The Visionary is already in the parlor. Sure, everyone probably heard her door slam and the pad of bare feet down the hall, but she wasted no time getting out and claiming a nook in the parlor for herself with a book randomly yanked from the shelf. She is simply engrossed in that dry ode to metal detecting for fun and profit, apparently. There's a cup of coffee steaming in front of her, as yet untouched.
The Capitalist can't even tell whether it's morning or night in this place. He doesn't even remember going to bed the night before. This disorientation when it comes to time is a major concern of his. With no clock in his room, he automatically reaches for Wellson's watch that he left on the dresser the night before. Unfortunately, while the watch is intact, the time shown on its face had not moved from when he last looked at it.
Dragging himself out of bed and then quickly getting dressed, he does notice other oddities just within the confines of his suite. Things that make him take pause as he shrugs himself into his suit jacket to head out for, what he can only hope is the morning, but he's not completely certain. He feels refreshed.
Leaving his room, his eyes look across the way to the Hunter's door, staring at the image upon it for a moment, before he pushes on to the parlor.
Shortly after The Capitalist comes The Penitent, exiting her room and padding barefoot down the hallway. Still with a black singlet top, today it's grey sweatpants. She wanders down the hallway at an unhurried pace, heading towards the parlour herself. "Good morning," she announces softly. Not that she has any real idea of the time either, but having just kind of awoken, it feels like the right thing to say. It's accompanied by something of a yawn and a stretch as she wanders across the parlour.
Where did she go to sleep? Was it in her own bed? On a sofa? While trying to break through another wall?
What she knows is that she woke up in that same bed and just in a shirt, tangled in the covers. Like that first awakening, the lights didn't come on until the Hunter sat up. She takes her time of it today, opting to go through the process of showering and enjoying the ritual that it provides. As if it might help bring something new to her. Spark a memory, a sensation: something that the previous day did not.
In the end, it sees her leaving the room with that symbol ingrained into the wood of an archer crouched in the bush dressed in a pair of black capri workout leggings, a dark green tank-top over a sports bra, and her hair back up in a ponytail. This time, she's got a thin length of cord in one hand and what looks to be a flint and steel in the other; tossing it lightly with a sort of 'lost in thought' expression as she heads in the general direction of the dining area and dispensers.
"Morning," the Visionary replies, glancing up with a brief smile before her eyes flick back down toward the book. Step one: acquire a metal detector. Fascinating! Wait. The book lowers, and she glances amongst the others with a slightly less comfortable expression. "Did you all wake about... fifteen minutes or so ago?" Because so many of them filtering in at once already strikes her as odd, and a look of genuine disquiet follows. Her legs tuck up further beneath her, almost immediately to be swallowed by today's flowing dress-tent.
When the Penitent steps up from behind him in the hall, the Capitalist makes room for her to pass. He returns the greeting with the same, "Morning." Even as he seems to be watching her more intently than just a passing glance. He's observing her attire, the way she walks and carries herself about, but to all of this, he says nothing. It's morning! And he's immediately making his way to the kitchen for exactly that thing Dahlia has sitting next to her. "About that time, wh--" He is about to ask 'why', but changes it to, "How did you know?" And only then does it dawn on him that yes, all three of them almost came out of theirs at the same time. Speaking of... "What time is it? Do you know? Because my watch had stopped and I thought I'd reset it." The watch in question is on his wrist right now.
It looks like he's heading in the same direction that The Hunter is, going for his own cup of coffee before he attempts anything else today. "Morning." This is murmured in passing just as he steps up to one of those dispensers, pressing his order.
"Mmm. Yes. About that long ago, I guess. I wasn't really keeping track." Penintent replies vaguely, peering around the parlour before following along towards the dispensery, completely oblivious or uncaring of the Capitalist's eyes watching her. She too, is going to get something to eat apparently. "I haven't seen a clock or any way of really keeping track of time," she offers thoughtfully at the further questioning on it.
"There are ways to track the time," Hunter says as she arrives at the dispensers. She keys in a meal, moving the cord to the same hand as the flint and steel. Coffee. Eggs, bacon, waffle. "Candles, for one. The right kind of candle will burn through a section of wax per hour. Mark it off, count off the hours. We would have to stay awake. Maybe in shifts. "A basin with an appropriately sized drain, though that would take a scientific measurement I'm not really capable of..." She frowns, juggling items as the dispenser provides her meal. "If we had music, we could use time signatures, but I still haven't seen any means of that. Do you think that's why there's no television or music? So we can't track using them?"
"I have no idea what time it is," the Visionary says too soberly. She could pass for calm, if she ever did deadpan. She doesn't. "Just guessing."
"And guessing it was a good guess."
That's the part that bothers her the most, the most quietly stated of all. Her head cants; it's strange to watch, here, with the chaotic mass of her curls, and different as a result from the same gesture when she was Dahlia, forever of the severe topknot. It's somehow more flippant-seeming, even if the same look of focused contemplation fixes in place on her features. "I wonder if anyone has a metronome," she muses aloud. Of all the things to wonder.
"Maybe someone will have a metronome. Properly calibrated, we could make a better guess. Hook up a pencil, set it on paper. A time seismometer?" Yes, a time seismometer. Completely (in)sensible. This makeshift solution that cannot yet be and likely never will comforts her enough for her to manage a nod all the same.
The Capitalist takes his time in front of the monitor to view the large selection of coffee drinks available to them. This was more than what you would usually get at any one coffee house with a different variety of flavors. "Impressive.." He just has to comment and rather than trying something ultra fancy, he simply orders himself a Caffe Americano with cream. He doesn't order food at this moment. Maybe he doesn't do breakfast. Or perhaps he really does just live on caffeiene.
