Log:A Heated Conversation
After what he considers an interesting, yet brief, conversation with the Artist, the Capitalist has retreated to his room. Before leaving the parlor, he went back to the dispensary for a bottle of brandy and a glass. He's not uncivilized enough to drink straight from the glass, though he's done so in the past.
After learning about Addie's fate, something which matched the fate of Maata, he finds himself at his desk, writing down these notes and possible theories on why both women had disappeared. The bottle is set down, untouched for now, by his desk lamp. Memento Moris from his past were also moved from the nighstand to his office desk, the opened envelope that he got from Prosperity lying amongst blank note paper, while Driscoll's clear state-of-the-art plastic business card rests on top of all of that.
He hadn't changed out of what he was wearing earlier, but as he's in his own private abode, he, at least, loosened his tie.
Eilis sucked at knocking once upon a time, though not out of any lack of manners-- she embraced knowing when she could get away with breezing in like a right of affection. Other times were apt to see her so taken with one thing or another, she'd get too excitable or distracted and forget. Part of it may have stemmed from the idea that she's just... not made with closed doors and walls inside. She's just not. But when Caregiver arrives finally at the door with the coins on it in the hallway while scanning the others with passing search, she knocks. It's a gentle, rhythmic tap.
When the door is opened, the brunette has changed clothes during her timeout. It's a bit like she's attired herself exactly the way she imagines he might like to see her, whether she's on the nose with it or not. He's different now, afterall. She's chosen a fit and flare halter dress that's as much sleek elegance as it is a sweet designer chic affair. It's black with silver hem and tie and bust embroidery and her heels are black lace pumps instead of a strappy playful affair. Her hair is also done with loose curls, fine features accented with cosmetics.
The Capitalist was surprised that it was Eilis at his door, being so used to only having two people visit him and one of them was now gone. The way that he only affords himself and his visitor just a small slit, a tiny crack of his door may hint at how private the man 'counting coins' truly is. The initial look on his face is a hardened one, but as if on cue, he allows himself to smile softly down at the young woman, eyes looking over this new attire before the door is drawn in further to allow you easier access into his professionally decorated abode.
"Women seem to have a far more interesting wardrobe than we men do." Or perhaps, it's only him and his mostly business attire mixed with expensive casual wear. Stepping aside, so that she can easily walk past him, he shuts the door closed behind her. "I thought that you were Anette." For some reason, he chooses this name over the name of his sister, "I haven't seen her all day."
Making his way back to his desk, he looms over it rather than taking a seat immediately, but he gestures to one of two guest chairs on the opposite side of the desk. "If you'd like a drink, I've got brandy."
The Caregiver glances down at herself before walking in through the opened door, though she doesn't go to sitting immediately. She's Eilis enough to wander around and touch things instead there for a spell of surveying distraction, but it's just grazes of fingers, wandering sidesteps to facilitate, and tiny absorbing moments of Capitalist's room and its details. That's the McTavish he knows. It's how she looks at things and places the details to immerse more in the person. However, there's some kind of subtle duality about her too now that they're out of the public eye and it's just them. It's a little hard to pin as yet. It's the thing that led her to yes, knock, and yes, dress to make him pleased instead of purposefully eye-twitchy for amusement and kicks and the sake of daring. And instead of coming in with anything darling or witty to say, or hell, even a greeting, she does her thing after a murmur of, "Brandy. Yes. Please."
Eventually, she finds a chair where gestured and sits with a neat cross of her legs, leaning back against the chair. She stops studying the room in favor of studying him, then she knocks the brass right off the tacks with opener, "... I don't have to know you as you are now to see you're not totally together behind that suit. Which parts are all wrong?"
The Caregiver's exploration comes as no surprise to the Capitalist who seems willing to let her wander and touch things. If she broke anything, it would be repaired the next day. While she continues on with her antics, he finally takes a seat, setting aside some of the notes that he's written since he won't be doing much planning at this moment.
With her acceptance of his offer of brandy, he reaches for the bottle and neatly fills the lone glass he'd brought earlier with the content, before setting the former aside and the latter in front of one of the chairs facing him. With her visit, he expected some kind of small-talk, perhaps reminiscing about Prosperity, but instead, he's posed with both a question and statement that garners a lift of his brow, a small, bemused smile creeping on his lips. "What makes you say that?" It's an honest enough question, his gaze focused on her for a few seconds longer, before he purposefully diverts his attention to tidy up his desk and straighten up his notes somewhat.
