16583/Interlude: The Watcher

Interlude: The Watcher
Date of Scene:	23 October 2024
Location:	Someplace on Location - Is life just a play?
Synopsis:	Nick was doing voice-coaching and rehearsal in a rented studio, until a visitor came calling. Who learned more, one wonders?
Cast of Characters:	Sinister, Phantasm (Drago)

Sinister has posed:
Life happens.

It's one of those things that just sort of swims past some people, like they got stuck on a rock someplace. Or under a rock someplace. Other people grab it by the balls and surf the crash until it rolls them.

Others have careers, jobs, locations, stardom, a place they're attempting to make for themselves in the world at large.

Like movie sets. Or stage rehearsals. Trailers with your name on them and catering that sometimes gets it ridiculously wrong. These sorts of things make for Stardom, alongside practice, immersion and lets face it, method acting sometimes.

October's cold. Not so cold as it can be, but the East coast isn't a kind mistress most of the time and it gets right in and rattles the bones with a whetted knife.

Phantasm (Drago) has posed:
 \"....Piercing into the sky, and higher! And the strong will thRIVE!
 Yes, the weak will cower, while the fittest will survive.
 If we wait for the darkest hour 'til we spring aLIVE,
 then with claws of fire, we devour like a falcon..."
\</span\>

While it is movie adjacent, this is not the typical set, nor are there costumes right now.

But, there is a small audience as an elder man quietly watches from behind black rimmed glasses, observing the Rock star step a little bit out of his element to dip into the realm of Broadway music making its transition to the big screen.

 \"in... THE DIIIIIIIIIIVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVEEEEEEEEEEEE!"\</span\>

Brows lift as Drago hits the note at the tail end of the song. As Nick cuts off. The man remains quiet, letting the final reverb of the last note die away as it's absorbed into the sound dampening panels of the room.

"Very good... Not quite Terry Mann. But with your range and knack for picking up things quickly we should get close by the time you're recording. Just remember how that felt because you're going to have to mimic all that when the cameras are going. In stage productions you can get away with adjusting that to make it easier on the pipes but since the Movie's only doing it once. They'll want it to go all out on the sound."

Nick nods, not quite responding quickly as he's instead cracking open a bottle of water for his own throat. But once he gets a sip in him he looks to the vocal coach curiously, "... What's next?"

"Oh... I think that'll be enough for today. You got the bite in there pretty good. We'll pick up again next time."

"Ok. Thanks." As the coach makes his leave, the musician hangs back for a bit longer, glancing back to the music. There's a turn of the page as he looks to another song.

Sinister has posed:
Music is what it is, broadway numbers written down for the voice to pick up -- where in ages past, the walls would echo it back, would sing the words that had been sung so many times previously that the theatre's magic almost felt palpable... here it's just the doppler boards that help to soundproof.

The clock on the wall ticks its slow passage around its face -- ticktock, ticktock.

A housekeeper putters in to wipe down surfaces, hispanic and middleaged, she smiles and applies duster and cleaning fluid to frequently touched surfaces.

The lights in the studio dim a little, maybe thanks to her cleaning the dial. The door closes behind her.

The clock ticks again and the door opens, admitting the housekeeper again, her hands full of swiffer duster on a pole, for up on the glass pane that isolates the sound booth.

She pauses though, turning to look at him. Accented: "Joo going to be long, mister Drrraaago?" The roll of the r purrs off the tongue, like Eartha Kitt.

Her eyes sparkle and catch what light there is and shimmer faintly red for it.

Phantasm (Drago) has posed:
Nick's study of the song was a bit quieter than the last. Lips moving rhythmically as pale eyes look through the written lyrics. A soft murmur of sounds escaping with each mouthed word.

There's a pause and a word repeated.

The shifting of the light source causes for Nick to glance up to find the housekeeping staffer return through the door.

As she approaches the sound booth. The musician's brows lift.

Oh.

Glancing down to the stand, Nick gathers up his set of music and moves over to his backpack to put it up. "Oh I'm packing up now. Studio's all yours."

Sinister has posed:
"Gracias," the woman smiles almost nostalgically, then quite deliberately sets aside the swiffer, turns to the door and locks it with a very audible click. Turning about, she leans against the wall, hands sliding into the pockets of her apron to simply stare at the actor-musician, the strange smile remaining.

