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

[ 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.

[ that doesn't exactly clean up his concerns, though he very much sees and accepts her point. his is that there's a vast black market for stolen goods that seems to reach even into the bigger institutions here, and a very small pool of people he would actually be willing to trust to wield any of the offensive options. which leaves their market either very slim, or having to risk widening - and, in widening, opening itself up to theft and copying.

leaving their attempt at self-protection a literal mess of fighting fire with fire.

that, however, isn't a conversation for now. right now, Rosalind's injured and exhausted, John's running on empty and an adrenaline spike, and they've got to get out of this building and to safety after that. ]

Let's talk about this later, we're a bit busy.

[ and he starts up again, pace a little faster than before.

it's not about his conscience, it's about how the world works. ]

Soon.

[It's an agreement and a request all at once: they'll talk about this later, but now there's a fire stoked in her, and she doesn't want to put it off for long.

So they set off, Rosalind biting her bottom lip to stop herself from panting in exertion or showing weakness. It's a bit of an effort, but soon enough they've reached a doorway.

The noises of the streets are louder here, as are the cries of that bird, and Rosalind pulls a face. Theoretically they ought to be unseen, but she hates risk.]

Are you absolutely certain you want to be stubborn about this?

[ Rosalind uses the word stubborn like he's the problem where stubbornness is concerned and he flashes her a look that might as well be all the answer she needs. yes, he's sure that that this is the way he's choosing to go. thank you for your enquiry. ]

Stay close. If there's anyone out here I've got them, that bird turns up you dive.

[ yes, she literally just warned him not to order her again. but he's also the man with military experience and a gun that's now made its way into his hand. it's up to her whether she wants to oblige.

and with that, and a quick heft of the bags to ensure they're not going anywhere, John pushes the door open and they're out into the fray. ]

[In other circumstances, she'd absolutely snap at him not to boss her around, because she's the bossy one, thank you. But there's no time to argue, and she won't be petulant just for the sake of a fight. With a little scowl she follows right behind him, glancing sharply upwards.

The good news: the bird is preoccupied with other victims, and faces outwards, towards the main street, not focusing on them.

The bad news: they've still got a whole barricade to cross. There's no real exit beyond leaping past Lysa's daughters, and she has a bad feeling more than a few of them are going to be opposed to that once they realize just what it is John's carrying. But that's for later; for now, they race forward, ducking past this person and that, Rosalind's breathing harsh.

That bird is going to notice them sooner or later.

They reach the edge of the barricade, and she looks at John. She'll let him decide if he wants to argue to be let out or simply shove his way forward (but that would leave them open targets to be shot, and honestly, this would be so much simpler if he'd just teleport).]

[ the hope had been that they couldn't possibly ring the entire circumference of this place with a bloody barricade. the hope, apparently, hadn't matched up to the reality. turns out Lysa's daughters are stubborn with their minds set on something, and John's expression turns dark as he's faced with the knowledge that options are now incredibly limited.

fine. fine. he was going to talk to them to start with, wasn't he?

it's no more instructions for Rosalind - though he does throw her a quick, ] The sicker you can look, the better.

[ and then he's scanning the people ahead of them— and stops. there. marching forward, headed for a woman he'd worked quite closely with during the epidemic, John starts selling a story. he knows his audience. he knows the names to drop. he knows just when to glance over Rosalind's way, expression somehow both urgent and apologetic.

he's not the best actor, but he's both well and not well enough known around here to navigate through blindspots. there's some level of camaraderie, of respect built in small pockets with certain people. it happens when you've been through something together.

every time the woman looks like she might be about to turn to call for a second opinion, John steps in with something else. to stress the urgency of the situation. to tell her that he understands things are tough, and that maybe exceptions shouldn't be made, but that this is really important and he'll owe her. that getting anyone else involved would only complicate things, and that the coworker she's about to summon is a bit of a tosser anyway, so he's bound to speak against them.

it takes a minute or two. the waiting of it stretches, and for a second John's composure almost cracks into temper— then the woman's casting one last glance at Rosalind, and nodding them past. as soon as they're past her and out of earshot, John fills Rosalind in. ]

She says if we stick tight to the barricade once we're through and follow it around we ought to be able to break off into a street around the corner.