Moving so that he's not blocking the dispenser, though there's many of those monitors around, he leans against the counter and takes a drink. When The Hunter approaches, he is about to say that the candles make some sense, but then she goes on about... he's not quite sure exactly. So as she talks about drains and scientific measurements, he just takes another sip from his cup. Dahlia's little science project doesn't help much either, but this he seems to understand. When music is brought up, however, he considers, "I don't have anything of the sort in my room, but having the radio on would do wonders for the atmosphere."
Stepping up to key in her own order for food, Penitent glances around. "Didn't you say you broke one of these?" She calls vaguely over her shoulder towards The Hunter, shrugging. Her food arrives like everyone elses, and she's taking up her toasted ham, cheese and tomato sandwich and a cup of black tea, carefully carrying both things back towards the dining room. "There's a piano, if anyone can play. There's probably books on how to teach yourself piano. Hmm." Apparently she's got an idea. "Does anyone have any candles? We can measure days by sleeping, at least."
Standing next to the Capitalist, the Hunter looks up at him. Balancing all of those things in her hands occupies a fair bit, but she can still do that. She notes the watch on his wrist, then looks back up to meet his eyes. She's searching for something there, it seems. It's the Penitent's question, however, that breaks her from that quest and she clears her throat, finally taking in the dispensers proper. "I... yes, I did." She takes a step back, looking over the wall. Her plate rattles a bit and she leans, trying to keep it from dropping. "That one, in the bottom right. I tore it out."
"Does anyone play the pia-" the Visionary begins in response to the Capitalist's observation, but she stops short. They don't know. None of them likely know. "There's a piano," she concurs. Any volunteers? She's not moving. "Just noting for the record that I will throw this book at the first person who starts up with '99 bottles of beer on the wall'." Matter of fact, nodding once, she tips down her chin toward the book again. Step two: turn the metal detector on! Pure genius.
There is a pause, and she notes, "I'm not entirely sure we can. While I can't say the time on the island involved anything resembling a normal sleep schedule for ready comparison, it seems as though 'yesterday' was a trifle longer than the average day as I remember them. I don't think we can necessarily count on truly regular intervals." It's all too calm. Far too calm for such an observation.
Taking a sip from his still ver hot coffee, The Capitalist tries to remember if he can play the piano or not, searching through those snapshots in his mind in the hopes of finding a piano somewhere in there. "I may have taken lessons, but... I don't think it's something I pursued." He's speaking for Conrad when he says this. He then looks to Madison as if seeing her in one of those snapshots too. "I think Madison might know how to play." He's not talking about the woman in the room currently, but the elder Wellson.
When the broken dispenser is brought, he turns to look at what should have been carnage left in the Hunter's wake, but everything looks untouched. "Yeah. I noticed the same thing on waking this morning. My desk, it was as if it were reset. The broken lamp?" Why was there a broken lamp? "It's not broken anymore..." And at this, his eyes lift to peer out at the Hunter.
Setting her foot and drink down on the table, The Penitent turns around, hands on her hips to stare back at the dispensery. "So someone fixed it? I didn't." She glances around at the others, though the frown on her features increases in severity at the talk of broken lamps too. "Someone came into your room and replaced your broken lamp?" Now that's surprising. And strange. "Huh." She shakes her head slightly at the idea. She picks up her things again to move back into the parlour proper, rather than to eat in the dining room. "Maybe I'll see if I can play something after I've eaten," she says as she settles in at her spot on the couch.
When the lamp is mentioned and the Capitalist looks her way, the Hunter flushes. That's not something she ever did as Maata, not in public, at least. Or at least not in this way. She runs her tongue over her lips, as if they'd gone dry. "I... uhm, I haven't gone to the end of the hallway yet. I tore apart some of it, trying to find a... hidden door." She's at a loss for words right now.
Unable to find her footing -- as it were -- again, she simple turns and juggles her things to the dining table, settling heavily into a seat. The gear is set on the table off to the side before she leans over her meal and starts eating.
"My room was the same," the Visionary notes, calling over toward the dispensary, without looking up from the book. The 'dammit' is unspoken. "But I didn't touch anything." There is a hint of a smile, then. "Or break anything." The real 'Dahlia' is not so clueless or oblivious in certain respects, it would seem, though the warmth in her features at the observation is equally clear. "I haven't been in anyone else's room at all since I've been here," probably goes without saying, but she says it regardless. Taking up her mug, she takes a sip from her coffee. Step three: if the detector doesn't turn on, troubleshoot! See page 63. Less impressive. Try harder, book. She lowers it to her lap, and glances toward the Penitent. "That would be lovely of you," she murmurs sincerely. "If I thought I could sing, I would try. I'm not sure I can."
That flush of color of The Hunter's cheeks is noted by the Capitalist and despite how strange that whole scenario was, he can't help but smile about it at the moment. Taking his coffee with him, he looks as if he would take a seat, but instead, when Maata talks about having destroyed some part of the hallway, his own gaze now looks around the room they are currently in. A careful gaze notices every wall sconce, any sort of decor, whether it be paintings or a vase, or just any items of interest at all. "I wonder..." Taking a final drink from his cup before setting it down at Maata's table, he proceeds to one of the light sconces and tries to move it in some way, by both pushing, then pulling. From there, he moves to the next and suddenly he's suspicious about every single item within the room. "But yes," He says to his sister, "Someone entered my room and replaced the damn lamp. Sadly, I must have been asleep when it happened as I have no memory of it."
