(Untitled)

[walkingthegrid]

It had been an interesting week, being briefed on the functionality of the technology, talking to two therapists who both decided to bow out of the opportunity; it was dangerous, that sort of mentality-- and agreed upon that most couldn't handle what they might see. Blood and gore were his forte, only slightly less so than that of a killer.

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[nocharmingman]

He is sedated; not enough to be entirely out of his mine, but the dose was considerable, strong enough to have him walked in by two guards, head lolling forward drowsily, although his eyes remain upward, intent and snapping back and forth; the only indicator of his rebellion. His mouth opens when he catches sight of Charles-- gaze locking to the detective's with a whipcord suddenness; teeth clicking, his jaw moves-- eyes saying clearly in that vaguely European drawl, 'hello, darling,' and the smile twists his upper lip away from the jaggedness of those sharp teeth. He's half-present, more dulled than anything else by the sedatives they'd pumped into his arm; he'd initially snapped at them-- how dare they, these vulnerable bastards and their needles-- but now his reactions are muted, pupils dilated and focus half-lidded. They pull him onto the table alongside Charles', and he crosses his feet at the ankles in a kind of lazy incongruence-- too old world for the oddly futuristic setting; he is unaffected by the room-- metal is a familiar

[walkingthegrid]

Charles watched the predator turned captive as he was drawn in, not missing the sudden snap of his eyes or the way his mouth worked in that decidedly crooked way. He doesn't allow himself to be budged till he sees the killer, his prey and hunter, laid out on the metal slab like the dozens of bodies he had sent back to the mourge before him. A bittersweet sort of ironic image it paints, but not something he's allowed to bask in for long. All too soon there are hands at his sides, shoulders, hips; easing him down onto the chilled metal table and resting the back of his head against a small, cushioned brace curved to fit the round of his skull. He feels the IV push into his arm, puncturing a vein so easily through a small hole in the suit made for just this purpose. Then it only takes a few moments, mere seconds, before he can feel the sedatives begin to burn. The nameless cocktail of drugs they pumped into his bloodstream, burning like liquid fire though his every muscle, wrapping him up in a blanket of darkness as they laid the sheet

[walkingthegrid]

Looking up from his position on the floor he can see the rustle of illuminecent leaves. He's on a small patch of grass, under a tree that looks to be half made of glass. It still retained it's solid wooden center but the dozens of green, gold and bronze leaves are all finely crafted glass, chiming gently in a breeze he couldn't feel. Rolling onto his side Charles gave a hard cough, trying to remove the burning from his lungs; all the ink and blood he had sucked in during his struggle but all that spills forth out is water. Staggering to a stand he doesn't find himself in that unusual black latex suit they had put him under in or the lightly tailored business suit he usually wore to work. He's dressed in a simple pair of jeans, a tee shirt, the sort of thing he would never leave his house in

[nocharmingman]

The red door opens wide-- swinging forward on its hinges. Instead of an empty frame, revealing only the back wall, beyond the door lies a sweep of desert-- white sand and a stretch of blue sky; dunes sloping into each other for miles, until they hit jagged peaks. But the desert ends abruptly; sand stopping at stone-- a great blue Taj Mahal of dusty Indian paint, so saturated and so massive it could not have existed anywhere outside of a dream. A sanctuary; a monument to seclusion-- and a temple; vast and looming and colossal. The thing is a leviathan of stone and plaster, marble and sandstone. It rises up from between the dunes, elemental in its towering vanity. An unreal shade of azure, horribly familiar and consciously chosen; it's entirely incongruent-- the unreality of it a clear signal of the vision's falsity

[walkingthegrid]

His eyes traced the line between sand and sky before they spotted Erik and remained fixated on him as he moved-- it wasn't a simple matter of interest, but more so his body felt at alert-- or the projection of his body, whatever it was-- Erik made him nervous. There were no restraints here, no thick glass walls to keep the two of them apart, and the man was unmistakably a predator. Moved like one, spoke like one, surely looked like one when he cared to and Charles was in his mind. He needed to find out about the girl; that much was sure. He stepped back a little, feet touching down against the green blades of grass, backing himself into the heavy trunk of the tree in order to keep his back from being too exposed. A lick to chapped lips, a habit so ingrained he doesn't even bother to think about the fact their in Erik's mind and there's no real need for that

[nocharmingman]

There is a sharp flair of red near his throat; the wisp of a pocket square-- and he's no longer the caged man that he was before; and less the lurking man from the bar. A haughty air of self-possession, of power, surrounds him instead; the surety of being in his territory, and he's well aware of them both-- of the space that they're occupying, because he is more than adaptable, living primarily in his own head; musing with every delusion of grandeur that he sets himself, "difficult to be disappointed here, isn't it?"

