Scene #9488:

Owner	Pose
Lilian Rook	The absurdity of driving across the United States and staying in a minuscule rural motel, both as an exercise in saving the world from imminent collapse and as Petra's idea of a casual getaway date, has fully sunk in by 2AM. Given that much time to pass out, eat, drink, flush the drugs and alcohol from her system, collapse in the closest bed to the door despite Petra sniping it, work out, pass out again, take a bizarre 1AM shower, and go back on with her life as if the sun had politely waited for her, even Lilian is left grappling with how undeniably stupid this all is, despite the gravity of the situation. That's the secondary reason she's outdoors. It would be easy enough to turn on a reading light and chip away at her desk work, or roll out her kit and tool away at her latest alchemical manual, but intellectual tasks only leave her mind drifting towards the surreality of being here at all like persistent tinnitus emerging from background silence. Staving off thought until morning requires physical activity, and she's already confirmed that Petra is too exhausted to go anywhere. The primary reason is that even here, in the middle of fisheye lens USA, chasing after something as ridiculous as the 'geographical center', trapped on a road trip by a sequence of terrible decisions followed by worrying responsibility, Lilian Rook gets her hours in. It's more than just a habit. It's more like a compulsion, or an addiction; a burning need that has long ago escaped the grasp of reason and its sober consideration. Lilian doesn't even think about what causes it anymore. Every minute she rests while other people work is like sitting on hot coals, and every minute she works while other people rest serves to soothe the nameless discomfort that always builds up throughout the day; no more compelling reason is necessary for her to grab her things, pick up her blade, and walk out into the night. Just barely across the street, in a pool of lamplight on the edge of an empty parking lot, not far from the locked door of a liquor store and the glow of multiple vending machines, Lilian has casually demarcated a portion of the tarmac as her zone for tonight, and gone about her exercises as if her surroundings made no difference at all. With nowhere more compelling to go, somewhere this public-yet-lonesome possesses the solitary virtue of being not very far to drag her equipment, which now wastefully barely-occupies several parking spaces. It isn't easy to tell how long she's been there by looking. In order to know for certain, one would have to be awake all night, in which case there are other, bigger things to worry about, and apologize for. It's unlikely that it matters, with everyone in town locked up inside their homes like this. Nobody cares about some freak girl in fancy clothes lifting weights, playing with chalk, and chopping up bamboo outside. The noise she makes is inconsequential compared to the ominous rumbling of the sky.
Foundation Scions	In the quiet of the late late night, without even as much as the passing car to spit out enough noise for some measure of cover, beyond the background rumbling of the sky, it's the flat clacking noise of Mesmer's stupid Jetsons boots against crumbly asphalt that reveal the presence of Any Other Person in this small segment of the tiny town. At her first trespass into the lot's streetlamp-lit expanse, arms crossed in front of her, permanent look of disdain baked-into her expression, a posture and appearance that would fit if she was trying to act defensive about something or other, but she's clearly unfocused, staring instead beyond the corner of the lot Lilian's taken up and at the wall of cash vending machinery. As surprising that it may be for anyone at all to be awake at this hour, it's only a small bit of effort to piece together why Mesmer is- with her usual, horrible, 24-hour shifts at the Laplace Rehabilitation Center, what possible way would Mesmer have to not possess an unhealthily distorted circadian rhythm- it's only even a couple hours after the time she'd be leaving her workplace, a normal time for doing existential maintenance tasks, such as eating. Which, as she's made a show of, has not happened yet on the road trip. Whatever else she's been doing while cooped up in the tacky 'Wyoming room', in the intermediate hours, must have been approximately as dull as her sitting quietly for hours on the drive, the main nucleation point having been the embarrassed efforts of her coworker's piecing-together of an incident report- unfortunately, she's obviously been awake the entire time since. It's alien that Mesmer barely notices Lilian is there, until far after she should, as she shuffles towards the liquor store's moth-circled vending machines. When she does, she stops, takes half a step back, and then undoes the move, staying put. Instead of staring at her, or immediately saying something noxious, Mesmer stares at Lilian's scattered-on-the-ground equipment with a sneer she probably calorically can't budget. Talking objectively quietly, but with a noise level that startles her to even hear herself, "It makes clear sense that you're the type to play with toys." Alien again, skirting the perimeter of Lilian's practice area, Mesmer seems to assume that that little comment is enough of a passing interaction, right now, to get on with her task. With whatever task management procedures are taking up her brainpower right now, is it insulting, or a relief, that there isn't more than that much effort spared right now? Probably insulting, given Mesmer is still insulting her. Still- be it from some manner of paranoia, or less-rationally-based neurose, as Mesmer maneuvers to interact with the vending machines (wiping down their keypads before even touching them with gloves), she carefully avoids crossing over or stepping on any of the chalkwork lines Lilian has sketched out on the pavement, going so far as to nearly twist her ankles in the realization that she would, if she doesn't course-correct. With money in hand, to feed into one of the Commerce Rectangles, Mesmer spares another set of words- "It's recommended, for health and mental stability, to sleep between the hours of sun-set and sun-rise." Is that a joke? Is that some deranged comment on knowing more about what-not than she should? Is she being self-deprecating? Literally who knows, she talks with flatter tone than the state of Kansas (which hopefully isn't the next zone to cross on this trip.) The vending machine spits out a protein bar, and before she even leans down to fish it out of the trapdoor, she's putting more neatly-folded cash into the machine again.
Lilian Rook	Of course she'd recognize the shoes. Footsteps at all at this hour are so unlikely that there's barely a list of possibilities for Lilian to even sort through. Perhaps it's for the same reason that she'd been steadier on her feet with a sword in hand while intoxicated that she doesn't instantly drop what she's doing when she hears it. Even when Mesmer gets close enough that someone less generally alert than Lilian Rook should notice, the repetitions continue on, well past midnight. Back turned, eyes forward,like a silent contract not to notice her existence as long as she keeps moving. 'It makes clear sense that you're the type to play with toys.' Lilian exhales; slowly and off-rhythm enough to feel louder than it is. It's like rising microphone gain, boosted to catch the words in the dark, whether she likes it or not. "It's closed." Lilian says. She doesn't bother to gesture at the liquor store itself. Not when the context is so clear. Fully engrossed in her cutting post, Lilian doesn't break form until her attempt to reach six consecutive slashes, without disturbing the invisibly bisected pieces still balanced on top of one another, falls apart into clattering noise and a half-breathed swear. "And how is that, exactly?" Lilian says, turning around to face Mesmer at the vending machines. Her followup slips through her grasp. Under the tacky orange light of a street lamp, she is suddenly stricken by some sense of Mesmer's proximity, her tangibility, ouside of Laplace, that a sudden hyperawareness of the exact distance between them overrides all else. Her lips just pause mid-motion. Pupils dilated, her eyes wander from the arm up, lingering on her neck, memorizing the exact shade of her skin near the vending machine. Lilian senses her grip squeezing too-tight around the sword hanging at her side. She pinches the inside of her wrist, and bites her lip to stifle the noise. 'It's recommended, for health and mental stability, to sleep between the hours of sun-set and sun-rise.' Perhaps it's just because she doesn't really remember getting physical with Mesmer earlier, or perhaps it's a matter of this being her realm that Mesmer is intruding into and not vice versa. The energy provoked by that statement courses through her in a repeting circuit, restless trembling restrained to near-invisibility. Holding her breath, Lilian looks away first, pink-faced. She doesn't dare confirm or deny anything. "If you'd listened to a word I said, you'd know I maintain a polyphasic sleep cycle to increase my number of productive hours." she says. The words are directed at the pitch blackness of the street, rather than the vending machines. "Unlike some people, I don't have the luxury of wasting a third or more of every day. My work demands constant refinement and adaptation." She somehow finds it within herself to be frosty and nerve-wrackingly stiff, even while looking like that. The first protein bar doesn't catch her notice at all. The second causes her eyes to flick back. Lilian frowns. "You can't be serious. Is that meant to be dinner?" she says. Then something about Mesmer's condescending posture forces her to look away again. "Surely they didn't shove you out the door before you had any time to prepare at all."
