Log:The Tin Man
| The Tin Man | |
|---|---|
The Fatalist Physician | |
| Participants | 13 December, 2019 Doctor Veech arrives at the Wayhouse. His patience is tested. |
| Location
The Wayhouse | |
| The weather outside the Wayhouse is abysmal, frigid and rainy, with the droplets turning rapidly to ice. Not many people are out driving at this point, even with the increase in weekend traffic, so when the sound of a car coming up the drive becomes audible, it's pretty hard to miss.As are the sounds that follow. Footsteps aren't usually particularly notable, but these are strange. Uneven. The rhythm refuses to remain regular, and the heaviness of them seems to change from step to step. There's also the sound of a roller suitcase being dragged across gravel, moving just as unevenly. When the door finally opens, though, it is, at first glance, a fairly normal individual standing in it. Granted, he's tall, and frighteningly thin, and his face appears to be made of metal, and the iris of his right eye expands and contracts uncontrollably as he gives the room a sweeping glance, but the Lost have seen worse. It isn't until he moves again that the unevenness becomes apparent; his steps are jagged, arrhythmic, and accompanied with a soft whine like the grinding of gears. Oh hey, it's a Widget. She's less of a machine, less broken, less in the Wyrd. In fact, she's downright /human/ compared to most Lost around here. But she remembers enough to know what she was and what she'll eventually return to being. Does it scare her? To break down? To smoke and spark and spit steam? To bleed oil and sweat coolant? To tick and tock and knock and sputter? No! It's fucking awesome! But not yet. She might not even live that long. She is, however, in the Wayhouse. Why? Healing fruits, bartered for a nice .380 pistol that was absolutely not machined out of a car bumper and some scrap springs. Stupid giant shark monster. The tall tin man currently standing in the doorway, umbrella in one hand and handle of a roller suitcase in the other, isn't all that much more inhuman than Widget is. There are the same seams where the metal parts, allowing the joints to move, and the skin is fully metallic, but one of the eyes remains human, even if the other seems to have a mind of its own. Anything else is guesswork - the thick coat and sweater he wears don't make it obvious how many other changes there may or may not be beneath it. He doesn't seem particularly impressed by anything he sees. Widget least of all. A handful of other Lost hanging about in the kitchens are given a dismissive look, and his head turns, somewhat evenly, to look at the stairs, as if waiting for someone to appear. They don't. He sighs. The sound is tinny and hollow, like an old-time radio transmission from a unit that's been too many years without proper maintenance. Then, with a resumption of the sound of metallic whining, he judders his way towards the table where Widget is seated. "You," he says. Again, the radio. "Miss. I am heere-" the slightest extension on that word, as if the transmission on the radio had cut out and the sound had dragged on just /slightly/ too long "-for lodging. Is the Waylady available?" Widget perks up when she hears the noises, peering over at Veech. The gremlin looks overjoyed and wary at the same time, padding over and just circling the poor man. It's a mechanic's gaze, cold and razor-sharp. Also some mad scientist but that's probably just her face or something. "Waylady?" She can get November to come really quick! Watch! "NOVY! GONNA FIX THE BOILER!" Everone stops and stares at Widget, giving her a 'I swear to fucking god you little-" before she points at Veech and everyone sort of goes back to what they were doing. Except for that one darkling with the unending giggling, he seems disappointed. Nine... Ten...? "Not here. Have me. Widget! Hi." And all it took was a good-natured-but-jesus-you-gave-me-a-heart-attack slap upside the head from a passing Lost. Veech returns Widget's overjoyed gaze with a remarkably flat and dull one. It's not merely boredom, either. Widget has had experience with that. She's been around Carter long enough to know when someone is merely disinterested. This man /is/ disinterested, but also... annoyed. Not overtly so. Not immediately so. But very much annoyed, all the same, a generalized disdain for everyone and everything that has lasted for so long, uninterrupted, that it's begun to crystallize. The shout gets a more explicit reaction, if only for a moment. The blank expression, briefly, becomes a scowl at the volume of the noise, and there's a sharp clicking as the umbrella hand comes up to press itself flat over one ear for a moment. He doesn't respond to the circling. He simply stands, and waits, and eventually lowers his hand with another, somewhat softer whirring sound. "Widget." Again, the radio sound. Slightly sharper, this time, as