WELCOME TO DREAMWIDTH, HERO...

Angelica Einstürzen.

[His voice is rough. Raw. The edges of his words are clipped off, as though he's still learning to use the proper amount of air, learning to breathe the proper breaths.]

I'm here again.

[It's late at night. Trees everywhere, likely the park. Katurian is crouched on the ground, holding a lantern out in front of him. Moths buzz and bump into it.

His eyes are bloodshot. Unmistakably. None the less, his voice is a coo.]

There we go. It's all right.

[He scoops at the moths. It takes some maneuvering, but he manages to get one on his finger, finally, and holds it up in the air.]

Lymantria dispar. [It's an adoring whisper. The moth crawls.] They had these back home, too, little-- little messy things, little pests, always ruining our trees and garden. I hated killing them, but I liked fresh vegetables just a little more. [Beat.] They were brought over to North America as part of an experiment. I read.

[The moth crawls down into his palm. He rests the lantern on the ground.]

"But the chief peculiarity of this horrible thing was the representation of a Death's Head--" [His voice hums.] "--which covered nearly the whole surface of its breast, and which was as accurately traced in glaring white upon the dark ground of the body as if it had been there carefully designed by an artist."

[Beat.]

Poe.

[Beat. He lifts his arm, letting the moth crawl down towards his elbow.]

What do you miss about your old life?

This will be graphic.

[Short. To the point. He doesn't have the usual softness to his words, those bits and littles and wells and I means. The video clicks on to show green blood caking the wall of an alleyway. The body of a small, Skrull teenager. Specifically, this one.]

She's been here for a full day, at least. All torn and mangled and askew. There's-- a recording of her final moments on the Network. She knew she was going to die. She knew it. But she turned on the communicator anyway so everyone could see it happen.

Maybe she just wanted to leave something behind.

The coordinates for--

[There's a pause. An unfinished breath. Another. Another.]

I'm g-going to be ill.

[And the feed cuts.]


ooc; there will be no responses from katurian. feel free to tag amongst yourselves.

[The communicator is focused on a darkened wall. A beam of light. A shadow puppet emerges, a grotesque face with "lips" that move in time with Katurian's voice.]

I feel like a pig about to be slaughtered.

[The face collapses. He uses his hands to form the shadow into a pig, appropriately. He squeals, shrill, and then chokes on a laugh. High pitched, pig-like:]

A dog about to be put down.

[He forms his hands, predictably, into a dog. BARK BARK, he goes, moving the shadow's jaw. He uncurls his hands without fanfare this time, clearing his throat. Growing unsteady. The camera stays on the empty wall.]

Tell me how you feel today. With art.

[There's the soft sound of a heater in the background, a pleasant, continuous hum. Katurian's voice is clear but decidedly subdued, a contrast to his typically frantic nature.]

Aristotle once said that most of humankind is swayed by fear rather than reverence, that they refrain from evil not because it's the right thing to do but because they're afraid of punishment. It gets me thinking about religion more than anything.

[Pause. The faint sound of nails tracing wood. Tapping.]

After all, religion builds monsters to keep people in line. Fantastical beings. Or-- not so fantastical. But of course, I never needed them. I never payed attention to all the monsters that people cowered over in groups behind pews. The monsters described on clear blue pamphlets.

I'm a writer. I make my own monsters.

[Pause. Then, softer:]

There are, of course, quite a few people who don't refrain in the first place. I suppose that's what Aristotle meant. Most humankind.

[More tapping. Drumming.]

I suppose-- [Pause.] Well. I suppose that's it for today.

[Click.]

I've been here for well over a year now, and I still don't understand this place.

You know how-- [Pause.] You know those questions people like to ask sometimes, like 'if you could bring one person into the City, who would it be?' I wouldn't bring in anyone I really cared about. Sometimes I think about bringing in people from my old workplace, just so that I can show someone back there that this world exists. Anyone. Even if I don't give a shit about the person in question, which for them I really wouldn't, I'd want them to know. Maybe to make myself less invisible. Less absent.

[Pause.]

But when we return back to our old, significantly more familiar lives, that doesn't quite happen. Our memories are wiped clean. Gone forever. We will never have control over the Porter, and no one we want to arrive will ever arrive because we asked for them to. The-- [A bitter laugh.] --the fucking insanity here, that remains our best kept secret. The poor fucking natives. They'll always know.

[Pause. Then, carefully:]

The very first day I arrived here, I thought I was in Hell.

What about you?

( private to nina sayers )

Fugue? It's Katurian.

[Pause.]

You had said we had a few things to talk about.

[Katurian is breathing hard, and each of his breaths is audible over the communicator. The inhale. The exhale. Everything is sharp and raw.]

I am scared out of my mind. And I know what you're going to say: Katurian is always scared out of his mind. But not without reason.

I'm thinking it isn't the Porter. The thing that's kidnapping people and erasing their memories. I'm thinking the Porter does a lot of fucked up things, but not this. Not now. Someone mentioned that we're being watched, like, the Network is being watched and tracked and followed, and the Porter doesn't need to monitor us because it already knows fucking everything. Do you know what I mean? It gives us powers that are ironic or fitting in some way because it knows us, it chose us.