Foundation Scions	'It's closed.' "Yes." What? That's it from her on that? What the fuck. As Mesmer walks by, she does, actually (even if muted) react to Lilian's post-strikes- each one elicits something close to a flinch, a slight tightening of shoulders and corner-eye glances, an awful artifact of how high-strung the surgeon is at all times, turning vitriolic in the clear animal assumption that Lilian, to her, is some manner of threat. 'And how is that, exactly?' 'Unlike some people, I don't have the luxury of wasting a third or more of every day.' Mesmer refuses to speak further on the first point until Lilian rebuts her (similarly not-followed) health guidance- "It's the exact same thing, isn't it? As a troublesome child sneaking books and figurines underneath a torch-lit blanket tent. It's an unfortunate, unhealthy sentiment to spend rest hours unrestful, but, your choice of time expenditure is telling. 'Playing with toys'. Hm. No, I'm not actually interested in further analysis of that. Try to hide it better if you're embarrassed, it's not as if it's pleasant to notice. It certainly seems you've been awake a long while." Mesmer sighs, closer to just a normal exhale, and gives out a dismissive eye-roll. At the vending machines, waiting for machinery to whirr its way to providing her sustenance, and clearly keenly aware of Lilian's gaze (or acting under the assumption that Lilian is staring at her), Mesmer, arms still crossed in front of her chest, shrugs her shoulders to, seemingly, wrap the unhinged transparent windbreak jacket around herself, as if the only cover that offered was to reflect funny in sodium-bulb lighting. Then, the machine still slow to work, she just starts to- actually very angry-looking, tap her foot in impatience. She actually stares at the protein bar's fall instead of even glancing towards Lilian. Then, even more unhinged, she relaxes her posture, if only (keyword if, it's hardly plausible deniability) to roll out a stiff neck. 'You can't be serious. Is that meant to be dinner?' "I'd hardly call it 'dinner', no. There's a number of food groups missing, without sufficient vitamin supplementation." Before leaning down to fish the two bars out, she sticks the bills for a third in. Double-chocolate flavor, which would be decadent and candylike if it wasn't in the chalky, oat-y formulation of a Clif bar. Ungracefully, she holds two, then the third tucked between an elbow and her side, as she struggles to open one without her gloves actually brushing the food inside. Is she just going to eat them here? And not even give Lilian the grace of her leaving once her mission is fulfilled? Freak. 'Surely they didn't shove you out the door before you had any time to prepare at all.' "There was minimal briefing, and I wrongly assumed the rational expectation of having ample opportunity to shop for reliable and sanitary food would be upkept. But, no. Greasy roach-holes and fly-bitten slabs of-" She cuts off, and takes a bite. After a moment of careful chewing, she speaks up again. "The brain requires a constant stream of metabolic glucose in order to maintain conscious existence. It's as simple as that. Sugar, lipids, amino groupings. I'll survive it, and who's to say those disgusting, filthy conditions earlier would result in the same." Another bite. "So? I'm not interrupting, am I? It can't be that I'm taking the role of the dorm monitor ensuring nobody stays past curfew, in your toy-playing delusion, is it? I don't want to be involved in it at all." There's no way she's acting that condescending, in a liquor store parking lot, at this hour of the night, with three Clif bars in hand, is there? What is wrong with her?
Lilian Rook	'It's the exact same thing, isn't it? As a troublesome child sneaking books and figurines underneath a torch-lit blanket tent.' Barely able to think one thought at a time on three different depressants at once, Lilian had given off the overpowering impression that she was close to breaking Mesmer's neck in a parking lot over much less than this. With the concepts of action and consequence back on speaking terms inside Lilian's head as usual, though, the energy of Lilian's attention is completely different. And familiar. Mesmer doesn't have to read her mind to recognize the particular tenseness of someome who knows very well that anything that happens now will be blamed on her. Even before saying a word, Lilian becomes agonizingly aware of Mesmer's present untouchability, in a way that goes far deeper than her being a fellow Paladin. She pinches her inner wrist a second time, until it hurts. "What do you think you're getting at?" Lilian says. No amount of arch tone nor dismissive staring really makes it land. "You're supposed to be all about combining 'arcanum' with human reasoning, and the technology resultant thereof. Surely your commitment to scientific rigour couldn't be so shallow." she says. "So what precisely do you hope to achieve by harping on my alleged childishness? No one else is watching." She has the calm, collected affect of someone looking to get out of a doctor's office. Her perfectly patient, modestly prosocial, conciliatory-yet-guarded approach, even at this hour, is nothing less than a ten out of ten. Her old way of dealing with people, lightly implying a boundary while proactively directing them away from it by dissociative carrot and stick, has barely dulled for its frequently long storage. It's exactly how a chronic case talks to a psychiatrist who's looking very hard to pin something on them, after the last one couldn't. 'Try to hide it better if you're embarrassed, it's not as if it's pleasant to notice. It certainly seems you've been awake a long while.' Lilian squeezes her teeth together, but resists grinding them. The trace of red in her face is only half embarrassment. The other half is, "It's ugly of you to compare a human being to a childish toy, don't you think? Especially if it's just to dismiss all the work she put into learning about my situation and looking after me." The words should be for someone else. They feel leaden, amidst the quiet hum of electric lighting and the fluttering of moths. They sink too easily, under whatever pressure it is that keeps Lilian tensely fixed in place, rhythmically squeezing the handle of her sword for reassurance. 'I'll survive it, and who's to say those disgusting, filthy conditions earlier would result in the same.' "I wouldn't know. I don't remember." Lilian says, in prim and properly terse honesty. Of course she doesn't. She wouldn't be talking like this if she had any recollection of her intoxicated meltdown at exactly the same thing. "But if it's like that, then fine." Lilian seizes on some invisible opportunity; some unspoken permission to move from her spot, and temporarily 'be dismissed'. Walking a short distance to her bag, moved from the footwell of the van, to her room, to the curbside under the street lamp, she crouches down to retrieve a silvery foil-wrapped package the size of laptop computer, followed by a disposable plastic bottle of water, and a vacuum-wrapped pair of sterile gloves in individual packaging, from what looks like a half-depleted box of them. Walking faster towards Mesmer than she had away, Lilian lightly shoves all three items, one after another, into her arms.