"I haven't broken anything either," Pentitent volunteers after a few moments, enjoying her toasted sandwich. Eating it with her hands, the occasional mouthful of hot black tea to follow it down. She seems quite content with the simple joy of eating breakfast. "I'm guessing you didn't find anything?" She glances up to look over at Hunter once again, her brows lifted up with the question. She shakes her head slightly, returning to her meal. "I can't promise I'll be any good though," she says softly to the Visionary, shoulders lifting in a shrug. For now, she's content to just eat. "Well I guess we just need to figure out who's fixing everything."
It would seem that even here, the Hunter likes to eat. Or maybe eating is just something she must do? There is something guarded, almost animalistic about it. Certainly she ordered a lot of food; there's no picking at the meal delicately. But she sits with her arms framed around it, as if someone might take it. She eats quickly, but in the way of someone who is at least ensuring she takes it all in and has a bit of everything. It's gone quickly, too: the style of someone used to having to eat quickly. Like something could take her away at any minute. When done, she pushes the plate aside, but retains the knife. It gets added to the pile with the cord, flint and steel. Grabbing up her coffee, she returns to the dispensers and starts flipping through. Searching.
A moment later, there's an "Ah-ha."
Without really looking at the others, The Capitalist walks around the room pushing various things, sometimes even knocking them over. He doesn't stop to pick anything up, but his eyes do fall upon the giant array of books stacked in these shelves. "I can't even remember if you're any good or not." He then says back to the Penitent regarding her piano playing, "But I'm pretty sure that you're better at it than I am." Stepping up to the one set of shelving, he begins to grab at several of the books to dump uncerimonously onto the floor. No book is spared. You can never tell if one of these is hooked up to some device that will in turn move the bookshelf altogether. Once one shelf is done, he quickly moves to the next. Though each time he finds nothing, it's easy to see that he grows more and more frustrated. "There has to be a door somewhere. How can there /not/ be a door? How did we even get placed in here?"
Finishing up her breakfast, the Penitent sets the plate down and stands, with half a cup of tea in hand and begins to make her way towards the piano. She eyes it before setting her cup down on a nearby side table and settling in at the chair before the thing, reaching out to test the sound of it. Middle c, several times, sounding out through the otherwise quiet place. "There has to be, yes, but I think if it's anywhere it's got to be in the rooms. We all came from the rooms, so far, yes?" More tapping of the keys and she frowns slightly. "Which implies whatever there is to be found could be in there, I don't know."
"Like the wardrobe to Narnia," the Hunter calls out in answer to the Penitent. Then, from the dining room, there is first the click-click tell-tale sound of a lighter. Then follows the familiar scent of tobacco. Shortly after, there's a grunt and the sound of splintering, broken wood. More, a moment later. And then more yet. This continues for a brief time still before the Hunter surfaces again with a few things in her arms. Mostly, wood. She's broken down at least one chair. The flint and steel, as well as a pack of cigarettes are tucked into the waistband of the leggings she's wearing. The knife, cord, and her coffee are left behind on a table.
The Capitalist reaches for yet another book which he is about to toss onto the pile that now litter the floor when he hears the sound of the first piano key being pressed. Something seems to have come to mind. "Try all of them." He says of the keys as he steps over and pass the fallen books only to drop the one which he had just pulled on the shelves to join the others. "If not that, then maybe it's a certain melody that needs to be played. Or..." He looks suspiciously at the piano now, "Maybe the key is part of the piano itself." When Penitent mentions that they came from their rooms, his brow furrows deeply. "I've checked my room, though I can't say that I've broken any..." Then the sounds of a something being broken is heard. "Thing..."
"Like the wardrobe to Narnia," the Penitent agrees, inclining her head as she hears the ... sounds coming from whatever it is the Hunter is doing. She's tapping on the keys, and when the Capitalist comes over she glances up at him, staring, and then shrugs. "How would we figure out which melody? Even if such a thing is possible." Still, she's going to do as he suggests, tapping each key, one after another. Starting from the right of the keyboard, the notes get higher and higher with each press.
She leans back after trying them all, glancing up again and then shrugging, reaching out for a moment as she considers what to play. It's a few stop-start attempts, a frown as she tries to get a hold of those memories that aren't memories. But after a few moments, Velvet Underground's 'I'm Waiting For The Man' slowly comes to life beneath her fingers. She doesn't sing, but the melody is there.
And picking past the books that the Capitalist has scattered, the Hunter goes walking by with her arm full of broken and splintered ex-chair. She's puffing away on a cigarette, smoke trailing behind her as she goes. "Look for the keys that have the most wear and tear," she notes as she goes on by. "Like a digital entry keypad. Whichever ones have been used the most will give you a starting point."
With the Hunter passing through, that trail of cigarette smoke hanging in the air behind her, the Capitalist realizes that he really could go for a smoke. In fact, it's been a while since he last had one. He can't even remember the last time that he's had one, but for a moment, he tries to remember. The melody played does actually help lift his spirit. Any sort of music would. This place was too quiet when people weren't talking or breaking things. Though, looking back at the Hunter now, he looks to Madison at the piano again,, "That sounds like good advice if any. Though if that fails, just continue to play something. It kills the tension in the room." Not wishing to stand around and waste any more time, he starts to work on the next shelf, practically knocking all of the books over in one sweep of the hand. The path directing in front of the shelf is now full of clutter, making safe passage rather difficult.
