Weirdly... doesn't know how to really reply. He is appreciative, of course, but such gestures are so long departed from him that they might as well be alien.]
( seeing him look over the pages, properly pleased for it, makes wanda feel good about this last minute decision to find a book about spiders for him. she had been initially guarded about this tangled connection between the two, but she's quickly become fond of the familiarity it has brought for her.
to get to be herself without worrying about keeping secrets. )
I'm glad you like it.
( he'll be able to tell, the 'warm' feeling entangled in her essence, at his words. )
You are going to have to tell me which ones are your top five favorites once you've gone through it. Deal?
( it doesn't surprise wanda all too much, that he has a top one spider, but the fact that he's able to find it so quickly tells her exactly of how henry has been navigating this entire interaction, learning about the book, its contents.
[He keeps the page turned towards her, but even he knows this answer is not satisfactory enough. It even sounds a little childish, even if it's a good portion of the reason why.]
Elegant, deadly. Off-putting to most. Their very existence changes the ecosystem of where they reside... much like most spiders. But they're also shier than they seem.
[Hm. Relatable? Or at least, once upon a time, maybe.]
I used to keep many of these at home. My old home.
( since he is keeping the page turned toward her still, wanda takes a hold of the book and looks at it proper. just in time for him to describe it in his own words—specific words that seem fitting to the spider on the page. )
Shier, huh?
( yeah, she can definitely tell there's a relatability to them. she smiles softly at him, returning the book. it's his, after all. )
( a loud truck goes past them, so wanda doesn't get to reply to the (quite rhetorical) question of why would they?. this seems like a very henry thing, regardless, this connection he has with spiders.
there's also possibly the fact that if his powers had awakened as a child, 'communicating' to the spiders that he is a friend would have been rather easy.
wanda starts walking down the sidewalk, waiting for henry to follow along, as he speaks, before she asks, )
[ Following that vampire to the late-night gathering had all been calculated. It had been mere coincidence that had allowed Fern to identify his garish car (not a car at all, an ambulance), allowing her and Adrian to track him here, but the confrontation had gone nothing like what she expected.
She suspects that this place, with its too-loud, pulsing music (if it can be called that) is somehow to blame. She doesn't know how, but she'd felt strange inside the warehouse. Toned down, docile, overly calm in a way that didn't feel natural at all. More than that, everyone else had seemed the same. Altered, in some way.
So she leaves through the back door and out into the alleyway, seeking out fresh air and the ability to feel things the way she's used to. While the effects don't fade entirely, it does feel better out here.
And then she hears a loud, metallic CRUNCH, causing her to suddenly pivot toward the source of the noise, her dagger out of its sheath in a flash. ]
Who's—
[ It's dark out here, given that it's past two in the morning, but she can still make out the nearby figure. (Thanks, darkvision.) She recognizes him, even, from all the way back at the diffusion zone with the so-called pool.
Here he is, the one who claimed he was "psionic." He hadn't explained much more than that, didn't even give her his name, but now...
Is he crumpling some piece of metal? With his mind (supposedly)? She stares for a few seconds, but still finds the need to ask. ]
[There is a lingering sense in Henry that he should try to participate more in "normal" activities that "normal" people would seek out. (How he hates that word.) And there is frustration born from feeling that way at all, that he needs to slot himself into the greater tapestry of social interaction so that he might better survive this place. Might better understand it.
It isn't as though some small, nearly-dead part of himself, a corpse of the past, wants to ever fit in, or anything.
But with every attempt, he comes away disappointed and more frustrated than before. A rave is one particular example of the farcical nature of human everything that rankles him, the very apotheosis of why he avoids such gatherings in the first place. Strangers, seeking desperately some mindless escape from their everyday lives, losing themselves to music and drink. Making bad decisions in the dead hours of the night and early morning, only to wake up the next day and go back to pretending to be their normal selves. And maybe they'll come back a few nights later, and the cycle repeats. Over and over and over, amounting to nothing but wasted time and degrading bodies.