Lilian Rook	"I won't have you excusing your behaviour on being hungry." Lilian says. She really, truly, must not remember, because the package is an MRE. Immunes issue, not Paladins, and expensive. Eyeshot of the open bag betrays three of them, along with stockpiles of medication simply thrown in with cosmetics and bandages, next to open cartons of pre-packaged sundries. "They write instrunctions on the inside. I'm certain you can figure it out." 'So? I'm not interrupting, am I? It can't be that I'm taking the role of the dorm monitor ensuring nobody stays past curfew, in your toy-playing delusion, is it?' The question bothers her more than it should. Having to get close enough to hand over anything makes it all twice as difficult. In lieu of a retort, Lilian hastily forces herself to step backwards. Her fingertips twitch at the empty space left by her cargo, then curl into a fist by her side. "This must be so easy for you." Lilian whispers, too loud. "You don't have a life of your own, so it's easy to judge everyone else's. You're like a puppet that only comes to life when Laplace needs you. You don't have needs or wants or goals or things you have to live with; you just treat yourself like a machine because the rest of your life is set." "You've never wanted anything enough to get hurt for it." Lilian quietly seethes. "Why should I care what you think when you don't?"
Foundation Scions	'You're supposed to be all about combining 'arcanum' with human reasoning, and the technology resultant thereof. Surely your commitment to scientific rigour couldn't be so shallow.' "It isn't. But it's a mistake to levy the goals of the LSCC as my own. If I never had to as much as hear the word 'arcanum' again, I'd be all the happier." Mesmer sighs, in a way that betrays she's trying to seem calmer than she actually is about it- "My apologies, nonetheless. I'm afraid I'm a reckless, irrational arcanist, and the nuances of human reason are incompatible with me. Maybe you're correct, that all of my work and efforts are inane, useless trivialities, that the tangible impacts on the well-being of others derived from it are mass delusion and placebo. It's not as if it will make its way into the history books, as yet another chapter of the Mesmer bloodline's contributions to the world. History has, after all, already gone extinct." Somewhere, halfway through, she's stopped being sarcastic enough to not be horribly leaky- it's a blurry line, but by how she quiets up and takes a breath after, be it from low blood sugar, exhaustion, or a day full of neurotic vigilance and misbehavior, she let herself get more ramblesome about it than she'd rather have been. Air in through her nose, out through her mouth- pathetic, frankly, and in a nasal whiny tone, what she follows it all with is "I'm not on the clock either way. You're right. No one else is watching." A moment passes, and Mesmer looks up at the sides of the liquor store's roof. "Hm. It'd be reasonable to expect cameras would be, but no." Literally what could she get out of pointing this out? 'It's ugly of you to compare a human being to a childish toy, don't you think?' Flat-tone, "Oh. I was speaking about the equipment you've carted out here. Unless the sword talks to you?" That's not even plausible deniability. That's just insane. Something is wrong with her, and it isn't just the part that's cleaning keypads with individually-wrapped alcohol wipes, and pressing pound-sign 4-5-B, three times in a row, two crisp dollars and two grime-packed quarters each, to get the first food anyone's seen her eat in hours and hours and hours. She's pressing buttons with just to see if there's an input that leads to an output, without the signal fizzling along the pathway. "It's somewhat cold out. If you come down with a rhinoviral infection, part of the first aid supplies I've brought include respiratory masks. As tomorrow no doubt entails another car journey, it's my duty to prevent an isolated epidemic." By literally every facet of reason Mesmer is more likely to get cold and sick than Lilian is, by lifestyle and exposure. Is this because of the bubble helmet thing? Who can tell! It's certainly not precautionary care! 'I wouldn't know. I don't remember.' "That makes one of us. I'd say I'm envious, but, as I was sober through it, it would be a sign of mental instability." Mesmer exhales- "I'll note that I should examine my mental state by the end of this mission regardless." With contextual whiplash- "If you still have the remaining pills, refrain from consuming offered alcohol while on them. It's a dangerous combination. Avoiding that, they ought to be fine. A minimum of side effects, a general-purpose formulation, even if a potent one. It's verifiably pure and properly composed, per LRC pharmaceutical guidelines. I'll need the remainder returned at the end of the mission, but-"
Foundation Scions	'I won't have you excusing your behaviour on being hungry.' Mesmer is completely stunlocked, holding her stupid Clif bars, when Lilian gets the bag and approaches with it. She forgets to chew, some mixture of sheer confusion and flight-or-fight response has just overwritten higher reasoning. The reveal of the MRE, however, throws gasoline on the confusion fire. It's obviously not poison, which is her first expectation upon seeing that it's food- it's sealed, and reputable-seeming, it's large, and it clearly wasn't originally meant for her- so either it's poison very deceptively packed and carried, or it's safe food- which hardly answers why she's offering it to her. With an awkward grip as to not let go of any of the Clif bars, she takes it, wide-eyed, blatantly unsure. "I wasn't planning to use that as an 'excuse'. It's a matter of fact- I keep to a strict schedule, this is just the natural time my requirements for food are to be dealt with." She's trying to act more machine-like than the actual machine-people employed at Laplace. "Do you want a 'thank you'?" Mesmer takes a long moment to examine the package, re-circling back to what she's already seen of it. Before her question can be answered, she actually does offer the words- "Thank you." No follow-up, no immediate, renege, and frankly, that's just salt on the wounds of every other word she's spoken here. A moment passes, and her eyes narrow again- "I won't eat it out here, if your intent was to get the opportunity to watch me. I'd prefer the privacy of my room." 'You don't have needs or wants or goals or things you have to live with; you just treat yourself like a machine because the rest of your life is set.' Fixed-eye stare, but no contest given to the statement. 'You've never wanted anything enough to get hurt for it.' "It wouldn't matter if I did. I'd be in the same shoes, the same circumstances. If it's all the same to you, if the choice is to be hurt, or not be hurt, that's clearly a simple one." Obviously, there's a clear implication as to the right answer there, and obviously, like with nearly everything else Mesmer says, she's not speaking in truths.
