there is nothing more deceptive

[costing]

Who| sherlock holmes & open.
What| an arrival, an exploration, perhaps more than one encounter.
Where| the basement & fourth floor.
When| the beginning of week 5.
Warnings/Notes| to be added as needed.

His first thought is that the entire situation is ludicrous. The outfits, the setting, the very premise. After entering the arena, Sherlock’s first thought is to wrap his head around the entirety of the situation, but that proves easier thought of than done. He takes to rubbing his forearm where the tracker had been implanted, a gesture he knows comes off as a nervous tick but one that he can’t help.

The need for cover doesn’t seem real to him, yet, but he bets on the fact that the explanation he was given was true. So when he finds an overturned car in the basement, he ducks around it for a moment. He tries to take stock, listens carefully. If he hears anyone approach, he’ll try to observe them before making himself known. He isn’t much of a runner, but he’s counting on his ability to distract if it comes down to it.

--

A little while later he can be found at one of the doors to the staircases. He knows that the elevators would be faster, but they’re also more easily controlled. He doesn’t have any of his lock-picking tools with him, but he’s good at improvising. So for several long minutes, Sherlock toys with the locks with bits of thin rubble, trying to rig them open.

He looks as though his concentration on the lock is absolute; he doesn’t turn his head or even pause. But his senses are acute, trained to notice if anyone comes at him. He knows of his own tendency to get lost in his own head, and so tries his utmost to be as alert as he can.

--

And finally, he’ll grow tired of the door’s lock and abandon it. That’s a tough pill for him to swallow—failing at something—but compared to all else going on around him, it’s the smallest on his list of grievances. Instead, now, he turns to the elevators and picks a random number once he’s inside.

He ends up on the fourth floor. He lifts a brow, as he prepares to exit the elevator. A museum. He supposes that’s fitting, given the atmosphere of the arena. A museum is a place of past spectacle. They’ve just now combined it with a live, present one. It’s almost too fitting, in a campy way that makes him feel like he’s being mocked. But he takes a deep breath, rubs at his arm again, and prepares to explore.

( ooc: feel free to encounter him at any point; i'll edit things if anything major occurs. i have a permissions post for deductions here, if there's anything you think i/sherlock should know. and if you'd like any more specific scenarios or want to plot a bit further, please let me know. )

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[costing]

“Ah, yes,” Sherlock agrees, eyes scanning Christopher, taking him all in. “It is about the fun, isn’t it?”

It’s a classical sociopath’s response to murder, and he of course would know. He crosses one arm across his chest and leans the other against it, one hand against his chin as he considers his new acquaintance.

“Should I ask why you haven’t taken the opportunity now?”

[inhumanity]

With nothing but strange innocence, as if surprise anyone would ever even ask, Christopher answers, "Why, because I don't intend to fight you, of course." Head ducked a little like a schoolboy who knows he should be ashamed about not doing his homework but isn't really, he adds, "I mean, I suppose we could if you wanted, but how sad it would be if I had to injure you badly to stop you, and then the next person to come along took advantage and killed you."

His head raises, and he nods now, firm in his actions as a matter of principle. "No, I shan't do it. Even if my friends want to escape this Hellish situation, if they're going to be that selfish, I reserve the selfish right not to help them kill themselves. That must be fair: it's symmetrical."

[costing]

Sherlock pauses carefully before speaking, considering those words. “There is a certain logic to your line of thinking,” he concedes. “I can’t imagine anyone finding fault with it.”

Well, he could. But that didn’t seem the appropriate response. Sherlock is done messing with the lock, for now, so he takes a step and a half away from the door. “Death might be an escape, if we’re still speaking in metaphor. But I get the feeling that you are not.”

[inhumanity]

Christopher chuckles, shaking his head. "Perhaps that one is a malaphor." He doesn't rise from his place on the floor, but the glass has disappeared up his sleeve again, and his eyes follow Holmes as he moves without seeming to pay attention to where his hands and feet move. "You might want to call it an escape. In my opinion, a true escape doesn't drag you back to suffer all over again."

[costing]

“So we’re circling back to the Greeks. A punishment worthy of Sisyphus.” At least, if any of this were true. As much as Sherlock likes to examine all possibilities, he cannot simply accept the fact that one might end up here again after dying. Dying is final, immutable.

But he doesn’t let his incredulity show, instead gazes pointedly around the basement. “At least our version of Tartarus is more familiarly decorated. Is there a reason you’re still down here?”

[inhumanity]

"Or like Nature. Even if it's unnatural to get back after death, that's only for animals. In the great scheme of Mother Nature, what is more natural than an endless loop of death and resurrection?" He sounds very pleased with this doubtful comparison.

And still, he stays sitting. His shoulders lift and fall to indicate just how little it matters to him. "Bored on the upper levels."

