multiversallogs | on his Italian leather sofa

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on his Italian leather sofa

Who: Hellboy and OPEN!
What: Hellboy tries to get some stuff for his apartment, and maybe meets up with some people along the way.
Where: Furniture shops in the Aspic bazaar.
When: Coardi, 15 Shadri
Notes: Please note that this post is heavily backdated, because I meant to do it a long time ago but have been busy until recently.
Warnings: Not very likely.

Hellboy hadn't been living in his apartment for very long when the first creature invasion happened, and thus he hadn't had much time to make the place much of a home yet. He'd gone out for a week of mostly non-stop on-the-go monster-killing, and in the time he'd been away, crawlers had made their way up through his unsealed pipes and set about making a mess of his place. Luckily, he'd happened to close his bedroom door on his way out, so his bed was safe upon his return, but the one chair he'd gotten for his living room was a total loss.

It had taken a few days more to deal with the immediate aftermath -- clearing out the crawlers, cleaning up the mess, being interrogated by the Militia, taking part in a Hellsing celebratory barbecue -- but he'd finally managed to free up the time to do some shopping. He'd heard that the Aspic bazaar had a pretty wide variety of shops, so that's where he's wandering around, looking to see what catches his eye and enjoying the diversity of the populace milling about around him. At times, it almost feels like being a seven foot tall red-skinned demon man might be comparatively normal.

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Rachel's really never gotten the hang of the bazaar. Well, no--she's gotten the searching down pretty well, and she's all right with the haggling, but navigating the crowds? Not her strongest suit.

Once again she's rather ungracefully backed away from a stall only to feel her back connecting with another body. "Sorry!" she says, giving another shopper a chance to pass by so she's got room to turn around. She intends to explain and apologize some more, so she looks up.

...And up, and up. Gosh.

"That was totally my fault. I wasn't paying attention. Are you okay?"

...Okay, right, so a woman her size backing into a dude his size is probably about as likely to cause damage as a nerf ball being flung at a car, but it's the principle of the thing. She's polite.

Given his size, Hellboy is paradoxically used both to being given a wide berth by people and also to being bumped into by accident. Her impact does not, in fact, cause him any harm. His reaction is instead to hold his hands out, ready to catch her in case her reaction to the collision throws her off balance. When she manages to get herself turned around without falling over, he pulls his hands away from the general catching vicinity.

"Whoa. No, I'm fine. You all set there?"

Rachel nods, smiling up at him now that her initial whoa-that's-a-very-big-very-red-dude shock has worn off. "I'm fine," she assures him. "Just not very good at navigating crowds, I guess. Every time I come here I just about take somebody out trying to make my way through."

And then she offers him a hand, because the least she can do is introduce herself after all this. "I'm Rachel."

He nods in return. His severe features don't quite make it to what passes for smiling for him, but his tone of voice is light and friendly enough to make up the difference. "Yeah, it does take some practice and getting used to."

At Rachel's handshake offer, Hellboy raises up his own massive stone three-fingered Right Hand demonstratively with a rueful little shake of his head, then extends his left instead. "Sorry, but... yeah. Name's Hellboy. Nice to meet you, Rachel."

"Oh, hey, no problem." Rachel switches to offering her left hand without missing a beat, still smiling. "It's nice to meet you, too, Hellboy."

She's sure they haven't talked before--she'd remember. Another person to add to her ever-growing (just the way she likes it, social thing that she is) circle here.

"What brings you here today?"

Pickman is still new as a suckling babe to Baedal at this point, and as he wanders the marketplace, he bears the expression of a man not just not upset by the whole situation, but actively loving every minute of it. It isn't the Dreamlands, no -- but that just makes it more exciting.

His camera didn't come with him, and he doesn't have funds enough to obtain anything of the sort here. (And, honestly, probably won't for a very long time.) That hurts. But his freshest sketchbook did come along, and that will have to do. He's taken up a perch on a jut of wall a modest distance from a food vendor (that is to say, far enough away that his smell doesn't drive any buyers away), and is scribbling so hard that you might wonder whether it's graphite or smoke coming off of the paper.

