Scene #9413: Post Nutcase Clarity

Owner	Pose
Foundation Scions	By some odd artefacting of the network-bridging chaos required for Mesmer Jr. to send out an email from Laplace's internal systems out, a message that should have just included a hyperlinked GPS coordinate and a time, arrives in Lilian's inbox with a full writeout of the email's origin point included in the text body. Sent from the console '[DM_Disabled]/LS0001001101M-LRC_043', with a few more-abstract tags of the pathway it took, including through a remote network somehow nicknamed 'Evil_Doghouse_Party_LAN', even without a signed name, Lilian can be dead certain this is a summons that could only have been written by Mesmer Jr. The GPS coordinates point to a real spot, on a different integrated world, and the time-frame affords a decent window by which to arrive. Why did she send only a coordinate point and only a time? What a freak. . . . Of course the sent-over coordinates don't lead somewhere pleasant- has an on-its-own message with the unsaid implication to show up at a mysterious site ever lead somewhere pleasant? It isn't far away from a seldom-travelled warpgate, deep in the rolling mountains of some east-coast American woodlands, just up some curbless asphalt streets, and past an already jostled-open chain link fence with a dozen 'No Tresspassing' posters long since rain-bleached. No, the exact coordinates lead outside the abandoned site of the Montpellier Charity Psychiatric Hospital, a red-brick building that, by the sheer mass of graffiti and growing lichen, looks to have been out of use since even before the current Era of Mesmer Jr.'s world- though this clearly isn't hers. Instead of taking a chance to explore things like the general 21st century, or the wonders of the multiverse at large, Mesmer Jr. has, on the advice of the ever-meddling TTT, decided to invite Lilian Rook to a grim and empty location purely to try and utilize a bit more of control over environmental circumstances in their ongoing catfight. Somewhere private, without radio audience or the factor of curious coworkers. Why the hell was an asylum her go-to for that? On masonry steps, Laplace Rehabilitation Center Department Chief Mesmer Jr. stands, looking like an extraterrestrial visitor more than the kind of rambunctious UrbEx miscreant who would usually break onto this property. Dressed mostly in her uniform-usual vinyl dress-and-shrug combination, she's quite notably added an extravagant glass fishbowl helmet, which wouldn't be complete without articulated TV-antennae sensors hooked through it at odd angles. Held in her gloved hands is a slowly-beeping EMF sensor- the irony of such a thing often being used at haunted old hospitals and asylums is completely lost on her. Her back is turned away from the entryway path, but still outside the psychiatric hospital's doorway. She isn't stopped from entering by any barrier- the door is fully missing, likely knocked down, carted off, or eaten by termites decades ago, as parts of the sharp-angled rooftops look as well. She's just quietly standing by, perhaps mustering some courage to enter the building.
Lilian Rook	Far be it from Lilian to take advantage of people's incidental tech errors . . . under ordinary circumstances. But this is Mesmer Jr., whom she has spent a week obsessing over to anyone who'll listen, and more importantly, the fuckup is suspect in the first place. Regardless of its incriminating extra information, the core content of it seems like it can't possibly be anything but meant for her. Lilian has been called out by Elites countless times, and by people beneath that only slightly less. She is, by now, more than used to it never amounting to anything. The fact that this woman, of all people, escalated to something concrete, and so soon, feeds an unnameable emotion within her; freshly awakened after some long torpor and voraciously consuming anything that calls to it. Things like this. Lilian makes her excuses to leave early, hangs up her uniform, and is out the door within minute. Her heart thuds lightly in her chest at a brisk ninety-five for ten minutes after. . . . . . . . . 'America', at all, had given her reason to pause, but the location is truly hideous. Hauntings aren't her issue; if anything, they feel wistfully friendly, most of the time; the part that gets her skin crawling is the sight-- the smell and sounds and ambient touch of decay and destitution. It's still warm enough that she doesn't have to change out of the sleeveless halter top she was wearing under that Association jacket instead of a stuffier dress shirt, but only just. The rusting fences and water-ravaged walls make her skin crawl, breaking out into a dusting of goosebumps. She wishes to herself that she'd thought to change; tall boots, at minimum, if not also leggings. Walking past the fence, she steers wide around the long grass, ticks and parasites suddenly on her mind, and difficult to shake. "If you'd told me what you were planning, I would have packed a respirator too." Lilian says, narrowly evading the compulsion to spook Mesmer from behind. She glances from the helmet to the beeping device, and back, her expression a nearly invisible thoughtful frown. "Ghost hunting?" she concludes, easily enough. "If this is an assignment, then please say so. No matter how hysterical you might be feeling at the time, I'd like to be properly equipped for Foundation work." She shrugs, gesturing at herself down. She didn't even bring her satchel, and her skirt doesn't have pockets. "I'd rather not breathe in all that mold, and it seems you were in too much of a hurry to bring a spare."
Foundation Scions	'If you'd told me what you were planning, I would have packed a respirator too.' "My apologies. I don't think sharing mine would work." Mesmer turns around, the device beeping faster now that a second person is present. She stows it on a belt clip, casually flipping its switch off. Without a Gadget to hold, she places her hands on her hips before continuing her thoughts. "I'm sure you've breathed worse, though. This is more for my peace of mind. The gloves aren't. It'd best if you'd brought a pair." "Don't worry. This isn't an assignment- on paper, it's FDMO business, but the experiment was my own. I'm surprised you even came. A bit, at least. I suppose I should trust TTT more than I'm inclined- but you certainly wear your fascinations on your sleeves- oh. No, you didn't bother to even wear a sleeved top? I suppose that expression won't work." Girl you have no place to be talking. "I'm not hunting for ghosts. I don't really believe in them as much beyond the occasional arcanum phenomena. This site is quiet, and quaint, don't you think?" "I didn't do much reading in the spare time I had after my shift-" After a 24 hour shift, has she been up that long already? It's hard to see sleep-deprived eye bags under the glare of her fishbowl helmet and whatever makeup she wears, but surely they must be there. "-But on Earth- the real one, that is -this hospital existed as well, under the purview of the Mesmer Foundation's teachings. I wonder what sort of barbarism they got up to here, in somewhere without that guiding hand?" "I plan to find out. Follow me. This, before you ask, isn't a tour. The mold won't hurt you worse than secondhand smoke." Mesmer takes a few steps in towards the building's main atrium- finally past the doorway, but only just. She stops, throwing a completely undeserved condescending Look back at Lilian- "Oh. I suppose I should ask- are you scared of ghosts?" Floorboards creak underneath Mesmer's silly atompunk boots, as she finds a place to linger near what once was the reception counter of this facility. Termite-eaten husks of chairs, and even a wheelchair- which very well may have been staged there decades after the site's abandonment -lay around on the floor. As do rotting magazines, and weeds within the spots of light filtering in from broken once-shuttered windows. Two-fingered, Mesmer traces a line through the pollen and dust on the reception counter's top, and then rubs her gloves clean. "What an ugly sight this is. I sometimes wonder if, after the Storm's passing, the world sans its people continues on like this, somewhere. Isn't that a ridiculous notion?"