if the tuning is being actively adjusted mid-word. "I am Veech. /Doctor/ Veech." The stress on that word is unmistakeable. "Do you have any authority whatsoever in this Wayhouse?" Widget doesn't seem to care about how she's looked at. She's seen that look plenty of times. What she does care about is Veech himself. It could be alarming to someone who doesn't know her. Even if they do, perhaps. It's intense, familiar, and entirely serious. There's no mania. No impish smile. She just wants to know as much about Veech and how he (literally) ticks as she possibly can. But now is the time for answers! Widget smiles, putting her hands on her hips in an entirely obvious attempt to look important. Even drawing herself up and whatnot it's not exactly impressive. But she still stands, breathing and saying with complete conviction: "None." "...Why?" Veech /does/ tick. It's quiet, but it's there, and it's just as arrhythmic and irregular as his walk. Occasionally, there's the hint of metal rattling, as if something has come loose somewhere under all that thick clothing. And it is /very/ thick clothing, even considering the weather. Layers upon layers - and he still manages to look absurdly, dangerously thin. The look that he gives Widget when she affirms that she has no authority in the Wayhouse is... well. It's the kind of look that simultaneously expresses annoyance, defeat, and an absolute, world-weary acknowledgement that of /course/ that was going to be the answer, because that is /always/ the answer. It always has been, and it always will be. The man practically bleeds a sort of determined acceptance of the fact that the universe is one giant joke, and he is the butt of it. ...Almost literally, now that Widget takes a moment to really consider him. Other Lost have Mantles. Veech doesn't, at first glance, but this is a place crawling with Lost and the Wyrd. The air around him is /too/ still, too devoid of any hint of Courtly majesty. And, when a small Spring woman with a squirrel's tail slips past behind him, the air around her /also/ momentarily ceases to be suffused with the power of her season. Veech ignores this. "Becaause," he says, sounding resigned to the conversation now, still with the occasional distortion, "I have just arrived in town and am in need of lodgings. I do not expect the arrangement to be permanent, but this i-is-" a momentary skip, as though the recording were corrupted "-the most easily available place of rest that I would consider to be safe." A pause, then: "And I am here to offer my services." Widget smiles, just sort of standing there like a dork. She's just...really interested in Veech. She's about a second away from just scribbling notes about him like a mechanic looking over a car, eyes thin and sharp and curious. There's...growing concern? "Who took you? Name? What was it's name?" Please let it be that. Please let it not be that. She didn't know. She did. Her head hurt. But felt good. The weather outside is frightful, but the dolly walking in the front door is delightful. She noticed the unusual car nearby, and decided that between that and the abysmal weather, she'd hurry in. So the front door opens, coat and boots removed, then a Nathania walks in through the mudroom door and notices Veech nearly immediately. "Hello," she greets, her voice warm and comforting, before glancing to Widget for introductions. She shivers a little, and smells like wet fabric drying in the forced air heating of the house. Yum. That all said, though, she moves to sit, drying her hands over a vent near the chair, with her button eyes trained on the newcomer. "Are you... coming for assistance? My name... is Nathania Winters, of the... same Court. I'm... Waylady's Hand here. I'm also... a Blackbird... Bishop, and.. some other titles... I'm frankly forgetting right... now." Widget smiles, and Veech stares. It is a flat, cold stare. It is not a kind thing, or a subtle one, and it only intensifies when she asks that question. It was, apparently, the wrong thing to ask - though it's possible that there was no right thing to begin with. "IiiiII-" the distortion briefly intensifies, just as Nathania enters "-do not speak its name. It was an abomination, and I am finished with it." The voice is sharply rhythmical as he says it, in contrast to the clicking. Each word slots into place like the click of a metronome, like the edge of a knife. His eyes, the mechanical one still clicking and whirring oddly, flicker up and down over Widget's body. Then he adds, almost as an afterthought, with perhaps the /slightest/ bit less coldness, "If it was the same as yours, then you have my... condolences." Then he turns, lurching faintly on the spot. Even that movement is apparently more than he can manage without something going out of its proper alignment, it seems; the sound of grinding from beneath his coat briefly intensifies. Nathania gets the same