At least it smells better in here.

[burdenofproof]

The carpet of the halls was plush like a cloud beneath his feet and even the air seemed sweetly scented compared to that place he'd found on the other side of a perfectly harmless looking door upon his arrival. The smell of all that wriggling, oozing dead was burned into his nostrils and baked into his skin, or at least it'd seemed that way to him, which was why after he'd figured out where his room was he'd blown half the money in his wallet on some toiletries and a fresh change of clothes. He'd stayed in the shower until long after the hot water had thrown up a white flag and emerged reddened and shivering, but at least free of any invisible flecks of gore that might've accumulated while watching Joan Watson bust open zombie skulls like rotted fruit. It was going to take him a good, long while to get over that, even he could admit.

Not knowing what else to do, he made his way back down to the lobby with a wary eye on every door he passed, wearing his new, clean clothes and smelling a damn sight better to himself. The bar was an obvious attraction and his first choice, so he made his way inside, finding it casual enough to suit his tastes and taking a seat at one of the empty tables. He wasn't going to be hungry any time soon, so when the waitress made her way over he ordered a whiskey and at least three more after the first one was finished. After the waitress had left him, he found himself looking around at the people in the bar with him. There was no one in his immediate line of sight that would've got a second look on the street for being obviously, physically different than him, but from what he'd gathered there could be people in here that came from a whole other universe entirely different than his own.

It was frightening, but when the waitress returned with his first glass of whiskey, he was pleased to know that at least alcohol was universal. He would have to do thinking, so much thinking, and exploring too, but that could come later. Just then, all John Luther wanted to do was get quietly, thoroughly drunk.

Comments

[amusebouche]

It was not in Andras' nature to be shocked. He had accepted his reality with relative ease, just as he always had. He had lived on Earth, then he had lived on a space ship, and now he was living in a hotel. Perhaps it made no sense, but he knew he was happier paying it no mind.

The world of earthly physics had ceased to be his footing long ago. It didn't frighten him, though. For some reason, he found it comforting to know that natural physics was malleable to the extend of creating a hotel such as this. It felt good to know that anything might be on the other side of those doors. He wasn't sure why that was comforting to him, but he accepted the comfort like a blanket. It soothed.

Of course he did miss his life. That was the only tarnish. He missed being the cook on a space ship. He missed his friends. He missed their strange journey.

He had shaken that melancholy off, showered and dressed and set out to explore the hotel.

His search took him to a bar. Something could be said about that, from a psychological point of view. But Andras' didn't.

The waitress who had just served a man a glass of whiskey turned to him with a smile, hoping to be of service. "Some orange juice, please," he said, his eyes straying to the glass of whiskey, his words not quite reflecting what he truly wished to drink.

[burdenofproof]

John Luther was a man who was constantly aware of his surroundings, so when someone moved into his peripheral he tended to watch them without really watching them, observing their movements discreetly in an attempt to discern whether or not they warranted his full attention, be it dangerous or otherwise. It was an idle thing, a 'cop' habit, so when there was a fellow suddenly within his vicinity and ordering orange juice, he found that strange enough to pay a bit more attention without ever looking up from his glass. Of course, Luther had spent enough time in bars to know that sometimes even retired alcoholics returned to their own stomping ground, finding nourishment in something so simple as the atmosphere.

That was his initial assumption, until he felt the itch of eyes on him for a touch too long, and glanced up to find a rather elegantly turned out man looking at him, or rather, at his glass of whiskey. Luther looked down at it to reassure himself that it hadn't shape shifted into anything more outlandish than a glass filled with amber liquid, as he was guessing just about anything was possible in this hotel, but was relieved to find all as it should be.

"Did the doc write you off booze?" He asked the man as a means to conversation. He doubted a man dressed as this man was just then was denying himself whiskey because he couldn't afford it.

[amusebouche]

Andras offered the man a little apologetic smile. He had been caught staring at the man's drink, after all, and had apparently been a little too obvious about it. It had been terribly rude of him.