Lilian Rook	'It isn't. But it's a mistake to levy the goals of the LSCC as my own. If I never had to as much as hear the word 'arcanum' again, I'd be all the happier.' "Goodness. My mistake." Lilian says, two shades too antipathetic for what the sentiment justifies. More than it has reason to bother her at all. "You were, after all, simply installed there by family decision. It really is a shame that you feel that way, though." Even transfixed by some nameless obligation, pinned in place by whatever arrangement makes her so restless, Lilian finds the moment to toss back her hair in disinterest. "As far as I'm concerned, they're on the right track. Arcanum is the only thing worth anything that comes out of that place." she says, and then with a certain strange emphasis, "And in the conditions of the Storm, it's more reliable than science, isn't it? At the end of all this, arcanum is the half that will come out unaltered." 'I'm not on the clock either way. You're right. No one else is watching.' 'Hm. It'd be reasonable to expect cameras would be, but no.' Lilian's breath catches in her throat. Her eyes widen, then narrow; she opens her mouth, then presses her teeth back together, showing them through a confused-disgusted sneer. Looking at the roof corner along with Mesmer, gaze directed by gaze, pollutes her expression with a wave of something like concern, as a convulsion of worry comes and goes through her head. "I'm not your--" she starts, then digs her left fingernails into her right wrist until she has to bite down on her lip. Her knuckles tremble from the efort. "You'd think." she says, queasily. Around quickened breaths. "It is a liquor store after all. They must be very trusting people." She shambles through the sentence, voice tight with inexplicably nauseated stress. 'Oh. I was speaking about the equipment you've carted out here. Unless the sword talks to you?' Against the monotomous backdrop of the humming machines the the rumbling sky, the fracture in Lilian's patience can almot be heard. Like cracked ice. "You're so jealous it's making you talk like a mental case." Lilian hisses. She plants Night Mist point down into the tarmac, deniably punctuating her little outburst, and wills herself to release the hilt with effort. "Grow up. That girl is doing her best. If you don't like it then go and sleep in the car; then I won't have to write you up for harassment." 'It's somewhat cold out. If you come down with a rhinoviral infection, part of the first aid supplies I've brought include respiratory masks.' The sound of exasperation that Lilian makes is a failure of square breathing, induced by forcefully reminding herself that if Mesmer returns with so much as a broken nail, she'll be stuck in a car with six people who've assumed she assaulted her. "Did you know that colds don't come from just being out in the cold, despite their name?" Lilian says, straining a conversational tone. "You may as well just tell me to wear a muzzle at this rate." There's space for a 'ha ha' afterwards, but she doesn't laugh. She can't spare the focus away from not thinking about the interaction between Mesmer's stupid bare legs and a parking surface this old and poorly maintained. 'Do you want a 'thank you'?' "It'd be nice." Lilian says, audibly bitter, yet still falteringly professional. The only way she knows how to talk at all in these situations is the part that Mesmer has her playing: an unproveable pariah under examination, cloaked in decorum and little else. 'Thank you.' So hearing it anyways feels like being suckerpunched. Hesitantly clutching the side of her head, Lilian struggles to breathe for a moment.
Lilian Rook	'I won't eat it out here, if your intent was to get the opportunity to watch me.' "I'd planned on opening up one of my own and eating on the curb, actually." she says, halfway to dizzy. The words "You're welcome to join me." leave her mouth automatically, and she winces only a split second later. No matter. It's not like she actually would. "It'd be inefficient to wake Petra up just to eat. She's worked hard enough today." 'It wouldn't matter if I did. I'd be in the same shoes, the same circumstances. If it's all the same to you, if the choice is to be hurt, or not be hurt, that's clearly a simple one.' "Do you really think so little of humans?" Lilian says. The words are possessed with a strange sense of urgency, for how incomprehensible they briefly are. "Is this your best idea of how to be more like one? To embrace nihilism through Darwin and declare yourself a mere animalian mechanism like a badge of allegiance?" Lilian turns around to make the round trip to her bag again, excusing herself to retrieve food and water of her own. It looks a lot like trying to cool down. "Somehow you've found a way to be less like an arcanist than a human is, and less like a human than an arcanist is. If you were really as irrational and strange as you claim, it'd at least be possible to converse with you."
Foundation Scions	'You were, after all, simply installed there by family decision.' There's no sharpness in Mesmer's reception to the statement- "That's one way to put it. Or you could say I was personally asked-for to staff the position, and offer my unique skills to the rehabilitation efforts of the institute. You could say I even had the recommendation of the St. Pavlov Foundation for it." Really, it's all the same. Flat tone, but in the same way one might sarcastically say she suspects her dog has been replaced by a space alien- as if it's unbelievable at its core, absurd to bring up, and a joke to even consider taking it seriously. 'At the end of all this, arcanum is the half that will come out unaltered.' Mesmer squints. "Were you previously aware of that sentiment being held by the likes of the Manus Vindictae terrorists? No, the fundamentals of reason stay true regardless of the status quo, one plus one always equals two, et cetera. 'Progress' isn't a resource that can be lost, but an inevitable pathway no matter the steps backwards catastrophic conditions push us. The past will die in the past again, where it belongs, and all the straggling endlings of it will fade away too. 'Arcanum' only has the bearing it does thanks to irrational calamities that spit on the notion of reality. And no, I can't say it's more reliable as science- instead, it's equally unreliable. I wouldn't celebrate that if I were you. It isn't a point of victory." 'It is a liquor store after all. They must be very trusting people.' Mesmer's eyes are narrowed still, from Lilian's dropped half-sentence. "Yes. I wouldn't be, in such a remote location, but ignorance of risk is an active choice many take, for the animal impulse to seek illusion over reality." Mesmer exhales, and unconsciously reaches for a pocket- transparently, the impulse is to grab a cigarette, but with her hand nearly on her hip, she stops for a moment, thinks other of it, and stays frozen in position until she can reorient back to the task at hand of raiding vending machines. 'You're so jealous it's making you talk like a mental case.' "You're imagining things again." She's so pathetic about this. "It's the dead of night, you're exercising in a storefront's parking lot. I know the bearings of my mental stability, but have you monitored yours? It's not as if there are tape recordings to cross-reference."
Foundation Scions	'Did you know that colds don't come from just being out in the cold, despite their name?' "Yes. But the conditions pose altered states of immune defense, and ambient pathogens seize those opportunities. Without the necessary precautions," God is she really trying to call Lilian unhygienic?? "It should hardly come as a surprise if it does occur." Mid-sentence, Mesmer makes the motion to try and check her own fingernails for the likes of dirt- forgetting she's wearing opaque gloves. She tries even to casually pass off the action as flicking some not-present mote of dirt off the material, but the little eyelid twitch of annoyance gives it away as un-thought-through. 'You may as well just tell me to wear a muzzle at this rate.' "Why would I ask that? Did you acquire a saliva-borne infection while..." Disdain, "'Out in the woods'? Lyssavirus rabies is quite an ugly disease, but the incubation period for contagious spread is long enough out that it would hardly matter if you bit anyone in the near-term. By the time it is, it's terminal, too. Near one-hundred percent, slow, painful, ugly and scary. A complete degradation of reasoning and communication skills, sympathetic nervous alarm to every manner of life-sustaining measure, it's always surprised me that the characteristic often spoken-of is the salivary foaming, when even that follows absurd hysteria and mindless violence." Mesmer sighs. "It's crude to imply a proper usage of disease-prevention equipment is so tied to the care of deleriously-infected animals. Still, that's one more point in a small trend I've noticed." For an unhinged bit of emphasis, or just because she is hungry, Mesmer takes another bite of the unwrapped Clif bar. Summarily disarmed by the offering of the MRE, Mesmer doesn't continue along that topic-line, despite having stopped right before the potentially-meanest point. It's hardly out of mercy- the unexpected nature leaves her entirely uncertain what to do, for long enough, that the conversational tangent she had in mind fizzles. TIP: the Mesmer's dialogue options can be rerolled with the right choice of action!
