people might like privacy, Prior's quite delighted to have someone to share his pretty, terrifying discovery with. He holds it up like a trophy.]

I believe this may be what we call a massive fucking dildo, to use the latin name. Good god, it's not even flexible.

[He trails a finger up the side, all cold unrelenting glass, and turns to see who's looking over his shoulder, pleased when he recognises the face from that brief encounter on the beach.]

Willem, right? You must have heard of these, I'm pretty sure archeologists have found records of them from before the dawn of time. But what's a nice boy like you doing in this den of iniquity?

Merlin || Traverse

[priorly]

[There's just a little part of Prior waiting for an elderly gentleman in a triangular blue dress to come ambling down the road toward him. Poor Merlin, the whole Disney legacy thing must just be a curse. And of course that's not who eventually forges into view, heading toward the little scrap of green between the houses where they'd arranged to meet. This Merlin's young - younger than Prior - and who knows if he can turn into bats and birds on a whim. No dress, either. Ah well, Prior of all people shouldn't trade in stereotypes.

In an attempt to look less funereal than has been his recent trend, Prior's picked up some clothes according to the fashion here. A soft grey shirt with little blue doves embroidered on the collar and a tailored coat in a burgundy so faded it's almost pink. He's difficult to miss, then, as he steps out onto the sidewalk and lifts a hand.]

[politrick]

[Unfortunately - or maybe not - Merlin shows up just as young and clean-shaven as he was on the network. He doesn't stick out for his clothes, plain and simple as they always have been, but maybe a little for how he's tall and gangly and somehow is the only person who nearly gets hip-checked by every other person passing him on the street. It's a wobbling, dodge-heavy experience, Merlin coming down the street...

But he's here, and that's what matters. He takes the last few yards at a slight jog, raising his own hand in greeting.]

Found the right one! I'm not late, am I?

[priorly]

[How can you be that narrow and still somehow in everybody's way? Prior watches Merlin approach with the occasional wince as someone's elbow connects with somewhere soft, and wonders if this jumbled-backward world's invented enough cotton wool to wrap him in, yet. He's laughing by the final ungainly jog, shaking his head.]

Horribly late. In fact I only stayed here so I could discredit you in the street for making a girl wait so long. Why I must look like someone with nothing better to do.

[Merlin won't know what a southern accent is, which is a shame, as the one Prior affects is so perfectly suited for these dramatics. It's dropped a moment later in favor of his own voice, as an elbow's offered out to be taken.]

And that would be all too true. You're right on time.

Byerly || Nightbird

[priorly]

[Whatever time of the night it is when Byerly abandons his piano, and any engagements that came afterwards, it is dark by the time he returns to his refugee accommodation. The streetlights here aren't much when they're lit at all, and several of the ones on this street have flickered and faded out already.

It is dark, but the figure in the street outside his house is darker still. A sharp black outline against the smudgy night: someone in a long black coat, with a black scarf pulled up half across his face.

It paces, a couple of steps one way, then the other, then steps back further into shadow and seems to huddle in on itself as if specifically attempting not to be seen. But it doesn't move more than a few meters from this one particular front door.]

[vorrutyer]

[ Byerly sees that figure a block away. He can see immediately that if this is a criminal, it's an amateur one - hesitant, nervous, afraid. Their first crime, surely. Even the second time breaking into a house, a fellow has more confidence, as By knows from personal terrified youthful experience. Or perhaps that fear is because the crime intended is a more serious one than mere burglary...?

He eases his stunner out of its shoulder holster, gently and quietly. As he approaches, he sways like someone profoundly intoxicated, shuffling and humming slightly to himself. He draws closer, closer, and then -

Yes, all right. That is Prior. Twenty paces away, he recognizes the scrap of hair peeking out and his way of holding himself. By's gait returns to normal, and with a sigh he slips the weapon back under his jacket. ]

You'll scare a fellow to death like that.

[priorly]

[It's not an entirely serene experience to be the person lurking in the dark, either. Being alone in a strange place with poor footfall and a network full of people who'll happily profess to have been unrepentant murderers back in their own world and indeed - depending on your ascribed theory - who may even have been brought to this one to continue their line of work does not leave one precisely free of nerves.

