ArchivedLogs:Toccata and Fugue

Toccata and Fugue
Dramatis Personae Deltressa and Killian
In Absentia	2015-11-07 "But it's-" "Not just the flu." (Part of Flu Season TP.)
Location <NYC> Abandoned Warehouse - Brooklyn
Just one among many old buildings in an industrial section of the borough, this warehouse was undoubtedly once bustling. It's large, a spacious segment of floor with a number of high-rising shelves still lining the walls from floor up to the exposed beams of the ceiling. There's plenty of smaller nooks and rooms tucked away at the sides of the building, and though the ceiling is mostly still intact and the windows boarded up a crumbling hole near the roof and a few removed planks from a window near the back make it a common home for wayward birds, stray cats, and the occasional vagrant taking advantage of strong walls and bathroom plumbing that still largely works. The latter tend to avoid this place more often than not come nighttime, though; among street people there are rumours that this building is often populated by monsters. The sky is gray following the early morning's drizzle. Darker storm clouds loom on the horizon, heavy with more rain to come. It is perfect. A trio of pigeons coo as they pitter-pat to the very edge of the abandoned warehouse's roof, unwilling to break into full flight but wary of the shadowy form that has taken up a residence here -- in the high-up. Under a graying knit blanket and bent theatrically over itself, the shadowy hunchbacked form leans with the high-up city breeze as it urges the pigeons forward. Downwind, the blanket carries the scent of the city's great underworld. Face concealed, she watches with contentment as they coo, tussle their fine speckled feathers, and resist. Dirty but sleek silver patches almost camouflage with the cement of the ground below, made more difficult to view by the deep black large spots that create an exotic pattern on the otherwise typical stray cat that meanders from the alley way in through the incompletely covered window of the warehouse itself. Made darker by the wetness of the spattering of rain that has made the cat all the more lackluster in appearance, it vanishes for some time after the initial sight of it jumping through the window. Somewhere inside there's hissing, spitting as there's an interaction with stray cats already within. Posturing and vocalizing must have been enough, however, as there's not enough sound to give hints of any sort of escalation to an actual fight. Eventually, that silvery, poorly groomed creature comes to a pause on the edge of the roof. How exactly it got up there, well, maybe there was a hole, maybe not. The black and silver cat is scruffy, has crust stuff 'round its nares and its ears appear a little drooped. But although olive green eyes /had/ been on the pigeons- tasty meal yes?- that focus pauses at the hunchbacked form. Everything about the cat is very still, aside from one, two flicks of the blackened tip of its tail. The hunched figure does not need to see the alley-cat to know of it’s sudden arrival. From beneath the blanket, wet glimmers appear where eyes might be. Two, four, six ...eight, “I have seen enough death today, Tomcat,” comes a husky female voice, accompanied by the languid extension of an arm - an arm far too long and slender to have come from such a heap. With slender fingers, and long black nails, the hunchback’s hand opens it’s palm in a gesture of peace, “Allow me this peaceful moment.” The silver tabby's intense stillness shifts into a languid feline pace that partially circumvents the arachnid figure if only to view one side, and then the other. Examining, waiting, patient as if the rainy day holds no time clock. Scent is diminished, and the brief attempt to lift its head to sniff towards her demonstrates that it doesn't work so well. The continued stare is interrupted with a sneeze that has it shaking its head once as if to rid itself of the annoyance. White-grey ears flatten, eyes appear even less amused than before. But as he eventually comes to stop again at a flatter portion of roof, what was feline become rapidly human. Fur melting into flesh, black patches into grey shirt, and blacker jacket and jeans. The olive eyes become blue, and the man that squats with one knee beneath himself and a hand on the roof to steady him appears as unamused as the cat had been. "A peaceful moment is hard to find. Suppose I'm interrupting." Leaning back, the blanketed woman makes a sweeping gesture, "Apology accepted." There is no pretense to her tone, only a hint of relief as the cluster of birds goes untouched. Bringing her hand around, she drums her stilleto-nails against the shredded edge of her blanket before taking hold and pulling it closer to where her mouth must be, "You have the illness, too." "The cat still wants that breakfast." Killian states blandly, keeping to his crouch as if readied to sit or take off, come the need for one or the other. "But I guess its appetite has waned enough to let it go for now." 