[ closed ] all of us like Daedalus: dead, dead, all of us

[gramarye]

Who: Benji and Wolfgang
What: At least it's not technically an arrest.
Where: Badside, Weirdhaus
When: Sukkardi/Saturday the 29th
Warnings: Unpleasantness. Updated as needed.

Whatever meds he's on now, they're working; he is coming back. Wolfgang is present in a way he hasn't been in weeks. He goes to work again, sees the friends he doesn't really like less, the ones he does like more. He smiles more. Takes the pets for walks, or rather they usually take him, sending him chasing them down the street hollering no, come back! Don't eat that! He usually is aware of who he is, where he is. If he doesn't always seem to know what's happening around him, he at least trusts other people not to lie to him about it. ("Did you just say...?" "Did you see that —" And sometimes the answer is no, and he's troubled, but he accepts it.) He teeters on functional more than he doesn't and while he hasn't stopped drinking, he at least has cut back to something that doesn't look so much like functional alcoholism. He keeps his stress to a minimum: asks for help when he needs it, quits trying to bootstraps everything. He took the wall around his dreams down.

Little things are getting easier — waking up at the same time every day, returning phone calls, eating regularly. He's usually around for dinner, helps out. Afterwards, he does the dishes while he talks to Benji, drinking red wine, some Baedalite type of grape, and maybe it's not a great idea to be handling wet knives and soap while drinking, but nobody in this house makes great decisions. Not everything he says always strictly makes sense but that's Baedal for you, really.

He's telling a story about something cute Archer — one of the kids he looks after sometimes, in Badside they trust him with their children — did and gesturing with the glass when someone or something pounds on the front door hard enough to knock it off its hinges.

He jumps and turns, pale and drawn. The glass shatters in his hand before he even drops it but retains its shape, and a handful of red grapes fall to the floor. Embarrassed, he mutters something inaudible (it sounds like an apology; it's always an apology) and throws everything in the trash before he goes to answer the door, troubled.

Voices from the foyer. Sounds like a man. "Wolfgang Einhorn?" The inflection that would make that a question has a hard enough edge to turn it into an accusation. "You have a summons."

Paper rustling. A pause. "There must be a mistake." Wolfgang's voice is thin and wavers. "I don't — I don't do that, they just put me on the power grid, that's not —" The heavy thud of boots on wood and then two uniformed Militia agents make their way into the living room, both armed; they spread out and begin going through the living room methodically, as if they're searching for something. A moment later, there's a third, followed by Wolfgang, distraught, who is holding a paper that looks like a warrant of some kind, but it can't be because the Militia do not need them.

He hovers there, not sure what to do, how to get these people out of his house.

Comments

[cestrumnocturnum]

Her first instinct isn't to hide, which may just be due to the fact she's been away from home for so long now and lately, things have been alright. Excursions out towards where some of those that fled the Spatters are hiding have been infrequent, her timing helped along with information given. Sometimes warnings from her come in the form of dreams, and sometimes it's in person if she thinks she can get away with it. And she has.

But as Benji trails along in Wolfgang's wake, on a delay of expecting the door knocking interruption to pass when it does not, she doesn't actually expect to see Militia agents, big and armed, in her living room. Fear immediately hardens her expression and has her eyes widen, but she only stops in the door of the living room at first, arms wrapped around her torso in folded defense.

Only two seconds are spent trying to assess what's happening, before she goes to ease towards Wolfgang and the paper in his hand, a hand out to touch his arm.

"Excuse me," she says, her voice finding some rare volume just so she will be heard, "what's going on?"

[gramarye]

If Wolfgang has an answer, he doesn't offer it. His white-knuckled grip on that paper wrinkles it, nails threatening to punch through, but he doesn't flinch away from her touch. The agent, on the other hand, looks over, gives her one sweeping, dismissive glance, and turns.

"ID," he says, tone expectant, face stony. It's not a request. He doesn't even hold out his hand, he just expects immediate compliance. In contrast, the other two look almost resigned, tired, like they don't want to be here, but that's not comforting; it just means they act with a callous indifference as they search through their things like they're not worth anything. Like they don't represent something.

Something breaks and Wolfgang flinches like they hit him, his eyes darting towards the agent who is making their way upstairs, looking behind things, knocking them off walls, not caring if it breaks them. What are they looking for? Does he have anything incriminating in the house? He could laugh, of course he does, and while he's gotten a lot better at hiding it — he didn't think he'd have to, for most of it. Because this is his house. They're not supposed to come here. He shouldn't have to cut a magic hidey hole in the wall of his room for a place to put his pills.

"I don't understand," he says at last, wringing his hands. The paper rumples between them. "Did... did I do something wrong, I..."

"Look," the agent says, flipping through a tablet. "I'm just doing my job, here."

