Alonso leads the group to the hollow, which isn't too terribly far away. It's far enough when your body has turned into a red, yellow and orange tattered patchwork quilt and wrapped itself around the coffin, bumped along the Hedge earth. Far e fucking nough. Alonso lets everyone in, leads them up to the second floor -- bringing the coffin with. There's no explanation given as to why they're led up to the second floor, though the room on the first floor is both very sparse and a large number of the books that are stacked up on the shelves down there are in Hebrew. It's probaby not his room, but who can say?
When the coffin's on the floor on the second floor? The blanket slithers out from underneath it and becomes a Darkling with a sound somewhere between a whine and a groan. They did volunteer.
Six hasn't had his gun back out since they started hauling the coffin. He'd spent a bit more time near it, along the way, even as Teagan was used to carry it. Had pressed to its glass surface. Otherwise, he was watchful and quiet - present, rather than thoughtfully distant. And more than a little restless. He leans against one of the shelves, arms recrossed as he watches a blanket unfurrow into a Teagan. "Would a tylenol help?" he asks. His gaze moves about the room once again once the transition is done, snooping without poking at anything or turning it over. The books in Hebrew get a second look, but the language doesn't seem to net any familiarity from his eyes.
"If a Tylenol is insufficient," vanE intones, "I have a few other tricks." He was probably even more silent than Six as they moved along, helping to drag the coffin, revolver out in his other hand the entire time. He has finally sheathed his own. After a glance to Teagan, he seeks out the face of the small, slumbering Fairest within the coffin. So peaceful, in her way, even if having her there at all is a disturbing sight.
"Fuck, man, I don't even know," Teagan answers, groaning and curling up into a ball, adding, "Turn around, okay." Because there's one thing that makes being a blanket useless, and that's being a blanket with clothing on. That basically makes you a weird blanket doll. Not very useful. They grab their trenchcoat from the pile of clothes wrapped around their machete, that must have been stacked on top of the coffin or something; the coat's pulled over themselves, which provides enough cover to dress under. "I'll think about it in a second." But their face is a riot of bruises and cuts, so something is likely in order. "I could usually handle it myself, but I'm a little on the low side. So. Ow."
They yank their boxers back on, muttering, "What did you get when you touched the coffin?" toward Six. "You made a face."
"That's good. I don't actually have Tylenol on me, now that I think about it," Six admits to vanE, with a shrug. He pats his pockets. Wallet, phone, gun, pill bottle (unrelated). He keeps himself from staring at the coffin any more. He does turn around when it's requested. Forehead resting against the shelf as he leans. He perks - almost turns around when he's asked about what happened when he touched the coffin. "Searching. Someone looking for something. It wasn't very clear, for me. But, a memory I could visit without context or a dream, maybe, played like a really bad short film where you're not supposed to 'get it'," he answers.
vanE turns when he's asked to turn, but he is watching Six. vanE is not a man of many words. He's someone who listens first, talks later. Now is no exception. His eyes are just plain hazel now, trained on Six's face, like the looking alone will tease more information from him. Otherwise, though, he is silent.
When their backs are turned, there's a sound of rustling for a good thirty seconds, and then Teagan grunts. "Okay." They're reassembled, mostly, t-shirt and jeans and boots back on: they're in the process of hooking their ring holster back to their belt, and the machete into that. Their jacket's not back on yet, it's still over the coffin, like that's a normal piece of furniture or something. "Really? It... like... jumped into your head?" A small frown. Their arms are covered by whorling lines, in between which there are groups of hash marks, five to a group, like someone's counting something. Some of those lines look newer than the others. On the back of their right wrist is their name in bright green calligraphy, standing out from their back-of-the-mirror metallic skin, and on the back of their left wrist is a typewriter-font tattoo in a shimmery silver ink that can only be Hedgespun: this machine kills rapists. "Like you were remembering it yourself, of your own memory?"