There was something about the man's posture, and his speech that yelled law enforcement. A hint of sternness to his voice, bordering on aggression, while the words he spoke were innocent enough and clearly meant as the start of a conversation only.

"I wrote myself off booze," he explained politely. And then, as an after thought; "But I am a doctor. Or well, used to be."

"Do you mind if I join you? A man drinking alone doesn't always wish for company."

[burdenofproof]

"Huh," Luther said, not making it a question or a request for the man to repeat the information he'd just shared, but instead a noise that allowed him to show he was paying attention, despite the fact that he wasn't sure what to say to all of that. He assumed there was a reason this man had given up booze, there always was, though a second, longer look told him that this man being a doctor did make sense. He had a sort of conciseness about him that went hand in hand with the trade, though there wasn't the fuzzy, hurried look of someone who dealt with emergencies on the regular. Even though the man had just admitted to being retired, or at least not practicing any more, Luther strongly doubted that he'd been the sort of doctor who'd ever had too many ruffled feathers.

"Of course, of course," Luther said, waving a hand to the three empty chairs at his table, indicating the man should have his pick. "Take a seat. Drinking alone at an empty table for four has gotta be the most passive/aggressive invitation for company I can think of."

[amusebouche]

"Or an unconscious claim of territorial dominance," Andras offered, a little smile indicating he was merely joking.

He took the seat with usual grace, unbuttoning his jacket to avoid creases and lifting the legs of his trousers to avoid the fabric to stretch at the knees. "I'm not sure I will continue to take my own advice. The strangeness of this place certainly seems to warrant a drink."

[burdenofproof]

"You wouldn't be the first fella to accuse me of being territorial," Luther said with a crook of his lips, settling into his former posture in the chair as his new guest made himself comfortable.

"You're not wrong there," he agreed. "Have you tried any of the doors in this place? I've only tried one, and if it was meant to set the mood for the rest of the doors in this place, I think I'll pass." Of course, since people seemed so keen on staying in the Nexus Luther figured that most of the doors had to lead somewhere decent, or at least interesting, and picking the zombie door on his first, unintentional go was just his shitty luck.

[amusebouche]

Andras shook his head. "I haven't no. I came through one of those doors last week," he explained. "I've been searching ways to get back to the ship, since, but I'm not sure if that will be possible."

"What did you find behind that fateful door?"

[beretta_70]

Where the sumptuousness of her room should have eased something of the discomfort Sévérine felt within the confines of the hotel, perhaps even lay the feeling of being disconnected from the world around her and each sense with which she drew the world around her in, it did neither. Death had seemed too certain a state to allow her to forget the steps that had brought her through the door of that unworldly place, the evidence of her last days erased from her skin to echo only in her memory. The assurance of the stranger she had met in those first minutes had been of her heart still beating in her chest, and that, more shocking, she stood free of any who controlled her.

The promise of privacy was too alien to trust, and where she thought to sleep in the warm cocoon of the bed’s duvet and sheets with their astronomic thread-count, her attempts saw only that she tossed and turned until she abandoned the hope of it.

Information was what she sought. Information was the key to the whole of the world, as she had learned from the master of its collection and control. She dressed carefully, drawing herself collected in make-up applied with a careful hand, and set off to the one place in the hotel that was the likeliest source of all she might want to know.

The Smoking Room was a beautiful room of marble and dark woods, all earthy tones and elegant lighting that appealed on many levels. Not the least of which was in a cursory inspection of the room’s inhabitants and a series of faces she did not recognize. One in particular drew her attention, that of a dark-skinned man seated alone at one of the many tables scattered about the room, his body angled to allow him the greatest field of view of the room and its inhabitants. The fact that he was not an unhandsome man played little part in her choice of moving in his direction, although the breadth of his shoulders and the distinctive layman’s curl of his fingers around his glass gave her a second’s pause before she dismissed her unease.

The click of her heels played a tattoo against the marble floor as she walked, head high and back arrow-straight, across the room, coming to a stop at the chair across from him, curling a hand over its back. “Is this seat taken?” She asked, sinking her weight into one hip with a tip of her head.