Lilian Rook	'I'm sure you've breathed worse, though. This is more for my peace of mind. The gloves aren't. It'd best if you'd brought a pair.' Later, Lilian will no doubt take this as a sign that her instincts have dulled. In the moment, what she thinks is that Mesmer is being petty and trying to make her have a bad time with an unpleasant job by touching something unmentionable with her bare hands. "I'm certain I've touched worse as well." she says, dry as necessary to push back at the assertion. 'I'm surprised you even came. A bit, at least. I suppose I should trust TTT more than I'm inclined' That's where Lilian starts to lose her halfway curious look. "It's your department's business, regarding us, but you contacted me with the expectation I wouldn't even show up? Can you be any more contrary and irrational?" she says. "And I don't know how to feel about you acting like my arms are indecent when you have your cleavage out every other day." She's still too slow to intuit that something's off. Disuse in her sense for hostility. '-But on Earth- the real one, that is' "As opposed to the fake one?" Lilian shoots back, already too resigned to this nonsense to make it terribly snappy. She checks her nails a little ruefully, thinks about the polish getting scratched up on rusty chicken wire, and climbs up the front steps with a look of open displeasure. 'Oh. I suppose I should ask- are you scared of ghosts?' "Not even a graze." Lilian says, affecting a bored scorekeeper. "I grew up with ghosts. I saw them more often than my own family. My first mentor was one. So don't expect me to hide behind you if we see one." She barely glances at Mesmer. "Well, I'd have to try and squeeze, given your . . . build." Passing the door, Lilian squints into the dark interior, then summons will-o'-wisp lights with a snap of her fingers, in that usual shade of eerie green that blanches her clothes and makes her eyes stand out. "Hm? What is that thing for anyways, if not for ghosts?" Thinking back to thirty seconds ago, her curiosity is briefly renewed by the EMF. 'Isn't that a ridiculous notion?' "Do you think so? It's not as if there's any way of knowing what comes after. For all I know, the Storm is jumping between parallel timelines like television channels. The world could vey well carry on without us humans." Lilian says. "And if it's no worse than secondhand smoke, then why do you need peace of mind? You always reek of tobacco anyways; surely it can't make a dent in what you're already doing to your body."
Foundation Scions	'Can you be any more contrary and irrational?' There's a visible twitch when that nail gets hammered yet another time. Immediately more strained-sounding, "I'm sure I could find it within myself to do so. The wrong phrase or circumstance, I might become nothing more than a raving lunatic. No, call it a scientific inquiry if you must call it anything at all- TTT, under whatever amount of wisdom she somehow has, claimed any bare scattering of breadcrumbs by me could lure you out. I decided to put it to the test, and, look at you. How interesting. Was there something you assumed you'd be getting into..?" 'As opposed to the fake one?' Mesmer shrugs, crossing her arms in front of her chest. "Is there a more appropriate term? It's one I'm familiar with, one everything I know resides within. This? This seems more the fantasy." Idly, she kicks a pile of clutter- a once-sharp implement of some kind, with a rusted-tight hinge, clatters across the rotting floorboards. "... Disgusting." "I didn't design the Laplace uniforms." Other staff don't dress this way, as Lilian's seen. "I hope it isn't too much to ask that you keep your eyes to yourself. I can tell." 'I saw them more often than my own family.' Mesmer raises an eyebrow at that. "Should I feel envy or pity that you were left to your own devices to that extent?" 'Well, I'd have to try and squeeze, given your . . . build.' "Hilarious. How ever shall I recover." Despite trying to brush it off, Mesmer's sneer gives away that that does, actually, upset her a slight bit. Arms stay crossed in front of her, as if to change her silhouette in a way her ridiculous dress doesn't already. "We're more likely to encounter a rabid squirrel, or a nest of bees. I assume, at least. There could, of course, be Critters that need scaring off." She said that as an obvious Proper Noun, even without elaboration. 'Hm? What is that thing for anyways, if not for ghosts?' "Psychiatry. What else? It's a detection device for ambient electromagnetic flux. You're erudite enough to know the core link that has with the function of the psyche. It's of the myriad innovations my bloodline has bestowed upon the healers of the world. It doesn't 'detect ghosts', or anything of the like- it's a sensor for mental activity." A small huff. "Or, it is in anyone else's hands but a Mesmer's. Yet, I've found patients prefer I pretend to use a tool." 'And if it's no worse than secondhand smoke, then why do you need peace of mind?' "I'd assume it's the same principle, something unnecessary to ease an irrational worry. I felt it best, given the circumstances-- and given the present company. Will it matter? Likely not- but you're so caught up on it. Why?" Mesmer sweeps her hand fully across the countertop, throwing up an ambient cloud of dust- not at Lilian, but it's a punctuation mark to her view. On the other side of the glass, Mesmer still grimaces at it, no matter the fact that it was literally her intentional action. 'The world could vey well carry on without us humans..' The same twitch as before- even if the comment was simply incidental. "As far as some cursory detection mechanisms have indicated, Laplace believes that not to be the case- though only most directly and definitively from the Timekeeper's personal accounts. After a point, it would be most impossible to prove. And- don't humor me. I know you haven't forgotten I'm not human."