The broad splash of red that Hellboy presents inevitably draws his eye, and he lets out a chirp of delight, pushing himself up onto the balls of his feet (never mind how his feet protest, this is worth it) to try and get a better look at him.

Hellboy is indeed pretty memorable. Being also pretty social, he also knows he hasn't talked to Rachel before.

"Furniture!" he says, like it's a bit of an adventure, or at least a parody of same. "My apartment's pretty barren, and I've finally got a bit of time to do something about it."

Given his size, a better look isn't too terribly difficult to get. Hellboy soon stops off at a nearby furniture shop, whose proprietor quickly bustles over and escorts him to a chair that he apparently just swears will be perfect. Hellboy looks rather more dubious, as the chair isn't especially large. (He in fact holds up his big Right Hand as though comparing it to one of the armrests.)

The shopkeeper insists that he try the chair first, and with a sigh, he slowly lowers himself into it... and then quickly stands up before his weight fully finishes settling, as the audible groans and the visibly bending legs were clear signals that the chair would not handle his magnificence.

Pickman stopped to weigh the pros and cons of following Hellboy into the shop, he honestly did. For about two seconds, but still. He was even keeping nice and quiet, all sneaky-like, until the guy almost kills the chair. Then he can't help a sharp, animal laugh.

"Thinkin' you need somethin' a little thicker on the ground, there, brother." He grins up at him, carefully not baring too much tooth. Hopefully, he's not about to get hit.

"Furniture," Rachel echoes. "It's nice that you have your own place. I just got one myself, recently. Hey--there's a dude over near the other side of the marketplace that has decent stuff. I could show you?"

He considers for a moment, then shrugs a slouchy shrug. "Yeah, sure, thanks. I'll admit that my taste in decor doesn't extend much past the question of whether it can support my weight."

Just how much that weight is is probably apparent just from the size of him.

Hellboy side-eyes over at Pickman, more out of surprise at having been watched than anything else, and then lets out a snort of laughter.

"Sturdier materials would help, too." He turns to the proprietor. "So how 'bout it, pal? You got anything here that won't crumble under me?"

The shopkeeper smiles sheepishly -- he was hoping for an easy you-break-it-you-bought-it sale -- and gestures further into the store, where he starts leading the way. Hellboy looks back at Pickman, shrugs, and makes a little come-on head gesture.

Fuckin' A! He gets to tag along with the big red guy. Score one for being a nosy bastard.

"Daddy was an architect," Pickman claims as he follows Hellboy. His gait is more than a little off, the kind of awkward lope that suggests some serious foot pain being ignored. "Bored me t'shit, but I still picked some shit up. I know load bearing when I see it, yeah?". He glances over at the shopkeeper, smirking a little.

(The claim is at least half accurate -- Old Man Pickman was an architect. How much his progeny actually picked up is... less certain.)

"Well, then, you can offer second opinions." Why not. While he is looking to actually buy some stuff by the end of the day, he's not a terribly serious shopper, and can appreciate an entertaining diversion. He extends his left hand. "Hellboy."

The shopkeeper finally brings them to a halt. "Here, here. While I admit that that chair was maybe not quite your type--" He shrugs as though this were a matter of taste, not structural integrity. "--I think this will be much more to your liking." He makes a gesture at... a couch. It's pretty solidly built, and maybe even a little overstuffed for comfort. It's also very brown.

"Well, then this guy's stuff won't bother you. Reasonably priced if not terribly attractive. We can ask him about weight bearing? It's over this way."

She moves slowly through the crowd, not wanting another collision so soon after this near-miss. "Have you been in the city long?"

"Richard Upton Pickman. Call me whichever." He gives only a slight pause (Hellboy is very large, after all, and he's not particularly used to shaking with his left hand, to boot) before putting his hand in Hellboy's.

