#⚛ ⌞ 𝑽𝑰𝑪𝑻𝑶𝑹 ⌝ — ᴀɴsᴡᴇʀᴇᴅ ᴀsᴋ .ᐟ ⊹₊ ⋆

[frnknstin]

❝ you’re lucky my face is a rare jewel. ❞ › from erik. ( sorry, i’m a comedian ) [@histeriae]

VICTOR HAD TO PHYSICALLY bite his lip to keep from blurting out something... less than kind about the man's rather unfortunate face. Lord have mercy. Truly unfortunate.

"It’s not so bad—really, it’s not," he offered, voice straining with the effort of politeness.

"It’s just a bit of... hyperpigmentation." Victor swallowed. Hyperpigmentation his ass.

Leaning in, he adjusted his glasses and took a closer look. Alright, maybe it truly isn’t that bad. "I can think of a few ways to improve your situation—some strategic skin grafts, perhaps..." He straightened, clasping his hands together. "A bit of cosmetic intervention, if you will. And if nothing else, you'd make an excellent case study for my university. Perhaps not for myown studies, but... someones."

[frnknstin]

"What are you looking for now?" — From Sherlock Holmes. ( @reverdies )

Victor rose slowly from the open cabinet, turning to face Holmes with an expression that comically screamed "child caught in the act." Clearing his throat and avoiding Holmes' gaze, he stumbled over an excuse for the mess he had made. "Why, I was just... you know..."

Holmes' tone made Victor feel even more like a guilty child. Determined to regain his composure, Victor straightened up, placing his hands on his hips and lifting his chin. "I was looking for more of that blood test which you created, when I looked in what I thought was the chemicals cabinet it—why, it was full of different types of bullets." He decided to omit the detail about the blood-stained ones. "So, I thought, maybe it could be here, in the kitchen, yet—" He paused, glancing back at the open cabinet and the stench emanating from it. "That—now that would be a collection of pig hearts. Marinating. Decomposing. On a kitchen shelf."

He had found tobacco in a Persian slipper, cigarettes in the coal scuttle, and suspected he might find a new will to live somewhere among the unanswered correspondence pinned to the mantelpiece with a knife. Victor was fairly sure he had lost his old will to live in the opium stored in the Russian nesting dolls.

Why was he even apologizing? Holmes was the one living in a pigsty. Victor kept his chemistry materials impeccably organized, bullets in the kitchen icebox, pig hearts on the bathroom counter, and tobacco in his wallet, as any sensible person would.

Exasperated, he gestured vaguely at the chaotic cabinets. "This is—this—" Victor turned back to Holmes, seemingly at a loss for words. "What is this, Mr. Holmes?"

[frnknstin]

"I don't like you. I don't like your arrogance." (-Serizawa) [@fifthdimensicn]

"FOR GOD'S SAKE—you are truly incapable of listening!"

Frankenstein was fed up. His voice rang sharp against the dimly lit walls of the lab, the air thick with the acrid scent of chemicals and the hum of machinery. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, pausing as he caught himself—he should at least lower his voice. Not that it would stop him from speaking to this man like he was explaining basic shapes to a child. He felt like he was.

He took a breath, forced a slow exhale through his nose. "There is a difference between arrogance and simply pointing out the obvious—the same way there is a difference between our experiments." His words were clipped, deliberate, but the frustration in his tone was impossible to miss.

"Creating life is something humanity has long desired—since its own creation," he continued, gesturing with a sharp flick of his wrist. "Do you not understand the potential?! How much grief could be undone, how many lives could be restored—"

He cut himself off with a hiss of breath, pinching the bridge of his nose as if physically holding back the migraine creeping in. The dim glow of the lab cast sharp shadows across his face, deepening the lines of exhaustion.

"—so for what good, pray tell, can an oxygen destroyer be used? It is a certain type of genius, sure," he allowed, though his tone dripped with skepticism. He looked back up, gaze piercing. "How did you even stumble upon such an idea?"

[frnknstin]

“ i've heard rumors about this place. ” (-Noda?) [@fifthdimensicn]

"RUMOURS? That’s a kind way to put it." Frankenstein's expression twisted into a faint grimace as he surveyed the so-called room around them. Or rather, the glorified broom closet stuffed to bursting with outdated documentation and long-forgotten research equipment—the kind no one really needed but couldn’t quite bring themselves to throw away. Because, of course, it might be useful someday.

And so, here it all sat. In this dark, musty, overstuffed excuse for a workspace.

"This place is a dump, Dr. Noda." He nudged a precarious stack of papers with his foot, watching as a puff of dust rose into the stale air. "If there’s anything alive in here, I’d wager it’s not ghosts but rats or cockroaches."

Sighing, he plucked a few sheets from a nearby pile, flipping through them halfheartedly before letting them drop back into the chaos.

"Remind me—what exactly are we looking for again?"