Foundation Scions	'You're welcome to join me.' "Fine." Only after, when Lilian brings up the 'efficiency', and with the full judging-squint of knowing she's being insulted, does she agree- "You're right. It would be absurd to cause unneeded disturbances, just for the lack of sensible facilities being present." Eye-rollingly, "At least there's a curb. The barest trace of civilization." Uh oh. Mesmer Jr. follows, in fact, to a curb, before continuing on conversation- with her arms awkwardly full, her first course of action is to take off that stupid see-through jacket, and place it down on the ground as an impromptu seatcushion- a moment after she sits down on it, and sets the packages down such that the open Clif bar only rests on what she's deemed sanitary enough, by unspoken measures, she stands up, picks up the jacket, and puts it back around herself un-fastened. 'Is this your best idea of how to be more like one?' Mesmer pulls the crinkling packaging of the MRE open, knees serving as a makeshift table. "No. That's not the intent at all. It's a necessity to come to terms with the hurdles one's nature imposes upon one's role. I simply know my role, and my nature. Be it ignorance or ambivalence, any other attitude on the matter would be a personal flaw. A common one, disgustingly so." Quietly, she reads the pack's directions, and follows along- the sealed water bottle gets cracked open, half of it vanishing in just a moment. 'If you were really as irrational and strange as you claim, it'd at least be possible to converse with you.' Jaw-tense, nose wrinkled, Mesmer tries to exhale, and the air catches awkward in her throat. "Excuse me? What does that even mean? It's as if you can't hear yourself when you let yourself speak-" That's the extent of her verbal rebuttal- instead, Mesmer just looks viscerally disgusted with the notion- all parts of it, no matter how contrary it may be to some of the claims she's just made to react like that. A small motion, to tug her jacket tighter around herself, nearly knocks the water bottle over, un-capped, in a jolt that causes Mesmer to look like she's about to scream. Heartbeat after heartbeat goes by- "Oh- what flavor is this packaged meal?" In all her inspections, it's not something she'd paid attention to notice, and as if it's a grounding technique, gloved, she starts to go through the contents looking for labels. Huh??
Lilian Rook	The very notion that Mesmer could mean anything about her position but a snotty rephrasing of Lilian's own words is inherently absurd. So much that Lilian, despite her solitary company, doesn't deign to answer it at all. She forgets to even scoff, and then the next subject won't let her. 'Were you previously aware of that sentiment being held by the likes of the Manus Vindictae terrorists?' 'For a lady to compliment my dress is quite-alright. But saying things like 'extras'... ahh, should you not join the Manus?' It feels like her heart tried to punch her ribcage. Suppressing a wave of dizziness like she was all night earlier, Lilian achieves the level of arch cynicism she was hoping for in saying "No, I can't say I was. They didn't seem terribly eager to explain anything to me before shooting me." Feeling the moment of grace under fire already starting to drain, she hastens just slightly to append, "You'll have to elaborate for me. As an arcanist, they'll speak to you, after all." "No matter how delusional." Lilian feels the moment it slips. Trying to pull out of it allows audible strain to creep into her voice. "A common delusion, mind you, entertained throughout history by whoever happens to be rich at the time." Lilian says, like this was all about explaining some historical factoid; a weak but barely plausible save. "There is no such thing as inevitable progress. The very idea is nothing more than a coating of pseudointellectual paint over the concept of destiny. 'Progress' itself is an incoherent concept, even." And yet, at some point, covering her ass for snapping in a somehow inappropriate way, at a somehow inappropriate time, still turns, if not 'personal', something Lilian is strangely invested in. Enough, at least, to keep going, when it's already settled. "Societies become wealthy and advanced and then collapse into obsolesence the same way that empires become powerful and then shatter and cultures become tolerant and then snap backwards into barbarism. Everything humanity achieves is attributable to predictable, temporary, material events and status quos. Universal axioms have nothing to do with it. Even the rise of magic in my own world can be drawn straight through the asymmetrical casualty rate." "The one thing that's meant to be left over, after each bubble bursts and the humans within it discover the consequences of their actions, is knowledge; something meant to be indestructible, and built upon by their successors. And now you don't even have that." Lilian lets slip part of a scowl, realizing how overlong she's spoken. As if disgusted that she'd ever share a topic sincerely with the woman in front of her. She says "So, as always, the only thing that can truly be trusted is individual people." more than a little resentfully. 'Yes. I wouldn't be, in such a remote location, but ignorance of risk is an active choice many take, for the animal impulse to seek illusion over reality.' "You're being far more trusting than they are." Lilian snaps on impulse. Her nerves, already frayed, aren't doing any better for that graze just now, nor the proverbial ink she'd spilled as if bleeding from it. Even the word 'animal' coming up again subtly makes her jump. Whatever it is she meant to say, it spirals into the abyss, drowned out by the volume of her internal monologue screaming at her about when she became this bad at talking to doctors and teachers. 'I know the bearings of my mental stability, but have you monitored yours?' "Why would I bother? I already know what it'll say." Lilian scoffs; affected successfully this time, due to her genuine derision of the idea. "It may serve you well to consider that perhaps you have simply communicated your intent poorly before accusing others of overactive imaginations." is barely diplomatic.
Lilian Rook	It's almost a relief when Mesmer goes on an insane tangent about rabies-- No, it definitely is one. Lilian's jitters only start to settle when she does. Some inner turbulence is obviously smoothing out again for every second Mesmer rants about slow and miserable death. None of those things have anything to do with her, after all. Letting the quack ramble on about something of personal interest is the safe period, where you smile and nod and let them run out the clock, though Lilian isn't in any mood to do the first two. 'Still, that's one more point in a small trend I've noticed.' "Goodness. I wonder what that must look like." Lilian says, sarcastically, only after she's acquired her own meal, so that she can fire it off in motion, without eye contact, like a defensive modifier. "Your 'trends' are so numerous and observable that I sometimes forget you're the mental health worker, and not a case I've been assigned." It's perhaps a little over the line, for the context, but a petty insult is a petty insult, and eminently unremarkable. Everything is settled now, so at least-- 'At least there's a curb. The barest trace of civilization.' Lilian's forced smile and averted gaze is so bafflingly inappropriate that the only thing she could be thinking is 'NO! NO! WHY DID I SAY THAT?!' on repeat. She smooths down her skirt and sits at the furthest technically-sociable distance with the ease and fluidity of a shitty animatronic, cracking the seal on her water bottle by accidentally splitting the cap in half in her grip, and very carefully setting it down behind her where Mesmer can't see it come out of her hand. 'Excuse me? What does that even mean? It's as if you can't hear yourself when you let yourself speak-' "What I mean is that your attempts at being blandly and robotically rational are too clumsy and inconsistent to give me any handhold for serious conversations, and your deathly allergy to meaning anything you say from a place of emotion makes an informal conversation like trying to talk to a severe dementia patient." Lilian says, both blandly and with such casual immediacy that can only be taken as a blunt admission that this is a very easy thing to explain for her. "If you were as rational as you want to be, we could talk about our present and future circumstances, our respective organizations, our interests in science, philosophy, politics, medicine, or even just our goals and negotiated boundaries. If you were as irrational as you claim, someone could engage you on a human, emotional level, and have a proper talk about what you actually want; your hopes and fears and feelings, what you think of people and what you want from them, the things you care about and want to change." Sighing, Lilian rips open the package, retrieves the chemical heater sleeve, and pours in a small portion of her water, measuring up to a line. "But you're neither. You're just . . . lukewarm. So no one has anything to say to you. You won't let them." 'Oh- what flavor is this packaged meal?' Lilian double takes, but mantles it smoothly all the same. "Apologies, I didn't think to ask if you had any preferences." she says, neutrally. "You have my schedule A, so that's Irish stew, potato au gratin, bacon jam brussel sprouts, pound cake, snack bread with peanut butter and jam packs, french vanilla capuccino, a carbohydrate electrolyte drink, and the usual accessories; gum, creamer, sugar, salt, wipes, et cetera." She lists it all off on her fingers while propping hers up on the curb diagonally, but it's sensible she'd at least memorize what she brought herself. Even relatively small portions make that food for an adult man and a half, though. "If you don't like that, we can swap."
