multiversallogs | open log } swapping your blood with formaldehyde;

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open log } swapping your blood with formaldehyde;

Who: Alice Morgan and you.
What: A few days in the life.
Where: Everywhere; given locations are Brock Marsh, Creekside, Gallmarch, but she can be anywhere.
When: This week, essentially.
Notes: The main post is rambling narrative and context, feel free to skip it. Tag in anywhere, or feel free to post your own situation. PM me or get me on plurk if you feel the need. :E
Warnings: ...Alice. Idle fantasies of murder, general hideousness.

The city is monstrous.

Alice has been in Baedal for just over three weeks, and every morning she wakes up surprised- is it still there? Yes? Really? It always is, outside her grainy and dirty (she has taken a sponge to it to no avail) Brock Marsh window; Baedal, fuming and smoking and twisting away from her, hemmed in by grey-white fog and fear.

She has been following, but hasn’t posted to, the Network. She hasn’t really met anybody but Krithn, the distracted star-mapper she’s been assisting, who forgets to shave and forgets to eat and forgets what he’s paid her and can always be relied upon to shell out more than he should if Alice takes a gentle tone with him and suggests that an advance on her wages would be appreciated, not mentioning the numerous other sums he’s advanced her. He hasn’t noticed that she’s a genius, but he hasn’t noticed much on ground level for years. He disgusts her. She steals his keys. She studies his maps and charts and books when he’s not in.

It occurs to her that perhaps she should have cried on the network, that most people- most of them who are Chosen- must come to their cohort damp with tears and nigh hysterical. It isn’t that she hasn’t cried- she has, for the sheer impossibility of it all, because she was so angry, so indignant, so sure she was straight-jacketed in some padded cell in the real world and it was all so revoltingly undignified- but only for herself. Emotional exhibitionism doesn’t thrill her. It simply didn’t occur to her, at the time, that she should make the effort. She was shocked, briefly, into numb honesty- the truth is that she was and is afraid, of course, afraid and angry and bewildered, but her emotions have never had the power to paralyse her. She’s stronger than them.

And is she mad? Alice thinks about that, eyes drifting from one of her borrowed books to the pavement as she sits outside a cafe in Chimer; is she mad? No, she reflects, staring up at the Cathedral of the Holy Cross, rubbing the corner of a page between her fingers. On balance, having recovered from her fit of panicked fatalism, she’s probably not. And that makes things very simple and very complicated by putting her in a familiar position- in a world which makes no sense, upon which people are desperately trying to project order, in which people are trying to eke out lives of some significance.

Some things are constant. (She glances away, across to the xenian waiter who brought her her tea--) Some things are not.

Prison was worse. Prison was better.

So now she works and saves and reads. Her room in Brock Marsh is slowly filling up with books, like every other room in Brock Marsh. Soon, she will outgrow it; she has her eye on apartments. She budgets in pencil down to the last penny, though they aren’t called pennies here. She wears carefully-selected reasonably-priced clothing which doesn’t look reasonably-priced, and invests in expensive shoes, because she intends to do a lot of walking, already thinking in investments and futures and long-term plans. It’s in her nature. It helps. She burns the hospital gown she arrived in.

Despite the care she has taken to claw some temporary stability for herself out of the chaos of Baedal, Alice feels swamped by the city, unable to breathe for all the things she doesn’t know. (How dare they do this to her, make her drown in all this nonsense, how dare they try this with her?) It is a language she doesn’t speak. It is threatening, hungry, consuming. It drags its citizens in and it eats them alive.

The city is evil.

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Alice is used to university quarters. She likes them well enough- she’s better at liking places than people, and while academics are tiresome, they are at least a familiar style of tiresome. She's seen a local man with a trademark tweed jacket, leather elbow patches on all four of the arms-- so stupidly, prissily Oxford that it made her laugh inside, cheered her up for some inexplicable reason, made her briefly enjoy listening in to his conversation with professor-ish type about archaic Ragamoll grammar. And speaking of Ragamoll, that is part of her studies- her extensive studies. Baedal translates the spoken and written word when necessary (she must look up the details, it must go on the list of things to know more about) but the University appreciates a working knowledge of Ragamoll in its applicants and its scholars- it’s not on the official literature, just delicately and disdainfully suggested everywhere else.

