It was time.

That time.

Time for Effigy to get some sleep.

The very thought of it made him cringe. Made the bile in his gut creep up his throat. Make his marrow itch. Made him sweat like a fat guy in a sauna. It took every ounce of will power not to tear the hair from his scalp and weep like a baby.

Sleep.

His nemesis.

He could keep avoiding it, like he had been doing. But so far his day count was somewhere around...five? The fact he couldn't remember was a good enough indication that further consciousness would result in lasting damage. Well...more lasting damage. So with enough sleeping pills in his stomach to knock out an elephant, and an impending dread creeping down his spine, Effigy headed for somewhere he could find some peace and quiet.

As luck happened to have it, he stumbled past a museum. An art museum.

Deciding that he had time to kill while his medication kicked in, he figured he might be able to find some inspiration, as well as a quiet corner to pass out in. Win-win. Paying his admission, he began to wander, his feet leading the way. He gazed halfheartedly at the exhibits displayed before him, his mind preoccupied but the inevitable attempt at sleep. Walking in a daze, like some sleepless zombie, Effigy found himself surrounded by statues and sculptures.

Old ones, by the look of it.

Blinking the rising fog back from his mind, he stared around, a grin tugging at his lips. Hobo instinct had paid off again, and he had found himself the perfect place to do the deed. Wandering along, his head swiveling this way and that, he came across an elegant staircase, below which sat a comfortable looking bench.

Checking that the coast was clear, Effigy gave a final dry swallow before gingerly laying himself down on the seat. His breath rising in tempo, he took a final glimpse of the light before clamping his eyes shut. Breathing deeply, he began the process of trying to calm himself.

The pills were helping.

The pills were helping a lot...

Evelyn was back at work, and while she still cringed at the idea of customer service, she felt glad to see things back to normal. The riots hadn't caused any permanent damage to the museum, and none of her beloved paintings had been damaged which was a relief. It took a few days to repair the busted doors, and a few more to get new displays. But things were looking better now, and patrons were starting to return.

They were still short staffed though, so that meant spending extra time on the floor keeping things in order. Lots of cleaning, sweeping, and occasionally chasing a few loitering teens out of the gift shop. The drama was low, but it was a quiet day, so she didn't expect much trouble.

That was until she went to check on the European Sculpture and Decorative Arts exhibit, and found someone trying to take a nap on the eighteenth century settee.

While Evelyn could understand being tired, and there were many times she considered napping at work as well when exhaustion started to settle in, taking a nap on artwork was not something she condoned. This was a museum, and the pieces here should be respected. Her echoes skimmed the figure, and she strode forward, stopping in front of him with a sigh.

"You know, the logical punishment for finding someone sleeping on a piece of art would be to get a few of the security guys to carry you to the Egypt exhibit and lock you in a sarcophagus. After waking up in a coffin I think a little more respect for the property would be in order. One could only hope." Her expression was somewhat stern, and the echoes flickered, trying to get more information about her intruder.

He was sinking, deeper, deeper into sleep. His body had finally stopped protesting, and his mind was calming, calming, calming. Faces began to swim before him. Memories. Dreams. Two lives slowly blending into one. Two countries, two continents. Different experiences. Same experiences.

A face came to him. One face, and yet, many faces. Like a slideshow, the face flickered and morphed, never still. Never the same. Friends. Trip, and the others. Andrea. Acquaintances. Mute. That nosy pretty-boy, Andrew. Charlotte. Family. Mum. Dad. Lily. Hovering above him, the face opened it's mouth, a white light spewing forth. Mat craned forward, trying to hear what it had to say. And as the face took a yawning breath, it--

>>>"You know, the logical punishment for finding someone sleeping on a piece of art would be to get a few of the security guys to carry you to the Egypt exhibit and lock you in a sarcophagus. After waking up in a coffin I think a little more respect for the property would be in order. One could only hope."

Like a tether cord cut, the dream slipped away, and Mat found himself plummet, jolted in the cold, cruel realm of the woken. Fear gripped gripped him vice tight. His heart raced, his breath rasping hurriedly. His body tensed rigidly. He stared up, his widened eyes so darkly ringed they could be mistaken for bruised. Slowly, the world began to come into focus.

An unfamiliar face framed with snowy hair.

The groggy after effects of the medication still reeling through his mind, Mat took a moment to compose himself, to process what she had said. He spared a scathing glare at the woman before closing his eyes again, nestling back down on the settee.

"At least then I wouldn't have to listen to your braying." He rolled over to his side, his back facing the direction of her voice. "One could only hope..."

I mean, if they didn't want people to sleep on them, they wouldn't provide resting benches.

Right?

For sleeping at a museum, the stranger was surprisingly groggy when he awoke. She had caught a few nappers in the past, but there was a difference between the 'crash on the bench' sleeper verses how this guy was acting. This was the dead on your feet exhaustion that came from resisting sleep for several nights on end. She recognized it because she'd been there. When you slept at that stage, it was mostly because you had no ability to resist sleep any longer.