Lilian Rook	'I decided to put it to the test, and, look at you. How interesting. Was there something you assumed you'd be getting into..?' To add one more misstep, all Lilian thinks to herself is . . . §TTT has her completely fooled. That's incredible, actually. I suppose this is one of the benefits of being a VIP customer.§ Still, misguidedly, perfectly comfortable with the situation, Lilian follows Mesmer at just over an arm's length. Her reply is nothing more than a catty, "Who knows? Given the surroundings, it had crossed my mind that you believed you could lure me out here and murder me. Perhaps cut up and hide the body, too. And it would have been such a sight to see you try!" She uses a tone ordinarily reserved for dogs. 'I hope it isn't too much to ask that you keep your eyes to yourself. I can tell.' Lilian walks wide around the rotted board Mesmer had just found for her. Despite her ostensibly more involved job title, she has even less desire to touch any of it than Mesmer does. The goosebumps at the dark and filth haven't quite fully gone away. "Hmm? Is that what you're worried about?" Lilian says. It is the filth, isn't it? "Oh you hardly need worry on that account. They're not bad, I admit, but they're not even in the same league as Tamamo's." Of course she doesn't miss that irritation. if Mesmer is going to call her out here, what better is there to do than to needle her. If she's lucky, she might even get her to fold like last time. TTT had called her on 'obedience is a virtue', but not on what else it is, too. 'Should I feel envy or pity that you were left to your own devices to that extent?' It's Lilian's turn to look irritated. She presumes Mesmer won't see it in the abysmal lighting. "Well you clearly already envy me in every other regard, so you may as well add another drop to that bucket." 'Psychiatry. What else? It's a detection device for ambient electromagnetic flux. You're erudite enough to know the core link that has with the function of the psyche. It's of the myriad innovations my bloodline has bestowed upon the healers of the world. It doesn't 'detect ghosts', or anything of the like- it's a sensor for mental activity.' "Fascinating." Lilian sighs, as bored as she can audibly be. "But once again, you're evading my question and throwing up a cloud of smoke. What is a--" She uses finger quote tone in the dark. "--'psychiatry' tool going to help with here, exactly? Are you hoping to find someone living here? I saw it go off when I got close, so you'd be better off doing it alone." She decides to leave 'why do you need to detect thoughts in psychiatry?' as a question for a moment later. "I'm shocked you take lucid patients. It seems like you can barely even stand the comatose ones." 'I felt it best, given the circumstances-- and given the present company. Will it matter? Likely not- but you're so caught up on it. Why?' Lilian clamps down on something automatic. A casually vicious insult, most likely; one which she hasn't consciously designed, yet felt on the tip of her tongue anyways. The sort of thing she reserves for when people who are utterly beneath her try to talk down like they're friends. She breathes in sharply through her nose. "Am I meant to intuit that you put on that comical thing to show that you're too good to breathe the same air as me?" Lilian says. "What a staggering choice for someone whose breath stinks of cigarette smoke and mouthwash at every hour of the day." Even she holds her breath when the dust billows up, waving her hand in front of her face as if it'd help at all. "Are you going to start wearing a hazmat suit so you don't get my cooties, next? Everyone's going to think you're flirting with me you freak."
Lilian Rook	'And- don't humor me. I know you haven't forgotten I'm not human.' Lilian blinks. Her open-mouthed pause only lasts a half second, but she had; or at least forgotten the distinction was relevant. Now that Mesmer's called it out, though, there's no way she'd say so. "I suppose that's a pity. If the Storm were going to kill everyone on Earth, it could at least leave the birds and deer to enjoy it." Lilian moves to slip her hands into her pockets, touches empty air, sighs, and brushes her hair back, the side only sliding forward over her shoulder seconds later anyways. "Why are you wasting my time, Junior? If you want to bicker like usual, the radio would have been fine like always. It looks like neither of us want to be here, and there's nothing at all to do, much less related to the FDMO. Is this your idea of a prank? Was I supposed to feel silly that I responded to a call?"
Foundation Scions	'Given the surroundings, it had crossed my mind that you believed you could lure me out here and murder me.' "I'd say I was sorry for the disappointment, but it's important not to make a habit of lying. I hate to get my hands dirty." She puts her palms up to demonstrate, before her arms return to their very cross very-crossed posture- 'Oh you hardly need worry on that account' -Which she immediately regrets. There's a slight nose-wrinkled sneer as she lowers her arms, aiming to prevent there ever being an assumption that she'd held the posture in order to try and do something like compensate, instead of a way to demonstrate contempt- so, she just turns herself to face more away from Lilian. "I truly couldn't care less your thoughts. So please, do me- and whatever 'ghosts' are here, a favor, and drop it. Eugh." Lilian's own look of irritation, much rarer than Mesmer's obviously hot-blooded ranting, unfortunately, doesn't go without a pleased little eyebrow raise from the vitriolic surgeon. "No. I've decided it sounds more pitiable," Specifically because Lilian said the opposite, "And it'd be odd to envy a family that isn't invested in your success and proper development. My condolences." 'Are you hoping to find someone living here?' "The opposite. I was simply making sure there weren't. Nobody likes a surprise." 'I'm shocked you take lucid patients. It seems like you can barely even stand the comatose ones.' "I can't stand most. But I take the patients I'm assigned. There was a time where that fell under the Hippocratic oath, I think it was?" Flat-tone, it's impossible to tell if she's being sarcastic or less-than-fully familiar. "Artificial Somnambulism requires unconsciousness, but, again, that's only a part of what I'm tasked with. General electromagnetics, imaging, and surgery." Mesmer pauses, slightly contemplative. "No, I suppose surgery patients are also most often comatose, even if it's simple to forget that." What the hell does that mean??
Foundation Scions	'Everyone's going to think-' Sharp, Mesmer interrupts, spinning around from where she's stood by the aging countertop- "I hate you. I hate you." It's not a yell, but a seething-hissed exclamation. Her face is reddened, breathing faster. 'Raving lunatic' may not be that far away. "What more could it possibly take for you to understand that? I can't fathom the ridiculous beliefs you've stuck so hard onto the wrong side of your skull, and it's me who's the basket case? There's no 'everyone' here. That's the point. I'd call you completely delusional again, but we can't seem to speak the same language- you'd somewhow seem to like it." "No. You're right. I don't want to breathe the same air as you, and I prefer the security of such a thing stay in your way. What's gotten you to stick on this "comical" thing? Do you see a half-inch of glass as some sort of sick challenge? Fascinating. I thought it just an honest touch." Halfway, her tone shifts from 'exasperated, seethed vitriol' to 'superiority complex and psychonalaysis'- the change demarcated by her hopping up to the now dust-free spot she's cleared on the countertop, and crossing her legs at the knee- god, there's that stupid barcode tattoo. Wood creaks beneath her. Mesmer Jr., decently shorter than Lilian, only somewhat equalizes the disparity by sitting on such a ridiculous perch- but it doesn't make her any bit eager to try and look her in the eye. Mesmer taps the heel of her boot against the so-old-it-sounds-dull wood veneer of the counter's front, like the world's lamest kick drum. "It's no prank. If something here is rigged to jump out and spook you-" Another heel tap, and her tone drops a bit more tired, but still a base-level dripping poison, "It isn't my doing. All I wanted, was to say that. There aren't peeping nurses to lie to, or all those other- insane, ridiculous 'Elites' around to tug around. This isn't a game. The amount of grief you've caused? Three incidents within my organizations are on record, discounting every part that's simply been personal- it's revolting." Gloved hands at the edge of the reception counter squeeze- the wood tears in rotten clumps, and Mesmer Jr., disgusted, shakes her hands clean. "'Junior'? Act your age. That isn't my name." 'Was I supposed to feel silly that I responded to a call?' "I, for one, enjoy a chance at fresh air once in a while."
