taxonomites | [Location: Central, near but not at Taxon Mall]

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[Location: Central, near but not at Taxon Mall]

Paul Smecker was wandering around the city, not exactly lost but nowhere near found, either. That sort of blank, overloaded expression common to newcomers flitted across his face at times, although more often one saw frustration. He was mostly looking at his tablet as he walked and trying to figure out the map function, with some goal of orienting himself in the city.

He looked scruffy, the product of not shaving in the two days since he'd arrived, and he looked unhappy about that. In addition, he was still wearing the clothes he'd arrived in-- the shirt, in particular, had a large but now dried bloodstain on the chest. He was also less than pleased about that.

The goal, inasmuch as he had one, was to find a place where he could get a new goddamn shirt, and a razor. (He hasn't figured out hatches yet.) So he was looking for the Mall. And getting goddamn lost.

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Paul purses his lips, not lifting his gaze from the map's display.

"How so?" he asks. "Who's trying to get Alexander on this fucked-up city? Obviously not me, I don't have a sword anywhere near big enough. Hell, I don't even have a gun. If you do, then please, shoot me already, it would end the migraine. Who are you, anyway?"

There is another long moment of staring. It's probably getting creepy, but it's easier to focus this way. Distractions of the city fade away as much as they ever can.

"Ain't a shepherd," is River's honest first answer.

"River," is the equally-as-honest second answer. "Guns are on the ship."

Paul worked Behavioral Psych once upon a time. Staring doesn't freak him out. (Yet. Yet.)

Ain't a shepherd, the girl says, and Paul flashes briefly to the chant-prayer that has occupied so many of his nightmares lately-- although, it must be admitted, not since he got to Taxon. He's getting new nightmares for that.

Shepherds we shall be, for Thee my Lord for thee.

He shakes off the thought, peers at the girl giving her full attention now.

"River is your name?" he clarifies with a brow arch. "Hi River, I'm Paul. And guns are on... the ship. What ship's that?"

Et fili et spiritu sancti.

It's probably a good thing River was never much for church. She's already close enough to inappropriate laughter (the associations are mixed, the law and the shepherds and maybe next they'll bring in Book and then they can all examine the purple hue of their bellies while livor mortis sets in) to be uncomfortable. Nightmares, though? Those she has experience with, and Taxon hasn't even shown its teeth to him yet.

He's new, but he'll learn.

"Serenity," and she pauses. While the what of Serenity is an easy enough answer, and the ship is hers, the guns are a trickier issue.

It's also cold.

"You need a coat."

Because obviously he is in desperate need of this being brought to his attention. Firearms can wait.

Paul has no context for knowing that Serenity is a name and not a state, so he merely purses his lip at her answer. Then laughs, short and wry, at her next words.

Yeah, it's cold. He's been operating on nervous energy, humming along like a dynamo, and that helps him to be unaware of it, but-- yes. It's cold.

"So I do," he admits, with a little flourish of one hand, the hand holding the tablet. "I was on my way to pick one out, perhaps lined in the fur of baby marmots or something equally adorable. But I'm being undone by the marvels of technology."

His tone is light, his eyes are critically observing her. If this was home-- well if this was home he knows where the damn stores are, but-- if this was home, she'd be giving him that vibe that would lead him to ask (gently) where her mother/father/nurse/guardian was-- and (gently) offer to help her get back to them, because she's coming across as just a touch off the beaten psychological path.

But he's not home. He's here. The playground for dementia if ever there was one. And Paul's decided to assume nothing-- easier said than done, but he's trying.

"Can you tell me where the coats are?"

"Gone," is her first answer, immediate and short and sure of itself.

It's not until she feels the wind against her cheeks and blinks against the cold that she realizes it isn't the answer to the question he asked.

River catches on the 'baby marmot coat' thought as she turns and walks in the direction of the mall, fully expecting that Paul will follow her. "Coyote would be warmer." She's not a shepherd, but she can lead him to coats well enough.

Probably.

Paul follows.... because it doesn't seem there's much else to do, for one, and because he's a little intrigued. He always is, by anomalies. Of course, everything here is an anomaly. All the same...

He tries to keep up verbally with her little jumps around. Again, time in Behavioral Sci serves him well here.

"Coyote would be warmer, but very few people get up in arms over baby coyotes being killed. It's an issue of shock value and of playing the role of curmudgeon. I would have said baby seals but the thought of wearing seal blubber doesn't really appeal. How old are you, River?"

He's navigating the waters (ha) better than most.

"We only have two," she says of baby coyotes as she meanders off to one of the many hatches. (Working at the zoo has certain informational perks.)

Now, historically, River and hatches don't get along; focusing on a single idea long enough to get the correct product is always a challenge, but she's gotten better. A year of trial and error has its benefits, but the blanket she hands Paul is still blue, and it still smells overwhelmingly of blueberries.

"Eighteen."

Two what? Two seals? Two coyotes? Two curmudgeons? He doesn't ask. The ants go marching two by two hurrah- hurrah-

He watches intently as 'River' uses one of the hatches to produce a.... blanket? He takes it, unfolds it to stretch it out, nose crinkling a bit in reflex at the scent.

"Smells like somebody laid it down in a berry patch in Maine come summer and had romps of an NC-17 nature atop it," he said dryly, then remembered his supposed manners. "Thanks."

