(no subject)

[synanthrope]

These days come around and all that happens is that everything gets loud. But there are so many interesting people.

You may come into the Garage as long as you don't touch. Sticky fingers make enormous messes.


[ooc: do what you will!]

Comments

2/2

[creais]

[He has absolutely no care for cars, but this bird has been terrorising him unrelentingly - pecking, chirping obnoxiously, unless he followed it, and this garage is where it's led. He steps inside and finds it's finally let him be, wonders if he can leave now.]

[synanthrope]

[She turns from where she's been working - interruptions galore today but it's fine, she'll handle it]

Yes?

[She stands awkwardly, her heels clipping against the floor.]

[featherstorn]

[Hop hop hop. He comes to sit near her hands, his only introduction being a whispered,]

This is Him.

[synanthrope]

[Saya tilts her head. Her hair is tied back, beautiful, she hears Barbet and sees Barbet and smiles, coyly]

Welcome to my shop.

[creais]

[He glares at the bird before turning the same look to her, completely dismissing her welcome.]

You should better control that creature. Harassing strangers will not see it survive long.

[Long years in the US have worn his accent down, but it is still unmistakeably French.]

[synanthrope]

[She looks him over, careful]

They're tough little birds, I'm told, but I'm hardly its keeper.

[creais]

Hollow bones.

[He doesn't offer the rest of the thought - that they break easily - fully expecting her either to know it for herself or not be worth him wasting his breath on anyway.]

I do not believe strange birds would go to so much effort to lead me to your... [He glances around, disdain evident in his expression.] shop.

[synanthrope]

I'm worth the trouble to find, I think.

Ants can carry several times their own body weight, but no one would think them tough.

[She moves in just a little closer]

[creais]

Perhaps if I owned a car.

[His chin lifts slightly as she moves closer, some wariness in him despite all his arrogance.]

Ants have the benefit of numbers, and the bird did not carry me here.

[synanthrope]

What do you do, then?

Maybe we'll find meaning in that. I'm not just a mechanic.

[creais]

I am an artist.

Unless you wish to explain why I was attacked by that bird until I arrived here, I have no interest in meaning or your chosen career.

[synanthrope]

Did you cripple him?

[creais]

Who? The bird?

[A sharp frown, incredulous.]

My whole life, I have never seen it before.

[synanthrope]

You've never seen a barbet before?

[She moves around him, now. She's blocking the door]

What kind of art?

[creais]

[His expression grows tense at the use of his name, eyes narrowed, and none of it softens as she blocks the door.]

Barbet are dogs. Chiens d'eau, used for hunting.

[He's never heard of it being a type of bird.]

Art is art, there is no 'kind'. And mine is none of your concern.

[synanthrope]

[She doesn't seem to care; instead she switches to French, lightly accented with Dutch.]

Well you're here, so why not indulge me?

[featherstorn]

[Are we all speaking French here? Because this little bird can do it too, offering snidely,]

Cadavres.

[creais]

[He looks sharply at the bird, but no, birds couldn't talk. He has had too much strangeness today to be able to allow that idea into his head as well.]

My interests lie in the art of the human body.

[Very pointedly remaining in English. Her pronunciation may be better than any attempts the thugs he works with could attempt, but he still refuses to share his native tongue.]

[synanthrope]

[She laughs]

How fortunate for you. Come with me.

[She starts up a flight of stairs]

[creais]

[She's moved away from the door, which really leaves him inclined to take that route instead of the one she's trying to lead him on.]

Do you truly expect me to follow you without question?

[synanthrope]

[She looks down at the door, and then at him]

You create art in bodies, and I do the same. You could leave, but then I would follow, and you'll find me more persistent than the bird.

[creais]

[He rolls his eyes at the threat of her persistence, but the mention of her creating art anything like his own is almost an insult. He looks at the door one more time, then turns to follow her.]

You had better not be wasting my time.

[But it's clear in his tone that he already thinks she is.]

[synanthrope]

[She leads him down a hall, and then another, and finally opens a locked room with a combination of numbers in a number lock, and the door opens.

It's not as big as her gallery in the warehouse, but it's big enough; body parts perfectly preserved in glass or liquid or crystal - a pair of perfect eyes, or breasts, or an ear; a pair of lips, fingers, just the nails on this one. Displayed like a museum, on black fabric. Saya makes sure he goes in, that he's inside the room when she closes the door behind them.]

[creais]

[He has fast enough eyes, for all that the rest of him is ageing poorly - aching bones, poor muscle tone, bad digestion. He knows what it is she's showing him quickly enough, and doubts the methods of her obtaining them are legal or humane. A hypocrite, in that respect, but he distanced himself from the process of obtaining his subjects (pieces, artwork in themselves) as much as possible. And he doesn't like or trust that locked door.

Trapped in a room with a murderer, and he quietly resigns himself to his day being unable to get any worse as he examines the preserving methods used - the only part that truly interests him in the display.]

Yes, how impressive, you've joined the long line of Da Vinci's poor successors.

[synanthrope]

It was never really meant to be art.

[Her preserving methods are perfect]

I just wanted to break your arms.