nysalogs | so if you see my sister rosalind tell that girl to hurry home again

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so if you see my sister rosalind tell that girl to hurry home again

Who: Rosalind Lutece (

originallutece) & YOU
What: Various open prompts! Most of them coming from the opening log.
When: First half of February
Where: Wyver and Olympia
Warning(s): Maybe some nsfw??

Wyver - Lagoon

[Perhaps not all that unusually for her, Rosalind is once again at the lagoons. What is unusual: she doesn't seem to be alone. She's most certainly chatting to someone, murmuring instructions and the occasional bit of praise, but to whom? There's no one around-- Or so it seems, anyway.

Come in close, and you'll spot a very small, very determined hippo kicking its way through the water. He keeps looking up at Rosalind, seeking approval and praise-- and oddly enough, she seems inclined to give it, in her own reserved fashion.]

I told you that you'd do well. You're built for this. No, don't come to shore, don't be lazy, you've got to build up your muscles and your stamina. I've a treat for you when you're done.

[But here's the truly oddest thing: the hippo seems keen on mirroring his master. He wiggles joyfully when she smiles; he grunts with effort when she prompts him into exercising more. But that's probably just a coincidence . . . right?]

Wyver - Victory Celebration - Festive Spirit - maybe nsfw

[There's some kind of celebration going on in Wyver, but honestly, when isn't there? She's only been in this universe six months and it seems as if they're having a celebration about the moon or the stars or some long-dead hero . . . it's headache inducing, but she supposes there's little harm in it, especially when she doesn't actually live here.

She doesn't mean to venture into the festivities, but it's hard to avoid them. Someone presses a cocktail into her hands and leers at her when they offer her paints, and she rolls her eyes at both, but it's easier to just pocket the latter instead of refusing them. She does not offer her body to be painted, but she might let those paints drop if she finds herself with someone she's already acquainted with.

But in the meantime, she sips her drink and stares with a neutral expression at someone wandering around with paint and little else. Whether they're a man or a woman is irrelevant; she stares, and though her expression is blank, her gaze lingers just a little too long. Is that a flush to her cheek? Perhaps.]

I suppose that's one thing about Wyver: they certainly are eager to offer entertainments.

Wyver - Victory Celebration - this time with Robert tho

[Of course, Rosalind isn't the only one enjoying herself. There's a man wandering around, tall and bright-eyed, smiling as he sips at a drink and socializes with others. He seems somewhat eager to talk to others, though his smile is a little odd . . . almost as if he's all but taking notes behind those blue eyes of his.

But hey, it's not a time for introspection. Right now, the man-- his name is Robert, has he told you?-- gestures for another drink, smiling as he turns to watch whatever entertainment is spilling out on the streets.]

What on earth are they trying to do? Good grief, they're bound to break a neck trying to jump around atop each other like that.

Olympia - Dark Turns

[But all good things have to come to an end, and soon Rosalind returns home. The far more somber festivities are still taking place, not that she much cares. She ignores the glares she gets for coming in from Wyver, rolling her eyes at the whispers . . . but it doesn't stop at that. People have warned her that she'd get in trouble for trying to play both sides, but she'd ignored them. Oh, she's noticed the whispers and rumors and whatnot, but so what? That hardly effects her.

But she's come back at night, and people are feeling particularly patriotic, and that . . . that means trouble.

There's three men following her down the street. She can hear them, because they're not bothering to be quiet, not at all. They're jeering at her, catcalling and calling out to her; she ignores them. There's no use in confronting them. But that isn't enough for them, it seems. One of them catches up to her, grabbing her elbow, and she jerks, yanking her arm away sharply.]

Get off.

Olympia - Flona Cove

[She's not foolish enough to swim in the cove again. She doesn't even stick her feet in, not when the last time she'd done that had resulted in her feeling up a boy a decade younger than her. But she does sit by it, her boots shed and resting at her side, watching the water with a surprisingly soft expression. Her little hippo is nearby, of course, huffing and puffing as he swims around in the water. His grunts of effort echo throughout the cove, and Rosalind smiles to see him work.

No one comes to bother her for a long while, though, and that's nice. It's nice to be alone, frankly, and she's lulled into a relaxed state because of it. The water is warm and she feels so very calm . . . and so, her voice very soft, vocalized under her breath, she sings.

(Perhaps the cove is effecting her more than she realizes).