[Despite the painkillers, her arm is still throbbing, hot twinges of pain that shoot down her fingers and leave her grimacing, so at least she sells the act well enough. She'd prefer if she wasn't getting looks that alternate between judging and pitying, but such it life.

But surely it can't work. She knows fools like this; they delight in the pettiest bits of power, getting a rush off denying others just because they can. It won't work. It won't, and she'll have to grab John's arm and teleport and then he'll be fussy and it'll be another fight--

Except, somehow, it does work. She blinks as they stride forward.]

. . . well done.

[It's quietly said. He ought to savor that compliment; they come rarely enough.]

You're full of surprises, aren't you?

[Says the teleporting woman.]

[ and savour it he will, or at least appreciate it briefly, a quick half-smile going to show. ]

Got a couple of tricks up my sleeve.

[ or one. just the one, that one. and they're not out of the woods yet. it worked because she was one person in a crowd of people, and he'd singled her out. she didn't have the agreement of the whole. if they stray before they're clear, there's still every chance another daughter might open fire on them.

there's a small space up ahead to get through the barricade, and as they reach it John pauses to clarify: ]

We can't be seen until we're ready to get out of range.

All right.

[She agrees willingly enough, but it isn't as if sneaking around is her strong suit. She'll follow his lead, but it's most definitely a civilian he's leading around right now.]

Simply stay close to the barricade.

[She can do that. Vaguely, she hopes they won't get shot from the other side; god help them if someone decides to kill them and make their corpses a diversion while they make a break for it.

Ah, well. One can't fuss all the time. She reaches for his wrist, in no small part because she's still ready to get them the hell out of dodge if needs must, and nods.]

Come along, then.

[Stick close the barricade.

Right.

Easy, she thinks, and grimaces as they venture out. She's horribly tense, but when they aren't shot the first few steps, she's pleased. Her hopes are hardly rising just yet, but at least it's working.]

[ the signs of her tension reach him slowly, but paired off with her hold - John re-centres himself, pulls himself away from the soldier's edge and back into something hospitable. civilian. she's not used to this. he might be more in his element (in being out of his element, out of safety, out of bounds) than he's felt in weeks, but as elements go this isn't hers.

it's been a while since his life's been in legitimate danger. but letting that kick take over isn't a priority when his isn't the only one. the touch signifies not so much a need for comfort as a capability to run, but the effect's the same. John tunes out of forging ahead and tunes in to guiding through.

and, with that approach intact, things go well. he's steady, moves slowly enough to make sure he's not pushing her past either physical limitations or the new ones that might well be necessitated by the combination of psychical health and heightened stress, and together they pass the sounds of one, two, three posted lookouts. not far past the third, John stops, turns to her to make a silent signal with his free hand - there's an alley across the way and it's the first one that's fallen far enough from danger to be worth the risk.

they're making the crossing. a raise of eyebrows silently asks her if she's ready - they're too close to the barricade to dare assume they'll go unheard if they speak. ]

[She jerks her head in a nod, her cheeks pale but her expression determined. Yes, she's ready. Her stomach pitches, because she really doesn't like this kind of thing, and it'd be a lie to say there's not a thrill of fear within her, but she ignores it. This is what they have to do, so there's no sense in being a child about it.

She releases his wrist. Surely this will be easier if they're both running unhindered? It seems to make sense, and she takes a step forward. She's aware enough to count down on her fingers, at least: three . . . two . . . one--

And then bolting, and thank god she'd worn her boots today, because that's so much easier than heels, and her arm hurts and so she bites her lip to stop herself from making a noise. She can't stop the sound of her feet hitting the pavement, but there's nothing for it, and the alley isn't so far--

She feels as though they're obvious. She feels as though there's going to be a shout at any second, a cry of anger, the feeling of a bolt hitting midback, piercing her, killing her, and she can't die again, she can't--

And yet somehow, it works. Somehow, she reaches the alley's mouth within a minute, panting sharply in both fear and exertion, her eyes wide. She shoves her hand over her mouth, biting on her finger to stop herself from making a noise, because she won't give them away at the very last stretch.]

[ they make it. they make it, and when they land, John gives himself a couple of seconds to bend double and breathe (he's not run like that in a while, his life's so fucking sedentary now) and then casts a glance over to her— finds her wide-eyed and cover-mouthed.