[burdenofproof]

The click of heels was a tell that there was a woman within his close proximity, and the languid amount of time between each distinctive click told him that she was by no means in a rush. He allowed his gaze to drift upward as the noise drew closer, scanning the room for only a moment before his gaze landed upon the woman who was coming to a stop at his table. He'd never seen her before, that was his first conclusion, and his second, almost distracting thought was that she was beautiful.

It wasn't as though he was unused to beautiful women, or that she was the first he'd ever seen, but it was rare that Luther outright noticed a woman's physical appearance in any real way these days. He had to remind himself again that he was a man, and was single, but he was also an old dog who'd been in a functioning (for him) routine of being a married man for nearly two decades. That he and Zoe had been separated for a better part of a year before her death mattered little to Luther. He'd still been Zoe's man until the day she'd died, and now... Well, now he wasn't sure what he was, but he certainly wasn't in any position to turn his nose up at the company of a woman such as this.

"Yeah," he said, pushing himself up to his feet in display of old manners, a smile touching his lips. "I mean, no. Please, have a seat . It'd be my pleasure."

[beretta_70]

The uncertainty of the world as it had been built around her did not allow Sévérine the luxury of relaxation or of trust. Each action and gesture was exactly as controlled, precise and careful as if three men still stood at the fringes of her vision, watching. She gave a shallow bow by way of a dip of her head in reply to his words, allowing the smallest quirk of her lips in trade for the touch of a smile he gave her. Only at the momentary tangle of his answer hitched the fluidity of her movements, but even that confusion was ironed out to allow her to draw the chair back and slide into the seat across from the man.

“Thank you,” she murmured, lifting a hand to catch the attention of the waitress and call her over to place an order for a martini after a quick mental calculation of her rapidly dwindling funds. What she might do to refill her coffers once the last of what she had had sewn into the lining of her dress (as all of her dresses had been) was gone, she could not be certain, but the matter of information proved to be of greater priority in the moment than financial planning and all its dull details.

There was no need to hide her inspection of him when she did return her attention to the man across from her. It would hardly be expected of a woman to do otherwise than look at a man such as he: trace the breadth of his shoulders, mark the sheer height of him (taller than her first impression of him had suggested), attempt to pin down his origins in the brief sample of his accent. She reconsidered her impression of him merely as ‘not unhandsome’ at such close proximity to both the man and even so small of a smile, the fit of his suit as one less than expertly tailored to him bringing a touch of comfort as she drew up the image of him as a man not of considerable power or of wealth. His cuticles were too rough for such things, the scrubbed raw tinge to his skin one she was intimately familiar with herself.

The equation spelled cop if she ever saw one, and one out of his element at that.

“You are…new here?” She asked after a moment, running the edge of her thumbnail along the side of her index finger as she leant on one elbow.

[burdenofproof]

Luther waited until his new guest had taken her seat before taking his once more, settling back into his former posture and twisting his fingers around the whiskey glass again. He was immediately aware that she was looking at him, and not just in a conversational way. He understood then that he was being assessed, though he wasn't sure for what, and he took the opportunity to look over her in return. She was obviously beautiful and well turned out, and he was positive that most people, men especially, looked no further than that. A deeper inspection of her found that there was a directness and abject cunning to her gaze, along with an air of almost controlled desperation about her that made Luther think of a creature that had been forced into a pit and told to fight for its life as opposed to one that had been pampered on a pile of satin pillows. He'd been a copper too damn long to not be aware of her type, and while it made him almost immediately wary, he did not show it.

He wasn't sure what she hoped to gain from him, though clearly there would be something motivating her to come strike up a conversation with a man such as himself. He knew he did not project a wealthy or even particularly approachable vision, so he assumed whatever it was, it would not be monetary. If all she wanted was his help, Luther would give it to her in whatever amount he could. He recognized her as a survivalist, and while he knew survivalists could be very dangerous in that they would do most anything to see they came out of the other side of any problem alive, he also knew they'd been honed to that mindset after a lifetime of danger and ill treatment. He would watch her, but he would not be cruel or outright suspicious of her. His protective nature, especially when it came to women, ran far too deep for that.

