van der rohe

Hope shook off the thought off wondering where the team was now, a good thing that she impulsively went for the botanic garden herself, no one else needed to take the risk. "Welp, I couldn't find a better planter and this was all I could get, so, sorry 'bout the pink. But pop of color, right?" She lightheartedly shrugged before leaning back against the table in the room that held all her supplies she recently dumped out from backpacking with, yet to be sorted out. "I hope the rest of them are doing okay," her voice rarely softens but for these words it did, a worry she knew only two people in the building would understand.

perhaps she would name it hope, perhaps she would name it nothing at all. the pop of color unsettles her more than the question that's been asked, giving her an easy enough pivot off of the plant.

"they are." she is certain because there is nothing else to be. there is certainly nothing that the two of them could do. so, she holds on to the plant, unable to put it down and leave a smear of dirt on whatever surface it might find. "it is possible." not right, missed the mark. "it is probable."

"Come on, come on! Here's the place they gave me," Hope harped as she ushered Scout into her supposed new home, as long as she earned it however, it seems. Not unreasonable to earn a place here but she was skeptical of what work it might take. For now, she seemed in the clear and eagerly met Scout again, last but not least on her list of important people to give hugs to today even if Scout might not want one. After the initial pleasantries and greetings, the conversation turned quickly to where her new home was and of course she had to show her. Scout isn't always the most expressive person, but she reminded Hope of on her of sisters, in a pleasant way, and the moment they met in Santi's crew, Hope stuck on and got along with Scout, as well as anyone could at least.

Hope's apartment felt way too big for one, considering she used to share a New York apartment with people, her room the only place she could call hers. So when there's too much space, might as well make sure of it. "It's huge, there's a whole other room here! I started moving my plants in here with the full length windows and sunlight hitting in, maybe another tiny greenhouse of our own," Hope gleefully rambled on as she pulled her into the tiny greenroom of plants, it was still a huge mess and work in progress, but she could see the vision. "Here, remember when I was propagating tiny succulents for everyone in the gang?" Hope spun a little twirl before finding the small baby succulent recently transplanted into bright pink plastic cup, makeshift pot, if you will, "this one's yours!"

hope had persevered through such roadblocks, to at least a familiar end. in a building of strangers where she could not always just sit on santiago's couch, it was another place to go. the storm weathered for as long as hope wanted to continue talking about her own plants, her own life.

she stared at the pink, a color bright enough to set her on edge. her apartment was a contained palette of neutrals, her life a shade of natural wood. this would clash at any angle in any position, sounding an alarm in her head that she couldn't vocalize. "thank you." the words are choked, unable to hide the shock at being offered a gift the moment she walked in. "that was faster than i assumed."

Noemi. Gray doesn't know if the name is familiar because it's been locked away in his childhood memory, or simply because he'd seen it on the internet before. Regardless, the circles Gray ran with hadn't included that of any sort of philharmonic or celebrities of any kind. Scout's words don't seem to ring any bells, as made clear by the continuing confusion on his face.

The question she poses, however, has Gray lower his gaze down, seeming to just look at the floor, but the glaze in his eyes indicate a deep-dive to find the answer in a pool of memory not just deep and dark, but murky to boot. So much of his past is black, and lingering there for too long makes his heart rate pick up for reasons that aren't clear to him—Gray isn't even sure if the restlessness that trying to recall anything in that pitch black is due to panic or anger or a difficult-to-separate mix of the two.

Cellos don't ring a bell to him, but there's a tune that ebbs and floods into his consciousness at the most random of times, without any triggers. Gray's answer to Scout's question is met, finally, with a shrug and a slight head shake—a non-verbal "I don't know" opposed to a "no". Instead, he hums the tune attached to the vague memory of his mother, trying to keep his mind fixed on the picture in his father's bedroom, the only place he's ever seen her picture, the only way he knows what she looks like—and that he looks like her.

His eyes lift up to Scout again, and the memory is replaced immediately by her face—certainly not a one-to-one, but familiar enough that makes Gray try to swallow the pounding of his heart in his throat.