Foundation Scions	'You'll have to elaborate for me. As an arcanist, they'll speak to you, after all.' "To create a 'supremacy' of arcanists as the status-quo of reality, by capitalizing on the chaos of the Storm to opportunistically dismantle systems of human science and progress. The group certainly couldn't be happier about the Storm- the cause-and-effect of one day leading to the next no longer being taken for granted, as those contrary to the teachings of rational logic and science, it's no large stretch to consider the annihilation of those at the safekeeping of arcanum as a terroristic sentiment." With a soft exhale, like the explanation is boring, Mesmer takes a moment just to hold air quiet, then continues. Insane zealots, or the victims of such brainwashings, it's an extremist group so clearly counter to everything that a reasonable person ought believe. I've seen prisoners ramble about old days of power, control, and barbarism, in salient gaps between incoherent ravings. I've seen prisoners under examination try and bash their skulls through wardroom walls, too, in raving prayer. If you've naturally come around to their positions..." Eyes narrow, "I'm sure it's clear how that's a mote of concern." "Well. They didn't do a particularly good job of shooting you, it seems. I wonder if that really counts as an excuse? " 'The one thing that's meant to be left over, after each bubble bursts and the humans within it discover the consequences of their actions, is knowledge,' "The conclusion that all that will stay untouched is arcanum, is, still, a problematic assumption- the conclusion ought to be an understanding in the efforts and necessity and preserving that knowledge, logic, and progress." 'So, as always, the only thing that can truly be trusted is individual people.' Mesmer Jr. looks an equivalent level of displeased at the notion. 'You're being far more trusting than they are.' "Do you have criminal, antisocial, or destructive inclinations?" It's obvious Mesmer would pencil in at least a few of those to describe Lilian if filling out a form. "No, I am being more trusting, but I'd hardly assume there's a meaningful difference in my safety here than with the lacking barricade of a motel door. It's unbelievable that there's just the two locks. A deathtrap of a room, tacky decorations no doubt distracting from cockroach nests and Aspergillus growth. It's a dangerous gamble either way, but, I wasn't given a choice in the acceptance of this task." "Speaking of dangers- three times, you pinched at your own skin. Is that some silly training regimen, or a sign of emotional distress and psychological illness? It's no matter to avoid answering, I'm perfectly capable of drawing my own conclusions." 'Your 'trends' are so numerous and observable that I sometimes forget you're the mental health worker, and not a case I've been assigned.' "My apologies- if I didn't make it clear enough, I meant the conjunction of your decision to bring up beast muzzles and other matters in your proximity. However, that's another matter I've noticed- due to a conscious distaste of flaws and wrongdoings being pointed out, while not a rational course of action, it's a fundamentally common response to resort to petty deflection, like you attempting to bring up me, instead. It's telling, and unflattering." Maybe the whole reason Mesmer is good at being a psychiatrist is that she's constantly deflecting and projecting to judge patients? Is anyone looking into that strategy?
Foundation Scions	Lilian choosing to sit as far from Mesmer as she does is, not, actually something Mesmer reacts poorly to, or even turns to stare about. Instead, meticulously, before paying much attention to the MRE in her lap, she runs through a long routine of taking off her worn gloves, sanitizing her hands, opening up the pack of disposable gloves she'd been given, putting them on, and finally, sanitizing those with another alcohol wipe. Obviously, she doesn't wear gloves all the time- even Lilian has seen her not, around the office- is it because she's to be eating food? Or because this is all outside? Or because Lilian was the last to touch the container she's holding? The frantic need to take those measures goes through her head on loop, until she's cracked open the sealed water-bottle to drink from, not yet even considering its use in the chemical heating system of the MRE, or even that it would be usable with drink mixes. '... clumsy and inconsistent to give me any handhold for serious conversations ...' Interrupting, but still holding the open water bottle near her mouth as she speaks, "I wasn't aware you required training wheels. Do you need to hold an elbow for stability?"" She's really not doing a thing to dispel that. "I hadn't thought it necessary- I don't plan to hold serious conversation with you. What would the point in that even be? You're an obsessive going so far as to move yourself in to my workplace. Frankly, it would be a liability to condone." She's annoyed, and it's so obvious, wrinkled-up nose, twitch at the side of her lip- the plastic bottle gets put back down on the curb's concrete, capped, the MRE packaging unceremoniously rips, as she puts an embarrassing amount of effort into the motion to open it more jarringly. "But if this is some tacky attempt at a coworking icebreaker,-" God, no, it so isn't, "That's fine. I've no interest in discussing historical matters of politics, and there is no such thing as 'contemporary'. As for medicine and science, there's a plethora of worthwhile topics. I am, still, the resident expert on Animal Magnetism and Artificial Somnambulism." By tone, she's daring Lilian to call those quackery again, but by her whole statement, she's basically going 'please I'm rational and sensible', to even try and prove she's able to talk about the brought-up matters. Philosophy, goals, boundaries, those don't make it into her words. 'If you don't like that, we can swap.' "I don't have a preference. I'm surprised at the complexity, and the prioritization decisions behind issuing such a field ration kit. Certainly not simplification in production chain." It's fancier than the LRC's cafeteria and the packaged meals Mesmer manages to usually rely on, she means, and more extravagant than an MRE seems like it should be to someone who's never been in a circumstance to ever be issued one- regardless of how much fancier it may be. Clif bars fit her line of sufficiency, 'bacon-jam brussels sprouts' is more analogous to components of stuffy catering, exclusively found in the context of closed-door dinners at medical conventions and meetings of the Mesmer Foundation. Despite being a lightyear more edible, it's still a connotation that makes her preemptively anxious. Remainder water into the heating pouch, placed as-instructed, and waiting long seconds (to minutes) in still silence- Mesmer's eyes don't move off of the heating pouch, be it from some vigilance to tampering, or some fear that it will tip and spill and ruin itself, or myriad other possible occurrences. Halfway through the wait, it's clear Mesmer is trying not to blink. Only once it's heated, in-hand, the first bag open and the pre-packaged plasticware in hand, does she speak up again.
