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[text: everyone] ch-ch-ch-changes

My flat was on a tram line before. -SH

Late at night, not long after 3AM or so, everyone in Taxon receives a text message notification. It seems someone's come out of his pause-glitch-induced reverie. But it's not his sense of time he's worried about or the foggy memories of disturbing, frog-on-the-dissection-table dreams, apparently: at least, not right now and not that he feels like broadcasting to Taxon. No. What Sherlock Holmes is spamming the rest of Taxon with right now is:

It was at the juncture of two tram lines, as a matter of fact. -SH

It's moved. -SH

Not showing any signs of letting up.

I'm not anywhere near any tram lines. -SH

I would never have chosen this flat. -SH

This is ridiculous. -SH

Consider this a letter of complaint. -SH

Nope.

A STRONGLY WORDED letter. -SH

Do the tablets have a block setting?

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"Accomplish?"

Selina turns the word over a few times in her thoughts as she looks at him. The snapping of fingers and clapping of hands gets an arched brow. She's never been waitstaff but she's certainly been in a profession where others think of you as something of a service object. Still, she doesn't comment on that since she's not sure what she thinks of Extras yet.

"You interest me. You're familiar enough to people I know at home to be comfortable and yet different enough to make me curious." Also, well, she doesn't like losing and that score seems to be completely up in the air. At least if you were to ask her about it. Not that there's a competition of any sort happening at all.

Sherlock's opinion on Extras has coalesced after a bit of experimentation: they may be human enough not to kill or hurt, to be sure, but that doesn't mean they're human enough to be offended by brusqueness with respect to coffee refills. He shrugs off her allusion to someone she knows; people are always reminding people of others in Taxon, a symptom of the displacement and homesickness they all have, he supposes. He's not immune. He finds himself drawing comparisons all the time. It's comforting to their primal, amygdalic selves, probably. That doesn't mean he's interested.

"Some of my plants aren't salvageable," he says apropos to nothing. "They suspended me long enough that they went unwatered. The Phalaenopsis deliciosa likely won't recover."

"Who you remind me of, though, changes. Most of the people you remind me of are more charismatic, though, more's the pity." She isn't attempting to goad him, not really, she's just used to people who are so much larger than life that normal people are just flat our boring. After having twisted up Harvey and Eddie and, well, Bruce, normal people are just not at all interesting any more. And Sherlock reminds her of a number of them, without the flair.

"That's unfortunate. I'm not a big fan of plants. There is someone back home who uses them to control people."

Insulting Sherlock is a gamble, to be sure, but more like playing the slots at a casino: sometimes you end up with more coins than you were planning on carrying, but it's also depressingly easy to keep putting coins in and wonder if the machine's even working. The machine appears to be off at the moment. While Selina talks his face clearly broadcasts his reactions: IE, thinking about something else, thinking about something else, yes yes, going back to thinking about something else--wait, what?

"Sorry, did you say 'to control people?'" he says, momentarily stymied by the concept of Poison Ivy.

"Yes. To control people with some sort of amped up pheremones. She's a piece of work that much is certain," Selina says as she takes another long drink from her coffee cup. She really does not like, at all, being manipulated like that by anyone but by Ivy especially.

It says a lot about how long Sherlock's been in Taxon and how much he's come to accept what other worlds appear to think of the rigidities of "science" that he doesn't even say anything to the effect of pheromones don't work that way. (Though they don't. They really don't. Then again, neither do dinosaurs.)

"I have memories of an examination table," he says, looking up at the light overhead. "I can't say if they're dreams or not: they've got a dreamlike quality," but then again, doesn't everything? "My sense of time really has been warped. It's like I've had a very long, very bad trip."

She really doesn't care how the science actually works. She's still pissed off about the whole mind controlled and forced to be into girls or plants in Ivy's case, depending on how you want to take it.

"That sucks. I've been there," she says softly.

If Sherlock were in Selina's head he might have something to say about people who don't care how the science actually works. He isn't, which is probably a good thing in a number of ways. He lifts his coffee mug up to the light as if noticing it for the first time, then sets it back down carelessly as though he's bored of it. It makes a solid clink against the tabletop, like it's a real, solid thing in a real, solid city. Almost like.

"Well," he says in a curt voice. "Perhaps someday none of us will have to be there again." He stands and taps a few buttons on his bracelet--paying for his coffee, and yes, tipping the Extra waitress, although he still doesn't look happy about it.

"Then again, perhaps not," he says. "Good night, Ms Kyle."

".....Right."

Selina shakes her head and raises a hand to wave toward him. A soft sigh and she slowly, carefully puts her head down to the top of the table.

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