The clock stops.

"So you, of all people, ended up with the Dragon's tongue. I suppose it isn't terribly surprising, that it's always the last one you expect."

Phantasm (Drago) has posed:
It's amazing how quickly the mood can shift with one simple sound. The musician had his back to the woman. Which-

Ok considering past circumstances, some could argue was foolishness on his part. But hey, isn't the process of healing learning to relax a bit?

Either way when the sound of the lock clicking reaches his ears, Nick's hand remains in his bag, albeit, moving towards something else.

Just in case.

Nick turns his head, looking to the housekeeper. Taking note of the smile and the conveniently placed clock in the room. One and One makes...

Nick lets out the breath he had apparently been holding.

Oh thank God. It's not HYDRA.

...

Hey everyone's got their monsters. His just happens to be an organization that apparently can't tell apart a mythic beast from an Octopus.

Sinister has posed:
Symbology doesn't look quite so good on logos?

There's a soft chuckle from the cleaning lady, the tension almost thick enough to be cut with a pocket knife. "Well, at least that is predictable..." she rolls her elbows out akimbo, back again and keeps her steady gaze on him. In the depth of the brown, a flare of yellow now shows.

"I'm fairly sure you couldn't do much to me with a drumstick, but who knows?" She clucks her tongue, glances up at the clock and back.

"Nobody is coming for you." The tone is carefully calculated to be both reassuring and menacing at the same time. An odd talent for certain.

Phantasm (Drago) has posed:
Ah yes... that. Having been called out for what he was grabbing for. Nick sighs, standing up from the bookbag. Clutched in his hand is a pair of ornately carved escrima sticks. "Well, they're not quite -drumsticks." Nick admits, "And you're probably right. But prior to you speaking and the clock stopping I thought you were someone else entirely."

He fiddles with the sticks, shifting one over into his other hand. "Hope you don't mind. But it's pretty awkward holding two in one hand."

A glimpse is looked towards the carvings for a moment, wistful expression on his face before it fades to a soft frown. "Well, not right now. But...I'd assume eventually someone else will be coming here. I mean, unless you plan to just stay in this moment forever. But wouldn't that be kind of counterproductive to the effort to get out?"

Pale blue looks to yellow. "...So. When no one else is here. What do you prefer to be called now? "

Sinister has posed:
"I probably was," the woman replies, licking her bottom lip, then rolling the very middle of it bellow her teeth just the once, oh-so-slow. Her chin tips, looking along the plane of her cheek at him for a moment, then once more square and bold as brass. "Someone else entirely, that is.

The inquiry has a dark little chuckle coming forth. "Why should I mind? The art of War is a beautiful thing, even if it came from the enslaved, in that particular case." She nods at the sticks, by inferrance.

"I just didn't want to be interrupted before I'd had a good look. You can't blame me for that."

Pause, a smile full of teeth and a coy nibble which looks SO very wrong on that mouth. "Whatever you want to call me, you can call me. Oh, this -is- delicious."

Phantasm (Drago) has posed:
"Unless you have a tooth filled with cyanide in your current ride's mouth I don't think we're thinking of the same type of person." Nick responds blandly to the woman's comment.

As there's no protest to the sticks being out, Nick keeps them in hand. This seems to be a pattern when he's surprised by angels. Talking while holding on to a weapon.

To the mention of a good look, Nick's brow lifts.

From the outside he appears quiet. Simply standing there to allow the possessed woman to get her look. But within, the concert is starting with the first song that comes to mind.

 \"When I wake up to the sound of demons,
 They're always telling me that I'm no good
 And all the angels keep scratching at my door.

 I'm doing what I can to fight this anger
 I'm just a product of a living hell
 And I don't want to live like this no more..."\</span\>

If Sin gets wind of this, there's probably going to be a discussion about music choices later.

...Is it a good or bad thing that they just called this delicious?

"Are you sure? I'm liable to just call you Bob or something stupid like that."

Sinister has posed:
The cleaning lady waves a hand slightly dismissively and inhales deep of the feelings of determined anxiety, and focused brain-noise. Who knows if they can even feel that, or sense it? Azazel is still a rather unknown quantity in that department, after all.