I'm just following orders is not a good enough explanation, and Wolfgang frowns severely as the one upstairs starts opening doors — God, is Data still here, is Mermaid, he can't remember if they went out, and he's responsible for these people, and this can't be happening.

[cestrumnocturnum]

Her hand curls at the crook of Wolfgang's elbow in gentle hold, equal parts reassurance as it is an anchoring for herself as she blinks at request. ID. ID is something she has, right? Not the forged Registration card from home. It takes her a second to get her CiD out of a pocket with her free hand, offered with mute resignation as if maybe compliance will get them out of the house faster.

And something breaks, and she gives a sort of moue of dismay, a full bodied twitch like she wants to chase after the people getting deeper and deeper inside, but.

With steady hands, she goes to gently urge Wolfgang's into showing her the page he's worrying. There's a lot of legalise that doesn't make a lot of sense to her. Summons. "Okay," she says, at 'I'm just doing my job'. "Do you, um. Can you tell us who issued this? This seems very--" Something falls off a wall and shatters, upstairs. "--unnecessary."

[gramarye]

The paper says something about summons to appear at Gediron's Arena, Eliaderen 1st, 524 AF. He knows what that means. Although generally convicts who fight in the Arena to work off their brand volunteer to do so, sometimes it is a less voluntary choice than others. But they're still supposed to have other options. There is no other option here, it is very clear that he's to show up or be considered in contempt of the law.

But maybe he's wrong, maybe they just need him to do some gruntwork. He'll scrub the blood off the Arena floor with a toothbrush and spit if he's wrong. Just let me be wrong.

The officer doesn't even look up. He's noting her name, her cohort — he is entirely unsurprised that it's also CeidaryBlue523 — how long she's been in the city, and downloading her private messages to go over later. Presumably he'll do the same to everyone else here, and they'll silence all protests the way they always do; after all, if they have nothing to hide, then there's no real need for privacy, is there. Strictly speaking.

"Given the history here of possessing illegal substances —" (Wolfgang flinches.) "— it's necessary for the good of the city."

Upstairs, the agents start to comb through the bedrooms, opening drawers and pulling things out, rifling through their things, not caring where anything they knock over falls or whether it breaks. The exceptional thoroughness indicates they're looking for a little something more than illegally-obtained drugs, something that could be hidden under a board, behind a frame or in a wall.

But he's been careful, hasn't he? They can't trace anything he's been doing back to him, or to here, to her. But they could have gotten his name from anywhere; conversations over the network where he criticized the gods, those meetings he goes to every week, or from someone else who gave him up, but if they knew anything they would have just come in and arrested him, wouldn't they? That they're looking indicates they need a reason. This flashes over his face in the span of about a second and he makes a dismayed noise when something else crashes, one of his hands dropping to his side. Gesturing out of their line of sight.

Then going behind his back, where he's holding something he wasn't before, a small bottle. His pills, he has to get rid of them before they see them. They were in his sock drawer two seconds ago; conjuring is a new skill.

[cestrumnocturnum]

She's always been careful with her CiD, she thinks. A dreamwalker can afford to be. But it still makes her stomach lurch as she watches the device being gone through, makes her think she may never use it again. But she manages to school her expression into stillness, even when there is talk about illegal substances. Benji tips a look upwards at the ceiling. Drawers are being dragged out of their frames.

"I understand," she says, instead, heavily. The severity of the search and the words being spelled out on the warrant have her giving up argument, probably not soon enough, an uneasy hand gripping at and raking back lank dark hair.

A hand light at Wolfgang's back travels down, following the path of long arm. Fingertips touch light on his hand. She's observant, and less likely to be searched, and she offers.

[gramarye]

His hesitation and the reason for it are obvious. He's never been good at hiding what he's feeling. If he gives it to her, there's a risk they find it on her, and then — he doesn't know. Will they think it's hers? Or would they only punish her for trying to hide it for him? If he keeps it, they could find it on him. Would it make a difference? He's going to die in a couple days anyway.

Unless he's wrong.

If he broadcasts, the entire room will hear it. He can't bank on the Militia having anti-psychic measures on them, although this would be the one time it would actually work out in his favour.

He passes the bottle to her, as surreptitiously as he can. His arms move, coming around in front of him, hugging himself defensively. One hand slides under the sleeve covering his opposite wrist; his nails dig in and draw blood.

That's enough to focus his mind, to make this private. Flush it. They're expensive, but not worth going back to jail. He can buy more later. If he's wrong.

Upstairs, one of the agents lets out a surprised yelp, and the third one, the one here with them, looks up, frowns, and heads in that direction. Wolfgang tails them, protesting that there's nothing up there and that this isn't necessary, talking a lot.