Scene #7210: Blind Eye Detective Agency: RECALL

Owner	Pose
Ein	Stumblig from the last challenge never completed, and the sickening portrait that lacks lack, Arthur flies through the streets. His flight cieling, the thick and memory-soporific fog that chokes the city once more, forces him to follow the roads lest he lose sight of purpose. He Knows where to go, even through the fog and the doubt. The one place that never really fit the Land of Grit and Lamps. It made sense in a city, so much sense that none doubted it. But it was, certainly, the odd place out. The greystone, almost gothic (if not for the Nakkagoyles) construction of New Lamp City's Public Library. Trailing behind him - and swerving badly - BUCKET appears to be shittily driving the panel van as the other three crocodiles hang on for dear life inside. They managed, somehow, to close the doors in the scuffle - mostly. The entire interior of the cabin is stuffed to bursting with HEIST DUFFELS of Boondollars the crocodiles pinched, and the rainbowing currency flutters behind the van as it chases Arthur through the streets. The LOGAL Public Library is a place of philosophy, of knowing. The insides glowed with warm light, the entire building lit on the inside with soft yellow light from copious lightbulbs. Books line the wooden shelves in neatly ordered rows, though the titles are all a little odd. 'How To Survive A Stab Wound' 'What To Do When The Lamps Turn Off: Seven Techniques To Light Up Your Life' 'So You're Lost And Don't Know What To Do: Try Violence!' A blank spot, right next to the second volume of 'So You Dumb Nakkers Went And Broke The Light'. 'So You've Gone And Screwed Everythig Up' 'Double Negatives: Math, or Reality?' And so on. As he enters, a librarianakkadile looks up from the scratch and sniff tome it has before it, asynchronously blinking. Turning to an extremely antique, beat up black and white computer, the librarian smashtypes at the keyboard. "Nakna...k? You've got an overdue book, nak." GLASSES arrives, dragging a duffel full of boondollars. "H-hey! Are you still on nak case?" In this place of knowing: What is there to know? There's a map, taped to the front desk. B1F: Archives 1F: Stacks 2F: Lounge
Arthur Lowell	>Arthur: FIND THE LAIR >Arthur: Keep it cool Arthur barely remembers to get some water on the way here. He hasn't eaten. He looks horribly disheveled but he's got a bit of his composure back now that he's away from that place, and at bare minimum not dehydrated. Staggering in, he swallows and restores some of his usual swagger and bravado. "HUH? What, BOOKS? Man, I don't even DEAL WITH THAT NERD SHIT!" He makes smug, wavy-hand gestures. >Arthur: Recall But there's a brief wince. Does he remember this? This is a place associated with his past -- no that's not right. This was... from when he was dealing with the police station and the broadcast station. Wasn't it? When he did that mission with , and-- >Arthur: RECALL >Arthur: Focus Arthur snaps out of his connection to other places and focuses on his connection to this place. He plants his hands on the desk. "Hey, dawg. I gotta get at everything ya got about the Lair of the Denizen Nix." >Arthur: Return your overdue book >Arthur: IGNORE IRRELEVANT NONSENSE, DON'T WASTE TIME WITH IT Arthur fails to produce his overdue book, though the EMPTY SPACE in the shelves seems to resonate with him briefly in ways that are hard to describe.
Arthur Lowell	>Arthur: Answer Glasses at least "Yeah, yeah." Arthur rubs his face a bit. For some reason, all those wonderful Consorts that were always so fun and cool to be around just feel like a constant grating. Not against /Arthur/, but against something Arthur-like in a broader sense that is hard to articulate. "I gotta find a missing-absence-of-persons case, I'm trying to run down info about Nix. Gotta get to her Lair, only good spot with leads right now."
Ein	* Deal With Nerd Shit The librarian ceases to stubarm smashtype on the grey-brown keyboard, nodding with interspersals of hiccup-like 'naks'. "It's fine, naknak. Nakbody ever comes here for books." Spinning the picture book, the Librarian displays what it was reading: A childish crayon tale of a dozen or so major characters rendered into oily pastels. It's hard to track who's who beyond their very consistent color palatte. Everyone seems... happy. They're all drawn with cool smiles and action poses. They take charge, teach. They use the library, the police station, exploring everything. In the corner, at the fringe, is always a black and silver figure, always rendered under a lamp. It tells the story of a basement bar in the slums that boiled out with these characters and changed the world. "Nakbody comes for books nakymore. They go upstairs to forget, or downstairs to remember. But nakbody here wants to remember." "It's painful to remember, in this city. You should probably go upstairs." > Kid: Go Downstairs! > Boy: Stop Hurting Yourself. Take a break upstairs.