"that is edward elgar's cello concerto in e minor." the notes are off, they find themselves on different scales and sliding variables, as though they're being plucked from a dream. still, even with its imperfections, the tune echos through the corners of her mind. "it was his last completed work before his death." the fact meets the mid crescendo, something repeated time and time again as it had been played throughout her own childhood.

"it was her capstone piece," she doesn't know what she's looking for, what might make it clear enough that she's not getting the files from the computer any time soon, not now. not when faced i don't know, a confluence of feelings, nothing permanent which could ever be found now. "when she graduated college." the kind of piece that one played for hours, hummed until they knew it by heart.

the notes on the page became muscle memory for her mother after than experience, they'd say. she wouldn't know, she hadn't been born yet. but perhaps, in some dim recess, it was possible that someone else had been. the image of her family cracks. she thinks to her perfect mother, her perfect grandparents. the trickle down of failure which had not been on their side, if they were to be believed.

"i don't suppose your mother taught it to you."

Former owner isn't of interest to Gray, and it's clear it's not of interest to her. She says her name, however, as though he ought to know it, and Gray simply furrows his brows, shaking his head slightly. Scout. Funny name. But the sharp edges of the syllable cutting into his mind feels like it very much suits her. Yes, she's a sharp edge, cutting into his mind, in places he doesn't want to be cut, opening memories like an old wound, bleeding, bleeding, bleeding...

There's still no recognition at the mention of 'father', but a hint of a scowl tugs on Gray's facial muscles at the concept alone. A father is a monster, as far as he's concerned. A father is not anyone he'd want to know. A father is a word best left in pieces, in the depths of the Massachusetts Bay. A shudder runs down his spine as something brushes the curve of a memory he can't consciously acknowledge.

But no, no fathers carry Gray's recognition of her. There's something else. Something more. The mention of 'mother' is warmer, sweeter, bitter opposed to absent. A mother is neutral, a mother is still a flash in his mind, from a lifetime ago, from a picture on a side table of a room he isn't allowed in. A picture of cheekbones like hers, chin like hers, hair like hers, like hers, like hers.

"Mother," Gray mutters to himself, taking a few steps towards her, there but not there, in another time, another place, another face looking at him, but the same one all the same. "You look like your mother," he tells Scout, but no, he has to correct himself. She doesn't look like her mother. "You look like my mother."

he stepped towards her, and it took every fiber of her being not to take one back. she has not yet accomplished anything she came for, and this is not a conversation of unknowns. she has had it before, she knows the steps, or so she thinks.

"i am my parents only child." she has never thought of this line of inquiry. she never asked her mother of a life before the orchestra. she had been led to believe that there had not been one, or had she merely assumed it to be the case. in the arts there was one all consuming love: the work. any children were a footnote, the epilogue to greatness. legacy came after.

"my mother, noemi, she was a conductor for the," she stumbles over the words, "the toronto philharmonic, among others." she cannot seem to sort the details that mattered with the questions that are actually being asked of her. it was his mother he was after. how could she account for a detail she had no knowledge of? there was no correcting her course now, as she continued down the steps of routine, "you may have seen her in a magazine."

had he seen her in a magazine? had his mother had the same features which found her in the mirror reach morning? the way to know was to ask, and yet the question alludes her, finding its way in wrong angles: "did your mother play the cello?"

It has been his mission to get a personal gauge on every lead he's been given since stepping into this building, and in the case of Scout, before then even. Santi has told him about her, capable young woman, impressive resumé, more things along those lines, but he's always preferred to get his own idea of a person. Not that he doesn't trust Santiago Muñez's judgement—one could argue that, where people are concerned, Dante trusts the man's judgement almost as much as his own. This conversation isn't him doubting that judgement; if he does, said conversation wouldn't even take place.

No, it's just easier to get a feel of people through conversation, through picking up body language, how they carry themselves, the words they choose. Things most people forget to add to someone's description, things that are digested subconsciously. People tell so much about themselves, if one just knows where to look, what to listen for, and they don't even know it themselves. To anyone with a trained eye and a perked ear, hiding who you are is very difficult.

