Scene #9403: Visitation Hours

Owner	Pose
Foundation Scions	Unlike visiting the Foundation itself, Laplace Scientific Computing Center, while equally cold, is only a fraction as bureaucratically difficult to visit. The infrastructure to host visiting science teams, school groups, and medical patients, all exists from even before the Storm of '99. As such, Lilian, with a Paladins ID, the awareness (or apathy) of the FDMO, and a pre-arranged visit registration filled out by phone or by simple online form, only has the hassle of a long elevator ride between the warpgate and the Laplace Rehabilitation Center. Staff registry is not publicly available, publicly available is the knowledge that the LRC utilizes a twenty-four hours on, twenty-four hours off shift pattern, which makes it criminally easy to determine when Mesmer Jr. will be on-duty. A dozen and change floors above the lobby, the atrium-hugging glass elevator the secretary shepherded Lilian into lets off into a hell of linoleum and chrome, glass and enamel, and the hustle and bustle of labcoat-wearing doctors and patient gurneys. Small robots filter between the footsteps of passer-bys, machines beep a chorus of heartbeats and brainwaves, while worn-out nurses linger on hallway benches. As high up as this floor, the Foundation's own campus can be seen outside the many windows, grey pylons of unadorned concrete and marble stretching up into the sky, as bare as if they'd been hewed from the very rock of the surrounding hillsides. This far away, for the expanse being the beating heart of the St. Pavlov Foundation, it looks more sterile and lifeless than the hospital environs of the LRC. The Artificial Somnambulism ward is signed-out on placcards, with a signifying little symbol of some sort of tesla coil, the surgery operating theaters demarcated by a scalpel, and the general care ward, a band-aid. The jarringly insensitive tone matches, in part, Mesmer Jr.'s own attitude, even if there is little causal link- this is still her environment, for better or worse (Worse. It's for worse. It's not even close). Deeper in, away from the elevator, a far more hectic state of things emerges. Visible being carted to a few different sections, as Lilian heads for the Artificial Somnambulism ward, are a notable handful of gurney-bound men and women clad in the uniforms of Foundation investigators. Some have clusters of frantic doctors trying to stifle active bleeds, some are much further into emergency care. None of the teams acknowledge Lilian except to ensure a clear path in patient transit. Those finally stop passing by at the entry to Mesmer's wing, leaving it in relative calm and silence- Only to be broken by Mesmer Jr. herself backing out of what should be the door to a supply closet. She stops, like a deer in the headlights, fiddling with the vinyl cuffs of her sleeves. Puffy eyes don't blink, as freshly fixed makeup around them has already started to smear. The shock-surprise fades quick, into furrowed brows and a wider stance. Her tone, when she finds words, is utter poison, hissed under breath- "No, no, no, you picked a bad day. What is it this time?" Not even using a hand, Mesmer pushes the supply closet door loudly closed with the side of her boot, the noise echoing in the relatively-hushed ward. As it does, the pushed-out air carries the reek of both antiseptic and tobacco, eventually fading into the general median of the hospital. The patients in the nearby rooms won't mind the slam's noise, each already deep in slumber with their heads in the fishbowls of what could only be Artificial Somnambulism machines. "Is this about Chicago? It shouldn't be, the reports are in and won't face further review. So-" It sounds like she's going to launch into something else, but Mesmer just goes quiet, staring.
