multiversallogs | there is a community of the spirit.

Entry tags:

there is a community of the spirit.

Who: ~~Bruce Wayne~~ Tom and you.
What: Creeping out from the fringes and the shadows, investigating the city through a closer lens.
Where: Various areas in Baedal, mostly the central districts, and along the river.
When: Coardi (Wednesday), or any day this week after that, I'm easy.
Notes: OPEN LIKE AN OPEN THING. I want your cr and I want your revenge, tag in under whatever scenario your dark heart desires.
→ new note: if you'd like to start a new thread please come up with a new setting on another day, Coardi has hit critical mass of things Mr Hermit BatCrab would put up with before vanishing back into the shadows. :E
Warnings: TBA. (Swearing? Not much else.)

Bruce doesn't want to admit it at first, but after he gets a decent night's sleep and has a real conversation with someone, he feels a lot better. It took him an hour of silent reflection on Hasi's little balcony to come to terms with having felt awful to begin with - it's not being here, it's everything else, being here is a strange misstep but it isn't enough to throw him, not really - and to accept that attempting to remain a ghost in the machine wasn't an acceptable plan of action. For a whole armful of reasons. Also on that balcony, struck by the view at night, with oddly-powered lights set into strange buildings like scattered candles and gems, Baedal reminded him of Baku, maybe Lahore, and the inoffensive memories chided at him from quiet corners about his aseptic behavior.

He still isn't social when he goes out. He's quiet, unassuming, and spends hours wandering, watching without truly interacting. He keeps to the edges of the river, then, walking alongside it off the roads, going under bridges where he can. There are people washing the dye out of great, bright reams of fabric in the still shallows, speaking a language he guesses must have once been of Earth; he practices with them for a time, talking of the river's current and temperament and the goddess that lives within instead of about the tenure of their citizenship.

He walks up into the city proper when he comes to the water's split, skirting the arena - there are men and women practicing familiar-but-not-quite movements in a great lined rectangle. It's an experience on a scale Bruce never had even during his own time as a student, and so he sits and watches for a while. A woman speaks to him about a guild that trains and dispatches warriors to serve as private guardians; he keeps the paper she gives him, but invests in nothing further. It isn't anything he'd truly consider, but he's curious in an academic way about what lies inside their doors.

There's a library he'd like to see, but a group of children with wildly varying ages (and genetic markers) end up kicking multicolored rocks into the cobblestone street - he kicks one back, artfully, and ends up engrossed for the next hour learning a game with rules he suspects are not actually written down anywhere. With few words, he teaches one of them how to hold his arm to balance anything on his hand, and laughs a little, privately.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"I could be having a bad day," he faux-muses, breezing by her demands about who she reminds him of. "I haven't been here for very long, it's pretty weird still."

He really is kind of insufferable, sometimes. But this is familiar, this back and forth, and he likes it a little. Plus he's stalling, because not even Bruce Wayne knows how to explain something like this; it makes him think about Richard Grayson a bit, which is irritating.

"Yeah, okay, granted," Penelope gives him that, regardless of the answers still not coming. He is definitely messing with her, and enjoying the hell out of it. That's fine; she can give as good as she gets.

"Still, I'm not weird. I mean everybody here probably thinks that but no, for real, I am genuinely the least weird person here. I mean aside from the obvious." This is her way at hinting to him about her, er. 'Family Secret.' The only other person in Baedal who knows about her magic is Ruby, and that's only because they've both got it. The only reason she's even hinting at it with 'Tom' is because if he knows another one of her, with as familiar as he's acting, it's likely he knows this too.

"How long have you been here? Do you have a place to stay? I mean, not that I'm offering, my cat would probably kill you in your sleep, but. The Inn gets fucking tedious after a while."

