WHAT'S THE MATTER, MARY JANE

[diogenesis]

Who: Mycroft Holmes & Lyla Tzigano
What: An unplanned morning meeting.
Where: Sobek Croix; the grounds of the Hellsing Guild Hall
When: Coardi, Kavadry 22nd
Notes: Closed post.
Warnings: Discussion of/allusions to drugs, alcohol, and addiction.

It's been nearly two weeks since Mycroft began working for Hellsing, and he's been kept quite busy. From what he can gather, affairs are always lively at the guild, but the current effort to scare up some of the Candlelighters has shifted things into a yet higher gear. He is more than used to spending most of his time working—in fact, returning to such a routine has helped him not to linger so obsessively on the uncertainties of his situation—but peace, quiet, and solitude are never amiss in Mycroft's book, either.

It's early in the morning, and he's arrived at the guild hall ahead of time in order to take the opportunity to walk the grounds. Sobek Croix is a beautiful district, and despite Mycroft's usual preference for keeping nature at a distance, he finds he can't help but enjoy the way it keeps everything else out, particularly around Hellsing. The sound of the nearby forest doesn't bother him as much as other things do, and the feel and scent of it is even pleasant. As long as his shoes stay clean and he stays dry, he thinks he and nature may co-exist more happily than he had anticipated.

Comments

[diogenesis]

"You'll go to the Spatters alone, then," Mycroft says, his assumption all but confirmed. He wants to ask her whether she works during the day as well, what her abilities are, whether her arm will heal by then, but that would all be unspeakably rude. It's no business of his. No business of his at all.

He considers things for a moment, then nods toward the other side of the bench. He keeps his eyes on Lyla, coloring his gaze with just a hint of challenge.

"Do you mind?"

[satrinah]

She's not used to people asking, which is what that moment of pause is about this time. There's a shrug of her narrow shoulders, though (Lyla is very thin both by design and lifestyle; this is what happens when your idea of breakfast is a bag of skittles, cigarettes, and diet coke). She's not sure what she makes of this line of questioning, besides, perhaps, simply wanting to know one's colleagues. Her instincts don't tell her anything bad, but she is wary out of habit and nature both.

It's still weird to Lyla that she has colleagues, that she's a part of anything approximating an organization with people who sleep in beds and don't carry razorblades under their tongues.

"Go ahead," she says. "And yeah, it's kinda my thing...well, I mean, can you imagine most folks around here trying to fit in around the Spatters?"

Never let it be said the girl isn't aware of how she comes across.

"I have friends there. People act like the Spatters ain't a real part of the city, but everybody who lives down there knows more about Baedal than anywhere else."

[diogenesis]

Mycroft approaches Lyla fully now and sits down beside her, lowering the umbrella from his shoulder and leaning it against the front of the bench. He smoothes his suit and then eases back a bit. All the while, he's taking the opportunity to observe his current companion at much closer quarters.

He'd noticed that Lyla had something weighing down each side of her jacket, but he can see much more clearly now the shapes that the edges press into the fabric, the stress their weight puts on the inner pockets. Three items, two of them identical (approx. 12 oz in right pocket, approx. 2.5 oz in left). Two matching items (each in a different pocket) most likely switch or folding blades. Additional item likely a container of some sort (adding in previous observations leads to flask being a high probability). Array of holes in shirt all formed after purchase; none formed purposefully (one formed last night). Men's shampoo (cheap) used 8-10 hours ago, but no change of clothes—stayed at someone (who is likely male)'s house but didn't plan on doing so. Sweat, glitter, alcohol, cigarettes, marijuana—he reads hours of the inanities of partying all over her—

Something metallic. Familiar. Bad. Interesting. Like Sherlock, something that smells like Sherlock—

Oh. It's blood.

Not very much, just the faintest hint of it below the shampoo and club grunge, but the note sticks out to Mycroft like it's in the wrong key. It's not likely that she has an external wound bad enough to be concerned about—the smell would be stronger—and an internal one would be causing visible pain. Perhaps she was in a fight or in contact with someone else who was injured, and didn't manage to get rid of the smell entirely.

He quickly comes back to what she's saying, not missing a beat.

"I've often heard it said that such areas are, in fact, the most real," Mycroft reflects. "Existential questions of reality aside, it's quantifiably true, in a way. One can see all of a nation's most shameful faults magnified and run rampant in these places. The unpolished truth; the sin no one bothers to either hide or claim. Where you find sentience, you find this."

He looks at her. "If that isn't reality, I don't know what is."

[satrinah]

In a more alert state, she'd be significantly more attuned to the fact that she's being observed--which has more to do with her own hyper-vigilant wariness than the idea that it's noticeable to most people, because it isn't. For now, she feels like something's on the tip of her tongue, or the back of her mind, or some turn of phrase used to mean close but not quite. She rubs carefully at one eye with her knuckles, in a fairly pointless attempt at salvaging some of her eyeliner.

"Kind of like how people say you can tell the truth about somebody by how they treat their so-called "lessers", but bigger?"

Or whatever it is they actually say. She doesn't remember where she picked that one up. On the tail end of the question, she actually glances half at Mycroft; mostly she watches the scenery, in such a way that suggests she's accustomed to keeping an eye on her location for any unexpected new elements. It's not something she does entirely consciously.

[diogenesis]

"Yes, I'd say that's precisely it." A different kind of smile appears on Mycroft's face when he answers, something reflective and a degree or two warmer than his normal mask would allow.

He's gathered all the data he can on Lyla for the moment, and if her condition changes, he's likely to notice. He looks away from her and toward the Guild Hall, eyes wandering over the grounds in-between. The place really is lovely in the morning light—it reminds Mycroft of the trips his family would take to the country when he was very young, before Sherlock was born.