[ 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.
[ That seems like a decent theory, based on the little that they know. Once again, Fern can't understand how everyone inside the warehouse is apparently fine with having their mood altered against their will, but then again, people also imbibe things like alcohol willingly.
So, someone powerful enough to be able to push past the man's notable mental defenses. Fern doesn't like the sound of that; she sends a wary glance back in the direction of the building. ]
Is that your plan, then? To confront whoever it is once you've thought through your approach?
[ It's not as if Fern hasn't done similar in the past. To say nothing of Strahd, there was also the abbot. She knows firsthand that it's important to be fully prepared when confronting anyone with that level of power, and it would be no different here.
At his question, though, she scoffs and shakes her head. She doesn't even know what "clubbing" is, but setting that inside... ]
I tracked someone here. [ And there's no reason to keep it a secret, so she adds: ] A vampire who I suspected was up to no good.
Hm. Maybe. I hate not knowing what I'm dealing with.
[Moreover, maybe there is a part of him that hates not being the most powerful psionic in the room, because that means he relinquishes control; and Henry Creel does love his control when it comes to applying his powers to others. Not necessarily the other way around.
That last part, though... That totally derails him a bit.]
A vampire? [Now, given the nature of this world, this shouldn't surprise him. What's really curious is why Fern felt the need to track them at all.] Is there a bounty on them, or something?
Edited (you are NOT seeing me edit this ages later just bc i saw my grammar mistake helppppp) 2025-10-02 21:13 (UTC)
[ The truth is, Fern would have wanted reach out to see how Henry was doing either way, so she doesn't think much of the urge she gets to text him. It's been about a week since their harrowing encounter with the serial killer, and the word is that it's been caught and locked away. How much they can trust that, she doesn't know.
But in theory, Henry should be doing better by now. Still, best to check. ]
Henry, this is Fern. How are you doing?
[ She hates typing, so he better appreciate this... ]
[There are not many people who text him lately. Or at all, the exception being the occasional check-in from Wanda. He half expects it to be her when his phone lights up, but when he picks up the device to see who it is, he cannot help but feel—
????
—to see the name "Fern" instead.
He, too, had wondered how she was doing. He was compelled more than once to send the first message asking where she was, or to send something completely unrelated that acted as a hello. But he chose not to. Decided whatever this was would go away; clearly he is just affected by their last encounter, how she saved him, helped him. He should feel indignant. A part of him does.
But the rest... he is strangely grateful, though he is chalking that up to this strange, alien feeling that almost feels binding.
[ When a response comes in so immediately, Fern feels something — relieved? pleased? like some sort of pressure has been eased? — that normally doesn't strike her when she receives a text message. Again, because of the typing, texts tend to annoy her more than anything else. It occurs to her that she could just call him, but that also feels like too much, somehow. So texting it is for now.
Maybe it's because she thought he might just ignore her. With his frustration at himself that night, that quietly-stewing anger that she's starting to realize is maybe even the norm for him, it would have been easy for him to write her off or ignore her.
Especially given the secret he shared.
The messages keep coming in before she has a chance to reply. ]
So it's getting better. That's good. Did you hear they caught the killer?
[Once again, she is correct: a phone call might have been too direct, might have made Henry never pick up on principle (and uncertainty) alone. His pride is still a factor in this equation, even if it is being overshadowed by the strange satisfaction he's received after hearing from her.]
I did. Though I wonder if they've caught all of it.
[She'd know what he means, of course. How can one be certain that they've caught its entirety, when it was a creature that could split itself off into different beings, different consciousnesses?]
But as always, the morbid fascinates the public. I heard people are paying for interviews about encounters with it.
[ A phone call might have been too direct for both of them. For now, even if typing out each message might be a pain, it's scratching whatever itch that she had just fine.
And... an itch is what she'd been feeling, she's now realizing as the relief has set in from receiving his replies. What that's all about, she can't quite say just yet. ]
I wonder the same. This doesn't seem like a creature you can just toss in a cell and be done with it.
[ But it seems like the strange killings have slowed down. ]
I also heard about that. I'm debating giving one myself, if they're that eager for information.
[Scratching an itch. Yes, that is exactly the best way to describe it.]