So she can be found writing out long pieces of practice translation, verb conjugations, practicing grammar, checking back to her books and tapping her pen against her lip, a Brock Marsh poster girl from her head to her high-heeled loafer-shod toes. She studies outside in cafes because she has so much to do, because she can practise tea for one, please and do you know the way to Creekside, to Dog Fenn, to Syriac Well and do you have the time in Ragamoll on the people around her, because she has to absorb the outside world- she can’t shut herself off in her academic pursuits like she suspects so many of the newcomers who make Brock Marsh their home do, pretending they’re learning to understand Baedal while really they’re shutting themselves away from it in their ivory towers. Idiots. She listens to the conversations around her as she translates. People consider her dead to the world around her because she’s focused on one obvious and demanding task- they’re idiots too.

The wind ripples suddenly, makes a moth-winged woman behind her trying to break up with her partner shudder and tuck her wings closer to her, makes Alice’s books tumble from the table, makes her hair stream in ribbons across her face. The pages she’s ripped from her notebook fly into the air and are scuffed along the ground and suddenly she’s furious- this pointless vicious hungry make believe city isn’t fair.

Despite the desire of several people around her that she be on a leash of some kind, Ilde does still have things to do out in the world - which includes Brock Marsh on a relatively regular basis, as there's a printing/copying place there that will make booklets and copy music sheets for her students at what they promise her is a competitive rate. (She'd shopped around; the place she used to go was cheaper, but it was cheaper for a reason, and she'd opted to pay a little more for quality when she had a better idea of her income.)

She's on her way back from there - she's thinking about stopping in the cafe, she likes it in Brock Marsh even on the days she isn't getting her lunch with Quirin, who she's long been certain is not actually a Candlelighter spy of some kind - when the pages flutter toward her, so it's actually no mean feat that she crouches so nimbly (in those heels, too) to catch them in one hand, clutching her own booklets and handbag with the other.

“Sorry, are these yours?”

Alice is half up from her chair when Ilde catches the papers- she traps the remaining notes under her saucer and then moves quickly and smoothly to intercept her, all in one motion. She gives a pleased and half-laughing sigh; "Ah. Yes. Thank you--" Her accent mirrors Ilde's somewhat, but she knows better than to assume it guarantees them any background in common. "This is just the trouble with Brock Marsh, one little breeze and half the population has to rush out after their escaped labours of love," she says, as if she has been here forever. Her voice is a lilting murmur as she takes the pages, flicking through them with delicate, surgical precision to check she's missing nothing.

“Well, trouble, charm...” Which probably gives Ilde away for not a local in turn (inasmuch as Baedal has 'locals' - debatable, perhaps, depending on who you ask and where), if admittedly someone in and out on a relatively regular basis. “Um- you're welcome,” after a slight pause, jerking herself back from wherever she'd gone in her head and whatever was happening to Brock Marsh professors in it. “I'd hate to lose something around here, though, in case it showed up a month later in someone else's paper.”

"Well, that is cynical," she says, not looking at all as if she disapproves. It occurs to her that I must look up how to say 'cynical' in Ragamoll and she stores that notion away somewhere in her immaculately ordered mind. "You're right, of course. Academics are such gloryhounds. Nevertheless, I'm safe with this. Baedalite academia is a mixed bag-" a patchwork, a jumble, a mess "-but one from which the painstaking practice exercises of a language learner are excluded."

