taxonomites | [holo] [arrival] another ark for another time

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[holo] [arrival] another ark for another time

Reality has boundaries. There are things that separate one existence from another, things that unify or distinguish them. Constants and variables.

It's the sort of thing even the young girl, their little specimen, had been able to see. Even for Rosalind and Robert, denizens of the interstice between all those realities, constants and variables are the sorts of things one relies upon. They're guideposts by which one finds one's way. The girl had known it as well as anyone. There's always a lighthouse, she'd said. There's always a man. There's always a city.

The interstice was a constant as well. Rosalind had been fine with it, as a place to stay; it made for a nice control on their continuing experiments through realities, an unchanging and endless anchor point to which they could always return. It was Robert who'd insisted on finishing their old business, Robert who'd rocked the boat. Neither of them had known what the outcome might be if — when — they succeeded. When Dewitt unwrote himself.

Whatever this place is, it's unspecific enough to answer that particular conjecture: a big, metal room with an open door. "Ah," Rosalind says to herself, checking with feigned interest to see that her clothes are still in order and nothing's caught fire or any such inconvenience. "It would appear I'm no more or less dead than I was before. Well, that's something."

The disruption doesn't concern her, nor does the unfamiliarity of her surroundings. In fact, the woman who appears in miniature on the holo projections of Taxon's other residents’ tablets at this moment doesn't appear any more alarmed by the circumstances she finds herself in than she does about the slow, stark trickle of blood running from her nose. The latter she addresses with no more than a fascinated touch of her fingers to the injury and a thoughtful, "Hmm. I suppose that might logically follow."

She belatedly notices the bracelet framing her wrist with more obviously marked interest. Unlike the hemorrhaging, the bracelet is new. In moments she's investigating it, navigating her way through the tablet's initial screens till she arrives at the little introductory readme file; she spares a few minutes to glance it over. Then, that done, she closes the file with a smart nod and begins a broader explanation of the room.

There's not much of interest to beg her attention, but nonetheless, something brings a frown to her face. "Robert?" she calls out curiously. "Robert?"

After just two attempts, she puts the effort to one side, gathering herself up to quit the room. She really doesn't appear to be a woman who wastes much time on graceful segues once she's changed mental tracks, and apparently she’s done with the previous one.

This room has no more secrets to offer, she’s concluded, so there's no point in staying. A new reality means new work to be done. Best to have a look around.

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[[OOC: Rosalind will wander around the Sanctuary for a little while, please feel free to get in touch with her either while she's still dripping blood around the Sanctuary or else you can easily run afoul of her wandering around the city pretty much wherever.

PS Mods, can I get a character tag please and thank you <3]]

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When the new arrival eventually makes her way outside the Sanctuary, the doors open into Taxon Plaza, prime location favored by the city's two buskers. Sherlock Holmes may or may not be in evidence, but Jeremy Fischer is: charming a crowd of Extras with a juggling routine, complete with patter.

His heart's not really in it. Through trial and error he's learned that he can give an extremely half-assed performance to the Extras and they respond pretty much the same way. The credits on his bracelet go up the same amount. So if he phones it in, if his juggling and jokes and producing coins from behind the ears of children, are done with the same level of enthusiasm with which he has also asked people if they Would Like Fries With That... so what?

Taxon's a way easier audience than Las Vegas. Much less competition.

So he's running through a shtick, sloppy on his punchlines, eyes wandering the crowd and occasionally looking at the sky to judge the progress of the sun. Two more hours entertaining imaginary people will give him enough imaginary money to buy imaginary things in the imaginary city. Cool.

A figure moving more purposefully than the strolling Extras catches his eye when she emerges from the Sanctuary doors. Jeremy turns her way semi-consciously like a flower turning to the sun, observing her. He missed her broadcast but she's obviously new.

"Hey," he calls, over the heads of a semi-enthralled Extra audience. "Hey! Miss! Hi!"

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.

"Are you waiting for someone?"

Taxon's second sentient busker is, in fact, in evidence: a very tall, very lanky man of angular features and somewhat indeterminate twenties-thirties age. Sherlock Holmes has not looked up, being too preoccupied with the fine-tuning knobs on his violin--or pretending to be, at any rate. He's paying his performance even less mind today than Jeremy is, though the ease of it bothers him less, despite his ennui; he sometimes finds playing for an undemanding audience to be a relaxing use of his time, something for his body to do while his mind goes a-wander.