Lilian Rook	'I truly couldn't care less your thoughts.' "And yet you keep soliciting them." Lilian replies on autopilot. Not a moment of hesitation. "Hopefully, even. Of course, I wouldn't begrudge even you a little self-flattery if it gets you through the day. But the fact that you pretend you're not doing it is . . . I think men say uncharitable things about it." she says, like euphemism. 'No. I've decided it sounds more pitiable' "Of course you have." Lilian attempts to huff, and snaps more than sounds exhausted. "Your blind jabs are so obvious. You have nothing. You know nothing. You'll say whatever random thing you think will draw blood, then recoil and wrinkle your nose like you weren't trying." Pressing a hand to the side of her face, Lilian pushes her hair back with pressure on her skin. "If your family set you up with all of this then they hold you in even more contempt than your patients; and I'm certain you've seen plenty of their broken homes, you sick little voyeur you." 'I hate you. I hate you.' Lilian stops in her tracks, as if blinking back a wave of heat from a suddenly ignited fire; stinging her face without touching her skin. She does it at the same time as the words, despite Mesmer using tone and not volume to emphasize, but that's neither here nor there; surely it's the least relevant detail at this moment in time. It isn't even a blip on the radar compared to what's boiled up from in Mesmer and burst from the surface. Not even compared to the way Lilian's fingers slide from her face and press down over her heart, nor the shaky breath she unwillingly parts with. It's like the act of exhalation alone is overstimulating. She can't help but starts to giggle, then start to laugh, then skip almost the entire audible part, overflowing at such speed that her chest has only started to spasm before she runs out of breath. Without comprehending why the room feels like it's swaying, Lilian suddenly understands she has to reach for a line. "Are you retarded or something?" Now the volume comes back online. Hearing herself say something that Petra normally would sets Lilian into a shaky, giggling fit. Coughing into the back of her hand, she tries to crush down the irrepressible grin that keeps coming back up, and nearly doubles over, hand on one thigh, before she recovers the ability to speak. "Do you think I don't notice? Oh my god; Mesmer! The way you hate my guts; the way you look at me like you wish I'd die; that's the one thing about you that's interesting!" Lilian half-giggles back, on the verge of gasping. "And the fact that you try so hard to make it so obvious that even an idiot would understand, like you're hoping someone will finally pay attention to you for once in your life and come and help you . . ." Choking down the last of the laughing fit, Lilian claps the dust off the front of her skirt, and straightens up. "You have no idea how this works, do you? It's like outsider art." Mesmer climbing up on the dusty old desk like it's her god-given right causes Lilian's hand to jerk in front of her mouth to hide an easily imagined expression. Her fingers curl into a fist, turn over, and she bites down hard on her thumbnail, gesticulating with the other hand.
Lilian Rook	"Do you even realize you're doing it? Climbing up there like it's a throne to look down on me from? An asylum, even a rotting one, is the perfect place for you to feel like it, isn't it? Like the center of your power. God, I don't know how everyone ignores such a wide open book like this!" says Lilian. Her gaze, fixed on Mesmer in a way that retrospectively brings every other look and stare and glance into focus as half-attention, has the unhealthy shine of a high fever. 'There aren't peeping nurses to lie to, or all those other- insane, ridiculous 'Elites' around to tug around.' Lilian's compulsive reaction comes back as a more sedate laugh, this time, tied to an inexplicable tightness releasing in her throat. "Mesmer. Darling. You've completely misunderstood me!" she says, shaking her head, and still not lowering her fingertips from her collarbone, only adjusting the angle. "You take me for a wicked little narcissist, don't you? The kind of scheming, egomaniacal manipulator that must be common in your life, if you'd jump to that sort of assumption. How very unfair! So you thought you'd, what, separate me from 'my audience'? Deprive me of soft power? Oh I'm afraid you have completely the wrong idea." The smart thing; the rational thing to believe, is that Mesmer must have blinked at just the wrong time. That she must have been so focused on her tirade that she didn't even hear Lilian's weight shifting on the swollen floorboards. The logical thing to believe is that it's her fault, somehow, for letting her guard down, if she wants to explain why Lilian has her wrist in her grip. How she got her hand behind her bubble helmet, and was able to force it forwards until her breath fogs the glass from outside. Her voice resonates strangely on the surface at such a short distance, creating an artificial purring-clicking timbre. "A half-inch of glass isn't a challenge; it's depraved. There's something wrong with you, and because everyone else is so good at pretending not to see it, I get to have it all to myself. Aren't you happy?" Her grip tightens by degrees on Mesmer's wrist. One finger hook around the edge of her glove. "Was it really that stupid calendar that made you decide on your 'thrillingly taboo sex object' angle? If I'm such a dangerously delusional psychopath, why were you so eager to meet in private? I can't even begin to comprehend the ways your twisted little brain has rotted through like this, but now I just have to know." She can hear a fingernail tapping on the back of the fishbowl. The sound is awful. As if it'd drip through some invisible crack and roll down her spine. "You're special, Mesmer, and you don't even seem to realize it! You're the only person in existence who has no power, no backup, no mandate to be the way she is; who has no illusions that she's impervious to consequences, and still dares to look at me like . . . like rabid animal? Like a lethal pathogen, or some sin-drenched devil from Hell."
Lilian Rook	Lilian swallows. She's been talking for most of a minute straight, so that's normal. Her face looks red, but that might be a trick of the light. Her breathing is like that because it's hot in here. "It's my first time being an ontological evil for someone who gets nothing out of being good. Can you blame me for being excited? You'll have to forgive me for being a little clumsy and mixing my messages sometimes, okay? Especially if you're going to lead me on like this!" What does that mean? The haptic feedback of her fingers running down the curve of the helmet is clear enough, but what does that mean? Why is she tugging at her gloves like that, without even trying to remove them. Can't she make up her mind? "How's this? I hate doctors. I loathe psychiatrists. And I detest you and everything you stand for. Does that clear things up? Hah!"