The guy was...hard to understand. He could just be a hobo, or a vagabond. Being migratory would make a bit more sense than just strictly being homeless, especially considering he paid entry to the museum. The stranger woke, body showing evidence he was coming out of some form of nightmare. His eyes had deep circles under it, his expression stressed, and she wondered if she should have let him sleep. He seemed like he could have used it, and who was she to judge someone on their sleep patters? If only he hadn't picked the exhibit to sleep in she could have been nice. As comfortable as it looked, she couldn't let him stay there.

The look he gave her was positively scalding, and she frowned slightly at his remark as he nested back into the settee. "You know, as much as I appreciate the need to get some sleep, you've parked yourself right on one of the antique artifacts and that is not behavior I condone. Don't make me a jerk, please? Go nap on one of the seating area benches for all I care. That poor bench already has silk upholstery that isn't original to the piece."

She fingered the dial on her walkie talkie, debating calling security. It was a sort of ego thing that kept her from jumping straight to action. She wanted to feel like she could handle this job, and she could stand on her own two feet. Who was she to let some exhausted patron boss her around.

He gave a long sigh. She was still there. Which meant she wasn't going to magically disappear and leave him to peacefully wrestle with the most basic of human abilities. Had he known it was going to be this much of a hassle, he would have saved himself the admission fee and just slept on a park bench.

It wasn't until he took a moment to actually pay attention to what the woman was saying, that Effigy understood just why she was here. Prying his eyes open, he glanced awkwardly over his shoulder, looking up and down the piece of furnishing he was currently resting on. Now that he though about it, it was a pretty fancy seat...

It wasn't until he saw the plaque sitting just in front of the settee that he realised what all the hubbub was about. With all the maturity of a man in his twently-somethings, he gave a loud, amused snort, before chuckling to himself.

"Whoops. My bad."

With a groan, he swung himself upright, blinking rapidly before grinding the heel of his palm against his eye. He stood, and swayed a moment as his body adjusted to the being upright once again. Then he grinned sheepishly at the woman. Now that he had a better opportunity to see her, she suddenly became much less...unagreeable.

"Sorry love, but you'd think they'd make that a little bigger, so people don't mistake it for a bench," he offered weakly, pointing at the now obvious display information. He glanced around, sniffing and rubbing at his cheek. "Besides, I thought this was the statue area? Seems a silly place to put a chair..."

For a frightening moment, Evelyn thought he was going to fall back asleep. Then he sighed, pried his eyes open and started to look at what he was napping on. It was almost humourous to watch the subtle thoughts that were revealed in the crinkle of his brow, the shift in his posture. As his expression began to change she relaxed, the echoes tracking the progress as realization dawned and he acknowledged the artifact for what it was: an art piece. He should be embarrassed, but he seemed too tired to fully feel guilty.

He looked sheepish though, which gave her a little more information about the stranger. He may be acting like a hobo, but he had at least a little respect for artwork. He may have napped on an 18th century artifact, but it didn't look like it was intentional.

That didn't mean he was completely cultured, however, as evident by his snort of laughter.

Evelyn, about as maturely, rolled her eyes at him. "I don't think most people look at gilded gesso on walnut and think 'what a fancy bench'. It takes a little skill to wander around the signs and make yourself comfortable. You're just very talented at being oblivious." She smirked slightly, waiting for him to stand. He was more groggy that natural, and she was starting to wonder if he was on sleeping medication. That would explain the lack of awareness of his surroundings, and his slightly unsteady movement. Just what she needed. A medicated man.

"It's the decorative arts and sculpture area. This seat is a decorative art. Woodwork takes a lot of skill to master, and it may not be a statue but it is a sculpture of sorts. Were you planning on napping with the Reclining Naiad? Because she's in room 548. Or you could try to nap under Perseus's--" Her walkie talkie interrupted her and she fiddled with the dial for a moment to get rid of the static. She took a deep breathe in, then let it out, reminding herself she was supposed to be helping customers, not trying to insult them. Whether or not he was using her museum to nap in wouldn't matter much to her boss if they found out she was verbally assaulting him after he admitted to the mistake. She took a deep breathe, and restarted, giving a shaky smile.

"I'm sure you can find somewhere else to sleep. Heck, I will pretend I don't see you if you crash in the gift shop, just leave the art to rest in peace, ok?" Well, it was almost courteous.

>>>"I don't think most people look at gilded gesso on walnut and think 'what a fancy bench'. It takes a little skill to wander around the signs and make yourself comfortable. You're just very talented at being oblivious."

That earned her a chuckle. "You have no idea..."

