(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 thing to him; he's always been at home amongst the shadows of architecture, but that was an old ambition, long since forgotten due to considerable evolution.

While the orderlies strap him down, Erik spares the detective; his detective another long look; tongue flashing out to swipe his lower lip-- dried from the conditioned air. The straps tighten around his wrists, another around his waist, despite the fact that he could not move if he tried; limbs leaden down from the heady influence of the tranquilizers. A doctor had briefed him about the operation just prior, and he had muzzily stared through the glass, dour and detached and having no particular feelings on the matter-- not much else registering outside of the fact that Charles would be in his mind (which, at the time, seemed unremarkable, because what else would be new?).

[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 over his eyes.

A droplet of water, then another, another, another, soon it's a steady noise, constant as the ticking of a clock. The sound echos faster, picking up like a heartbeat against the darkness. Small sparks of white dot the sky lighting up like fireworks but remaining suspended against the false sky-- pinpricks glittering against a void. He can't focus on them for more than a rare few seconds, because his legs are moving under him, treading water. Running as fast and as hard as he can, to keep himself above-- he just needs to get to safty-- the tips of his toes and the pads of his feet dipping centemeters below the surface as he ran. Struggling desperately to keep above the mirror relfection in the water. It's becoming thicker, heavier, clinging to his ankles, pulling him down, cloying with it's grip.

No no no--

He gasped, arms outstretched, grasping at anything and everything-- but he can see nothing other than the water seeping into his clothes, grabbing at him, the father it pulled him down the darker the mirror turned; the surface no longer that of water but of blood. Transforming with his every reisistance, turning thick and heavy like quicksand; pulling and straining and gasping as his gaze shoots back up--help help, goddamnit where is everyone?-- and just within his grasp is a hand. He reaches for it, for salivation in this faceless man. His fingertips curling against another's, a desperate cry tries to break free but this one is allowed no release; the quicksand already crawling up his sides, down his throat, he's suffocating even before he goes under.

He pulls at the hand again, please--

The fingers spread apart, letting his own sift through and he slips under, down into the blood, and then deeper, deeper, till it's no longer even blood-- it's just an inky blackness. There's no air for him only a burn in his chest; he's choking, fading, but just before true darkness takes him in he's breaking surface again. The whole world turned on his head as he drops from the water-- the rustling sounds that began in the darkness still echoing in his sudden freedom. His back hits the ground and he's shocked by the sudden spark of light and life.

[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.

Looking away from the tree he takes in the room, steel panels covering the walls, all different shades of brown and dusted with gold flecks. The center where he's standing is an island in the room, square in contrast to the circular patch of grass the glass-tree grew from. Surrounded by a slow current of water that seemed to enter and exit the room under the walls,the streams gently twisting with the faintest sounding trickle that blended beautifully with the gentle chime of the leaves. He steps to the edge of the island but doesn't cross the gap yet. Observing the picture-less frames hung on the walls. He gives a glance in each direction, all sides of the room seemed to match with the tree as the focal point. A door stands of it's own accord a foot away from each wall, each door resting on it's own island and directly centered between two others, the room was divided into nine squares by the gaps of rushing water. A blue door to the left, green to the right, red standing before him and gold behind. Confusion swells in his stomach and in his head, because his mind knows that this isn't real-- this isn't how reality works-- somewhere deep down he knows it's not his mind.

"Hello--"

[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.

The place is only a backdrop, however. Because striding forward across the dunes, picking his way with the airs of an old-world traveller, is Erik. Panama hat tipped forward jauntily over one eye, hands tucked into his pockets. There's no wind, so the sand is still; and he steps through it easily enough, pausing on the slope of one; stopping to stare at what he can see of Charles-- the small figure he presents from so far away raises a hand; the sole greeting he offers before he keeps walking. He's mismatched with the landscape, but manages to appear unconcerned, steadily making his way towards the opened door. They're on his turf, and sliding a little down towards the door, pulling off his hat and dusting the sand that had gathered on the brim, he addresses the detective with a grinning look,

"Hello, Charles," Not without the faintest hint of sleaze, he leans against the doorway, hair smoothed back and teeth bared, hat low, "I trust you're well. I hope you didn't expect a welcoming committee."