Foundation Scions	'Are you--' Mesmer twitches. There's a growing sense of dread that started the moment Lilian fails to react in any way even close to what Mesmer expected. Perched up as she is on the countertop, the sense of security in environment is starting to fade. Again, despite the rotting wood, she holds tight at the edge of the countertop, as if some gut-level sense in her has clued her in to some reason she'll need to hang on- like a subtle tilting to the floor, or a subsurface earthquake. Beyond that (which, is quite obvious), she's clearly trying to not let it show. 'God, I don't know how everyone ignores such a wide open book like this!' A silent, obnoxious snarl, that Mesmer is quickly losing any right to make, crosses her face. Tense, quiet, as if it's thoughts being hissed instead of words, "Shut up. Shut up for once, ever. You're impossible!" Not as a conscious response, Mesmer uncrosses her leg, to lean just a bit more forwards than the pose she'd struck, dusting off the vinyl of her dress from whatever detritus may have accumulated in the passing moments. It's a slow motion- her eyes move away from Lilian during it, in order to make it some manner of five-second breather. What atrocious timing. 'The kind of scheming, egomaniacal manipulator that must be common in your life, if you'd jump to that sort of assumption.' Mesmer's eyes turn back towards Lilian- staring at her hand position more than anything, already squeezed narrow, and she states, matter-of-factly, "More than you'd ever assume," It's blatantly clear she hasn't realized that her words there are already a concession of defeat. "Wicked, scheming, egomaniacal- are any of those mistakes to assign you? I could give you others to try on for size- and, excuse me. 'Darling'? I don't want to hear that from you." 'Oh I'm afraid you have completely the wrong idea.' Yeah. The One bit of information, both outsourced from TTT and gleaned by bits of observation, that Mesmer had going for her, was that in private circumstances, she's more than likely to be 'less controlled'- unfortunately, her misestimation of what it could possibly mean for Lilian Rook to act less controlled, is total. Up on the countertop, Mesmer's helmet catches the air of one last, contemptful exhale--- ---It's an immediate reflex, upon contact with both her wrist and her helmet, that Mesmer Jr. flinches- but it's two entire seconds (and way more than two whole heartbeats) before she even remembers she can struggle. With an angry, disgusted wrinkled-up-nose expression, like she might just try and spit in Lilian's face were it not for the glass, the barrier ever so slightly turned against her now. She tries to pull her wrist out of Lilian's grip, inwards towards her thumb, the way that's most often taught- but she doesn't put her shoulder into it, and the adrenaline spiking through her doesn't lend her real strength. Wood beneath her squeals at the motion and shifting mass, as if it'd collapse- it might, and easily, if Lilian tried to ensure such, each wall that isn't wrought out of brick being little more than the sturdiness of wet paper- even a long-standing piece of furniture can't hold up much better.
Foundation Scions	It's an utterly insane action to commit to- but Mesmer's free hand, even as Lilian squeezes the other tighter, drops towards the weapon on her hip- the 'K-tope Calibrator', a self-defense less lethal raygun, is a tool issued to Laplace staff at risk of dealing with unruly and dangerous patients and ward charges. Right now, in what Mesmer would surely call the exact use-case for it, the electrically-buzzing metal pistol, with its concentric tesla coil point, the raygun is surely no more helpful than a plastic toy. 'Aren't you happy?' 5tHer thumb holds down the charge switch on it before she even speaks, twisting it to point somewhere in Lilian's direction, fully un-aimed- her gaze is preoccupied, after all. "Let me go, or I'll shoot," Is a phrase that should sound more scared to say than angry- not that she isn't both. "'Depraved'- of course you'd think that- disgusting. Disgusting. There's no winning with utter incomprehensibility. You're the one with something wrong, I can't imagine the extent of what it could be, but whatever catastrophic hysteria is running rampant in you should be excised. I want nothing to do with you-!" Face flushed as hers is, that's an unendingly pathetic thing to even consider saying, or even actually shouting- she's finally found volume somewhere in her lungs. All it took was having a taser to hold, and to try and jam into someone else's torso. '... And still dares to look at me like . . . like a rabid animal?' Reckless, un-aimed, Mesmer squeezes down the K-tope Callibrator's trigger, scorching the stagnant, humid, and dust-filled air into a horrid ozone sharpness- the electrical bolt that flashes out from its tip illuminates the wide room in an ugly blue that stabs at the retina. A moment passes, and she fires again twice more. Not a single shot doesn't ring out in utter exasperated frustration and impulse- and not a single shot comes close. Surely, little burnt holes now sit in three different locations around this room, her own part played in hurrying along the degradation of this facility. Heat radiates from the raygun's coils, her fingers, clearly, must be white-knuckled around it. 'Can you blame me for being excited?' Mesmer interrupts, again, shaky in motion and speech, "Clearly not enough people have. It's sickening." 'Especially if you're going to lead me on like this!' "What could you possibly even mean, you- you-" Red-faced anger, still trying to tug her hand free and jolt away from the other woman, Mesmer tries to twist her head around as if the action could somehow toss Lilian free and away, like one could to one of the endless hordes of hungry ticks no doubt running rampant in the fields outside. Her expression remains, as always, a fitting level of disgust for that type of action. The raygun in her hands seems to have been utterly forgotten, except to wave in frustrated little gestures. If she was ever taught gun safety, it doesn't show. 'Does that clear things up? Hah!' That is something Mesmer doesn't have a response to, in action or word. Terrified look in her eyes, scowl still held on her face muscles, she just... stops. No beg for further clarification, no hollow counterpoint. Whatever bitter rot there is behind Mesmer's eyes and mouth gets choked back at the first thing here that Mesmer could earnestly say is a sensible thing- no matter how much more mad it must make her. Oh- no, she does have a response. Hissed, and defeated-quiet, like it's bile she can't muster the will to spit,, "Like crystal."
Lilian Rook	'Shut up. Shut up for once, ever. You're impossible!' "Make me." That's wrong. When someone says that, they're supposed to sound aggressive. The phrase is a classic tool of blunt force intimidation; the whole point is to make someone fold on their own. So why does she say it like that? Eager. Almost giddy. So desperately searching that it's sickening. She looks at Mesmer at if she's about to answer a question that she's quietly held for her entire life. She forgets to breathe for long enough that it makes her dizzy. 'I could give you others to try on for size- and, excuse me. 'Darling'? I don't want to hear that from you.' "Make me." Lilian repeats it with more urgency before. Like Mesmer is dodging the question. Like she's welching on a promise. Lilian effortlessly tilts her grip in the direction of Mesmer's motion, leveraging her wrist into a twisted palm-up position that makes it excruciating to move and only somewhat less painful to stay still. The realization that Lilian is much, much stronger than she should be is like a third drug making an interaction of the first two even worse. "Then make me stop. Go on. You know how to do that, right?" Lilian says, like a rasping stage whisper; she says the words as if she meant 'do what comes natural' by them. "All that talk is just for show, right? You know that no one listens. You know no one ever comes to help. We're alone together, aren't we? So quit with the foreplay and--" 'Let me go, or I'll shoot' Lilian breathes in so deeply that she imagines cold air stinging some atrophied corner of her chest, never used. Breathing out cracks and spirals into quietly unsteady laughter. Her eyes are entirely too focused for comfort. It's impossible to ignore up close; that the rapid saccades and overlong pauses are like she's trying to memorize something that could fade from view at any minute. The pressure on the back of Mesmer's helmet vanishes, and her shooting hand is seized far too quickly for her to have had any chance to begin with. "Oh Mesmer . . ." Lilian sighs, turned almost to the point of crooning. "Good thinking, but it's far too late now. Didn't I tell you that a weapon is useless if you don't respect the tradition of using it?" Shoving herself forward by another few inches, Lilian presses her forehead to the front of Mesmer's helmet; an object only brought for 'peace of mind'. "If you were going to use it, you should have gotten my guard down first, then shot me twenty times to be sure! And you certainly should have brought some very strong cuffs if you were going to do that." It's not funny. Nothing about this is. Lilian herself knows that she shouldn't be laughing. She barely knows more than Mesmer about why she is anyways, if she even does at all. It's just that, all of a sudden, Mesmer jerking the gun towards her body and pressing the trigger makes her feel lighter than air. Like there are champagne bubbles fizzing somewhere in her soul, physically placed between her heart and throat. It's no effort at all, of course, for a professional soldier with everything in her favour to turn the weapon away. Why, then, does she have goosebumps all over again? She doesn't have sleeves to hide it.