Still playing, the melody isn't the slowest one, and she moves slightly to the music. "They all look as ... pristine as the next," she mutters, glancing at the keys. She's watching her hands as she goes. A few minutes of playing the song comes to an end, and there's a shake to the Penitent's hand as she reaches out for her cup of tea again, shaking her head. "I don't think I'm that good at playing," she announces quietly, rising up to her feet again. "You're right though, Madison can play." Her tone is quiet, uncertain. Far more like the sister that the Capitalist remembers.
Maata never did smoke. Not on the island at least. One could say maybe it was a 'Security' thing and yet... they've all only retained those memories, right? So it must be another Hunter quirk. She smokes. Off down the hallway of doors she goes. Not far, however. She stops in front of one. One that hasn't opened before. She squints at it, juggles things, jiggles the handle, and leans in. Empty. The door is left open and the pile is tossed down just inside. She stands there, staring at it a moment. The cigarette is taken from her lips and ashed on the floor. She leans in the doorway, arm above her head and braced on the door jam. "Conrad?" She has no other name for him right now. "Could you bring some of those books here, please?"
So busy with tearing their perfect little library apart in the hopes that there's a passage hidden behind all of the books, the Capitalist suddenly stops in what he does, hearing that comforting familiarity of his sister's voice coming from the Penitent. There was something about the woman that had troubled him since the moment they were reunited, but to hear that much of Madison within her did give him some hope. Stopping what he is doing, he stands in the center of piles and piles of books, many closed, though some rest opened, either pages side down or propped up. Who was supposed to clean all of this? A quiet look is then given the woman by the piano, until he hears his name called.
The Capitalist was not okay with this next part. He saw the 'firewood' which the Hunter had carried and now she wanted these books? "Uh..." He starts, making his way carefully over the downed tomes, needing to step carefully through them or slip on some of these covers. When he does fully realize what Maata intends to do, he has to ask, "Are you sure that's a good idea? I mean, there's no way out of here. No escape."
Staring at the Capitalist, the Penitent glances aside after a few moments, drawing in a breath and then lifting the cup of tea up to empty the thing, setting it back down again. She's just quiet, lingering for a few moments before composing herself and then padding softly after Conrad, around the mess that's been made as she peers down the hall. "Yeah, I don't think that's such a great ... I mean, I don't really want to burn." She doesn't say 'again', but it's sort of implied by her tone.
Finishing off the cigarette, Hunter stubs it out on the doorframe and pulls out the pack and a lighter. She pulls out another, then offers the pack out to the Capitalist as she considers the empty room. "Look," she says. "Place like this has to have some sort of fire suppression system, right?" There's a look to the Penitent as she follows after. "Those machines giving us food are advanced as fuck. If I can trigger the system, maybe I can figure out where the pipes and ventilation are."
When Madison joins him amidst his pile of books, the Capitalist is content to hear that she agrees with him, yet concerned that, well, she was here and they may all go up in flames... again. Looking to the pack of cigarette offered him, he's not going to hesitate overly much to take one, as he's begun craving it all the more. Conrad only really smoked when he was stressed and right now, the Capitalist was stressed. Taking the extra steps to get pass all of the books on the floor, there's a frown to Maata, the pack now in hand as he removes a cigarette from it, before returning the pack altogether. Once he has it lit, he breathes in the nicotine goodness. While it doesn't completely melt his stress away, there is comfort in the flavor.
Now that he's at the doorway, he can see the debris thrown into some random room looking ready to be lit up. The light is on, from her movements into it, and he can clearly see that it's unoccupied. "I don't know." He starts, his eyes to Maata, watching her with concern. "If there is no system. If nothing happens then what?" He reaches a hand out for her wrist as if to keep her from making what could be a deadly mistake. "I'm not saying that you're wrong. But we know nothing of this place. What if there is no system? And no one comes to let us out here?"
"I don't like fire," Penitent says in a grave voice, looking down the hallway, one hand reaching up to rub at her face. "There's a picture of fire on my doorway. It's unsettling. Maybe we should be ready to put out the flames. Just in case. We have showers, just need something to collect the water in, or something." She says, staring to nervously pace at the end of the hallway. "But we just don't know what is going to happen. I haven't noticed anything like ... a supression system." Not that she's been looking, exactly.
When the Capitalist catches at her wrist, the Hunter hesitates. His touch brings back so many memories all at once and a flood of emotions along with them. Her features shift and flood and collide and she turns to look at him, staring at him for a long moment. "Why would someone build a wholly enclosed place without safety systems?" Her voice is quiet, almost fearful then. "What if we're steadily running out of air and we don't even know it?" She slackens a bit, looking down at her feet.
"All right, all right," she says in the wake of the Penitent's words. "I'll... I'll keep it small. Take the blanket off my bed. If no sprinklers or anything come on, I'll put it out that way. Okay?"
That lit cigarette in one hand, the Capitalist keeps a gentle grip on the Hunter's wrist with the other. There's a hint of worry in his eyes, which may remind her of the way he looked at her whenever she spoke of sacrificing herself -- or at least Maata. The anger from that distant memory is absent, however. "I've no idea. I wish I knew. I wish that I could get us all out of here." Then he is quiet, lingering near her for a long moment before he finally releases his hold on her.
"What /do/ those pictures even mean?" The Capitalist has to ask, though he knows the answer to that question: That none of them knew. When requested to do so, he simply nods to fetch the blanket, "Where are the buckets kept anyway?" He hasn't done enough exploring to find cleaning items or anything of that nature. Seeing that nervous look on Penitent's face, he tries to give her a reassuring glance, telling her that it will be OK, even though he's not even sure if that is actually true.
