Day 54: Sun Room
[From here. All your top posts shall be mine.]Peter entered the Sun Room with a dour expression. Goody, he was the first one here. Fancy that. Pick of the couches was his then. Eeeny meeny miney...moe. Peter stalked over to what he knew from experience was the fluffiest couch in the room and eased himself into its downy soft embrace. Ordinarily he
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How dare they! How dare they lump Grell together with the men! He was a woman. A woman despite how he looked on the outside. It wasn't his fault God made him this way and decided to make Grell suffer the pangs and hell of being different! But no, the Institute had to go and rub it in by segregating him into the male populace simply because his body was the way it was. Well, Grell would show them one day. Once he got his scythe back, the blood would be running down the walls thicker than paint. The death god's fingers twitched at the very thought of it as he entered the Sun Room, the only neutral area he was allowed today.
Even if more of the drippy nosed, snot-faced people were here, at least the Sun Room had a mix of people so he didn't feel quite so singled out. That and misery loved company, and all the people in the Sun Room seemed thoroughly miserable. It was understandable, of course, considering what had just happened. "Tear gas," Harvey had said. Humans were so inventive.
Moving through the crowd, Grell noted a young woman who, despite not being red-eyed and poisoned, was still wearing a dour expression on her face. She was a blond, a pretty one at that, but her hair was a mess and it looked like she hadn't eaten a proper meal in some time. Poor thing, Grell thought as he stopped by her seat. This was twice he'd come upon someone who was upset over something or another. The first time had yielded fun results, so why not try again? "You're far too pretty to be scowling so much, dear. Is there something amiss?"
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She turned, blinking in confusion at the...the man? The man in front of her. There was a beat. Then a hint of colour came to her cheeks. Trailing after it was a small, shy smile. Her gaze flicked to the ground. "Nobody's called me pretty in ages."
No one had a reason to. And there was barely enough people on the island in the first place. Claire hadn't had a single soul outside of John to talk to that wasn't trying to kill her in years, and he wasn't one for doling out flattery. Not as he was now.
She decided she liked this guy.
A touch awkwardly, Claire unfurled her legs and made room for him, sitting with a stiff hunch and her elbows on her legs. She rubbed the fraying callouses on her hands as the knot reappeared between her brows. "I saved a guy from dying last night. He was getting chewed up by these monsters, so I came in and took care of them."
There was a scoff as disgust warped her expression once more, finally facing the man as she talked. "What I didn't know was that he's supposedly some kind of vampire." Pause. Raise of the brows. Yeah, not the easiest story to believe, but considering what this place was she was hoping he'd suspend his disbelief. "And the moment I try to help him up, he knocks me down and tries to chew me up. Then this morning at breakfast, he just..."
She bit down angrily on her lip and shook her head. It wasn't worth getting into. Damon was an ass and that was that. "If I catch him again, I'll put the ax in his head and leave the trolls be."
And she would. There was zero question in her mind about it. But with the guy here now, she would rather not spent the whole shift seething to herself. He was already proving to be better company than most. Claire put the smile back on.
"What about you? Was your night all right?"
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And it paid off. The woman moved her legs, giving Grell a place to sit and unloading her worries upon him. Grell preferred hearing about people's problems via Cinematic Record, but this was just as well. If he couldn't kill them, he could at least listen to their misery. Taking the seat offered, the death god crossed his ankles and laid his hands in his lap, listening carefully. She had callouses on her hands - a laborer perhaps? And from the colony of Australia, judging from her accent. Even if she wasn't from the seat of the Empire, it was nice to hear someone who wasn't American.
Yet, while she wasn't American, it was very apparent she was crazy. She spoke of vampires (apparently a patient) and being attacked and then transitioned quite smoothly into talking about how she was going to axe the man in the head. The vampires bit didn't surprise Grell one bit. He was, after all, a death god, so vampires weren't that far of a stretch. It was the axing. The way she moved from the topic of killing to the smiling face of a patient learning about her fellows that triggered him.
She was going to be ever so interesting. "How rude of him to attack you after you did all that work! He deserve the axe - perhaps more. You could stake him to a wall and then axe him in the head if you wished," Grell said, smiling right back. "And I, unfortunately, was ill last night and unable to do anything." He paused for a moment, a calculated move, then gasped, as if realizing something. "Oh! Where are my manners! My name is Grell Sutcliffe, of London. Might I ask your name, love?"