Instead of lurking or sneaking up on the young woman once Dante's found her in the library, he clears his throat upon entering the space. It doesn't take a lot of time for him to cross his way over to her, leaning down slightly to where she's seated so he can lower his voice. "Excuse me," he says, letting his words come out slow and somewhat drawn out to make his tone warmer and gentler, "I've heard of you from Santiago. Would you mind a conversation?" Dante presses a hand to his chest. "My name's Dante."

santi has become something of a passcode, an easy shorthand to understanding that no one else has ever been. she has not yet grown used to the ease that it brings to her posture, the ever so slight relaxation. "of course." she says, closing the folder of sketches she had been looking over so that her full attention finds the face of the man who addressed her.

"scout." she meets his greeting with her own, gesturing to the chair next to her. she's never been fond of handshakes, or any physical contact, and so long as it isn't impolite to decline, she does not offer. "though, you know that." or knew enough to seek her out anyways. she wonders if the connection is just santiago, or if there's something deeper to the lures of the wexley. "what brings you to this place?"

where: outside in the streets

when: april 19th

now in the wexley for a few weeks, adjusting to everything and the quick change of dynamic, worry had set heavily into the older man. not just for the residents of the building, but especially for his people in the building. ashton was missing in action, he’d yet to hear from the other survivors scout and him left behind to come into the city. though he felt they were likely alright. with the skills taught over the time they’d all been together, it should be enough to sustain them going forward. even if he never saw any of them again. what had him even more concerned, is that scout was moved off their floor and it seemed leadership had taken a particular liking to her. 

of course they couldn’t very well discuss all of that so openly in the building, so santiago had to wait for the opportune moment that they could be on their own on a run to discuss it. after the hospital run, lindsay had opted to stay back with maisie as much as possible and santiago honestly preferred that. as much as he trusted him to be with him for tactical reasons, he worried with his injury, missing fingers could complicate things and he knew his mind would be on maisie most the time. plus, this gave ample opportunity to talk to scout and they already worked quite well together with the months spent surviving thus far. 

“so,” he started, quietly when he was certain they were alone. “what’s really going on? what do they want with you? i’ve been worried, mijita.”

not that there could have been space for her in the third floor space that he'd occupied with lindsay and maisie. but, it seemed there was space for her nowhere. pulled up and up, until she had no one to talk to but the whites of the walls and the sketches she'd made. was she a friend, an enemy, a traitor to all below. she couldn't tell, and the distinction made a difference. at least here, santi maintained the same affect she had come to expect. her nickname, one of the first she'd ever been given, cradling concern that's never been given to her before.

"she wants renovations made to the building." the words come easy now, matching his tone with exact measurement. so long as he stays quiet, she will do the same. "to create a long-term settlement for loyalists." the word is sticky, she may have misused it, imprecise with everything but her pencil. "but they can't build it yet, they need plans."

That idea alone has him relax a bit in her presence.

The Queen's name momentarily has Gray scrunch his nose in reaction, though, for but a second, but long enough to make it clear his feelings about her. It's not that he actively dislikes Sada Vang; they didn't start off on the right foot with her insisting on hiding and obfuscating intentions, something that doesn't sit well with Gray at all. If that is, after all, her default mode, there won't be a clear path through that maze at all. Fun for puzzles and engineering, not nearly as fun for people.

"I don't know who Tobias Wexley is," he replies with a shrug, but gestures to the computer he'd been using to blast the music centring his focus on what he's doing. "Works, though. What do you want with it?"

The question is defensive in nature, and while he situates his body between her and the computer—a clear lack of invitation to go ahead and partake—the usual tension in his body when faced with another person that isn't Odd is... not as present. "I've seen you before." No, that's not right. You've not seen her before. "I recognise you." Yeah, that's a better way to explain it.

"he was the former owner." she's availed herself to few details, the man himself hadn't generated much interest in her. she'd been so focused on getting here that she'd forgotten the after in what might come from it. "i need to know if there are any files, any plans—" but she doesn't finish her request, the turn of his body cutting her off from any quick exit with her files in hand.

instead she is faced with the question that has ebbed over time. at first, with the story breaking, it seemed to be asked every day. how could it not have been with her face on the television, her neck still cut through with a raw red scar than marked her as the right girl from the news. "scout van der rohe." she does not dodge the question, she never has. she has no penchant for lying, no ability to deceive. and she does not think the conversation will go in her favor if she tries any of the above.