"And what are we going to do about running out of air even if we are? A fire will just burn up more of that air." Penitent replies, still just pacing back and forth at the end of the hallway, not getting close to where the sparks might fly. "I don't know why, or where or what this place is either. But I don't think burning it is going to help." She chews at her lip nervously.
A shrug for the question of the pictures, pausing to lean against the wall between two of the doorways. "I don't know if there's any buckets, but! We could probably get jugs of stuff from the dispensers and fill them with water from the bathroom taps or showers or something."
And the Hunter's room is... well, it's not spartan. It's just as large as the rest, but it just seems... less. Less opulent than the Capitalist's, that's for sure. The bed is just a double-bed. Two pillows. No headboard. A simple nightstand. All the furniture, in fact, is very utilitarian. The walls, however, are covered in racks, pegboards, and shelves, and those covered further yet in gear. Ropes. Trunks. Cases. Grappling hook. Climbing equipment. Cold weather gear. A gas mask. Pretty much everything a person could imagine for survival and hunting in any environment. Chances are she hasn't even gone through it all yet. But all of the weapons... blunt edges. Rubber replicas.
It might be the source of her frustration. That so much of it is there, but it's all fake.
The Hunter continues smoking, now with an anxious edge. Like a young gunner about to go to war. "Towels. Soak 'em in the tub."
The Capitalist was not expecting to see all of this when he stepped inside of the Hunter's suite. The furniture, sure. It looked basic, the sort of thing that you might find in a random house. The gear on the walls though draws his attention and rather than simply do a quick in and out, that curiosity leads him to view one item hung, then moving onto the next. "This is your room?" The question is asked, though he doesn't look to Maata for an answer. "I gotta say, it's a little kinky." Looking over at the Hunter's bed now, it was as expected. Nothing special about it. But it was hers. With that in mind, he works to gather up her blanket, before finally emerging to return to the others again. "I wasn't sure if I walked into someone's bedroom or a prepper's bunker."
The Penitent moves up the hallway, standing outside of the room, peering within. "The rooms are all different." She says quietly, "Mine has nothing in it, really. It's ..." she trails off though and then just shrugs. "It's soothing." She settles on, nodding the once. She steps back slightly when the Capitalist is coming out with the blankets, still looking rather uncertain about this whole idea. "What can I do to help?"
There's a glance over her shoulder when the Capitalist calls her room 'kinky' and the Hunter can't help but grin. It puts her at ease a fair bit and she finally puts out that second cigarette. "I've got enough carabiners and rope to do plenty," she says with a wink his way. "You didn't see the closet, I'm guessing. I could go from the sahara to the antarctic. Yet it's always the same fucking temperature in here. Makes you wonder, right? Like why..." She shakes her head, looking back to the fire in the currently unoccupied room, "Why?"
At Penny's question, she chews at her lower lip. "If you want, go get a few towels wet. The water and weight would smother a fire if the blanket doesn't, but..." Maata shrugs and scoots up to her pile of wood, starting to arrange it carefully. There's a focus and precision to her work. She doesn't just leave it jumbled. "The blanket should be enough for a small fire."
"Why would you ever need any of those things?" The Capitalist asks as he looks over his shoulder to take one last look into her room. "It's like you're preparing for something, but what?" Penitent's words piques his curiosity and as he's standing out here in this long hallway filled with many doors, he now wonders what everyone else's rooms look like. But from what he sees now, in this random room that Maata had opened, well, there isn't really much to see. Yet. Just like Penitent, he is also still uneasy by this and she could perhaps see that look in his eyes when he passes Madison. "I'll get some towels from my room." His towels would obviously be fuller and more luxurious than the Hunter's...
"It matches though," Penitent says, studying the picture on the door to the Hunter's room, considering it. "It makes a weird kind of sense." She then turns about, nodding. "I guess I'll come help," she pads along after the Capitalist. "Not that it really takes two people to soak some towels..." she trails off. At a loss, she just kind of stops, looking this way and that, and then wandering towards her own room instead to just stare at that crying woman.
"I don't know," the Hunter says in answer to the Capitalist. "I woke up and it was there. Wanna trade? I'll take your bed." Because his is way better than her own. So much better. She finishes arranging her pile of wood and pulls out the flint and steel from her waist band. Since she can't see the Penitent, all she can ask while she's shaving off bits of magnesium into a spot just under a bit of wood is: "What makes sense?"
When the Penitent enters the Capitalist's room, she will notice just how luxuriously furnished it was. It looked expensive and masculine with both the paint on the walls and the wood of the furniture in darker hues. It's very much what one would expect the CEO of some company would check into at a hotel. There was a proper office area to the side and a large wardrobe filled with suits, Italian shoes, gold cuff-links. The works.
The bathroom also is decidedly dark and lavish with both a full shower and a very large bath. Taking several of the towels from a closet, he hands a few to the Penitent so that she can start soaking them. He makes no response to the Hunter's joke about wanting to trade beds, though he does have laugh a little at the idea.
"The picture on your door and everything in the room. If I knew someone that looked like that, well, it matches what's in the room at least?" Penitent remains staring at her own door for a few moments more, before turning to resume following the Capitalist. She steps into the room, looking around it with the same vague expression as she seems to handle everything, taking the towels and moving over to the tub to get to work. It's something to do. It doesn't take that long, and she's quiet the whole time, her thoughts just wandering.