[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.

"Of course not, I've learned better than to expect too much from you; I really hate to be disappointed." A bit of that banter, jarring and unpleasant, but he doesn't want to show the anxiousness he feels.

[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.

Sparing the tree an affronted look, lip twitching, he stops, half a step onto one of the squares, "that's not mine," perplexed, then disinterested-- Charles regains his undivided focus, "Ah, detective, you know, I'd hoped we'd get to talk on even ground. I can imagine it must be quite something to know you in everyday life."

[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.

He glances to the tree, in all it's light and beauty, shining like a dozen white Christmas tree lights have been strung behind the glass and yet not plug or wiring is apparent. Charles knows, then, that this is a product of his own mind; that bright centering force that has always kept him from slipping under the tide. Perhaps his sense of justice, honor, or even just the familial bond to Raven; he isn't sure, doesn't guess, just knows he feels the desire to stay close to it.

"Is this ground not even enough for you Erik? Neither of us are in bonds, behind walls or glass, I think that's better than you would get anywhere else."

[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."

Not kill, necessarily. Not in the full sense of the word. Erik wants to keep him-- wall the detective's consciousness inside here with his own; trapped within the desert plains, the Eastern palaces and the thousand catacombed rooms inside them. The tree distracts him again, and it irritates him profoundly that it's even materialized. The thing belongs clearly to Charles, though, and he won't touch it, instead reaching for the detective, winding long fingers in the fabric of his t-shirt and tugging him gently closer, "I don't think I'll warn you. Some things are better to discover for oneself. Charles, you're quite right. We are on even ground-- level playing field, no more pretentious bars or bars--" smirking, because the homophone fits the context, "no people. We're alone and-- come here--"

The room is claustrophobic to him now and he wants to be back in that open desert; the simplistic line of sky meeting sand and his house in the distance-- and he wants Charles with him, to join him, but there is something in this tree; that protective foreignness that is setting him on edge.

[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.

"I'm comfortable here, Erik." He murmurs as he stands at the very edge of the square where that tree resided. Some part of his mind warned him against leaving that square, venturing too far from his own consciousness and into Erik's own. The man was still a predator, and they were in his world. "If you just want to talk, I think perhaps it's best we stay here." He doesn't know how he'll be able to get back through the door-- or even if he would be able to; and there's something so cloying, yet comforting, about being close to the tree that echoed softly like a wind-chime over the rushing water.

"Tell me where you've kept the women."

[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.

"Come outside detective, this room of yours is so-- cloying. Maybe I'll even tell you something if you follow me. Maybe I'll show you around that palace over those dunes. Aren't you even slightly curious about the workings of-- the mechanics of a mind?" He's never been so-- exposed to anyone, and it's fascinating, exhilarating because it's the detective, and partly, he wants to drag the man from this mockery of a room, and the damnable tree, and shut him up in one of the cavernous halls-- the towering and lofty structures that he's constructed here, "Oh, Charles," a smirk follows, teeth exposed more now, and he doesn't allow the man that space that he seems to want-- moving forward, hand now circling around the other's wrist with entrapping fingers, "I hope you're planning on leaving here willingly."

[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.

The close approach of the killer causes the hidden lights in the tree to dim, as if his consciousness was encroaching on Charles' own. A few of the glass leaves break off and flutter down, landing amongst the soft blades of grass and even against Charles himself all the while avoiding Erik's imposing figure. He knows, perhaps, that it's a sign he should try and stay-- remain close in the safe haven of a room but he wont get anywhere with that; he knows it. Those women need him, he would want someone to do all they had were it Raven, and he would do all he could for them in turn.

"So let me go wont you? I'd hate to have to tell everyone you're a bad host." A little smirk, a soft bit of humor, hoping to end this confrontation before it starts.

[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.