Foundation Scions	"'Lukewarm'? If I had the manner of control to make certain that no one had anything at all to say to me, there's no reason at all that I'd be here. Unfortunately, I don't. It's not my wish to be assigned to this task, to be seated in a parking lot, in an irritating and incorrigibly dull rendition of the world, with an annoyingly talkative coworker, a felon arcanist, a- a diseased clump of talking bugs, those three other Concord agents and-" Her voice gets more nasal and frantic the longer she keeps talking, "I just want peace and quiet, for this stupid, idiotic task that makes not one single piece of sense to be done, to not be trapped in that rolling coffin of a vehicle, and to get back to my actual career, there's the same number of violent and deranged drug-abusers, the same ratio of mad arcanists, but at least I'd have room to breathe, at least it's clean, and at least associates there have not once in eight years had to be taught to just leave me alone." With a forkful of food halfway to her mouth, there's possibly no more frantic of a position and a location to be exhaling that manner of diatribe. She hasn't even tried it yet- that thought comes to her a moment after, when she remembers she's as hungry as she is, and thankfully, that stops the arcanist from speaking longer on it, un-thankfully, it makes her all the more pathetic looking. Distressingly long after- "This is surprisingly edible."
Lilian Rook	'I've seen prisoners...' Lilian had meant only to deflect Mesmer onto a topic she perceives as likely to keep her busy ranting and raving for long enough to regain her composure unnoticed. Keeping her hands where they can't deviate from their work, the spike of nameless anxiety dulls into a wave of ice-cold prickling on the reverse side of her skin, and then has no further time to subside. Just those keywords turn Lilian's head once again. "Beg pardon? Didn't you mean 'patients'?" Lilian says, fully well knowing she doesn't; but doubting it doesn't explain why she's 'seen prisoners' at all. It's abundantly clear that she's completely lost interest in anything approximate to defending her position, too. At least for a little while. "And skip the part where you tell me that you were brought in to interrogate them for secrets, would you?" Then literally what else is there? 'Something', she seems to think, given how intently she watches Mesmer all of a sudden. 'Well. They didn't do a particularly good job of shooting you, it seems. I wonder if that really counts as an excuse?' "I did most of the work." Lilian hisses back as an automatic counter. The fact that she had anything to say at all proves that it bothers her, even if none of her body language betrays it at all. "This much is a staggeringly successful job, actually. The impact it's made on my road trip experience will certainly be a reminder not to let my guard down around them that I won't soon forget." 'the conclusion ought to be an understanding in the efforts and necessity and preserving that knowledge, logic, and progress.' "Now who's indulging in incoherent raving and prayer." Lilian sighs, mostly bitter, one part still tense and anxious, but seemingly one part disappointed as well. Her sour tone comes across as if she's a little upset at herself for having expectations at all. "Never mind. Forget I said anything; it's not your fault." Lilian sighs again, this time louder; trying to convince herself to give up. "I'll ask someone from the Foundation. One with a . . . greater breadth of experience." If only Mesmer had the context to recognize 'being creeped out by a lunatic homeschooled protestant kid' at a glance. It's the first time Lilian has successfully seemed disturbed by her in a way that isn't just petty mirroring. 'Do you have criminal, antisocial, or destructive inclinations?' She can't do three sighs in a row. The words instantly elicit a rasping sound of exasperation only barely controlled from anger. "Do you expect me to fib?" Lilian says, pulling out of her dive from deeply rattled into reflexively offput, and leveling out at tamped-down agitation. "Name someone who doesn't. You certainly have at least two of the three." Turning it back on Mesmer doesn't feel right. She's done it too many times in quick succession, and so it feels weaker, more defensive, each time it diminishes in bite. Lilian would grind her teeth if she weren't certain Mesmer would see it; and therefore it is effortless not to, in front of a doctor. "And your employers haven't asked and aren't interested. Give it a rest."
Lilian Rook	'It's unbelievable that there's just the two locks. A deathtrap of a room, tacky decorations no doubt distracting from cockroach nests and Aspergillus growth. It's a dangerous gamble either way, but, I wasn't given a choice in the acceptance of this task.' "Agreed." Lilian says, and stops to stab at her food. It's something she can channel her unrest into, and more importantly, a breath of air she can take between rounds of interrogation. "I'd say it's utterly fitting of this country, but frankly I think it's better classified as a symptom of our host's diseased psyche and rotted soul. Even setting aside the location, which this farce doesn't deserve, the sheer audacity of insisting on cramming multiple highly skilled and paid specialists into that glorified jalopy with absolutely no curation, no preparation, no awareness of anyone's needs or incompatibilities; it just screams of someone being so utterly hollowed out and putrefied that she can't even imagine this sort of monotonous squalor being not good enough for someone else." Of course she means it; wholeheartedly. Even setting aside the obvious facts, something at at the core of her vocal displeasure could easily be described as 'coming from a place'. Yet the increasingly obvious predictability of it somehow curbs its bite. There are only so many times she can so-readily back off from the friction of disagreeing with Mesmer and jump on a topic they can be on the same side of before it starts to look like a pattern. Right down to the part that could almost be considered reconciliatory: "So I suppose you do have my sympathies for being here. That part, at least, wasn't your own fault." 'Speaking of dangers- three times, you pinched at your own skin.' 'It's no matter to avoid answering, I'm perfectly capable of drawing my own conclusions.' And there is the other half of the pattern; immediately disengaging from her posture of uneasy coexistence over a shared enemy, and rather than trying to save an uneasy truce, instantly returning to an uncomfortable, combative posture. Worse than before, this time. She has to look at her food while she forces herself to eat it, so she can't hide that she's stopped blinking. "Now that's the whole problem isn't it?" she says. "Why even bother to ask if you've already decided on the answer? Who's going to waste their time? Do you make a habit of talking to prerecorded messages?" The sheer effort she puts into every detail of her dismissive delivery feels as if something is suddenly strung to its limit from one blunt interjection. Had she really expected Mesmer just wouldn't notice? Do people not usually? Seriously? Why is she even still talking? She's already so tense that she's slowly bending a metal fork. "Just shut up. Okay? Anyone with even a shred of sense can tell that you don't want to help them. You don't make it subtle that you couldn't give any less of a fuck about anyone. You just want to fiddle around in their brains because that's the only thing that you're good for."
