ArchivedLogs:Stranger
| Stranger | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 17 December 2014 Part of the Future Past TP. |
| Location
<NYC> Strange's Office - Greenwich | |
It's funny what the right words can get you. Since November, Micah has been attempting to contact Strange -- and all he's managed to do is get past Strange's secretary's secretary. She's told him, somewhat rudely and condescendingly, that Strange receives many messages every day and he will eventually get to looking at Micah's. Regardless of how many times Micah's checked, rechecked, and re-rechecked, he's always received the same response: "Strange deals with many clients. Please be patient." And then, just yesterday, Flicker sends a message with a phrase: 'The days of future past are upon us'. As if it were a magical spell, things start happening rapidly. In only two hours of Flicker sending that message, Micah and Flicker are *both* receiving phone-calls from a secretary who is no longer rude, but a little *panicked* -- as if she's made some sort of dire, terrible mistake. Like she's somehow managed to snub a *very* important person. Suddenly, an appointment is being scheduled -- not for next month, not for next week, but for next *day*. It sounded like the secretary desperately wanted to ask them both to come in right now, in fact, but only stopped after she realized just how late it was. Strange's home and office is located in the expensive part of Greenwich Village. A small, highly expensive studio apartment, it is not an easy place to get into -- it has an expensive security system at the front door, along with a security guard at the front desk *past* that door available at all times, just in case someone manages to slip through the front door who doesn't belong. When Flicker and Micah arrive, he buzzes them through -- eyeing them both rather carefully -- and they're guided up the stairs, to Strange's office. It's a very nice office. A little indulgent, perhaps; several bookcases, weighed down with tomes on everything from astrology to palm-reading to history to -- astronomy, biology, and religion. A telescope is placed to the right of the desk, aimed at the sky through the large window that lurks behind the chair (a little *too* well placed, in fact; it looks more like a very expensive prop rather than something that seems regular use). The desk itself is rich, dark mahogany, well-polished; the chair is black leather -- there are fragile-looking religious relics, paintings, and antiques *everywhere*. Everything in the room looks like it's worth a small fortune. And then there's Strange himself -- stepping into the room after only a few minutes. Well-groomed, well-trimmed; dark, olive skin -- a man in a dark tan suit (a suit Flicker might remember seeing before -- though currently, in *much* better condition), a pink-collared shirt, dark slacks -- and a warm, effortless smile. He offers the two men his hand, one after the other -- Micah, first. His nails are carefully filed and his grip firm; his palm, uncallused. When he reaches for Flicker's hand... he pauses. Contemplating. Probably trying to figure out what the etiquette here, is. Whether or not Flicker offers him that hand to shake, he gives the man a warm, practiced smile -- and moves behind his desk, seating himself. His fingers are steepled; his eyes on them both. "Good evening, gentlemen. I'm Stephen Vincent Strange. How can I be of service?" Flicker does offer Strange a hand to shake. Not the traditional right hand; he twists his (fleshy!) left upside down to clasp Strange's, a little bit awkward in its backwards-grip but firm all the same. "Hey." The smile he gives Strange is friendly. "I'm Flicker. This is Micah. We -- this is probably all going to sound a little odd, but." His eyes sweep the room. Strange's face, too. Linger kind of /long/ on Strange's face -- and that suit. "Maybe you deal in odd. I think you've been sending us dreams. From the future." Right to the point, then. He watches Strange's expression through this kind of carefully. Micah actually looks fairly well groomed at this point in the morning, auburn hair settled in a way that suggests attention and combing! For the rest of him, it is simply the ubiquitous TARDIS-blue polo shirt and khakis, soon enough to be going from one job to the other, this meeting stuffed betwixt the two. “Pleasure t'finally meet you,” Micah greets after Flicker introduces him. “Don't know if y'got none of m'messages. But like he says. Think y'might know somethin' 'bout these dreams. An' maybe also a friend of ours what went missin'.” This is said without a hint of accusation, simply passing along the information with an undertone of /hope/. Strange unsteeples his hands from his desk and leans back in his chair with a long /creak/ at Flicker's announcement. He's