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Maricel Thorne      The nearest warpgate to Maricel's clinic lies in the middle of a makeshift plaza, verdant with engineered plant life that ever-so-slightly crawls and writhes underfoot- not enough to be clearly animated, but just enough to unsettle. Further away from the gate, and particularly in the direction of the dubious doctor's home, the pseudosylvan sessile life grades into outright flesh covering almost every available surface. It looks like a mixture of coral, raw hamburger, and a sprawling teratoma, but great care seems to have been taken to keep the stuff healthy and alive- it's carefully pruned, and surgical tubing 'waters' it with strange chemicals.

     If he looks up- an understandable reaction, given what's on the ground- Arthur would be faced with a grapefruit-red sun shining through greenish clouds, giving a sickly cast to the very air as it refracts off of countless aerosolized nanoparticles. Without some form of protection, mundane or otherwise, the air subtly stings one's eyes and throat, gradually turning the skin raw and tarnishing or corroding mundane metals in hours or days.

     A bright and sunny presence stands out in this bleak and foreboding place- Maricel waits about twenty feet from the warpgate, leaning against a wall and not seeming to mind the thorny tendril that's wrapped itself around one of her ankles. Her labcoat is a spotless rusty red (though it may have once been white), accessorizing superbly with the living lavender umbrella that she holds by the ankle- or rather, handle.
Arthur Lowell     ARTHUR LOWELL is here! As usual, he goes around by way of antigravitational flight, which means sort of lazily, relaxedly drifting along in a very weightless, astronaut-style way. And then he hits the air. Immediately, his real-life-videogame nature hits hard. On his way over to Maricel, she'll probably get to actually see, with her own two eyes -- or one, if that's the case -- a game UI popup, a slowly filling bar labeled 'BIO'. Yep, he is very definitely parsing it, reality-wise, as a status effect.

    He does stop on his way in, freezing in place, though that's a little more ineffectual when he's drifting on antigravity. He was exactly as averse as one would expect to the flesh of the ground, but his deep connection to Space as an aspect immediately made him quite aware of the state of the sun. Red suns, unfortunately, are more than a little bit of a universally constant sign of awfulness... He's not liking that. When he almost drifts INTO Maricel, it's because of the deeply disturbed distress that flickers through his confident expression while looking up...

    And then he snaps out of it, just short of running headlong into Maricel. Playing it off, he greets her with proper eagerness and confidence. "YO, WHAT UP?" And then, unless something happens to stop it, he'll go right in for a complex coolkid handshake, executed regardless of Maricel's participation. This involves several pounds, daps, slaps, full arm gestures, and similar; they all take place in the span of about two seconds and there's no less than a dozen separate maneuvers involved. "Heard you got some DOG PROBLEMS, DOG. What's the HAPS? I'll get HELLA HELP up in that sh--" He coughs a bit as his BIO bar fills a little more, but seems to be doing okay... Sort of!
Maricel Thorne      Maricel's arm makes a series of deeply unpleasant noises as it's pulled on and slapped and shaken. They're even worse in person, like something tearing cartilage from bone; like a raw chicken being slowly crushed, or a horde of ghouls feasting messily on unsettlingly fresh carrion. Then her hand comes off in his grasp- the joint cleanly detaches, and the skin dehisces as if along a sharp and predetermined line. She raises one eyebrow, then snickers uncontrollably as the long and stringy ligaments are pulled out of her forearm with a long slurping sound to dangle limply from her severed hand.

     "Maybe a little less vigorous next time," she chides gently before squeezing his hand back, her detached extremity showing a surprisingly firm grip. When he lets go, it'll float back over to her after a moment and neatly reattach itself- just in time for her to tap her chin thoughtfully with it, and give her one-eyed umbrella a quick conspiratorial glance.