up-down mechanical look, and though Veech's general air of fatalism and annoyance does not fade, he does look slightly more purposeful when she identifies herself as the Waylady's Hand. "I am," he says, his radio voice crackling faintly, "Doctor Samwell Veech, of the Dusk Court. Formerly of the Two Dragons freehold, in Connecticut. You may have heard the news. I have just arrived, and am in need of lodgings." Curt. Matter-of-fact. Not rude, exactly, but there is a definite feeling that all of this is vaguely irritating, as if the need to engage with others were a burden he would rather do without. "I have already arranged to begin work at the local hospital," he continues, after a moment. "But it will be at least a few days until I can locate a more permanent residence, and it would be b-b-best-" another strange hiccup in the tinny recording that is his voice "-if I made my presence known, that others in need might know that I am available." Widget peers, then calms. Okay. That was explanation enough for her. She's still rattled, enough that Nat gets a hug if she's soggy or not. There. THat always helped. Hugging Nat was an experience. So plushy! She looks between the new arrival and Nat, head listing. Was this important? This sounded important. And here Widget was being entirely not important. Um. Oh! She can help! "Will get snacks!" Off she pops, sourcing some awesome wayhouse foods for people. Nathania nods, smiling at Widget and hugging her while listening to Doctor Veech. "I heard... about Two Dragons. So... tragic. I'm sorry... about your losses." Her expression is sad, even as she takes him in. There's shrewdness under that sadness, though, her eyes definitely sizing him up. "We have... a policy. One night and one... day of lodging, free, then... you work. But as you seem... to be aware of this expectation.. or something similar, I will not explain too much. Besides, as a doctor, you can be... on tap for our seeming-frequent medical... emergencies." Her smile is wry. "Why... here? Why Fate's... Harvest, Doctor Veech?" she asks, now that her hands are dry enough to pull knitting out of a waterproofed messenger bag at her side. She gets to work, a familiar and comforting thing, her shoulders slowly loosening from where she'd had them up around her ears. Dollies need something to do with their hands for anxiety reasons. It's hilarious that she's a Bishop, really. "Said losses were considerably less than they might have beeen, thanks to my a-attentions." For the first time, there's something other than coldness and vague irritation in Veech's voice as he says it. It's not much, but it's there, a hint of actual pride in the statement. "I served as the head of the freehold's medical personnel. By the end of it, I was its /only/ medical personnel. But my work there is concluded, and there is no one there left in need of my expertise." He shifts again, turning to close the handle on his rolling suitcase. Again, something rattles in his torso, and the two women might catch the most momentary glimpse of him scowling at the sound before he turns back to them. His eyes move to follow Widget as she wanders off towards the kitchen - and then snap back to Nathania when she asks why. The stare is slightly longer than might be comfortable before he answers, but there's no real feeling of /hesitation/ in him. His attention is just, briefly, on her hands as she begins to knit. Then he lifts his eyes back to her face and says, "Becaause I am most needed here. Other freeholds with better reputations than yours can expect assistance in times of danger. Your reputation-" his mouth quirks upwards just the /slightest/ bit at its corners as he says the word "-ensures that you cannot rely on such things. There are few people who would consider associating closely with a place so filled with almost-Gentry." Widget wanders back, laboring under a tray of tasty-looking sandwiches. She plunks down the platter, meandering back over to Nat to stick close to the woman. She's clearly holding a lot of stock in the Hand, judging by how fond she seems of the doll. "Doctor? Medic doctor?" Perk. Really? Oh! Oh, that was really good! "Can look at this? Hurts in the cold." Stupid bulky winter jacket and shirt and just get off so she can get this sorted aaaaaa "That's fair." Nathania doesn't even hesitate after his little speech. "All... of it." She looks a little *surprised*, mind you. He doesn't seem the type to actively care so much. But Nat shrugs it off. "I can tell you're Dusk--and yes, I know... you told me." Her smile is faint. "But. What made you... join the Fatalists as a doctor? I'm curious." Then she looks at Widget, startled at the woman's sudden .... Widget-ness. "honey," she scolds gently. "I could have... looked at that. I have a little knowledge..." But she trails off. "If Doctor Veech wants to... look at you, that's fine, but... you owe him, yes?"