Lilian Rook	Even if Lilian is a little bit neurotic about her paperwork, her mature career as a Paladin guarantees that she's already fired (you can't actually fire your assigned agents though) everyone who couldn't fill out a set of forms and take phonecalls with perfect accuracy, so the difference in visitation procedure is something she remarks on after the fact, when the finished papers are slid past her and she hasn't received one call demanding second and third tier-one private confirmations. 'No wonder the Foundation is the disciplined and upstanding one, and Laplace is a den of moody and erratic slime molds', she thinks. Seeing as it's not 1928 inside, she's gladly ditched her previous getup (the traumatic memories . . . no, I mustn't speak of them) and just come wearing what she was for a post-training mixer she half-cared about just half an hour ago; going by Mesmer Junior's uniform, there's no way in hell a cold-shoulder top with a little keyhole neckline is going to shock anyone; hell, Laplace is apparently playing chicken with her over skirtline. Having not even so much as unlaced her shoes, Lilian walks right in with her perfume less than two hours old, and spends the elevator ride wishing she'd kept her training gloves due to suddenly imagining the setup to pissing off Mesmer about 'biosafety guidelines' with bare fingers. The sight of field agents rushing past on bloody stretchers dampens her attitude somewhat. She'd known it was a hospital, somewhere between the fore and back of her mind, but that there'd be injured agents already, so soon after the Storm had already concluded and the era had reset, takes her by surprise. The urge to offer to help rises up within her just enough to feel noticeable, standing out of the way, and then fizzles out again by the time they pass. She doesn't say a word about it. 'No, no, no, you picked a bad day. What is it this time?' This is a first time state for Lilian to see an evil nurse in. Even though she came here in the first place, she halfway mirrors the same shock just at Mesmer's state. §Come on now. You're always falling for this. You know well enough by now that everyone has their pitiful moments, and that it doesn't have anything to do with what sort of person they are.§ "This time? Have I been here before?" Lilian says, deadpan rhetorical, raising her hand halfway to her face and not hiding the nose-wrinkle of disgust at the dissipating smell. "Oh. Am I perhaps speaking to Mesmer Senior? Your younger sister told me-- what was it?" She pauses, equally fake. "Oh, that's right! I told her that I'd 'make certain to get familiar with Laplace at my earliest available opportunity.', and she helpfully informed me that 'the visitation guides are printed and accessible.' and said 'feel free.'" Yes, she directly quoted every line from the radio, because of course she remembers each and every word. No biggie though. She just has a great memory. Realistically, if she actually believed Mesmer had a slightly older twin sister, she wouldn't put her hand on her hip and look at a total stranger like that, much less say "Workplace drama? Or just a little fight? If it's a bad time, I can wait for you get cleaned up." The normal thing to say would be 'come back another time'. "It'd feel cruel to have you 'show me what I'm getting into' in that state." she says. It's still a little bit cruel, coming from someone with a half-length workday and freshly painted nails.
Foundation Scions	'This time? Have I been here before?' "What? No, of course not. It's just an expression." Mesmer pinches the bridge of her nose, takes a deep breath, and blinks twice- it's mechanical enough to be a regular habit of clearing off expression and tone. It doesn't work- but she must have convinced herself it did, long enough ago, for it to be so ingrained. "'Mesmer Senior'? Excuse me- this isn't pediatrics. Two floors down, east wing, if you're going to be such a child. That'll get you familiar, won't it?" Mesmer's pager beeps, nearly the moment she finishes her words- before any TTS message rings out on it, she reaches down to where its clipped and silences it. "I won't be giving you a tour, so you'll have to find your own way. I'm sure you can handle that." Stepping ever so slightly out of the middle of the hallway, a rolling metal cart, stacked with coil-corded sensors and gadgets, serves as a good spot for Mesmer to brace against- despite the more resolutely-stern expression she's trying to maintain, there's an adrenaline tremble to her extremities. 'Workplace drama? Or just a little fight? If it's a bad time, I can wait for you get cleaned up.' There is a genuine, solid moment, where it seems like Mesmer might actually ask for that chance. Another tight, steeling breath kills it. "Of course not. I'm fine. I've handled worse disruptions than you today. 'Emergency surgery', if it fills some gaping void in you to know why. My apologies, but I don't fight or bicker with responsible coworkers. Did you get all dressed up in hopes of a show? It must be bitterly disappointing." The cart she's been bracing on shifts, suddenly- only a half inch, but it makes her wince, and stumble before catching herself. "Stupid-" Hissed, quiet, she pulls her hands back in front of her chest. Mostly inaudible, she mumbles, "Don't, don't, don't." It takes work for her to lower her hands down by her hips, less-guarded. As if it genuinely takes her by surprise, and also as if it's, somehow, a breath of fresh air, "'Show you what you're-' The survey, and the other researchers? Oh. If you really want to see what they think of your calendar, it's all over the internal forums. Do you have a portable computer?" As if to accentuate her point, where Mesmer stares down the hallway, instead of at Lilian, is at a handful of clipboard-holding nurses, mistakenly assuming that hiding half-behind a bright teal curtain meant they were invisibly able to lean out and watch- celebrity status moves fast, apparently. Mesmer makes a grossed-out expression, for a brief moment.
