22 June 2005 Moon: Full Studio The studio is elegantly modern, clean lines transformed into ... an environment. The first impression is one of a decayed city: the walls are covered in a collage of deep colors, dimensional media, flaking paint, circuit-boards and rusting riveted metal. It is disturbing, like a glimpse of the twisted city Umbra. Beneath the surface, the studio is a large, high-ceilinged square room with almost an entire wall of windows. It constantly smells of paint. Rolled canvases lean in one of the corners, and finished pieces adorn the walls. A six-foot length of pipe hangs a wall-sized painting that masks off some of the street-view windows, creating a slightly more personal space that evidently serves as a bedroom; the piece is a dark, strange cityscape, an oddly skewed view of the world beyond the glass seen through otherworldly eyes. It it one with the wild work on the walls. The edge of a futon can be seen beyond it; the walls around the bed bear swirling patterns of colors, calming dark shades of undersea blue and circuit-board green. These patterns slowly blend and darken, growing out into the rest of the room, the Apocalyptic vision. Shards of mirror catch at the light; jewel-dark colors shine like dim, clouded sun coming through stained glass. The sofa is quirky and curving, a work of modern art upholstered in spring-green velvet. A painted cloth occupies much of the hardwood floor; the coffee table, a sculpture of recycled blue and green circuit-board and mixed metals, rests on it in front of the couch. An arty-looking steel chair completes the small seating area; instead of an end table, there's an odd birchwood box, three feet by four and about the same height as the coffee table, made up of five very shallow, big drawers. Some might recognize it as a 'flat file' for art storage. The east wall holds bookshelves, supporting a small stereo, collections of pictures and found objects, and a good number of books. The corner by the windows holds an elegant black mesh chair, and a black desk with a slim notebook computer and phone atop it. The wall behind the couch is dominated by a huge canvas, the framing large enough that the painting is cantilevered forward at the top--so that it overhangs the room slightly and draws one in even more. The painting depicts a futuristic city, all spires and crystalline forms, almost like something out of one of the Matrix films or a cyberpunk novel. The city of light and metal and glass grows on a planed surface, webbed with light and spiderwebs and strange lines like circuitry--paths, almost, all of them converging on the city and drawing the eye to its gleaming complexity. In the surreal landscape, it stands out like a window into paradise. Metallic paints, flake and mica accentuate the surfaces; in places the oils and gesso have been mixed with silver, or powdered glass. The easel once again stands near the painting-wall that splits off the bedroom; it is in a good spot to catch both natural sun, and the track lighting mounted on the ceiling. All around the studio, paintings hang like windows into other worlds, earthly and fantastical. Opposite the windows, a compact kitchen is marked off by a crisp stainless steel counter. The west wall nearby has doors to a closet and to a small, sparsely-appointed bathroom. It's nearly midnight, no proper time for unexpected visitors. Yet here's a knock, three thuds of a fist striking the other side of the door. Not hard, not demanding. Careless. The music is audible from outside the apartment, down the stairwell even, drowning out the little birds. Korn, in all its raw screaming glory. The scents of her trade fill the air by the door, a noticeable shift in the atmosphere. For a few seconds it might seem she hasn't noticed the knock, and he can safely turn around and go--but then the door opens. She stands there in a wifebeater and loose-hanging knit pants, her clothes paint-stained, her eyes dilated and strange. For a moment she doesn't seem to recognize him; then she blinks away the haze and says, startled, "Uh, hi." A swallow, and she opens the door wider. "Come on in?" Grey has a trenchcoat the same color as his new name thrown on over his rumpled clothes. He leans against the doorframe with stubble on his face and hair hanging over his blind eye and smelling of cigarettes and liquor. His other eye is vague, the legendary temper sedated. For the moment. "Didn't think you'd be home," he says slowly, not slurring, but with traces of the Slavic accent. Pushing off the doorframe, he slouches inside. "There's only one other place I'd be," Rina answers, watching him with slightly guarded eyes. "And I'm not there. I've been tryin' to... stay away, since-- yeah." Leaving him to come in and shut the door at his own pace, she steps back. "You want somethin'a drink?" The place is cold, as usual when she's painting--but the windows are closed, which isn't usual at all. Perhaps that's the reason for her slightly hazy look; the fumes in here must reach quite a concentration. Grey closes the door behind him and gives the studio a moment's look 'round, more habit than anything. "I could probably manage a few