"Mm. To be fair, everyone has hangups right now, so there is that. And they're all a different sort because we're all in different places and spaces, inside and out. Different markings. But that's not..." There's a twitching slant of Caregiver's lips with her initial bit, but her features take a turn for contemplative, as if trying to explain something to Cillian. No. Not him. This man. Capitalist. She lulls there, thinking with her lashes cut to the side, holding the poured drink after claiming it. She doesn't yet drink, she swirls it and plays with it in small slosh within the vessel. Then she wets her lips and leans forward over her cross-legged lap to explain.
"You felt different when I hugged you. And it's not because you smell different or seem different, not because you speak different--you felt like a man there in the middle instead of my cousin. It wasn't because I don't still feel those bonds. I do." A pause, then finally a long drink with savoring to conclude in a way that maybe only makes sense to her in the end, "Sometimes, it's possible for a man to hide in plain sight. Right behind the very essence of being a man. Even if the concept of who he is as a man is variable. I just felt it on you."
"There's also the fact that I have three memories and that I've lived three lives with varying relationships." The Capitalist starts, setting the newly straightened stack of paper back down onto his desk, "Some with a few people who have ended up here. One of them," This is said without remorse, oddly, because he seemed bothered by this fact just days ago, "suddenly disappeared after Prosperity." Settling into his seat, his arm on the rest, hand extended to the table, "I saw her in Prosperity, briefly, then she was gone. So there are a lot of things that all of us are going through, that much is true.
This is when his gaze flickers to the business card on his desk, then down to his watch. "Do you really want to know who I am?" The watch is removed first, a gold Audemars Piguet which he then presents to her, pointing out the initials 'C.W.' engraved into it's back. "That is who I was in my first memory. Conrad Wellson. Spoiled rich kid who thought he'd hold a music festival on a cursed island." The watch is set down on the table in front of the Caregiver now, just as he pushes forward the clear plastic business card with bold grey letters reading: 'ANVIL Security'. The name Rhys Driscoll is found on that card as the company's President. "My second memory." The third? Cillian's souvenir for having lived in Prosperity? He doesn't remove the contents from the envelope on his desk, though his eyes do look upon it for a quiet moment.
There's a bare tip of the Caregiver's head to the first bit of the Capitalist's explanation with genteel ease before she takes another drink. She's caught on to a few things, if not the details directly. Then she listens with more rapt attention and focus as if seizing onto key bits and pieces here and there to spin or process, it's all in her eyes. It's not exactly the same thinking face she used to have-- that used to be Robert McTavish to a near tee, the way she'd fall into absorbing brood that sometimes triggered particular 'ideas' that were unpopular to the boys, the dread of their sister being a little too clever or active to trust what came with that face. Like when she ran off during a Reaping in the name of the greater good.
This expression, though, it's gentler, like she's making bridges and connections inside instead of idealistic sparks. After drawing in a shallow breath, she drinks again and eyes the watch and card in turns, still partially leaned forward over her lap with attentiveness, "And are you an amalgam of these men, or do you feel like you identify with one more?" She leaves the bit about the disappearances of others for now. Her focus is on him with a keen kind of accidental intensity despite the soft cast to her pensive expression.
The Capitalist has a way of observing people even when not directly looking at them. More something that he's picked up in his days as Rhys Driscoll, former marhsall and P.I. turned smuggler. So even when his attention doesn't seem focused on the Caregiver, he is picking up some of her cues from out of the corner of his eyes. Eventually, he does settle his gaze on her, his demeanor ever confident, but so was Cillian's. And Conrad's... and Driscoll. It's a trait that he seems to carry over from one persona to the next, which may be telling of what sort of man he really is.
"When I woke up after the Island, I convinced myself that I was Wellson. That was the only memory that I had at the time and in doing so..." There's this flicker in his gaze now, his attention not diverting, "I convinced a woman who Wellson was in a relationship that she was who she was back on the island." Only then does his gaze finally drift, "Madison was much harder to convince. You know her as Anette. She was Conrad's sister and while she wanted to be his sister, she also didn't want to be Madison." Only then does his attention return to her, "I did my best to convince her. Then we woke up again after the space station where my memories of surviving the alien infestation and living my life were more prominent and I distanced myself from either of them." He's not quite done with this tale, but there is a pause here.
The Caregiver drains the rest of the glass and leans forward with small reach to put it back on the desk as she continues to listen and watch, taking a shift from less thinking, more absorbing by the way of her-- her posture changes, hips shifting in her seat to recross legs to opposite side as she settles against the back of the chair once more. She's still and quiet continually other than these small motions, but one of her hands is dropped against her lap to pinch skirt hem between thumb and forefinger atop a knee, flipping it with tiny back and forth tugging. The only interjectory comment she makes comes with the pause there, a murmur, "Walls. Shields. Sometimes I wish I had them. I don't." She doesn't expect she ever will, either, so much, from the sound of it. Her brows draw a smidge, but not with bother, exactly, eyes taking a different kind of sweep over Capitalist as a whole, features, and body, and pieces. Then she nods a little for him to go on, letting him know she's more or less with him despite the thick swath of content given the situations.