Lilian Rook	'What? No, of course not. It's just an expression.' Weirdly enough, as inconsequential as that is, that little exasperation gives Lilian pause. Mesmer looks up to her touching the far end of the scar on the edge of her cheekbone, or rather, letting her hand down without tracing it. "Beg pardon, but might you think that I'm actually incredibly stupid?" she says. 'Mesmer Senior'? Excuse me- this isn't pediatrics.' "This isn't the Paladins radio. Whether you like it or not, Mesmer Junior," a bare concession to the fact she allegedly hates just 'Mesmer', "It's just you and I right now. For better and for worse." Lilian says, shaking her head. Her hand still hasn't moved from her hip. "Do you even understand what that means? Catty provocations like that don't have the same effect if there isn't an audience for me to lose face in front of. So if you're going to have a tantrum every time I tease you even a little, perhaps you should rethink your attitude." Yes. This is what a miserably overworked healthcare professional wants to hear. The fact that the first part is correct totally makes up for the holier-than-thou patiently talking down to a Bitch(tm) attitude. 'I won't be giving you a tour, so you'll have to find your own way. I'm sure you can handle that.' "I think you might not like it if I did." says Lilian, half-truthfully. 'Did you get all dressed up in hopes of a show? It must be bitterly disappointing.' "I came here from a mixer." Lilian says, this time all truth. She shrugs with one shoulder. "The Paladins treats my indispensibility with a certain amount of respect. Right now, I struggle to see Laplace doing the same for yours." The fact that 'if it even exists' is implicit in her arch expression doesn't fully mask how probing it actually is. "Did you alter that uniform for your patients? Surely it was just for yourself." Unfortunately, she does start to move on reflex when the cart slips. She stops as soon as Mesmer catches herself, but then she has to resume her posture a half-step forward. 'Show you what you're-' The survey, and the other researchers?' Unfortunately, despite generally holding the superior hand, in both being here voluntarily and also not being fresh off venting in a break room, that does still get under Lilian's skin. Her lip curls at the corner, and her fingertips dig into her waist. "What, are you going to give me the wi-fi password?" she says, now silently wondering if Mesmer even knows about smartphones. "What is with you and that calendar? I can't imagine it pissed off even you that badly. Sonetto at least had the good sense to clear the air and then never mention it again, but you're just psychotic about it. And not even to the coworkers who actually ordered it and pinned it up, but to me. Do you even know?" Mesmer's shifting gaze isn't lost on Lilian. She doesn't have to turn her head to know who's there; even without using magic, 'very low-grade psychic' is enough to pick up surface thoughts from that direction, now that she's been tipped off. Playing into not looking, she idly (glamorously) runs her fingers through her hair, incidentally showing off the kind of partially exposed back design she's started to like recently, then letting it fall back to her waist. "It's almost as if you're complaining that I'm not less dressed." Lilian shakes her head, doing her best to let the barb wear off. As with every single other time in her life since a certain date, if she thinks about it for only a second, the simple fact that she has the ability to out-escalate Mesmer in every possible way, even though she doesn't want to, allows her to feel like she's being magnanimously patient with a contemptible mad dog, and that always does wonders for her composure.