And yet there was something particularly odd about that place, too; a sort of calming, docile feeling that was difficult not to give into, but easily placed as not his own when he was stubborn enough to examine it inwardly. And all the more obvious as soon as he stepped out, his own feelings of discontent washing over him again, and Henry rather decided that he hated it.
So, fast forward a few minutes later, and he is crushing a dumpster behind the rave into a wrinkled, groaning crumple of metal for all of the reasons above and then some. But it goes to figure that he'd be interrupted, and when he hears a voice, vaguely familiar, he drops his hand and turns to face Fern.]
Oh... hello.
[His smile, polite as ever, does look a bit tired and strained.]
[ If there's one thing these two can agree on, it's that they're not fond of being made to feel emotions other than their own. Fern's become good at tamping down on her emotions despite the fact that shifters are known for feeling everything quite strongly, and that's reason enough to not like when her perception of what she's feeling is disrupted.
Especially when there's no explanation for why the rave made her feel that way. She hadn't eaten or drank anything in there, nor had she noted any sort of smoke or gas...
Briefly, she wonders if this man before her with his ability to apparently crush metal with his mind might have some idea. Although the fact that he's out here venting out his frustrations certainly tells a story, as well. The way that he tries to greet her with a smile in spite of everything is almost comical, and Fern raises an eyebrow. ]
No, I just wanted some air.
[ She glances over her shoulder, back to the door she just left through. She can still make out the thumping baseline of the music and her lip curls into a scowl before she returns her attention back to her alleyway companion. ]
Were you in there too?
[ There's little other reason for why he would be out here, but he doesn't exactly look the type, either. ]
[She doesn't seem to mind the fact that he is turning a dumpster into a wad of useless metal, though Henry suspects that he should turn his attention properly to the conversation at hand. He steps closer to her so that they needn't make their voices carry to be heard down this back alleyway.]
I did.
[He looks back at the building behind her, thudding with base and the sound of people trying to enjoy themselves. And, unsurprisingly, the flicker of his polite smile falters for a moment. He feels that their disgust is shared to some degree.]
And I hated it. I might've hated it in normal circumstances, too, but... Did you notice? There's something in there that needles in, that tweaks the mind to feel more complacent.
[ The fact that he abandons what he was doing to move closer is unexpected, but it seems that speaking to her is as good a distraction as any. She continues to move away from the exit door, wanting to separate herself from that overwhelming noise, and so she meets him in the middle. It's definitely not as bad out here as it was in there, but her ears do still feel like they're ringing.
So it wasn't just her. Fern expected as much, but it's good to have some sort of confirmation, to know that she wasn't simply imagining things. She heaves out a breath and nods, taking the somewhat childish chance to kick at a metal can and send it clattering down the uneven concrete of the alley. ]
Neither do I. [ Who would, she wants to ask, but plenty of the people inside seem to have no issue with it. ] But I would imagine someone like you would find it even more bothersome than most. [ Given that he's psionic, as he put it. She can still barely believe that, but she also knows that it might mean something different where he's from. Or at least be a little less rare. ]
Do you have any idea what could have been causing it?
[ Maybe he has some way of sensing it, given the little she knows of what he can do.
She moves to the opposite wall and leans herself against it, shutting her eyes for a moment. She's still working on pushing down her frustration over how the attempt to apprehend Laszlo turned out. Of all the places that vampire had to come, it was here. ]
[Still entirely rare, being a psionic hailing from his version of Earth. But not so rare as to be non-existent, just one of a handful, once. And now? One of less than that.
But that’s neither here nor there.
The metal can skitters down into the road, echoing as Henry gazes back towards the back exit of the building which he had come from. Right above it, a neon light buzzes, and he considers making it pop and crackle and break, but reigns that impulse in for now.]
If I had to guess? It would have to be another psychic. A powerful one. My own mind has its defenses, especially against mental manipulation like that — it’s no easy feat to override it.
[Maybe he should seek out the one in charge of the establishment, confront them about it. Learn more about them. He can keep that idea in his back pocket for now.
