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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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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