Arthur Lowell	>==> Arthur stares at the picture book as if it's the only thing in the world. His eyes lock on the events, tracing over them with so much intensity you'd think he's likely to forget to breathe. There's about ten seconds of solid, absolute focus on the offsides figure. so much distance, isn't it? >Arthur: NOTHING OF YOU IS UPSTAIRS >Arthur: YOU WON'T FIX THIS IF YOU FORGET THIS >Arthur: You could use a break Arthur looks at a spot under the lamp, blinks, and then heads downstairs. "Never backed down from the painful way before." He says, shoving himself back from the desk and heading downstairs, toward the ARCHIVES. If the crocodiles won't help him, he'll just face down the challenge on his own.
Ein	Arthur reaches the stairwell. Upstairs, soothing music plays. Arthur can smell the pain-obliterating scent of various liquors. It'd be so much easier to go upstairs. He treks downstairs, down and down. It feels like forever. His Spacey instincts tell him that he's moving down a single three-landing set of stairs to reach the basement floor. It feels like fifty, a hundred, a million. But the staircase down is well lit. It's easy to walk down these stairs, as long as you keep your focus on the path. There's a pleasant exertion to the stairs, with perhaps a little guilt that he's going to have to probably climb back up them. Oh, wait, he can fly, stairs are fake. Still. It feels good to have a choice, doesn't it? A clear fork in the road. In the Archives, there's labelled scroll cases in steel tubs for every district. There's plenty of scrolls littered with ancient dust, unmoved in space since before the end of the session. Major locations - plans for expansion or renewal. The bin for HIGHRISE has one scroll case in it: just the one. Of all the scroll cases in the SLUM bin, only one is tipped forward - the rest are tipped backwards. The case in the HIGHRISE bin has no label at all. The case in the SLUM bin has the label 'B.E.D.A.'.
Arthur Lowell	>Arthur: Navigate stairs, but carefully >Arthur: STOP MAKING IDIOT JOKES, DESCEND Arthur descends, spiraling down, and into the Archives. It has been an eternity for its contents. He regards these old records of a quest half-completed. He feels a keen sense of awareness about this, that what he winds up seeing here will result in something psychologically bad for him. This is the essence of what is toxic for his mind right now: More regionally-associated self, more of Arthur Lowell in places and spaces. But, he can't turn down the hard path, even when it makes his Expiration a little closer rather than a little farther. >Arthur: RECOLLECTION FIRST >Arthur: Read He captchalogues the SLUM case. That will tell him more about the Blind Eye's formation, won't it? And likely answer questions of why, and most important, who. He takes the scroll out carefully, carefully manipulating its rolls with magic to spread it as gently as he can, and reads.