She's a sweet voice, steady and surprisingly high-pitched, and the tune she sings has the tune of a waltz, her voice rising and falling. Only about half the lyrics are articulated; for the rest she hums softly, continuing the tune, enjoying the way the cove echoes her voice back to her. And if she isn't interrupted, she'll turn to something a little more jaunty. Though this tune, oddly enough, doesn't sound as though it comes from her time period. And it isn't the right name she articulates-- rather, she puts her own in place of it, laughing softly as she does.]

Other; [Rosalind will also be wandering around as her counterpart, Robert Lutece. She'll be disguised completely, an illusion covering her. Her interactions will be far more energetic, and "he'll" be eager to socalize, so feel free to meet him in Wyver or Olympia, deep in the festivites.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[She scowls at him, annoyed at being bossed . . . but though she's stubborn and prideful and honestly loves to fight, she isn't stupid. She takes the food, nodding stiffly in thanks, and sets in.

It's only years of strict upbringing that makes sure she doesn't wolf it down. Instead, Rosalind eats carefully, ignoring her stomach's urging to consume it all now. And between bites:]

It was atomic displacement. I, ah, scattered our atoms and decided where I wanted them to reform. Perfectly safe, I assure you.

[A beat, and she adds with a slight frown:]

I once was able to do it across universes. A quick trip a few yards to the left is nothing.

Edited 2018-03-01 19:05 (UTC)

[ he begs your pardon? mid-swig of water, John swallows it awkwardly down to avoid choking on it as she matter-of-factly explains the exact method by which they got in here, without any warning. atomic displacement. jesus christ.

across universes. jesus christ. ]

Right. 'Course. Simple as that.

[ jesus christ. ]

[A slight smile flickers over her face, suggesting she's aware of just how this is coming across. Another prim little bite, and she crosses one leg over the other, getting her bearing again.]

Hush. I told you I was a quantum physicist. Besides: it isn't much different from the methods we use to go from the station to here. Surely you're used to that?

Just think of my method as a much cleverer, much more direct way of doing things.

Nobody ever bothered to give me the science. [ c h r i s t. ] Suddenly it's easy to understand the appeal of calling everything magic.

[ understanding things like having your atoms rejigged and shifted around in space isn't the most comforting thing to comprehend. ah - but he's got something else for her, hasn't he. and it's a decent distraction to pass it over, a small vial of tonic. ]

Here. Painkiller.

Oh, don't be like that. I need more people on my side when it comes to scorning magic, don't change now.

[She's certainly got her good mood back. Rosalind seems to be enjoying herself quite a bit-- enough that she doesn't protest as she takes that tonic, though she does look at it closely.]

I assume this shan't leave me in a haze?

[She has no doubt he means only the best by it, but she doesn't want to spend the rest of the day delirious. But in case he gets annoyed:]

Most of the painkillers of my time consisted of nothing more than opium and flavoring, and as you can imagine, that rather knocked a person out.

[ the disclaimer is highly necessary and would be appreciated if it weren't so seamlessly delivered that he doesn't have the time to get frustrated and notice its tactful addition in the first place. fast learners all around, here. ]

And yet you still invented teleportation before we got anywhere close. - You'll be fine, won't even make you drowsy.

[ and then, while they're on the subject of painkillers and atomic displacement, ] We're going out the back door.

Are we.

[One eyebrow raises. She isn't cold and icy, not yet, because she's still amused from a few moments ago.]

Despite the fact I know my own limitations, and that my way is remarkably safer.

Do you have any other orders, while you're at it?

Despite the fact you've probably narrowly avoided infection in a serious wound I've just had to re-stitch and looked on the brink of fainting getting us in here?

[ sorry, what was that? he's not a blind idiot? cool.

at least he doesn't argue the danger: John's proposed method isn't without its risks. but he's confident enough that he'd prefer them over letting her displace their atoms all over again - and not for the reasons any sane person might object to having every little bit of themselves picked apart and reapplied elsewhere by a relatively new acquaintance. ]

I can't stop you, can I? You can head off however you like. But I'm going out the back.

[Her mouth purses. In other scenarios, in other women, this might be something called an indignant scowl. Because of course he's not an idiot, he's absolutely right, and god knows she has a tendency to push herself far past what's sane and healthy.

She could just leave him, of course. He's right, he can't stop her. But the thought of leaving him, teleporting and reopening her wound, only to have to go back to him and whatever smugness he'd have, is intolerable.]

I don't faint.

[She says it stiffly, and doesn't disappear, which is really all the answer he ought to need.]

And don't boss me again. I don't take well to orders.

Would you have preferred a please?