He turns his blue-eyed gaze towards her, assessing.]
In other words, probably not someone you’d want to confront without giving some thought to what you’d say or do first.
[Smiles, tilting his head.]
…Why were you in there? No offense, but you don’t really strike me as the “clubbing” type.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
404 are you kidding me, post-event
catto blush
It's not one of those mannequins, is it.
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if you don't want it , i will keep it.
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What is it?
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2/2
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Wait. Wheredid youy find that?
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at the mall.
there was a book store.
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[Just... because? What a wild concept, surely that cannot be right.]
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Weirdly... doesn't know how to really reply. He is appreciative, of course, but such gestures are so long departed from him that they might as well be alien.]
I see.
Thank you.
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should i drop it off in a secret location to pick it up , or do you prefer if i give it to you later ?
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see you soon , then ?
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[And indeed... he is heading there Right Now.]
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she glances at him, as he approaches her, and meets him halfway in the corner. )
Here you go.
( placing the book onto his hands, she's got a little cheeky smile on her face. )
It has a lot of pictures.
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He flips through it. Pages upon pages of glossy photos of spiders, eyes taking in every detail. Eventually, those same eyes flick back up to her.]
...Thank you.
[Words spoken sincerely, which mean a lot coming from Henry Creel.]
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to get to be herself without worrying about keeping secrets. )
I'm glad you like it.
( he'll be able to tell, the 'warm' feeling entangled in her essence, at his words. )
You are going to have to tell me which ones are your top five favorites once you've gone through it. Deal?
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Suddenly, he turns the book over, the page open on a glossy display of a black widow.]
I can show you my top one right now.
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she glances at the page. )
Black widows? ( should he tell him— ) Why?
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[He keeps the page turned towards her, but even he knows this answer is not satisfactory enough. It even sounds a little childish, even if it's a good portion of the reason why.]
Elegant, deadly. Off-putting to most. Their very existence changes the ecosystem of where they reside... much like most spiders. But they're also shier than they seem.
[Hm. Relatable? Or at least, once upon a time, maybe.]
I used to keep many of these at home. My old home.
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Shier, huh?
( yeah, she can definitely tell there's a relatability to them. she smiles softly at him, returning the book. it's his, after all. )
They never bit you?
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[He has Narrative Immunity. He takes the book back and looks down at the image again, oddly fond.]
I treated them with both kindness and respect. And I gave them homes; temporary ones, at least.
My sister hated them.
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there's also possibly the fact that if his powers had awakened as a child, 'communicating' to the spiders that he is a friend would have been rather easy.
wanda starts walking down the sidewalk, waiting for henry to follow along, as he speaks, before she asks, )
You have a sister?
( lore drop )
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I did.
[👏worrisome👏lore👏drop]
A younger sister. She died before I was taken away to the lab.
august bulletin; warehouse rave
She suspects that this place, with its too-loud, pulsing music (if it can be called that) is somehow to blame. She doesn't know how, but she'd felt strange inside the warehouse. Toned down, docile, overly calm in a way that didn't feel natural at all. More than that, everyone else had seemed the same. Altered, in some way.
So she leaves through the back door and out into the alleyway, seeking out fresh air and the ability to feel things the way she's used to. While the effects don't fade entirely, it does feel better out here.
And then she hears a loud, metallic CRUNCH, causing her to suddenly pivot toward the source of the noise, her dagger out of its sheath in a flash. ]
Who's—
[ It's dark out here, given that it's past two in the morning, but she can still make out the nearby figure. (Thanks, darkvision.) She recognizes him, even, from all the way back at the diffusion zone with the so-called pool.
Here he is, the one who claimed he was "psionic." He hadn't explained much more than that, didn't even give her his name, but now...
Is he crumpling some piece of metal? With his mind (supposedly)? She stares for a few seconds, but still finds the need to ask. ]
... What are you doing?
no subject
It isn't as though some small, nearly-dead part of himself, a corpse of the past, wants to ever fit in, or anything.