And it has. Every new arrival interests Sherlock: a new stranger is a door to a world of information, another piece in the chaotic cosmic puzzle that is the city of Taxon. Another potential point of data. And, of course, he interests himself in the business of other people whether they like it or not. Old habits die hard.

"One could make the argument," he says without looking up from the tuning knobs, "that we're all waiting for someone here. Though perhaps not all as keenly as you are. Whether they're likely to arrive is another thing entirely."

He glances up at the red-headed, anachronistic woman, but only with a flick of his eyes; then he's back to his violin. "Taft in the Oval Office," he says, "and Asquith at Downing Street. Is that right? Or are things different in your world?"

Sherlock's voice answers the question before Jeremy can, so he stands there, a grinning, semi-sloppy puppy in counterpoint to Sherlock's cool cerebral deductions. He likes watching Sherlock do what Jeremy thinks of as Sherlock's shtick, even if it is not what Sherlock makes his money off of. He likes watching people's reactions to the deductions, much the same way as one might enjoy watching someone else's reaction to a magic trick that they have been the target of themselves.

He catches his oranges while Sherlock talks, one-two-three-four into his hands and cradled to his chest.

"Not waiting for anyone," he answers for himself after Sherlock's question is asked. "But you look new! So welcome. Except you arrived with clothes and not in a snowstorm, which is both vastly unfair and puts you probably ahead of me."

Juggling and philosophy aside, Robert and Rosalind Lutece these two are not. For one thing, they're talking to her, rather than to each other, which makes them probably not quite as close as she and her dear 'brother.' Each of these two seems to have their own line of running thought and commentary, as opposed to sharing the same one between them.

"I left with clothes," she answers the last first, "and expected to arrive much the same, insofar as I expected to arrive at all. Though I'm in want of a traveling companion and in possession of a prison manacle instead, which is certainly not an outcome I'd predicted." Still looking between the both of them, and without pausing to change tracks, she goes on, "Taft? Well, I suppose he must have been, at some point or another. It would stand to reason. In the sense that I imagine you might mean, however, Taft lost to Bryan. I believe it was something of a close race -- though Robert would know better than I do. I haven't much interest in American politics."

Rosalind shrugs. Something else brings a faint smile to her face. "Edward and Asquith, on the other hand, saw fit to revoke my citizenship. They had considerably more objection to me than I did to them."

She studies the duo of men, taking in their idling activities and evident lack of purpose. Neither looks particularly harmful. "Bryan in Washington, Asquith in London, and Comstock in Emporia. And here?" She puts her question to the one of them that seems more forthcoming, rather than the one that seems more observant. "Who's presently in charge of this place? Practically, if not -- ecumenically."

The question was posed to Forthcoming, not Observant--which has never stopped Observant before, of course. Still, for now Sherlock's content to let Jeremy field questions in which he's not terribly interested: 'who's in charge of this place,' 'what am I doing here,' 'what's going on,' that sort of newcomer tedium. New people can't really be faulted for asking them, God knows Sherlock did, but that doesn't make it any more entertaining to have the same discussions over and over again.

"Alternate-history Edwardian," he muses to Jeremy with little regard for Rosalind's presence. "That's sort of new. We've just got Victorians up to now, and--whatever Glitch is. You think this one's got airships? Say, Miss Lutece, do you have airships where you're from? Science takes an interest."

Science must not take much of an interest, though, because Sherlock plucks idly at a few of his strings (E, A, and D, specifically) and says after a moment: "And another dead person." That's not a question. "You know, it's a pity how old that's getting. I'm dead. Miss Lutece is dead. Horst is dead. Agent Smecker's been dead longer than any of us--technically in two respects, no matter how you slice it. The novelty's just worn right off."

Forthcoming can take his cue when it's dropped. "Um, nobody, really," he says to the redhead.

"I mean, there's people who've been here longer, so they kinda know more what's going on and do things like coordinate emergency responses and stuff.... but nobody's like. The Boss."

Jeremy is briefly distracted by imagining Bruce Springsteen in Taxon, but comes back to the conversation in time to hear Sherlock's stuff about dead.