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Gingerly, thin fingers stretched out to cup a lock of the man's vivid red hair. Claire examined it in her hands, stroking it with her thumb once before letting the strands pour off her fingertips. "When I was younger, I wanted red hair so I could be like the mermaid in the cartoon. A lot like yours, actually. But red doesn't go so well on me." She shrugged and smiled up at him. "It looks great on you, though. You're lucky."
She almost laughed as the man instantly agreed with her and suggested a staking. The most reliable way to do it, or so the stories had said. "I'd have to find a stake first. I don't have a good carving knife either." And here she was worrying he wouldn't believe a word she said about vampires. This place really wore down on your skepticism.
Considering it was her first time hearing of somebody being legitimately ill (not to mention her recent worries over the food being poisoned) Claire's smile went limp. He didn't look so bad off at the moment, but he must be feeling better. There was colour in his cheeks, and he was too lively to be sick now. "Sorry to hear that," she murmured sympathetically. "Are you still feeling sick today?"
The introduction was met with a friendly nod. Grell Sutcliffe. What a name. It sounded like something out of a fancy old book. And he'd called her 'love' - one of Charlie's old habits. It must be an English thing. "I'm Claire Littleton. I used to live in Sydney, but I've been on an island for a while now. So I guess it's not right to say I'm living in Australia anymore." Her lips drew together and she regarded Grell curiously. "Can I ask you something? Grell?"
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"I'm certain we could make due," Grell went on, fingers itching for a weapon to show this woman just what he could do. She didn't have quite the same air as the Madam, but she had her own reasons, her own hatred of a man who would attack his would-be savior. Such deviants did deserve to die, didn't they? Vampires were those who stole the souls of those they ate. It wouldn't be breaking the rules, hm? Just a little bending, twisting, maybe stretching. And to keep her interest, he added, "I make due."
But suddenly her concern focused on his off the cuff remark about his 'illness' last night and Grell raised an eyebrow. There was nothing but sincerity in her voice though. She really had taken a liking to him apparently. It was endearing in a way. "Oh, no, I'm quite well now. I suppose every girl requires her beauty sleep now and then, hm?" Claire Littleton of Sydney, lived on an island which explained her hair, and was the most innocent potential murderer he'd ever met. Grell liked her. He liked how he may be able to twist her later. "And of course, dear. Ask me anything."
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Grell was fun to talk to. He seemed...very excitable. Enthusiastic was a better word for it, maybe. Not to mention he was actually listening to what she was saying, and not shying away from her for it. Not like Andrew, or any number of others who she'd met. (There were a few exceptions, but not many.) And she had to admit - the accent helped. It wasn't quite like Charlie's, but she'd always liked how the English sounded. Even before the island. It was all very proper sounding.
The next remark, however, caught her a little off guard. Beauty sleep? Claire blinked. Did Grell just refer to himself as a girl? Or was he just particularly flamboyant? The details on that were dusty in her mind, much like most everything else she had known from before the island. It might be a better idea just to leave it be. They were having fun. She didn't want to spoil that.
"I guess so," was all she said in the end. She shrugged amicably and moved on.
"Um - this might be a stupid question, but have you ever heard of a band called Driveshaft?" She bit her lip. Knowing they had been a one hit wonder made the chances slim, but she wanted to ask anyway. "They're from England. Manchester."
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There was no harm in telling Claire where he found his tools of the trade. If anything, Claire might even come with him should he need to find more and restock. The scalpels were running low and since he hadn't-- Wait. Hadn't he? Like a flash, Grell suddenly recalled the night Kenny had turned into that beast and attacked him. The door wouldn't break no matter how much he'd kicked and pushed and then a familiar surge, the feel of a revving motor, and the door had broken down.
The memory of it caused a sharp pain to rip through Grell's head and he winced, ducking. No...It was gone again. Whatever he'd recalled was gone from him. Reaching up to touch his forehead, Grell growled under his breath in frustration. So close and yet so far... What was it that was hiding from him?
"---band called Driveshaft? They're from England. Manchester." Oh, Claire was still speaking. Lifting his head, Grell brushed a few stray strands of hair from his face and thought for a moment. A band? With such an unusual name? "I'm afraid I haven't, but then..." Grell looked Claire over again - human, through and through. "...I'm more of a theatre girl rather than music."
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If she ever lost her ax or her knife, she might have to take a look up there.
Claire never was known for having a good poker face. While she was able to reign in her (at times) explosive moods, hardly anyone seemed to have trouble guessing what she was feeling at any given time. So as much as she wanted to hide her disappointment, Claire couldn't keep her face from falling at Grell's answer, eyes shifting to the ground. It was stupid, maybe - Charlie's band had supposedly never made it big, but now that she had rejoined the rest of the world she couldn't help her curiousity.