     *Doesn't he look green around the gills to you? Something's eating him.*
     *Maybe. Maybe. ... Psychologically, or literally? That cough- early-stage respiratory abrasion. You've got the polyvaccine, right?*
     *Right. I'll stick him with it.*

     A fraction of a second later, Thorne reaches into her bag and digs around in it while expositing: "So, the issue is that this dog- doglike thing- canine subsapioid- was brought to my clinic because, not two days before the dog show, it had developed a spontaneous idiopathic case of minor death. I fixed it, and prior to handing it back to its owners, the creature escaped. They don't know I've lost it yet, and if all goes well, they never will. But I must get it back before the show starts this evening, for obvious reasons." While she talks, she uncaps a syringe full of a swirling, ominous-looking liquid, grips it with her thumb over the plunger, and with a disarmingly casual movement, tries to poke Arthur with it in the forearm! "Oh, and hold still, won't you?"
Arthur Lowell     Most people are overwhelmed by the handshake. Arthur, unfortunately, has met something that isn't overwhelmed at all. He visibly grits his teeth, forcing the grin to persist. Regardless of the detached arm, he finishes his handshake, and even adds a little pound at the end to shove it back! "HAH! VIGOROUS? Shit, yo, I'm runnin' ELEVEN OUT OF FIVE at ALL TIMES, yo, I don't do LESS VIGOROUS. Uh, sorry about the... Arm." He coughs again, but that's actually awkwardness this time, his little status bar didn't jump on that one.

    ""ALRIGHT! So, gotta DOG-ISH THING, and I don't gotta worry about it RIGGING TRAPS or DEBATING ME, just the RUNNING AWAY. Let's see, DOGS, DOGS... Right, way to get THOSE DUDES comin' back is FAMILIAR SCENTS. Your CLIENTS drop in any STUFF for the DOG, or anything that they MESS WITH A LOT?" He kind of rambles, distractedly, and then the needle goes in. "AUGH!" Despite his aversion to all the FLESH, at least he's not afraid of needles. Just averse to unexplained injections. "JEEZE lady, tell a guy before you JAM THE NEEDLES. Should I expect WAKING UP KIDNEYLESS now or what the hell, yo?" He's going to keep a bit more of a healthy distance but at least he's not immediately offended, just INCREDIBLY unnerved by the casual injections.
Maricel Thorne      *May I dial your auditory sensitivity back?*
     *Please do. Please. This guy...*
     *Eh, we've all got quirks. They're what set us apart.*

     Maricel's grin is considerably less forced- though it is rather sheepish. "Ah, sorry... wasn't aware that's considered impolite where you come from. No, I assure you, we've got /quite/ a surfeit of kidneys at the moment! That's just to keep that cough from getting any worse." His BIO meter should stop filling a moment later- it may even go down a bit. "I'm not entirely sure what you were coming down with; probably nothing serious, but don't want to risk you sloughing off your skin like the, uh... last..."

     She grins toothily after trailing off, showing a dental structure that doesn't quite look at home on a biped, and nods. "Smart thinking! I left their possessions at the clinic- c'mon; let's go." With that, she unfurls Lillifer and leaps off of a nearby piece of debris, hanging in the air at the apex of her leap and gliding through the air elegantly towards a stark white building down the street...
Arthur Lowell     "HAH! Well, HEY, if it's a GOOD THING, I ain't gonna RAG ON YA about RUDENESS. Gotta keep my STONE-THROWING somewhere outside my GLASS HOUSE." At least Arthur seems to be entirely willing to own his constant impoliteness. The BIO meter stops, and drains a little. Wonderful! It's... A vaccine, not a cure, so it's not entirely clear why 'CURE' started popping up in status effects, but hey! It works. Videogame logic is in full effect.

    "RAD, okay, 'cause, I wasn't gonna have a GOOD TIME with all this if we were gonna deal with, like... He makes a sort of vague, unsettled gesture. It involves wiggly fingers, mostly. "Yeah, I like my SKIN BEING ON. Being COVERED BY MY SKIN is pretty much my NUMBER ONE ACTIVITY that I do with it." Then he plants his hands on his hips, mostly managing to suppress a wince at those teeth. Lots of teeth. An astute eye might notice him swiftly, nervously counting them in the span of a moment. And then: Time to go! He drifts off after Maricel, squinting at the umbrella. An umbrella wiiiiith an eye. Weirrrrrd. He gives Maricel plenty of space, and drifts off to the white building... He's quite hopeful that if it's a clinic, it'll be more sterilized. Less fleshy. He's trying not to think about alternative, osseous explanations for the whiteness. As they're leaving he explains... "So, DOGS, right? As long as they have MOST of the same INSTINCTS, THIS ought'a work. When a DOG RUNS AWAY, your BEST BET for a FAST RECOVERY is, you take STUFF that SMELLS LIKE HOME -- you know, DOG BEDS, TOYS, CRATES, whatever they SLEEP IN, things like that -- and you SET 'EM OUT. I've got some IDEAS for makin' that WAY EASIER and WAY LESS TIME-CONSUMING for ya. If THAT doesn't work SOON, gotta couple OTHER OPTIONS..."