more," he answers her as he heads for the couch. His coat stays on, either because of the cold or because he's forgotten it. "That good, huh," Rina mutters. Her scars are in evidence--and some of the cuttings on her arms have been re-worked recently. "Scotch?" she asks idly, standing on tiptoe to get it down from its cabinet. "Fine," Grey says, dropping onto the couch with a grunt. He drags fingers back through his hair and rolls his good eye toward her, broodingly. "M'not interrupting anything, am I?" He glances around. "Working?" Rina pauses by the counter a moment, closing her eyes. She takes a breath, let it out, fetches a couple of highball glasses. "Yeah." The piece is on the working easel, a mixed-media landscape with a woman's torso slowly emerging in metal scraps and bits of junk and circuit-board. Disturbing, and very Giger. Grey's inebriated attention focuses on the work in progress. His brow furrows, and the corners of his mouth pull downwards. "Mm. It's..." He trails off, looking vaguely disturbed, and pulls his gaze away with some effort. "It's interesting," he finishes, lamely. Rina pages: Very three-dimensional, with the breasts and part of jaw and face... like she's leaning forward out of the canvas, coming to life. "Gonna call it Pygmalion, I think. Even though half my crappy audience won't get it. I'm tryin' to put together an installation show... all techno, with a couple of other artists in digital stuff." She pours the Scotch over ice, and brings out both drinks, coming to the couch to hand one off. "Something's missing, though, and I can't figure out what... I hate that." Grey accepts the drink and swallows a goodly amount of it. He closes his eyes for a moment. "Why Pygmalion, exactly?" "You know. Art coming alive, all that shit. Art, language. Idunno. Maybe not." She paces nervously, sipping at her drink. "How was the talk with Kaz?" She doesn't look at him. Rina's dark eyes flicker, now and then, toward the windows. Her manner is amped, distracted, full of a nervous energy that has no outlet but her painting. Grey leans forward, elbows on his knees, studying his drink and making the ice cubes sing against each other. "Not bad. She's... Kaz. You know." He shrugs. "Sounds like she's planning to stay." Rina manages a fleeting smile, glancing to him. "That's good news." "Agreed." Grey continues to stare down into his glass. "Look, Rina..." He drags his mismatched eyes up toward hers, uncomfortable and angry things gnawing behind his eyes and dragging at his face. "Look." The words come deliberately, tainted by the accent and the alcohol in his system. "I want you to know... I want you to know that I'm not... angry at you, or anything." Rina swallows, and looks away from him. "Why not?" she asks, simply. "Because I'm not." Grey frowns, eyes shifting away from her, restlessly, shoulders tight under the wrinkled trench. "Shit happens. You're alive, you're..." He's groping for words. "It's not something to get angry about. Not at you. All right? And if I seem... upset..." His gaze finds the easel again. "It's not about you." Rina lifts a shoulder, helplessly. "Okay, hon. I know you got a lot on your mind." She downs the last of her drink and heads to the kitchen for more. "'S'why I'm glad you and Kaz could sit down and talk." Grey drains his own glass, ice rattling against his teeth. "We really didn't talk about much," he confesses, wiping his mouth with the heel of his free hand. The scotch guzzles into the glass. "Another?" she asks quietly. Grey holds his out. "...Please." It's that kind of night. Rina comes out of the kitchen, bottle in one hand, glass in the other. She fills his up with a devil-may-care laziness, and then sits down--not next to him, but on the floor some distance away. Grey mutters his thanks in Serbian, lifts his glass to her in a rough salute, then tosses back a sizeable swallow. "Not bad." He ducks his head, regarding her through overlong hair, bemused and broody. She's neither facing him, nor looking at him. "Single malt. My one alcoholic vice." Her expression twists, profile turning bitter. Grey nods faintly and drops his eyes, not replying right away. A few seconds pass before he takes another drink, all but draining the glass. Rina wraps both arms around herself and shivers, the ice ratting in her glass. Grey looks up at the sound. "...You all right?" He asks the question as though he figures he already knows the answer, and that the answer will be bad. Rina looks up, a blissful, soft smile on her face. "Yeah," she murmurs softly. "I'm fine." She still isn't looking at him; just up. Grey stares at her for a moment before looking away, shoulders hunching, his stubbled jaw tight. "Good." His voice is flat. Rina mouths two words: 'Love you.' Then she glances over to Grey, a flicker of worry coming to her eyes. "You know..." Her voice is quiet, gentle. "If you want to talk, ever, I'm, you know. Around." "I know," he says into his drink. The temper's there, visible in the line of his jaw, the furrow in his brow, the tension in the way he sits at the edge of the couch. It's muffled, though, under weariness, under drink, under that sense of being weighed down. "I