But as a tattletale, there is a quiet little tapping of the foot going on which does suggest she might be picking up on the mental playlist a bit. It matches to the beat, the rhythm, the iambic thump of life...

"I'm sure, however. I really don't care what you call me... that stopped mattering a long, long time ago." She scratches the side of her nose, glances up a the clockface one more time, with casual lack of concern and side-eyes sly to the rockstar with his escrima sticks thereafter.

"They hunt you then? Want to get their dirty little fingers into you, hound you, hurt you, seek to control you, to squash you, to harness you? Or is it just... completely shitty luck, half the time? For posterity's sake."

Phantasm (Drago) has posed:
The signs of mental eavesdropping seems more than enough confirmation for the concert going on in the head. Flashing lights, colored spotlights highlighting the players on stage. With a roar of an audience at the base of the stage, making for quite a crowded scene.

 \"Everything is crumbling in my head, Sometimes I wish I was..."\</span\>

Flashing lights, colored spotlights highlighting the players on stage. With a roar of an audience at the base of the stage, making for quite a crowded scene.

 \"But maybe I'm not alone, Maybe if you take my hand,\</span\>
 \And I reach up to God, Maybe this time he'll say a prayer for the damned. "\</span\>

It is a wild event in the crowded mind. But there are the telltale yellow jackets weaving through the crowd, seeming looking for those who should not be there. Similar faces, save for one that appears to be nothing but shadow and glowing red eyes.

Despite the concert of the mind, Nick nods to the name discussion. The song is familiar, well known and with practice comes a bit more ease in producing the scenario. Even if the song choices need work. "Bobby then. Generally unisex nickname there..."

There's a pause to the question. Ah. So that's what got picked up. There's a quiet.

"Wanted." Nick corrects to the past tense. "I made friends. Most of the ones doing the hunting ended up becoming the hunted. Likely in hell now."

"But...I could be wrong. And habits are hard to break."

There's a pause. "...I still have a knack for being in the wrong place at the right time though."

Dammit Nick.

Why do you even BOTHER trying to shield?

Sinister has posed:
Because information volunteered is under your own control? After all, 'Bobby' did just ask.

Maybe in the crowd, there were yellow eyes in the dark, a face here or there, turning away, turning toward, from face to face, always a different one, but for the smile that ends up popping up here and there and everywhere. Catch me if you can?

"Some things never change, it seems. For what that's worth, keep on trucking kiddo. Anyone that tells you you don't deserve to be here, you poke them in the eye and spit in thier faces... and be proud of being descriminating. Actually, just be proud in general." She grins, it's not completely nice, there's that hidden menace. But it doesn't look hungry for his head, at least. Clearly, she's not an undead brain eater.

"I approve of the song choice, too. Very... appropos. So..." folding arms, the cleaning lady sighs. "You got a hot minute. You want to ask, whilst you still got the opportunity to, I'd do it. Otherwise, I reckon the next time we meet, it's probably going to be less cordial. Call it a hunch."

Phantasm (Drago) has posed:
 \'What have I got to lose, When I've already lost it all?'\</span\>

 \'Maybe this time he'll say a prayer for\</span\>
 \Say a prayer for the damned.'\</span\>

 \'For the damned.'\</span\>

The yellow jacketed figures move about different ways, following after the yellow eyes. The shadowy one moves a bit quicker, weaving through the crowd. Adjusting it's path almost immediately with each jump of the gold.

 \'Have you ever been abused by someone\</span\>
 \So brutal that it chills your soul\</span\>
 \Have you ever been afraid of your own ghost'\</span\>

 \'I'm just a creature of a broken past\</span\>
 \We're all looking for a second chance\</span\>
 \And I don't want to live like this no more'\</span\>

Nick nods to the general advice. "Rest assured. I WON'T apologize for existing. No matter who insists."

The offer to ask questions is taken up as well. . "...If there was a way where things could be ended peacefully where you didn't have to go back to where you were. Would you consider it? "

Sinister has posed:
Yes, that song choice is altogether far too on the nose. Co-inky-dink?

Azazel considers as the song rolls on in the mind's eye, the expression she currently wears rather vague, pointedly so, a distant smile that isn't rueful, isn't knowledgeable, isn't smug, just /is/.