Lilian Rook	"See? You do know how this works! Not bad at at all!" Lilian rambles incomprehensibly. "But you're far too slow! You're so 'stiff'-- so held up on all the warnings and formalities, the whole pre-flight checklist-- that you're much, much too slow to win." Practically toying with Mesmer's gun hand, Lilian alternates between pulling it directly towards her own chest and turning it back away again, to the point it's difficult to tell whether she's playing with her or seriously considering giving her a free shot for no reason at all. "But that's fine! I may not seem like it, but I understand what it's like to not have much experience! God knows I used to be like that too. Talking it all out like there's a ritual that can make anyone care if you just say it right; you're adorable." 'disgusting. Disgusting. There's no winning with utter incomprehensibility.' Seconds later, Lilian pushes her thumb between Mesmer's palm and the grip of her weapon and twists it opposite of her hold; the gun clatters to the floor or Mesmer breaks her fingers and it does anyways, her choice. It's a miracle that the countertop holds when Lilian slams her knee down on top of it, pushing herself up on tiptoe to climb; invade; transgress to the same level as Mesmer. Kneeling at the same height, she's taller again. Like this, she can pin Mesmer's wrist to the wall. The one she already had, she keeps to herself, one finger working its way under the glove clasp and tracing the artery through the inner wrist. 'You're the one with something wrong, I can't imagine the extent of what it could be, but whatever catastrophic hysteria is running rampant in you should be excised.' "Mm? It sounds like you comprehend perfectly, Junior." says Lilian. "Even though you're so stupid, you see me better than almost anyone. So why are you acting so surprised? Hm~?" 'Clearly not enough people have. It's sickening.' Feeling Mesmer shaking beneath her isn't even close to what Lilian needed to return to normalcy. It's another shot of the same drug that has her acting out of her mind already. Or perhaps it's just more the same, single, continuous press of the plunger. She pushes herself off the floor with her last remaining contact, and plants her knee on Mesmer's other side. She doesn't know whether her weight is resting with her thigh against that bar code by accident or on purpose, but she knows, on a level deeper than conscious thought, that trembling, animal fear is the most importat thing in the world right now. 'Clearly not enough people have. It's sickening.' Lilian's breath hitches in her throat. Her blissfully stunned expression turns into a smile of relief. "That's it! That's exactly it!" she says, without thinking. Is it the aftermath of the k-tope or the words on her lips that feel like crawling electricity? "I'd never thought one of you tyrannical little fucks would have it in you, but here you are! No bullshit about how 'uncomfortable' you are with how I need to live my life! No vapid rationalization! No puerile appeal to majority! No utterly shitbrained slant on a dead sex offender's memoires! Just the facts!" Lilian stops to breathe, giggles instead, and tries again. "Oh . . . oh this might be dangerous."
Lilian Rook	Mesmers tossing and turning, twisting and struggling; it goes on for mere seconds before Lilian hastily lifts her weight up off Mesmer's legs. She looks down on her from almost directly above now, fogging the glass despite having more than a few centimeters of distance this time. 'What could you possibly even mean, you- you-' "No. No, don't pretend you don't know, Mesmer." Lilian says. Her fingers work from Mesmer's inner wrist back down to the sleeve, and one, then two, slide right past the cuff and inside her glove entirely, tracing circles on her palm with her nails. "You called me out here to confirm it, after all. Didn't you? You wanted me away from all those prying eyes because you know that other people only distort reality." Lilian says, quietly urgent. She takes a deep breath. 'Like crystal.' "Good girl." Just like at the start, Lilian blinks and stares out of surprise at what'd just slipped her tongue, and then starts laughing hysterically all over again. What had TTT said? Surely it wasn't important, if she doesn't remember it right now. The only thing she cares about is the arcanist underneath her, right now, rendered in the sharp detail and reverent lines of an artist's pet obsession, muting and drowning out everything else as long as Lilian doesn't take her eyes off her. "I really do apologize for calling you crazy, Mesmer." Lilian breathes, leaning in close. "You make far, far too much sense to be insane." In, down, further and further, closer and closer, going through all the motions of whispering into Mesmer's ear, even though the helmet will only turn it into a synthetic growl; her fingers, prying apart by delicate force, lace together with those of Mesmer's former shooting hand, pressed up against the wall. Her voice drops to the deep, unburdening fry of a secret she knows she should never speak out loud. Hearing it is like secondhand smoke for her personal moment of rapture. "Everything everywhere I go is already in the palm of my hand, coming anywhere near me at all is giving me consent, I can do anything I want at any time, nobody could stop me even if they knew, and I might go insane if I pretend not to know that much longer. Do you have any idea how it is to live like that?" Lilian rasps, right by Mesmer's head. "Anyone but me would have gone mad long, long ago. Every day this fake normalcy goes on is another little miracle of the status quo that everyone takes for granted. But then, if anyone had any fucking sense at all, I'd have been locked up years ago. If anyone else made sense, they'd all look at me like that. Like you do." By degrees, by force, Lilian slowly pulls Mesmer's hand towards her. Closer, moment by moment, until it's forced to rest on her waist. She doesn't even remove the glove. Her head tilts back, and her hair shifts from the front of the fishbowl's surface, just enough to see her stare out of the corner of her eye. "I'm afraid you won't find a stun gun nor a straitjacket strong enough for me, Mesmer, but I admire your virtue in trying. Know that everyone calls you crazy because you're the only one who's sane." she says. A note of dizzy relief creeps up from somewhere in her throat. "So, don't make me regret our heart-to-heart, okay? This is . . . doctor patient confidentiality. I won't tell if you don't." Refusing to let go, she puppets Mesmer's other hand into miming a shushing motion against her own lips. "And if you can't be a professional about it . . . use your imagination."