"you may have known my father." this was always the likely answer, the color rushing to someone's face as they realized the gruesome details. but there was, still, the route of the last victim, "or my mother."

There was a cold professionalism to this woman that Sada could appreciate, falling easily into the pattern of clipped and to the point communication. A nice change from the political games she'd been playing for months now.

"Ammunition? Not with every resident. There are some that I suppose you would called dissenters. I'd prefer not to arm those that would see me taken down. Most who are armed now are trusted, though there are a few of the original residents I may consider arming in the future. It'd be my preference to keep a tight watch and control on the firearms in our possession for now." Or at least until they could ensure submission of her rivals.

she nods at the permissions she's being given, wary of the strings that are attached to them. so often favors are pulled away, making easy marks for traitors when the display is needed. it's clear she is an odd man out, an odder position. "you might consider an armory in one of the unoccupied floors then." she glances back towards the plans that have been laid out, though she is still "or— the pool." she can only flip a coin now, but at least the idea has solid footing.

"you have plenty of military expertise in this building." she thinks of armories, of making bullets and guarding those who couldn't yet defend themselves. she is of course biased in approach, but not in fact. "i would utilize them where possible for these outfits." she's planned for more defense than this building needs, with less supplies. but it is all useless if the people within cannot come to terms. "a tightly run garrison will do well in this scenario."

the word makes her teeth grind together harshly. the anger's building in illy's chest when it's abruptly cut off by scout's words. a dragon's throat slit before it's breath of fire could escape. there's an uncomfortable stumble in her step, displeased at how quickly she gave into the plea.

her face fixes into a tight line and she brings a foot down against the rotting skull of one of the bodies. it crunches beneath her foot and illy continues applying pressure as she sinks deeper into the wet mess. she grinds her heel against what remains hoping to stomp out her frustration.

she pauses to wipe the bits of flesh and brain matter from her face, waiting to see what scout's reaction will be to this display of violence; if she would accept the invitation to join or continue to ignore the call to the inner nature illy had always hoped she would accept.

it was in her blood after all. you are your father's daughter.

"they don't—" how could she admit to the weakness of her building. that she only had a short range weapon, if she'd been with anyone else she might as well have had nothing. the vulnerability in asking to be defended. she would be hung out to dry, left to claw her way back into favor. and she was beyond that, she had grown from it.

"i prefer my runs to be quiet." she settles finally, a truth. how could they deny that she was made of silence, the moments between a breath where the exhale left and the inhale couldn't yet rupture. "we don't need the distraction." another truth, though just a shade grayer than the first. "i'm just here for supplies."

"I'll give you access to the filing cabinets in his office, I'm not sure where else they would be." There had to be document storage somewhere, but Sada had yet to find the time to actually look for it. Considering the age of the building it could be in any number of places, including the basement. "I know when I renovated mine I had to submit plans to Tobias, I'm sure the others did as well. Those files must be somewhere." Maybe it would be a job worth pulling Ember from her wallowing for, though Sada wasn't entirely sure even she would know.

"Just the tower of it, it's not that large a space, which means there will be room enough for storage and work spaces. Our new tailor is a little on the eccentric side but I'm sure it'll be space enough to satisfy. The rest of the common room I think would make a suitable library. There's many books in this place and entertainment of some sort is always useful for keeping the masses occupied." If it came down to it, there was always bread and circuses. Though bread would be the last resort.

"I'll trust your expertise there, I'm always open to suggestions." Especially if it ensured a better working of their building. "I've designated a place for the children and their carers as well, out of the way, which leaves there rest of the media and games room open for renovation into other spaces as well. I've been pondering some sort of distillery, not only for drinkable alcohol, but sanitizing as well."

"a library would be useful." the longer that electricity stayed minimal, the more they would find themselves the arbiters of knowledge. it made sense to keep everything accessible. "do you have a designated gathering space for meetings? the media room might be good." though she could visualize the space, it was always better to be there, to feel, to know. "i'll have to see it."

she considers the other ideas with various degrees of disinterest. any of them could fit in the space. it was a matter of what sada wanted to share. "are you willing to give over ammunition to everyone?" did she consider herself one of those people? she couldn't tell. she offered her advice with unbiased eyes, though under duress all the same as the distance from santiago and lindsay was felt. "i was under the impression there were certain things off limits for all residents."

