The Cryptic Muse

Jack: The world was full of them. Bitches, snitches, and the vengeful. Jack had all but forced the overseeing doctor's hand when it came to signing the discharge papers, when it was obvious he probably should have still been under observation. From the pale and placid look he had about him, to the remnants of metal that were still lodged inside his chest and stomach.
That night he'd went home. Home to his apartment, to his laptop, to start his own investigation of sort - considering he was still written out of work, and could not return until cleared. His buddies at the CIA were working on those documents currently. It was during his research - and absent upturns of a bottle - that he'd stumbled across a picture that not only had the brunette in them, but his father as well. Imagine the rage, the firey-hot glare that he'd given to the headline before slamming the laptop shut. Of course, after a moment or so of toying with the fraying bracelet around his wrist and scratching at the stitches, he'd opened it back up and dug deeper. That was where he'd seen her before. And, to think, a serial killer was well behind it all..
The next morning, despite the ache from weak muscle and the pull of stitches, he'd managed to dress for the occasion; Jack in a .. suit? Indeed, and he only stumbled once or twice on his way down the stairs to his car. ..No driving. Just rest. Yeah, like he'd follow that instruction.
It was a bit of a trip, but eventually, Junior was pulling into the correctional facility. After checking in his pistol and being scanned by security, and cleared the only name he muttered was "Louis Wrightman." He gave no reason, no motive, and simply waited to be lead back.

Louis: The Collingsworth Correctional Facility was a high security fortress where the worst of society's dregs were taken into custody. Fences outside were twenty feet high, coiled with barbed-wire and electric currents, and guarded at all four corners with trained professionals with military grade weaponry. Prisoners were not allowed access to the grounds outside a walled courtyard that held onto one entrance and exit through massive double-doors. Inside, the gun-metal gray paint was offset only by a more somber and darker gray trim. Four-inch thick glass windows separated the more populated areas where only guards, staff and visitors were allowed. It was a customary sight to see lawyers of all walks of life navigating the halls, and even more common to see cops and agents seeking visitors rights to those incarcerated. For the prisoners, any deviation from the monotonous routine was welcomed --even if it meant a fifteen minute conversation with a shark in a suit or a wanna-be-hero with a badge. Days were so rigidly structured that every minute of the day felt accounted for and documented. For the mind of Louis Wrightman, it was hell on earth. There was no creative license to be found in any capacity; his cell was left bare with only a cot and desk and chair. He was denied privileges to hang any pictures or photographs, and was unable to draw upon any surface. The only solace he found was in the library, even under watch, when he could peruse internet sites at his leisure. Years earlier he had frequent visitors -- attorneys seeking appeals and a few women who had hoped to be his muse.

He still received fan mail, and though it was checked before delivered to him, he basked in the subtle fragrances of perfume found within the ink on the pages. Led to the visitors' center, shackled at both his hands and ankles, Louis wore the orange prison garb as if it were an Armani suit. His hair was shaggy and long, pieces drifting over his thin face where a beard had started to grow along the edges of his jaw. Two guards led him to the chair and stepped back to offer him privacy, assuming it was another attorney come to discuss the case despite being close to six years old. A glass partition separated him from the visitor and there were several narrow gaps, too small to pass anything more than words through it. Tall and lanky, Louis stretched out in the chair and hooked his bicep over the wooden back to slant his posture in an almost too leisurely pose. His eyes, however, stared straight ahead, dark and dead, no emotion found within the deep brownish-black depths. "You're not a lawyer," he stated flatly, though hardly ready to leave the distraction.

Jack: It was odd, really, the way Jack seemed entirely too comfortable on his own side of the partition.. slanted in his chair, but not leisurely. It was either slant, or hunch over forward.. and the aforementioned was the better of either options, simply because it left him able to see as the prisoner was brought forward, and then left.
He did, however, reach to scratch at the stitches in his hairline before dropping his arm to rest across his ribcage just as the man settled and stated so very flatly that he wasn't a lawyer. In an atypical response, uncharacteristically not laced with sarcasm, he admitted it freely. "You're right." Made you wonder how many times he paid visits to those in high-security prisons.
He remained silent for a long moment, then those puppy-dog eyes raised up and locked on the dark and dead eyes of the killer's. "I guarantee you'll be interested, if you aren't already curious as to why I'm here." The statement was cocky in every way, and quite cocksure, Junior managed a rough around the edges sort of grin, though it was quick to fade as if it physically hurt to move such muscles. For that moment, though, he only watched-- quite ready to make his own assumption, here and now, of whether or not it was worth it. And thus far, if only by the leisurely appearance of the man behind the glass, it was.

Louis: "You could sit there and whistle fuckin' Dixie and I'd stay," Louis smiled. It was chilling the way his white teeth flashed just then, a one-sided expression that --had he not killed thirty women-- might have seemed charming. A very slow avian cant of his head had the killer studying the beaten man on the opposite side of the glass. Maybe he was curious now, especially when a glint of recognition touched his eyes. Unhooking his arm from the back of the chair, he straightened his tall frame and slowly leaned forward to rest his elbows on the tops of the orange pants. "Then you're either a cop or... a writer." The last word was hitched with emotion, though it was difficult to define what kind. "You're not my -type- for other pleasures." His chin rose a notch, hinting at a network of ink surrounding his throat, each victim's name scripted in a different color from the last. It was a macabre mosaic. "So don't leave me in suspense, interest me more."