And yet Prior has been in his chosen position for some time before Byerly arrives, watching the house for any sign of occupation and reminding himself that this whole experience is nothing compared to walking home alone east of Avenue B at certain hours of the night, and he's done that in heels.

That said, there is one trait common to all regular late night wanderers and users of project-bound bus routes. Avoid the goddamn drunks. So it's with a sinking heart that he hears Byerly's humming, shuffling approach, turning his face away to be as invisible and uninteresting as possible.

Until he speaks, and Prior's head snaps round toward him with not so much a shriek of terror as a particularly affronted squeak. Oh god he's so fucking relieved.]

What about you? Sneaking up that way, I thought I was going to be assaulted for a lengthy and incoherent conversation and a slurred request to buy some neat liquor, if nothing worse.

[He huffs, feathers ruffled enough to make a show of it, but then relents and beckons Byerly closer.]

Come here. And try to keep your tinny little heart from rattling too much, you'll scare it away.

[Said as he carefully loosens the top few buttons of his coat. A faint glow escapes from under the fabric.]

before he becomes a wanted man, an (early) evening out in the entertainment district?

[ofobedience]

[This isn't what he does. Something like him, a thing that skulks and slinks around the outskirts of society, a thing created only to destroy and therefore which has very little experience with what one would consider social niceties-- it's unsurprising, perhaps, that he prefers to keep to himself. That even here, with his world destroyed and the terminal prognosis of his rapidly decaying memories now halted by Orbiter intervention, he still tends towards the same patterns of behaviour he's always known. Keeping out of the way and out of sight, like a spectre on the edges of a crowd, a pale ghost.

So why he's not only going along with this, but practically suggested it, is beyond him. Call it the result of a shared moment of isolation in the depths of the night, or something like that. The need to fill one's mind with something other than his own clattering, convoluted thoughts.

That, and he does like the theatre.

And so here he is, coming to meet Prior at his apartment before accompanying him into the entertainment district, like some kind of gentleman. Rather than the dog he is, the instrument of war, the hound of destruction.

He knows, smartly, three times. Waits for an answer.]

[Let me know if this is okay or if you'd like me to change anything!]

[priorly]

[Like some kind of gentleman.

Prior was touched by the offer itself, he's more pleased by the little rituals being observed. Not quite dinner at eight, but being picked up from his front door by someone in a suit (and the strangest sunglasses he's seen in his life, but he'll spare comment on that). It's a long time since he's played out this little routine with somebody new.

So his smile's bright already when he opens the door, a hand held up to stop Giovanni right where he is.]

I'll be ten seconds. Still powdering my nose.

[He looks a different person from the other night's video call. Still too pale, too thin, but groomed and put together properly he has a presence that sad, scared man had almost lost. Dress pants and a shirt with a pattern that shouldn't work but does, with a scarf that shouldn't go but seems to.

When he's back after an only slightly limpy dash into the next room, he's added a tailored jacket to the look.]

There, now I'm ready for my close-up. Would you like a drink here, or should we stop in someplace on the way?

sorry this is so late, I just started my PhD this month and I'm still getting used to it!

[ofobedience]

[And whilst Giovanni himself may never have played this particular game before, he knows just enough gleaned from purloined books to make a good pretense at it, has always valued good manners and elegance even in the violent tangle of a fight. And so he waits as instructed when Prior answers the door and abruptly holds up a hand, as he ducks back inside his apartment only to reemerge a moment later, jacket-clad. Behind the gleam of those strange orange lenses, his blood-coloured eyes sweep over the other man's attire, and briefly, he flashes his crooked smile.

Just another thing that may seem at odds with what he is and what he's meant for, that he appreciates someone who looks well put-together. An unusual outfit perhaps, but it does work, he'll give him that.]

Well hello to you, too.

[He offers his arm as he says this, in case Prior should want to take it.]

And let's make it somewhere along the way, shall we? Given that the point is to get out and about.

