Dangerous Mind ((Black, open))

[Cross]

((Why, yes, I did use a song title. How could you tell?))

Vicky paced up and down the empty infirmary. Roseleaf was on an errand, and no hares had yet come in. She held a blade in her paws, a dirk, Sersea had called it, and she studied it with only half her attention. She knew it would benefit her to go down to the training hall and practice while she had some free time, but the little mouse just wasn't in the mood. She couldn't quite put her paw on it, but she simply felt quieter than normal today. Not even visiting Braythe had brightened her mood.

This simply would not do. She moved over to where her bag lay in one corner near the wall, stowing the dirk safely inside. Drawing always improved her spirits. And she hadn't been doing much of that since coming here. Now was as good a time as any to sketch for awhile. Perching upon an empty desk, the tattooed mouse took out her charcoal sticks and thought for a moment, rolling up her sleeves. What should she draw?

Or, rather, who? Perhaps Braythe? Or even Roseleaf? Jamie? Crossing one leg over the other, she decided on Braythe. She had never drawn a badger before. May as well give it a shot. The only sound in the silent room was the incessant, almost inaudible, sliding and tapping of her charcoal stick against the paper. Now she was calm. Drawing was a nice, mind-occupying task, and she liked how her thoughts were more or less blank, save for the recent memories of Braythe she recalled for reference.

So focused was she on her sketching, that she barely noticed the door opening. She tossed a friendly but distracted, "Hello," to the visitor, casting a fleeting glance that way. They obviously weren't in immediate need, otherwise, they'd probably be collapsed on the floor, or even telling her what ailed them. The mouse didn't even think to look twice to see who it was.

[Stryker]

"Azryel, darling, I have no pictures of my one and only son -- you'll get me one, won't you?"

The pleading eyes of his mother still hounded him as he strode around the nearest corner, the silver buttons upon his charcoal gray uniform catching the light that drifted in through Salamandastron's vast windows. The morbidly cold hare was heading straight for the infirmary, only a quick nap in his room had been able to successfully pull him away from his workplace for an extended period of time. While he held mixed feelings in regards to his job at the infirmary, he did love his work if nothing else, and it was the only place he could study and perform it without ridicule or weary eyes cast his way.

So mother wants a portrait of me, eh? Forgive me for not having any artists' names locked away in my brain somewhere. I tend to block useless information from getting in. Turning the door handle, his cold paws wrapped around the knob, his quick, purposeful steps bringing with him a small eerily cold breeze as he entered. Azryel's eyes first went to the papers upon his desk, then to the empty hospital beds, the recently emptied waste-bins, and last but not least, to the source of the single noise in the room other than the beating of his heart:

The little satin mouse by the name of Victiore Fawn.

And she was drawing.

How...oddly coincidential. Suddenly he found himself needing an artist, and here they were, sitting in the chair as though they'd been waiting for him this whole time. HAH. After the talking to he'd given her over Braythe's Newt, it was a wonder she was still here. Whatever. Like a pair of rubber gloves, he'd make use of her talents and then toss her from his mind and into the nearest garbage can without a backward glance.

She tossed a friendly but distracted, "Hello," to the visitor, casting a fleeting glance that way.

"Good Morning."

Responded the doctor. Pulling a chair from nearby, he set it down in front of her and leaned forward, his forearms resting against his legs as his paws lay loosely laced in the space between them. Staring at her as though he could burn a hole through her drawing paper with his stare alone, Doctor Azryel Black lightly cleared his throat.
"I have a sudden request of your services, mouse -- no, not your medical ones, subpar as they are, but of your artistic ones instead. A family member has requested a portrait of myself, and while I do not lack the ability to draw, I do lack the ability to look at myself and draw what I see at the same time. So you're going to do it for me, with proper monetary compensation provided at the end, if the result of your efforts turns out well enough."

Not one to toss around words, the doctor had cut straight to the point, his absurdly pale gray eyes fixing her with a stare as cold as death.

[Cross]

"Good Morning."

Vicky looked up, suddenly and horribly aware of who'd entered the room. She nearly dropped her charcoal stick as Doctor Azryel Asmodeus Black pulled up a chair and sat calmly in front of her. His eyes were trying to cut holes into her, as usual, but what was confusing to her was how . . . close he was willing to sit. What kind of trickery was this?

"I have a sudden request of your services, mouse -- no, not your medical ones, subpar as they are, but of your artistic ones instead. A family member has requested a portrait of myself, and while I do not lack the ability to draw, I do lack the ability to look at myself and draw what I see at the same time. So you're going to do it for me, with proper monetary compensation provided at the end, if the result of your efforts turns out well enough."