Six turns back around. Looks between vanE, who he notes for attentiveness. And Teagan, for no longer being a quilt or prone. He takes a breath. Holds up a finger, for them to wait. His breath stills. He blinks, and there's another ripple in the shade of his irises. Hundreds of dark little blossoms that grow and lighten until his eyes are a milk-chocolate brown. He relaxes, rests back against the shelf, and nods. "Yeah. Like my entire vision was a screen. I could see what they were seeing," he says. "Or what they saw. Not remembering, myself. Just seeing it." His regard is affable. Closer to the age he looks. He runs a hand back through the curls of his messy hair and shrugs, apologetic smile. "Like psychic impressions in an old movie. I touched it, and the scene changed to what the object was showing to me. " He considers Teagan. A brief glance at the calligraphy, and back up to their gaze. "You didn't see anything when you carried it?" he asks, curious, and a touch confused. "Maybe it needs to be the lid..."
"What was it they saw? What were the impressions?" vanE's voice sounds softly, like bells chiming from an old cathedral in the dark of night. It carries that sort of weight and signficance, like the things he say are a song one wants to listen to. But he quickly goes back to staring at his boots, lost in thought, then staring into the face of the sleeping girl as he brushes a little closer to the coffin.
"... I was sort of... you know. Distracted, by my everything being slammed into the ground by a glass coffin full of Sleeping Fairest," Teagan answers, digging into the pockets of their trenchcoat and comes out with a fun-sized Butterfinger. "Hey, vanE," they call, lifting the tiny candy once, twice, indicatively and then tosses it to him if he looks up. They didn't just offer food, they delivered. Even if it's just a small candy cane. "Like, it's possible, but like... it's difficult to explain how my perceptions chance when I'm a fucking blanket, but they do, also, I was trying really hard not to drop the coffin. So. Yeah. Maybe it's the lid."
Six takes a breath. Tilts his head back. And thinks. Trying to find clarity in what he saw. "It's a studio apartment," he says, after some effort. "I'm - or, the person I'm watching through, is rushing about, looking for something in the apartment. I don't know where. Or for what. Or who is searching," he admits. He smiles a little more - less guiltily - when Teagan tosses the candy to vanE. And he nods in reply to them. "Yeah. I'm guessing it's the lid. Because I'm not much in the way of mind melds and psychic links outside the odd helpful dream."
Teagan is met with a split-second expression of surprise on the face of the black-clad Darkling. Still, he raises a hand and catches that Butterfinger with ease, once Teagan tosses it. "Thanks," he says, sounding confused, and then places it into the pocket of his black coat. A tiny smile creeps onto his lips, even if the confusion remains on his brow for a moment. Then he glances from Six back to the small Fairest. "Perhaps her dreams can be visited," he wonders aloud. Then he turns more properly to the others, a soft, purple light appearing in his eyes. "I must go now, but I'd like to return."
"Uh, you're welcome." There's a flicker of confusion on Teagan's face, then, bruises and scrapes making it not any easier than it ever is to read their face. "I dunno, it's not my place. I'm gonna stay here until Alonso comes back and we can shove this thing and the girl at Dielle. I guess you'd have to find him. I don't mind, but, like, not my jawn. Take care of yourself, vanE."
Their attention shifts back to Six, then, and they listen. "That... fits with what I saw in the omens, I think?"
"That could be it," Six agrees with vanE, nodding confidently to that effect. He's better sociable, this version of Six. "If we get someone who knows dreams like I know sifting through recycled mail, we might have a lead on what's going on." There's a bit of excitement there. A mystery to chase and get lost in. But he pauses at vanE's note of leave, and nods. "Walk softly," he offers. "There's something vicious, out there, somewhere."
The mention of omens draws his regard back to Teagan. Curiosity, in no short amount. "What'd you see?" he asks.
-> >> Teagan to Here << <-============================================
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-> >> Teagan to Here << <-============================================
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GAME: Teagan spends 2 Glamour with reason: geez, it's hard to heal up your dings and bruises some days
"How will you get into her dreams? Don't you need a pledge with her for that? I mean, how will she pledge with you while she's sleeping." A beat's pause. "I wonder if the person they took has a pledge with her." Teagan wanders over to the bed and sits on the foot of it, and then sits very still for a little bit. There's a rush of glamour, once, and then again, and Teagan's bruises and scrapes heal up. "Well, it's not so much what I see, as that I just... see things? And then I have to figure out what the fuck they mean. His... hair laid a certain way, and it meant that like... he was ... he was killed for something he knew. And so the running around looking for something? It kind of matches?"