examining both of them more carefully, now; his eyes drift from Flicker's prosthetic arm to... Micah's prosthetic leg. His lips purse; his brows crunch together. Maybe he's trying to figure out if this is a conspiracy of *cyborgs*. "...yes," he responds, though it's unclear if he's responding to Flicker or Micah. "I'm aware. Of all of it." He pauses, only to add: "Though, not your missing friend. Who was he?" "She." Flicker drops his arm to his side. He has a very small twitch to his lips at the shift of Strange's gaze. "She kind of -- sends people dreams. In the future, you're working with her. To send these dreams back. And, um." A touch of color blooms in his cheeks. "Change things. The future -- kind of sucks." The visual inspection doesn't seem to trouble Micah any. He has heavier things to consider. "And /is/," he continues Flicker's correction of Strange's original question. "Her name is Maya. An' her roommate said she'd seen you with her b'fore." All of this is offered in further clarification, again, not in accusation. "Any help...findin' 'er. Or if y'know what these dreams is about. Or how t'stop what they're showin' is comin'. Any of it. Flicker said in his dreams you'd asked people t'come t'you with that phrase that done got us an appointment finally." "She," Strange repeats, and the pursed lips suddenly smooth out. The 'crnch' of his brows deepen; an uncharacteristic line of worry appears on his face, his head tilting. "...Maya?" he asks. "She... disappeared?" He turns to Micah, as the young man gives him confirmation -- and Strange's usual placid expression is marred by a frown. "She -- oh." His shoulders fall, just a little. "I told her that it would be dangerous to..." His lips purse again. "I thought, perhaps, she was just avoiding me -- mmnh. Yes. That phrase." Strange's hand reaches up, rubbing at the side of his brow. "You're saying /I/ told people to say it to me. Well. How positively typical of me." A weak, tired smile. "You told people -- kind of. All over national T.V.," Flicker admits. His hand rubs, faintly awkward, at the back of his neck. "These dreams. In the dreams -- in the future -- you kept insisting something terrible was coming, and that if we found ourselves in a time before it all, we should find you and tell you -- that. And then --" His good shoulder lifts. Falls. "Something terrible came." His brows pull in, frown mirroring Strange's. "Dangerous to what?" “No, she's been missin' since summertime.” Micah's head tilts, brow furrowing. “Dangerous to--?” Well, Flicker already had that part covered. “Terrible. S'a full-on post-apocalyptic film-scape. War, destruction, internment camps, killer robots.” He shifts a little from one foot to the other, still lingering in the doorway as they are, discussing such things with a stranger. "--mmnh, I'm sure it is," Strange says, waving his hand toward the mention of apocalyptic terribleness as if to send it all scurrying out of his office. At the mention of saying it on television, Strange /grimaces/, as if in memory of something. "Yes, it seems that in the future, I've taken leave of my senses. I told her it was dangerous to try and hop through these dreams -- to see where they go. That's likely what she did. She's..." Strange exhales sharply, slumping back into his chair. "I don't know if she's alive. I can't tell you. I barely understand how this works, nevermind how it intersects with... dream teleportation." "Seems like you had -- have -- will have reason. If you can see what's coming..." Flicker's eyes drop to the floor. His weight settles heavily downward. His fingers curl in against his palm. "In my dream, you and I, we talked. You said I should try and find you. Here, you. Present, you. To make contact --" He shakes his head, shifting further into the room, frown only deepening. "I don't know how it works either. You were working to try and send dreams back from the future to people here in the present, so that they -- we -- people here. Would know what's coming. Could stop it. I -- can you -- here, now -- make contact with..." But here he trails off. Hand lifting, to scrub through his hair. "Apologies, I don't really even know how you do what you do. I wouldn't know where to begin." "D'you know exactly what she was plannin' t'do? That...might give us a way t'start lookin' maybe..." Micah's voice is a little tighter here, choking back some disappointment at the vague answers so far. "But y'got a /bare/ understandin'. Right? That's better'n all the speculation we got goin' on. Best /I/ could offer'd be t'tell y'what I've seen in the dreams. S'far as how any of the rest of this works? Or the reasonin' behind it? Any of the why's an' how's...we kinda need some guidance on." He nods agreement with Flicker's not really knowing where to even start with all of this.
