houses built on me

RP Journal Cephas Milosovic

[blackhearted-dahlia]

Observational Studies || Cephas & Dahlia

[blackhearted-dahlia]

Dahlia listened attentively when Cephas finally began to talk. He’d been looking at her ponderously for a moment, and she couldn’t help but wonder what diagnoses he might already have thought of, simply in those few brief moments of rambling. Still, he didn’t seem to think she was forcing behavior, which was an excellent show of how she’d developed her ability to lie. As she’d told Niko his French was atrocious, he’d been sure to indicate that she was not very good at putting on a show. Still she watched keenly as Cephas got to work.

She arched an eyebrow at the thought of being encouraged to cry, and tried not to smile. Her head tipped and she regarded him, intrigued, when he mentioned being a devil’s advocate. A slow smile began to spread across her lips. He was sharp, and he was watching her as she watched him. As she opened her mouth to inquire further what that might entail, he continued with the first line she’d expected. Instead of pursuing the challenge, she settled in. There would be time.

"I cannot imagine I would have come if I am unwilling to allow you to do your job." She remarked, grinning easily. "Although," The smile vanished to be replaced with a thoughtfully furrowed brow, "I suppose people can be forced to therapy. But a baseline, clearly you need this, we can begin." She sat upright, hands folded in her lap, eyes bright with interest and fixed on him. She was on the edge of her seat, literally and figuratively, eager for the learning to begin.

[cephasmilosovic]

"You'd be surprised. Many people resist the idea of not being in control, that they aren't masters of what's between their ears," Cephas replied. He wrote; seems eager for treatment. Motivated. Underlined that. The question remained, though, treatment of what? What was causing her verbal outbursts? He looked up at her and nodded in encouragement. If she were eager, this whole thing would go much more smoothly. "First, I'd like to hear about your family. Is there any history of mental illness or brain and nervous disorders in the family? And tell me about these verbal outbursts. When did they start happening?" He tilted his head and waited. A lot of someone's personality was wrapped up in how they presented their circumstances, not necessarily how things actually functioned. He waited, too, for one of the verbal outbursts to happen. How often did they occur?

[ravinasser]

Travis + Cephas // Session One

[ravinasser]

“SEE-fuss,” he repeated, over-enunciating under his breath in a private mockery of the other man’s… incredible stuffiness. The sterile and pristine office wased over him and off of him like water off of a duck’s back; the beautiful wood finishes that all went together, the colour scheme was completely complimentary down to the nick-nacks. It was like a particularly anal interior decorator had gotten at the place and had their way with it, and the level of detail that was paid to the environment - the amound of control that Cephas exerted over his surroundings - when woefully unnoticed by the undertaker.

Travis tossed himself down on one of the leather chairs, lacking a certain amount of grace or dignity. One arm hanging over the back of the couch, he slouched, free hand holding his ankle crossed just above his knee. He hated that he needed to be here, but he needed to resign himself to his fate, or face harsher penalties. Besides, the shrink would be cracking his head open anyways, right? What dignity did he have left?

"I think I function pretty well, but," he shrugged, "a court order’s a court order."

Respect for Cephas would only come from under the crushing weight of the psych’s heel.

[cephasmilosovic]

"There's different types of functioning for different environments," Cephas soothed absently, tip of the pen touched to the surface of the paper and ready to take notes. "What's functional in prison isn't functional in a civilian setting. What's functional in many criminal circles isn't functional in a civilian setting. So let's assess where your strengths lay, Mr Nasser, and where we can encourage growth."

Pleasant enough mush-mouthed platitudes, Cephas thought, for a petty criminal. Travis obviously didn't function well in prison with a pretty face like his and a lack of gang affiliation. And he didn't function well in criminal settings if he'd been caught. Travis was looking more and more like a candidate for 'processing' every second, like more and more of the type of guy to rest on his laurels and looks until both gave way beneath him. Cephas' pleasant expression didn't change. "To start, I'd like to hear about your family. Any history of mental illness? Any experiences with it?" the psychologist asked, ready to write. "And be as thorough as you like."

[niko-markovic]

Connection || Niko & Cephas

[niko-markovic]

Milosovic. A Serbian name, not as commonly known as Croatian but there were pockets here and there. The mention of his father made him even more skeptical. Clearly, this wasn’t a random meeting but Niko had been sought out.. reason still unknown. His father had died in a brutal attack on his hometown, along with many others. Certainly the common link to his family was the last thing he’d expected to hear from a stranger approaching his table in the heart of London. Niko scanned the man from head to toe and then continued to listen to what was quickly becoming a proposition of sorts. Taking the card he looked at it not exactly reading the line of lettered credentials after the name. Instead he focused on the design - crisp, neat, and to the point.. much like the man before him appeared to be. Then again, Niko was aware perhaps more than anyone that appearances were merely a mask behind which everyone moved through the world. They meant everything and nothing all at once to him. The last words Cephas had spoken before he took the card hung in the air. He was being offered services but Niko’s thoughts were not on himself but rather on other possibilities that instantly cropped up in his head. Finally, he waved a hand in a gesture for the tall man standing to take a seat. “A psychologist,” he repeated in a dry, blank tone. Lifting a finger he garnered the attention of a waitress who scurried over to the table, and then nodded to his guest as a silent suggestion for Cephas to order a drink. “Please, it’s on me.” It gave him a moment to decide which of two very important questions he wanted to ask first. After a significant pause in which his palms rubbed against themselves, Niko rested his fingers on the base of the wine glass again. “Your father knew mine and yet I do not know you. My father has also been long dead. Is yours?” 