Lilian Rook	"Don't welch on me now, Mesmer Junior." she says, intentionally getting closer, and even going so far as to put one hand on the edge of the cart right beside Mesmer. As long as you can't see her expression, you'd think she were being flirtatious. If you can, it's obvious she's doing it to make the audience weirder. "Familiarize me." . . . But since it hasn't been forthcoming so far, Lilian allows her attention to wander. For the first time in a little while, she indulges the small effort it takes to drop her passively ingrained habit of filtering, and lets herself focus on the thoughts of the Somnambulism patients; what they're allegedly 'dreaming' about and it what state; and then Mesmer's, more probing than the surface; the emotional content of her bristling disgust, and what it is she keeps thinking of when fixating on her. "Or I'm just going to keep this up." she says, too quietly to be heard from the back row.
Foundation Scions	'It's just you and I right now. For better and for worse.' "How intimate." Full-deadpan, eyes on floor tile more than Lilian. "Oh, no. What ever shall I do. I'm sorry, your reputation, whatever it must be to fret over like that, it doesn't concern me. Act how you will." 'I think you might not like it if I did.' "Hm. Would I? This is a place of reason and science. Put it to the test first. There's only so much you can do before security intervenes, if it doesn't fall under my purview," An exhale, "Then I'm sure it'll bother me less than a normal day." 'Right now, I struggle to see Laplace doing the same for yours.' "The Mesmer family name carries weight. This is a serious establishment, and running this ward is serious work. I'm sorry, but it's a bit frivolous to assume that being unable to dress for a cocktail party to perform surgery implies a lack of respect. Look for it in the lives saved, next time." She sounds deathly hollow. The arm she was bracing herself on trembles, as she cups its fist in her other hand. When Lilian approaches the cart, Mesmer's first instinct is, actually, wary concern- that Lilian would be reacting on some fragmentary instinct to help doesn't cross her mind in the slightest. 'What is with you and that calendar?' "Oh. I see that we're not just aiming to dredge up exact quotes. I had thought I remembered the context. Perhaps I was wrong." A calm, cool demeanor is precious-hard to summon up- she isn't either, and it's plain to tell. "The building has WLAN protocols set up. If you don't have a portable computer, well... a visitor pass won't get you into my office." There isn't an audible response, but, in person instead of radio, Lilian can see the way psychotic, hysteric, lunatic, insane, make her flinch. Teeth-grit behind shut lips, eyes stand still. Mesmer Jr. only got as far in learning proper bedside manner as to barely hide the most basic of vulnerabilities- and her practice rarely comes because of patients. "The cretin was a researcher. As of now, he's been demoted, and then reinstated. I can't recall his name. Ask Vertin. She's ever the good one at remembering insignificant peo-" Mesmer actually cuts herself off at that, the bitter taste of words coming out too much for even her. 'It's almost as if you're complaining that I'm not less dressed.' "Delusional. Perhaps you are in the right department. Do you need a screening? The LRC has a policy for novel and extreme cases being significantly discounted." Surely, as pressed as she is right now, Mesmer Jr. wouldn't dare try to escalate more, right? Right..?