'Its' appetite likely meaning his. Fortunately his human self gives away less of the looking-terrible, though tired and pale is relevant. "You've seen a lot of this shit?" The question, both an indirect answer and an earnest inquiry comes with studying of the blanket, "That, smells like the underground. You stay in the tunnels?" With a sagely nod, the woman affirms this. "That I have, and against my best efforts, I have only seen it continue to spread," the eight glimmers blink, fixing on Killian, "That I do. My appearance is far too startling for you topsiders-" She holds her palm up flatly, "-by that, I mean no disrespect." From beneath the blanket, there comes movement and a wet clicking like that of bone on bone. Not resonating from her teeth however, it seems to be a background chatter of amusement -- an otherworldly chuckle. There's a faint superficial grin, one about as energetic as the young man appears to be, "None taken." Is in a low voice on disrespect, and while he doesn't appear overtly sickened or otherwise outwardly phased by her, his serious nature and the posture he maintains gives that argument of topsiders some credit. "Ain't disillusioned in the fact I'm fucking lucky to disappear." Dismissive, all of it, as it's all entirely unimportant to what she'd said before. "What efforts? Are they-" The hand rested on his planted leg lifts briefly to gesture- the Morlocks he assumes- "Involved? Sick?" “Sick. I can only imagine more so,” the woman admits, this time clucking her tongue against the roof of her mouth as she tilts her head to glance woefully over towards the pigeons, “Of course, I have no point of reference.” Slowly, she turns back, eight glimmers narrowing into thin, crescent moons, “But you may be able to give me one, if you’d be so kind as to indulge me.” Killian is quieted by this information, but not with surprise. The gesturing hand comes up to rub over his face, thumb and fingers roughly attempting to displace the sleep and haze from his eyes. And, in the same time frame, becomes necessary to ball into a fist to cover his mouth as he coughs and then clears his throat after. But not looking at the arachnid woman is short-lived, and those blue eyes of his flicker strangely in olives and oranges, with unstabilized pupil shape. While he does make the attempt to make eye-contact, her many compared to his two eventually forces the watch of her to be just a generalized one. "Indulge you?" The question is curious, and he gives a shake of his head before adding, "I have many points of reference." Freeing both hands, something else pinches the fraying blanket to hold it to the woman’s face. The fabric puckers at the base of her neck, opening just slightly to reveal the hint of an exposed cleavage, pocked with discoloration and the unique, sculptural ribbing of her bones. Carefully, the Arachnid woman produces a thick, leather-bound book that has seen better days. Better decades, really. Bringing her hand up under her make-shift hood, she licks the tip of her finger before flipping the tome open. /Sinfully/, her other hand flourishes beneath her blanket to reveal a run-of-the-mill blue papermate pen, "...Age? ...Height? ...Weight?" She asks, "If you don't feel /comfortable/, you can approximate. ...And about how long might you say you've been exhibiting symptoms? -Which /are/?" "Do you have any idea when you may have been exposed -- if not, that's quite alright." "Have you been experiencing any difficulties with your ...gifts?" Her pen glides elegantly across a large, hardly /fresh/ sheet as she makes observations of her own. The woman lowers her head, as if to speculate the man, "Which are, if I may ask?" "What are- were- you?" His adjustment is more encompassing than correcting a mistake, "A fucking doctor or some shit?" Killian's use of language is not angry, but smooth, natural, even if he does have an edge to his voice, "Already got enough damn people in this world running around with my vitals." The changes of his eyes are getting /worse/, at times staying the hue of the cat's, at times appearing to be something else entirely. "I know exactly where it happened. Transmitted when I was a goddamn tiger. Didn't think it'd be zoonotic." He at least picks one thing to answer, even if the rest remain to be given granted what she may give to his own. “A tiger?” Deltressa doesn’t bother to conceal her surprise, “I didn’t think it would be, either…” Her voice drifts as she silently follows a train of thought. “I am- I was a veterinarian, as it so happens. But I’m sure you can surmise what role I play, now.” "That's what I do. I change into animals. So, as you can probably imagine, I don't get sick. Bugs just don't," His face scrunches in a mild grimace, "Cross the forms. But this shit is different. Not fucking up my ability yet, but all my forms are sick too. Little difficult to fly home. But it's-" The hesitation is one of knowing something but not sharing, his eyes narrowing as he finally drops the stare from her to look away- and down at the pigeons, "Not just the flu." “If you find the cure, or learn anything more before-” The woman’s voice wanes as she watches him look away, “They call me Deltressa. I come here often, to see the sky.” Following his gaze, she watches one of the pigeons rustle its feathers, “And the birds. Days like these, birds are a sight for sore eyes.” "If you have enough.." Killian gestures towards her well-worn, ancient-appearing tome, "To have thoughts on the.. uh.. fuck.." He snaps his fingers, thinking, and is again interrupted by coughing. "Epi- ology... whatever- the cause, I hope you will share it." As she offers an introduction, the shapeshifter offers a partial nod and his own, "Killian. Haven't been out here much lately, but I guess you were who I was looking for." There's a sigh to that, made harsh by ill lungs. He turns his focus away from the pigeons, the sweat of his brow dampened, cooled by the rainy morning. The smile he gives is a faint one, not of a whole lot of optimism. "All I know is that it's going to get a hell of alot worse. "Of course. But as you can imagine, my resources are very limited," Deltressa bows her head. Obscured by her hood, the corners of her mouth curve into a similar smile, "Have faith, Killian." She stirs, rising to her feet, and continuing to rise far beyond what she ought to. The king size blanket she wears goes from a pile of heavily draped fabric to stretched flat. Flustered, the pigeons take flight. Though doing her best to keep her face shrouded, Deltressa positively towers as she looks down at the man, "People like us survive." Bowing again, she stows away her pen and retreats into the recesses of the abandoned warehouse. As she clears the entrance to the roof, she hunches forward once more.