She pauses and looks to the cafe, her abandoned table, then back to Ilde. As body language goes, it is an ellipsis. She's aware that she should probably make the semblances of friends; it was brought up time and time again at her trial that she named no friends but John Luther. Things were said. Personality disorder sort of things. She'd been quite insulted, not hurt, just insulted, and while it had hardly been the undoing of any defence she might have tried (getting caught with Ian Reed's shotgun in her hand and confessing was probably to blame for that) she feels that it nonetheless pays to plan ahead. Ilde, anyway, seems at least mildly interesting; there is something over-real and unreal about her, like she was made for somewhere other than here- of course, Baedal is the ultimate round hole for square pegs, but it's something besides that.

"Were you planning on stopping in?"

"Um- I was, yes," and she brightens, a little bit, in a way that's curiously literal, where the light catches on her as she turns slightly, pushing her hair back with one nominally free hand and thinking about what she's going to order. There's a honey tea here that is even better, she thinks, with a little bit of company.

(She should probably work on being so personable to strangers, in that given the sort of people she ends up spending her time with it's clearly not a good plan- but she likes those people, making it a hard sell.)

"I'm Ilde," she says, "not an academic, I'm afraid, just a musician with bad habits." An interest in academia and tendency to lurk around Brock Marsh running errands and having lunch with professors counts as a bad habit, she is relatively sure; or it did when she was younger and she was lurking around professors because she was sleeping with them. Ilde thinks of this as 'precociousness', whereas there are those who'd think of it as 'statutory'. "Languages are my weakness, though- well, one of many- do you mind if I ask what you're studying?"

"Alice Morgan," she says, motioning smoothly to where she's sitting, inviting Ilde to join her with an offhand, "Please." It's elegant, unthinkingly minimalist.

She takes a moment to reorganise her papers and make sure no gust of wind is going to scatter them all over again, before answering Ilde's question. "I'm studying Ragamoll. It seems prudent, when one finds oneself staying indefinitely in an unfamiliar city, to make said city familiar as soon as possible. Language seemed like the proper starting point. The city translates, but something is always lost- and I would hate to get complacent." She says that with a smile and a wry insincerity; she does not seem like a woman over whom anything so untidy as hate holds much sway.

Verbatim has its charming aspects- admittedly it’s full of cats while Alice is a dog person, and she tries to time her visits so that Thomas is on duty and Marnie isn’t to avoid making any tiresome conversation, but no one bats an eyelid when she's trying to calculate how much weight in books she can reliably carry all the way back to Brock Marsh.

Right now, Alice has books on space and time, the ecology of the Gross Tar, the history of stelanmancy, legends about the fog disguised as a scientific treatise, the culture of Baedal (what culture, you senseless, mindless fake, you’re a bloated and rotting existential patchwork, a Frankenstein’s monster of a city), stacked and balanced on her hip, against her side. She almost looks like she works here, or at least she doesn’t look like the other customers, hesitating and enjoying the temptation of this book, that book, muddling along in peaceful, scruffy quiet- rather, there’s a purpose in her actions which makes it seem like every move she makes is according to some kind of plan.

Ivan is, for those who know how to see, a monster in a monstrous city. He's too old to be very practiced at looking human, in mannerisms if not in external features, and in Baedal he seldom tries. He usually remembers to pretend to breathe, even when he's not smoking, but he's too still, and he wears his persona like a costume that amuses him slightly. Tall and neat and stylish, he is browsing in the back of the shop (which, because of the layout, blocks a significant chunk of books).

He likes Verbatim; he finds it quaint, and he is something of a cat person. Cats don't need you, which is generally comforting. One is investigating his shoe, but he pays it no mind.

There is no blood on him, but there might as well be.

As Alice comes near, he moves a bit. "Did you need to get to anything?"

He looks significantly like a man Alice once knew ('knew'- there was one degree of separation, he was in the news, she felt like she knew him, like everything in John's life was fair game to her)- not quite identical, but enough to give her pause. Alice thought the man in question repulsive, but Alice is like that about people; she found the fact that he exsanguinated innocents much less irritating than his manner.

Auspicious, perhaps.