"Aw, come on, how do you know that about her?! No fair, you have to explain that one."

"Insofar as I expected to arrive at all," Sherlock echoes in a faint imitation of Rosalind Lutece's accent, a few shades away from his own. In a place like Taxon there's no elimination of possibilities, just narrowing, somewhat, so strictly speaking he doesn't know that about her--it just seems likely.

He considers going back to his music--this is still his working day, after all, and credits don't make themselves. But new arrivals don't drop in every day, either. Especially not these days. "Too many chemical burns for engineering," he muses. "Not enough for chemistry or biology. What is it? Physics?"

"Quantum physics, primarily," she clarifies. The physical sciences are broad.

One thing Rosalind has little difficulty with is following multiple lines of thought at once; as a result, the rapid-fire additions that the violinist is making to the conversation are distracting, but also informative and simple enough to track.

"As to my state of being . . . " She hesitates momentarily to wipe a fresh dab of blood from the tip of her nose. "Which seems perceivably discrete, for the moment -- I am dead in a world which does not exist, and alive in a world which does. The argument seems at least somewhat moot. And you may inform Science that yes, I have had several airships. Is there a reason you've taken up the violin and not a scientific pursuit?"

Without waiting for an answer, she turns back to the juggler. "There's no one in charge?" Her nose takes on a disapproving wrinkle. "How long has this city been in operation?"

Edited 2013-07-21 05:54 (UTC)

Dead, alive, worlds that do or do not exist... Jeremy tries to think of a Schrödinger's cat joke but loses track of it in the woman's question.

He chucks one of his oranges into the air, catches it one-handed with a shrug.

"I dunno. Like three, four years maybe? I think that's what Mr. Long said. People are supposed to come and go a lot. I've been here--" he thinks, then swears to himself.

"--five months. Wow. Five months. Holy shit."

He is not the most informative of assistants.

Neither is Sherlock Holmes. "Time's a meaningless concept." Heedless of Rosalind, he stretches his arms and yawns, steel-stringed violin in one hand and bow in the other (and just barely shy of Rosalind's personal space); then to Jeremy, just as heedless of Rosalind: "We should play Rock Band. I haven't beat it on drums yet."

Sic transit the Taxonian welcome wagon.

The violinist, she judges, is less interested in giving information than he is in getting it, which makes him not much use to Rosalind at the moment. He's been keener on interrupting and diverting than he has been on contributing, in fact. Trying to protect his juggler friend, perhaps, she posits to herself, or to keep him from revealing too much. Either way, it seems she may be well rid of him soon, and better able to converse with the other one.

Still, if the taller man had intended to fire a warning (or a parting) shot, it does find its mark; she can't resist engaging with his assertion that time is a meaningless concept. "Concepts are human constructs, and thus rarely meaningless, as they're generally built for one purpose or another. It's the perception rather than the conception of time that's flawed."

She levels her gaze at Jeremy with the air of an expectant schoolteacher. "Your colleague seems to believe you've given me all the information I need. Do you agree?"

There is a right answer to this question, so far as Rosalind's expectations go. The right answer does not involve agreeing to run off to play their little musical game.

Jeremy blinks in the gimlet stare she fixes him with, cradling his oranges protectively with his hands.

"Um."

Have they? He tries to remember the stuff that's in the newbie file.

"Okay, uh, let's see: glitches, they are sometimes super-dangerous so like, make sure you have warm clothes handy and plenty of fuel and food and things..." (Jeremy's strongest glitch memory is the blizzard) "...and if you are a demon or a vampire or if you turn into a raging monster for a few days out of the month--"

(beat)

"--because of lycanthropy or something, you should tell people, and...

"And you can't get weed or guns. And you can't get out. And people here can do lots of weird shit. I think that's pretty much it."

"Miss? You've got a little -"

To Metody, the Extras look like they're following a complicated, invisible track, like a factory robot following a line of paint, our one of those fancy European cuckoo clocks with the rings of kissing peasants and animals and bell ringers that come out and go through their jerky little dance on the hour. They ebb and flow like a looping picture on the computer, circling through the Market in exactly the same way.