"Oh." The Hunter hadn't put much thought into the image on her door or what was in the room. It all just felt 'hers.' It all just made a strange sort of sense. The clothes fit. They were comfortable. The gear felt right. Oh, sure, a more comfortable bed seemed really great and she would not turn down having one, but it was also unnecessary. The bed she had worked just fine. She hesitates a moment as she thinks over these things before giving a small shake of her head and going back to work on her task. The fire is finally lit. It takes a few hard strikes against the steel itself, but finally the pile of magnesium lights. A few seconds later... so does the pile of broken chair.
And surely, by the time the other two return? They'll witness it. The small fire in that unoccupied room. The Hunter crouched before it, blanket in hand as she waits expectantly. Then? Sprinklers reveal themselves from above to begin putting it out with a fine, steady spray of water. She stands, slowly: soaked and looking a bit disappointed, in a strange way.
"I know, I saw the image on my door. But you're the one with all the money." The Capitalist says to the Penitent, in an automatic response to the discussion. Though when they pass her room now, it does have him thinking. "You're room isn't similar to..." He's about to say 'what you had at home', but even he is fighting to remember what that looked like. So he drops it. Returning back to Maata and seeing the smoke billowing out from the other room, his pace quickens to bring him there just in time to see the start of what could have been a decent sized fire, then followed by the spriklers which shut that endeavor down. "I guess we won't be needing these." He says to the both of them as he and the Penitent are carrying around wet towels. Looking to the Hunter first, he then looks up at the ceiling within the empty room. "What were you thinking would happen?"
"No. It's not really similar to anything, but it's ... nice." Penitent replies as she carries the bundle of wet towels outside of the room. She hurries along after him as she spies the smoke as well, peering from behind The Capitalist as the water spray prevents it from getting anywhere. There's a sigh of relief there, and she nods, just dropping the wet towels. Right there, and stepping slightly away to move back to her room and stare at that image further. Somehow it's important to her, even if it's rather unsettling.
The Hunter looks up into the falling water, squinting. She just stands there, getting soaked. She drops the flint and steel at her feet. "I don't know," she admits. "I just..." She exhales in a sigh turning towards the Capitalist. "I don't know." She gives a slow shake of her head as she starts to pad out of the room: soaking wet. The tank top is peeled off, held dripping in her fingertips. "On the island, it felt impossible, but at least we knew what the problem was. Here... we don't even know where here is. We don't know why, how, or- or anything." She looks over to the Penitent before her eyes fall away. "We don't even know if we are who we think we are. I was just hoping for an answer."
Like an angry voice scolding her, maybe!
The Capitalist takes some comfort that the Penitant's room is ...nice, he supposes. "That's good, Mads. Your room should be your sanctuary." Even he knows that these are not their rooms. They were well-furnished prisons.
Of course, his gaze now lingers on the Hunter when she stands there beneath the spriklers, herself drenched in life-saving sprays of water. And even moreso when she removes the soaking wet top. All he can do is watch, never turning away from the image presented to him and rather appreciative of the view. "Yes, we working to fix the problem. There were other calls to be made." And then the memories of their call to Akala hits him hard and it's only then that his gaze finally diverts as he's playing that moment again in his mind.
Always in motion, always working to find a solution. It's impossible for her to stay still, it seems. That... is something she still has in common, it seems. Maata had a document within hours of a defense plan for the resort. And she barely slept, for a while. Constantly working, constantly planning, trying to stay one step ahead. But their 'captor' was ahead of them all along. And now? Now they're trapped. The Hunter stops by her door and leans against the wall. She looks down at the wet shirt, but the rest of her is, too. She sighs and lets her hand fall to her side. "I just want to understand it."
Being reminded of that fateful call brings back memories of the explosion that followed and the panic that was experienced during those last few seconds before he loses all memory of what happened next. There's this cold, paleness to his skin when he remembers, but then when his gaze lifts to view the Hunter, now leaning against the hallway wall, there is this surge of emotions that begin to overcome him. He remembered her face in the darkness, when he could see nothing else but here the faint sounds all around him.
He remains there for a long moment, simply standing out in the hall, his eyes on her. The cigarette that he was still carrying is eventually lifted back to his lips, needing it to keep him calm and steady after re-living all that they went through in his head. Stepping forward, he takes a position beside her against the wall, his head tilted back so that he's staring at the ceiling in idle curiosity. "No one new has shown up. I don't know whether that's good or bad right now. But, if I'm going to be trapped here, in this place with anyone, I'm glad that it's with you... and Madison." A pause, "I thought I had lost you both in that one moment."
Maybe it's just her own coping mechanism. The Penitent is just letting it all go. Putting it behind her. Separating herself entirely from the memories she has and becoming this other person. He is trying to walk the line between the two. And the Hunter? She's giving herself a new task. A new mission. But when Conrad settles himself against the wall next to her, she reaches out for his hand, winding her fingers through his. She holds on tightly, as if he might float away. "You won't lose me," she answers quietly. "Not if I have anything to say about it."
There's a look over to him, head tilting. Some of her hair has come free of the ponytail she put it in. It'd been damp earlier; now it's soaked, sticking to the sides of her face. "I've had no new memories. No more answers. All I remember is the island. The ruins. The undead. Us. Somehow, that makes more sense than anything in this place."
His eyes still peering up at the ceiling, he murmurs, "I keep expecting to hear a voice say something to use. Or maybe we'll wake up tomorrow with a radio in our room." The Capitalist says, shaking his head. "I wonder what everyone else is going through. Whether they are alive or dead right now." That gaze lowering to look at the multitude of doors again. Long hallways such as this was pretty creepy.