[cephasmilosovic]

((OOC: Since I accidentally the whole thing with my tag, I'll just kinda pretend Cephas gave the right information about his father knowing Zhenya, not Niko's father. Whups. I'll pretend that mistake didn't happen. )) "A psychologist," Cephas repeated, and could see that maybe Niko didn't get the inherent value of a criminal-friendly professional on his side. He sat when the gesture came, prepared to explain why he was useful. He'd hoped for a softer landing when he arrived, but his father had warned him they were as wary as any serious criminals had any right to be. So Cephas decided to just be direct and blunt. He opened his mouth to speak, but the waitress arrived and looked expectant for an order. "G and T," he ordered, and flashed the server a smile. He watched her move away, hooded eyes eyeing the woman's rump for a moment before he realised that Niko was rubbing his palms together in preparation for some sort of serious question. Cephas' heart sped and he noted the sensation in an absent way, and that it was exciting. Yes, breaking the rules was much more exciting than blind obedience to the law, and Cephas had to admit that even when intimidated he was much more engaged than with conversations in any 'civilian' setting. He could scarcely remember the name of his secretary, his landlady, the real estate agent who'd shown him around places for two weeks--but he'd be damned if he forgot Niko. So altogether Cephas couldn't phrase this as a bad interaction, even if things were now a little difficult. Difficult things just needed to be massaged after all. Cephas sat back. "My father is alive and well. Though we don't talk as much as I suppose a father and son should," Cephas said, tone neutral. Talking about parents was always risky business. He didn't like talking to his very much. Not as a grown man.

[cephasmilosovic]

Queen Bees and Hornets || Kirsten & Cephas

[merstroud-deactivated20150922]

Kirsten raised her drink at him briefly before taking a sip from it.  “This doesn’t hurt either but I suppose it’s not as healthy.”  She gave a small smile to the man, though it didn’t reach her eyes as she was merely being courteous.  She was never accepting of anyone trying to get into her head, the mind was the one place that absolutely belonged to the individual and just meeting someone was not the time to attempt such a thing.  If the two of them had made some friendly conversation first then she would’ve been more accepting of his question and curiosity.

Cephas relaxed energy did well in keeping her relaxed and when he introduced himself as a psychologist, it made sense.  The relaxed demeanor, the way he talked and chose his words, and the question he asked all made sense now as she examined the card passed to her.  There was something calculating about his words, there was a deeper meaning than ‘come sit on my couch and let’s talk about why you are the way you are’.  The problem was that Kirsten didn’t know what to do with that type of information at the moment, but she shook her head in agreement as everyone in the world has problems, in this life no one is free of that.

She set the card down next to her drink.  “Figure out solutions.”  She repeated those words out loud because they were the ones that seemed to have the most behind them.  “Would you care to elaborate on that Cephas?  Since you’re associated with the Markovics I am lead to believe that there is something more meant by that.  Also, is there a particular reason you think I would be in need of your services.”  She picked up the card, waving it a bit with her fingers, it seemed to her that she may be being propositioned in some way and she wanted to find out.

He was so careful and calculating with his thoughts that she wasn’t sure she’d get any sort of straight answer but at least she had put it out there, what she was expecting. 

[cephasmilosovic]

Her comment regarding the alcohol made Cephas breathe out a laugh, and it was his first uncalculated expression. Drink was something he indulged in a fair amount--one commonality he had with the rest of humanity, even if the rest of him might have been somewhat further away.  "Yes, it's our modern soma, isn't it?"

Cephas' relaxed, slow energy was like a cool river moving at night: it seemed flat, almost dull, but it was hungry, churning, and full of undertows. He gave her a smile that managed to make it into his eyes and a nod as he lifted his beer to his mouth and took the opportunity to drink deeply. He exhaled and set the glass on the table once more. Every word he spoke seemed to give her more and more of a handle on him, and he could see her climbing down from her emotional tree--though no doubt she would keep her distance. That was only smart, especially when strange men accosted you in your club, but Cephas was pleased at the incremental progress towards some kind of non zero-sum relationship. After all, that's why he was here.

Kirsten decided to blow the lid off 'incremental' however, when she flatly asked Cephas his relationship with the Markovics. Cephas looked around their table without thinking, looking for listening ears, but he found none. They were relatively isolated in the club, and he supposed her seat had been chosen by artful design and not by chance. He leaned in regardless, and lowered his voice.

"The Markovics and their colleagues, rivals, families, friends, etcetera, lead very--unusual lives," Cephas explained. As he had been with Niko, he tried to be with Kirsten: succinct and to the point. "Lives that often incur violence or stress-related injuries. Some of the emotional or mental sort. I help with those injuries, and I don't talk to -- those who would try to force conventional lifestyles on my patients. Prison is less of a place for correction and more of a sanity-breaking machine. I don't judge what my clients do, I simply help them do it without interference."

And that was it.  He spread his hands, long fingers splayed out in a beseeching gesture. He'd laid his cards on the table. She was free to dismiss him if he wanted, but he'd done the task of being new in town and tipping his hat to the established players.