At four, there is the lady in the lace apron. She buys one pound of venison. Four fifteen, the two women in mob caps. Four forty five, lady with gray curls. Five thirty, man in a suit. No one for a whole half hour, then that guy who only looks, but never buys.

She knows them all, and makes a careful effort to talk with them and model human conversation. Once every other day, she picks one for something unexpected - an extra bit of meat thrown in gratis, a little packet of spice or advice on cooking, or sometimes even a gristly piece of meat. Something that makes the day different - something that forces them into unplanned action.

Away from the actual people, Metody herself does not encounter much that is unplanned our unexpected. The crowd always moves the same, sounds the same, is the same. So when Rosalind wanders through, out of place, unusual, odd - she notices. The brightly dressed young woman (today's outfit is heavy on baby blue, accented with shimmering yellow) straightens up, face brightening then fading at the sight of the trickle of blood. She leans over her counter of purplish meat and elegant carvings, offering over a handkerchief as green and curly as a leaf of fancy lettuce.

"Miss?"

"Lutece," she says, accepting the proffered handkerchief as though it's her due for people to hand her things when she needs them, and with the clear assumption that the second 'Miss' is a bid for her name. What else would it be? "Rosalind Lutece. Don't be alarmed," she tells Metody, "Just a minor side effect of transdimensional travel. It passes in due course."

Rosalind looks over this handkerchief-bearing street vendor, taking in first the face -- intriguingly androgynous -- then the clothes -- no doubt from a time and place where aesthetics are considered unfashionable, or where some deterioration of the photoreceptor cells of the population have limited their ability to detect less bright colors -- then the silver bracelet. Her gaze drifts onward, down to the table of goods the vendor's selling. Ivory carvings and fresh meat. This particular resident of their alleged prison is a butcher, evidently. And a big game hunter.

"You don't look like a butcher or a hunter to me," she judges, offering this new topic in her usual style of non sequitur. "Though I suppose you could be selling the items on someone else's behalf, or reselling them at a profit. Or you could simply have an inordinate appetite for cutting things up with knives. You wouldn't be the first." She shrugs. "Either way, I imagine the blood won't distress you. I wonder if you won't mind answering a question."

Edited 2013-07-31 05:19 (UTC)

Metody blinks at her once. Her eyes are the exact pale blue as her clothing, and just as opaque in color, thanks to her tinted contact lenses. Non sequitors are fine. Metody practically lives in them.

"....what do butchers and hunters look like?"

And a beat later, she adds, "That depends on the question. What is it?"

And no, the blood doesn't distress her at all. What's a little blood compared to cooked and living flesh snapping and sizzling and - she is not going to think about that, and she is not going to develop some stupid breed of PTSD over something that happened to Nuada, not her.

Rosalind considers some of the vendor's ivory carvings as they converse, inspecting the wares for sale. There's one here that might make for an attractive comb, if Rosalind were in a position to do her idle shopping right now. Not bad.

"Butchers and hunters might look like nearly anything, and occasionally do. Some things, however, are -- in a relative sense, considering the difficulties of infinities -- more likely than others. For example, the butcher rarely disguises himself as a wheel of cheese, nor is the hunter often resemblant of a trombone. I deal in probabilities as much as facts."

The trouble with people, Rosalind reflects, is that their perception of things is so often extremely limited, and colored with all of their uninformed biases. Getting reliable information out of the Street Performing Duo didn't prove very fruitful, at least not directly. But she was able to glean several points of information all the same, squinting carefully between the lines. For example: if someone is controlling this city, they either aren't doing so directly, or they don't want it to be known.

She'll need a pool of suspects, apparently.

"The question is this: who would you go to in this city if you were feeling frightened or uncertain? The person who makes other people feel comforted and reassured. Name the very first person who comes to mind."

"I would...." There was Glitch. He'd been kind and comforting, but now he's gone. There's Long, who's been informative, for a given value of informative, but he was rather disengaged, really.She is quiet for a long, perplexed moment.

"I guess...if it was a personal kind of anxiety, I would deal with it alone. If many people might be distressed, I would check that my friends were alright, then help address it head on."

"But for comfort...I have a dog?"

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[holo] [arrival] another ark for another time

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the area's gray in a one-two-three-way

Jeremy just said 'Three-way? AIGHT' (don't mind him)

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lo siento for dropping this one T___T

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