(no subject)

[nameonthedoor.livejournal.com]

See, now, here's the problem. When you're in the middle of solving a case involving an entire school's worth of suspects and a chance to show up a DA who is seriously starting to get on your nerves, it's not really a good time suddenly lose your grip on reality.

This is the thought going through Cal Lightman's head as he stops just inside the front door, mid-emphatic-gesture to someone who doesn't seem to be following him anymore. This should be his office (the one that, according to Roker, who has no taste, looks like a serial killer's hideaway). This is most assuredly not his office.

Someone here knows the truth. And if he's good at anything, it is getting at the truth, one way or another.

((OOC: Open forever. :D))

Comments

[basic_powers]

Someone here is watching that door.

That someone being a completely calm blonde boy in a long-sleeved shirt over a plain t-shirt and jeans, who looks a little on the 8-9 years range, with a coke on the table in front of him.

[nameonthedoor.livejournal.com]

This... place (mirage, hallucination, vision, whatever) is utterly bizarre, but weirdest of all is the detail. He's had some pretty weird experiences in his time (which he hopes to hell Emily doesn't find out about, ever), but never with this level of perfect, crystal-clear detail.

And here's something weird too - completely calm is not normal, in his experience. Except in store dummies, but that's different. Abruptly he strides forward and throws himself into the chair opposite, staring at that still face, his own features scrunched in discontent. Calm is boring, it's uninformative, and frankly, after everything else around here, he's disappointed in his own imagination for not putting something more useful there.

[basic_powers]

When the strange man does that he certainly finds the boy sitting back a little in his chair and eying him back for a moment. Then settling his left arm on the table, chin on top of that, right hand going to something at his side, this expression shifts to looking at the man with a sort of focused stare, giving him a very thorough look over.

[nameonthedoor.livejournal.com]

Oh look, it lives - Children are, as a rule, kept out of his investigations for the most part, unless they have some clue he needs to lay his hands on.

He only goes after those plenty old enough to know better.

So he stares back, evidently not disconcerted at all by the kid's focus.

[first-runihura.livejournal.com]

The man in the red tagelmust and the tan-and-gray military-ish clothes looks up at the sound of the door opening and recognizes the face Cal is making. After all, he made it himself not too long ago.

He stands, which incidentally makes the pistol and sword holstered at his hips all the more visible, and nods politely.

"Salaam."

[nameonthedoor.livejournal.com]

The gesture, the words, the pitch bring back memories of desolate outposts and long bloodstained days he'd rather no one really knows about. He's still not fluent in the language, there just never seemed to be enough time to study with the British military making one mess after another to sort out.
"As-Salāmu `Alayka." His accent isn't bad, for being so rusty (and British), and long-ago habit prompts him to offer his right hand, his expression watchful, curious, intent to know why his obviously haywire imagination would dredge up this chapter of his past.

[first-runihura.livejournal.com]

Two hundred years and an inter-planetary migration have made most Haqqislamites quite tolerant of strange accents. In fact, Tarik smiles as he takes one step closer to shake the offered hand. A firm, brief handshake.

"I don't think we need the formality, though I thank you for the effort to be polite, sir." Maybe the man isn't a newcomer. After all, he seems to be taking it almost unbelievably well.

[hallelujahpilot]

Door opens, door shuts, no further footsteps - the bar is quiet enough that even Trudy, with her slightly damaged hearing, can hear the lack. So, she looks up.

It's more interesting than trying to plan out a lecture, which is exactly what the pilot is doing. Two datareaders, though, no pieces of paper, even if she's idly twirling a stylus in her fingers.

Her clothes are civvies - loose dark pants, purple singlet, combat boots on her feet - and she wears them like they are civvies, not normal clothes.

"New?" she drawls, giving the a man a bit of a smile.

[nameonthedoor.livejournal.com]

He turns slightly on the spot to fix her with a curiously intent stare, his well-made but oversized suit jacket swaying with the movement. Odd choice for his imagination to make - obviously military, but not as honed in on her environment as one would expect. She's not dull or anything, she's correctly picked out that he's not comfortable with his environment, but there was a pause before looking up that wasn't due to her facination with her work, which is honestly lacking. Honest expression, not forced, but not exuberant, more of a reserved personality, in a relaxed setting. Well, one would hope so, in a pub.
He takes a few swift steps forward and drops bonelessly into the chair opposite, his nose scrunching in bemusement at this particular figment of his malfunctioning brain.
"To here? Suppose you could say that, yeah, in a sense." After all, he'd remember if he'd managed to dream up something like this before.

[hallelujahpilot]

Her smile turns into an amused - but not mocking - smirk.

"You've got the newbie's look. Welcome to Milliways. It's, uh. Not an hallucination." Her voice is quiet, rough, with an accent that's mostly Texan, but slightly not.

[ostro_goth]

Some people may be willing to tell him the truth, without tricks. If asked.

Maybe even the tall, pale, dark-haired man leaning against a pillar and watching the newcomer stumble in.

Maybe even why he is wearing medieval clothes of dark linen, and carrying a long-shafted battle-axe.



[[OOC: eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee Cal Lightman! I love that show to bits!]]

[nameonthedoor.livejournal.com]

Clearly the why is because his imagination is afraid Emily is going to take up with a goth boyfriend who's going to go violent on her.

