Spirit Albarn (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
notsoholyspirit) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
genessia2015-04-15 08:36 pm
notsoholyspirit) wrote in genessia2015-04-15 08:36 pm
[Open-ish] Time for giving up the ghost--it's you I hate the most
Who: John Everyman et al and Spirit Albarn; then open for people to address Everyman themselves
Where: Genessia City, Prison
When: April 14, 2015
What: It's time to figure outwhat the hell was going on get an idea of the story as John Everyman would put it
Spirit was almost surprised he'd been asked to interrogate Everyman. Frankly, he'd been so absorbed in other happenings in the city that the events with the journalist were far from the front of his mind. He'd been only involved at the fringe of the events with teh devol; he'd been debriefed--vaguely, by his own request--by the Guardian herself before agreeing to question the reporter.
So that is how he comes to the small interrogation room, frowning and eying the still-rather-beaten-up-looking Everyman. In one hand, he's holding a file folder with the barest of information. The other is holding a cup, which he places on the table in front of the journalist. Coffee. A peace offering, or at the least a way to break the proverbial ice.
The redhead pulls the chair out from the opposite side of the table from Everyman, frowning, and sinks into the seat. The file folder remains closed and he stuffs his hands into his pockets, blinking. If he's quiet, if he strains his ears just enough, he can hear the quiet drip, drip of the intravenous line running fluids.
The weapon is silent for a solid thirty seconds, clearly gathering his thoughts. He makes no effort to hide this fact--in that respect, he is just as human as everyone else. Finally, blue eyes hone in on the man in the chair.
"So. What do you have to say for yourself?"
Where: Genessia City, Prison
When: April 14, 2015
What: It's time to figure out
Spirit was almost surprised he'd been asked to interrogate Everyman. Frankly, he'd been so absorbed in other happenings in the city that the events with the journalist were far from the front of his mind. He'd been only involved at the fringe of the events with teh devol; he'd been debriefed--vaguely, by his own request--by the Guardian herself before agreeing to question the reporter.
So that is how he comes to the small interrogation room, frowning and eying the still-rather-beaten-up-looking Everyman. In one hand, he's holding a file folder with the barest of information. The other is holding a cup, which he places on the table in front of the journalist. Coffee. A peace offering, or at the least a way to break the proverbial ice.
The redhead pulls the chair out from the opposite side of the table from Everyman, frowning, and sinks into the seat. The file folder remains closed and he stuffs his hands into his pockets, blinking. If he's quiet, if he strains his ears just enough, he can hear the quiet drip, drip of the intravenous line running fluids.
The weapon is silent for a solid thirty seconds, clearly gathering his thoughts. He makes no effort to hide this fact--in that respect, he is just as human as everyone else. Finally, blue eyes hone in on the man in the chair.
"So. What do you have to say for yourself?"