know," he says again. Her brow furrows, and she lowers her eyes. "If I did somethin', ever, to lose your trust..." She swallows thickly. "I really-- I want to help, any way I can, aright?" The girl slants him a dark look, searching. Grey shakes his head when she brings up the issue of trust, then finishes off the scotch in his glass. "It's... not something that I want to talk about." He's starting to slur a little to go along with the careful deliberateness of his speech. "S'not about trust. I trust you." He flicks a brief look at her, long enough to add, "I swear," before ducking his eyes. She sets her drink aside, and rocks gently, arms wrapped around her knees. Her head rests on them, tipped so that she can watch him. "I just-- I need to--" Wincing, pleading, she finds the right words. "You're my family. You're it. I need to be a part of-- whatever affects you." Grey shifts his weight as though he was about to stand up and then decided not to. "If I tell you, it might change things." He doesn't look at her. "You think what happened is gonna change my respect for you?" she asks softly. "Something founded on years?" "It's changed /my/ respect for me," Grey replies dourly. Blame the liquor for loosening his tongue. Or for not loosening it enough, since he is, as always, deeply reluctant. "I know," Rina answers, very softly. "But it won't change mine." Grey fiddles with his glass, not answering right away, making the ice cubes clink against each other. "...Could I have another drink?" "Sure--" She glances over her shoulder, and then quickly rises, to take him the bottle and fill up his glass. It doesn't take her long to give him space--backing off and sitting down carefully, watching him. Grey just about empties it in one go, this time, and swallows with his eyes closed, letting it burn its way down his throat. "Mmn." He opens his eyes, finishes off the rest, and then sets the glass down on the coffee table. "...Right." He rubs at his face. "You know... you know how I left the Shadow Lords, right? Why I was made Ronin?" Rina shakes her head. "I thought you just didn't like them. Or they didn't like you." She takes a sip of her drink, and then adds, "You were kind of an asshole back then." Grey glances at her when she speaks, then looks away, folding his arms across his chest. "Yes, well..." He trails off, then picks up the subject again with slow reluctance. "My Sept was at war with the Sabbat. I was captured, held for... I don't know. Months. The Sept won, pulled me out, cleansed me, then put me on trial for..." His mouth thins. "Unthinkable things. Things I knew I hadn't done, but the only Judge left was someone who wanted me out, so... Didn't matter what I said, because she claimed I was lying. She could have had me killed, but didn't. I never knew why. I figured... better revenge that way. Slower. More... painful." He rubs his mouth with the back of his hand. "Typical Shadow Lord bullshit. Except..." He licks his lips, hesitating. Rina wets her lips, takes another sip. Her eyes are shadowy as she listens; the only thing on her face is a kind of intent concern. "Except...?" she prompts. Grey doesn't look up. "...Except that, recently, I... remembered a few things." He pauses for a few seconds. "And I realized that Anya, the Judge I mean, that she wasn't lying." "Oh," Rina says faintly. She lowers her eyes, and presses her lips together for a moment. Thinking. Then, cautious, she looks across to him. "But you... you know, don't you, that-- they can /make/ you do things? Things you would never-- never give in to, they can-- twist your will, get in your mind." She swalllows, thickly. Grey remains hunched over himself, arms crossed as though cold and wound up tight. "I know. But-- I did them, and I--" He stops, starts again. "And what I remembered compared to what I... what I /know/ is still there..." He shakes his head as he trails off, grimacing tightly and still unable to look at her. "I thought I knew myself." "I know-- how that feels," she says softly. A silence passes, before she speaks again--soft, almost devoid of emotion. "Most soldiers or professional interrogators will tell you: everybody breaks. And with them-- with the fucking leeches-- they don't even have to break you. They twist your mind." She looks across to him, direct and suddenly fiery with determination. "You have to /teach/ yourself that it wasn't you, it wasn't your /soul/, that did those things. Whatever happened, it's gonna take a lot of work to convince you--but you have to use whatever tools you have to get that message inside. You didn't will those things to happen; you were used. You don't bear the blame for it, and you gotta /teach/ yourself however you can. Just like-- like if I said it was my fault I was raped in the hospital, you'd try to teach me that it wasn't." The dark eyes, intense, remain fixed on him. Grey listens, staring at the ice cubes melting in his glass on the coffee table. He unfolds his arms, leans his elbows on his knees, and rubs distractedly at his face as she speaks. Though he nods slightly when she's done, he still doesn't look at her and his expression remains doubting and doubtful. "Perhaps