His answer was a blank, green-eyed stare, and one or two slow blinks. The tattooed mouse sat frozen, quite taken aback by the doctor's cordial yet abrupt tone. He wanted . . . what? "I-I'm sorry," she replied, discovering her vocal cords again. "Y-you want me . . . to draw a portrait of-of you?" It was bad enough she had to encounter him again, and now he wanted to be in the same room with her long enough for her to draw him? What was that about her very presence insulting him?

"I . . . suppose I could . . . try," she murmured, her eyes flicking down to the sketch of Braythe she'd just finished. Well, if she could draw a badger, she could draw a hare, right? But this was Dr. Black. The Dr. Black. The hare that all the other hares most often associated with the Grim Reaper. The hare that pretty much hated her no matter what she did.

Before he could grow impatient, she flipped to a new page in her sketchbook, hesitating for only a moment. He said he'd pay her, and that was probably the only thing she'd ever receive from him besides another serious dressing down. Slowly, she looked back up. Well, she would have to look at him for this, no matter how much she didn't want to. Her eyes missed nothing as she scanned his gaunt face, his washed out eyes, and his "I really wish you were dead right now" expression. Gods, that expression. Suppressing a shudder, the little mouse began to draw.

"So, um, what made you . . . decide to ha-have a portrait made?" she asked, unable to bear the deafening silence that had settled over them. Smalltalk would probably just make things worse, but at least there would be noise.

[Stryker]

"I . . . suppose I could . . . try," she murmured, her eyes flicking down to the sketch of Braythe she'd just finished.

Heavens Above and Hell Below, that stuttering.

Halting any boiling anger in the pit of his stomach -- like acid -- from reaching the surface, the frozen lake that was Azryel's entire being lay undisturbed, even at her attempts to make small talk.
What made him decide to have his portrait taken? Oh you know, I fancied I don't have enough images of myself hanging in my house, and thought I'd stock up before the spring. Well that was worth a laugh and a half. As if he'd ask for a portrait of himself for himself.
"It's for my mother, actually, and she'd prefer it if you drew me with a smile."
Those words sounded so asinine to the little white mouse in front of him, surely. The doctor talking about smiling? Hah! The Grim Reaper actually suggesting that he might show a little happiness?
What planet were they on?

Considering how difficult it would be for her to picture a smile upon his face, Azryel leaned back, his paws folding loosely over his chest as he slouched just a bit in his chair, down far enough to successfully stretch out his legs. And smile he did. It was an oddly attractive sight, and very nearly took off several years from the dark doctor's visage, as though a simple gesture such as that one could rewind the clock as far as he wanted it to. He held his smile, and his stare, the expression of contentment unable to reach his eyes, the twinkle in those pale orbs contributed by the light source from the nearby windows, not from within.

Azryel held perfectly still, that smile in place as he sat like a frozen work of art, a kind of sculpture where the artist had been able to successfully capture the alluring physical qualities of the wellbred aristocrat, but could not make him portray any sort of depth of emotion. He lacked warm colors, a soul even, and he may as well been cut from stone for all anyone could tell. Were it not for his wickedly handsome face, that charming, cruelly disarming smile and those haughty gray eyes, instead such a portrait as Victiore Fawn was trying to make could've turned out very very unpleasant.

((it's late, sorry if that didn't flow very well. ^^;;; ))

[Cross]

"It's for my mother, actually, and she'd prefer it if you drew me with a smile."

A smile? Vicky didn't look up just yet, still finishing the underlying structure of the sketch. Dr. Black was capable of smiling? Sure, capable of breaking a mirror when he smiled, most likely. But she didn't say anything. A comment like that would not help her current standing with the doctor, even if she disliked him. The little mouse absolutely dreaded having to look up at Black again, but she had to. So she did.

And then she wished she hadn't.

Her ears dropped back in shock at the wickedly charming smile spread across Black's face. Great spirits! That was terrifying! The gesture did not reach his pale eyes at all. It was as if a child had painted a rainbow on a headstone above an empty grave. Well, maybe that was exaggerating a little, but the effect was the same!

Returning to the sketch itself, she started with his eyes. She didn't know if she'd be able to bring herself to draw that smile. It was so . . . unnerving. But even his eyes were hard to render. Somehow, she kept wanting to make the eyes kinder, more gentle, but Azryel's stare was colder than frozen steel. After a moment, she realized she was gripping the charcoal stick so hard that her knuckles had gone stiff. She placed the stick on top of the papers for a moment and flexed her paw, rotating her wrist a few times. Oh, yes, she was nervous, alright. So much so that she had simply given up on smalltalk.