He glances backwards, over his shoulder, at the now-stirring wind; sweeping sand up into an elemental haze, the towers in the distance more vivid than the sky; all a similar shade, "and I have you here, entirely to myself--" a humored breath, "Charles, I had no idea you'd jump so eagerly. I don't know if I should warn you or not." Circling closer, he's deadly calm-- intensely interested and uncoiling from his position against the door frame to prowl towards the detective

[walkingthegrid]

"Warn me of what?" The other statements aren't as catching as that, he needs to know if there's something he should be wary of-- while the damage would not occur to his body the pain would be quite real-- as pain is all a part of the mind, and that is where they are so dangerously intertwined now. Whispers of thought and tendrils of ideas curling around each other, a world created of unconcious thoughts and familiarities warped into some sort of abstract setting. It's unsettling at the very least, the knowledge that here he is a speck in another man's mind-- but not just any mans, the killers, his killers-- and the fear is fresh and real even when he chokes it down

[nocharmingman]

"Getting worried, are we?" He slinks towards the detective, towards the tree-- and it's a fantastically bright thing, but it's not his, and it doesn't belong here-- he can't help but want to avoid it, shrink back from the chiming glass leaves as if the combination of the light and the sound is painful to stand beside. Charles is too potent a lure for him, however, so he continues-- crossing the divided squares with lazy steps, footfalls resounding against the walls, "you don't have to be afraid of me, darling, I'm not going to kill you here

[walkingthegrid]

He is pulled closer and stares for a moment, his lips pursed at the dangerous proximity of Erik; it's hard for him not to jerk backwards and away, he doesn't want to give the other man that satisfaction. He's never been quite this close to Erik before, never noted the size different between them till just now. Though, he has to remind himself he can escape the confines of Erik's mind should he need to-- for as real as it felt, it wasn't real, not like that

[nocharmingman]

"Such a lovely shade," he muses, a hand darting to catch the detective's jaw in a firm grip-- something close to possessive, and always with the faintest clinical air of detachment, tipping the other's chin a little harshly, "you know, I haven't seen one quite that color-- I can't always see it; not as bright as it is in person," the building and the unearthly tone of the sky are mockeries of it; just attempts to replicate that pure focus of blue. Erik his wholly occupied with Charles, no longer giving the tree another glance, but still feeling it-- the encroaching lightness of it and its whispering. He can't talk here, can't manage to take over the situation-- because they are not entirely in Erik's territory just yet, and his fingers tighten their grip on the man's jaw, his bottom lip unconsciously exposing a row of teeth as he speaks; sharp and dangerous

[walkingthegrid]

Of course he was curious, and he knew it was a bad idea, but had a feeling his options were limited to going willingly or being dragged along with Erik. He winced at the dig of fingers in his skin and let out a little breath, composing himself under the ache of the claiming grip. "Of course, Erik." He replies simply, attempting to keep him appeased for the time being-- he wants to know about the woman, or women, because that's what he's come here for. "But I surely can't go anywhere with you holding me like this." He resists the urge to give him a hit to the stomach, because fighting will only make things worse, especially while he's tucked away inside of Erik's mind. Instead he reaches up, his touch light and resting over Erik's on his own jaw, giving a light curl of his fingers and attempting to tug his hand down

[nocharmingman]

He likes this new compliance. It's entirely different to the way that the man had been before, and Erik had been expecting a spitting retort, and some kind of refusal-- but no, Charles seems willing to cooperate, and whether it is out of fear or out of manipulation, he can't quite tell-- only seeing a mixture of them, less the former, though. But he'll take what he can get of the other's time, and fight to keep it greedily-- to trap him here if he can; there is nothing more that he would prefer than to be eternally locked inside his own mind with another individual as complex and as enticing as Charles, the world could be damned-- they'd never find the women without their frightfully empathetic detective Xavier. He does not drop the other's jaw yet-- feeling the fingers trying to dislodge the grip; but gently, gently; and he keeps his hand there-- because of the weight of the other's hand on his own

[walkingthegrid]

There's a tick, the barest twitch at the corner of his mouth that he manages to quell quickly. He wont get anywhere with acting offended, pulling away and cursing. He has to try and play as amicable as he can manage and if it takes a bit of uncomfortable closeness and resisting the urge to show him how an arm-lock works. Instead he tips his head and plucks one of the glass leaves from his shoulder, watching it flex under his fingers despite what he was made of. The glass began to melt in his hands, easing down his wrist and then curling around it, forming a thin band of gold and green encircled by glass. He peers at it for a second before taking a deep breath

[nocharmingman]

It's new to him, being so simply able to exist around someone-- particularly someone such as Charles; the detective holding such a fatal draw for him, despite the thinly veiled disgust he can see playing out across the man's well-made features. He chooses to ignore it, because it's distinctly irritating; although for the most part he does not care, will encroach on the other's space as he pleases because this place belongs to him-- every detail of it. But Charles has the ability to leave easily; and now they stand at an entendre-- he wants something from the other man, however indiscernible and muddled it is, and the detective wants the locations from him. He'll bargain and barter to extend the time that he has alone here, try to take them as far into the dream's oblivion as he can-- and perhaps they'll cross the point of catatonia; slipping so far from consciousness that it is impossible to wake up

[walkingthegrid]

He shifts just a bit at the hold, admittedly as curious, less so of the glass-- it seems so unusual but natural to him-- but of the gentle touch. It was, admittedly, not something he had thought Erik able to do. It's unusual to him, a lightness he rarely feels, not just in the context of killers but in general. Raven too boisterous for that sort of thing. He lets his gaze flicker upward, brow furrowed at the strange actions-- or at least, strange to him, and then moves to the side enough so he can look to the temple. It wasn't the sort of thing he expected to see inside Erik's mind; his crimes leaving implications of blood and danger and darkness, not some temple across a desert. "Alright

[nocharmingman]

When Charles had moved to stare across at the structure, Erik had lingered a moment before turning too-- fingers warm with the ghost of the other's skin; the most pale inside of Charles' wrist, so delicately thin that he could see the blue veins beneath it, hot against his hand; he could do such damage, if given the opportunity-- and it had been given, and he’d let the man go, with nothing more than an oddly mutual second of contact. Erik’s eyes fix on sloping turrets; the great central dome; all pointing upwards and obstructing the horizon