001 // [action] + [accidental video] // this is not my beautiful house
[One moment, the scene in the mansion's dining room is ordinary-or as ordinary as it gets in Wonderland. The next moment-poof-an unknown man is standing beside the banquet table. Those familiar with mid-twentieth century medicine may peg him as a surgeon. Those familiar might further peg him-by virtue of his attire and air of concentration-as a
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Steinman!?
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Yes?
[He sounds concerned. More than that, he looks and sounds ready for action. Agitated people exclaiming his name tend to have this effect. Alas, he's not sure about what action to take. This might also be noticeable.]
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[A laugh.] Well, hell, son. You're a sight for sore eyes. [Bein' sane and all, he thinks.] Looks like you were previously involved.
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Sinclair? You son of a- You really had me going there. [he shakes the communicator] Should've known it'd be one of yours.
[Just like old times. Hey wait a- Steinman frowns and taps the communicator's screen. Once. Twice. Another frown.]
Might want to take a look at this one. The picture's on the fritz.
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He turns off the camera of his communicator: something lucid and painful has come into his mind, though he doesn't quite have the shape of it yet.
Cohen's voice is low, wondering, even - god forbid - a little reverent. And he wants to impress, and he can hack, he's good at it; so his voice comes out of every wall communicator at once.]
A spirit of the past has stepped into our house-!
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Sander ...Cohen?
[Congratulations, maestro, you've impressed.
The world made much more sense before the room greeted him in beautiful Sander Surround Sound™. This world, which wasn't making much sense at all, made so much more sense back then. In comparison, that world of several minutes ago just doesn't seem so weird any more.
Given that the communicator in his hand isn't addressing him, Steinman has forgotten all about it. Which means video feed full of things that aren't even remotely related to Steinman's face. If the wall communicators are transmitting video, you'll get a good show of handsome astounded surgeon from every possible angle.
He didn't-
He hasn't-
He doesn't-
-give him a minute to sieze on something that makes sense.]
Your house?
[Yes, inter-dimensional kidnapping of handsome men sounds right up Cohen's alley. Not to mention the interior decoration. Cohen definitely strikes one as a man who enjoys stiff chairs and a long, hard dining table.]
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Not my house.
[He sounds as though he's aged about a hundred backbreaking years between this statement and his last.]
Simply my dwelling.
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...what was that we were talking about again? Right, Sander Cohen is sad and he's making the whole room sound like failed artist sad. Well, Steinman can't whistle after that. He can't head nonchalantly for the exit. He can't even grin and ignore the obvious. He can continue to stand and stare at a point just above one of the communicators on the far wall-which is exactly what he does.
Give him another moment and-yes-Dr. Steinman smiles at that same point of nothing in the distance. The attempt at reclaiming his earlier graciousness is nearly flawless, if one doesn't look in his eyes. Don't look there and you might not even notice the uncertainty. And anxiety. And ...is that horror? Maybe. A little. Not much. Barely even worth mentioning. Perhaps just indigestion. Yes, that's it, indigestion. No surprise there. We're in the dining room, after all.I should-I ( ... )
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