Jack: Well, if that didn't draw another grin out of him, what would? Jack hooked a finger through the wooden ring that was strung around his neck, his own head tilting to the side. Studying. It was indeed part of the job description, even if he followed the guidelines very, very, vaguely. He was a cherry-picker, when it came to rules.
"Agent, Louis, I'm no blue blood." And he was certainly no writer; he had not the patience to even sit still enough to attempt it, though the stories he could have written would have raked in money, that was for sure. It was a crying shame he'd never allow anyone to pick his brain. "I know your type," he said, off-handedly before his eyes slipped just in time to catch the different colored ink, the names. Don't keep him in suspense.. it was incredibly hard to just get to the point; Jack liked games, playing games, but even his own anger was causing him to be a bit too fucking eager, currently.
"What would you say if I told you that I know both the special agent, and reporter, who put you here? Personally." Slow and easy. Baby steps. Even if there was a definite resemblance between he and his father, he wasn't pointing it out.

Louis: "My pardons, Agent," his head tipped in apology, oddly sincere in the mannerisms that seemed to drip from him like a habit. "My type is no secret by now. I'm being studied, you know. My crimes---" the rest of his comment was silenced by evident surprise. "Ahh, yes. SSA Jack Malone and Maura Elizabeth Blake. This might be presumptuous on my part but I think I see the connection with the agent. So tell me, how do you know our sweet Maura Elizabeth?" The way he said her full name made it seem as if he referred to a work of art. Perhaps, in the chaos of his mind that was how he envisioned her -- a mortal Mona Lisa, humanly flawed. "Well..." his arms stretched in front of him, allowed to motion only so far before the shackles rattled and confined him to a certain position. "You were right, I'm interested. Good job, Agent. It's been a long time since anyone's managed that. So continue to interest me," his smile grew in slow measure, calculated and with so little emotion it felt forced. "Are you here to tell me how well they are doing in their lives now? Has SSA Malone retired to Florida and is now spending all his time at the links? Is Maura Elizabeth happily married with a white picket fence around a pretty little house?" Venom touched his voice then. "Or will you make me a happy man and tell me they're suffering every day?"

Jack: The apology, be it sincere or otherwise, was accepted with nothing more than a literal wave of his hand that entailed dropping the wooden ring before he attempted to right himself, if only a tiny bit. Indeed, the way Louis spoke her name was interesting, to put it lightly, but Jack wasn't the type to falter. "Your sweet Maura.." he said, but only because the only thing he could see was that goddamn headline. ".. Got in my way." His voice was cool, however. Just a casual conversation, so it would seem.
But he had his interest. That was good; great, even. If all went well, he'd be quite able to keep him interested. The faintest of smirks settled in place upon the venom-laced questions. "It's neither here nor there, Louis. Malone is still the loose-pants fuck he was then. Maura is surviving, for now." For now? A slow breath was taken in, though it was nearly strained and had his hand that wasn't dangling gripping onto the edge of the metal. "There's no picket fence.
"I'm here to discuss certain.. options. I'm sure you're unhappy here, rotting away like a dusty old book in an attic.." he trailed, specifically referencing what he did for reason. "Unfortunately, I can't break your shackles and let you free.. but there's opportunity for other things."


Louis: The moment Jack started to speak about Maura, Louis's dead-dulled eyes closed for a long moment. His breathing was slow, measured, and his hands rose up to brush the knuckles of his left hand along his bottom lip. "She got in my way, too...." his voice was strained, distant. "It's neither here nor there for me. There is no there. I am trapped here. And will be for the rest of my natural born life. Malone and Maura Elizabeth saw to that. They ruined my work, my life's work." It was then that the cool facade cracked into a thousand pieces. Seconds ticked by before it fused back together, and he leaned forward, again bracing his elbows on the top of his knees. Aware that the guards were positioned by the door, he did not dare a glance in their direction. Options. Oh, there were lots options all right. "I'm ... intrigued. I've been here five years, Agent. I can assure you, options always earn my interest. I am, as you can imagine, quite limited as to my involvement..." his black-brown eyes shifted to indicate the guards on the other side of a glass door. "You tell me your ... options... and I'll be the judge of whether or not you're worthy." Of what? Well, his was a delusional and psychotic mind; worth came at all sorts of levels.

