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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"
LET'S TRY THAT AGAIN
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."
HURRAH
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?"
no subject
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?"