"I am new," he said. "Just came through the door earlier today. What about you?" He glanced up at the waitress when she returned with the martini, and gave her a nod. "Put that on my tab, too."

[beretta_70]

While there had been others she might have approached instead, those who might have given up whatever information they possessed for a smile and so much as a touch of her hand along their wrist, Sévérine had approached this policeman, detective, whatever he might have been on the other side of his door, understanding the calculated risk she took. The vast majority of those in law enforcement were those who took the opportunity for power, who lacked other options for reasons to do with family or money. Those who excelled in their work and gained the esteem of their peers were, for the most part, those who stood in its most corrupt spectrum but did, as well, have an instinct for people and their weaknesses. The lesson of who such men protected was one she had learned too early in life, the unease she had learned at the back of a man’s hand had taught her that even the most well-meaning of officers (if such a thing existed, a fact she most often doubted) were only the avenue to further retribution.

The last man she had trusted even so far as to change the stakes had led her only to a more direct path to the end, but her entrance into this new world had skewed every law she had lived by in the old. There she would have done her best to avoid this man’s attention, but with a new world and the promise of no collar around her throat, she had chosen instead to face it directly.

The weight of his assessment was one that felt as if it stripped her naked, the sensation one that was as unpleasant as it was a necessary trade for her being allowed in close enough to see the watchfulness of his eyes, the searching way he looked at her as if he could see the workings of her beneath her skin and understood how they might fit together. She masked her discomfort in a tilt of her head and a lowering of her lashes, but did not look away from him.

The drink had been one meant as a distraction for her hands more than a desire to lose herself to alcohol, and one that she took gratefully from the waitress with a nod of her thanks to the man sitting across from her. “I have been here for more than a day now,” she told him. “Mister- ?”

[burdenofproof]

He could tell that she didn't like the way he looked at her. Not that he was looking at her in general, as a woman such as herself was no doubt not only used to looks, but quite used to commanding them, but instead that he was looking to see her. She would recognize that if she was the sort of woman Luther thought she might be, and the slight lowering of her lashes was as much of an indicator as he needed. He averted his gaze as he lifted the whiskey to his lips for another drink, focusing more on her voice than the burn of the liquor as it painted his insides on the way down. He didn't want to strike her as a threat or something to be wary of, or at least not more so than he could help, and he did not want to make her more uncomfortable. He was curious, but not eager as to her point. He could wait.

"Luther," he said as he sat the glass down. "John Luther." His hand extended and he waited for her to place her hand in his, already anticipating the silky smoothness of her skin and the deceptive strength of her grip. "And what's your name, Miss?"

He was making a leap in assuming that she was unmarried and not here with a man, but he supposed it wouldn't truly matter if she were. Marriage was a very real and holy thing to Luther, but he knew not everyone saw it as such. It would not alter his natural response to anything she might ask of him, or say to him. It was nothing more than friendly bar conversation, after all.

[thefinalsolution]

Moriarty has a habit of sliding into spaces to occupy them, filling them up where previously there had been nothing there. Now, he does that in the most casual way he possibly can, gathering information on all the new little spiders in the hotel, wanting to make sure he knows about their webs. He's not ready to yank them down, not yet, but it's smart to get his hands on them, just to make sure he's there.

He tugs off his baseball cap, setting it on the bar as he orders a beer with an affable and easy smile, slouching like he belongs here, like a barfly with nothing better to do. "I feel like I can see the fine cost of that drink," he appraises of the man next to him. "I think I can smell the finery from here."

[burdenofproof]

Luther wasn't entirely sure he was the one being spoken to, but when he glanced up at the bar where the voice came from, he found the speaker was looking at him. He looked average enough, with a bright, friendly smile and a discarded baseball cap sitting beside him on the bar. Luther leaned back in his seat, quirking a smile in return and lifting the glass in a bit of a salute at the man's statement.

"You ever tried the cheap stuff? Isn't worth the rot gut, best I can figure."