Finally, finally, his eyes were done, and she moved on to something less, uh, menacing: his ears. She liked drawing hare ears, even when they belonged to a hare like Dr. Black. At least his ears had less . . . coldness than his other features. Still, however, that smile would not reach the paper. She erased over and over again, but it never came out quite right. She had to keep looking back at him, which in turn made her that much more nervous, and still the smile refused to be rendered the way she saw it on his face.

Finally, she sat back, arms folded, looking from her sketch to the doctor and back again. What was she missing? His coldness, probably, but a smile was a smile. In a portrait, it was just an expression, and it shouldn't be thought of as anything more than a simple feature to draw. But Black's smile . . . he could put Winter's Ice in his smile. There was no need to use the expletive. Taking a deep breath, she tried again.

"You have very . . . aristocratic features, Lieutenant Black," she said softly, half to herself.

[Stryker]

"You have very . . . aristocratic features, Lieutenant Black," she said softly, half to herself.

Black had hardly looked away from the moment she'd started drawing him, and in that small time frame it took for her to sketch a rough outline, Azryel had taken note of the way her ears folded back with surprise, her posture showing that little Victiore Fawn was more than a tad bit nervous. Ha. Even when he proceded to have no expression on his face at all, the satin mouse regarded him with worried, weary eyes. Despite them being on similiar sides of the food chain, there seemed to be a 'predator & prey' relationship between them. Interesting. She feared him, that much was obvious, and she had very good reason to. Did a bird fear the cat's claws? Of course it did, just as the rabbit feared the fox, etc. Studying her almost as much as she was unwillingly studying him, Azryel's features softened a bit, his normally stone-cold persona breaking up for a fake one of quiet pleasantness, as though he were an old friend she'd just met up with after so many years apart.

The doctor shifted positions, straightening up and resting his hands upon his knees, inhaling softly while the chair squeaked a little with his movement. Azryel could see that she was having some difficulty, and considering he wanted this to be over as quickly as possible without the portrait turning out horrendous, was trying his best to aid her. Taking that into account, Azryel, for a few moments at least, was that 17 year old medical student with a bright future ahead of him and parents who loved him dearly, kind and handsome, with a mind as sharp as a scalpel. Oh how naive he'd been back then. Not unlike his dear cousin Grayson Cloud was right now, though Black could scarcely believe Grayson was on any sort of intellectual level even close to his own. Grayson reminded him of a...form of himself, a path Black personally could've taken if that higher calling of scientific, unending curiosity had not shook through his veins like a lethal injection.

Oh well. Black never regretted his decision to pursue the study of science and medicine, of anatomy, poisons and death, of learning the how, why and when. Grayson would probably never regret his decision to pursue a strictly military career, and Black secretly commended him for it. It was easy to have empathy for those who knew exactly what they were doing in life, and while he normally did not care about the dreams and motivations of others, the parallels between Grayson and himself made him just a bit... curious about that boy.
Just how alike were they?

At last, in response to Victiore's complimentary observations, Black had none. It was almost like her saying 'oh, the pillows in here are rather white, aren't they?' or 'the tables in the Dining Hall are made of wood'. It was an obvious thing. Yes Black had aristocratic features, only a blind person could have any sort of excuse not to see it. The Black and Ashworth Families hadn't been carefully planning marriages and properly grooming offspring so that their descendents came out ugly. Unable to find a comment that wasn't rude or snide in some way, Azryel changed the subject.
"Is the portrait going well? Inform me if there is anything I can do to make this go quicker."
This wasn't him being....'friendly', this was him holding an air of politeness so as not to startle the mouse into cardiac arrest -- then this portrait would never get done. A few moments of compliance and a great deal of patience and then he would be free. His mother would get that portrait she wanted, the mouse would get paid, and he could go back to working and pretending they didn't exist.
Win Win.

[Cross]

"Is the portrait going well? Inform me if there is anything I can do to make this go quicker."

Please stop smiling, Vicky thought. Instead, she answered, "Um, no, I-I'm almost done." Well, she had to admit this was one of the most interesting portraits she'd ever drawn. Glancing back up, she noticed he'd shifted position slightly, and his smile had actually gotten . . . warmer. Was that a trick of the light? The expression was almost welcoming. And she didn't know whether to be more or less terrified.

At least he was still being cordial. Only finishing the portrait would tell if he was going to be critical. She slid her little finger along the paper as she drew (finally) the smooth curve of his smile. Her pink paw pad smudged his angular jawline, her method of adding shading. She repeated this process along the edges of the face until her fingers were black with charcoal dust. Now it appeared that light was playing off Black's features in the sketch.