Foundation Scions	>All around, the echoes of a dozen sub-lucid dreams overlap in a dozen patient's minds. A man, trapped in a coma from a months-past arcanum accident, has recently started to make progress in neural state- thanks to the fishbowl on his head, he now dreams off endless mazes he only has to find a trailing thread to exit, likelier and likelier with the courses of electromagnetic treatment he's undergoing on the daily. A woman, per the terms of a plea deal, is having an addiction overwritten- her dreams cycle between pleasantries and aversion-spiking nightmares. In another room, a dream of hostile, barren streets tries to draw close and dredge up the core trauma of an agoraphobe, in the hopes to isolate it. And right in front of Lilian, Mesmer Jr. herself- >Mirror-facing retching, blood drying faster on skin and vinyl than soap can combat. Dinner-table psychology down the family tree, shoes set outside to be filled, whether with pride or with pus. There is, truly, no reason in the slightest for her to take such personal measures- just consistency in needle-stab retaliation for her own needle-stab instigation. The calendar? It only matters for the paper-cuts from its pages. 'Familiarize me.' "Oh. To the majority of the staff here, you were one of the first off-worlders seen, and one who just so happened, to not only wander through uninvited on Vertin's special little escapade, but survive it. That gets you known." A shrug. "Attaching the name to soft-core pornography," It so totally isn't that, "That gets a different type of interest. All the researchers at their desks tend to idolize stranger things for less than that. Truly, you're overthinking it- wasn't the whole comment, that you hate so much right now, a warning to you about them? But you wander in, still... Oh, well." Come the fuck on, Mesmer.
Lilian Rook	'Oh, no. What ever shall I do. I'm sorry, your reputation, whatever it must be to fret over like that, it doesn't concern me. Act how you will.' 'Hm. Would I? This is a place of reason and science. Put it to the test first.' 'I'm sorry, but it's a bit frivolous to assume that being unable to dress for a cocktail party to perform surgery implies a lack of respect.' "Which is it, Mesmer?" says Lilian. What sounds like an exhalation comes across as an escalation. Somehow, with her, at least in person, there's that second, different, worse kind of relaxation. Like tension is in the middle, and on one side, the decline towards 'no threat', and on the other side, the decline towards 'no concern'. A type of casual, in tone and posture, that raises hairs. "Am I a violent lunatic that the establishment will inevitably sort out, or am I a frivolous little artificial socialite who's obsessed with image and frightened by conflict? You can't have it both ways." The habitual flinch might otherwise make her feel bad; or more accurately, set her off, but Mesmer flinching as if afraid of being approached sits just fine with Lilian for the next few seconds, until the moment passes, where she finally breathes out. 'If you don't have a portable computer, well... a visitor pass won't get you into my office.' "Laplace hasn't shown you one of these?" Lilian says, using the motion of drawing her phone (distinctly, 'drawing') as a way to retract that half-step without seeming like it. "Go on. I'd love to see your very serious handiwork. Professional guidelines and all." Rather than hastily backing off like with Sonetto, something about the way Mesmer handles it only seems to increase the amount of 'try me' Lilian exudes, like heat or cold. 'She's ever the good one at remembering insignificant peo-' She doesn't comment, but she tilts her head, and stares. It's probably worse. 'Delusional. Perhaps you are in the right department. Do you need a screening?' Lilian emphatically glances down to Mesmer's thigh tattoo, then back up. "How unfortunate. As a human, I'm not certain such things are for me." she says. "I could solicit a therapist on my quarterly Paladins screening, but they've never had much to say; certainly nowhere near as much as you." Lilian half-motion mouths the word 'freak' just after. It's a little too late to be part of the same sentence. There's a pause for thought, in the middle, and a slightly delayed micro-expression of revulsion. §It's not that I don't understand, Mesmer. It's that I don't respect you at all. You're only here because you don't have an ounce of spine to run away with, and you know it. Passively wallow in your helpless suffering until it breaks you, for all I care.§ In that pause, Lilian finds that her feelings mostly agree. Mostly. 'That gets you known.' Lilian shakes her head. "You're not understanding me." she says, borrowing a turn of phrase she personally hates, while still not backing up. "I said I'd familiarize myself with the place, not familiarize it with me. Do you think I'm unsteady with celebrity status?" she sighs. "For someone so allegedly proud of her work, and all the good it allegedly does for the world, you're so tight-lipped I'd mistake you for a con artist. Don't you feel even a little bit embarrassed acting like a cagey new-age 'aura healer' peddling snake oil in the yellow pages?"