[blackhearted-dahlia]

Observational Studies || Cephas & Dahlia

[blackhearted-dahlia]

Right off the bat she was surprised. She’d assumed that while the therapist would sound off as familiarly with her as possible on a first name basis, the invitation wouldn’t be extended to reciprocate. But still she smiled shyly at him. “I do suppose calling you Monsieur Milosovic would become tiring quickly.” She quipped, following him further into his study and looking around with unabashed curiosity. She returned her attention to him only when he invited her to sit. She looked at the box of tissues and raised an eyebrow.

"Do you normally make us cry?" She asked, before clapping a hand over her mouth. "I did not mean you. I meant, I meant…" She flushed, not meeting his eyes as she sat demurely. The only illness Dahlia had was bloodlust, and she had no intention of mentioning that to Cephas, not when the only place it would land her was a penitentiary. So instead she needed to give him something to diagnose, even if it wasn’t real. She needed to see him at work. She set aside her purse meticulously, making sure it would not fall over as she smoothed her hands over her skirt and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

"I have no filter." She admitted, smiling at him brightly. "I used to know when it was appropriate to speak my mind, but of late," she gestured helplessly, first at the tissues and then at their surroundings. "I did not mean to imply that you make your patients cry. I meant does it happen that they cry often during your meetings?" She finally looked him in the eye again before once more studying their surroundings. "I do not know how this works, as I am sure you can tell. Is it discussion? Do you lead me with questions to what you think needs to be spoken of? Or do you sit and let me ramble until something worthwhile arises?"

[cephasmilosovic]

She walked in with confidence and grace, and Cephas prepared himself to try and diagnose her problem--if she really had one. Sometimes people came to psychologists simply to have their sanity confirmed. It happened, though not terribly often. Generally they were individuals undergoing periods of enormous stress, and they were unsure of their coping mechanisms. Cephas, who knew nothing of Dahlia's plans, continued as he would with any other patient. Her manner was curious and sharp, but not unduly so. Her first comment was a blurt regarding the tissues, and Cephas blinked, looked at her. When he opened his mouth to answer, she continued overtop of him to explain herself. It irritated the man, but any affront he felt was minimal: Cephas had his diagnostic motor running and every motion she made was being analyzed in an abstract, intellectual sense. His eyes watched her as Cephas might watch an insect under glass as she spoke. Several disorders involved the degredation of social skills, but only a few were likely to strike a young woman in the apparent prime of her life. It would be important to try and rule out neurological factors first.  Sudden impulsivity had a small likelyhood of being biologically based, but it was important to rule out the possibility of any kind of tumour. He looked at her flowing mane of hair as she spoke, and part of him wondered if she had a timebomb in her skull that was exploding in slow-motion, manifesting itself as a gradual slide into blithering incoherence and eventual death. More likely was that these conditions weren't sudden and it wasn't biological, though. Cephas knew disorders, especially social disorders, almost never occurred by themselves or in a vacuum. The psychologist pulled out a notepad, a pen, and wrote her name, the date and time of day at the top of the sheet. He was officially intrigued. This looked to be an unusual case. Time to get started.

"Some people feel this is a place where they can cry. I encourage that," he said, leaning back in his chair and crossing one ankle over his knee. His long legs made a figure four. "And if you feel that would help you, please cry. This room is here for your health. You don't have to 'behave' or put up a front, Dahlia. Here, I can lead the discussion, or be a listening ear. Sometimes our roles might switch and you'll teach me what it's like for you to be you. Sometimes I might play the devil's advocate and challenge you--"

He watched her when he mentioned that. Coaching patients to violence or other amusing expressions was something Cephas indulged in occasionally. Implanting suggestions and playing devil's advocate were two dishes made by the same cook, after all.

"But first, I'd like to ask you a few questions to gain a baseline. Is that fine with you?"

Cephas flicked his pen between two fingers. She didn't know it, but now her cover story would really be tested. Cephas dissected issues and lives beneath his mental scalpel, saw how people could be cut up and frankensteined back together. He still saw nothing suspicious in Dahlia's behaviour or story so far, and he was calm and placid. Time to get to work.

[cephasmilosovic]

Queen Bees and Hornets || Kirsten & Cephas

[merstroud-deactivated20150922]

When he said ‘neither’ she slowly let her small smile return, she wasn’t faint-hearted by any means but she was at extreme odds with her husband and wasn’t keen on being involved or associated with him or his business partners at the time.  She was fully aware that his answer could be a ploy and that he could very well indeed be here on business or an extended hand of the family checking up on her, for whatever reason.  For now she would entertain him in conversation and see where it led and, what conclusions they drew on each other.

"New to London and already stuck in your office all of the time?" she asked in a friendly manner, a bit curious as to where this newcomer has come from.  "Where did you move from and what is your business that has you shut in your office so much?"  In many ways this sounded like her, she was somewhat of a newcomer to London and she was often at work.  Rebuilding the club from the ground up took much of time, keeping it running smoothly since reopening kept her in office quite a bit.  But she liked the work, liked doing something with her time again, rather than being someone’s wife.