Setting the charcoal stick to one side, she flexed her paw again and gave the portrait a good looking-over. Everything was aligned correctly. Proportionate. Clean. Smooth. She looked up at the real Black, having already memorized his features, and then back down at the portrait. It definitely looked like him. She'd even managed to capture (at least some of) his arrogance and coldness. He didn't look like a happy hare, even though he was smiling, which was exactly how she perceived him.

She folded the sketchbook back to where only the portrait was showing and held it up for him to see. "Is this . . . satisfactory?" she asked quietly, biting her lip. If it is, please take it and leave now.

[Stryker]

Azryel Black's cold gray eyes seemed to pierce the paper she held in front of him, all the calculation and attention to detail he put into his work seemed to also to apply here -- even if for just a few moments. When he realized that how good it looked wasn't really high on his priority list (it was more on his mother's, actually), so long as it was above a child's drawing, Azryel tore his gaze away from the paper. That was not the kind of portrait his mother would want. Mrs. Black would not want the coldness in her son's heart captured on paper, she would not want his arrogance, those gaunt features and judging eyes in her house. She would not want a portrait of the Azryel that was here now.

His mother would want a portrait of Azryel from bygone days -- the young buck who could do no wrong, who had a clear and bright future ahead of him. The young buck who's father was proud to acknowledge him as his son -- the young buck that had moved his mother to heartfelt tears on the day of his promotion to Lieutenant.
Not the son who's whole demeanor was shrouded in mystery. Who stalked the halls like an avenging spirit -- cold, detached and pitiless, especially for those he found worthy of haunting, like the nervous satin mouse sitting in front of him. Mrs. Black did not want the shadowy figure of death that had become her only child. She wanted something else entirely.

"Wait right here," ordered Black cryptically.

After a few minutes of stark silence, Azryel finally returned -- with a particularly good-looking young hare in tow, an expression of both concern and curiosity. "You'll have to draw Grayson instead, Ms. Fawn -- because while your picture is perfectly accurate, accuracy is not what my mother wants. She wants a younger version of me to hang up over the fireplace, but as you can see," he explained with some bitterness. "That younger buck no longer exists. If you could take a few liberties with Grayson's features and mine, I'm sure the result will come out as expected -- Grayson, take a seat."

The younger buck glanced between Victiore and his older cousin, face expressionless while those same, haunting, haughtily gray eyes pierced into them both. His visage finally bore the expression of politeness, Grayson offering Victiore a smile. "Good morning -- I apologize for any rudeness from Mr. Black here, he's not what you'd call a people-person."

Azryel's eyes flashed. "I don't need anyone to apologize for me, Cloud."

Grayson turned his polite smile onto Black, though it was almost mocking. "Oh but I think you do -- it's turning into a family tradition, right Azryel? My Aunt and Uncle spend most of their days apologizing for the things you do."

"Speak another word, Grayson--" Azryel's eyes bore holes into the brazen young hare. "and it will be the last thing you do in my presence ever again."

As bold as he was, Grayson Cloud knew when to keep his mouth shut -- he was no fool. If Azryel was making threats, he fully intended to carry them out.

[Cross]

"Wait right here," ordered Black cryptically.

"Um . . ." Vicky wasn't really sure what he meant by leaving the room. She looked down at the portrait again. Perhaps not even a mother would want that cold, calculating gaze staring back at her every day. Vicky knew she certainly didn't. Her big green eyes moved up as Azryel reentered, bringing with him the handsome hare she'd seen in the hallway a few days ago.

"You'll have to draw Grayson instead, Ms. Fawn -- because while your picture is perfectly accurate, accuracy is not what my mother wants. She wants a younger version of me to hang up over the fireplace, but as you can see," he explained with some bitterness. "That younger buck no longer exists. If you could take a few liberties with Grayson's features and mine, I'm sure the result will come out as expected -- Grayson, take a seat."

No, that young buck didn't exist in Black anymore at all. That young buck had high-tailed it out of Black the first chance he got and turned into Grayson. Vicky actually found herself smiling at the handsome young hare. She carefully tore out the page holding Black's portrait, just as an extra reference, and turned to a blank sheet.

"Good morning -- I apologize for any rudeness from Mr. Black here, he's not what you'd call a people-person."

"Oh, no it's--" Vicky started, but Azryel's feathers were apparently quite ruffled by the presence of Grayson.

Azryel's eyes flashed. "I don't need anyone to apologize for me, Cloud."