[ yes, probably, and that's all the thanks she'll get for not being obstinate. he notes the demand for later, when he's not so easily narked off. pissing her off on purpose isn't really the aim, but they both seem relatively well-equipped for managing it in the natural course of things when the situation's heightened and they're both some sort of exhausted, so after that his tongue goes bitten.

a couple of moments to look busy with his bag and breathe some calm back into himself before he dares unbite it. ]

Sorry. [ he's touchy today, he knows it. and then, after no more than a couple of seconds for that to exist between them - ] I'm going to go and scope out the best route. Won't be long. If you need any more food, there's a bit in that bag.

[She really does appreciate apologies in others (in no small part because she's absolute shit at them herself). She looks startled to hear it, though, and glances up at John in surprise before nodding.]

All right.

[. . .]

Be careful. It would be a horrid first lessons if I had to heal you on the fly.

[ a slight quirk at the corner of his mouth says the ice is broken. ]

I'll do my best.

[ and then he's off again, to return about twenty minutes later looking brighter than he had when he left, re-energised. smiling. funny what skulking through a building under threat of crossbow fire can do for the blood. ]

Alright. Route's set. How are you feeling?

[ the question's straightforward, unsentimental and unpatronising, and with it he's however optimistically hoping for a straight answer. ]

[She does, in fact, eat while he's gone, which helps. Drinking some water helps a bit more, and swigging those painkillers leaves her absolutely fine (if not slightly lightheaded). His smile surprises her, but she offers a slight one in return.]

Well enough to make a run for it.

[Which is about as honest as she can stand to be. And to be fair, it's the truth: she isn't well, but she can stand to leave.]

You're in a good mood. Enjoying yourself?

[ she looks better. not recovered, obviously, but - well. well enough to make a run for it.

at the question, he tries for a brief moment, then gives up and leaves his smile to stretch wider. ]

A bit.

[ what's a confession like that at a time like this, really? John's already scooping up bags, loading himself up. checking his back pocket for the reassuring heft of his gun. ]

Ready when you are.

[There's an odd sort of smile on her face as he answers, but she doesn't draw attention to it. Getting to her feet, she orders herself quite sternly to keep it together, because it's bad enough she showed so much weakness already, but there's no need to keep acting like a child.]

All right.

Tell me, then, as we head out . . . I've been curious. You clearly enjoy being a doctor, helping others, being a hero. Why not work here?

[She suspects she has a fairly good idea, actually, but she'll wait for him to answer.]

Wouldn't call nabbing some supplies from a part-charity hospital being a hero.

[ but aside from that, he doesn't argue the point. work at the Sanctuary? god no. ]

When I arrived, it was to Lysa handing out potions. She left untrained people to see others through the effects, which ranged from dizziness and a loss of spacial awareness to debilitating agony. Everyone came out completely cured, of course. [ magic. not magic, of course, just chemistry, but that wasn't the problem. it's the way she left people to weather those side effects without professional help. ] Not that long after, there was a blood drive. Staff there were handing anyone who couldn't operate a needle a knife to let with.

[ and maybe it's counter-intuitive to see all that and refuse to go anywhere near the place, rather than to go in and help work it out from the inside, but certain things he just hasn't got the patience for. slowly getting on Lysa's good side for long enough to have her listen to him when he's resented her for that first "help" from the get go isn't one of them.

the corridors are, thankfully, fairly clear for now. ]

I worked here during the epidemic, unofficially. It's not as bad as I like to think it is. But it's not for me.

[She wouldn't call nabbing some supplies from a part-charity hospital being a hero. But she would call working yourself ragged all for others a hero, and not in a complimentary way.

She scoffs at the business with the blood (though not the potions).]

Stupid. Stupid and wasteful.

[And a little sadistic, which makes her wonder how helpful this place really is.]

But all right. That makes sense. I suppose I'm curious as to why you ended up at a brothel of all places-- not just ended up, but actively sought out. You didn't make your own clinic, you didn't pursue some other avenue or hospital . . . it's curious.

[ John sighs. he's never really had to think on it enough to give a thorough explanation, especially not to anyone he's already given the roughs of it. but she persists, and he takes a while to think as they walk before clarifying. ]

The Sanctuary's the only significant hospital there is here, I didn't have the money to make my own clinic and if I'm honest, now that I could, I'm not interested in falling into the role of GP. When the job advertisements went out the big three were the Sanctuary, the Guard or Shades Darker. And they didn't have a doctor on site, and the brothel's big business, which means big money. Gap in the market, only one of the three that wasn't an absolute no, and there you have it.