Ein	>Arthur: Recall, even if it's painful. >Arthur: Please, stop hurting yourself. The SCROLL CASE for the SLUM district is opened. Arthur gains 1x Scroll Case (Not-Ancient), and 1x B.E.D.A. Scroll. He places the scroll on the drafting/viewing table at the center of the Archives, adjusts the attached lamp, and carefully lays out the secrets. The 'innermost' (it's a scroll case, rolled up paper works this way!) set of documents is a set of floorplans, hand-drawn on vellum paper with ink pen. The sheet on top is the layout for the Blind Eye Detective Agency. Architectural plans showing boring things - the swing of doors, the placement of stairs, cabinetry, clearances, and the like in black fountain pen. With a purple ballpoint, linernotes highlight and circle, underline and sketch. The handwriting is impeccable. Want to put a rainscape behind the desk. I like it when it rains. Sits on the back wall. Hide liquor drawer here - so the crocodiles don't get into it. Scribbles on the left wall - the wall nobody had paid any attention to. I'll need another desk so he doesn't put his feet up on mine all the time. Circles around the space where the 'front' secretary's desk is. At the bottom, above the title, is a slogal in the purple ballpoint: 'Mysteries, enigmas, riddles, puzzles, quests and questions, solved... eventually'. Turn a Blind Eye towards your problems, today! There's no signature or artist's credit. Beneath that is a letter, un-sealed. There's no adhesive on it at all. Dreams, I want a place just for us. In the place that was made for me. I never really got to experience it - my brother did all the heavy lifting. I couldn't bring myself to forget that basement, or the bar above it. Even when people stopped coming. Especially after people stopped coming. This place is mine, so there's no harm in going all out to personalize it. You can forget pretty much anything, I guess. The world likes to forget. Fate forgot me. It's my choice to not forget him. Plus, it's nice to have a getaway so close to home. The bottom is signed with a single letter: -F Under the letter is two more pages, these bearing the weight and yellowing of age - a very memorable nightclub where fourteen sort-of-kind-of-friends fixed the Land of Grit and Lamps. The one that was boarded up and dark on the inside. The credit on this page practically leaps off of it: Keane O'Brien The last vellum page is just a sketch, barely anything on it: A stairwell, and a Gate. Underneath the gate, in the black fountain pen, is the label <Home>. The location of the first Gate, and thus, Fiora's house on the Precipice of Grit and Lamps, is under the Blind Eye Detective Agency.
Arthur Lowell	>Arthur: Please, just stop >Arthur: FACE IT >Arthur: AND KEEP IT TOGETHER, IDIOT >[S] Arthur: Read Well, alright. So, as a fundamental part of human nature, tribal neurochemical dynamics have been a persisting element. The reason each person didn't perform whatever violence they thought of towards another member of their tribe wasn't a conscious, wise decision, it was because they were wired to experience psychological and physiological consequences, due to complex arrangements of mirror neurons, the anterior temporal lobe, and regions responsible for emotional processing. If you struck your sister, you weren't so wise you never did it again, your brain simply punished you for the crime and you resolved to never experience that punishment again. The human brain was never built for this. The crime of inaction, forgetting, and absence of connection is hard for it to process. The anterior temporal lobe issues its decree: "STOP". But you already have. It says "BACK AWAY", but you're already at as great a distance as the mind can conceive. It demands "NEVER AGAIN", but you can't find a way to end an absence of connection, when you can't connect anew. This is the fundamental failure of guilt as a motivator and an influence; this fallacy is why you should stop getting like this, Arthur. Arthur, are you listening? I've explained in some pretty good detail why this is completely over the top for you to be doing. I get the feel that you don't even give a shit about what bits of your feelings are fallacious. Well, man, fine by me. You, after all, basically deserve that for what you did. Don'tcha? You ran off to go have more adventures and spent who knows how long in a mystery pocket-world with your, what was she, abusive girlfriend-but-not? All of the addiction and none of the high. Really this has been a long time coming. Yeah, you're keeping it together, champ. Barely. Go you. This wouldn't be happening if you were better, but at least you're not sobbing on the floor like some drama-king sixteen-year-old. Come on. Eyes up, wipe it down. Tear ducts that make liquid starlight are pretty bad for looking like you've kept your cool, get that crap cleaned up. Performative suffering is pretty selfish. You know what else tribal psychology tried to do? Bunch of cues so you can call up sympathy. That's the easy way though, you go get some sympathy and you feel better and you don't have to /change/ anything. Nothing gets fixed, and you sure as hell don't get what you deserved here. Alright, pull it together. Roll it up, get it stowed back. Now put the tube back. PUT IT BACK. Alright, have it your way, keep it if you /need/ to. You at least cleaned up enough to read the next one? If Nix's Lair is anywhere, it'll probably be around the High-Rise District. We should check in on more info. Hey, pay attention. I said... >Arthur: Check the High-Rise District records