Which is a bizarre choice of scenarios, but he supposes that is what the subconscious is for, to be utterly weird and come up with the things you shouldn't rationally put together. He could just do with not having to stand here and look at them.

Or at least they don't need to be so much taller than him. He's going to get a crick in his neck. He stares back unabashedly, which... wouldn't be all that different if he didn't think he was hallucinating, actually.

[ostro_goth]

"One would assume you are new," declares the tall grim hallucination in a deep, dry voice. There may be the slightest hint of wry amusement in his eyes, just for a second.

"I would answer your questions, if you wish; and tell you of the rules, regardless of your wishes."

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

There's a dog not far away, watching you, Cal. He's a good-sized Blue Heeler, one blue eye, one brown eye, with a collar made of leather hacked off other clothing and stitched together and given a belt.

He looks at everyone like that. Just in case they're carrying food. You know. More food than they need at the moment, so they might drop it. That kind of thing.

[nameonthedoor.livejournal.com]

Dogs... dogs he's never quite gotten the hang of. Not like people. Curious though, there being dogs in a pub. He can't recall being in one that allowed unleashed dogs any time in his recent past, so he can't imagine why there's one here now, in this hallucination.

Maybe his subconscious is saying Emily needs a pet. Which he's pretty sure isn't true.

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

Hm. The human doesn't smell like meat and doesn't seem to be reacting much. No food, no threat, no interest. The dog sniffs once and turns away to look for something more interesting.

Maybe the human he turns to- her head recently shaven, faded-tanned skin scarred in more than a few places, wearing a dark green uniform reminiscent of soldiers in an Irving Berlin musical- might be more relevant? She's only just noticed the new arrival herself, but.

[faeverte]

A young woman who is a dead ringer for Audrey Hepburn notices him the moment he walks through the door. Well, she's a dead ringer save for the fact that she's entirely done up in shades of emerald and cerulean. She is green.

"Cherie! So good to see you again!"

She waves from her seat at the bar, beckoning him over, the tips of her fingers leaving trails of light on the air that slowly fade over the span of seconds.

[nameonthedoor.livejournal.com]

Just for the record, in case anyone might be confused later? He doesn't know her from Eve. But he just can't quite refuse the challenge of such a familiar greeting in such a strange place.

And she's green. She's green, he has to get to the bottom of the green. The light he can write off as the first signs that this hallucination has its limits on realistic details.

"Hello!" On the flip side of being able to spot a lie from thirty paces is the ability to lie with aplomb, and his smile certainly looks unforced and genuine. "Haven't seen much of you since that last grand shindig - how have you been then, hmmm? Miss me?" He asks with a roguish air.

[faeverte]

"Cherie, you know I miss you when you're away. How long since Paris and the Moroccan Embassy, hmm? Four years? Five maybe?"

She believes she recognises him, that much is clear in her face. Her expression is broad and unguarded, her eyes a little dark for her face. Nonetheless, there's a definite familiarity in her gaze. She has a thick Parisian accent, and she takes his sleeve when he draws near, tucking her hand through his arm and squeezing. The air around her is filled with the scent of alpine herbs and exotic spices, and her touch is menthol cool.

"You were working on your book and you told me all about it. And then you locked us in your hotel room and wrote twenty thousand words in two days. It was glorious, mon cherie. Absolutely glorious."

[cheeky-bugger.livejournal.com]

"Have you got any tea?" asks a very shabby-looking man in a dressing gown.

He's even got a towel, which he has wrapped around his shoulders like a very small blanket.

[nameonthedoor.livejournal.com]

Cal blinks at him, for once in his life out-done in the use of ridiculous conversational openings. Then he tilts his head, his whole body questioning what exactly this fellow is up to.

"Do I even look like I'd have tea?"

[cheeky-bugger.livejournal.com]

This fellow has a particularly nasty flu. Illustrated by the way he starts coughing all over you.

"No one else on this bloody spaceship seems to have any."

He pulls his dressing gown tightly around himself, and then wraps his towel round his shoulders for good measure.

[theunsmiling]

There's another person here who's very good at the truth.

That would be the skinny girl slouching in a corner booth, wearing a black T-shirt, torn jeans, and a pair of Union Jack Docs.

She swings her legs down off the table, one hand ruffling her hair as she sits up -- a little -- and looks over at him.

Her eyes are very green.

"You might want to get out of the doorway. Not everyone looks where they're going."

[nameonthedoor.livejournal.com]

His whole body language shifts, curiosity taking over bewilderment without even a hint of a pause. He knows what she looks like - young, American (he never quite understood where the idea that wearing the UK flag was stylish came from), possibly self-made.

Except there's a very important detail he's seeing hat he really shouldn't be.

"Oh, really? Thanks, that could be... awkward."

[theunsmiling]

She quirks a smile, a very slight one.

It doesn't look particularly well-practiced, even now.

"Considering some people bring their actual horses inside -- accidentally, but nonetheless -- awkward is definitely one of the milder words for it."

It's the God's honest truth. Michael doesn't often swear by any other.

But there's a watchfulness behind the easy words, and a steady weight to her regard.

It doesn't match her wardrobe. Or her posture. Or the look on her face.