There's no softness in him, not anymore, maybe it was eroded by a misfiring synapse that had been bred into him; some loose connection-- a configuration that had been unstable; an insect clicking across his skull and destructively pulling at the wiring. However, his intensity loses some of its focus, and Charles is spared the examination-- he notes the tree's dimming, the soft light that had emitted from the tree losing its iridescence.

He lets Charles go, "follow me," tone low, it's coercive now, not threatening-- more confidential and despite their being absolutely alone in this oddly convergent world, it's said so that only the detective will hear him, "Charles." Erik's hand rises again-- again towards the other's jaw, but he just tilts the detective's chin up; thumb dragging along his cheekbone-- always something just short of reverent of that alignment of features.

[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.

After a hesitant moment he takes a step back and then to the side, crossing that unseen barrier from his own little island and toward Erik's own. He lets out a breathy sigh, glad something didn't just sweep up and snag him the moment he did. The tree behind him wavered, the light leaving it completely. Charles turned his attention toward Erik, bright blues flickering around occasionally-- unsure of the way scenery seemed to change so easily. He follows the man, as promised, toward the dunes, through that foreboding door.

The minute he crosses through the doorway his clothes have changed-- no longer within the comfort of his own consciousness his projection slipped, changed, left him back in that ever familiar pinstripe suit. Still pleasantly able to decide for himself, even if he didn't realize he could; he wondered if that was something he would be able to do still, the deeper they got into Erik's mind, but he supposed that's only something experience can tell him.

"Where are we going?"

[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.

"You'll find out, my dear," teeth click as his mouth closes on the words; looking back over at the detective with a frown. Erik steps closer-- easily broaching the barrier of the physical separation, reaching over to wrap fingers around the other's wrist-- but it's not rough now, he's being cautious, and there's an element of delicacy in the gesture, thumb tracking the vein with the lightest brush, and he studies the glass band that's formed-- organically, as if it had grown from nothing.

Around them the desert is cool-- a breeze floating through the valleys between dunes, not cold, but close-- it's brisk; Erik hates the heat, can't abide warmth and humidity (the cell that he's been enclosed in is both; and he despises the small space with a vehement anger; somehow apparent just due to the sheer vastness of the dreamscape). He says nothing regarding the band, just looking up from it into Charles' face, seeming perfectly rational-- almost, almost concerned; as if knowing that the destruction of the tree had been the last attachment that the other man had to his privacy-- his own conscious mind.

"Just across to the temple, it's not a long walk," the change in tone is immediate, it's softer-- concentrated on the detective, but still somehow different from the smarmy growling of earlier.

[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."

He starts walking, soft shoes sinking a bit into the sand as he did so, glad for the change of clothes when he feels the uncomfortable chill. Hand raking through his hair he gave a long look around, watching the door slip closed behind them, hiding the room and tree from view. He lets out a breath and figures, perhaps conversation might give him some clue as to how to work with Erik-- or at least manipulate him properly, as he knew violence and anger would do no good. "Did you know it would look like this?" He raises an eyebrow at the distance. "Did you design it, or is it just how this works?" The tree, he knew, he hadn't designed, but he had the distinct feeling that it was something of his own consciousness; perhaps created from memories he was fond of-- he wasn't entirely sure yet.

"I can't say I imagined a palace; perhaps something more grim, like a basement or a warehouse."

[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.

"It's always been here," he says, tone matter-of-fact, a hand coming upwards to shade his eyes from the sun's bright glare; although it gives off only the most bare amount of heat, "and I'm sure it has basements of its own, somewhere beneath it," because the place is a labyrinth, and the depths of it are foreign even to him; there are endless possibilities for what the sub-ground levels house, what notions, what images he'd unknowingly stored there, there’s a drawn out pause before he adds on, oddly confessional-- and lacking in any hint of mockery or venom, "I'd like to show you."

His words are very nearly a request for permission.

Having Charles here is-- pointedly different to interacting with him in their usual setting; the clinical hallway and the glass cell-- they are hardly on equal footing there, but here --it is deeper than personal, beyond any mundane connection that they might have fostered earlier. His gaze strays to the detective’s profile, a frown on his own face, without the malevolent glee he’d exuded before.