Ein	>Kid, it's really not your fault. >She had someone else too. >They're missing too. >This is why it's easier to have a drink and collect yourself, really. >I have to admit, I think you need something to ease into this whole situation too. With the metavoices reaching a quorum that greentext is sort of being aggressive about this whole situation and that perhaps distance is best, even given the circumstances, Arthur- * Turn Over The Other Stone Page after page of vellum in that black fountain pen - the tooth of the tip is unmistakeable, and there's few notes about it. It's just forty-nine totally unique floors of the building. The first floor has, still in black ink: 'door handle crocodile-proofed' next to the entrance. The other forty nine floors are a veritible 'how to cause annoyance' draft. The fiftieth floor, the one that was actually experienced, features more of that purple ballpoint. Gallery, not mural. Vault nobody knows about. and, in the gallery area: I'll have to remember what she looked like. It's been a long time. There's another letter: Choices. I never really got to choose. I think that's the point. That I broke the rules, that I was special. Maybe because I was in this session, everything went sideways. Maybe it's all my fault. The lack of knowing hurts, but not that badly. I can still make something right. A tribute to an original that never existed. Building the lair I never saw. I never reached the seventh gate. It never needed to be done. I painted, I played around, I drank, and I sat on the sidelines and hoped that it would all work out. It did. Did I actualize that? Is the reason that fate forgot me was I forgot about my own fate? That I never made a choice? That's dumb. Not choosing is a choice too. Breaking rules is what I do. I'll build a tower to her, the lair I never went to. Paint her back into reality, just a little bit. Enough to hold a conversation. This time, it'll be different. A fight or a choice, I'll settle this and get back to my biggest adventure yet. -F There's an addition, next to some dried water droplets crinkling and warping the page, at the bottom of the white paper. It didn't work. Oh well.
Arthur Lowell	>Arthur: FIX THIS >Arthur: Fix this, fucks' sakes Is she okay? Since we're literally the same person, I can tell that's going through your head. Actually, quite honestly, it's going through mine too. You know, being what I am, I bet you think I'm super confident all the time? No way, bro. Right now, guarantee I've got those same shakes. I'm biting that lip just as hard, I'm getting my teeth clenched. We're the same dude, even if I'm kind of moreso. That's why I'm the same scared. God's honest truth, my dude. I'm not fucking /heartless/, you know. She's my friend too, and she got hurt by what happened here. The fear's good, helps dull down the guilt and the sadness. That's coming up too. Man, if we'd read this one first, what a mess. Finally feeling like a proper god, huh? You /connect/ with your fellow gods this much more than those mortals. It's how it works. Gotta put your nose straight to the fire to feel heat from those little sparks, but these old friends warm the room. Look at this. Scraps and fragments and you're already in a big brain party. Yeah, I sympathize with her. The un-finished work is painful. Especially for an artist, I bet. Looking at stuff you got a lot of done, and just... never finished. Being /unable/ to finish. Being totally disconnected. It hurts. She's hurting out there, I bet. If she's not... kinda out of the picture entirely. You think she's tuned in on this? The figure in the window, off the sides? Alright, buck up. Maybe she's watching here. Let's get you sorted out. >Arthur: First, get the painting at the gallery >Arthur: Second, go to the lair, help her with what she tried to do >Arthur: Third, you back off and let her finish it >Arthur: Return to the gallery Arthur rolls the scrolls and takes a few deep breaths to steady himself. He's in a worse way now. Worse, lots worse. But now he knows where to go. Grab the painting at the Gallery. Take it to the Lair. Find... some solution. Find something. Figure it out. There's gotta be a solution. >Arthur: You need a drink. Right now. Listen to the gray Is it healthy? No, but nothing he's doing is healthy. At least on the way, even if it leaves him in a state that's a bit questionable, he resolves to grab a bit of alcohol on the second floor. Not too much. Just enough to take the edge off. Enough to get Ultimate Arthur to quiet the hell down, just for a moment. Make the little nagging voice in his head that calls him a fucking idiot for abandoning his friend quiet down just a moment. It'll take the edge off. He needs it for what comes next. That's the justification, huh? Well, alright, bro. Your call.