Six looks stumped, there. He places a fist under his nose and strikes a thinking pose as he leans back against the shelf. "I don't know," he admits, as to the dream pledge. "I don't visit dreams aside from my own, really - not gifted in that realm, either," he adds. Sighs. Glances up to Teagan at the thought - the person who took her, and a pledge they might have had. He looks wary a moment. All revved up to head every direction at once, once the handover of the coffin is done. Half-present as Teagan heals themself up. His brow furrows as they walk him through the omen, processing - he nods. Slow. He can see the similarities; the theme of secrets and hidden things. "There's going to be a lot of work to this one, I think," he admits. But doesn't sound the least bit distressed by it.
Their forehead wrinkles up concernedly, and Teagan lets out a long, slow breath. "You should learn a little bit more, if you can. Do you know about the trouble that's going on, with dreams? Anyone filled you in on that?" A beat, and they add, "I'm not freehold, uh. I don't know if you are. But like, if you have someone you can trust to teach you, and check your dreams every so often?" They recognize that look, the revved-up one, and the expression on their face, that shifting, sliding face, is sort of distantly sympathetic. Sometimes it's hard to have feelings after you've been cotton and batting for a while. "Sounds like it." They, too, don't sound distressed by it. "My kinda job."
Six shakes his head, slow, as to what's going on with the dreams - he looks curious again. "I was away awhile," he admits, for being out of the loop. "Only barely touched base with a couple of the faces I recognized from when I left, on what's going on around here since I've been gone. And I only came across this because I was already out, working a case." He doesn't say, one way or there other, whether he's with the Freehold. But he does nod at the warning. "Thanks for the heads up," he says. Smile, warm, for it. A smile that keeps for the camaraderie of energy for the job ahead. "My name's Six, by the way," he offers, at last.
They give him a really long look. Set a thief to catch a thief: set an avoidant-liar to catch an avoidant-liar. They know that sidestep; they use it all the time. But they don't call him out on it, not today. It's been long enough with them, y'know, bouncing their everything off the Hedge ground. "Yeah, well. Um. Maybe we can compare notes about who we might know, before I give you an infodump on the Gentry that's threatening my people, no offense." It's not a cold statement, that, and even a little regretful, as if to say: hey, sorry that Loyalists exist and I have to be like this. "I'm Teagan." They pull back the cuff of their coat again, tapping the green ink on the outside of their right wrist. See? Labeled for everyone's convenience.
"Smart," Six remarks, at that wariness to share outright. An understanding smile. This isn't the critical, cold, unsociable Six that huddled for warmth without thanks. But aside from demeanor, all that's really different between him and that Six is that his eyes are brown, now, instead of blue. His skin is just as gray. Hair, just as black. "Short of you knowing Nathania, Dorian, or Crystal; I don't know what familiar faces are still around that'll know me and vouch for me. So maybe that'll have to be another time," he says. He follows the tap of Teagan's finger against their wrist. Nods. "Well, Teagan. It's nice to meet you. And I'm glad you were there when it came to getting our coffin'd passenger down from the mountain."
Far be it from A Mirrorskin to pick at people and question sudden changes in demeanor that match up to small (or large) changes in appearance. That would, in fact, be totally the height of hypocrisy, and apparently Teagan isn't feeling hypocritical tonight. "Nathania Winters? Yeah. I'm Glitch's Player Two." Whatever that means. Apparently it means something to Teagan, anyway. "How do you know Natty?" And now their fractured-mirror eyes reflect him back to himself, which is probably an indication that they're watching him closely. It's impossible to tell for sure. "It's good to meet you, too. And hey, usually when someone's a wet blanket, it's a bad thing. Who knew?" Beat. "I'm glad you were around, too. It's good to meet people, y'know? And you see shit."