"It was disappointing to wake up in this place and realize that there's another set of memories in your mind." The Capitalist says more with a slightly amused tone, bordering on wry humor, than anything distressing. "Rhys Driscoll was a man who came from nothing and built himself up to lead his own security company." Here, his gaze falls back on that fancy clear plastic card, "So to also have the memories of a spoiled kid born with a silver spoon in his mouth, Driscoll wasn't going to have any of it. He smashed Wellson's watch that night, only for it to be appear good as new when he woke up the next morning." When the Caregiver sets that empty glass down onto the table, he considers something for a moment, before reaching over to refill it once more. "Interesting as it is, when Madison sensed that she was losing me as her brother, it was her turn to convince me that I was also Conrad. The same with Maata." He says of the other woman, most likely the one Conrad Wellson was in a relationship with. "Do I really feel like Wellson though? He was a part of me, sure. A weak, pathetic part."
Both of his hands now fall into his lap, fingers lacing behind his desk. "Now Cillian McTavish was a man I could respect. He was good at what he did and could move on to forge his own path without needing to be coddled by his father." T here is definitely a quiet loathing for this Conrad Wellson. He does decide to say something that was told to him by others, "Then again, they lived in different worlds, different circumstances. Both born in influential families, yet became different men in a sense."
"Context and connections matter, yes. Very much. But assume for a moment..." She pauses to disclaimer with a certain amount of delicacy that isn't for his sake, perhaps, "Mind you, I'm limited in my understandings, but I -do- know what it's like to feel like someone else despite what I've lived singularly and powerfully." The Caregiver shifts and draws in a breath before speaking again, leaning forward over her lap once more to claim the refilled drink for a sip, more or less nursing and babying this one. For now, anyway. Her fine features take a turn toward tempest of frustration then and -that- is new, but it passes in favor of focusing on where she was going to start, "Assume for a moment you started weak. You progressed. You solidified. Personal evolution. Leave out the details--this is your third rodeo, darling, and that's just too much for the head. Leave the bits and pieces and feel the whole, just for a moment." A pause for weight after her urging, another sip, "Do you feel any sense of growth in this at all? Because what I'm looking at now is none of those men."
There's a slight tilt of his head indicating that the man is thinking, his drifting to the bottle of brandy, though he seems to be absently looking through it rather than at the object. "In the beginning, I had it all. The money, the girl, but I was a failure all around and relied on my sister to fund my projects. Then I was industrious with many random occupations and experiences under my belt until I was able to put things together and carve out an," Image, "A real profession for myself. And while girls were involved," His shoulders shrug here, "The job was the most important thing. Then this last memory, a mixture of both almost and Cillian went and got married in the end." Here, the Capitalist now looks across the way at the woman, "I'm not sure how much better life will get the next time around. If you ask me, I've reached the peak of how progression."
"Progression doesn't have to be better or worse, necessarily. It's forward momentum more than anything, a way of picking up speed to keep tumbling into life. It can be linear. In all fairness, it can stall or backpedal too, but those things, they're less so because it's quite hard to stop something once it's reached a certain speed." The Caregiver is handling this second glass of brandy pretty well, but the first one went down kind of fast and the drink is collectively starting to color her at the cheeks with slow rise and tiny sidebars of contemplation aloud.
Her head shakes then and she uncrosses her legs to rise into a stand for wandering pace around the room once more with the brandy glass, "And it's not these lives and their outcomes I'm exactly talking about. It's you. This you is your constant and your rebirth at the same time. It's not a lot different than..." She half-turns while eyeing Capitalist, "If I hadn't died, the next time you saw me, I would have been different. Even if it wasn't here. We're -meant- to be changed by life. Maybe we're meant to be changed by multiple lives. I--" She tilts her head, "I was going somewhere with that. But I think I want to tell you something that might make you scream internally instead to give you a better understanding. You can refrain from hearing it, of course."
Thinking on the young woman's words, the Capitalist considers a few things. "In that case, you can say that I've progressed in this place. I see the strengths of those whose lives I've lived as well as their weaknesses. It does help me cobble together exactly the person I'd like to be, but to be honest," He leans against his right arm, his elbow propped up on the armrest, "I still believe that it's all a part of me either way. I've been speaking to one of those blank slates," He likes to call them that, "With no memories of anything. I told her that I envied that about her. She has her own personality without needing these memories or to experience these lives. I don't have the liberty to go back to a time before these memories, but if I did, would my true self shine through?"
Idly, he allows his eyes to trail behind the wandering Caregiver, a brow arched inqusitively at what she says. "Don't hold back on my account."