'THE DAYS OF FUTURE PAST' By: Vincent Strange "...I wrote it when I was a teenager, and first discovering how my powers worked," Strange explains, his neutral expression vanishing beneath a semi-crooked, self-depreciating smile. "I think, too, I had just seen that movie -- 'Terminator'? I was very enamored with it. And myself. It is a terrible book, but I kept it. Sentimental reasons. My future self told you to tell me this, because he knew it was the only way I would agree to see you -- so I could determine for myself what you know." "I don't know what she was going to do," Strange tells Micah, sliding down into his chair, once more. "I think she wanted to have an adventure. As I understand it, in the future, something terrible happens -- and I, along with others, work to use my power to send messages to the past -- to prevent the disaster from ever happening. Regardless..." His eyes drift from Micah, back to Flicker. "...you need not concern yourselves. I've notified a 'friend' of mine, back from my... 'school-days'. He will attend to this matter. My involvement -- and yours -- likely are not necessary. Hopefully..." Strange's smile twitches, threatening to vanish -- but he maintains it. "...Maya will be well, wherever she is." Flicker's lips twitch. A small tug just at their corners, as Strange explains about the book. "Wait, so your message was -- a book that you --" He shakes his head, hand lifting to rub at his temple. "Doctor, you're already involved. Or, will be, or -- /are/, I mean. People are /having/ these dreams and you're the one who --" He stops, sucking his cheeks inward. His arm curls across his chest. Head shaking slowly. "Friend... I. Went to your school. If you mean Xavier's -- I think it." A long pause. "... explodes. In the dream, we -- the school. The whole school. I think it had -- exploded. I don't think you can count on. Any of." His voice is a little stilted, expression gone just slightly distant. "-- Any of our team there. To be able to help. I'm pretty sure it's you." "You notified...Xavier? That's all well an' good, but he ain't the one smack in the middle of it. /You/ are. Sendin' dream messages from the future. You're tellin' me y'don't know nothin' else nor intend t'do nothin' else? Why was y'so desperate t'get information t'yourself then? Y'was the one told us t'come." Okay, a little of that accusation is starting to seep into his tone now, though it is more frustration than anything. It is Micah's turn to rake-tug fingers through his hair. So much for the neat-combing. "An' Maya... If she's helpin' t'get these dreams back like we think? Her just up an' disappearin' ain't gonna help whatever...continuity is needed t'keep the dreams gettin' back. Is it?" Bah. Time paradoxes. "Apologies, this is all just. A lot. What happens in the book?" "The book is about a young man who can communicate with himself in the future, trying to use his power to avert a catastrophe. I thought it very clever," Strange admits, bemused. When Flicker mentions Xavier's, his eyes snap up -- and when he says the word 'explodes', Strange freezes in place -- staring at him. "...what?" Strange asks, his polished tone briefly cracking. "Xavier's -- no. That's..." His brow crinkles. For several moments, he just -- stares. Not at Micah, not at Flicker, but at the book on the table. When he speaks again, it is very slow, and very deliberate: "...I stopped the dreams. For myself. I didn't want to see anymore; I presumed... other people are having them. So long as they understand their meaning, catastrophe could be... Xavier --" He closes his eyes, then releases a slow, heavy breath. "...I never finished it," Strange confesses to Micah. "It was just a silly story." Then, a little more shaky: "...yes. My power works both ways. I can send -- messages /forward/, as well as back. But not far -- not without help." "I don't think you can count on Xavier being around." Flicker's arm tightens against his chest. He starts to pace -- slow, gradual, a very mechanical circuit around the edge of the room. Eyes tracing the bookcases, the relics, the antiques. "I don't think we can count on much except what we know. And we know you can do this because you're already doing it. And if you don't the whole -- /everything/ falls apart. It falls apart for you, too. You go from this fantastic office to living in a /sewer/." His jaw tightens. He pulls in a slow breath, eyes fixing on the rows of books. His fingers press in hard against his side. "Help?" He swallows. "But you can do it. We could do it. Talk to -- the future. People. Get more information." "Could we have a copy of the story? Even if it isn't finished. I think there's a chance it could be helpful t'our understandin' of what's goin' on." All straws /will/ be grasped at given