"Haven't met Glitch," Six admits, rather than press about the term Teagan's uses for their connection. "But I know who he is to Nathania. And yeah, Winters." He note his reflection in those mirror eyes. Tilts his head, a touch; a quality of familiarity with that sight. He knows another Mirrorskin - or similar kin - well enough that it seems to comfort him rather than put him off, to see himself from the outside as he speaks to Teagan. "We met on my second visit. Same court," he says. "I was operating out of a diner, back then. We used to talk quite often." He smiles crookedly at the pun and chuckles. As to seeing shit, "That's my job - and not in the plumber or proctologist sense. I'm a PI."
Their face shifts and slides, and for a moment, it takes on fractional features of Glitch's face: a nose slightly like his, and then Nathania's jawline, rounded and with little stitches along it, before it slips back to neutral again. "You should meet him sometime. He and Nat had Loyalists after them, so, you know." So it's not like Teagan doesn't have 900 reasons to be paranoid about people. "I can introduce you around, sometime, if you want." A small bob of their head. "To Natty? Because you're not causing my Mantle to go dead-spot like Glitch." It would take a hellacious Dusk Mantle to beat the fuck out of Teagan's broiler-hot Summer Mantle, though. "Hmm." They snort, then, and nod once. "Mundane jobs are weird," they admit, and just splay their palms toward him afterwards. The rusted machete that always looks bloody, paired with the thick, ugly scars across both their palms? Most definitely a Squire of the Broken Bough, and that's probably their explanation of 'why no real job.' At least, it seems to be.
The nose, Six doesn't recognize. The jawline he does. He doesn't look away, or stand in awe, just watches the alteration before neutral is found once more. He's definitely familiar with a Mirrorskin. "I heard about that," he admits, as to the Loyalists. "After I got back. She had socks knitted for me, that she started before I left." There's a touch of guilt, there - about having left. "That'd be helpful, actually. Thanks," he says, to Tegan's offered introductions. He nods - same court as Natty. His mantle is a subtle thing in the wake of a powerful Summer one. A distant sound, like static beneath songs on the radio - only his is the whistling of winter winds through snow powdered tundra. "Can't say I've had one of those," he says, to mundane jobs. "I take the cases I want - mostly. Work odd jobs to make ends meet." His gaze drops to the markings there, the scars on Teagan's palm. And coupled with the machete, he gets it. Nods. Assesses Teagan in a new light.
"What made you leave? Did you say? I'm sorry, my brain's still -- " Teagan taps the side of their head, as if to indicate that, yes, they bounced their head off the ground a few times today. How exactly does that work, when they're a blanket, anyway? "I'm closer to Glitch than Nathania, but she's good people. Her socks must be great." They absently chew on their lower lip, thinking. Funny thing about static: occasionally, there's an edge-of-hearing burst of static in Teagan's mantle, distant calls, medic, medic, never answered, barely heard. The combo of that and that distant wind? Has to be something else. "Well, it's a realer job than I've got," they shrug. "I mean, 'makes people who need killing dead' isn't exactly... " And at that, they look back at the coffin and the girl in it. "Man. This is so fucked up."
Teagan adds, "And in the context of my life, that's saying something." Another addendum, with a sigh: "Zee-bat is your Court, too. If you didn't know her."
Six readjusts, where he leans against the shelf. Leaning a little lower, against it. Feet, further out ahead of him. "I didn't say," he answers. "I just felt like I needed to be anywhere but here. Until, eventually, I didn't feel that way anymore." Another sidestep. But at least it's part of an answer this time. "I haven't tried them on," he admits, honestly, so far as the socks go. "They match my eyes," he says - though doesn't say which. "But, me wearing colour. It's a bit like putting LED lights under a junker of a car. Just draws attention to what's not working," he notes - like it's supposed to be a joke, crooked smile and all. He admits to the relative realness of his job with a nod. "I didn't," he admits, on the matter of Ziv. "I didn't know a single face tonight from before tonight." He looks to the coffin. The air against the lid. He nods. "It's pretty fucked up," he admits. "Think that thing is keeping her alive?"