"Would you?" the reply is made simply, until her head turns and she looks ferocious of sudden at a rattling at the door. The eyes flare yellow, burning sulphorous yellow, before the cleaning lady drops to the ground, a seizure gripping her.

But there's no bleeding from the eyes and nose and ears at least, which is saying -something-?

Outside the studio doors, there's a yell, another and a flash, mostly seen beneath the door jam and around the frame, of brilliant white light.

And then a scream. Followed by sudden, pertinent silence.

Phantasm (Drago) has posed:
As the question is turned back to him. There is no immediate response. Then again, to consider something generally means not to make a quick decision. There's a lot of 'it depends' involved.

A legitimate offer of peace to prevent or end fighting. Isn't that something worth considering?

Of course, there's the cost for said peace.

"I would probab-"

Nick's words cut short as the sound of rattling causes for him to turn his head in the direction of the sound. A little surprised.

Well, guess someone's coming after all.

Then, everything seems go go with a blur.

The concert comes to a sudden halt. No more crowd, just an empty stage and the remains of what was left by the prior attendees. The yellow jackets are still there, watching as some other similar faced persons in vests go about picking up trash.

Thunk.

Eyes widen as Nick starts to move towards the housekeeper before he halts. Instead he moves over to pull the music stands away from where she's thrashing about. At some point the Escrima sticks get tossed into his open bag. And upon the shaking from stopping, he moves over to check on the housekeeper.

The shouting and the light end up being noted in some manner but the immediate concern goes to the woman on the floor.

Nick's head jerks up to the sound of the scream. Looking to the door silently before the sound of the clock starting back up again releases him from the moment of distraction.

Phone. PHONE!

Scrambling back over to his bag, his fishes out his phone and proceeds to call for emergency services.

Sinister has posed:
The woman's breathing is stable, her heart rate is high and the seizure does go on for about thirty seconds. A lot can happen in that time, when you're dealing with the kinds of forces that Nick deals with on a relatively common basis.

She looks as if she's bitten her cheek or her lip, she's bleeding and probably has a head injury from the drop, but she's not haemorrhaging from every oriface.

Outside the door, something tinkles, chimes, then thuds hard on the floor. Thereafter, a sliding sound and a growl, far more beast than mindful. Language, but it isn't anything young and vital and new -- ancient. How's his Hebrew?

Three minutes is a long time to wait in the midst of what could possibly be.

The smell of scorched earth is suddenly inching below the door, burned and salted. There's a sound of a hoofbeat or two, then silence again. The door opens rather slowly.

Shadow and smoke billows out there, a pair of yellow eyes in the midst of it all. "Sorry kid. You'll get used to this kind of shit..." the voice is deep, slightly accented, then another couple of hoofbeats and the shape in the middle of the smoke and shadow shifts just enough to grab something from the floor. There's... an outline against the wall, an afterimage of scorch, like something burned up VERY suddenly.

"Tell your uncle to choose his words really carefully, eh? I won't be duped again."

Somewhere in the distance, there are probably sirens. In here it's just quiet.

Phantasm (Drago) has posed:
Nick's Hebrew is.

Well... It's non-existent to be honest so as he's trying to relay the seizure part of the emergency. Nick is left to hope that the rest of the sounds are NOT getting picked up over the phone.

Because he really doesn't have a reasonable answer he can give for that.

Oh noooo... His hand slipped. Oh noooo...

Nick hits the end call button. Either way they already got the address.

And so while he waits for medical help for the poor housekeeper, Nick is left in the locked room to look to the closed door.

As the door opens enough to show evidence of someone getting burned away, Nick's brows raise.

He nods slowly to Azazel's request.

This has been a very eventful rehearsal...

Sinister has posed:
The shadow and smoke seems to nod. Leastwise, the yellow glare of sulphorous eyes dip in the imagination of a shape.

Then, it is gone, a slither into the vents, the afternote in the nose all that told of it being here.

Yes, Azazel is loose. He's dangerous. He has a grudge.

But does ACTUALLY seem to care about something in this world, outside of his freedom? Perhaps.

Perhaps.

16583/Interlude: The Watcher

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