Lilian Rook	'My apologies- if I didn't make it clear enough, I meant the conjunction of your decision to bring up...' Lilian-- -----[stop]----- --drops her fork into her tray, slaps it down on the curbside, jumps up to her feet, and screams through the back of her tightly grit teeth. She reaches reflexively towards her hair, then halts the reflex, knowing she won't get it to look exactly the same again if she does. She diverts it into pacing around for a little while, squeezing her arms as if she could warm away the pins and needles induced by stress, then thinks about how she must look the picture of incurably insane right now, and angrily sits back down with her face pressed into her hands. A long, full minute of square breathing passes, nearly accomplishing an emotional reset on pure willpower. She picks up her tray again and neurotically settles it back into place, picking up her fork. She-- -----[start]----- --rolls her eyes, scoffing at the moment some sort of spell breaks. "I'd conservatively suggest that you keep your conjecture purely to the realm of health rather than personal opinion. I really have no desire to hear about how much the queen of petty deflection dislikes petty deflection." says Lilian, which is literally a deflection back to Mesmer; just one so audacious that it overflows back into being derisive of the entire premise. 'I don't plan to hold serious conversation with you.' "Oh goodness. I couldn't tell." Lilian says, oozing sarcasm. All of a sudden, she's picking away at her meal at a relatively unconcerned pace, getting ahead of Mesmer. "I'm not moving myself into the rehab ward. And even if I were, not into your janitorial closet. I'll be making use of the research facilities, in line with my doctorate, to perform scientific study. Which I have done for years prior to learning of your unfortunate existence." 'As for medicine and science, there's a plethora of worthwhile topics. I am, still, the resident expert on Animal Magnetism and Artificial Somnambulism.' "A plethora." Sarcastic again. "That's the same one as usual, isn't it?" she says, not offering an alternative. "And you call me obsessive." 'I don't have a preference. I'm surprised at the complexity, and the prioritization decisions behind issuing such a field ration kit. Certainly not simplification in production chain.' "It's not that much more lavish than an ordinary MRE for any special forces out there, you know." Lilian says, a little perplexed, but too sick and tired of Mesmer to find the energy to invest. And yet, the exact same pattern holds. "And it's not as if there's a need to stockpile heaps of them anyways. Anyone operating out in no-man's land could use the morale." she says, reduced to mumbling around her fork while staring off into the distance. "Believe me."
Lilian Rook	'It's not my wish to be assigned to this task, to be seated in a parking lot, in an irritating and incorrigibly dull rendition of the world, with an annoyingly talkative coworker, a felon arcanist, a- a diseased clump of talking bugs, those three other Concord agents and-' "Fascinating. None for me?" Sarcastic again. Rhetorical. Deliberately not getting in the way of her rant. She's almost finished her meal safely. 'I just want peace and quiet, for this stupid, idiotic task that makes not one single piece of sense to be done, to not be trapped in that rolling coffin of a vehicle, and to get back to my actual career' "Finally. Something to agree on." she says, agreeing on something for the fourth time in on conversation. 'and at least associates there have not once in eight years had to be taught to just leave me alone.' Lilian pauses, and takes just slightly too long to think. Without knowing for certain whether she's going to regret saying so, or whether it's simply an extension of her simmering enmity towards Mesmer, she says anyways, "You're not really an introvert though. You're frightened of people, especially arcanists, and used to ignoring your declining health. I suppose it's easier to decay effortlessly than it is to live painfully, for people like you."
Foundation Scions	'Beg pardon? Didn't you mean 'patients'?' "There's a difference. Medical standards apply to both, but the efforts of the St. Pavlov Foundation, aside from the field injuries and cases of Storm Syndrome its workers accrue, often results in deranged Manus Vindictae prisoners in need of interrogation and study, and, if such a thing is possible, rehabilitation." An exhale. "I've skipped the part where I say I'm often brought in for the interrogations. You're welcome." 'Do you make a habit of talking to prerecorded messages?' "I'd hardly call it a habit." GIRL, YOU DIDN'T NEED TO ANSWER. 'You just want to fiddle around in their brains because that's the only thing that you're good for.' "I don't. It's a thoroughly unpleasant necessity, and I'd rather do anything but." But if she has to, it's certainly fresh on her mind, each time, the amount that internal mechanisms of psyche can just be changed, rearranged, broken apart, far beyond the extents of what's considered medicine, like a surgeon staring at an open cavity and obsessing over how hard vital organs can be squeezed- "It's in my interests to utilize the minimum-amount of Artificial Somnambulism therapy. Unfortunately, the minimum amount is often extreme, with the patients that require it. So, don't take my suggestions of the procedure lightly." '...But frankly I think it's better classified as a symptom of our host's diseased psyche and rotted soul.' Mesmer sighs- "I'll pretend I wasn't told that, I'm certain taking the correct interventions in response to that type of worry would, inevitably, slow down this atrocious mission. It's likely not to be critical, in the next few days, if it takes that long, so, that's that." She loves malpractice!
Foundation Scions	- - - There is a substrate to sensate reality, formed of the surge and trough of erratic electromagnetism and field-conflux eddies, betraying in shape and texture the workings of the unseen depths of flesh and thought. In the exact manner that the little hairs and thermoreceptors signal in shivers the presence of a change in wind, un-focused, even when a thought isn't to be spared on interpreting the weather, the cliff's-edge shift in animal magnetic off-put, like fireworks on an MRI, and spine-prickling suddenness, when Lilian's time-stop splice-in carries one brain-state into another, activity lighting up where it hadn't been, without even an instant of transitional state, makes Mesmer Jr.'s own state of alertness jolt, migraine-like decoherence setting in for the following moments, like she'd just listened too closely to a Geiger counter's click reading of a bomb-site. 'I'd conservatively suggest that-' "What?" Interrupting, it's clear that, actually, Mesmer's just lost her focus on what's being said at all, not a jab to call into question whatever Lilian is saying. For a whole long moment, despite not doing anything like blink her eyes back focused, or make some manner of gesture, she's still stuck a bit reeling. Then she's pulling out the countersnark. "Excuse me. It isn't worth conversing about, no. It's routine and pedestrian." 'And even if I were, not into your janitorial closet.' "Oh. Thank goodness. There'd hardly be the space for that, and some of the equipment present is fragile, expensive to maintain, and irreplaceable. I wouldn't have planned to move any of it out." That's all she has to say about that, incoherent and insane as it may be, as she finally gets back to eating the MRE, slowly, but with enough devoted focus to the task that it does, somewhat, serve to effectively pacify her. TIP: Mesmer Jr. can't snark when her mouth is full. "Of course morale is a meaningful and efficiently-modulated effort to take for asset functionality. There's simply a point where returns are diminished, and it seems this is past that. I suppose I can't complain, though," She says, complaining-ly. That means she likes the MRE. Lilian's comments at lunch (while drugged) early in the day prove, again, completely correct, and the fact that Mesmer's not as angry about it right now is probably embarrassing in some measure, for at least herself. 'You're not really an introvert though.' "You're correct. That label is an unfounded fabrication, a misattribution of various stressors and effort patterns. Everyone is remarkably similar in the regards associated with the label, and its opposite- it's dull, and irritating, when people pretend otherwise. No- it isn't out of some rigid style of socialization, it's a matter of preservation of sanity in the proximity to who is doing so. A patient? A co-worker? An off-world maniac?" She shrugs. "That makes it the opposite of deterioration, mind you. But, you're right- I'd like effortlessness and painlessness. If such a thing can, in fact, be curated. It's hard to say." TIP: Mesmer Jr. can get tricked into, after talking about the value of being left alone, sit and eat quietly for the remainder of time. Some might consider this to be a victory state.