[ it's really not as exciting a discovery as it could be. John needed work, had three options actively open to him without the need for a job hunt, and two of the available options weren't options for him. ]

[That makes more sense, and she nods. It isn't the option she would have chosen, personally, but she's aware not everyone has the same goals in life as her. Rosalind is itching to get away from the Institute, hungry for her own shop, her own lab, her own practice . . . but she's always been desperately ambitious.]

Evras claims a portion of our work if they're made in his laboratory, using any bit of his materials. Perhaps he's owed a percentage of that, but not as much as he takes.

[She frowns as she stares ahead.]

I'm not yet wealthy enough to open my own lab. And if things keep going at this rate, it'll take me years to do it. He gave me an opportunity in publishing my name when I helped during the plague, but fame fades fast. It took me two years in my old world to establish my own lab, and that was with a very grateful man sponsoring me.

[She doesn't have the patience to wait for years. She glances over at him, raising an eyebrow. There's a quirk in her expression that suggests perhaps she's joking, but perhaps not.]

I don't suppose you're looking for investment opportunities, John Watson?

[ it's a strange position to be in, realising that he actually earns enough money to be able to consider that question with some legitimate intent. a doctor on an extremely good wage given the amount of work he's actually called upon to do, been at the job for around six months now, and has spent those six months living in the same house he was assigned on arrival, cheap as it gets.

so while he couldn't exactly start her up single-handedly, he could definitely help make a dent.

he's quiet for long enough and the expression on his face just pensive enough that she might be forgiven for thinking the question's startled him. then: ]

I could be, actually.

[ that same sort of lightness to the tone, matching as best he can - but perhaps just a little less effort is paid to seeming nonchalant. ]

Don't think it would be that bad of a bet, investing in a woman who's worked out how to teleport of her own free will.

[Ah. There's a sudden fire in her gaze, a satisfaction at this sudden potential.]

I don't know if I'd call it a bet . . . you'll know when we're playing that game. Think of it more as a way to ensure your own future.

There's a fair few things I know I can come up with; it's simply a matter of materials and time. I'd like your consultation on them, actually; the man who originally made them was idiotic, and was perfectly fine with all the hideous side-effects his products came with. But if you and I were to work on them . . . I imagine they'd sell out quickly enough, without any nasty repercussions.

And once that occurs . . . I could have the time to work on proper inventions.

[ oh. hi. suddenly he's face to face with exactly what he would imagine an inventor to be, fire and flourish and an ambition that drives under speech. it's almost a surprise, though it fits her so well that surprise isn't really the word— perhaps the surprise comes more from the sudden energy in her.

he almost feels like he needs a second to catch his breath, like she's eaten up all the oxygen with that rapid outpouring. ]

... Yeah. Products?

[ half of that felt like it was more a quickfire of thought than an actual attempt to pitch him anything, but he did catch your consultation and hideous side-effects. so. ]

Oh, they're easy things. He stole them from-- well, never mind where he stole them from. They were called Vigors, and they manipulated your DNA to a certain extent. It gave you the temporary ability to-- oh, throw fire from your fingers, or ice, or electricity, or water. To manipulate gravity for a bit, causing the user to float midair. And, ah, others, ones that I shan't be making.

[No one needs Possession.]

Their original inventor was clever in only one respect: he was very good at stealing what others had developed. So when he stole these and profited from them, he didn't bother eliminating any of the nasty side-effects. They had a hideous backlash on one's DNA.

But that's easily fixed.

And, mm . . . my own Shield vigor is easily replicated, in no small part because it needs no corrections. All we'd have to do is find the materials and mix them properly.

[ John stops in his tracks, drawing back closer to both her and the wall to make sure the pause doesn't get them found. but, insanity of it aside (he's travelled instantaneously through space today, he's not going to even touch on what does and doesn't exist within the realm of possibility - he'll wrestle with accepting it into his ever morphing understanding of reality later) a good portion of that sounded an awful lot like what many people might call a very bad idea. ]

Can I just— you're looking around here and you're thinking, "do you know what this place needs? Fire fingers." Is that what I'm hearing?

[ it's incredulous, but not accusatory. he's just... checking. is it crucial that she manufacture potential weaponry, really. ]

I think what this place needs is a list of defenses. I've been displaced and thrown into Wyver's jungles twice, stalked by god only knows what creatures, forced to fight mobs and confront fools with egos bigger than their brains . . . so yes, John, I rather think it'd be good for the refugees to have something with which to defend themselves.

[She raises an eyebrow.]

Of course, we could always limit it. Allow only those we approve to buy it. It's hardly going to go on the market tomorrow. But it will sell very, very well.

If it soothes your conscience, we can work on my Shield vigor first. That's purely defensive.

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