[holo | Sanctuary] enter the snarkdragon... who will be doing less snarking and more wtfing
He'd been shot. This knowledge percolated dully in Paul Smecker's brain, along with an undercurrent of brilliant observation there, Agent Smecker. Other bits of knowledge-- awareness that at least one of the bullets had hit his lung, because there was no air, just that fiery agony and the distant whistling noise as air leaked out his heaving lungs
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But It's almost a relief didn't actually mean it made him feel any better. He had a bit of first hand experience with panicking in front of a whole city, even if he didn't know so at the time. He couldn't stop himself from picking up the tablet to offer some advice. Or at least, to try to help.
"Sir? My name's Wyatt Cain," he said, aiming for exuding calm more than anything. Even if just the sight of the room made his skin crawl.
"I know it's little comfort, but you're not the only one here."
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There is this, at least-- the new guy's tone suggests (at least to Smecker's currently panicked mind) that he might be some sort of Authority. Maybe.
"...hello, Mr. Cain," he says flatly, while thinking that's got to be a code name. Cain. Seriously. "Paul Smecker. So let me guess. This is the point where you tell me you've got the boys as well, or one of them, and this is where we start making bargains and plea-deals and 'if you know what's good for you' and all that bullshit, hm?"
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He can't remember if he's ever tried doing the same to a fellow cop - or what sounds more and more like one. He frowns, and gives the other man a small shake of his head. The sad truth of the matter is, it would've been so much easier to deal with if that had been the next logical step.
"Boys?" It's starting to ring one too many bells for his personal taste; hit way too close to home. "I'm sorry, Mr. Smecker, but I have no way of knowing where your boys are. I'm sure if they're here, they'll contact you. You're broadcasting all over town, pretty hard to miss."
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He is babbling, he realizes. The stress of the last few days, the stress of the situation, and just when everything finally looked like it was going to be OVER, over and done, blissful fucking oblivion, THIS happened.
Whatever this is. He still doesn't know. But he knows he's totally losing his ability to self-censor. Bad. Bad. His mouth snaps shut and he takes a deep breath, glares at the face looking back from the pad at him. Also nobody he's ever seen before.
What the shit is this?
Something the man said processes, belatedly. "....what do you mean, broadcasting all over town? What the hell are you people talking about?"
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"It's unfortunate, but seems to be built into the system." To think all the things he could say if he just used more words. But Cain is not a man who speaks in excess.
A muscle jumps at his jaw, and he changes from [visual] to [holo]. "Like this."
It's so undignified, somehow.
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It's not a conscious decision, just what (he tells himself) your average sane man does when a THING pops out of the little smartphone you're holding. "Fuck!"
The phone clatters to the floor but the thing is still there, beaming out from its ass-- after a second Paul realizes it's a... projection. Fucking sci-fi again.
He stares down at the little 3-D model of a man then, after a few seconds doing breathing exercises, slowly picks up the 'phone' again. Examines the projection of this 'Cain' fellow, his own breathing fast and shallow. Touching the little shape reveals his fingers go through. It's just light. Very convincing light, but just light.
Paul says nothing for several seconds, thinking fast, processing what the man said. "....you're saying--" a pause, ordering his words, "--you're saying that other people are seeing a... little light projection thing of me, right now?"
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"In so many words, yes." He holds up his hands in placation - or something like it. "Listen, Sir, you have every reason to be alarmed. But one step in the right direction would be moving out of that room."
If nothing else, it helped him tremendously when he was the one ranting and yelling in a too cramped space.
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Or-- paranoia sets in, never too far from his mind, especially these days-- lull him into a false sense of security, play the good cop, spring the bad cop shit on him in a bit from a heavy.
He looks around him again. The room is practically featureless. There's nothing he can use as a weapon. He doesn't have his gun. If someone wants to force him out of this room there's damned little he can do about it.
So play along, for now. Get more information. Trust no one until you figure this crap out. But-- it's best if they don't know you don't trust them.