Then, without warning, he springs to his feet. With the flourish of an arm, he bows to Sherlock Holmes. "How impolite I've been! I haven't introduced myself. My name is Christopher Chareau de Red. Let's escape this boredom for long enough that the next return is even more unbearable."

[costing]

He can think of many things more natural than this, but doesn’t say so. Instead, he glances upwards again. “I’ll admit they still hold a glimmer of possibility, for me. I haven’t yet had the chance to grow bored with them.”

Sherlock tilts his head at the bow, raises one brow. Then he smiles, and adopts the curt courtesy that is his modus operandi with witnesses and suspects.

“You etiquette is a bit out of place, I’d think,” he says. “But nonetheless appreciated. I am Sherlock Holmes.”

[inhumanity]

"I like being out of place," Christopher retorts, as if his whole appearance did not attest to that fact. "I think everyone ought to feel the same. Being in place in a place like this is no homely place at all. Except, of course, in the home that friends make for each other. Shall we take the elevators? They sing—" (a raised finger that taps the air, as if ringing a bell) "—when they reach each floor, but not to worry! I shan't let anyone murder a friend while we're together. If I did that, we wouldn't be able to see one another again for perhaps whole weeks."

[costing]

"If you're proposing to be my bodyguard, I must tell you that the regular position has already been filled." Sherlock doesn't seem to be refusing the suggestion, however. He looks over at the elevators, scans the area quickly, and then begins walking.

[inhumanity]

"Not at all. I'm glad you're taken care of. Ricardo is taken care of too. If Ricardo showed up and you attacked him, it would be a conflict of interest. Out of professional pride, I mustn't take on the role of playing anyone else's bodyguard."

Christopher puts his hands comfortable in his pocket and follows beside Sherlock. There is a lightness to his step, as if he might break into a song-and-dance number at any moment.

[costing]

"In fairness to the fact that you haven't killed me, I will try not to harm your Ricardo." He says, frankly. To be honest, he doesn't really plan on killing anyone. But he knows others might not have the same kind of mental fortitude in situations such as these.

Sherlock steps into one of the elevators, abruptly aware of his vulnerability. And so, he keeps talking. "Tell me something about yourself. Outside of this place, if you'd rather."

[inhumanity]

If Christopher thinks of himself or Sherlock as becoming vulnerable in this moment, he doesn't show it. His hands are still comfortable in his pocket, a position which could cost him a crucial moment of reaction time.

"Something about myself? How can I possibly choose? I'm so multidimensional and charming that even I don't know anything about myself! My favourite kinds of flowers are dandelions and daisies but I would never pick favourites really. What are yours?"

There is no real pause to catch his breath as he switches from pompous declaration to schoolchild admission, and his eyes become wide with what seems a genuine interest when he poses his return question to Holmes.

[costing]

His demeanor is so child-like, at times, that Sherlock isn’t sure how to respond. He knows how he would treat an actual child, but this man is obviously dangerous. It’s a strange combination, but one that Sherlock is admittedly curious about.

“Wishing weeds,” he says, referring to the dandelions. “Quaint. As an Englishman, I’m meant to say I’m partial to roses. But I find agastache or ceanothus the most fascinating.”

[inhumanity]

The genus names don't give Christopher pause. Indeed, when he answers, the disparate pieces he brings together indicate just how familiar he is with the scientific side of botany. "May your fortune always be blue and your hummingbirds always attracted to mint. I've never had ceanothus tea." (His pronunciation of the Latin is a little different from the Classical; it tilts, just slightly, towards the 18th century Continental tradition, not the English grammar school pronunciation that France E. Lord once tried to correct.) "Let's find out if they have any here." He presses the button for the second floor.

"Weedliness is what makes them wonderful, don't you think?" He doesn't warn before jumping back through topics. "I once saw a dandelion growing in cracked cement in a warehouse where the gangs of Chicago most love to perform their most shady deals. To not just live but put out a flower in such adversity—why, humanity has a great deal it could learn from weeds."

[costing]

“You should try it,” Sherlock suggests blandly. “It’s an experience unto itself.” He likes both those plants, particularly, because they are popular with bees. They don’t grow very well in New York, either of them, but he has cultivated them before.

The accent is something he’s never heard, practically, but has spent enough time studying to place. Christopher’s appearance has already put him outside the world Sherlock was used to, and now he tweaks his assessment of his time, as well.

“We’ve learned quite a bit already. The ability to care only for ourselves and put down roots wherever we can manage. Or our overpopulating tendencies.”

[inhumanity]

"Even if that's true, you should have more faith in humanity. Two billion isn't that bad. I have no doubts you'll find ways to keep cheating the environment's carrying capacity for decades, perhaps even centuries. That's what the wishing part is for.

"What he'd really like," he says, raising his hands and gesturing to indicate going under, "is if humanity decided it wanted to start living underwater. It's very hard to witness all the monstrous variety of oceanlife that exists even on the coasts. I'd like to meet a vampire squid. I'm sure we'd become great friends."