Veech's mismatched eyes flick back to Widget when she questions him. "No," he says. "I am not a medic. Their service is valuable and admirable, but I am a /physician/. A surgeon, more precisely." A brief pause as his mechanical iris clicks its way open, spreading unnaturally wide, and then, "Still /more/ precisely, I am a trauma surgeon. My current employment involves, primarily, treating critical emergency room arrivals. I can act in the capacity of a medic, if required, but-" He trails off as the gremlin begins stripping down, staring flatly at her as the clothes start to come off. His head clicks faintly as he turns back to Nathania. "All medicine," he says, "is the science of forestalling the inevitable. Death cannot be prevented forever. But it should still be held at bay as long as possible." Another click, as he looks back to Widget. "Is she always like this?" He doesn't wait for an answer, or hesitate as the wound comes into view. He steps forward, instead, pulling a chair out from the table and lowering himself, with a brief audible clashing of metal, onto it. Then he reaches out and, with surprising delicacy, takes Widget's shoulder, pulling her in so that he can inspect the wound. Everything about him moves poorly, save for his arms and hands. Those move with precision and deftness, even as his torso whines and twists in ways that are just slightly off while he bends to inspect the bruising. As he does, his upper lip curls back into something of a sneer. "This has been left untended for too long," he says. Now the annoyance is not merely ambient, but overt. "Whoever treeaated it has very clearly just thrown goblin fruits at the problem and expected it to d-disappear. You aare lucky-" the distortion in his voice rises faintly as he speaks "-that infection has not set in." Widget moves as directed, whining quietly at the movement. She's happy about this, even if she's still not entirely sure what Veech calls himself. She does respond, voice bright despite the horrific bruise/puncture/thing going down what looks to be her entire body. Luckily the imp has just opened her shirt enough to expose her back and shoulders. "Infection? Fruits don't fix that?" Head cock. Well. They /did/ just give her a ton of fruits, yeah. Wasn't that standard procedure? "Sorry, Nat." Widget means it, looking sheepish. She would've if it wasn't fixed. Or they /said/ it was fixed. "Owe what? Want something made?" Nathania falls silent, watching the doctor work, her expression neutral and kind of flat. Even her hands still as she watches intently. "Goblin fruits heal wounds," Veech says, the annoyance still open and plain in his voice as he says it. He trails gloved fingertips along the edge of the bruising around the nearly-closed wounds, sneer deepening. "To an extent in proportion wiiiIIith-" he jerks his head briefly to one side, and the sudden spike in volume subsides "-their strength and the amount administered. If th-they are administered improperly, or in insufficient quantity, the wounds remain open. And open wounds can lead to infection." His hand moves again, and he tugs the band of Widget's pants aside just far enough to confirm that the bite mark continues past that point. "Especially," he adds, "in the presence of dirt and grime. Ouuur immune systems are magically b-bolstered. They are still not proof against staph infection if proper medical attention is not received." He releases her waistband, then settles back slightly in his chair, the sneer giving way to a frown of apparent thought as he looks back up to the gremlin's face. For a few seconds, there's silence, save for the soft whining and clicking that comes from within his torso. Then he snorts, as if irritated at something new on top of everything else, and lifts one of his hands to remove the glove. The hand beneath is surprisingly normal, save for the visible seams at its joints and the metallic skin. "I dislike over-reliance upon magic," he says. "It leads to laxness, as it has in this instance, and that leads to deadly oversights. Infections. Complications. Far too many variables exist to allow a freehold to simply rely on goblin fruit and Glamour. They are no substitute for actual medical expertise. But, in this instance..." He reaches out and sets his fingers lightly against Widget's shoulder, just where the bruising begins. Then, in one swift, almost elegant motion, he draws them downward, along the path of the wound. There's a brief flare of Glamour, and the remaining cuts and bruises simply heal in its wake. And then Veech tugs his hand away sharply, as though Widget's skin had burned him, and tugs his glove back on. He doesn't look at either of the women as he adds, "She owes me nothing. I am a physician. I offer aid when and where it is needed. I do not make demands in return."