the dire consequences of missing something important. "Well, Maya's s'posed t'/be/ the help. I think. But we'll need t'find her. If y'really don't know anythin' else...hopefully m'other avenues'll help more with findin' her." Micah's jaw clenches against a sad-quaver, replacing it with determination. "Other people /are/ havin' 'em, but we need as many of these messages as we can get, 'til we know what t'do. Could that be what future-you was tellin' us t'get t'you for? T'tell you to /unblock/ your dreams? It could be the most important messages're s'posed t'be goin' straight t'you." "I've never..." Strange is staring at the book on his desk, now, as Flicker paces around his room. "...gone very far into the future. It would be -- I do not know. Dangerous, perhaps? I need assistance, to extend my powers. At Xavier's, there is a device -- it may be difficult," Strange admits, his mouth twisting into another bemused smile, "to convince him to let me back in, but... it's either that, or a suitably powerful group of telepaths, to bolster to the signal." "...I. Mmh." At Micah's words, Strange sinks his head into his hands, rubbing at the sides of his head. Rubrubrub. "...I will stop blocking the dreams," he states, rather reluctantly. "And schedule... a conversation with Xavier. If he'll have me. The Professor might need some convincing; we did /not/ part company on pleasant terms," Strange admits, his head rising -- to look at Flicker and Micah, pointedly. "But, yes," he adds, reluctantly -- pushing the book away from him, toward Micah's end of the table. "Just understand," Strange adds, with a grim, amused smile: "-- if I find this on the internet, I will sue you both so hard that your grandchildren will be born with federal injunctions." "Cerebro's dangerous. Even if he does. Let you in, it's -- just dangerous. For someone who isn't --" Something has twisted up in Flicker's expression, tightening at the edges of lips and mouth to pull the scarred lines of his face into harder tension. His fingers clench his sweater up tight into a fist. He turns, face smoothing out. Sudden, blank. "But you'll have help. We know a." A muscle twitches in his scarred cheek. "Group. Of telepaths. Can be strong enough to boost as far as you need. Hopefully get us some answers. How to -- stop all this." The joke summons a smile out of him. Just a small one. Twitch. More polite than anything else. The talk of devices and Cerebro goes right over Micah's head, but since Flicker seems to know what is going on, he lets this slide. "Folks can talk at Xavier on your behalf an' let 'im make a decision on if he'll...grant whatever. That request is." That same head is tilting quizzically at Flicker's talk of telepaths, somewhere between curious and suspicious. "We could also work on recruitin' telepaths. Might know a few." He reaches into his pocket to produce a business card, swapping it out for the manuscript on the table. The latter he clutches to his chest like a holy book, not exactly looking like someone who is about to sell it on eBay. "T'keep in touch with us 'bout...anythin' related t'this. We need t'get answers an' as quick as possible. It'll be best if we're all workin' t'gether." Flicker isn't the only person the joke falls flat on; a moment later, and Strange's amusement has evaporated, replaced by a neutral-yet-strained expression. "...oh?" he asks, his eyes briefly rising to Flicker's -- peering at him, as if to tunnel into his mind, figure out who these telepaths /are/ -- there might just be a hint of hunger, for /just/ a moment, in Strange's gaze... but then, it's gone, and he quietly nods -- watching as Micah swaps the manuscript out for the card. Strange picks the card up delicately, placing it within his front pocket -- rising to his feet. "Yes. We /will/ keep in touch," he responds, before producing two cards of his own -- a practiced flourish of his wrist, drawing it out from his coat's interior so smoothly that it almost appears to be a magic trick. He hands one to Micah, and one to Flicker -- "--my /actual/ number. Please, do not give it out." "Thank you, sir." Flicker takes the business card without looking at it, tucking it away into his pocket. "We'll be in touch. Take -- care." In light of everything it sounds a little stilted, a little awkward. With a small nod, a small smile, he turns for the door. “Or there'll be suin', for seven generations,” Micah half-jokes at the delivery of the second admonishment not to share out information. He takes the card with a look of honest gratitude, however, sliding it into his pocket. “Thank you. Please. Anythin' y'think might be relevant. Even if it seems tiny. I'd like t'know.” He lifts a hand as if in salute, or half a wave. “Thank you again, for seein' us. Have a good night.” | |