[costing]

"I'm sure he might be willing to tell you about his favorite species of seaweed." Sherlock shakes his head. "Though if ancient rumors are to be believed, maybe we were once capable of that sort of feat. I can't imagine how we'd manage it now, and I don't care to wonder." Not true; he's going to be thinking about mechanisms for underwater life for days, now.

But at that moment the elevator chimes, announcing their arrival.

[inhumanity]

When Sherlock disavows interest, Christopher glances at him, briefly, and smiles. But when the elevator chimes, Christopher is quick to amble out ahead of Sherlock, as if into a public park, lightly humming some random tune. Without seeming to check the surroundings, he spins around to face Sherlock—in that quick movement, catching everything that hadn't been within his sight before. "Many of the plants have been eaten already. Ah, the endless drive for energy! I will stretch out my hands to the sun and beg to photosynthesize its energy like the vampires of legend! Wait, sorry, there isn't any real sunlight here. Let's look for your flowers anyway."

The way, of course, is clear enough for now. After all, Christopher has decided not to let Sherlock come to harm while they're together, and when Christopher decides on doing something, he ensures he does it well, whether or not anyone realizes what he is doing.

[costing]

"Your vampiric legends must differ from mine," Sherlock offers as he steps out of the elevator, behind Christopher. He pauses to take in every angle and detail of the surroundings, however. He only steps forward when he's sure he can get a glance at any entry point-- any place from which new company might turn up. "Though I admit the prospect of human photosynthesis is one I've theorized often." Mostly to egg on fanatic psuedo-scientists on the internet, but that's neither here nor there.

The exhibit is mostly stripped bare-- he can see where the supposedly edible plants would have been ripped out of the soil, the destruction from several confrontations. Faceless figures dance through his mind, going through the movements he can glean from overturned fixtures and bloody footsteps.

[inhumanity]

Striding over to the plants and picking through them, Christopher says, "My, it's fun to be in the company of someone so intellectually gifted," seemingly in all sincerity. It is likely in response to the comment about photosynthesizing humans.

Right?

"Wouldn't it be grand to start a fire and pretend we're camping out in an uncanny prehistoric world? Alas! If only the sprinklers didn't rain liquid death upon us all." He plucks up a small flower, complete with a fake ladybug on it.

[costing]

Liquid death-- now there's something else to mull over. The dry chemicals in extinguishing agents can be fatal, if injected, but they can't suffocate or do irreparable damage on a solely topical level. Which means there's something else in the sprinklers. Sherlock makes note.

"I've never seen the appeal of the prehistoric," Sherlock says. "I'd much rather be in the Victorian era, or perhaps in the future. The past can be dull."

But fire... "In any case, it'd draw attention. I assumed that was the opposite of the desired course of action."

[inhumanity]

Christopher shakes his head in disagreement, now affecting a certain indigence. "Nothing fun happened during the Victorian era, except for myself and the Ripper, and I'm starting to think the Poet lied in the details he gave about Jack."

Still sorting through the plants, he comes across a pair that he holds up to his eye to scrutinize. Deciding that there likely isn't any poison on either of them, he holds one out to Sherlock. "Of course we want attention. It's difficult to befriend anyone if you're invisible, which is doubtless why Liza has so much trouble. It's simply human instinct to bond with people around campfires, particularly if there is food to share."

[costing]

"On a first-name basis, were you?" That is actually quite interesting. Jack the Ripper is something of his dream case-- if the centuries didn't separate them, could he have solved him? Caught him? Sherlock likes to think so. It's also nice to have confirmation that Christopher is from another era, almost exactly the one Sherlock had guessed.

"I avoid that instinct when at all possible." He leans forward to examine the plant, eyes widening. It's not exactly what they're looking for, but it is real. Not artificially produced. How had the Game Makers done any of this?

"Who's Liza, then?"

[inhumanity]

A little melancholic, Christopher says, "No, I was in America the whole time. I never got to meet him. But the Poet used to read me the newspaper clippings before bed." Explanatorily, he adds, "He and Liza are what you might call my siblings. Isn't it marvellous?"

He doesn't mean that they're siblings, and he indicates as much by waving the little plant. "Humanity truly is capable of all kinds of remarkable things. I respect your efforts to reject your instincts. Of course, it sounds like you have chosen to ignore some of the most fun instincts human have, but that shan't be a problem. I'll just help you pick a new instinct to suppress so that you can enjoy that one with me."

[costing]

Suppressing instincts. That's ironic. Addiction isn't a moment-to-moment battle for him, but it is day-to-day. If anything is a suppression of harsh instincts, it's staying sober. But Sherlock does not say as much now. Instead he just hums, thoughtfully, and walks past Christopher to look at another part of the museum entirely.

"You'll find I don't have any instincts towards familial bonds or camaraderie. I'm sorry to say you'll be disappointed on that score."