But with every attempt, he comes away disappointed and more frustrated than before. A rave is one particular example of the farcical nature of human everything that rankles him, the very apotheosis of why he avoids such gatherings in the first place. Strangers, seeking desperately some mindless escape from their everyday lives, losing themselves to music and drink. Making bad decisions in the dead hours of the night and early morning, only to wake up the next day and go back to pretending to be their normal selves. And maybe they'll come back a few nights later, and the cycle repeats. Over and over and over, amounting to nothing but wasted time and degrading bodies.
And yet there was something particularly odd about that place, too; a sort of calming, docile feeling that was difficult not to give into, but easily placed as not his own when he was stubborn enough to examine it inwardly. And all the more obvious as soon as he stepped out, his own feelings of discontent washing over him again, and Henry rather decided that he hated it.
So, fast forward a few minutes later, and he is crushing a dumpster behind the rave into a wrinkled, groaning crumple of metal for all of the reasons above and then some. But it goes to figure that he'd be interrupted, and when he hears a voice, vaguely familiar, he drops his hand and turns to face Fern.]
Oh... hello.
[His smile, polite as ever, does look a bit tired and strained.]
Sorry. You weren't going to use this, were you?
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Especially when there's no explanation for why the rave made her feel that way. She hadn't eaten or drank anything in there, nor had she noted any sort of smoke or gas...
Briefly, she wonders if this man before her with his ability to apparently crush metal with his mind might have some idea. Although the fact that he's out here venting out his frustrations certainly tells a story, as well. The way that he tries to greet her with a smile in spite of everything is almost comical, and Fern raises an eyebrow. ]
No, I just wanted some air.
[ She glances over her shoulder, back to the door she just left through. She can still make out the thumping baseline of the music and her lip curls into a scowl before she returns her attention back to her alleyway companion. ]
Were you in there too?
[ There's little other reason for why he would be out here, but he doesn't exactly look the type, either. ]
no subject
I did.
[He looks back at the building behind her, thudding with base and the sound of people trying to enjoy themselves. And, unsurprisingly, the flicker of his polite smile falters for a moment. He feels that their disgust is shared to some degree.]
And I hated it. I might've hated it in normal circumstances, too, but... Did you notice? There's something in there that needles in, that tweaks the mind to feel more complacent.
[He scoffs.]
I don't like being treated that way by anyone.
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So it wasn't just her. Fern expected as much, but it's good to have some sort of confirmation, to know that she wasn't simply imagining things. She heaves out a breath and nods, taking the somewhat childish chance to kick at a metal can and send it clattering down the uneven concrete of the alley. ]
Neither do I. [ Who would, she wants to ask, but plenty of the people inside seem to have no issue with it. ] But I would imagine someone like you would find it even more bothersome than most. [ Given that he's psionic, as he put it. She can still barely believe that, but she also knows that it might mean something different where he's from. Or at least be a little less rare. ]
Do you have any idea what could have been causing it?
[ Maybe he has some way of sensing it, given the little she knows of what he can do.
She moves to the opposite wall and leans herself against it, shutting her eyes for a moment. She's still working on pushing down her frustration over how the attempt to apprehend Laszlo turned out. Of all the places that vampire had to come, it was here. ]
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But that’s neither here nor there.
The metal can skitters down into the road, echoing as Henry gazes back towards the back exit of the building which he had come from. Right above it, a neon light buzzes, and he considers making it pop and crackle and break, but reigns that impulse in for now.]
If I had to guess? It would have to be another psychic. A powerful one. My own mind has its defenses, especially against mental manipulation like that — it’s no easy feat to override it.
[Maybe he should seek out the one in charge of the establishment, confront them about it. Learn more about them. He can keep that idea in his back pocket for now.
He turns his blue-eyed gaze towards her, assessing.]
In other words, probably not someone you’d want to confront without giving some thought to what you’d say or do first.
[Smiles, tilting his head.]
…Why were you in there? No offense, but you don’t really strike me as the “clubbing” type.