"You think so much. Just like him." Cillian. It's pointed and clear and fond. "I don't think you know how to get out of your own head. But you can damn well find a way for anything and everything else. We're made how we're made, sometimes, mm?" The Caregiver smiles some as if something in Capitalist's words have accidentally functioned as a segway for her and the dry tone is familiar. Then she drains her glass.
In a span of seconds, Eilis is just gone in a sense as the brunette walks the emptied vessel back to the desk to put on the surface. It's hard to explain, but it's there, and ungodly clear once she starts talking. Even her tone of voice kind of changes. It's not really disjointed bizarre like a possession or full personality swap. She's still the same person and probably still feels plenty like Eilis, but there's a rawness to all of her words and posture as she leans on her hands against the desk to look at the man levelly with an intensity and earnest that starts small and then scales. Hard.
"Yesterday, I got to touch Pierce, or what I know as him, touch him like a man for the first time in what I perceive as the better part of a very awful year. I was afraid. Then I wasn't. We didn't make love. We didn't fuck either. It's not what I wanted. I wanted to feel him, alive, yes, naturally. I was Eilis and I wasn't Eilis at all. Because what I -also- wanted was to absolutely ruin him with pleasure. I can feel it now, talking about it, threatening to set my teeth on edge. I -needed- to see him come undone with my mouth. My hands. My breath. I wanted to swallow him fucking whole. And it was in my -bones-. I needed to give him everything, anything to sate something inside me. And there was very, very little else. I was very close to orgasm too. It was -different-. But it was me. The very core of me that the whole interference of life blocked out the first time around. We're made of the spaces inbetween. Do you understand?"
Still seated in his office chair behind his desk, The Capitalist continues to play audience to the Caregiver's questions, listening to what she believes. Of course, as she's only a first timer, it's difficult for him to take much of what she says seriously... especially, when it seems that this sudden passion and lust spoken is merely there for shock value. Or that's how he perceives it.
If he were Cillian McTavish, he would have shut her down right quick, not willing to put up with her admitting such things. While it would be a lie to say that he didn't care that she was soiled, he, for the most part, allowed them to get away with certain things, and though they never went into detail about these things with him, he's not blind or ignorant to his and Anette's own lusts at Eilis' age.
This wasn't Cillian, however, despite a part of the man being within the Capitalist. There's no change in his expression even as the woman switches on as if she were a light bulb. In the end, he asks calmly, "Are you done? Because I won't stop you if you go on." His gaze locks with hers for a moment, before he almost dismissively turns back to his desk, reaching for both the watch and the business card, to store within one of the drawers, moving them from their original place at his nightstand. "While I'd like to say that I don't understand why you're telling me about your inner fires and passion, what I do have to say is that that television is going to rot your brain if you watch it for too long." The correspondence with Cillian's mail-order bride soon joins the other items before the drawer is shut.
"You're hearing the sex. Not the driver behind it. I say it like that because that's how it happened. Completely overwhelming. I had -no- control of who and what I was in that moment and I realized..." There's only so much fire and steam left in Caregiver to try and make this man understand after her little impassioned spiel. Then she's too much Eilis again, the siren song of reflex and life known triggering with the dismissive look away and admonishment about television. She stiffens and straightens and turns to walk out, holding her breath.
"That's how such urges work. It's hot, impassioned. In the moment." The Capitalist goes on, rising only now that his desk is mostly cleared of his past memories, having them stored away neatly. "1902 was a world filled with repression, I'm sure many a proper young woman's bloomers were ready to burst at any given moment." A mild look is given the Caregiver when he says this, but he doesn't focus on her for very long, believig himself to be doing her a favor in trying not to make this as awkward as it could get, even if he, himself, doesn't find it overly uncomfortable.
There is a moment, when he quiets so as not to cut the young woman off in her explanation, but that explanation doesn't come. "When I first got here, the very first day, there was a moment where I had Maata on this very table, the lamp broken, after crashing to the floor along with the rest of the items on this very desk right now." Things reset and all. "We know what we wanted, those desires we felt from the Island and yet, at that time, we couldn't go through with it. It was heated, it was passionate and yet, we weren't who we wanted to be. It was my failing, at that point, that I tried to convince her that she was Maata, because who are we really?"
With those words spoken, he looks after the Caregiver again, not expecting her to stick around in that weary state.
"No. We had that very moment in the hall within the first matter of meeting again and stopped it. That's not what this was. I know -exactly- who and what I am. I'm not sure you've ever been able to -see- me. I shouldn't have expected it now of all times." Caregiver does pause there at the door to listen to the Capitalist with her back still turned and posture still held rigid. She holds her breath again, hand on the frame, toe of a shoe digging the floor with held point. Then after speaking she departs with desperate briskness.