Foundation Scions	'Make me.' 'Make me.' ' You know how to do that, right?' There's a moment, where, spurred on by what shouldn't be an instruction to follow, Mesmer's free hand reaches towards Lilian's head- before it's clear whether she was reaching for Lilian's mouth or her temple, she pulls it back, face caught in an almost eye-rolling scowl. Was it to be some futile attempt to hold Lilian's lips shut- or the same type of maneuver she'd already pulled on Parsons, and on that factory worker in Chicago? Does the famed Mesmer-family arcane skill even need that sort of proximity? Finding out is quelled by her last-second decision to pull out her raygun instead. It's quite the statement of character that even here and now, she's choosing to try to rely on a mass-produced tool instead of such a keenly-practiced signature bit of arcanum- what possible fragment of dignity does she even think she has left? 'We're alone together, aren't we?' "Desperate and pathetic. No wonder you dragged yourself out at a moment's notice. TTT was right- this is an obsession, pathological and festering. If you ever come around to the notion, it's something the Laplace Rehabilitation Center could certainly try and cure." Psychologists might look at Mesmer Jr.'s words and call this action 'projecting'. 'If you were going to use it, you should have gotten my guard down first, then shot me twenty times to be sure!' In a cool-calm tone that's unbelievably forced and at permanent clash with her expression, and even more so close-in face to face, with her wrist locked tight by Lilian's hand, "I hadn't planned to, as a matter of fact- but you're unpredictable and erratic-" Does Mesmer take a breath, there, just to make sure she said the right word? More likely, she just needs the air. "And you make a habit of forcing hands, it seems." Call it a last ditch effort- but as Lilian tauntingly redirects the raygun closer to herself, Mesmer does try and pull the trigger again. Mesmer closes her eyes when the electric flash comes, the same inexperience as flinching at a sidearm's percussion. Does she ever actually use that thing? Or is it just to sit shiny, holstered on her hip?
Foundation Scions	'God knows I used to be like that too.' "I don't believe you- I think some dark crevice of the world spat you out fully-formed, just to ruin my day." Sarcastic, exasperated, painting over and over the lines she's already sketched of how much Lilian gets to her. "Maybe I'll start to regret not shooting you on sigh-" Mesmer's words cut off at Lilian's play for her raygun, focus stolen fast enough that she forgets she was even speaking. In the split second that Lilian is wrenching the K-tope Calibrator from her grip, it isn't the thought avenues of 'relent and drop it' or 'stubbornly spite her a bit more by holding on' that she's choosing between, but whether an obviously-will-be-broken few fingers are worth the dismissal from taking surgery calls for the embarrassment and rumor (and pain) they'll result in. She ends up considering for too long- bone cracks, Mesmer Jr. lets out a teeth-gritted cry, and the silly raygun clatters to the countertop, and off to the dirty floor. It'd have been so much simpler to just let go. There isn't either the chance, or the room, for Mesmer to back up as Lilian climbs onto the countertop- if there was, she'd be distracted from taking it anyways. The pain in her hand sets in on the slight delay, and it does nothing to slow her frantic breathing. The fishbowl helmet is fogging up from both sides, now. If Mesmer didn't feel helpless enough, having Lilian stan so far across any sensible 'professional' boundary of personal space is an entirely different level- there isn't the urge to try and kick and lash out, just the ugly, defeated one to sit back in the recesses of her own mind and watch whatever is going to unfold- not a single bit of it loosens up the throat-clamping vitriol of it all. 'So why are you acting so surprised? Hm~?' "Do I need to repeat myself? Get off of me-" More even than trying to hook fingers around the cuff to Mesmer's cuffs, there's a distinct, pained discomfort when it's her sleeves that are being invaded. It isn't painful- but a torturous violation still. Series of scab tissue ridges crisscross skin underneath the vinyl sleeves, and Mesmer stares daggers the more Lilian's fingers stray. "Creep," Is the continuation she settles on, though her focus is only on Lilian's hand, not the position she's gotten herself into.
Foundation Scions	'You wanted me away from all those prying eyes because you know that other people only distort reality.' Mesmer doesn't respond out loud- her head, beneath the fishbowl, fogging-up as it may be, twists to shift her gaze from Lilian's face, to her hands and arms- down, to her legs even, unsure what's next, but trembling from some hellish sort of neurochemical payload that must be coursing through her synapses. 'Good girl.' Faint, "You make me sick." It's so, so easy to believe that. Excruciating- Lilian prying apart Mesmer's fingers, aching and likely-broken as a few of them are, is excrutiating, and makes her seize up in a terrified breath. Her stomach twists, and on pure reflex, one of her legs kicks- like some neural misfiring, or an alien tendon-connection between her limbs is causing it- there's no conscious urge or command from Mesmer in the white-hot pain. More frantic than any sense, it's a type of honesty to struggle like that. At gun point, there wouldn't be an answer to why. When Lilian slows her motions, it's a relief by gross contrast, and the change in her demeanor between acute pain and it isn't something Mesmer Jr. can hide. Unlike a Foundation Field Investigator, especially one so thoroughly trained as Sonetto, Mesmer hasn't ever done any training to resisting torture- it's obviously rare she's even hurt by anything else. If Lilian wants the arcanist to utterly despise her- this really must be like cannisters of lighter fluid to the fire. 'Know that everyone calls you crazy because you're the only one who's sane.' Frantic, self-deprecating, grabbing air between words, and desperate to put in any word to the contrary, "I find that hard to believe," escapes her mouth like a mantra. That everyone is in the palm of Lilian's hands- that statement doesn't face a contest of sense from Mesmer Jr. 'This is . . . doctor patient confidentiality. I won't tell if you don't.' "That's all it'd take to stop you from gossiping about this-?" Mesmer tries all she can to free her hand from the spot at Lilian's waist- as if it's this that's making her discount the security of hazard equipment like her gloves. It's not something she can prevent, and eventually, she just lets it go dead-flop in some aspect of surrender. Her tone is scratchier through still-rapid breathing- "-No, I don't plan on writing about this in a diary. That keeps it simpler." Mesmer almost shouts as Lilian manipulates the broken fingers of her other hand- it makes it quite easy for her to 'use her imagination'. If and when Lilian eases up, the same almost-yelp almost-slips past her lips. In what is surely a regrettable option to select, pained, put upon, and so thoroughly, grossly embarrassed; "Is that all?"