Ein	* Solutions come from trying, kid. * Still, sometimes you need a break. Healthy is a funny word. Is it healthy to tear into this gordian knot as tight as you can? Was it healthy to come here? Was it necessary? The lack of knowing hurts the most. The stairs are a blur for someone who doesn't have to walk. The lounge, on the second floor, is dim - the sort of light that is diffused upwards before tumbling down, redshifted and gentle. It provides an atmosphere of wavelengths. The bar is long, but there's only one stool. Moving up from the landing at the first floor, the soft sound of a piano twinkles and a saxophone drawls soulfully. Arriving in the bar reveals the 'patrons' - rather, the employees. A shawl-hooded individual in forest green looking vaguely like a THIEF mans the bar, a cowl-hooded indivdual in pale blue looking vaguely like a WIZARD mans the piano, and a helmeted sort in red looking vaguely like a KNIGHT caresses the valves of his saxophone. The reed goes into the helmet, it's fine, it's a barbute. There's a drink on the counter that pops and fizzes mutedly, right in front of the stool. It looks like soda. It's dark brown, like soda. "A customer!" Crows the barman-Thief. "It's been..." He coughs. "A while. You look like you need to take a load off for a little bit." The two-man band drops into something mellowed out. "Are you alright? You look troubled."
Arthur Lowell	>Arthur: Explain it >Arthur: GET YOUR DISTRACTION FINISHED AND LEAVE Arthur takes a seat and rubs his face. "Hey guys." He looks up, briefly looking nauseous with a sense of recognition. "A while, yeah. Just gotta take the edge off before I hit the road. It shouldn't be long." A thought crosses his mind. "Jack and Coke, but with the Daniel's Special Coca-Cola, yeah?" The Jack and Coke from an eternity ago sticks in his mind, though he thinks it was just the coke at the time. Did you know that was the last time he saw her? Arthur winces and plunges his fingernails into his own palms. Calm down, Arthur. It was just an observation. Words streak across his brain, cutting deep canyons with their passage. "You gotta get back in ACTION! Don't wanna LOSE YOUR EDGE, yo." He had said to her. What had she said back to him? He's right back there again, at the barbecue. Each syllable fills him with strain. "Wow. Full life. You were always the active, busy, coolguy though. I'm just dumpy little me. I don't even get sweet stained glass. I poke at those weird abstractijerks, and I was helping some gritty noire detective stop the mob or something. I do stuff. You're just cooler and higher profile. Same 'ol, same 'ol, coolguy. Yeah, I actually need to jet. It's really great seeing you all. The bar's open, there's a buncha stuff, I gotta go... See a guy about a thing." This isn't helping. Not that it should, obviously, considering it's deserved. He's going to get some of that in him as soon as it's provided. He's looking like he needs it badly. "Actually, make it a double." He says with a forced sort of grin. But it's not going to shut me up forever. Every bar is basically the same bar; this space always has the part of him that let her go that day. Doesn't it, Arthur?
Ein	The Questants weren't there. But, who was? A memory for two. "I'll mix you anything you want, chief." The green-cowled thief shrugs, leaning on the bar counter. "When's the last time you had a nap, pal? A shower? You need something refreshing." The painful Jack and Coke is cleared with a sweep of a bound hand, dumped under the counter. A tall gin bottle with one of those pouring stems is lifted to a chrome mixing glass, with a glass bottle of lightly sweet and herbal tonic water poured in on top. A fresh lime is brought out, sliced in two with an extra slice carved off, and juiced - extra sour, extra tart into a hand-press. The aromatic oils spread into the air, a gentle fruity pith-bitterness wafting to the senses. Added to the mix and shaken lightly, a fistful of ice is added to a tall highball, and the mixture poured on top, fizzing aggressively. The saved slice of lime is added as garnish to the rim of the glass. The Thief steps back, considers their work, and adds a comically spiralling swizzle straw to the top. "A double strong, double sour Gin and Tonic. An adult drink, for adult problems. Want to talk about it, boss?" The Thief doesn't smile, because they don't have a face - not really. Still, the tone is gentle and understanding. "You look wound up tighter than a bulb-coil. Take the edge off, yeah?"
Arthur Lowell	>Arthur: Drink. Get it in you. Drown yourself out a little Arthur fondly regards the straw, and then disregards it, at least for the first sips, to get a good bit of that into him. He lets out a heavy sigh as the alcohol slips into him and his "BREATHALYTIC RISK FACTOR" visibly rises. Sooner or later, that side of him that tells him how badly he handled all this will be a little quieter. He sticks to sipping through the straw after that though. Let's take this slow to start off. "It's bullshit. I dunno. Feelin' like everywhere I'm goin' is just places that have all the shit about me I hate. People are a product of their places and personality is just a thing you do with inputs from places-- I dunno. There's too much of /me/ coming in from where I'm at. Can't figure a way to be someone else or something." He rubs one of his temples. Come on, start getting into the bloodstream already. "I'm starting to run out of time." He mutters. "It's getting worse than it's ever been." That's spoken with a bit of weight, as if he's admitting something to himself that he didn't want to think about before.
