Dr. Frederick Chilton (
slightlyoffchilt) wrote2013-10-01 10:26 pm
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Entry tags:
- IC CONTACT POST FOR MASKORMENACE -

"Hello.
You've reached the direct line of Doctor Frederick Chilton. As I am not available at the moment, you might assume I'm quite busy with something pressing. State your name and business, and I will return your call."
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... You have healthcare insurance, right?
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[ Nice dodge. ]
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And it's highly suspicious if you're paying upfront in cash.
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I've penciled you in. Until then, Ruka.
[AND WOULD YOU LIKE TO THREAD IT OUT HERE?]
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[ I WOULD LIKE TO YES. ]
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His office sought to mimic what he had left behind in Baltimore; black and gold accents with a light blue palette fulfilling the furniture -- a sedan in the middle of the room most prominent. His bookshelves boasted psychiatrist texts, his desk was peppered with a selection of gold pens.
And he was at his own desk, anticipating Ruka.]
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She arrives just on time, her greeting is only a nod—no smiles—with arms folding behind her back, already on the mild defensive. ]
Doctor Chilton.
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[His way of greeting, perhaps. He gestured to the sedan, leaving the option of the wooden chair off to the said unspoken and unaddressed. She was free to take her seating anywhere, of course. Chilton couldn't dictate over that last remaining choice, not entirely.]
I believe we were previously discussing your people here?
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My "reviled" people, you mean? Those that I'd wish to leave this world.
[ Her posture, at least, looks a little more relaxed. ]
Though, maybe reviled is too strong a word, for most of them.
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[It was a stark invitation to talk. His smile, however, had a little less edge to it -- something intentionally conjured, for the sake of civil professionalism.]
There's no reason to hold back, not here. Doctor-patient confidentiality and what not.
[And what not.]
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[ The damn doesn't open in an instant; Ruka tilts her head to stare towards the ceiling, sighing, as if pushing out air enough will dislodge words from somewhere deep in her chest. It does not. She'll have to draw each one out with force. ]
You've been around long enough to know, that when some people exPort, and Port back in, they're not always the same person. Older, younger, different history—different memories. Sometimes personalities stick around, but not always.
I'm sure you've had your share of that, but... well, there aren't many ImPorts who have stuck around for as long as I have, and the ones who have aren't exactly people I would call friends.
Because of that, I know a great deal about people who have never spoken to me. Good and bad.
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[Intoned Chilton, as he made a quick note upon his legal pad. While this condition wasn't unique to her alone, it was true that those who spent longer years away from their natural universe suffered a sort of survivor's syndrome; dear ones came and went. Chilton himself had seen the passage of three ex-girlfriends, and Abel Gideon, and Hannibal Lecter, and Alana Bloom -- but those absences had served to benefit a scoundrel like Frederick Chilton. He was opportunistic, not empathetic.]
Do you feel that you're made into an invasive variable? Given how much you'd know about an imPort who had been, as you said, exPorted previously.
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How do you manage your anger?
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[ The word has the lilt of surprise, but not much. ]
I don't usually have to, for anger; it's pretty rare that I feel my own, anyway.
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[ Which isn't to say he's wrong on the concept. ]
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[Chilton lacked Alana Bloom's more diplomatic language, but that didn't mean he wasn't sensitive to the needs and progress of his patients.]
You seem rather analytical, observant. Are there emotions you harbor that you can pinpoint belonging to certain individuals?
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[ Without even the barest pretense of consideration, or hesitation. If only all her answers could be so easy. ]
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[He said, patiently, his attention presently devoted to her.]
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I think all of them would take more than a day to list, but... the longing sort of joyous... melancholic devotion... of a person who lost the love of their life, but holds on more to the good things that love brought rather than the fact she's dead. And there's the furious hatred of the wrongly killed, and the intellectual heartlessness of self-seen justified... I suppose "grim reaper," though less 'grim' and more... deceptively pleasant, I guess.
[ Her hands attempt gesture through this, though the meaning is vague at best: rolls of the wrist, a shifting of weight from one shoulder into the other, a tilt of the head to one side. It's the most animated she's been since she entered, and probably the most physically expressive anyone has seen in months. ]
The sense of infatuation, that self-perpetuates regardless of circumstance; miserable platonic longing, the euphoric joy of causing suffering--that one's always pretty hard to overcome when it surfaces. The, uh, hopeless anxiety—the powerlessness as your life dwindles to nothing—
[ Her hand does another sort of roll, almost like she's trying to pull off a scarf. ]
—is that what you mean?
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[Chilton had been jotting down the descriptions she drew forth, his notes accompanied by the occasional twitch of his mouth. Such was the only concession of his personal feelings of those emotions discussed -- he wasn't here to judge them, but only Ruka's extension to these unnamed individuals.]
And what about your own identity, in relation to these foreign feelings? Did they warp your sense of self, or did these waves seem altogether alien? [A beat, and he looked up to meet her eyes.] Could you guess on how much of you remains the true you?
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