She saw him from across the aisle, and in fact moved closer out of curiosity. She smiles, cradles her prospective purposes. "The true crime section caught my eye," she says; he's blocking part of it.

This is a serial killer litmus test, and a decent conversation starter; Alice isn't actually interested in true crime. Well, not in reading about it.

He raises his eyebrows, but gallantly moves out the way. "I suppose Baedal is itself proof that the adage about truth being stranger than fiction isn't entirely without merit."

He wondered, sometimes, if there were so many worlds that it meant everything was true. It didn't much matter, but it was amusing to think of, now and then.

"Though I can't say you struck me as much of browser." Alice seems intent, focused in a way that seems familiar to him, in a general way. She's interesting, which can't really say anything good, given Ivan's interests. "I'd have expected you to have a list."

Alice's lips quirk at that; he is absolutely correct, and she's glad for it. She doesn't enjoy the company of people who can be easily lied to- it's easy, but it's not fun.

"And what good would a list be if I weren't able to add to it?" she inquires evenly, a fingertip running along the spines of the books in front of her. "There's efficiency, and then there's rigidity. I consider myself adaptable." She plucks a book from the shelf- one which strikes her as genuinely interesting if slightly mis-shelved, criminology rather than sensationalist crime reporting. Crime in Baedal must have its own flavour, and she must familiarise herself with it. As if to emphasise her point she holds it up with a bright smile so he can see, before adding it to the stack she's carrying.

Unless he's putting on an accent, he's not Lucian Burgess- for which Alice is rather glad. Burgess seemed so dull.

"Certainly handy when you've been abducted to live in a mad city that suffers periodic monster attacks," he observes, mildly. "And when browsing a sometimes creatively organized bookshop as well. Are you reading for work or for pleasure?" Or both, he supposes.

She doesn't seem to be put off, and he's intrigued enough to bother with chit-chat when he usually wouldn't. Not unless he was hunting, but he isn't at the moment. (He wonders if she'd put up an interesting chase, though, the way sometimes one wonders whether a stranger would be good in bed.)

Alice has so far been too busy measuring him up against Burgess to linger on details which don't quite add up about him, but she notices now his slight not-rightness- which is much more pervasive and off-putting than any blatant wrongness.

It still doesn't worry her in the slightest. She is (she has heard from some very reputable sources) slight not right herself.

"Pleasure, largely; or more accurately, curiosity, but then the satisfaction of curiosity is a pleasure. One doesn't realise the amount of trivia one has retained about the world in general until it's made irrelevant." There is something sweet, if slightly petulant, about her tone, and she accompanies it with a smile- a brief and conscious implication of vulnerability.

"Ah, yes." He smiles, a bit sharp. "Nothing like trying to do a pub trivia night in a foreign country."

Ivan knows quite well that it isn't precisely what she meant. (Though his point, he thinks, still holds.) He's not sure how to read her entirely, which makes him contrarily want to.

"How long have you been here, then?"

It's not what she meant, but she gives a not-laugh, a barely-voiced breath, amused. She is weaning herself off of collecting pieces of familiarity from the world around her- a British accent, a book she's read before at home, a reference to pub trivia nights- but nonetheless it's somehow fascinating to her, how one can travel across universes (supposedly, supposedly, she can't quite take that at face value) and still be surrounded by the same minutiae.

"Not long enough to stop thinking of it as a foreign country," she says. "Just under a month. I'm sure the honeymoon period will soon wear off." She says that with supposed perfect seriousness and a blithe smile, only the glint in her eyes and the sheer absurdity of the idea that Baedal has a honeymoon period suggesting she's joking.

"Well, you're not really broken in until you're caught in an attack of improbable monsters," he observes with good humour. (Or until you're doing the attacking yourself, as he's been on both ends of that equation.) "It's been quiet recently, I suspect we're overdue."

He's also interested to see her reaction to 'monsters' as a concept.