It is pretty obvious that there's something... many somethings... off about Pickman, from first sight. A less obvious detail presents itself when the artist shakes Hellboy's hand -- the silver ring he wears, with an elder sign and accompanying markings engraved in it. It's not something he thinks about at all, though, at the moment, continuing to grin up at his new friend.

"That so? Pleasure to meet you, Hellboy."

When they stop at the couch, he pops forward, circling around it and dropping to the ground to check out the legs, and exactly how sturdy it seems from down there.

Hellboy follows along behind, the click-clack of his hooves swallowed up by the noise of the people around them. As they walk, he lights up a cigarette. For all his slope-shouldered bulk, he manages to thread himself through the crowd reasonably well.

"About... two and a half months, I think? I came in with the cohort's initial big batch of folks. You?"

"Nice to meet you too, Richard."

Hellboy's friends have included fish-men, homunculi, and ghosts, not to mention the various folks he's met first in Bete Noire and now in Baedal. While he notices Pickman's obvious weirdnesses, they don't bother him too terribly. Truthfully, he's more concerned about the couch, sighing at the look of it.

"I don't suppose it comes in any other colors."

The shopkeeper momentarily looks a bit offended, but quickly smooths it over. "Just what you see here, sir."

"Mm." He scratches at his little goatee for a moment, then decides to try the couch anyway. "Well, maybe I could put some blankets over it. Richard, let me know how it's looking." He settles himself in slowly, and the couch takes his weight like a champ. "Interesting jewelry, by the way."

"Yeah, me too." She glances up at him--he's remarkably tall, like so many of the other male cohort members she's met. She's really starting to think the city has a type when it comes to dudes. "I think I came toward the end of that first big wave but I was still part of it. Feels like so long ago now."

She pauses a moment, getting her bearings, and then she turns left, motioning for Hellboy to follow. "You didn't happen to be using or be near a door when you got brought here, did you?"

"Y -" You could use a slipcover! he very nearly volunteers. But what the fuck, no. That's a stupid thing to say, and he isn't going to look stupid in front of the awesome giant red guy. He makes a face at himself, and tries to look busy peering under the couch. "Lookin' good down here." And it does, as far as he can tell. Nothing's shifting or cracking...

He gets distracted from that by Hellboy's last comment, perking up. He recognises his ring? That could make a lot of things easier. Or more difficult. "Better safe'n sorry, yeah? You familiar?"

He nods, smoke puffing out of his mouth as he chuckles. "Someone on the network was polling on that, a while back. Yeah, I was walking out the door of the hostel I was staying at at the time. I don't know if it affects whatever you're thinking or not, but I was taken from another of these kidnap cities called Bete Noire, not directly from home."

"Hm. Good. Hang on, let me check..." He shifts over to the other side of the sofa, so that he can see how his Right Hand feels on that arm rest. The results are pretty good, the overstuffed padding of the rest cushioning the massive cylinder of his forearm while the flat stony fingers settle into a natural curl around the end. "Hm. Yeah, there's possibilities, here."

Hellboy chuckles when Pickman perks up, and reaches into one of the pouches on his belt. What he pulls out is an amulet on a chain, and sure enough, there's an elder sign engraved on it, surrounded by a number of other symbols and some Old Lemurian writing. "I'm a paranormal investigator. It comes with the territory."

A low whistle. "Nice, fuck." His eyes dart to the other pouches, considering what else might be in there. 'Paranormal investigator.' This guy's probably got his shit together. Seriously. "So, hey, you got any 'pinions on ghouls an' such?"

Because that's not a completely transparent line of questioning, at all.

"Hmm." Rachel frowns, digesting that bit of information. "I had a theory going a while back that people got here through doors, but it seems to be pretty hit-or-miss for that actually, like, being the case. But--Bete Noire. You're the second person I've met who came from there. What was it--you say it's another city like this one?"

