The inside of the building proved information enough -- cute little souvenirs to provide a newcomer like herself with a general taste for this new city, and enough rooms with futuristic amenities to set a general idea of the time period of the place -- but first impressions, in her experience, are so terribly unreliable. Anything designed to be receiving new people is also designed to influence them in a particular way, and as anything resembling a scientist, she'd be remiss to take this city's ostensible visitor's center at its word. She presumes that the arrival building is where the city will be putting its best foot forward.
Instead, she ventures out onto the streets after not too long. She can seek out this Mayland Long, eventually, if he or she should turn out to be the person heading up this alleged prison city, but for now, she'd rather explore on her own, and see what she can learn without being steered around by anyone in a position of authority. Forewarned, as they say, is forearmed.
The streets indicate a world that's much more mixed in its apparent time period. Some things seem familiar to her, while others are a mish-mash of sights from worlds she remembers visiting, as well as plenty of new things entirely, vehicles and buildings that aren't new or old, but simply different. They're fascinating, really, and she entertains a muted thrill of excitement at the chance to tread this new ground . . . but she turns to make a reserved comment to that effect to Robert, and is reminded that her opposite number is, for the moment, missing. That sobers her.
Surely he's here somewhere? Surely they wouldn't have been separated.
Someone calls for her attention, and she pauses mid-stride, looking over.
A juggler. A personable-looking man (if she's any judge of such things, which she admits isn't likely), and hopefully a good source of information. Rosalind and Robert have been to new universes quite often. They're far from shy about asking strangers questions, if they ever were. She barely thinks about it before she decides to approach.
The other people in the crowd generally edge out of her way as she approaches, in the way that some people will tend to do. In her experience, there are two types of people -- the ones you can engage with, and the ones you can't. Most of these are the ones you can't. She doesn't bother with the attempt.
"Good afternoon," she says placidly, nodding in approval at the physical part of his act. She thinks of herself and Robert, waiting with their sandwich-boards and coins for a dozen dozen Booker Dewitts to come along. Perhaps that's what this juggler is here for.
Good lord, does that make her Booker Dewitt? She stifles a shudder at the thought.
no subject
Instead, she ventures out onto the streets after not too long. She can seek out this Mayland Long, eventually, if he or she should turn out to be the person heading up this alleged prison city, but for now, she'd rather explore on her own, and see what she can learn without being steered around by anyone in a position of authority. Forewarned, as they say, is forearmed.
The streets indicate a world that's much more mixed in its apparent time period. Some things seem familiar to her, while others are a mish-mash of sights from worlds she remembers visiting, as well as plenty of new things entirely, vehicles and buildings that aren't new or old, but simply different. They're fascinating, really, and she entertains a muted thrill of excitement at the chance to tread this new ground . . . but she turns to make a reserved comment to that effect to Robert, and is reminded that her opposite number is, for the moment, missing. That sobers her.
Surely he's here somewhere? Surely they wouldn't have been separated.
Someone calls for her attention, and she pauses mid-stride, looking over.
A juggler. A personable-looking man (if she's any judge of such things, which she admits isn't likely), and hopefully a good source of information. Rosalind and Robert have been to new universes quite often. They're far from shy about asking strangers questions, if they ever were. She barely thinks about it before she decides to approach.
The other people in the crowd generally edge out of her way as she approaches, in the way that some people will tend to do. In her experience, there are two types of people -- the ones you can engage with, and the ones you can't. Most of these are the ones you can't. She doesn't bother with the attempt.
"Good afternoon," she says placidly, nodding in approval at the physical part of his act. She thinks of herself and Robert, waiting with their sandwich-boards and coins for a dozen dozen Booker Dewitts to come along. Perhaps that's what this juggler is here for.
Good lord, does that make her Booker Dewitt? She stifles a shudder at the thought.
"Are you waiting for someone?"