She's done research, scoured past newspapers in the library endlessly until her eyes failed to focus and the words failed to sink in. She knows that a theoretical knowledge will not necessarily totally prepare her for whatever might happen here- and she feels that something is going to happen here, that and now you live here is an anticlimax, that she's here for a reason- but the acquisition of facts makes her feel powerful.

She hisses in her breath through her teeth, mock coy- "Oh, do you think so?" she says, like he's suggested they're long overdue for a patch of sun. "Then I look forward to being broken in immensely."

--watch it, Alice, he's taken, but she's not really angling for that; she ticks all the boxes of flirtation without ever really trying to make it anything more than a box-ticking exercise. She could be more convincing, but sees no need. "What was it like? I've read accounts. Newspapers. All very detached, very...third-person."

Edited 2012-09-09 18:28 (UTC)

He smiles a bit at her flirtation, but notices the emptiness behind it; she reminds him of someone he used to know back home. (A vampire, of course; she radiates less humanity than he's used to from mortals, and it's part of what keeps his interest.) He doesn't serious think of recruiting her - not on a first meeting, and not when things with Ilde are fraught anyway - but the fact he thinks of it at all is unusual for him. He hasn't recruited anyone since Daisy.

"The newspapers here, as everywhere, have their own agendas, but get in shouting distance of accuracy in my experience. I've been here a while; is there an event in particular you'd like another opinion about?" If not, he can pick, but if she chooses, he'll be curious to see which draws her first.

He likes that she's playing with him. It's been some time since anyone was both bold enough to try and smart enough to be effective at it.

Alice smiles. She wonders if he's trying to intimidate her, or if mentioning monsters was simply to see her reaction; it could be a mix of both. Terribly efficient, killing two birds with one stone like that. She can respect efficiency. It's something like what she's doing right now, really- searching for information but enjoying herself along the way, and perhaps investigating him. He's interesting as few people are to her- there is a lack about him, an emptiness which she finds rather compelling. She doesn't imagine her interest will last- it waxes and wanes, in almost all circumstances goes away when she has taken someone apart and worked out how they tick (--metaphorically, almost always)- but while it does, she'll indulge it.

"Why don't you tell me," she muses, "about the very start of the flood of monsters in Kavadry. What you saw and what it was like, being there."

He smiles, leaning against a nearby ladder. His smile is possibly the least human thing about him. ...one of the least human things.

"I don't recall what the papers said, about how it started. There was a political scuffle of sorts; Mafaton was closed off, so I was a bit busy when the sky started changing color." Ivan paused, adding, "You know, I never quite went through it with anyone. Everyone had their own fallout to cope with at the time."

"I'm sure it was terrible," Alice says, utterly truthfully. She is sure. It's the only logical conclusion. But there's that same emptiness behind her apparent sentiment; she's as truthful as a mathematical proof, and exactly as emotional.

She's sure he won't mind.

"Does that make me a confidante?" she inquires, sounding more curious than a half-joke really should warrant.

"It makes you unusual," he says, which he's sure he can give her confidently. When speaks of the incident, there's almost a sort of nostalgia; now that he's sure he and Ilde lived through it, it's easy to miss a period when blood was simple to come by and he had something to do other than be snide in bookshops.

"It was citizen fighting citizens, and then suddenly it became everyone fighting actual monsters. Not as pretty as the film sort, but enough to keep one occupied."

Her expression at 'unusual' is entirely unsurprised- pleased but pleased as if he's gotten the right answer to something and she can check an item off a list in her head.

"Actual monsters," she echoes, not asking him what he means by it so much as pointing out what he's just said with a grin on her face. She doubts he's human, but then it's hard to tell sometimes and she's not entirely sure it matters. "Do you miss it?"

He smiles, small and sharp for all that his fangs aren't visible. "The actual monsters? No. They were like large, angry animals, mostly and about as much fun to clean up after. The fighting before that, well." Ivan shrugs.

"I wouldn't tend to pick a fight with a species who saw mine as a viable food source, even if they were a minority population. But perhaps that's just me."