Jack: The young agent watched on as the killer's voice strained and eventually the cool disposition cracked; just as he thought it would, eventually. By no means was he an expert, but he'd read enough. Studied enough. Still, Junior was silent for the duration, and when Louis settled forward, those dark brown's were locked on him.
It was a shame they hadn't let Jack dictate the way he preferred this meeting to go; the lack of glass and shackles. Lack of babysitters. He hadn't forgotten about the guards that stood watch, though not once did he look up at them. It was all too similar, in a sense. "Naturally," he replied. Of course Louis would be limited. But that would hardly dampen his own spirits, here. Let alone the others that he'd caught wind of. This was a daring thing, and quite possibly one of the most spiteful things he'd even thought of doing.. but the options would still remain, considering his own morals were rather.. severely cracked.
"Worthy," he parroted, letting his head drop forward an inch or so, which did little to mask the dark circles around his eyes; shadows, however, intensified them. "Is not being here worth your while?" It was the whole.. jackassery of it all, that took over for a brief time. Only for that one statement to slip past before he quite literally bit the inside of his cheek, and hard, before reaching up to run a hand down his face. Wording was everything, and wording was hard considering the observing guards.
"I've dealt with a lot worse, for a lot less.." he began, letting his hand drop. "Can you memorize numbers well? Retain them, use them, even if it's just to say a friendly hello?" Oh, what was it that he was suggesting? Giving up the journalist's address? Indeed he was, and you'd best believe the black snake wouldn't at all deter at giving up his own father's, too, if it was desired.

Louis: "I paint by numbers...." Whether or not that was a joke or he was deadly serious, neither of the guards would know. But as a smile cracked along his face, Jack was given the answer. He shifted in the chair once more, tucking the fold of his legs closer to straighten his position. It was in that posture that his full height became intimidating, even with his seated in a simple wooden chair. His was a deceptive strength beneath lanky muscle and long, coltish limbs. Under the gruff growth of dark whiskers was a boyish face of a man not yet forty. He honed his skill, perfected it; enhanced his artistic expression to match the gruesome chaos of his mind. And now, after five years of being trapped in a gray canvas, the glint of something better than freedom had come along -- revenge. "Incarceration is a funny thing, Agent. It makes you think of old friends and does not limit one from making new ones. No bars, no alarms, no guards can restrict that. It's miraculous, really. As a matter of fact... let me offer you some advice... There is a site for struggling artists called Aria of Voices.com -- I think you'll be inspired by what you find there." The white flash of his teeth revealed another chilling smile. "I'm quite delighted that you paid me a visit, any numbers you wish to share... please do."

Jack: Paint by numbers. He got it, regardless of whether the guards did or didn't, and he watched as the man shifted in the chair, observing even just the way it was. What had he said to Maura, about the Zodiac? Admiration. For him, there was power behind anyone with a mind not of the norm. An opening. One that he, considering even just his namesake, did not yet have.
"I'll visit, then," he said, cooly. The site wouldn't be at all hard for him to memorize, nor hard to get there. It was likely by pure coincidence that he hadn't already came across it and stirred the shit pot. As sad as it may have been, inwardly, this - this right here, this interaction - was probably the most resembling of human interaction, that he'd dealt with in awhile, not counting Sage.
"Your first number is 2300. Lexington Road." There just wasn't anyway to be more discreet about it, unless he'd been able to flash a piece of paper without the guards saying. At least, between the glass and he, he had the slight muffled effect going for him -- it was unlikely that, in the low tone he spoke in -- that they'd have even heard him say what he had. "You've a friend, Louis. Expect me once a week;" he paused there and dipped his head down just to rake a hand through the shabby-choppy brown hair at the top of his head. "I'll be your eyes." In a sense. A puppet seemed more appropriate, though he'd never say such. A fucking puppet on a string, just waiting to be moved.

Louis: "I like that number. Thank you, my new friend." Louis remained seated, not yet ready to return to the gray sea of the halls and cells. The visitor centers was bright, lacking the eerie glow of fluorescent lighting, and even had some cheap but colorful framed photographs on the walls --on the visitor's side at least. "I just have one request. Maura Elizabeth is not to be touched..." he savored the last word on the tip of his tongue. "You know, I tasted her blood..." Louis trembled with the memory and his eyes fluttered closed. "... she has a special fate. No one -- not old or new friends -- will get in my way." One of the guards moved away from the wall and cut the distance between it and the chair, roughly shoving Louis in the back of the shoulder. "Time's up," he gruffed, sparing only a quick glance to the visitor on the other side of the glass.

Jack: Certainly, Jack wasn't yet moving either. You could have called it awe, almost, the way he watched as the man spoke-- up until a certain point. Up until that one, singular, request was made. Just then, regardless of knowingly telegraphing it, he was fairly disappointed. ..Not that he was in the shape to go rustling feathers, anyway, least he find himself in worse condition than he already was in.
Jack said nothing, though his brow did raise at the idea of him tasting her blood; to each their own, though. He did sit upright though, upon seeing the guards approaching. "I'm no obstacle," he said, despite the fact the man was shoved back. "Til next time, Louis. ..Got some writing to touch up." Not really, but it seemed fitting. And for all those guards knew, he very well could have been working on his own novel, even if it was far, far, far from the truth.
Finally raising, he habitually pushed the chair forward an inch or so before offering the killer a nod. A knock to his side of the glass, and he was headed off the same way he'd come.