[cacoethical]

[To call anything Dirk Gently does 'investigating' would, perhaps, be extraordinarily generous. Dirk, being an extraordinarily generous person, is happy to ascribe that verb to just about any activity he likes. In fact, the very nature of his methods -- and not just his methods, but reality, in which he applies them -- precludes the possibility that he is ever not investigating. Sometimes, though, he gets whimsical. Sometimes, for instance, when he's feeling particularly restless, particularly in need of something to remind him that yes, he is in fact a real detective and rather an effective one too if he says so himself (which he would, if asked), he pulls from his vast repertoire something that almost looks like investigation if one were to squint very, very hard and in the direction of something roughly adjacent to it.

The method goes like this: first, one must accept that the universe -- any universe -- is a fundamentally chaotic place, one prone to resisting any kind of probing into its squishier, more tender bits with vigor and enthusiasm. Secondly, one must accept that everything within that universe -- any universe -- is intrinsically and inextricably connected, that any one thing affects all other things in myriad and generally absolutely inscrutable ways, and that therefore knowing the angle from which to interrogate a given problem is an irrelevant question in the first place, as following any given thread will, inevitably, lead eventually -- sooner or later, if admittedly not always with the greatest efficiency -- to the desired solution. It is in fact sometimes it's best not to know much of anything at all, therefore. Check and check.

These two axioms accepted, processed, subsumed, one may proceed to step three: to find someone who looks as though they know where they're going. Someone attuned to some siren call -- call it intuition or neurochemistry or an intense desire for a sandwich -- leading them somewhere personally meaningful and therefore of objective importance on some scale. Step four, naturally, is to follow that person and see where they're going and what happens along the way.

Step 4b, in this particular iteration of the algorithm, is to run smack into someone turning a street corner at the same time as Dirk is hurrying along the sidewalk trying to keep up with his preternaturally long-legged quarry. In a universe in which there are only accidents, it follows that there may as well also be no accidents at all. One doesn't ignore a message writ so large across the face of reality. Particularly if one has just run into someone, and must take that someone by the shoulders to ensure that neither of the involved parties falls on their hindquarters.]

I am so sorry. That does happen. Hazards of the trade; you know how it is.

[He gives a little laugh, almost a guffaw, and waves an airy hand (silly me) as though yes, everybody knows how it is... whatever 'it' actually refers to in this case. A wide smile, too, which comes to his face partly because he's simply prone to smiling, and genuinely, but also partly because this is obviously some kind of lead. Remains to be seen what sort, of course, but he really does feel as though he's getting somewhere. Closer to his goal? Maybe. Further away? Also maybe. Still somewhere, and that's rather nice.

Once he's sure they're steadied, Dirk accompanies all this with a cheery wave of greeting.]

Hello! Dirk Gently. Are you quite all right?

[priorly]

[Prior is himself walking with a purpose. That purpose being finding a bench, or some other place to sit down in a goddamn city that seems to have no municipal concern for the infirm. Really, he'd get around fine if there were just a little more public seating.

He's considering writing a strongly worded letter to whatever counts as the Mayor's office here (can you write strongly worded letters to an empress? One suspects her imperial highness may not give the smallest of shits). He's also considering how the very idea of writing a strongly worded letter makes him feel like an impossibly more pedantic person than he is. He doesn't need his ex boyfriend anymore, not if he's going to become him.

So, no letters, but some loud internal complaint, noisy enough to distract him from keeping an eye on where he's going. Although even if he had, the crash when it comes is too quick to prevent.

In the next moment a strange man's holding him up by the shoulders, and Prior's half bent over with a shooting pain in his leg, which he's not capable of facing with a stiff upper lip.]

Do I look alright to you? [Only if deathly pale and sweaty happens to be a good look in Dirk's part of the world.] My leg's about to - ah.

[And the next minute there are two men clutching each other on this particular street corner, as Prior reciprocates Dirk's shoulder grip.]

Just... hold me up. One second, and I'll be fine.

[It may be more than one second, and he won't, but the details of that are too much to spit out through gritted teeth.]