"Okay," he says, mostly calm. "Okay. How do I do that, Mr. Cain?"
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It would seem that when Wyatt tries to be helpful, he goes out of his way to be wordier than usual. Anyone who knows him would say this is him making an effort.
Which isn't to say he's comfortable doing so with a complete stranger from another world. Another Otherside.
"...I know it's a lot to take in. I'm still reeling, to be honest."
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If he gets tased or something walking through, then these guys have some sadistic sense of humor.
"Am I to infer," he says slowly as he stalks for the door like it is a housefly that might vanish, "that you're claiming to be someone in the same situation as me-- here, wherever here is, with no clue how you got here, Mr. Wyatt?"
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That thought alone deepens the frown. "Just Cain. Please. No one calls me Wyatt but my mother."
And his wife (whose passing he's still struggling coming to terms with).
...and Glitch, on occasion. Which is a train of thought he'd rather just not examine any further, thank you very much, brain.
"Tell you what. I'll head over, meet you outside. There's a coffee shop not far from there, figure it might help to deal with everything in stages."
In all honesty, he thinks he could do without the coffee, but he isn't about to drag a stranger out for a booze bender first thing. No matter how fitting it might feel (especially with the past few weeks (days) in clear memory).
"I've been here...a month, in all. I think. Past few weeks've been on the wrong side of hectic."
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A plant, says the agent-part of his brain. Someone trying to inspire his confidence as a fellow inmate ( ... )
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But that somehow ceases to matter as much at the sight of Smecker's face as he exits the room. Wyatt can only imagine what he himself must have looked like. He grabs his coat and walks out the door of his cramped, tiny little apartment (it's too tiny, much too tiny, but that's just another one of a great many thoughts he pushes aside lately. Very stubbornly so.
"I'm heading your way. If you follow the schematics of the building, you'll find the main entrance."
It's not Boston sounds too similar to his own thoughts and misgivings about the place. Whatever this place is, it certainly isn't home. "I'll meet you outside. See my marker? It's got my name on it, so you can't exactly miss me."
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No way he can explain theology right now. He grinds down on all trains of thought but the simple directions he's been given to follow (or not so simple) and looks down at the phone. It takes a few button mashes, increasingly desperate ones, but suddenly he's looking at a little map, filled with labelled dots. One says 'Wyatt Cain'.
"I see you," Paul says faintly. "Be there.... looks like very shortly."
It is a short walk, though it feels long to unsteady legs. He has enough time to notice the people.
He has enough time to realize they're... wrong on a basic level that screams to his trained observational senses.
By the time Paul Smecker makes it out the front door of the Sanctuary-- dressed in a nice suit save for the dark bloodstains on chest-- his face is looking pale indeed.
"The people are wrong," he blurts out the second he's within speaking distance of Cain, who thankfully looks just like his holo, enough to recognize him.
No, he doesn't yet trust him. But goddammit, he's got to tell somebody
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"Something about the faces. The way they move, and talk." He shakes his head, takes out his own tablet to shut it off. Funny how he keeps doing that, and still he keeps going back for it.
It's the Tin Man in you, he tells himself at times. You need to keep tabs on what's what.
But all that aside, he's at least in the here and now enough to remember his manners. He holds out his hand, in case Smecker feels like a proper shake. "No offense, but you don't look so shiny."
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Too much to process. Brain rebelling.
"They're not blinking at the right rates," he says rapidly, almost pathetically grateful to have this small weirdness to focus on and not the immense huge eye-breaking weirdness of the world around him. "Their eyes don't focus unless you move near them. They repeat the same ranges of motion over and over. Their dialogue isn't actually dialogue- they're not talking to anyone-- it's just catchphrases over and over again--"
Yes, he noted those things on his trek outside. Oh. Hand. Cain's holding a hand out to him. Yes, handshakes, Paul, normal people still do those. He takes the man's hand after a second and gives it a shake that is far from his best ( ... )
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