Her smiles almost seems to feed off his as she dissects his words and puts them all together in new ways in her mind, coming to conclusions. Certainly not human, then- most likely vampire, or cruorvore of some kind at least.

The cruorvores fascinate her somewhat- she likes destructive things, and she finds the idea of something that literally drains life to sustain itself harsh and attractive. Pure evil. It's as horrifying as it is magnetic.

"Fear," she suggests, painting motivations onto the Candlelighters she's read about. "Arrogance. Stupidity. All the usual reasons people make ill-advised decisions. Some people, I suppose, just don't care- but from what I've read, I can't even credit them with that." As if not caring is something to be respected, an appropriate response to existence. "Were they fun to clear up after?" she inquires, looking rather wicked; she's letting the mask slip quickly here, she realises, but it's intentional. If he won't hide, then she doesn't see why she ought to.

"I didn't say I didn't understand," he says, amused, "just that I wouldn't act as they did regardless. Still."

He smiles in answer to her question, and it seems for just a moment his eyes darken, though they don't truly flash black as they would if he were a bit more vivid in his reminiscing. "And yes. I did enjoy that. They'd had it coming a while." And he'd been caged too long; his leash is longer even now than caution dictates it really should be, but he's restless still.

Edited 2012-09-18 00:34 (UTC)

She raises her free hand, mea culpa, like she's surrendering- "Oh, forgive an academic the desire to spell things out." Her smile is bright. She doesn't seem to blink as often as she should, and nor does she seem at all put off by what he says or how he looks- they'd had it coming a while- yes. She can understand that. "I can't help my nature."

He smiles, lazy and amused. "Heaven forbid you tried. Even on first meeting, it's an intriguing nature." It's only partly idle flattery - that part's habit, an extension of the persona he's spent decades crafting for himself. The civilization overlaid like a veneer, decorating his brutality more than truly obscuring it.

"I'm Ivan," he adds, after a moment, because they've been talking long enough he feels like offering his name. As if it's a token she's earned by being interesting.

"It is," she says, quite seriously, and her smile, her unwavering, unblinking gaze, serve to make it seem as if she's reflecting the compliment back on him.

"Alice." She holds out a hand, gives him a look like they're conspiring; "Right through the looking glass, seeing as we're in the proper place for literary references."

"Are you really? Ambitions to become a queen, then?" He takes her hand with a similarly conspirator's smile, but instead of shaking it, he lifts it for a cool, brief, and oh-so-polite kiss. "Or just the victim of boredom and curiosity?"

Her smile doesn't answer, and she stays silent until her hand is lowered. It's not the sort of silence which suggests she has nothing to say- just that she's choosing not to say it.

"Well," she says, and she voices it as though it's an answer to his question, "I should tell you that while I'm delighted with what I've discovered, I have no interest whatsoever in reading about true crime." She seems to come into focus, a smooth hardness appearing in her hushed voice. "In fact, I find the concept boring, voyeuristic and slightly pathetic. I came over because I thought- perhaps- that you were a friend of a friend from home."

"Did you really?" He smiles, mildly intrigued. "I wonder if it's coincidence or just the nonsense of different universes." Suggesting, strongly, he doesn't expect to go back; meeting her in the future isn't a possibility he considers.

"May I ask who you thought I was?"

"You may certainly ask," she says, as if she's promising something, grinning as she gives her non-answer. There's no reason, really, not to tell him -- but she feels like the subject of murder is something to reveal slowly in this case. Not to ease him into it, that's not how he comes off, but to make it more interesting.

She shifts her weight again, transferring her books to her other side, and then she taps her hand once on the cover of the top volume with a calm click as if she's decided something. "Are we loitering with intent?" she asks brightly. "I have to pay. Would you like to have coffee, Ivan?"

"What a delightful suggestion. I assume you meant with you." Rather than just generally. "I'll meet you outside and minimize the loitering."

