voicetest | The Doctor is In [Setting is a Psychologist's Office]

For whatever reason, you find yourself stepping into this room through that door you just opened. It doesn't make sense, most likely, as you were surely going from somewhere to...well, anywhere that wasn't this particular room, but before you can connect the dots the door has softly closed behind you. The room is nice; everything in it seems to be geared to cause as little impact as possible, with its muted, yet comfortable tones, shapes that are soft yet secure and a soft, continuous instrumental song that plays on the background but that seems to disappear if you're not paying attention. Even the smell is nice, reminiscent of nothing concrete, yet slightly sweet and inviting at the same time. The room seems soundproofed too, as no other sound seems to come from behind you; no cars nor planes or whatever was going on the other side of that door.

Maybe now you'll notice the woman.

In your defense, she's standing by the far end of the studio (because this is what the place seems to be), currently busying herself with a coffee maker. She's dressed in tones similar to the room, although the colors are more vibrant and they certainly don't look like an uniform even though she seems to obviously work here. With her back partly pointed towards you, most of her face remains hidden by a wealth of black silky hair, although judging by her hands and what little is visible she's rather pale, yet not incredibly so.

"Now, this is interesting."

Without turning around, the woman takes a tentative sip from the just prepared cup, savors it for a moment and then adds some sugar. "I had been notified that I wouldn't have a four o'clock; you would think such news would mean I could finally get some rest, but no ten minutes afterwards and I'm already bored to death." She turns around, looking at you with a small smile on her face; now she's perfectly visible, those eerie shiny blue eyes offering a stark contrast with her skin. "Coffee? If we're doing this, I would rather know you're fully comfortable"

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The boy has never seen anything like this room. Granted, he's never been inside a house, at least not as far as he can remember, but it has even bigger impact on him because this is completely wrong. This room has no tatami mats on the floor, no rice-paper walls, or sliding doors. It's way too decorated to be the home of a shinobi, he's sure, at least from what he's heard, and not even samurai lived like this, did they? There were unfamiliar scents and sights, and it's so bright in comparison to the cave he grew up in, that he had just been pacing in boredom, that he has to squint.

There is a person with him in the room, and that worries him. He isn't used to people, and is supposed to avoid them. If anyone were to find out about his existence, his family would be in trouble.

He backs away, and his back hit against the firm door behind him. He searches for any weapon, knowing that he had not been wearing any at the time just before he found himself here. But perhaps there is something useful, something sharp, in this weird room.

He would notice upon entering and nothing the things that cause him discomfort that these very same things seem to somehow shift to make it easier for him; the floor feels like tatami, the walls give the impression to be thinner, softer, some of the decoration seems to make itself smaller, less easy to notice. She had the room made with very precise magic, so that her clients will find a place where they can feel at ease; the room itself cannot change completely, as that would be awfully problematic with some people, but it makes itself easier to deal with anyway.

He'll also notice that nothing really looks like it could be used as a weapon. It's more for his safety than her's though. The people that know Lorena are well aware of how little aid she needs when it comes to stay alive, but it would be bad if an unstable client threatens her, or even worse, themselves.

"Not a coffee person," she replies, nonplussed. She makes her way to the table, setting her cup and bringing one of the rotating chairs (but it now looks more like an old armchair, and the table is not glass, but something that looks like dull onyx), sitting on it, one leg crossed over the other. She's dressed simply; blue jeans, black tee, dark brown leather jacket. She hardly looks like a psychologist, or a psychiatrist, or a former ruler of something that could very well be called empire, or a soldier, or hell, even a vampire. Lorena has always had a hard time looking like much of anything, but probably that's what makes it easier for her to relate.

"Please, take a seat. I mean you no harm." Another thing he'll notice; it doesn't matter what language she's speaking on, because he understands, even if he's certain she's speaking in another language. She really likes to have all details covered.

He's unsure what he expected, exactly, save loving wife in arms, but hie eyes flick rapidly around the room, resting briefly on each unfamiliar object or shape before finding the next. Calculating-- many things are strange, unfamiliar, but he is not afraid. If anything, he resembles a chess player, viewing all pieces and strategies before making move. Fear is not a luxury afforded to a soldier turned gladiator turned rebel king.

It is quiet here, no more pain or blood, and he is absent spear in chest. Given how his life has been of late, the peace is almost an unnatural feeling, though a welcome one.

"Apologies for not arriving on schedule," He cracks a wry smile, wonders if the gods would have had him arrive sooner or later. Likely much sooner.

What is coffee? Judging by her cup, it is a beverage, a strange-smelling beverage made by a stranger device. Likely not a type of strong drink, from the same smell. He is curious, but now is not the time to indulge. "As for drink, gratitude, but I shall take none."

"Oh, please." She simply smiles at him, motioning the man to take sit on the little living room instead of the desk more at the back. It doesn't feel like the sort of situation that calls for the big old desk anyway. "Better late than ever, right?"

Still, she sets the cup in front of him as she takes seat on the couch right on the other side of the table, one leg crossed over the other. Judging by his appearance, the sight of a woman wearing pants might or might not be of interest. She's never been one for dresses. "You're here now, and I suppose that's all that matters. My name is Lorena Cross. May I know yours?"

He sits obediently, then snorts in amusement at the comment on his timelines, offering no further reply.

Recently he's been surrounded by women wearing whatever they can get to survive the cold and the combat, so her attire is of little interest, though even if he wasn't it wouldn't be worth more than a passing glance. It's of significantly less interest than the armchair he's just sunk into, at any rate-- Gods, that is soft. So incredibly, indescribably soft, even compared to the furniture at the House of Batiatus.

"I'm--" he pauses, reconsiders. "I've been called Spartacus." There's no use abandoning the name now. Even if it's not who he was, it's who he's become, much as the fact disquiets him. If she is up on Roman history, she will likely know of him.

"What is this place? And what purpose does it hold?"

The Doctor is In [Setting is a Psychologist's Office]

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LET'S TRY THAT AGAIN

HURRAH

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