There was the music room. She could always try in there.
"No, that's fine. They're not that famous," she murmured. "I don't think I've been to many plays myself." She looked back up at the man and suddenly paused. There was something odd in his expression. Almost as if he had lost himself for a moment.
She tilted her head at him, curious. Her hand settled softly over his in a motherly touch. "Grell? Are you okay?"
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"Yes, yes, I'm fine," he said, trying not to sound like he was brushing her off. It was simply that mortals would never understand what it was like to be missing one's deathscythe or the feeling of losing one's purpose. A death god had one mission in their so-called life and that was all they did. Grell rather enjoyed it, even, and to lose it so completely here and gain only pseudo-mortality was like being hit by a carriage and having the driver be ugly to boot. "A bit of a headache is all. Nothing to worry about."
Grell had to steer the conversation back to safer topics, however. Driving the focus back to Claire, he picked up the old conversation where it had left off. "And don't you worry, love. It's not a matter of fame, it's that I rarely listen to 'bands' or whatever they are called. You can hear them at pubs sometimes, but most of the people I know listen to orchestras and quartets or hires musicians privately for their balls. I suppose you wouldn't know of the Season down in Australia or do you? I'm afraid I don't keep up with the colonies as much as I do with the seat of the Empire."
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Regardless, it wasn't any of her business. Not really. If there was something worse going on, maybe Grell just wanted to keep the secret. Claire could understand that. She wasn't a particular fan of hiding things, or even lying in most cases. But sometimes you just held it in for manner's sake. Or for your life's. Hopefully in Grell's case, it was just the former.
Though it was somewhat baffling to hear that a person didn't listen to 'bands' - music was such a big part of everyone's life these days, it was hard to imagine avoiding it at all - Claire didn't get a chance to voice her misgivings until the whole thing got even more confusing. She couldn't help the slight drop of her jaw. Private balls? Like, as in fairy tale balls? Did anyone call dances balls anymore?
"...What?" Claire blinked up at the man, brows knotted as she tried to work through it. "Australia's not a colony. It's its own country now. It's still tied to Britain, but it's its own country. There's no 'empire'. What - what are you talking about, balls and quartets?"
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But to have an Australian not know they were part of the--
"..."
Oh.
Oh, bloody hell. She was one of those, wasn't she? One of those future people that Grell kept butting up against. Why wasn't anyone from a proper time here? What was so terrible about the 19th century that Landel wouldn't pick a few more people from there?
"1888," he said, sighing out his answer with a casual shrug. Leaning back into the sofa cushions, Grell pressed the fingers of one hand lightly against his chest. "That is when I am from, which is without a doubt not when you are from. Enough to make your head spin, isn't it?"
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Claire leaned back in her seat. She stared at the floor, wide eyed and blinking. No. No, there was no way. Nobody could travel through time like that. That was ridiculous.
Rather like a woman who peeled her way out of a rip in the air was. Which she had seen on her first night. Or how a shadow can come to life. How black smoke could form a man, how a vampire sunk his teeth in her arm and sucked the blood out.
No! This is too weird, it's not possible! Claire gave a little shake of her head, but her eyes remained on the floor. She still couldn't speak. What Grell was suggesting was completely insane, and yet...this place. It was so beyond what she could imagine. Even life on the island wasn't such a mystery. There, most things had science behind them. Hatches and strange men, messages, secret scientists and old ships and statues. But John existed. He couldn't explain himself, how he turned into a beast of pure smoke that could wreak as more havoc than any solid creature she met. And the things she was seeing here - it was just insane. Ludicrous.
But they were all here. In front of her eyes.
"I'm...I don't understand." Her lip fell from the grip of her teeth, and she came no closer to comprehending it. A step towards accepting, but shy of a cross over the finish line. "That doesn't make any sense. That's like something out of a movie..."
She fished for another explanation. It was a stupid trick to play on someone. No one would ever fall for that, and Grell didn't act like he was pranking her. And there was even less reason for someone to use it as a lie. On top of which, she already knew this 'asylum' cover was fake. There were no real crazy people here, just regular ones.
"Miss Greene? Mr. Burnette?"
A nurse had materialized before them. Claire snapped to attention and the intercom buzzed into life. She smiled at them. "It's dinner time. Shall we?"
The nurse drew upright, a clear invitation to follow. Claire spent two seconds more being frozen in shock, then she turned to the man beside her. "Um. Bye, Grell. It was good to meet you." She pursed her lips. "Honestly."
And with that, she was whisked away from one of her strangest conversations yet. It lingered in her mind. He has no reason to lie...
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