Which means someone else is watching us. Maybe other imports. Maybe a group of natural citizens who somehow wormed their way inside, I don't know, I'm inclined to say imports, but anyway, there's a very good chance that this someone else is doing the kidnapping.

HEY YOU! [He breaks into a laugh, not a little hysterically.] We know you're there! We're on to you. You can't kidnap people and then go off and have tea or whatever the fuck you're doing. You need to take some fucking responsibility! I want a speech! I want a declaration of war!

[His breathing slows. Quiets. Beat.]

I've been doing a lot of thinking, and I don't think I can remember last weekend at all.

[An extended pause, and then the communicator clicks off.]

Greatest disappointment?

[Who's that sunshine? Oh, Katurian's back. He's in a stairwell and his words echo faintly.]

No, I-- I'm not serious. [Firmly:] I'm not being serious. I'm glad I'm in the City again. Horrible dinosaurs and all. I have so much more to write. [Beat.] And people to see.

The main thing is that I owe some people an apology. I know I said some nasty things when I was younger, and you could say I didn't know any better, but that's fucking bullshit. I was a snotty brat of a kid. So I'm sorry.

You can still answer my question, if you want. Your greatest disappointment. I understand that might not be the kind of thing you'd want to share with strangers, or someone like me in particular, but I consider myself v-very--

I consider myself very good at listening.

[He sounds composed, given the circumstances, though a slight hitch escapes into his voice now and again.]

Well. [Pause.] I've sent messages. I've knocked on his door. Again. And again. When I stepped inside his apartment after a full day of nothing, there were no signs of forced entry, but his communicator was there and he was gone. He is gone. Andrew Bernard is gone.

[Pause.]

A-And maybe this sounds like a port out, and, you know, it probably is. That's probably just what this is. Case closed, right? Ha! Isn't it always? But I-I swear to God--

[Composed. Dark. Dangerous:]

I swear to God that if I find out any one of you has laid a finger on him, you'll live to regret it.

[It's a rare video post, yes, but it's focused on the weather-stained window. In the distance, there's a swarm of pigeons. It's raining.]

Rain is terribly depressing.

[Spoken like an admiration! There's a smile on his voice. He must be in a good mood. (Or slightly drunk.)]

Anyway, these ones aren't mine, but-- [He clears his throat.]

A birdcatcher was about to sit down to a dinner of herbs when a friend had arrived, but the bird-trap was quite empty--[He follows the pigeons with his camera.] --as he had caught nothing that day, and so he had to kill a pied partridge that he had tamed for a decoy. The bird entreated earnestly for his life [Pleadingly:] "What would you do without me when next you spread your nets? Who would chirp you to sleep, or call for you the covey of answering birds?"

The birdcatcher spared his life and determined to pick out a fine young rooster. But the rooster expostulated in piteous tones from his perch: "If you kill me, who will announce to you the appearance of the dawn!? Who will wake you to your daily tasks or tell you when it is time to visit the bird-trap in the morning?'

The birdcatcher replied, "What you say is true. You are a capital bird at telling the time of day. But my friend and I must have our dinners."

[He snickers, a quiet wheezing sound. Oh, he's definitely drunk.]

One more. [Breaaaaathe.] A singing bird-- [Again, he follows the pigeons.] ---was confined in a cage which hung outside a window not unlike this one, and had a way of singing at night when all other birds were asleep. One night, a bat came and clung to the bars of the cage, and asked the bird why she was silent by day and sang only at night. Not a little peculiar, that.

"I have a very good reason for doing so!" said the bird. "It was once when I was singing in the daytime that a fowler was attracted by my voice, and set his nets for me and caught me. Since then, I have never sung except by night."

But the bat replied, "It is no use your doing that now when you are a prisoner. If only you had done so before you were caught, you might still have been free!"

Ha.

[Beat. There's an awkward, unsteady silence before he clicks off the video.]

( private to edward nygma )

[The following has been seen posted throughout the City on telephone poles, walls, doors. An ad runs in the local paper. Today, it's deliberately posted to the Network.]



(ooc: tags from katurian will be sporadic or non-existent, but feel free to talk amongst yourselves!)

[It's late at night. Far beyond light's out at NOHoPE, but without the video function, it's only obvious in how Katurian keeps his voice at a low hush.]

I know this is public. I'd make it private, but I can't. The communicator they've given me at the hospital, it won't let me have filters or privating. Anything like that. I guess it's so I can't secretly plot anyone's ruin or whatever. [Pause, uncertain.] That was a joke.

Anyway, most of you can ignore me. You can stop this recording right now. [Hesitation, then rushed:] But if you're supposed to be visiting me, you can tell me when and I-- I'll make sure I get your names in to the nurses this week and whatnot, and I'm still doing well, I'm holding steady, so there's nothing to worry about. I'm fine. Don't I sound sharper? [Pause.] I'd like to think so.

Anyway.

[His tone is ambiguous - deliberately so - but his voice holds steady.]

Edward Nygma. I'd like to speak with you.