When he feels her hand reach for his, his hold on hers squeezes, the contact is enough to keep the memories of the explosion from his mind, as the conversation beforehand was playing on loop in his head. "The island that we were going to die on. If not by the undead, by the nukes or whatever it is that Tommy said." Tommy. That's another name he knew and it just slips out so easily when he remembers their situation that evening. "You wanted to put the call off until the morning, but I didn't listen."
"Or by Akala's man on the island," the Hunter says softly. "It may not have mattered," she follows a moment later. "He called us, remember? We were going to call other people, but he called us. It may have happened one way or the other." She slides her hand up his arm a bit, pulling him a bit closer. Not too much so: she's soaking wet and he's in a suit. Just a bit. Trying to provide what little comfort she's capable of.
"I keep thinking... what if I'd just packed us up and taken us into the jungle? I could have kept us safe. You and me. We could've hidden out there indefinitely." It's a purely selfish thought, but one she feels safe admitting to right now.
Maybe I poked at him too hard." The Capitalist murmurs about Akala. "It was my intention to get him angry, but he had his plans in motion before we even arrived there." With their memories of the island so vivid, he remembers what she had said to him before they left for the security station, a wry smile on his lips. "We could have had one last night together back at our place, but I needed to try to fix things, fix my damn festival. Maybe I should have just taken a step back to breathe and see how things played through then."
Feeling that tug at his arm, he doesn't seem to minds that the sleeve of his jacket is now damp. It's always comforting being this close to her. He may have felt that the day they met in the kitchen before the festival even kicked off.
He then falls quiet, listening to her thoughts of escape and he has to blink at this idea. "I... I don't think I could have survived in that jungle. There's no espresso there, for one." The joke brings a wide grin to his face, but then thinking on it a little, his voice becomes just a touch somber, "And I couldn't leave Madison behind."
"Mine, too," the Hunter admits. "When he admitted he didn't care about killing his own people, I was so angry. I would have killed him myself had he been there." There's true conviction in her voice as she says it. More, perhaps, than she might have had as Maata. Is this woman a killer?
She does turn towards the Capitalist more, pushing that aside. She reaches towards both of his arms, grinning. "You and your coffee. You would be surprised what you can live without once you have done without for a few days." She tilts her head, looking thoughtful. "You and Madison then. But no more. And definitely not Stephanie. She stared daggers at me enough as it was."
The Capitalist is in no way put off by this idea of The Hunter killing Akala. While, he's not quite certain that he would've gone that far against the official, he knew well enough that he wanted to hurt the man. "You and me both." Is his response to that. It's as if he had accepted his defeat to Akala, realizing their fate that night. And while the anger remains, the need to lash out at him has begun to slowly fade. They were trapped here. This is their new concern. Unless, this was something of Akala's doing. "Do you think..." He begins, then shakes his head, wanting to dismiss that thought completely. "He'd never keep us locked up when it's easier to have us killed."
From a side-glance he notices her shift, then watches as she reaches out for him. Taking that last drag from his cigarette, he drops it to the ground and crushes it under foot, before turnng to meet with her. The mood is somber enough, until Stephanie is mentioned. "Yeah, she tends to do that with any woman. Jealous, I figure. I have to wonder if she'll end up here as well. Vanessa didn't. Leo hasn't. Karl's not here either." He lists off his entourage. "Nor Grant or Greene. There's so many other doors and yet none of these people are here."
"Akala wanted us dead. He wouldn't lock us up. He would have killed us." The Hunter says this with a conviction. Being alone with the Capitalist just makes it all the easier to regress into Maata. It's comfortable. It's easy. And it's him. She just becomes that woman, even if there are still differences. Like her accent. Some of her physical tics and mannerisms. She slips her hands down his arms to wind her fingers through his: standing close, but not embracing. She's trying to protect the silk tie, maybe!
"And yes, Stephanie was very jealous. The poor girl was quite clearly in love with you." There's a hint of a smile, but then a shift to her expression. "Nor Tully. Nor the other man at the computers with Jonas. It seems... only a few of us have ended up here. Are there... other places like this, maybe?" She swallows, looking down for a moment, then back up to him. "I'm not sure I should think about that for a bit. I might try setting something else on fire." There's a weak attempt at a smile to follow the softball of self-deprecating humor.
The Capitalist was wearing Wellson's watch, seemingly having decided that that is who he is. Or who he would be. The differences between him and Conrad are slight and for the most part could be blamed on the confusion and disorientation of simply being here. His mannerism has begun to take on Conrad's even more today. Yet, as both Maata and Madison can both feel it, he couldn't be Conrad, not if they didn't feel completely like their likenesses on the island. There were differences.
Feeling her hands run down the length of both of his arms to take up his hands in hers, Conrad plays along with it, his fingers lacing with hers. He even flashes one of his familiar smiles her way. "She really was." He murmurs about his PA, that grin is still there, "Though, part of that was my fault. At least in the beginning." He then considers whether he should even reveal his playboy secrets to her, then decides against it. In fact, just withholding this information has him realizing that though they are no longer on the island, there are other secrets that he still feels that he needs to keep. "Other places where everyone else goes to?" He turns to give a good look around the place once more. "Heaven maybe?" That is a joke as well, but there is no laughter that accompanies it. "Or maybe they escaped somehow."
That smile. That damn, disarming smile. The Hunter finds herself stepping in closer to him, drawing up their hands between them, to chest height. "So this is the afterlife, you think," she murmurs. "I don't think we're in hell. Your sister, at least, doesn't deserve that. Of any of us. Limbo, perhaps?" She draws one of his hands to her mouth, placing her lips against it. Maybe unable to restrain herself any longer. After pulling her lips away, she drops her forehead to rest against his knuckles.
