[holo] [arrival] another ark for another time

[bloodandrhetoric]

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]]

Comments

[skinandbone]

"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?"

[bloodandrhetoric]

"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."

[skinandbone]

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.

[bloodandrhetoric]

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."

[skinandbone]

"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?"