To one side of him, there's small pile of equally crudely hammered pieces of metal, and on the other side, an even smaller pile of welded together bits that look like containers for something. His eyes stay focused on the bright dot through his mask, the music serving to focus every single sense until there's only the white dot and the orange line slowly tracking up from the welding torch in his hand, along the metal seam, heated metal cooling after the torch has passed. There's something soothing about welding for him, even if the circumstances and the place here's doing it in isn't exactly... safe.

Safety conditions have never really had a large priority in his mind, anyway. Certainly not for anyone who might just walk in and accidentally get blinded by the brightness of the torch going across the metal. That's not his responsibility, honestly.

Gray sits up when the torch reaches the edge of the seam and turns it off, letting it drop to the floor without a second thought before raising the welding mask up so he could examine his handiwork. Pretty? Certainly not. Effective? Absolutely. Back when he still went to MIT, one of his teachers had told him that he was the Dr. Frankenstein of engineering, and that still stands true today. Perhaps he should've taken it as the criticism it had been intended as, but to him it was—still is—more of a compliment. Who cares how you get the job done? Just get it done and make sure it fucking works, that's all you really need.

It's his name over the music that makes him look up in an instant, narrowing his eyes at the woman standing there. Graham. Who even was the last person who called him that? Some judge, definitely, before he was sentenced to the mental institute. "Gray," he corrects her, getting up to turn the music off. "The fuck you want then?"

"i had a conversation with sada vang." as though there could be any other person in the building who carried the name and authority. "i was told you might have a computer owned by tobias wexley." she doesn't venture further into the room, as she hasn't been invited into the space. she'd been asked to state an agenda, and nothing more.

the music cuts, and she has to pause to lower her voice before continuing. gray takes up the room with expansive control, someone who has claimed territory and hasn't rescinded an inch. in return, she is smaller and smaller. "is it still functional?"

she was spidersilk. pulling every fiber of her being together to withstand whatever the world threw at her with intricacy and control. because scout needed control.

but here on the streets of new york scout was not in control. illy was happy to help her remember that. "these guys? they're harmless." aspen b-lined to the passenger door and cracked it an inch. the corpses became more animated as the possibility of catching their prey appeared to grow more promising. the stench of decay was hot and putrid, the bodies obviously subjected to endless hours of sun.

"enough." she cuts through the play that they're trying to instigate. she cannot engage in these games, even if she wanted to. there are deadlines for these runs, and consequences. "i just don't need the headache." the ringing ears, the blackspots in her vision. she knew any second silence would turn around and come back for her. not that any of them were particularly threatened by what couldn't stand.

"you—" you always do this. a statement she can't complete and doesn't know for certain. time enough had passed to say that they might have changed. but she knew she hadn't yet pulled herself out of all her bad, there was no chance illy would have done close. "i am asking."

"I'm pretty sure there's a copy of the original plans from the 19th century or something by the feel of the paper I'd copy them from." So old it had felt almost more like fabric than paper itself, a beautiful document to even a layperson like Sada. Information was a valuable commodity in any day and age, but this one especially. They'd been thrust back into the stone age, and thankfully it seemed Tobias Wexley and his family had never left it.

"There's probably more here somewhere. These people never threw a things away, and I'm starting to doubt if Tobias even knew how to use the computer that had used to be here." And had now been gifted to Gray and his efforts considering it was useless to her now that she'd printed everything off and did little but take up space.

"Unfortunately, we've been a little preoccupied with survival and winter wasn't a feasible time to try. It's been a sort of defense in and of itself. Outside of that, I cannot tell you. Unfortunately, my management here is new." Discouraging and protecting both strangers and chompers alike from accessing the Lobby's stairwell door.

the plans for the lobby can only go so far as the material that they have to fix it. something that doesn't fill her with much hope from the streets that she's seen near the building. but, they've built better from less. and there seems to be a plan in motion to bring people together. "that's a lot of common space for one person." clothing storage and mending of some kind was necessary, her own wardrobe stood as testament to that fact. she was merely pushing at the ideas, seeing where their edges truly were.