Lilian Rook	She only briefly debates something. It's not a good idea, she knows, but the risk is moderate enough for her to rationalize away while pissed off. "Coma, addiction, phobia." she rattles off in order, snapping her fingers in the direction of the ward. "One of them is a plea deal, which I happen to think is a little bit fucked up. It isn't hard to figure out, 'doctor'; this place is a rehabilitation ward with air quotes. Does it ever make you uncomfortable? Or do you feel like they deserve it? Don't tell me you don't think about it at all." Leaning in just close enough to be a provocation, more than 'I'm not touching you' over the boundary of personal space, Lilian lowers her voice, and says "If it's such a miraculous procedure, perhaps you should ask Sonetto about the origin of 'physician, heal thyself'." Finally, Lilian cuts Mesmer a break. Mostly because holding that position any longer is going to make people think Weird. Brushing back her hair again, Lilian's fingers slip under the chain of her pendant and idly fidget with the black chain, removing it from under the neck of her top in the process. "Vertin may be obsessed with people who barely matter--" Lilian finds her own teeth grit for a moment, remembering their absurd association with the Watch, divulged by Sonetto just yesterday, "--but she knows well enough to pay careful attention to the people that matter more. In that regard, she's considerably more thorough and level-headed than you are." she says, folding one arm to support her elbow. "Though your whole . . . 'bit'," she says, with a dismissive gesture. "Is charming in its own way." 'But you wander in, still... Oh, well.' "How do I put this . . ." Lilian says, looking up towards the ceiling for a moment in thought, then back down. "I really don't care at all if the whole of Laplace wants to fuck me raw. They'll worship the ground I walk on once they start seeing what I can do; you'll look like even more of a seething basket case than you already do." says Lilian, releasing her necklace and lifting up her phone instead, accessing the nightmare dimension of the in-office intranet. "Your priorities are embarrassing. Be reasonable for once and just take what I'm offering." Finally, Lilian looks back at the audience, as if she'd only just noticed them, and both smiles over her shoulder and waves with her fingers. Back to Mesmer. "You're on break. So clean yourself up, pick a direction, walk around the corridor with me, point at some interesting things and tell me what they do, turn your nose up at everyone you meet like you usually do, finish off in the commons, then excuse yourself back to work. A rational perspective on this situation would tell you that your career has ample room to gain from it, not to mention your in-office reputation, and it costs you absolutely nothing. If I really have the clout you're sulking about, surely the first thing on your mind would be getting off of milk run duty by being perceived as a favoured contact who can simply report on Vertin through me instead of having to babysit them." She really shouldn't. She knows it. But . . . "If your irrational sense of pride thinks that you're too good for that, you can go back to puking in a janitor's closet like a drowned rat and I'll find someone else who'll be happy for the attention. Then I'll tell them what a hysterical little bitch you are and complain of how nasty you are towards me, and we'll see what happens after a week." "Can you comprehend what I'm saying? I know you'd like it if I broke your nose and caused a security incident." Left unsaid, but implied, 'so I can punish you for misbehaving with manipulative power plays instead'.