It should also be noted that, while mention of it may have been missed in earlier narration, Hellboy also carries a golden-handled sword in a scabbard on a baldric, which he has to unsling from his back to do his test sitting.

Meanwhile, Pickman's question is entirely transparent, as Hellboy has only been ignoring the dead flesh smell, not failing to notice it. He closes his eyes and grits his teeth, obviously fighting to maintain his temper.

"I have to admit, Richard, they're not really my favorite kind of people," he says, his tone studiously even, his choice of pronoun chosen to keep this as calm and theoretical a discussion as possible. Wouldn't want to start a fight in the store, after all, even if his real opinion on ghouls was that they were worse than cannibals. "However, this city being what it is, I could make allowances, depending on how they get their food. Killing people is bad. Grave robbing is bad. Arrangements where I don't have to be called in to deal with it... Well, a ghoul with that kind of arrangement, I might not have a problem with."

The shopkeeper, by this point, is starting to look distinctly nervous.

"Yeah. Frequent, but not universal." He quietly puffs on his cigarette for a moment as he recalls his network conversation with Ianto Jones. "Last I bothered to count, there were maybe ten of us, give or take, who got taken from there. Bete Noire was much more of a run-down American big city craphole than this place. Bad lighting, lots of crumbling concrete, crime seemed pretty common. They also said it had some connections to sin and the apocalypse, but I wasn't really there long enough to have much experience with any of that."

Pickman is, for all appearances to the contrary, a fairly socially astute person. He just typically uses his knowledge for evil... or at least, annoyance. He can tell when a situation is starting to turn bad.

The way he kind of hunches up as Hellboy speaks is remarkably reminiscent of canine body language, spelling out his apprehension and disappointment loud and clear. It's far too easy to imagine him with flattened ears and a tail curled between his legs. But one doesn't survive as a scavenger, or an artist, or a prep school outcast, without knowing how to think fast, and talk faster. "In a place like this, who'd have to?" His fingers twitch, wanting something to fidget with, but all he has is the edge of the couch, and the strap of his messenger bag, and the same sort of instinct that kept him from reaching into his pockets in front of a cop keeps him from messing with the latter. "S'all open, yeah? 'less you were tryin' to start trouble, like some fuck."

Please believe him, giant red man, he is not this fuck.

"Sounds like a quality place. I wonder why this place grabbed so many of you from there, though? That's unusual. Did you all know each other there?"

She scans the area quickly, and then she gestures. "That way. He's down at the end of this little aisle, here."

"That's right, Richard," he replies, quietly pleased to see that Pickman can see where he's going. "I'm sure that a clever and resourceful ghoul has already found and made such arrangements, so neither the Sheriff, nor the Militia, nor guys like me need to be called. A ghoul could live a very long time without trouble, that way."

Now that they've established this, Hellboy is going to outright pretend that this is the case, for the time being. He takes a deep, cleansing breath, and his mood lightens considerably as he stands up and puts his sword back on his back. "I'll consider it."

The shopkeeper, briefly relieved by not having a fight break out in his store, is then just as quickly dismayed. "...'Consider?'"

"'Consider.'" Now that he isn't keeping a raging temper in check, he can manage a bit of a scowl without it threatening imminent mayhem. "I still have some other shops to look at today, and don't think I haven't forgotten your earlier stunt. I'll let you know what my decision is, when I make it."

He takes the corner and continues following. "My two theories were either that whoever's in charge wanted to front-load the cohort with experienced folks, or that there's an inter-city swap meet. Who the hell knows." He shrugs. "I only knew a few of them -- like I said, I hadn't been there long -- but a bunch of us had worked for Hellsing, which made things convenient when we got here."

He'd already been leaning toward that approach to the issue, due to what he'd already gathered about the place, and -to be perfectly honest - the sheer novelty of the option. The only thing that had had him considering otherwise was the idea of the cost - once you get used to never paying for your meals, it's hard to go back. But not being hunted down by the gentleman in front of him seems well worth the monetary expense.