Lilian Rook	'Desperate and pathetic.' "No. Stop it." says Lilian, voicing her very first rejection with the annoyed-distracted tone of a bad personal trainer. "Stay on task. Don't just lash out blindly. You already know that's not true and that I don't care, so don't reach for it without thinking." She's so serious about it. Worse, so patient. It's worse that she is. The tired yet guiding tone she takes for just a moment is somehow perverse. 'I believe in you!' is scribbled in the margins of 'I wish I could kill you' until the overlap is sickening. "Laplace is just an organization. It's a structure of power that doesn't give a shit about you. They won't be there even to punish me for hurting you, much less treat me. Whatever happens here today, it'll be your fault by tomorrow in the office." However obvious the projection is, it's either lost on Lilian, or irrelevant. Her inexplicable state of mind makes it too difficult to tell. Before, the barbs excited her, and before that, they angered her; this time they're received like a fumbling virgin's mistake. It's practically like she's reacting at random. "Don't try to wield that name either. Just like that weapon of yours . . ." Lilian trails off as the dispassionate military motions happen in sequence. Her focus drifts, eyes looking far way; pefunctually tolerating an obligatory interruption. Her body moves at the same time as Mesmer's. The application and direction of force are perfect. Even an amateur could tell just from watching; this woman wouldn't let someone train a weapon on her like that even if she were asleep. So it's strange, then, just how close Mesmer got to touching her head a moment ago, and all the more maddening that she doesn't say anything about it either. ". . . A thousand years of collective human knowledge could have told you that trying to scare someone off with a tool you don't know how to use will only get you hurt for escalating." Lilian says, then smiles at some private joke, and giggles out "Haven't you ever taken a self-defense course?" 'Maybe I'll start to regret not shooting you on sigh-' "Goodness. After this?" Focused on Mesmer again, Lilian's lips part with the silent shape of an incredulous laugh. Her eyes drift with morbid, bile fascination. She watches Mesmer's fingers break without making a sound. Her expression is stunned, yet hideously thrilled with some sort of perverse entertainment, like she'd seen something revolting and yet unexpectedly appealing. "I'd certainly hope so. The day you stop is the day you're certifiably insane." She hums quietly to herself as she squeezs and tilts back each digit in turn, hunting for which are fractured and where, then adjusting her grip to better suit it. "Oh, the world spat me out alright. Hah . . ." Lilian tests the range she can push Mesmer's index before she hisses in pain, and then, satisfied, resumes eye contact as if nothing had happened. "But not before it had broken all its teeth chewing. I can't help but wonder if you'll be the same. Your aversion to pain works just fine, yet you can't quite seem to spit me out, can you? You're fascinating."
Lilian Rook	She pauses, just for a second, when she feels the scabs on Mesmer's wrist, and not when 'get off of me' may as well have been speaking in tongues. 'Fascinating' is summoned back to her lips unbidden, to be uttered in a breathy whisper. But she pauses just before she says it. For just a second, as clear as with any machine or arcanum, Mesmer can see the gear shift clicking. She sees the precise moment that Lilian remembers that Mesmer probably has feelings with the kind of clarity that any other psychiatrist would kill for. 'Creep' Lilian closes her mouth again. Her grip twitches; a moment of pressure and return to the mean. But it's too hard to tell if Mesmer's shot drew blood at all. She may as well be attacked by a tiger; any shot but a fatal one is already too little too late. When Lilian's eyes return to her face, the words "Make me." once again expel every trace of anything but utterly ravenous fixation. "You climbed up here on your own, didn't you? Ah, but I wouldn't want you to break something else trying!" You make me sick. In the midst of the laughing fit that prompted Mesmer in the first place, Lilian has to wipe her eye on her forearm and choke down a second wave just to be able to say anything at all. It still takes twenty seconds of shuddering and gasping before she can breathe in for long enough to speak. "Oh god I hope so." Lilian says, interrupted by a single hiccup and a four second gigglefit. "If you told me that I was being 'totally hot, in a psycho way' I think I'd lose my fucking mind on the spot." Mesmer can cling to hope that she isn't quoting anyone. "I knew you'd understand." she says, tracing the cuts on Mesmer's wrist a second time; this time on purpose. "When it's been so long since you felt anything at all, even negative stimuli can feel like morphine." Lilian sighs, the secret, carefully guarded, euphoric kind. "I can get anyone's praise any tme, after all. What I can get from you is far more special." 'That's all it'd take to stop you from gossiping about this-?' "Mm?" Lilian tilts her head at Mesmer, as if curious but not comprehending. "Did you think I was going to be demanding and complicated, too? I may not look it, but I'll have you know that I'm actually a terribly simple creature." she says, her smile turning into a conspiratorial smirk. "It's just that no one ever tries to listen to me. But you're different, aren't you, Mesmer?" The strangled down yelp that Mesmer fails to contain; taken together with her rapid breathing, her trembling, and her angry, humiliated obedience; triggers Lilian's lip-biting habit. Forgetting she has Mesmer's finger up to her lips for twisted emphasis, she bites the glove instead, and recoils at the taste like she should have recoiled a hundred times by now, and didn't. The completely mundane, even immature way that she she jerks her head aside, spits, coughs and wipes her lips feels like a fever dream to watch now. It's like there isn't a horrid rip down the side of the finger seam now, and Mesmer is just seeing things.
Lilian Rook	'Is that all?' Even Mesmer can't be so obtuse as to pretend not to hear the bullet buzz past her ear. That whole-body microexpression of Lilian's, and the way she'd looked at her for just an instant-- No, nothing good will come of imagining what might've happened if she weren't just thrown off for a second. Thinking about what would happen if she'd been goaded on further, gathering even more momentum; surely literally anything else would surely be more productive. Lilian running at an eight instead of eleven is still too much of a problem as it is. This is still an all hands on deck situation. The reprieve barely keeps her out of Mesmer's personal space for a few seconds. She lowers her weight as much as she can without using Mesmer to support it, lifts her captive hand off her waist, opens her mouth, and-- -----[stop]----- Lilian releases it. She rolls her wrist twice one way and thrice back the other way, listening to the little pops of tension that exist for her alone. Without taking time to look at mesmer, she licks her lips, turns the back of her hand to her mouth, and kisses her skin with just enough force and duration to leave a credible print. She glances at Mesmer, then leans her weight to one side, tilting her head to be able to look past the fog in the fishbowl and ensure that her eyes were looking up at Lilian before. Then, careful as she cares to be, Lilian wipes off the lipstick smear on Mesmer's thigh, right next to the barcode tattoo; a place anyone but Mesmer might habitually look at random. Rubbing the remaining smear off on the back of her skirt, Lilian spits the word "Whore." with a smile, and takes up Mesmer's wrist once again. -----[start]----- --presses Mesmer's hand to her collarbone instead. With her mouth right up against her ear, as far as the helmet will allow, Lilian holds Mesmer's fingers to her skin, and purrs against her neck, "One ten." They're the last words she says to her at all. At least before she releases Mesmer entirely, slides herself back off the table, brushes her hair with her fingers and tosses it behind her shoulder, dusts off her skirt, and walks back towards the door.