He seemed rather passive and pleasant so far, he kept an amiable look on his face and his demeanor was calm and relaxing.  While it did put her at ease, he wasn’t someone she would stress over, she kept it in the back of her mind that this could very well be a learned skill of his.  Kirsten would like to give the man the benefit of the doubt but people weren’t so easily trusted these days, especially with the type of introduction he had made.  He had used the Markovic name as way of establishing a familiarity but it only created a wall.

Cephas’ look faltered for the slightest movement and had she not been watching him with her snake like eyes then she would’ve missed it, she didn’t know where his mind went but she recognized the distant look.  Something she had seen in herself more and more over the last few years.  She took another drink as she considered his question, feeling like she was on the couch of a therapist, her answer could only come out calculated.  But maybe she would surprise him with a bit of honesty. 

"I don’t really get ‘breaks’ from the office, as an owner, I’m always somewhat on the clock, even when I’m away from the club." she gave him a little smile and watched with curiosity to see how her answer was interpreted.  "My escape is here." she added while tapping the side of her head with her finger.

[cephasmilosovic]

"You escape within, ahhh," Cephas agreed, raising his eyebrows at the woman. "It sounds like a healthy way to unwind."

She had relaxed--at least, she'd relaxed from her hyper alert position of guarded readiness--and that was good enough for Cephas. He was  here to drop off his card, make his name and get out if she sensed on some level that he was rotten. It wouldn't be the first time that someone with a nose for blood had zeroed in on him and insisted that something was just 'off' about the psychologist, but on the other hand, that was taking a pessimistic view of things. She was guarded, but she had to meet dozens of people every day, and evidently she wasn't on good terms with the Markovics. Using their name had been a mistake, but it was too late to take those things back now.

"I'm a psychologist. I help people figure out solutions to their problems," he said in response to her earlier question. He pulled an ivory card from the inner breast pocket of his jacket, laid it on the table and slid it over to her so she could examine it. "And we all have our problems. Our foibles. We're all Gordian knots waiting to be untied."

Cephas didn't mention that he often employed the Alexandrian solution to certain unsolvable knots: one swift stroke of the blade.

[blackhearted-dahlia]

Observational Studies || Cephas & Dahlia

Dahlia was ever insatiable for more knowledge. Her curiosity would likely be the death of her someday, but she anticipated that until then, it would serve her well. When she’d heard Niko mention the therapist who fed him confidances that were worth his time, Dahlia simply needed to meet the man behind the words. Therapy was something she avoided at all costs generally. The idea of letting someone into her mind, to see the twisted way she knew she’d come to think, was beyond unnerving. With Niko it was just right, but a complete stranger…

Still, she needed an in. She didn’t simply want to show up at the man’s door, smile, tell him she worked for Niko, and proceed to interrogate him on the ways of psychiatry. She wanted to learn from him, and the best way to do that was to let him think he needed to use his talents on her. Personal experience, rather than conversation. Learning by example. So she called him, made an appointment, silently bemoaned the rates that therapists could get away with charging, and waited until the day came when she could call on this Cephas Milosovic. She was far more confident from a distance, however, and as she knocked politely at the door, she took a moment to wipe her hands on her skirt.

Offering a smile at the tall man who opened the door, she spoke hastily. “Hello, Monsieur. I am Dahlia, I believe we spoke on the phone?” She tried not to fidget as she looked up at him, but as with most of the people she’d met who worked with the mind, he had eyes that were sharp, keen, and seemed fully capable of staring into her soul.

[cephasmilosovic]

Cephas stood with the door open and his newest client on the threshold. She paid out of pocket which wasn't that unusual, but the insistency of her request made him wonder what was so urgent. Dahlia had declined to mention on the phone, and so Cephas was left to enter the appointment totally blind. Was she potential prey, was she another rich, white woman with generalized anxiety, was she suffering from grand, convoluted schizophrenic delusions? It could have been any of them, and Cephas had encountered all in blind appointments.

The psychologist smiled and stepped back, inviting her in. She was well-groomed, had an intelligent, aware gaze and moved without physical limitation. Those facts scored several diseases off his list immediately. She was capable of dressing herself and handling money, so that also lifted her out of several possible categories. That left two likely possibilities: she was here for a personality disorder or past trauma.

"Welcome, Dahlia. Please call me Cephas," Cephas said, leading her to the clutch of furniture in the middle of his office. A black leather couch waited next to two comfortable-looking chairs, and on the coffee table sat a carafe of water and  a box of tissues. Cephas gestured to the seat. "Please, sit, and we can get started. Tell me, what can I do for you?"

His curiosity was piqued. What was such a healthy-seeming young woman doing in his office?

[mancandykings]

[niko-markovic]

Connection || Niko & Cephas

[niko-markovic]