it was, though," he says slowly. "Is. Not my /fault/, exactly, or at least I don't /think/ so, but..." He shakes his head; the amount of vodka and scotch he's ingested making it difficult to think clearly. Rina watches him, a strange blend of wariness and pain written across her face. She doesn't speak--just abruptly gets to her feet and crosses the room to him, looking down at him with black eyes. Then she kneels on the couch next to him. "It wasn't your fault," she finally says, quietly. "Look at me, and say it." Grey looks, though he's slow to raise his head. His eyes are shadowed, the kind of look she's seen before, in the mirror. "It wasn't my fault," he says, obedient and hollow. Then, insistantly, "But--" Rina shakes her head quickly, and reaches out with both hands to frame his face, holding it firmly. The smell of cordite mixes with that of paint thinner. She must have been shooting, recently. "No," she says, dark eyes pinning his. "No. It wasn't your fault. You fought them with all the will you had. I /know/ you did. You resisted. You /tried/, with everything in you." There is a fierceness in her eyes, a solemn, earnest strength; she is like a stranger. Gentle and merciless, she goes on. "But it wasn't enough, was it?" Tension coils within him; his eyes shift away from hers, nostrils flaring at the mixture of thinner and cordite. If his ears could move, they'd be lying flat. There's a moment of danger, palpable, but he closes his eyes and wills the beast back down; his hands, hanging between his knees, have closed into fists, fingernails digging into palms. Minutely, he shakes his head. "Tell me," she whispers, harsh and fierce. Her hands, hard as her will, keep his head turned toward her. "Look at me, and you tell me." "Rina..." A faint plea. His voice has roughened, and maybe it's the booze and cigarettes, and maybe it's something more lycanthropic. He tries to pull away from her, his eyes open but expending great effort to avoid meeting hers. He mutters a Slavic oath, adds, "--not now, Jesus Christ, the moon--" "You think I give a fuck?" she says roughly. "So the moon's fuckin' with you. So much the better. For once you can't turn on your goddamn iron self-control and shut me OUT." Her hands slide into his hair. "Tell me," she says fiercely. "Did you fight? Did you try?" Grey's lips pull backwards, baring teeth in a grimace. It's like holding a stallion by the bridle; any moment and the big black beast might rear, lashing out deadly hooves. He's trembling with the effort to keep his temper at bay. "I don't remember," he says, forcing the words out. "I think-- at first-- but--" Several seconds pass before he says again, both plaintive and demanding, "/I don't remember./" "I know you," Rina says quietly. "And you know yourself. So you tell me. You think you tried to fight it? Or what, you figure you just rolled right over and volunteered?" Her voice turns mocking, fierce again. "Yeah, go ahead, I wanna be your blood doll. Sign me up. That how it went?" Grey jerks his head, pulling at the fingers entwined in his hair. His good eye focuses on hers briefly, glaring. Thickly, he says, "Fuck, Rina, no, of course not--" "Then say it. Tell me you fought them. And it WASN'T ENOUGH." She gives him a hard little shake, dark eyes relentless on his one. Fury and panic flare up in tandem; he yanks back again, forcing her to grip tightly to keep her hold on him. Another tragedy averted, and his eyes are closed again, squeezed shut. He mutters a curse after a second or two, ragged, and then gives in. "I fought. It wasn't enough." "So it wasn't your fault," she says quietly, loosing her hold and stroking his hair, running her fingers through it. "Was it." Grey drops his head, sitting forward with his elbows on his knees, breathing hard. His hands relax and open, with little crescent marks embedded in his palms. He shakes his head mutely. Carefully, gently, she wraps her arms around him. Her voice, when she speaks, is gentle again. "You gotta look in the mirror, every day, and tell yourself the same things, over and over. And try to believe them. You do it enough... eventually it sinks in." Leaning her head against his, she takes a deep breath, inhaling smoke and sweat and alcohol. New sweat and old, the former drying quickly in the chill of the studio; he shivers despite the fact that he's still wearing the rumpled trenchcoat. "Jesus Christ. Jesus /fucking/ Christ, I need a drink." "Not really," Rina murmurs into his hair. "Water and maybe a shower and sleep. If I had a hot tub, I'd offer that, too." She hugs him without confining, without holding. "Gotta be good to yourself. Somebody has to, right?" Backing off a little, she combs through his tangles with her fingers. His hair's well past his ears by now, though still too short to tie back. She spots a few pale grey hairs hiding at the temples, matching the salt hiding with the black of three days of neglectful beard-growth. "Jesus Christ," he says again, and scrubs his face with one hand, wrung-out and weary. She bends her head to his, leaning for a moment. "I'll getcha some ice water, aright?" Quiet, gentle, worried... the caretaking is a sharp