John's hand is on her shoulder in short order. voice low but not a whisper, the noise of the rest of the world enough to cover them now. ]

Look at me. You're alright. —Well done.

[ she made it. they both did. it may not exactly be smooth sailing to move on from here, but the immediate danger of the barricade is all but over. and the feat of it deserves returned praise. ]

F-fine-- I'm fine--

[She breathes it out, her own voice pitched softer, because any noise seems foolish, even now.

Truthfully, it isn't the run. Or-- well, it is, sort of. God knows that had been a burst of adrenaline and terror that she didn't need (and that's still coursing through her system now, making her heart bang in her chest and her hands trying to tremble, except she won't let them). But that in itself would be easily suppressed, forced down into the back of her mind until she was alone and could deal with it on her own.

It's just-- it's all of it.

It's the fires and the bodies and the screams and the blood; it's Tani's expression, his grin glinting as he'd watched her arm burn. It's Olympia's nationalism; it's Ardyn holding her close, his blade on her neck, his breath hot against her ear as he'd taunted her about her pride. It's the terror, thick in both cities, and the feeling that any moment might be your last, because a blade or an arrow or god only knows what else might be heading your way, and there's nothing at all you can do to stop it. It's that fucking bird and its victims, it's the fact that she can't get the smell of blood out of her--

It's the fact this reminds her of nothing so much as Columbia, back when the Vox had attacked and the city had been torn apart. How many had she watched die back then? How much blood had been spilled? Til the gutters ran red, til it stuck to her shoes, and it had been fine, just fine, because she hadn't had to be a part of it.

With Robert at her side, her gaze dispassionate, because she wasn't alive any longer. Untouchable, unbreakable, unaffected, and now it's happening all over again and there's such a good chance she could die, just like any one of those stupid Founders, and what then?

She can't die. Not before he wakes up. What a stupid, pointless end; what a fucking miserable way to go. She'd survived death once; surely that proves she has more to offer?

So she stares, her eyes wide and her fingers dropped from her mouth just so they can curl tight at her side, nails digging into the palm of her hand. She glances away after a moment, because he means nothing but the best in saying all that, but she hates, she hates the thought of anyone seeing her at anything less than her best.]

I'm fine.

[ and John knows what that feels like. to be seen when you'd rather you weren't. to have something that's your own, some private moment of weakness witnessed and unable to be taken back. there's violation in being unmasked, and John's seen enough to Rosalind's stubbornness, enough of her pride to recognise it in the way her shaking words turn thick, stony, hard, gaze turned aside.

he takes the cue. the touch is gone - comfort only works where it's wanted. some people aren't designed to be consoled.

she is fine. (and that's the sort of horseshit he can accept and leave be.)

there's not a good, not a fine, no okay. the whole issue goes dropped, just like that. onwards. all he can do for her now is get her out of here, somewhere safe, where he can make sure she'll manage and then leave her alone to patch up whatever wound was just ripped open or made anew. it's not something a doctor can help, not with anything as simple as stitches, and not with mollification. ]

How far's yours? The closest place I can think to go is Shades.

Edited 2018-03-03 21:56 (UTC)

[Good. Good, fantastic, wonderful, they'll just move on, and honestly, that's the best she could have hoped for. She hates that John saw anything at all, but they can at least pretend it never happened.

She shakes her head jerkily, a response to his question.]

Farther than that. Shades is fine.

[Not her ideal place to head, but she's in no position to argue. Besides: she could use a stiff drink or three. She glances back up at him, her expression composed and blank.]

Though-- I assume you have somewhere to send those supplies?

Shades. [ is an acknowledgement and an answer. elaboration: ] A friend of mine's set up a temporary clinic. She wants some supplies stored somewhere separate in case that goes to shit.

[ so Shades Darker it is, not so very long after they first met there but under violently different circumstances. Rosalind's composition is eerie now, sits uncomfortably when John knows there's something behind it that he's wilfully ignoring. but it's not his business, they barely know each other, and so for now he leaves it alone. ]

Do you need a breather before we head off?

No. I'd rather leave now, frankly.

[Because taking time to breathe means taking time to think, and potentially work herself up again. Rosalind takes a deep breath, then tips her head at him.]

You must have seen things like this. You're so calm about it, it can't be entirely new to you.