Foundation Scions	'Am I a violent lunatic that the establishment will inevitably sort out, or am I a frivolous little artificial socialite who's obsessed with image and frightened by conflict? You can't have it both ways.' 'How unfortunate. As a human, I'm not certain such things are for me.' "What excuse do you have, then? For any of it? Flighty frivolity, delusional behavior, the sickening attitude- something is wrong with you." Even while she's raising the ante by responding, Mesmer un-subtly shifts her stance's angle, keeping her leg more behind her when she notices the attention. It's truly, only, more conspicuous. "Hired only to clear you through, perhaps? Are you scared of the assessment of those actually worth their salt?" 'Laplace hasn't shown you one of these?' "Mobile devices aren't alien. " Even if that one's advanced. "Internal boards, 'extraneous questionnaires' section. Survey is supposed to be there. As I said, completing it was to be remedial. Watch which link, a few dozen are apparently copycats." Oh god, the forums aren't just un-moderated looking, but tonally like a branched-off 4-chan board was left to fester for a decade disconnected from the whole rest of the internet. The second an even pseudo-professional survey relating to a swimsuit calendar hit the boards, a bomb of unseriousness went off. It's fully, completely, unusable. The closer Lilian leans, the tenser Mesmer gets- she can't quell the obvious signs of discomfort. "The fable. I've heard it from the same place as her." That's, really not a follow-up? "There's a limit to how much sympathy is valuable in the treatment of psychiatric conditions. Should I grieve for an addict being pressured into healing, if the process is miserable? Do you not want a victim to wake up again, or a shut-in to bear the outdoors? That won't get you or them anywhere. Calling it snake oil when you've seen me work is an absurd level of denial. What's the shape of the sun?" The spite loosely-restrained in her voice is stronger than the context for that phrase- it's just a standard piece from a questionnaire of perception, for Storm-syndrome baseline assessment, close to, if not exactly what Vertin used with Sonetto in the field- but it's also a slip of Mesmer into overly-familiar, less-thought-out snipping. She truly can't keep up. Lilian's little interactions with the peeking-over staff get giggly responses, distant, still- it's, at the least, like meeting a celebrity on an airline trip, and at most a decent bit weirder and fanfic-esque. Mesmer glares- which doesn't discourage to the degree Lilian encourages, not by a mile. 'Vertin may be obsessed with people who barely matter--' "Stop. I mis-spoke." Quiet, like she doesn't expect to be heard. As Lilian goes on with that specific phrasing, she grits her teeth, queasy for a handful of reasons unrelated to Lilian's direction for the topic. "I mis-spoke. Please, stop." 'How do I put this . . .' Dead-stare, falters turn to failure-to-respond. A spot to needle doesn't open up, and Mesmer's offensive capacities are nearly spent. A hollow nose-wrinkle is all she manages- most likely laughable.
Foundation Scions	'Be reasonable for once and just take what I'm offering.' 'If your irrational sense of pride thinks that you're too good for that,' The circumstances of the two branched paths Lilian outlines may be new, but for the thousandth time, when push comes to shove, there's a need to answer 'reason' or 'personal satisfaction', and for the nine hundred and ninety-ninth time, Mesmer's choice remains the same- the single, sole outlier still leaves the taste of tear gas on the tip of her tongue. It barely matters that what she'd prefer, in this moment, is a dozen times more noxious, or how many times she's doubled down to get to 'when push comes to shove', Mesmer Jr. will cave on what she wants. She doesn't even look that unusually upset about it. A dozen heartbeats and a dozen more, still and quiet, that's what it takes. There isn't any less poison in her eyes, and it's clear she's only barely listening to either outline, words filled in with static-nothing buzz, without complaint and interjection. Systemic shutdown, down to this core principal- slime mold where a backbone should be. 'Can you comprehend what I'm saying?' "Left. That's psychiatric imaging. It has a few of the more intricate pieces of technology left over from before the first Storm, when they could still be made." An alcohol wipe makes its way out of Mesmer's pocket- towards her face and eyes, even if it stings. Smudging cleared-up, and then, habitual necessity, her hands wiped off as well. For the first time, maybe ever, her tone is actually professional. "The company's tooling was bespoke, and development only began in '98. They were new purchases. As it hasn't been 1998 for thirteen years, and may never be again, most of the far older equipment is, ironically, newer. Before you ask, no, it doesn't ever start making sense. Would you like to see them in use?"