She just smiles instead of answering, leaving to pay -- despite being stronger than she looks, it's something of a relief to spread the weight of the books into two separate bags. She meets him with a certain bright, straight-backed, reporting-for-duty air. Very wholesome, apart from how she's just a little off.

"There. All stocked up. There's a charming cafe just down the street," she suggests. "Someone I knew once told me that one coffee doesn't make two people friends. What do you think?"

Steady on, perhaps, considering they've known each other for under an hour, but if Alice forms any attachments, they're fast and slightly unsettling. She frames it as a more or less academic inquiry, in any case.

"I don't know about that as a general rule," he says, blithe. "I think for some people, it's sufficient, and for some all the coffee in the world wouldn't do. Would you like me to take a bag?" He evidently hasn't bought anything, and his hands are thus free.

Alice likes the ocean; it’s the right amounts of beautiful and destructive, and it makes her feel less hemmed in. There are no walls here- though of course, you can’t really escape via sailing. It’s strange that she finds that compelling, these invisible forces, unseen reasons why and why not. They blame it on monsters, but she’s not interested in monsters.

She is here to feel free, but more than that, she is here for the Hole.

It sits just visible in the distance, surprisingly small and (she knows from her reading, from the haphazard and often-disastrous research done on it) perfectly circular. They do not know where the stone structures around it came from; they do not know where the Hole itself came from. It simply stays there and eats and eats, water rushing down it but never depleting.

It’s beautiful, this perfect circle of perpetual hunger. It’s so wrong. People are so afraid of it.

Alice stands on the rocky shore, hugging her coat around her as the sea wind whips her hair up into a frenzy of red curls, across her face, strands in her mouth- she pushes it back like drawing a curtain, thinks it’s not far.

She doesn’t want to believe they found an eyeball, either, or a tongue, or a lone finger- the body part changes depending on who tells the story of the friend of the friend of the friend they all have who jumped into the Hole. She wants to believe they never found anything at all. She wants to believe that the Hole makes people nothing. She wants to think it doesn’t ravage, only subtracts.

Standing on the shore and watching the Hole drink reminds her that she is something and somewhere beyond learning Ragamoll, beyond assisting the star-mapper who disgusts her more each day with his well-meaning bumbling, his massive and useless brain and shy kindness towards her, beyond her prim and well-made shoes, beyond budgeting. The Hole reminds her of where she is- not just a mad city but a multiversal parasite, a blight on the face of physics, a place that can’t be but is, trying to suck her in and crush her. More than that, though, the Hole calms her. It is a gap of nothing in this city filled with everything. More than Baedal, the Hole reminds her of who she is and what can't be stolen from her.

Edited 2012-08-20 13:41 (UTC)

There are always errands to do- errands, and the idle fantasies of putting her employer out of his misery with her bare hands briefly play out in bright colours in the back of her mind, sniffed at and dismissed but briefly cheering. She fetches him endless reams of paper and parchment and pens, which he is constantly losing- she brings messages to other researchers associated with the University and is careful to become a welcome, well-known face amongst them, sweet and funny and with a razor sharp mind, drops little hints about her thoughts on her employer’s latest research, leaves them frowning and interested in her wake. She collects letters, prints, books, the parts of a new calculating engine he is building and which she helps him with, suggesting tiny, crucial changes- he blinks, and she wonders irritably if he’s ever going to twig that she’s cleverer than he is.

In some ways, getting out of the observatory is a blessing- at least while clicking at a business-like rate through the streets of Baedal, stopping in to deliver this or that, to pick up something else, pausing at bookshops to hunt down the reference book Dr Krithn is sure he had in his hand just last week or possibly last year, called- called something with constellations in the title, well, anyway, there is a passage that is essential to his work and could she have it by three, please- at least then she is not trapped in the same room as him, frustrated by the alien stars and his inability to remember her name more than twice a day.

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open log } swapping your blood with formaldehyde;

a cafe, brock marsh | shunday;

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verbatim, creekside | misdi;

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the shore, gallmarch | veerdi;

misc;