"I suppose if it is limbo, it could be worse. I always imagined it to be a... shapeless, meaningless void. If I'm to spend it with you, there are worst places and ways to pass the time. I just wonder why... why I remember such a small part of my life."
In this closeness now, Conrad Wellson really shines through. There's no confusion in his eyes, just that laid back playfulness while flirting. There's no turmoil about who he is. That flood of memories and having it play on loop regarding what he perceived as his own death has opened his eyes to who he believes he truly is. Yes, there is the strange part that while he senses Maata in this woman, there are things thare are very different and if anything, that may be what makes him take pause. Not who /he/ is, but the person she is.
He quietly watches when she first places a kiss upon his hand, followed by her resting her head against it. If anything, she seemed like Maata right now, so with that thought in mind, the hand that her forehead once rested against begins to grace along her face, coming down her cheek.
He then has to sigh, "No, I don't think Madison deserves any of thi-- Madison? Of any of us?" He is amused by this, but he doesn't doubt that she's right. "I'd like to think that none of us deserve to be in Hell. Or even whatever this place is, but right now Madison seems like she needs this place. I don't know why, but she does."
And there are things in him that differ from Conrad, but... Conrad is still there. In the way he looks. In the way he dresses. The way he sounds. In those smiles he gives her. And then in the way he draws his hand over her face. The Hunter gives a small sigh, tilting her head into it. She closes her eyes, leaning more into him.
"She seems at peace here," she says quietly. "Every time I saw her, she always seemed so anxious. So bothered and... weighed down. Here it seems like all of that is gone." Maata looks up at him, then, finding his eyes with her own. The same eyes she knew. Knows. "I wish I could find that peace. I'm a bit jealous, admittedly."
The front of his jacket and shirt soak up some of that wetness that clings to The Hunter's skin, but there's no complaints from him. In fact, the Capitalist releases his hands from her so that he can wrap his arms aroung her now to keep her close. "I suppose, she does seem at peace here." A slight frown forms on his lips, when he says, "But it just makes me uncomfortable to think that this woman who looks like my sister, really isn't her. Sometimes, I see the real Madison shine through and perhaps that makes me selfish now, but I wish that she'd return. This place." He's looking down the hallway once more, "It makes things different, it confuses. And I just feel that the longer we're here, the more lost we'll be to who we truly are."
When his arms go around her, the Hunter sinks in against him. Not unlike she had a few times on the island. Just falling into that embrace, her own arms sliding around his midsection, under his coat as she inhales deeply of the scent of him. He still smells like Conrad. Just... minus the ocean in the air. She's quiet for a moment or three. Processing what he's said, perhaps. Or just savoring the moment as if it might be as fleeting as any damage to the place has been thus far. Her fingers slowly curl into the fabric of his expensive shirt. When she does speak again, it's in a faint voice: "I don't want to lose you. I don't want to wake up one morning and forget."
Her arms now wrapped tightly about him now as she's pressed closely against his chest in this embrace, Conrad seems content by this moment. Right now, she feels like Maata in his arms and that's all that mattered. Throughout the day, he'd been watching her and while he could see parts of Maata in this woman, there were other aspects that were not very much like the woman he had fallen for. They were intriguing, to say the least, but different. So he will accept this and hold onto it for as long as he can as well.
Lowering his chin, he rests his cheek against the top of her head, hearing the soft words that escape her lips. "I know... I worry about that myself. We just need to remind each other just who we truly are." Then a quiet kiss is placed upon her dark hair. He was determined alright. Determined to keep things as comfortable to him as possible.
There's similar, with him. There's not that ease of self that Conrad had in this man. That egotistical swagger isn't quite the same. That singlemindedness she'd mentioned before is gone. But then he'll smile at her and it's exactly as it was. The Hunter remains there, in silence for a time. It feels just right. Exactly as she remembers. It feels like him. Even the way he kisses her hair. She exhales slowly and leans back, finally. Not far, just a bit. There's a look up to him. "We got interrupted yesterday..." by a lamp. "and I said we should revisit it later." It's a similar conversation to one they had on the island. The words are different, but she's said something like this before.
"Maybe we can... see about continuing that discussion." Plus, she has these damp clothes to deal with!
Yesterday, things were strange. The Capitalist was still trying to find himself, so that moment in his suite, on his desk... Today, it seemed that he had found himself. He knew who he was, relying on his memories to help guide him. Perhaps the duality within him, the two selves, weren't much different at all. For now, though, he's settling into his role, this part that he feels the need, no desire to play.
He keeps his eyes on her features, watching her lips as she talks, looking deeply into her eyes. "Our 'discussion'?" That amused tone is back. "I'm always willing to finish what I've started." Taking her hand in his now, he is about to lead them back to his suite, when he notices all of his damp towels now lying on the floor. "You... might want to pick up some tiles beforehand. Or else you'll never get dry."
And yet there was something about that moment. The wild abandon into raw emotion and desire as their memories of self took over. It was simple, easy. And today there's still something there. Still a spark when he smiles at her. Still a want to have him by her side. Still that need, same as he, to not forget. When he says he's willing to finish what he's started, the Hunter cannot help but grin. She's about to follow, but ah- the towels.
Looking to them, she considers. There's almost -- almost -- a 'fuck it,' but she stops and slips her arms up and around his shoulders. "I'll be right there. Get rid of the tie and cufflinks." And then there's a long, slow kiss to follow up those words before she pulls away to duck into her own room. The Visionary, The Penitent, The Capitalist, The Hunter