[She strides forward, ready to lead the way now that she knows where they're going and (some) of the danger has passed.]

Where?

[ usually he might not be quite so forthcoming about this, but these days he's hungry for any chance to remember lost things - and today, specifically, they both need the distraction. ]

Afghanistan.

[ if that means anything to her. he doesn't know if it will, from a world where ice can be sprouted from fingertips given a quick application of a dodgy product and she's mastered the art of crossing universes in less than the blink of an eye.

so he clarifies, because Afghanistan and warzone might not be for her quite the synonyms they are for him. ]

It wasn't this. But war's war.

Ah.

[She might have guessed from the country alone, but it's good to have it clarified. A solider, then. Likely a combat medic, but so something like this is nothing compared to what he's seen and done.]

I, ah, narrowly missed the first world war. I can't imagine how warfare has developed beyond that.

[Wars had never interested her. Of all the things she'd found out about the future, the squabbling of countries had always seemed so dreary for her. But it's a little different when it involves a person she knows. And she's ready to ask after it, wondering what the conflict was and what the supposed reasons fueling it were, but . . .

He'd been kind enough to know that focusing in on her grief and fear would be precisely the wrong action. She won't linger on the topic of Afghanistan for him. So, briskly:]

Though I must say, well done. I can't tell you how many solider boys I rejected when I was younger; I rather grew to dislike anyone associated with the military. You've made yourself an exception.

[ ah. it's a common misconception that I don't like your type, but you're alright can be easily taken as a compliment. on the one hand, being better than the rest isn't half bad - especially when you're fully aware of the flaws of a portion of the people who were once your people. even today, the rowdiness of the lads off duty and out, the shit they get into... Rosalind's from a different time. narrowly missed the first world war (he's building quite the collection of friends from before his time). soldier boys then weren't soldier boys now.

but soldier boys were still his family until that part of his life was stripped off abruptly and without any chance to prepare. not quite being one of them anymore is still harder than he'd like to admit. certainly not something he wants congratulating for.

she means well. and she doesn't pry, which seems out of character and therefore intentional. he appreciates it. ]

Kind of you to say.

[ it's lacking any particular inflection: neutral enough without tone that it can satisfy his need not to say anything at all, his need to bite and his need to meet good intentions with good intentions. ]

I wasn't in long. Maybe it's that.

[ or maybe she just doesn't know him well enough yet. (or maybe he's not some young man, hopped up on the thrill of status. maybe worlds change, and individuals aren't the whole. maybe he'll need to get over that, one day.) ]

Or perhaps it's that you're not trying to marry me.

[She says it as blandly as he does, though there's buried in her tone that suggests this is almost a joke. Which, frankly, is a good sign; if she's teasing, even remotely, it means she's starting to shove that terror away.

(It's not gone. The grief, the horror, the anger, none of it is ever gone. But it's shoved away, locked away in a little box and sealed until her dying day).]

I admit, that rather fed into my dislike at the time.

[ that breaks the icy layer he's set to growing, quickly and effectively. he huffs a surprised snort of laughter, little grin arriving despite itself. then, inevitably: ]

Shit. My technique's obviously off.

[ you mean you don't assume perilous dashes through suddenly-enemy territory to be a suitable courting ritual? he's been doing it wrong this whole time? ]

And to think, I was going to get down on one knee as soon as we got off the street.

Please. I'm a modern woman, John Watson. You'd have to at least kiss me once before that.

[It's not actually flirting, because she really isn't feeling that right now. It's just a retort, a way to disarm him and return fire, keeping their scorecard even. (And that isn't to say she's disinterested, entirely, but nor has she gone from terrified to lustful). And most of all, it's a way to keep pushing her towards something normal: contrary and confrontational, always needing to get the last word in.]

Though if you're going to be traditional about it, you're far too late. My father is long gone, and you'd need his approval to start with.

[ the situation is still far too close to fraught for John to mistake that for anything other than fun - or, at least, a try for it. the sort of bat back that might be fun if they hadn't just risked their lives, if they weren't still technically risking them now.

John has a lot of experience in both life-risking and the back and forth bandying of scathing retaliations. in some company, he'd let it go there. here, it feels important that he doesn't. ]

Nevermind. I don't do saliva exchange before marriage.

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

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