Niko noticed a man making a beeline for him but didn’t assume he’d be approached. Or at least that’s what he was hoping. Leaving instructions with the front desk that he was not to be bothered in the bar he was expecting no guest. The temporary stop in the bar was for himself only, to take a moment with his own thoughts. When the stranger approached Niko made no attempt to meet his gaze until spoken to. Somehow, the intruder seemed familiar. Not in the sense that they had ever met. It was more in the unquestionable features and tone of voice, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on yet. Forgive my rudeness combined with but I think I can help you seemed to be phrases at odds with each other. It captured his attention, sure. But offering unsolicited ”help” with the qualifier of acknowledging it was perhaps rude .. Niko studied the gentleman over another sip of wine. This was no businessman looking to shoot the shit with the first person he saw seated alone. There was an intention behind his eyes. Ever wary, Niko made no offer for the uninvited guest to sit. “Help me?” he replied in his natural Croatian accent. In his own hotel he was Nikolai Marković, owner of the Luxe, as well as a few other properties scattered around town, and as such he was guarded but didn’t bother with taking on any fresh role. Leaning back in his seat and setting the glass down, he crossed his arms in front of his chest. With a furrowed brow and amused smile on his lips, he asked, “That is a bold statement. How might you help me?” Selling Hoovers, passing out tracts as a Jehovah’s Witness? No, this was something else entirely. He’d at least hear him out with the same entertained expression. While Niko could play the game with a generous amount of politeness he also had no time to suffer fools. Making it clear he was giving up a few seconds of his life, his brows raised. “Go on then.”

[cephasmilosovic]

When Niko made no offer for Cephas to sit, he didn't force his presence. That wasn't his style. Cephas was tall, lanky, he was a beanpole as a kid though exercise kept him filled out, and he would never be a stocky juggernaut. Instead, Cephas cultivated what he termed 'soft power', and that didn't involve intentionally grating on a gangster's nerves when Cephas was aware he was being indulged by being acknowledged without an introduction. His mouth was dry, and Cephas took note of how his heart beat faster. Cold calling was stressful, and cold calling a gangster whose reputation preceded him? Slightly to the right on the stress bellcurve.

"I'm Cephas Milosovic, and my father is Enver Milosovic. He served with your father in very bloody conflict when I was a young boy, He impressed on me the value of repayment," Cephas said, trying to keep his explanation as short and succinct as possible. "As to the practical matters of why I'm here: I've moved into the neighbourhood and my business might be of use to you and yours. I'm a psychologist." Cephas drew an ivory business card from his chest pocket and flipped it between long, spidery fingers. He held the card for Niko to take, and the text on the front was a tasteful sans-serif design. Cephas Milosovic, BSC MA and a number of other credentials. He smiled at Niko, but this time the expression didn't reach the psychologist's eyes. It wasn't an aggressive look, just one that was aware. "I don't talk to cops."

And that should say it all. Cephas waited, card outstretched, for Niko to take the card or not, tell him to fuck off or not. Honestly, if he was summarily dismissed, Cephas' would not be surprised or insulted. Suspicion ran deep, and paranoia was the lifeblood of criminal enterprises. It wasn't like Cephas went around spreading his secrets over the hills and valleys.

[ravinasser]

Travis + Cephas // Session One

[ravinasser]

Travis jumped a little at the knock. The man had been lost in thought, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration trying to figure out what one makeup artist’s technique was, or if that was just Photoshop at work - and when he looked up, he was completely unsurprised by the kind of man that was standing there. Skinny, too tall, off-handsome face but impeccably dressed because with a profession requiring as much schooling as psychology, money came with him into it and it came flowing after him. The mortician sucked on his front teeth as he stood. When it came to posessions, he’d always have looks on this guy.

"That’s—just call me Travis," he winced at the use of ‘Ravi’ - oh, there was a definite story behind his legal name. One he grew tired of explaining, tacking on the T and the S for simplicity’s sake, but knew that he’d end up having to rehash all the things that got under his skin like that here. He let out a sigh, because he had no choice but to submit to this; therapy would stop as soon as Cephas gave him the OK. If he skipped out, or was entirely uncooperative? Then jailtime looked pretty fucking likely, in violation of his probation.

The mortician stood, tossed the magazine on the coffee table, glossy pages slapping up against those of other magazines unceremoniously. It left things askew on the table, uneven, now the messiest part of the lobby.

"And you must be Keh-fuss," he said, offering his hand to shake as he approached the doorway.

[cephasmilosovic]

"Travis, then," Cephas said, trying not to wince at the magazine laying askew.

Cephas' waiting room (and office) were absolutely pristine. Everything in its place and a place for every thing.  The fishtank burbled in peace, the plants were glossy and green, and the tall windows were as transparent as air; no fingerprints marred their surface. The magazine seemed like a discordant note in the middle of a symphony, and Cephas' mind kept returning to its off-symmetrical angle like a cut on the roof of his mouth he continually tongued. Great, now he'd be thinking about the magazine all damn session.

"And it's 'See-fuss', Cephas Milosovic. Shall we go in?" the psychologist said. Mispronouncing his name if one had only seen it in text was entirely understandable, but Cephas found it irritating nonetheless. He took the mispronunciation and tucked it away in the back of his mind. Just one more crime Ravi was guilty of without even knowing he'd broken a rule. Cephas would collect these crimes until the thought of hurting Ravi gave him a warm glow inside, and Cephas would work from there on how he wanted to 'process' this client. "Feel free to sit in the black chair, or on the couch if you prefer. Relax."

Cephas' office was cool, comfortable and sparsely decorated. Expensive leather furniture gathered in a circle around a small coffee table, and a tray on the table was completed by a box of tissues and a carafe of ice water. Windows blocked out the sun with slatted blinds, and on the walls stood half-filled bookshelves. Cephas' diplomas leaned in a book shelf, waiting their turn on the wall.