Lilian Rook	'What excuse do you have, then? For any of it? Flighty frivolity, delusional behavior, the sickening attitude- something is wrong with you.' The look that Lilian gives Mesmer is difficult to place, but not alien. She isn't trying to communicate well, so she isn't in the mental stance required for things to show properly lke that. If Mesmer feels like reaching, by the slight eye-widening and increased wandering, she might imagine 'that's a better answer', but only then. 'Calling it snake oil when you've seen me work is an absurd level of denial. What's the shape of the sun?' "I see. Then I think I have you dialed in." Lilian says, out of nowhere, in that backing off. "I don't think your ability to listen and comprehend is nearly that poor, so you're the type who sweats and scowls and misconstrues on purpose so they don't have to answer, and hopes the other party is stupid enough to both not notice and go on the defensive; which you're usually correct about." she says, and, insufferably smiles about it. "Come off it. Sympathy has a limit, but you don't feel any at all; even apathy would be better than what you do." She doesn't feel the need to drive her implication any more clearly. "But judging by that answering-machine pissiness, I have to imagine that I'm not the first one to say that." Lilian says. "The fact that you don't intend to defend, much less represent, your craft to an outsider, tells me that you can't possibly think very highly of it. I believe you that Laplace does, though, seeing your shift chart." It's a cold read, but just barely. "And I'm afraid that what's wrong with me has nothing at all to do with this situation. I really just don't like you. I went to school with a hundred other girls like you; except that they were rich and pretty and erudite I suppose." Lilian pauses to reflect on whether the rest of what Mesmer had said earlier is worthy of addressing, and then, clearly, decides not. "Besides. The Paladins, at least at the upper level and not the rank and file, are worth their salt. You . . ." she says, looking her up and down as she takes a step back, and fires another ill-gotten secret. "Didn't you get in because you're a Mesmer?" 'I mis-spoke. Please, stop.' "Your idea of boundaries are well and truly bizarre." Lilian says, not concealing a derisive sniff. You'd almost miss that she does, actually, stop. 'Would you like to see them in use?' Partly because the whiplash from that moment on is weightlessly sickening; a bungee cord having been pulled to its tautest extent and suddenly lurching back up, inducing vertigo and butterflies from dizzying release of tension into backwards movement. Mesmer folding should be the part where Lilian sneers or gloats or says something condescending to put a stamp on this argument and file it away as a win, but pulling out the alcohol wipe has the inverse effect; like cracking the cap of a sealed canister and hearing the hiss of breathable normalcy rushing into the vacuum, the pressure Lilian was exerting on her-- her closeness, her tone, her stare, her hostile body language-- bleeds out into the sterile air, and the ambient noise of the rehabilitation ward reasserts itself as if it had just been muted the whole time.
Lilian Rook	Lilian has her arm folded and her thumbnail placed between her teeth when Mesmer finishes wiping her face, appearing to be less 'pleased' than 'reevaluating', perhaps on the border of 'pleasantly surprised'. Within minutes, there's no sign of her previous attitude at all. Mesmer's return (debut) to professional neutrality improves her mood so much that it should be unthinkable that she isn't basking in her win, but by the time she says "I'd love to, actually.", sounding completely sincere, it's like everything is already forgiven. It might be the creepiest thing she's done since getting here. Maybe by a long shot. If Mesmer is right and there is something seriously wrong with her, then a line surely connects to it from this. "By the way, I hadn't said this earlier, seeing as it wasn't true, but I look forward to working with you." Lilian says on the way out, as if it were an ordinary pleasantry that she hadn't gotten around to, and not faintly psychotic. "The ability to calmly evaluate the choices you have in front of you, hold your nose, and carry out the one that actually benefits you, is astonishingly rare in my field of work. Practically a theoretical particle." For the first time, Lilian isn't doing it on purpose. Repeatedly hammering Mesmer on the subject of 'rationality' and 'logic' was because she knew in advance that it was a weak point. Now she actually means it. The difference is totally thoughtless on her part, and thus, nakedly obvious; after beating someone into obedience, she praises them for obeying. "I think very highly of that trait, so I'll make certain to note it down in my dossier."