bloodandrhetoric: (listening)
bloodandrhetoric ([personal profile] bloodandrhetoric) wrote in [community profile] taxonomites2013-07-18 01:52 pm

[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.

==========

[[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]]
skinandbone: (Default)

[personal profile] skinandbone 2013-07-31 03:50 am (UTC)(link)
"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?"
skinandbone: (Default)

[personal profile] skinandbone 2013-07-31 05:33 am (UTC)(link)
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.
skinandbone: (Default)

[personal profile] skinandbone 2013-08-02 04:25 am (UTC)(link)
"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?"