Cephas moved with liquid grace through what he felt was his domain, and he gave Ravi a beatific smile as he seated himself and pulled out a pad of paper and a pen. He wrote Ravi's name at the top, the date and the file number, then glanced at his watch and recorded the start time of the session. "Now I know that you've been instructed to be here, but I'd rather start this relationship on a note of co-operation. I think you'll find that you change more readily if you agree to work with me for your own health, not just so I'll sign the papers saying you're healthy, Mr Nasser. Because I won't. Not until I think you are functioning better."

[ravinasser]

Travis + Cephas // Session One

He didn’t want to be here. At all. But after a long conversation through the grate in the cab of his police cruiser, Rowland Darling and his soft heart had vouched for him; that what he needed was community service, what he needed was councilling. Things that he’d never had the opportunity to get when he was a delinquent youth that would have set him straight, instead of down this petty criminal path. What Travis needed was a second chance, and when he was a teenager, circumstances didn’t allow it. So now, instead of jail or deportation, Travis Nasser was waiting on his court-ordered therapy appointment. It was over such a minor offense, too, stacked on a ton of other similar minor offenses; the problem could just be pathological, and after all of that work he put in immigrating to England to pay taxes to the crown, the judge was lenient.

One ankle crossed over and resting just above the knee on his opposite leg, the mortician flipped idly through a magazine that he had no interest in. His eyes caught on the women in the ads, always with the flawless skin and flowing hair and exquisite makeup - doll-like, and that’s what fascinated him. Blemishless and perfect. Living works of art.These models were larger than life, and he studied them.

The modern geisha.

Travis was so engrossed in his penchant for unattainable beauty standards, that when the therapist came to collect him for the session, he was startled by the man.

[cephasmilosovic]

Cephas Milosovic made room in his professional counselling schedule for state medical plans. This had a number of benefits. One, it made him look very good. When it came time to get a new job, or ask for a raise, or just to show off, casually mentioning that one did pro-bono work for the poor and downtrodden nearly always paid off. Two, it padded out the day and made things interesting. Rich people tended to have very particular problems and needed to be handled in a very particular way. People of lower socio-economic standing, however, were a bit more rough and tumble. Three, and this was the real reason that Cephas bothered: it gave him a catalogue of victims who could be disappeared easily.

The rich were accounted for. It was a tragic fact, but true. If the recipient of a trust fund vanished, police and lawyers would all become invested because there were dollars at stake. But a poor orphan? A drop in the ocean. Cephas was free to browse at his leisure, take clients at his leisure, groom them at his leisure and kill at his leisure.

Cephas stood, straightened his jacket, and stepped to the door. His next client was one Ravi Nasser. An immigrant, by his permanent resident card and public assistance insurance. The psychologist pictured a South-East Asian young man in his early twenties--maybe he didn't get along with his family so well? Ah, well, even easier to vanish in that case. Cephas smiled in pleasure at the thought of his hands strangling this imaginary young man to death, and he opened his door. There was Ravi. A thirty year old man. A white man. Cephas stared and tried not to look surprised, but Ravi was consumed in his magazine. The psychologist looked away, then tapped on the door to alert Ravi to his presence.

"Mr Nasser. Are you mister Ravi Nasser?" Cephas asked, voice mild. He had a calm voice, the kind that was impossible to imagine raised in anger. With Cephas' gentle gaze and his lanky form, he didn't cut a terribly imposing figure. Cephas looked down at Ravi and for a moment the psychologist imagined the other man handcuffed, bloody and writhing. In that moment, his mind was made up. It didn't matter that Ravi was older than his usual toys, he decided. He didn't have time to be picky.

"In here, please," Cephas said, and swept his hand to indicate Ravi should go into the office.

[cephasmilosovic]

Queen Bees and Hornets || Kirsten & Cephas

[merstroud-deactivated20150922]

Kirsten smiled up at the man, just a small smile as he pardoned his interruption.  There was nothing he was interrupting, all she did when she was out on the floor was watch, kept sharp eyes on everything that happened and taking in everything that was different from when she was on the floor like this or back in her office.  There were cameras of course.  She recognized the man in the suit from minutes before when she had passed him, once on the way to the bar and then again on the way to her table.

The small smile dissipated slowly when he mentioned his affiliation, or friendship rather.  What she would mostly keep on her face now would be a blank expression, she had no idea why a ‘friend’ of the Markovic’s would come to visit with her.  She nodded, “I am.” when he asked if she was who she was.  ”You’re welcome to have a seat if you’d like, Cephas.” she offered with a tilt of her head to the seat across from her.

She watched as he took the seat and noticed his observance, he seemed as though he was trying to read her, her facial expressions and her body language.  It only made her think that he was either a very observant person like herself or that there was some sort of ulterior motive.  If their was some sort of ulterior motive then she hoped, for his sake, that he would just come out with it and be upfront.

The last thing she wanted was Niko Markovic or one of his chronies to start stopping in and checking up on her or the business.  She didn’t work for them, her husband did and, he was her only affiliation to the family.  The fact that she and Niko hadn’t even talked should speak enough about that.  ”So what brings you to Ariana’s?  The entertainment or business?” she asked with a steady gaze as she took a drink of her Absolut.

[cephasmilosovic]

He exhaled a faint smile as she eyed him. Kirsten was clearly not comfortable with the business, so he might as well explain further.