Ein	"Sounds real rough boss. Everywhere you turn, mirrors of that face you don't like. Doors you don't want to take." The Thief agrees, leaning on the counter once more. "But you're here, right? You hate it here? Rough beats, boss." The Thief drawls, the tonal equivalant of a smirk hovering in the air. "Hey, I've seen your mug before. Ain't I?" The Knight, on sax in the corner, cannot chime in both because he is dumb as a bag of bricks and because he's currently playing the saxophone. This role is good for them. The Wizard, on the other hand, can speak and stroke the ivory. "In the mural, Thief. He's one of the big ones." The Thief soundlessly pantomimes a snap - no force, striking soft hand-bindings. It lacks all the bite. But that's sort of a theme, too. "Yeah, you're the... the space guy. Wow, it's been a while boss. A real minute for a cat like yourself to come in out of the cold and the grit." The G&T is lightly fizzy, and bitter. It almost hides the flavor of the alcohol, but as the tonic settles and the tongue works its magic, that bite comes in at the back. The straw helps. Straws bypass the tongue, largely. "Is it a part of you too hard to be? Or too hard not to be?" The Thief ponders the quandry. "Guy like you has all the time and extra. Still, what's the harm in taking five here and there? Couldn't tell you if you stormed or staggered in to our little slice of the Land. Anything we can help with?" Knight toots a bit at the word 'help'. Mage grumbles. Thief is all verbal smirks and easy listening ears.
Arthur Lowell	>Arthur: You don't want to Expire >Arthur: YOU WANT TO BE WHAT YOU'RE MEANT TO BE "There's some kinds of ways of being you don't get to come back from." Arthur mutters. "If there's too much of me, I'm going to... I won't really have a choice, I'll have to just be that. I'm losing the thread. I thought I still had a good grip on it." He leans forward, propped up on one elbow. "You can't stop being it. It's different. It starts and it'll never stop. You just demolish everything you were and hope for the best, but then everyone else who's done that is," He gestures broadly. "Just a huge piece of shit. A giant fucking piece of shit. I fucking /always/ see people on the way there, or already there." Arthur taps his forehead. "I don't want to be it because they always seem so fucking pleased about being assholes, honestly. Shit, I don't wanna be /this/," He gestures at him. "But I'm kinda shit out of options. I can be this or I can be worse, not much better on the menu." Siiiip. "I've gotten enough tastes of what it's like the last... couple bits of things about this. I really... I don't like it." "And I don't got all the time. I'm running out. Sooner or later there's so much of /this/," He gestures at himself. "I gotta just move on to the next part or /die/ or whatever. I'm running out of it. Hell, I keep almost slipping and /falling/ into the next bit lately. It's getting worse." Siiiiip. Arthur rubs his face. "Can't help me unless you got a whole lot of Ultimate Self cure stashed in a bottle back there." Besides the gin and tonic.
Ein	"I'd tell you to get some sleep, boss, but I've heard where you go. That ain't restful." Thief agrees. "But, you know that space has holes in it - right? That's where we come in!" A cocksure thumb is laid on the Thief's chest. "Or, well... 'us', in the generic." The Thief deflates. "She wasn't happy about being an asshole, either. Powerful was great, known was better, but I think she wanted to be liked more than anything. Have to know someone to like them, though." "People 'like that' - people who're too far gone justify it to themselves. If you're stuck some way, you'll figure out a way to make it right in your head.' Tastes are addressed: Here is where Thief turns to start pawing through shelves and bottles. "Tastes are tastes. You can acquire a taste, if you want to - but maybe you shouldn't. You could acquire a taste for rotgut and appreciate the bouquet of piss if you sniff enough questionable puddles, boss." The Thief laughs, a dry, fake thing. It's part of the bartending role. Easy conversation. Affirmation. "Ultimate Self cure... Now, that's a trick." The Wizard pauses on a note. The Knight keeps on blowing, a soft and soulful solo. "You can't offer it, Thief." Wizard warns. "Sure I can. He asked for a bottle. I'm tending bar, Wizard. Isn't that how we work?" Thief drawls. "But you're right, boss. I don't carry that tincture here. You want a choice, and you're here. Only two folks around these days who've got that vintage: The one you're looking for, and the new girl." The sax music stops. It's very, painfully quiet, beyond the clink of ice in the glass Arthur drinks from.