[cacoethical]

[This much Dirk can do. This much Dirk is reasonably accomplished at doing, actually: standing about feeling like a bit of a prick. His expression is appropriately sheepish, not entirely unlike a small child who's been caught doing something he oughtn't.]

Take your time. I've got plenty of it, probably.

[Nor is he particularly bothered by the prospect of being tactile with an absolute stranger, apparently.]

I really am also terribly sorry, though in my defence, I couldn't possibly have known, and generally speaking I don't. Know, that is. Much of anything, actually.

[For instance, whether or not someone is all right, or would prefer to pretend they're all right even when they're not all right, which is also something he's adept at and can respect. There's no call to be snappish. Or rather, there's every call to be snappish, but that doesn't mean one has absolutely to give in to the temptation.]

What to do, for starters. Ah... do you... I mean, shall I bring you to a doctor? I live with one, I suppose I could give him a call, or...

[Or... something. Something that is not entertain the growing bubble of panic in his gut. Dirk doesn't like hurting people. He really, really doesn't. If he comes off as a bit callous about it, it's because he doesn't ever seem to have much choice in the matter, and if he thinks about it too hard, everything starts to unravel. This is true of his situation in general, his life, his so-called 'ability' -- really just best not addressed in any detail. Better to keep moving, to keep talking, to keep smiling. Not that he's managing much of that last one at the moment.]

It's finally here, I am beyond sorry for the delay!!

[flashystyle]

[He's a good heart. We need more people here who have good hearts. Byerly had spoke highly of Prior, and Dorian had been eager to meet the young man since then. After he'd recover from the hangover, he thought first. After work, he'd thought second. But work hadn't allowed time for play, and the afternoon he'd finally started for their residence was the afternoon they were evacuated.

Then there was the whole business of sleeping for an entire three days that followed, and the ordeal made it hard to be eager for much of anything. He's nursing a bottle of grappa the day he encounters Prior, loitering about the West End in hopes of some restoration of his spirits. It would work eventually, no doubt, but it was just so agonizingly slow without stimulating conversation that he can't help but speak up to anyone without thought. All that time wasted thinking he'd needed to look presentable for such a similar stranger, and here he is.]

Are there set showtimes for- Ah, pardon. [He has to cut himself off before he can go on to inquire as something as basic as scheduling to the other man, seeing as he doesn't quite look the part he'd assumed he'd find.] I nearly took you for one of the dancers. You strike that kind figure out of the corner of one's eye, you know.

<3 you are fine never worry

[priorly]

[Prior hasn't been loitering in this particular establishment for long - although not for lack of trying. It's so difficult to get anywhere here: a city largely built into a sloping set of rocks and run across with tripwire vines was not designed for ease of navigation. His leg aches, and there are little green shoots attached from ankle to thigh by small thistly buds.

He has his ankle lifted onto the bench beside him, attempting to extract the plant debris from his clothes before it takes root.]

A dancer? [Not far off the mark, a few years ago. It's a misconception that makes Prior smile despite his vague, flora based irritation.] Was it the foliage? [He picks off another green vine sprig.]

Perhaps I should ask them for a slot. I could climb up and erotically peel myself - it would be quite an act.

[His focus travels from the bottle loose in Dorian's grip to the tight lines around his eyes. Not weariness precisely, but weary of something, and his own expression opens out.]

Sit down. [He bends his leg to make room.] You look like you might need to.

[flashystyle]

No, you simply have one of those faces. The sweet sort, where if you were to put on something as risque as an erotic peeling act... I'd find myself spending an inordinate amount of coin.

[Dorian knows the order that Prior looks upon him. It isn't the first time he's started conversation with a bottle in hand, and thus not the first time someone thought it better he sit when he's hardly inebriated. His lips purse, his weight shifting from one side to the other as he contemplates declining for a moment. But Prior does have a sweet, inviting face. He means well.

It's with a reluctant sigh that he decides to take up his offer, placing the bottle on the ground and sitting slightly turned to face him. It does allow a closer view of Prior and his little situation in the end, so it can't be all that bad.]

I assure you, I'm not going to be stumbling over myself quite yet. You, however... aren't navigating the wilds well, are you?