    On the way, he winds up staring at the sun again. Just, you know, right at it, with a vague look of sober, even somewhat sad distress. Maricel probably isn't aware of his status as a God of Space, but something about that perspective gives him a strange sort of reaction to the sun. He looks far more serious and less cool about it, more thoughtful and sympathetic, like a healer's examination of a mortally wounded body. He might bump into something with how distracted he is.
Maricel Thorne      Mortasheen's sun is not ancient or as large as most red stars are- it is eleven billion years of age, having seen the rise and fall of many civilizations and the flight of many more to the stars, but it should still burn yellow. It was a main sequence star as little as five hundred million years ago, but it was wounded grievously. Something nearly destroyed its core, exhausting its supply of hydrogen, leaving it cold and half-dead. Now it limps through the sky, still shedding its baleful light on the planet below.

     Turning to more terrestrial matters, a sign above the door proudly proclaims the building as "MARICEL'S MIRACLES", followed by the slogan "Discrete, Affordable, & Discreet". Its smooth, clean-looking exterior walls confirm Arthur's worst fears if he examines them closely: they look like they're made of something like chitin or enamel, though they're quite probably something more exotic that bears only a passing resemblance. Nothing nonliving seems to last long here, he might notice: without the ability to self-repair, most materials are tarnished or eroded in weeks at most.

     The door opens seemingly of its own accord as Maricel approaches, and it shuts swiftly behind them. Maricel lands and turns on her heel, her expression suddenly grave- and if he's listening closely, Arthur might notice that the howling wind outside is almost inaudible now, as if supernaturally muffled or otherwise insulated from them. "It was stolen," she says abruptly. "I had to wait until you were inside- the Fanciers' Guild has ears everywhere. Do I have your attention?"
Arthur Lowell     Arthur's look fades when he reaches the door. Can't tie yourself up in the celestial too long, other business to attend to. It's likely that his eyes will be wandering up every time they go outside, though. He's just, well... That sort of person, you know. In any case, he refocuses on what's important, which is to say, the things going on here at the surface, and the actual shit he's being paid for here.

    Like everything else in Mortasheen, Arthur avoids touching the door, or the building, or... God, it's just this sort of thing that makes him really grateful that got the ability of flight. The building's organic -- albeit not-fleshy -- nature continues to unsettle him. He is, at least, more at-ease with things after they're not obviously alive.

    Arthur's grin doesn't break in the slightest when Maricel turns around. "Wondered what sorta situation there'd be where you'd need to buy help from a guy who passes for a moron with catching a lost dog." He says, his town downshifting very briefly into a bit of canny awareness. Then an energetic laugh. "HAH. You talking LITERAL or FIGURATIVE? 'Cause... Uh, 'cause I mean, from what I saw BEFORE, you probably mean LITERAL." He's honestly expecting actual, real ears distributed as listening devices. And then, once more, the voice downshifts. "So, what leads do you got? Brief me on this. Figure we're eying people with an interest in whatever unique properties the canine-ish thing's got, or with an interest in fucking with your client, to start out..."
Maricel Thorne      The floor of the clinic appears to be smooth, white tile, much like you'd see in any hospital setting... but no, those are chitinous plates, not ceramic. Were he to actually tread on them, they would 'give' a little under Arthur's feet. "If you're trying to pass for a moron, you do a poor job of it," the trainer replies wryly. "Sometimes it is the height of wisdom to feign folly. And it's always useful to notice more than others think you do, isn't it? But as for the task at hand..."