No, because if they plan on keeping it in a cell and nothing more, then that's their first mistake. They should kill what they do have of it. Set it on fire until there's nothing left.
[Maybe this is not exactly a reply that surprises Fern. The Skinner had done more than just attack Henry unprovoked, but committed an even worse crime: harming his pride.]
[ It's not as if Henry is wrong. When it comes to a creature like this, one that could find a way to keep crawling back, there does need to be some sort of definitive end.
But Fern does suspect that his own frustration at his lack of contribution when it attacked them is also playing a part here. It's almost like she can feel it herself: that wounded pride of his. ]
I would not say no to the joolies either. My motorcycle is almost paid off. But if we're right and the killer is going to crop up again, sharing information on how it functions might make a difference.
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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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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?
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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. ]
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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.
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So, someone powerful enough to be able to push past the man's notable mental defenses. Fern doesn't like the sound of that; she sends a wary glance back in the direction of the building. ]
Is that your plan, then? To confront whoever it is once you've thought through your approach?
[ It's not as if Fern hasn't done similar in the past. To say nothing of Strahd, there was also the abbot. She knows firsthand that it's important to be fully prepared when confronting anyone with that level of power, and it would be no different here.
At his question, though, she scoffs and shakes her head. She doesn't even know what "clubbing" is, but setting that inside... ]
I tracked someone here. [ And there's no reason to keep it a secret, so she adds: ] A vampire who I suspected was up to no good.
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[Moreover, maybe there is a part of him that hates not being the most powerful psionic in the room, because that means he relinquishes control; and Henry Creel does love his control when it comes to applying his powers to others. Not necessarily the other way around.
That last part, though... That totally derails him a bit.]
A vampire? [Now, given the nature of this world, this shouldn't surprise him. What's really curious is why Fern felt the need to track them at all.] Is there a bounty on them, or something?
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late november; post midnight skinner event
But in theory, Henry should be doing better by now. Still, best to check. ]
Henry, this is Fern.
How are you doing?
[ She hates typing, so he better appreciate this... ]
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????
—to see the name "Fern" instead.
He, too, had wondered how she was doing. He was compelled more than once to send the first message asking where she was, or to send something completely unrelated that acted as a hello. But he chose not to. Decided whatever this was would go away; clearly he is just affected by their last encounter, how she saved him, helped him. He should feel indignant. A part of him does.
But the rest... he is strangely grateful, though he is chalking that up to this strange, alien feeling that almost feels binding.
How quickly he taps out a reply is telling.]
I'm fine.
[Pause. Send.]
My head hurts a lot less than last time.
[Longer pause. Send.]
You?
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Maybe it's because she thought he might just ignore her. With his frustration at himself that night, that quietly-stewing anger that she's starting to realize is maybe even the norm for him, it would have been easy for him to write her off or ignore her.
Especially given the secret he shared.
The messages keep coming in before she has a chance to reply. ]
So it's getting better.
That's good.
Did you hear they caught the killer?
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I did. Though I wonder if they've caught all of it.
[She'd know what he means, of course. How can one be certain that they've caught its entirety, when it was a creature that could split itself off into different beings, different consciousnesses?]
But as always, the morbid fascinates the public. I heard people are paying for interviews about encounters with it.
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And... an itch is what she'd been feeling, she's now realizing as the relief has set in from receiving his replies. What that's all about, she can't quite say just yet. ]
I wonder the same. This doesn't seem like a creature you can just toss in a cell and be done with it.
[ But it seems like the strange killings have slowed down. ]
I also heard about that. I'm debating giving one myself, if they're that eager for information.
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No, because if they plan on keeping it in a cell and nothing more, then that's their first mistake. They should kill what they do have of it. Set it on fire until there's nothing left.
[Maybe this is not exactly a reply that surprises Fern. The Skinner had done more than just attack Henry unprovoked, but committed an even worse crime: harming his pride.]
And what, for the easy money?
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But Fern does suspect that his own frustration at his lack of contribution when it attacked them is also playing a part here. It's almost like she can feel it herself: that wounded pride of his. ]
I would not say no to the joolies either. My motorcycle is almost paid off. But if we're right and the killer is going to crop up again, sharing information on how it functions might make a difference.
[ She is not a fan of senseless death, herself. ]
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You're already almost done paying off your motorcycle?
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