contrast to the way she pushed earlier. "All right," he mutters. "Would rather another scotch, but... I suppose that I /have/ had enough." He glances up at her for a moment, unsmiling, and then falls to studying the marks in his palms. A last run of her hand to smooth his hair, and she rolls to her feet, scooping up the bottle of scotch along the way and heading for the kitchen. She takes a little while before returning, with two tall glasses of ice water. "Drink,": she says, handing him one. Grey has shed his coat by the time she returns, letting it lie in a crumpled heap around him on the couch. He takes the proffered glass with a reflexive mutter of thanks and drinks deeply. Only afterwards does he speak again, glancing sidelong at her, focusing somewhere near her feet. "It's not as easy as that, you know." The words come slowly. "Even if it isn't my fault, even if I tried, I still failed." Rina nods, watching him as she takes a seat next to him. "Because there wasn't anything you could do. You did everything you can. And you still failed, because you don't have Jedi Mind Control. Because they have some shit that we can't stop." The dark eyes study his face, mirroring the pain he conceals. Bringing everything into the open. "Just like I couldn't stop the guy in the hospital. Because I didn't have a gun, and he was flat out stronger than me. There was nothing I could do. I fought tooth and nail... and I failed." Grey opens his mouth, closes it, and nods quickly before taking another drink of water. "I thought I knew," he says after that, mind turning relentlessly back on itself. "Thought I knew the worst... the very /worst/ about myself, and I don't know anything." "But it wasn't your will," Rina says softly. "It was your body. Even your mind, maybe. But it wasn't your fault, caro." Her free hand touches his shoulder, makes soothing motions there. Grey shakes his head again, faintly, his hands curled around the cold glass. "I'm trying," he says to it, slurring noticeably by now. "I swear, I /am/, trying to do more than... than just mope around, but..." "It's okay," Rina whispers. "You finish that off, aright? You can crash here if you want. He doesn't mind." "Thank you." Considering the moon and the fact that, not long ago, he came dangerously close to losing control, his response is surprisingly meek. "Sometimes the safehouse gets... crowded." "Yeah," she murmurs. "I bet. I'm just gonna clean up, okay? Put the painting and stuff away. You can shower if you want, might make you feel a little better." Grey nods, takes another swallow of water, and then sets it down on the coffee table. Then, with some effort, he levers himself to his feet. He stands swaying for a moment, uncertain of his balance, and then goes stumbling toward the bathroom, leaving his coat behind. Rina quietly cleans her brushes and cleans up the mess of painting. She also digs out a sheet and the spare pillow cotton blanket kept in the top of the closet. His coat is relocated to a chair, and the bedding is laid out neatly on the couch for him. The shower goes on for some time, longer than his usual austere, efficient quickness. He emerges at last having re-donned the long-sleeved t-shirt and rumpled blue jeans, but with his feet bare on her floor and his shaggy hair wet and tousled from a quick towel-dry. Rina straightens from fussing with the blankets on the couch. "Better? She asks quietly. Grey's gaze is still unsteady, and he walks back toward the couch with a drunkard's care. "Cleared my head a little." Pause. "A little." "I filled your glass again," she notes. It's sitting on the coffee table within easy reach. She steps over to cautiously offer a hug--for once, giving him the option of refusing. Maybe because he's started to do so, recently. Grey allows it, though he seems rather cautious himself, as though he's afraid of breaking her. "...Too fucking good to me," he mutters. "Nope," she answers quietly. "You deserve every horrible minute of it. Not gonna let you go around forgetting about how much you mean to me." She finds the right spot against him, resting her head against his chest, the embrace oddly chaste. Grey's shirt is damp and still smells of smoke and booze. He wraps his arms loosely around her, standing still and breathing slowly. "Family," he mutters, distantly. Rina nods against him. "Yeah." After a time, she untangles herself and looks up at him. "I'll be here all night, if you need to talk or anything. Get some rest. Drink that glassa water, too." Grey nods, his eyes not meeting hers for long. "All right." And after taking a seat at the edge of the couch, he obediently drinks down the glass of water before settling himself down to sleep. She does her own nighttime rituals, before heading to bed herself and turning off the lights. For a long time, the apartment is peaceful--if a little chilly. (Grey sleeps... well, pretty badly, really, but he makes it through the night without incident, and in the morning, Rina does her Italian Mother thing and, hangover or not, makes him eat a big Italian breakfast, with eggs and peppers and things of that nature. He doesn't make it back to the safehouse until around noon.)