He flashes a nervous, close-mouthed smile, and nods. Yessir.

And then Hellboy looks to be about to leave, and it would be a great time to slip away, without too much fuss...

"You needin' any help with the rest it?"

...or not.

The shopkeeper makes one last rally to salvage his dignity. "Well, sir, I can't guarantee that the merchandise will still be here if you come back later."

Hellboy snorts in reply. "That big brown thing? I'll take my chances." He looks back over at Pickman. "I think I'll be fine, Richard. But thank you," he says, with apparent sincerity. "By the way, if a ghoul happened to be having trouble making legal arrangements, Hellsing has people whose job is helping with that sort of thing. The Guild Hall's in the CiD map."

Having done what he considers to be his good deed for the day, he walks out, readying a cigarette in the process.

"Hellsing. That's like--well, you guys aren't the police or anything, but kinda similar?" She's heard the name a few times by now and she wants to make sure she's got her facts straight. The more she knows, the more she has at her disposal, after all.

"I mean, from what I know, you guys help protect the people in the city from threats."

He makes a so-so gesture with the Right Hand. "The official title is 'The Guild of Battling Preternatural Horrors,' and that... kind of covers it, really. We occasionally work with the police, but we're closer to private paranormal investigators than monster cops. We've also got folks who help non-humans who're having trouble adapting to life in the city, whether it's dietary or some other thing."

"Oh!" That's good information to have. She's heard the name around the city, seen their broadcasts; she's glad to know exactly what they do. It could come in useful someday, considering where they are.

"I'm glad to hear that you guys help non-humans too, instead of just bashing their heads or whatever. We don't have a choice about being here. It'd suck to then be hunted or shot at or jailed or whatever on top of that."

Hellboy pulls up short and turns to face her. "Whoa, hey, hold on now. Let's be clear about something: We don't go chasing down non-humans just for being non-humans. I mean..." He gestures at his face, as though illustrating the point. "If Hellsing gets a call about someone -- or something, for that matter -- it's because whatever it is is causing problems for folks."

Rachel holds up her hands. "No, no, that's what I meant at all, sorry," she explains. "I'm sure you guys don't do that. I'm glad you're here, so that there's someone not doing that."

She pauses, choosing her next words carefully and delivering them in a slightly lowered voice. "I don't get the feeling the city as a whole can, like. Consistently be counted on for that. You know?"

"Oh. That." Now that he's got a better idea of what she's talking about, he finds it entertaining enough to not only chuckle, but also make the effort of giving her his slightly grotesque best attempt at a grin. Trying to keep his voice down as well -- no mean feat with a voice as gravelly as his -- he adds, "Well, I don't know how much they discriminate either. I'm more concerned with their response to emergencies. Or the lack thereof, as the case may be."

"That's a good concern to have," she admits, frowning. "We seem to go from emergency to emergency here. And the city itself always seems taken by surprise--I mean, from my point of view, anyway. It might be totally different, what you guys know and see."

He shakes his head. "Not particularly. Then again, I haven't been here any longer than you have. Maybe this crap just wasn't happening before we got here, or at least not as often."

Rachel's quiet a moment, thoughtful. "That's something to look into," she says. She looks up at Hellboy and explains, "I've been gathering some information on the city, and working with some other people on that. I hadn't thought to look into whether things like this happen all the time or not. But it's worth checking out."

Hellboy nods and continues walking. "Well, good luck with that. I'd say it should make an interesting paper, but you'd want to be careful. They seem to take a very keen interest in anything anyone publishes about the city."

"Oh, god, yeah," she agrees. "I can't say I'd be comfortable making it a public thing. That sounds like it's asking for trouble. --Down there, that's him, that space with all the odd-colored stuff, at the end. --For now I'm just trying to quietly gather information and see if we can get anything useful out of it."

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on his Italian leather sofa

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