[thefinalsolution]

Moriarty's folded his hands on top of the bar, making sure that his posture is slack and his features are nothing to write home about. He evens out the smooth motions, makes them slightly more twitchy and awkward, like someone who doesn't know how to make every muscle in his body move the way he wants them to. "I'm not much of a Scotch drinker, myself," he admits. "If that is Scotch? I prefer a beer, if alcohol's involved. Honestly, I'm a bad stereotype," he says, shaking his head. "I'll take tea over all the rest."

"John Holmes," he introduces himself with an easy smile. "How's the good stuff?" he asks, of the drink.

[burdenofproof]

Luther chuckled against the rim of his glass before having another sip of the whiskey, and gave the man another nod. "Nothing wrong with being a stereotype from time to time, I guess," he said. "I've fallen victim to that particular thing myself a time or two. Though, do they sell tea in here? I'm still learning my way around the place."

"John Luther," Luther replied. "Nice to meet you, John. The good stuff is treating me fine. What are you having?"

[thefinalsolution]

"Not here," he says, having been learning about the various rooms and places that make this place tick. They're interesting, he knows that, and he knows that he needs to find out all its various secrets. "They serve a fine tea in the little restaurant, though." He smoothes his hand through his messy hair, not a lick of product in it, though Moriarty is trying to keep it somewhat tidy.

"At the moment, it's a Beamish," he says. "Bit of a dark lager," he says, his accent smoothed into a London tone rather than the usual Irish notes. "After a day of exploring those doors out there, it's a good thing to come back to, expensive or not."

[burdenofproof]

"Good food there, too?" He said, making it a question as he had another sip of whiskey and watched the small, young man across the way. There was nothing remotely suspicious about him, but Luther often found himself studying others when there wasn't anything else he cared to occupy his time with. He liked to make guesses at people's histories and backstories, and while he would've originally guessed that this young man's might've written itself, Luther kept coming up strangely blank.

Not so strange, given the day he'd had, but interesting enough to make him keep trying.

"You're not wrong there," Luther said. "I had my first go at a door today, and I don't mean to make a try of it again for a good, long while. You done much poking around this place?"

[wearethehunters]

"Marshall, that you?" Chuck asks. He doesn't mean for his chest to tighten, for the words to stick in his throat. He looks just like the Marshall, has that same grim set to his face. "You're looking a damn sight better than I was, first come..."

[burdenofproof]

Luther glanced up sharply with a squint and a furrowed brow at the man who stood near, addressing him by a different name. He would've been assured that the man was talking to someone else, if it wasn't for the directness of his gaze, and the tension about him.

"Sorry, mate," he said with a faint shake of his head and a small shrug. "I think you've got the wrong fella."

[wearethehunters]

"But you look..." Chuck turns away, rubbing the heel of his hand into his forehead. No. No he's heard of this, but this man has the Marshall's face.

"Marshall Stacker Pentecost?"

It doesn't sound very certain.

[burdenofproof]

People had assumed a lot of who John Luther was in the past, though it'd usually had more to do with his occupation as opposed to thinking he was someone else entirely. The name the younger man gave him was entirely foreign to Luther, and he found the name itself unique enough that he was sure it would've stuck out in his mind had he heard it anywhere before. That this young man seemed almost upset at the sight of him made him wonder if this Marshall bloke was missing or dead, as this young man had a sort of hardened look about him that made Luther think he wasn't one for uncertainty or obvious distress.

"I've never heard of him," Luther replied. "I'm sorry. My name is John Luther. Is he a friend of yours or something?"

[wearethehunters]

"Or something..." Chuck replies. The Marshall had respected his kill record as ranger but in no way had they ever been friends. Hell, he was more certain that Pentecost had hated him.

"Bloody hell though. You could be twins."

[burdenofproof]

"Huh," Luther said as he thought that over. "First time I've ever heard anything about having a twin somewhere out there." He tipped his head at the younger man, then gestured to one of the empty chairs at his table.

"You can have a seat, if you want," he said.