"Neither," Cephas said. He sat at the table  with one long leg crossed over the other, one hand resting lightly by his drink. "I'm here on purely personal business. I was told this club is a major attraction, and since I'm new in London--how could I resist? I normally stay in the office, but this is an acceptable break from the routine."

Her gaze challenged him as she drank and Cephas found the smile on his face remaining sincere. Owner of a flesh club, steady gaze, married to a gangster; these things added up to a woman who could draw a line in the sand with single unyielding look. Cephas' eyes were fond and he looked into his own drink, pulled a mouthful and swallowed. He'd let her know he didn't work with his fists and she could glean from that he was no goon. He appreciated women who took no shit, and took no pleasure in thoughts of their bleeding, or suffering.

Blood. He inhaled and smelled blood in his beer, and Cephas' eyes flicked up to look over the rim at Ariana's. For a moment, the club was populated by walking portions of meat and anatomy. Jaws and joints flexing, muscles bunching, skin sweating, it was all a collection of organic garbage--all of them, from the dancers to the patrons. They were yelping, barking, hooting animals that couldn't conduct themselves with any kind of fucking civilization. Just a bunch of idiot toys who thought they controlled what happened in their own skulls--

He put those thoughts away with conscious training. It took less than a split second, and Cephas looked up, back with Kirsten with the same fond, kind expression. Cephas was content to be the lanky, harmless looking psychologist. He set his drink down.

"Tell me, when you need a break from the office--" he gestured to the club, indicated Ariana's. "Where do you go?"

[cephasmilosovic]

Queen Bees and Hornets || Kirsten & Cephas

[merstroud-deactivated20150922]

In the privacy and quiet of her office, with old southern blues music playing softly, Kirsten was sitting back in her chair.  Her shoes were off and her dress had floated up around her hips as her feet were propped up on her desk.  She had a bunch of reports in her hands that she was reviewing and her eyes were growing strained and tired from spending most of the day reading over paperwork.  Kirsten liked the paperwork better than having to go out and schmooze with any patrons of her club, she wasn’t too much of a people person these days.  Having spent so much of her life, especially when she was much younger, heavily into the social scene, she was tired of all of that.

Only thing was, with the history of this club and the type of club it was, it was important for Kirsten to make rounds out on the floor.  She had to check up on business, see who was working well and see the patrons that were enjoying what the gentleman’s club had to offer.  Rarely did she speak or socialize when she was out there, she usually sat at a table with a drink and just watched the place operate.  She had sharp eyes that rarely missed much, she recognized faces of people that came back even if it was only their second return and she made mental notes of everything she saw.

Setting the small stack of reports down on her desk, she picked her feet up and slid them into her heels before she stood and let her dress fall back into place, smoothing it out to make sure it reached just beyond mid thigh like it was supposed to.  Wanting to give her eyes and her brain a bit of a break she decided that now was as good of a time as any for the night for her to make her appearance on the floor.  On her way out the door her big decision was whether she should have Absolut or Macallan tonight.

As she made her way down the hall, she felt the music that was bumping and vibrating against the walls, and the lights from the stage would occasionally flash in the hallways and hit her eyes.  She smiled to herself a little before she made her way into the open and headed towards the bar.  The place wasn’t packed but there were plenty of people enjoying the women and the liquor, so it seemed a successful night so far.  A tall slender man in a suit caught her attention as he was making a drink order and smacking the waitress’s ass.  Kirsten couldn’t keep the eye roll in check as she passed him and her waitress on her way to the bar.

The bartender asked if she wanted her usual and she declined, asking for the Absolut instead.  The vodka from her home country made her think of just that, her home country.  Once it was poured and in front of her she took and started her walk to her dim table towards the back, where no one usually went because it didn’t offer the best view of the stage.  As she passed the man in the suit from before, now seated at a table, they caught eyes and she smiled and gave a nod.  The most she gave for a greeting to the patrons unless they specifically approached her.  It wasn’t something she did out snootiness, it was a means of her staying out of the way of business, opting to not personally interfere and keep attentions or money away from the entertainment and purpose for the patrons to be in attendance.  Once seated at her table, she finally took that burning sip of the fine vodka, it felt so good sliding down her throat.

[cephasmilosovic]

And there she was.

 Cephas had seen a picture before and heard a brief description from his father of Kirsten's personality: classy, restrained, not to be trifled with. However, what made a more immediate impression was how the club moved around her. Workers and dancers kept one eye on their boss as they passed her, but there was no anxious tension. If Kirsten were riding a horse, the reigns would be loose in her hand--but Cephas didn't doubt her ability to take control. No, in a sordid business like a titty bar (even if it was a trussed up titty bar with fifteen-pound drinks), the ability to keep control over one's employees was crucial. She wouldn't have been in charge if she were a soft touch, it was as simple as that.

So after giving her a few minutes to get settled, Cephas took his beer and stood. The dancer on the stage had been an amusing enough distraction for the past few minutes, but it was time to make pleasantries. The psychologist wove his way towards Kirsten. As he walked, he took in her bearing: proud, confident, someone who had experienced some sort of loss, because her lips and mouth held a tension that was visible clear across the room. Running a flesh-club was no doubt a stressful business, but Cephas found himself wondering what else she worried about. Lovelife? Friends? Life purpose? There were so many ways to lose one's direction in life, even if one looked put together on the surface. So the question in Cephas' mind when he met Kirsten was the same as when he met any other human being: What's your dysfunction?