The way that they turn their face toward him is a silent, if not indictment, then at least an acknowledgement that, hey. I know what you're doing. One liar to another. It's impossible to be sure where Teagan is looking, but it's somewhere in his general direction. "Which eyes?" The Mirrorskin asks all the questions, but the tone indicates they may not even expect them to be answered at this point. "Eh. Yeah, well. I ain't really wear color either. Not so much. Sometimes. When the face calls for it." Though they're not quite so monochrome as he is, not entirely. They can be colorful, anyway. Just aren't by default. "Well, Zee-bat's pretty good. Alonso's deadly. I don't know him too great, but he's like, Catalonian." Which apparently means something to the Mirrorskin with the South Philly accent. "I know Zee-bat pretty well. Met vervanE a couple times before, but I don't know him."
Six can press by unspoken acknowledgement, leave unspoken truths and spoken half-truths in his dust even under scrutiny. It gives him no pause, here. "The three sets she knows," he answers, truthful on that point. "They're striped," he adds. "Blue, brown, green." It's the same trio he rocked at different points of the night. "They all seemed pretty competent," he says, to the list of names that Teagan provides."Knew what they were doing. No hitches today. Wish I could say the same for every excursion I've ever taken, into the even less tame parts of the hedge."
"Ah, right on." They don't ask what the fuck it means, or any of that. That sort of thing is earned, that knowledge, and a Mirrorskin knows that better than anybody. "Knowing Nat, they're probably really good. You should wear 'em. Especially now that it's snowing." They lean back on their hands on the bed (it's fine, just chill on the MurderCatalonian's bed, Teagan, that's fine) and blink at him, slowly, like a sleepy tomcat. "Yeah, pretty much. Generally speaking, Zee-bat's stunningly competent. Only seen Alonso like three times but he's been pretty solid. I'll drag you around and introduce you to some other competent fuckers." Something about that makes Teagan laugh a bit to themselves. "I... I don't even wanna think about that coffin, and what it does to her," they finally circle back. "Like, is it keeping her alive, or is it keeping her sedated?"
"I've considered it," Six admits on the socks. But the subject is light, on his mind, as the topic tends to loop back around to the glass coffin in the room. It's difficult to overlook or forget, for any stretch of time. "Looking forward to it," he tells Teagan, as to getting dragged around and introduced to the competent folk. His eyes are on the coffin again, as she addresses it - and what it must be doing to the sleeping one within it. "Sleep that knits up the raveled sleave of care. The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath. Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course. Chief nourisher in life's feast." He quotes the second act of Macbeth with only part of it's intended meaning. "Instinct says it's both. It sedates her for the sleep that heals," he says. He pats his pockets, same pattern as before, with the absent Tylenol. Wallet, phone, gun, pills. He stays leaning against the wall. "I can take first watch if you feel like drifting," he offers. The coffin seems to disturb him awake, despite his quotation.
"Make sure I get your phone number. I'll, like, drag some competent people out to Nat's diner." And then Six goes all literary, and the Mirrorskin just, like, stares. Blinking. "... what. the fuck. are you talking about." He did have to read the driver's licenses to them, after all. "I gotta go call my girlfriends and tell them I won't be home until we meet with Dielle. And a couple other people, just so ... they don't worry." It's a weird thing for them to have to think about, from the look that flits across their face. "Uh. But then I'll be back, and I should, like, nap, yeah."
"Will do. We can trade," Six offers, so far his phone number goes. Smiling, even as the coffin remains present in the corner of his eye. "Many more digits to my number than my name," he says, an affable kind of humour to this set of eyes; absent of bite, but warm in nature. The mention of Nat owning a diner must be knew to him, because it nets a slightly raised brow, even as he nods. "Binging on coffee is the best way to meet new people," he admits, rather than address that development right now. He shrugs at the questioning of his Macbeth. "Something I remembered reading, a long ways back." He nods at Teagan's plan. "Take your time, if you need it. I'm not expected back tonight."
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