Arthur Lowell	>Arthur: WAIT >Arthur: WHAT "What?" Arthur's realization is a bit faster than his ability to look up from the glass, but that catches up too. "What... do you mean? You mean she figured a cure for it? She has some kind of--" He stops. Then he shakes his head. "Wait, /new girl/? Not one of my pals helping on the Blind Eye stuff, right? Who's the new girl?" It's not that the one he knows more is a lower priority, it's just that he gets the impression they won't know much more about her, beyond their... distant connection. Who else has what would be needed? What else could make that work? sprite? No, that couldn't be how this works... Could it? Could it be doubling up? No, he's gotta get the answer here. But more than that, he's gotta finish this drink and pursue this even harder. If there's the chance for some kind of /cure/, he needs to get this done, and /fast/. Before things get terminal.
Ein	"What, her?" Which her? Thief is threadbare on clarity. "She's been sippin' the treatment since before forever. Treatment's no cure, though. Tastes better than cough syrup, though." Thief smarms lightly. "She put a little wherever she went. Around here, you can't get away from it. Even at the library, boss!" Thief chortles. "Hair of the dog helps show your real face. Lower your inhibitions. Smooth out your rough edges. Too much, though, and your self gets obliterated, whatever that is. Some folks got no tolerance and temperance both." 'New Girl'. "New girl's new girl. The critic! Mucked up things. Still, she's helping you. She just don't know it." It's just Thief and Arthur, in the bar now. The lights are down. The live act's been over for a while. Bartender, and patron. "But that's the rub with Void, boss. Not knowin'. If you don't fix you, how're you gonna fix her?"
Arthur Lowell	>Arthur: Self-medication is the only option sometimes >Arthur: THERE IS NO TREATMENT FOR BEING ARTHUR LOWELL >Arthur: EMBRACE WHAT ARTHUR LOWELL IS "Alcohol." He mutters. "I should get intoxicated to fix this? Christ." He rubs his face. For some reason, a particular man making a particular expression springs to mind. God, no. Don't let him know. Worst possible outcome. Fuck off, Electrochemistry. "A critic. Yeah, that'd be a fucking terror for an artist, but they're usually not so bad when you listen the right way I guess. I gotta get a good look at her. You got any idea where?" >Arthur: Egress He's starting to stand. Looks like this is his moment to get this finished. "Well, if she's helping me, good. Gets us on good terms from the start, I'll help her too or something. Maybe stop the mucking-up part. Especially if that's her doing the Torn stuff." He sucks frustration and air in through clenched teeth. He slaps a fistful of Boondollars down on the counter. "Keep the change." He says firmly, in a way that implies that perhaps watching the number go down will sober him enough to make more sensible decisions about becoming dependent on substances for his mental health. Time to get out, Arthur thinks. Out of places and spaces that fill him with more of himself, albeit this was a lot more of a pleasant one, in some ways.
Ein	"Not fix! Treat. Like painkillers for the soul. Shouldn't you be in tune with floating a little?" The thief observes with the sure way of any bartender in suggesting a healthy dram for a weary soul. It is, after all, his current role. Asked about where the Critic is, Thief shrugs emphatically. "Not a clue. Before, she mostly was in the Industrial district. With the mural. Not there any more. Unless she is!" "Hit the lights on your way out, boss!" The Thief requests, leaning against the bar counter and watching Arthur head towards the stairs. At the landing is a lightswitch. Turning it off turns out all the lights like the shutter of eyelids. Opening his eyes afterwards, Arthur is outside the Library, with Glasses waving him down. "Good naks! I solved the case of the Ancient Payment. We heisted so much nakkin' cash, we could solve that case easy... or something! Naknaknak." Apparently his late fee is paid. So he has that going for him, which is nice.