Paul draped it around his shoulders, knowing he looked ridiculous, also knowing that, within reason, one ought to humor the touched in the name of productivity. He offered a crooked smile to River.

"Now that I am not in danger of freezing to death do I get to graduate to big boy toys?"

Hurrah hurrah indeed.

The crack about the blanket passes without any offense taken other than a vaguely annoyed look. Partly because of disinterest and mostly because of disconnect.

"Coyotes," she clarifies as she continues toward the mall.

Or maybe she's implying that coyotes are the big boy toys to which ranks Paul has now ascended.

"Coyotes," Paul repeats in a tone of... 'ah, yes, of course, coyotes, I should have known'.

"So how's about you tell me a little bit about yourself as we you lead me to the coyotes, River," he suggests in the sort of casual, leading voice that often works with people in interrogation rooms. He doesn't necessarily expect it to work-- again, checking his assumptions at the door-- but what the hell, you use the tools you have.

She assesses him as they walk; considers and eyes like he's a special agent bug under moving glass.

That tone never leads anywhere good. At least not in River's experience.

"Five-hundred years difference," and she continues walking. "Your turn."

He is a special agent bug under a blue blanket is what he is. And conscious of her less-than-friendly look.

Wrong tactic. Duly noted.

Five-hundred years difference, though.... that, he parses in silence as he walks. The thing about non sequiturs is that they rarely are in his experience. It's just a case of being on a different wavelength than one's audience-- he's lost people before, his mind jumping through topics to one that makes perfect sense to him but leaves others wondering what left field he's coming out of.

So somehow out of 'tell me about yourself' River's brain went to 'five hundred years difference'. And she'd mentioned a ship. Like Jenny had, and Jenny had meant a spaceship.

"2500 or thereabouts?" he hazarded with a brow arch, aware that the words he was saying were fucking ridiculous.

So what. Everything was here. Go with it. This was like surfing-- if he stopped to consider what the hell he was doing he was going to wipe out. He just had to maintain the momentum, stay in the moment of the conversational flow.

(Not that Paul Smecker had ever been surfing.)

"Well. 1999 for me. I like strong coffee and walks on the beach, at sunset, looking for waterfowl that have been killed by oilspills."

Edited 2010-12-16 06:59 (UTC)

"You haven't found Taurus yet," River observes casually. The time fits, along with the ecological disaster. "It's still in 'is.'"

She learned about the pre-Migration phases early on; that part of human history tended to get put on display, especially during the war. It made sense to put the most poignant example of humanity's ability to coalesce for the sake of a single goal during a war for unification.

Once the urge to spit the bad taste out of her mouth passes, though, the matter of the first question pops back up.

"An accurate reference for time here is flawed. It shifts."

Beat.

"It was 2517 at first."

Maybe it's more like hopscotch than surfing. And he has actually played hopscotch.

Just balance, jumping from cogent bit to cogent bit, then piecing the less cogent bits together in context of the others...

So yes then, she's from his future (well maybe not his, but a future at least [relative term, that]) and it's a future that presumably involves off-planet travel, et cetera.

Paul nods fractionally, lifts his wrist to indicate his rather nice watch, the best combination between luxury and rugged durability he'd been able to afford-- back in the real world. "So my over-priced gold-played Invicta is essentially worthless here? What a bundle of cheer and good news you are turning out to be for me, Ms. River. You like it here?"

It's all pretty relative in Taxon. Future, past, cohesive timelines and alternate routes. New people, re-new people, missing memories, skipped months. River has gotten used to it.

That doesn't mean she likes it, though, and that's probably clear enough in the expression she has while she eyes Paul's fine watch.

"Most common modes of time apply. It's on a strict schedule, divided into the usual standard," she answers with a glance up at the fake but time-abiding sun. Not entirely useless! This should be happy news.

Paul follows her gaze, absently. "Twenty-four hour days then. Suppose that's useful."

He tugs his blueberry blanket around him against the wind, which is picking up. He wonders if she still remembers where they're going. But hell, it is not like he has anything else to do. Or anywhere else to be.

"How long have you been here?"

They're close. Well, closer. Going in straight lines is simply not River's style, which means Paul is treated to the really ridiculously roundabout route to the mall.

It would be scenic if there were less alleyways involved.

How long, though, is a difficult subject. Thorny and taffy-stretched, which leaves her drawing inward and looking down so she's speaking more into her scarf than to Paul. "Four-hundred eighty days. Not counting time skipped."

What the hell, he gets to see more of the city. Or this would be Paul's rationalization if he knew they were going roundabout. Actually, his reaction would be "fuck this" and to cut off by himself in the direction he thinks the mall is. Either way it's just as good he doesn't know.

Paul arches a brow at her answer, lips slightly pursed. No way to tell if that's accurate, but if so... goddamn. The people running this place don't fucking screw around. Long time to be held. Long time to not know why you're being held.

Unless maybe she does.

"Why did they take you?" he asks quietly. No, he's not expecting a straight answer, but... the conversational pattern developing seems to be ask a simple question, get a cryptic answer. Maybe if he asks a crazy question he'll get a simple answer.

Or, you know, not.

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[Location: Central, near but not at Taxon Mall]

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