Other than a suprised "Mrr?" at the waistband thing, Widget is content to let Veech work. She's listening, genuinely, nodding along with rapt attention. The gremlin has enough attention to understand what he's saying. Made sense. "Mundane is better. It stays. Yes." Widget nods to herself, shivering at the heals and pawing at herself. Woah. I mean. That...that was pretty cool, though. So. Y'know. Magic was still neat. Widget looks up at Nat with a 'Are you seeing this? So cool!"-type of face. Nathania smiles crookedly at Widget. "All right, all right. Doctor Veech, you're... welcome to stay. If you see... November, tell her I cleared you." Her eyes take him in, and she's going to say more whne her phone goes off--The Beatles' Blackbird plays. "Excuse... me." She packs up her knitting and answers her phone, heading upstairs. "Hello?" "Very good." Veech inclines his head towards Nathania as she speaks, but doesn't bother to watch her go. His eyes move back to Widget, the mechanical iris now so small as to be almost a pinpoint, clicking back and forth slightly in its socket while the other remains perfectly steady. "I assume," he says, apparently to the room in general, "that November is the Waylady of the establishment." And then silence. Widget gets another long, dull stare as the tin man simply sits there, hands on his knees. The sound from inside him ceases, just for a moment, before resuming. And then, apropos of apparently nothing, he says, "English is not your first language." Widget nods, going for a sandwich. Scarf-armf. "Yesh." Swallow. "Is. Would know. Who she is. Very bright. Colorful. Yes." And so the mutual staring continues, until Veech talks and she nods again. "Not! Speak Spanish. Yes. Really better." Veech can stare like no one else. There is a patient disdain in it, the kind of cold acceptance of the terribleness that is the world that could power on through forever. The rest of him is unnaturally still, save for the continuing oscillations of his mechanical iris and the sound of ticking from within his chest, and the dull depression of his not-Mantle makes the entire universe around him seem to stop with him. When Widget mentions Spanish, his head... ticks, slightly. Once. To the left, and then back again. When he speaks again, that radio voice is the same as it ever was, as cold and occasionally distorted as always, but the words are no longer in English. Instead, perfectly fluent Spanish echoes out from within his throat. "That much, I assumed," he says. "I am fluent in Spanish. If you become aware of any other patients whose wounds need attention, be they you or anyone else, notify me immediately. In whatever language allows you the most detail." Oh! Ohohoh! No way! Widget /beams/, literally jumping up to speak. "Yes! Thank you! It feels so good to speak it again! And I will because there's someone called Jenny who's voice went funny and I dunno what it is but it sounds like this-" Widget does...an accent? It sounds...Russian? Someone who has no frame of reference trying it, but...something. Also a British one too because as far as Widget can tell there's another language to that mythical far off place. And she just keeps talking. And talking. And talking. There's a knock on the closet door. From the inside, mind. The maenad steps in, antlers dipping to avoid entanglement with coats as she shrugs her knapsack back over one shoulder, shaking herself out. The weedling is covered in frost and rain and twigs, having apparently been outside in aforementioned frightful weather, but seems unphased by it, her vines thawing out and twitching in the warmth of the wayhouse. Jenny looks around, spotting an imp and waving as the barefoot woman strides over, scooping the smoler girl into a quick, but hardly chaste, kiss. "Hey, love. Whatcha doing?" Veech gets a friendly wave and a look of curiousity. At some point during Widget's ramble, Veech simply... shuts off. He stares that same blank, uncaring, vaguely irritated stare, utterly motionless, throughout the entire ramble. Other Wayhouse denizens wander past occasionally, stealing glances at the motionless Manikin and the overtalkative gremlin, but no one intervenes. Until Jenny. Her appearance gets the first real motion out of the tin man in quite some time, and he turns to glance at the dryad as she approaches. "Talking," he says flatly. In English, even. "She is talking. And I-" he pushes himself upright and, with a crooked, uneven motion, turns to retrieve his suitcase "-am leaving." The handle of his roller suitcase snaps upward, and he lurches his way out from the table, pausing to look back at the two women. "As I said," he adds, with one final look at Widget, "notify me if you are aware of any more persons in need of my attentions. It would be best if you did so in Spanish. Clear communication is vital, when discussing medical care." He stops, watching the two of them blankly for a moment, then adds, with a strange note of reluctance in his voice, "Good night." And then he judders off, the quiet sound of ticking following in his wake as he vanishes into the Wayhouse's residential area. Jenny blinks, and then shrugs and waves cheerfully, "Later, tater." Widget smile and waves, rambling to Jenny about this nice Veech person who is a doctor and fixed her wounds and talks like a teacher and is also a machine and hey did you- | |