Oh, Winter's Ice . . . Vicky held her tongue as Grayson and Black spewed venom at each for another few seconds. She bit her lip, selecting a new charcoal stick from her depleting supply. Spirits, did that mocking cleverness exist on both sides of the family? At least Grayson looked much nicer than Black. Despite those . . . piercing gray eyes. She forced back a shudder. She'd never get used to eyes that pale, no matter how polite or cordial their owner was.

Clearing her throat, the satin mouse got comfortable again as she perched on the desk. "Um, very well, Private Grayson," she began, big green eyes studying him with an expert air. "You can just, uh, relax in a position that's--that's comfortable for you. This shouldn't take long."

She folded her arms against her chest, simply examining the hare for awhile. Stealing a fleeting glance at Black, Vicky noted the family resemblance. In fact, she observed with the smallest of smiles, without the dark circles, the sunken cheeks, and the overall icy visage, Black could be considered Grayson's brother. Then she began the portrait.

The underlying sketch took but a moment, and then she started to fine-tune the features. Her gaze cycled among her drawing, Grayson's face, and the sketch of Black she finished not ten minutes ago. Since she wasn't forced to look at the stark coldness of Black himself so much, she was able to relax. Not fully, because he was still in the same room, but enough to keep sketching without continuing to tighten her grip on the charcoal.

She'd learned not to try smalltalk, though. No matter how polite Grayson seemed, she didn't want to risk losing her nerve, however little it might be, already.

[Stryker]

"Um, very well, Private Grayson," she began, big green eyes studying him with an expert air. "You can just, uh, relax in a position that's--that's comfortable for you. This shouldn't take long."

Nodding to show he understood, the young officer took a seat, his arms resting a-top the arms of the chair, his posture relaxed -- Azryel, on the other hand, loomed in the door way, his gaze fixed out the window as though he had simply forgotten they were there. Grayson, unfortunately, wasn't one for small talk either -- and an easy silence fell over them -- the young buck's smile thinning when she looked away, the muscles in his face relaxing. The second she looked up, however, that smile returned, his eyes catching the light.

Despite the steady silence enveloping the three of them, what Victiore was unable to detect was just how much Black and Cloud hated each other. Cloud was against everything Black stood for, and Black was against Cloud existing at all. That arrogant young buck made him grind his teeth together when he slept, a beast full of contempt and downright nastiness rearing it's ugly head whenever he found the boy nearby. Maybe it was the way that Cloud looked at him, that Black hated so much?
But why did he care about Cloud's opinion? It had never been any of his concern before. In fact, he didn't even care about his parents' opinion all that much... So why some younger cousin he didn't even like?

Because it was like looking at a mirror.

Though subtly different in looks, it was their personalities that mirrored each other without either of them knowing just how closely. Whenever he saw those same, piercing gray eyes fix him with a judgment, hate-filled stare, it was as though he were staring into the eyes of his younger self. No, an alternate version of himself. The Azryel Black that had not gotten into medicine, that had not fallen for the charms of science and the splendor of discovery... The Azryel that would've readily accepted the promotion to Lieutenant, and went on to make a soldier worthy of the highest honor.
Azryel had no regrets as to his career path, but the way Grayson looked at him was something that made his stomach turn sour and the hair on the back of neck prickle -- as though maybe, just maybe, he had chosen the wrong line of work after all...

((Sorry for the lack of dialog, xD took the opportunity to explore the relationship between Grayson & Azryel))

[Cross]

Drawing the features of Azryel and Grayson into one sketch was actually easier than Vicky thought. They were so similar, already. Black was slightly more angled, and, obviously, more imperious-looking, but the mouse was able to take most of that coldness out of the portrait and replace it with Grayson's quiet dignity.

She kept some of that arrogance, of course, otherwise the portrait just wouldn't look like Black. Vaguely, she wondered what this Azryel, the one she was creating, would have been like. Polite and cordial, just like Grayson? Would he still have held a measure of coldness, just because it ran in the family? Her unspoken questions would never have answers, she knew, but she couldn't help but wonder . . .

Finally, she finished, and set her charcoal down. Flexing her paw out of habit, she gave the portrait a once-over. Once again, everything was aligned, in proportion, and clean. The hare who smiled back at her from the page both frightened her and impressed her. Well, so did the real Black. But she felt fright more.

Looking back up at Grayson, the white mouse flicked an ear forward. The portrait certainly didn't look like him. His features were less intimidating, but still quite imposing. No, the hare on the page definitely resembled the cold, arrogant Dr. Black. That was the plan, right? She hoped this try would satisfy them all. She would like some time to herself while there were no injured or invalid hares in the sick bay, yet.

"How is this, lieutenant?" she asked, holding up the finished product.

((No worries. The story behind those two is really interesting.))