"Pardon the interruption," Cephas said, mild voice sliding through the pumping music. He didn't lean on the table, didn't take that liberty. He stood, expecting hostility for a stranger. He continued. "But you're Kirsten Novak, aren't you? I'm Cephas Milosovic, a friend of the Markovics."

[cephasmilosovic]

Queen Bees and Hornets || Kirsten & Cephas

Cephas had a phone, he had a computer, he had the entire internet at his disposal for entertainment, and still what he wanted to do was just mingle. The city was new enough to be enchanting with its streets and accents instead of souring, so Cephas chose to make excursions in the evening after dinner. Sometimes he walked, sometimes he drove, but he'd usually end up somewhere drinks could be found, before retiring back to his apartment for the night. This evening, however, he wandered in a very specific direction.  His own father, Enver, had told Cephas about Ariana's Gentleman Club, and the psychologist was curious. The Markovics used the place as a laundering front and base of operations, and Cephas felt it was time to make his presence known. Cephas' long fingered hands grasped the door handles and he entered the establishment. Bouncers loitered by the door as music played in a dim, hazy atmosphere. Attractive women in various states of undress flowed like cool water through the handfuls of excited, self-satisfied men, and on the stage a dancer melted to her knees and tossed her hair. Cephas realised his pace had petered out and he stood still in admiration. Drinks flowed, music pumped through speakers and the entire club was an ordered, well-run clutch of the rich and the beautiful. If it was the sort of place that would accept him, Cephas considered, it was truly rotten to the core. He smiled at a woman with gold chains dripping off her breasts and she wiggled over. "What can I get you?" she breathed, eyes travelling up his lanky, suited body and judging his level of wealth. She licked her lips. It was all fake, of course, all an illusion. But he knew how the game was played and the psychologist pulled a twenty pound note from his wallet, reached forward and tucked it in the waistband of her glittering golden skirt. "Local draft, a pint of whatever's right," Cephas said, hand reaching around and patting her ass for a second. The flesh was good feeling in his hand, and his mood lifted despite himself. Something about being catered to by beautiful women he figured with an amused, wry half-smile. The server slunk towards the bar to fetch his drink, and Cephas turned to choose a seat.  A few remained at tables scattered in the dim, and Cephas slid comfortably into a chair. This was a pleasant enough way to idle away an hour or two, he figured, and Cephas' eyes settled on the stage and its dancer once more.

[psych2go]

[niko-markovic]

Connection || Niko & Cephas

The drinks were flowing, glasses were resounding as they touched in the large bar, and Niko swiveled in his seat. It was a typical week night at the Luxe hotel: businessmen in town and happily away from overbearing wives were filtering in, beautiful women were entering the room and searching for those they were there to meet, and the dull sound of chatter was occasionally punctuated by someone laughing a little too loudly. It wasn’t the best environment for work. However, Niko had grown bored in his office located on the premises. People watching is what it was called. There was so much to gain from it, an unending form of entertainment. He thought about what his sister had said. Something to the effect of imagining he would be good at such a job. Little did Nadica know his position as owner of the hotel came with few requirements, none of which were focused on the daily details of such an establishment.  A drink was placed beside his closed laptop on the bar. Rarely indulging, he took the glass of wine and brought it to his lips. London was a foreign city and as such it would never truly feel like home. But then again.. where was home? His family was dead or scattered save for his unaware sister. However, the din of the bar was the closest thing he had to a certain, fixed homestead for the moment. Placing the glass on the counter top he turned back in his seat but monitored the comings and goings out of the corner of his eye. Once his glass was finished he’d return to the rented Cheyne Walk brownstone for the evening and the entertainment in the Luxe hotel bar would wait until the following evening. 

[cephasmilosovic]

Cephas didn't feel at home in London yet. It was metropolitan, but at the same time it had a certain haughty snigger that implied an injoke at every tourist's expense, and Cephas didn't like thinking of himself as a tourist. He wasn't an oldboy yet, that was for certain. But the process of heading out to meet and greet was just part of the job--particularly in this 'market'. Criminals liked to put a face to a name, and, more importantly, see that they could reach across the table and yank on Cephas' necktie if they felt hard done by.

No one actually touched Cephas, of course. He wouldn't abide that sort of horseshit for starters, and he made sure there was a certain mutual respect in place before any therapy occurred. Physical force was used only in exceptional cases. Cephas preferred to save violence for scenarios he knew he could win--and in those situations, he relished it.

The thought of violence buzzed in the back of Cephas' mind as he mingled with the patrons of the bar. Many of them were businessmen of the legitimate sort who viewed therapy and therapists as 'head shrinkers' and threats to their egos. He sized them up as cuts of walking meat for a moment, appreciated the women, and kept his eye out for anyone his father had mentioned. He spotted Niko immediately, having seen the man's photo back in North America. He watched the man from the corner of his eye for a few minutes, and when Niko remained stationary and apparently weary, Cephas began the process of weaving his way through the crowd towards him, drink in hand. 

The psychologist paused at the edge of Niko's vision, and then Cephas approached the edge of the table. He waited a beat.

"Forgive the rudeness," Cephas said, voice mild and smile pleasant. He looked at Niko and saw a collection of rough edges, bleeding parts and a strong, forceful gaze. "But I think I can help you."