He had to hand it to her, she wasn't afraid to let him know what she thought. She said it with the air of someone with a high opinion of herself, but he couldn't fault her for that. After all, he was in a museum. This was her turf, clearly. Slightly pretentious, more than a little passive-aggressive... But she seemed fun. And she was nicely worked up about the chair. She stopped mid-rant to dial her walkie talkie down, and suddenly shifted gears. Apparently a redo was in order. But Effigy wouldn't have it. Not because he was feeling malicious, but because he was feeling a little spiteful.

She had interrupted his chance at sleeping. That meant she could make it up to him with entertainment.

"It could be made from bubinga and gilded sapphires, for all I care. But that is not a sculpture. It's furniture," he protested, pointing at the piece in question and sounding like a man who knows these things. Not that he really cared. But he would pretend to care, in the hope that she would bite. "I'm sorry. but you cannot seriously be standing there, looking me in the face, and telling me otherwise...

His remark earned a laugh, and she put a hand on her hip as she looked at him with amusement, "Can't tell you how many times I've heard that argument. Sculpture is a very loose term, but this bench certainly fits within it. It's a carving, and while it's functional, the method to create it was artistic and well thought out. It wasn't created just to be a bench. It was created to be enjoyed, and to have some form of aesthetic appeal. It isn't the end result that makes something art, it was the artist having the intention to make it so." She glided over towards the bench once he was out of the way, and straightened the plaque and ropes around it now that the hobo (or whoever he was) had abandoned his post.

"Haven't you ever seen the Readymades of Marcel Duchamp? Guy took an urinal and displayed it, now it's regarded as a famous art piece and important era in modern art. I find furniture is much easier to argue in defense of; gladly I don't work at the Modern Museum of Art, much of the pieces there people would scoff their noses at." Stepping away from the piece, she took a casual stance in front of it and crossed her arms.

"But yes, I am seriously standing here, looking you in the face and telling you otherwise. The bench is a sculpture, and the carving placed into it deserves the same respect as one. It's days of just being functional are gone now. All that's left it to enjoy it from a distance." She emphasized distance and pushed her hair from her face. Her icy blue eyes focused on him for a moment, watching his face for a return argument.

Wow.

Good Answer.

He took a moment to stare at the woman, then looked to the chair, then back to the woman. Then back to the chair. In all honestly, he had nothing he could really say in response. He hadn't been ready for such a-- tirade wasn't the word-- prepared response. Either it was simply her job to know such things, which it was now clear to him that she worked here. Or, she was an art enthusiast. Either way, she made some points that he found weren't too far from his own. So Mat responded with his most witty rejoinder.

"Wow. Good answer..."

She stared him, her demeanour none too friendly. Deciding he had most definitely been outmaneuvered in that last exchange, he decided to stare back, too childish to break eye contact. Not that he really wanted to. She did have very pretty eyes. Then, he grinned. After all, a charming grin covers all sorts of things. Like the fact that he was getting the feeling that he may have overplayed his hand here.

"Can't say I don't disagree with you, on most of that. Intent is important, I'll give you that. But I've always felt art is about capturing something more...specific. A result. A product. A... He groped his mind for the word. "An idea made physical. Y'know what I mean? Abstract ideals are all good and fine, but I'd be more inclined to call that philosophy than art. I've always thought of art as more concrete. Direct, but still subtle, y'know? I mean, seriously, hanging a urinal on a wall and calling it art..?" His lips twitched, and his grin widened.

"That's a piece of piss."

The echoes noted the slightly surprised expression on the man's face. Obviously, her statement had gone quite beyond what he expected, but that wasn't unusual for her. The echoes, plus her perfect memory made it easy to gather information and reiterate it to the public. The other staff members often called her a 'walking encyclopedia'. Sometimes, she was useful in that manner. But she was also risky to have around for the same reason that was showing up now; she wasn't always careful how she said things, she just said them anyway. So far, she hadn't insulted him though, perhaps impressed him even a little. But then he starred back with a stubborn expression, and she felt perhaps the exchange wasn't quite over.

He grinned. Even with the flash of a smile the echoes caught the slightly more nervous emotions that crossed his face. He was trying to be charming; it was a good thing she was still irritated, she hated the way being flirted with threw her off her game, and if he tried such maneuvers it would make for a more awkward encounter.

"I think each form of art has it's place. While I may not be inclined to consider a urinal a piece of artwork, the settee is to me. I have a beautiful desk at home which I consider to be art as well, but functional. There was an idea to it, the intention to have something beautiful to gaze upon and use. Some things are a little philosophical, but I guess I consider the difference how I feel looking at it. I enjoy looking at the bench, so it's art to me. Paintings, however, are still top on my list though. The European Art Wing has gained a position as my favorite area of the museum, and there is something timeless and irreplaceable in many of those pieces." She mused. She looked less annoyed talking about artwork now, and seemed to be forgiving his error and backtalking.