     With no discernable signal or cue, a floating metal cube with mechadendritic tendrils and an organic eyeball or two pops into existence next to her, and projects a crude holographic map of the area, as well as a picture of something that looks remarkably like a normal husky. "Everything else we told you is accurate," the cube says in a tinny, reverberating voice. "The specimen formerly in our care is one of only a handful of purebred canines of its variety in the city, and it is to be presented at a high-profile event later today. We required someone with no ties whatsoever to local Fancier factions, which is more difficult than you would think- they have their tendrils in everything. We could request aid from our client or their allies, but if they knew that the specimen had been stolen, this would negatively impact our reputation. Now, we..."

     "Now, we know exactly who would do such a thing," Maricel continues, her voice overlapping Synthie's for a moment and carrying on in precisely the same tone and speed. Neither of them seems to notice anything strange about this. "One 'Mister Crawl', the Holder of Alchemy and the host of a popular cooking broadcast. His primary sponsor, Laverne, is incensed at the Fanciers' Guild's refusal to consider her Mongruge hybrids as valid contestants in their canine events, due to Mongrunges being more than fifty percent symbiotic insect swarms by weight and thus not strictly 'dogs'."

     Synthie picks up from Maricel again: "So Laverne, it seems, stole the dog to send a message to the Fanciers, because if the favorite to win isn't present, the whole event is a sham. This carries a nice bonus for Mr. Crawl, because how often do you get to prepare a live purebred specimen of a critically endangered species on live telecast, right? And it isn't like the Fanciers won't take notice of /that/." A light flashes on her holographic display, indicating a location about thirty miles from the clinic. "This is Crawl's studio. We know the dog's there because he left one of his unique symbionts' legs behind at the crime scene, and following that lead, we extracted a copy of the script for tonight's show from one of the stage-hands. Forcibly."

     "It's likely the dog is still alive," Maricel concludes. "Even if they cook it, it's trivial to bring it back from the dead from a prior brainscan- but not in time for the show, by a long shot. So we're going to teleport in there, nab the dog before the show, and get the hell out of Dodge. Is that a satisfactory explanation?" The cube, the doctor, and the umbrella all fix Arthur with a simultaneous inquistive gaze.
Arthur Lowell     Arthur's a little startled at the box's sudden appearance, but then again, he comes from a world where things regularly just appear all the time, so that's not too big an issue. The box itself unnerves him, obviously, in both senses of the word obvious, but he does his best to limit his own rudeness more to the content of the interpersonal exchanges in lieu of the exchangees themselves.

    "So, they got TENDRILS and EARS everywhere. Man, must be TOUGH dealin' in THIS TOWN, CHRIST. Well, you came to the RIGHT GUY, I'm 'bout as far from FANCY as it GETS." He probably knows that's not the right reading and he's probably just saying that to be obnoxious to the new presence. And then... The double-voice. Arthur's grin falters, and with every synchronized shift in intonation, he very lightly half-flinches. But he continues to pretend he doesn't mind. "LEMME GUESS." He says, in a tone calculated as much as he can to make it sound like he's not stressed out at the moment. "She wants it compared by VOLUME? MAN! I know that EXACT kind of RULES-LAWYER BULLSHIT!"

    His posture -- floating as he is, he can easily "recline" in mid-air -- shifts, and he looks contemplatiive. And concerned. "OKAY. So, we BUST INTO THE STUDIO, we GRAB THE DOG ANY WAY WE CAN, we I guess probably also BEAT THE SHIT OUTTA ANYONE GETTIN' SMART ABOUT IT, then OLLIES OUTIE? Seems SMART." He peers, again, at the dog. "HUH. Seems kinda... NORMAL." ????

    Once more, the posture shifts. He has the problem ahead of him much more directly now, clapping his hands together eagerly and rubbing them, ready to get to work and get his mind off of how much of the environment may be living, breathing, or similar. "ALRIGHT! Can I get some COORDS? I'm a GATE-MAKIN' GUY, I can get US to WHEREVER we're goin' ASAP, unless you think we oughta use, I dunno, you guys have TELEPORTATION here?"