And ah, here we come to the multiversal impasse: Bruce doesn't know about her magic, because the Penelope he knew merely (... 'merely', yes, sure) only had trouble with seeing and interacting with dead people, spirits. It was still far beyond his understanding, but he knew that it weighed on her greatly - one of the last times he saw her was when they were speaking about it, and he'd been worried. He wanted her to speak to Enfys about it, really.

So he just gives her a bit of a look, like he's just not sure what she wants him to say, there, but he might have a few responses tucked away if he was the sort to blurt things out.

"Long enough to get out of the Inn." Shrug. "Did you get a pet here?" Oh god her fucking cat.

That's something to think about-- exactly how much about her she should assume he already knows. One thing she's learned about this city is that it is far more inherently dangerous than the world she came from. There seems to be no limit to the nonsense that Baedal pulls in, and Penelope would rather not let it know about her precise brand of nonsense, thanks very much. The less that gets out about her, the better.

So she does the wise thing (FOR ONCE), and keeps her mouth shut.

"He came with me. Angus. Did I not have him before? Weird to think there'd be a Penelope without an Angus. We're kind of a matched set. Like tacky salt and pepper shakers, except one is a cat and one is fucking amazing." It would be fairly obvious to him that she's pretty clearly scrutinizing the hell out of him and using the excuse of taking a sip of her coffee to peer at him so blatantly. Fascinating.

The look he gives her in response is pointedly tolerant, but not unkind. He has still not confirmed anything to you, Ms Lane. Tom has no comment about her cat, apparently, because whatever further questions he might have had are effectively answered already by her illuminating speech, there.

So:

"Where'd you get the donut?"

"Same place I got the coffee." Now who's being vague?? That'll learn 'im. "Donut's not as good as it would be if I got it from the pastry place but the coffee's better at the coffee place so. Lesser of two evils, there."

Penelope 101: Even Donuts and Coffee Are A Choice Between Shit And Slightly Less Shit, Even When They're All Good.

She shifts her hips again, her body language saying so are you going to walk with me or not, and shrugs. "You're telling me more than you think you are, just. In case you thought you were being all Secret Peter at me for some reason."

"I'll keep that in mind." He likes coffee. And donuts. And judging from her trajectory, disposition, and occupation, he can probably sort out where she came from just now. (It doesn't even occur to him to think that might be insane. It's just how he thinks.)

Sure, he'll walk with her. Half-smile on his face he asks, "What am I telling you?"

It's okay, Bruce. Now you've got Penelope (well... a Penelope) to tell you when you're being insane. And she will. At great length. Whether you want her to or not.

"That you're the kind of guy used to getting what he wants. Usually without giving anything in return. And you're kind of insufferably smug. No, seriously, why do I like you?" Note the lack of past-tense, there. Freudian slip? Maybe. Or maybe half of the reason she's visibly annoyed with him (nothing remarkable and honestly nothing to be concerned with) is that her Magic Radar is telling her this one's okay, and she has, as of yet, little to no evidence as to why. Besides the fact that he hasn't axe murdered her yet.

His eyebrows go up at that assessment - genuine incredulity. It's like she's managed to distill the exact facade he presents to Gotham's media and high society, without... ever seeing that front. Which is completely fake, anyway. But he also knows Penelope is as hostile as all get out, and he knows that, in general, women have no reason to think any man is motivated by anything other than selfishly getting what he wants.

It's that last bit, more than anything about her personally, that makes him disinclined to be annoyed.

"I'm a supporter of the arts."

Now he's just trolling - but, yes, that is a sideways cop to having known her before, for those paying attention.

Penelope is many, many things. Paying attention is certainly one of them.

"So we're doing business. Jesus, you could've just said so. Not that I'd use the word 'artist' to describe myself like... ever, but since we're being unbearably facetious already, why not go all out. I don't do menswear, but somehow I think asking you to elaborate would get me precisely fucking nowhere."

Speaking of going nowhere. Penelope takes a moment out from her casual stroll to finish her coffee and dump the empty cup into a nearby bin-- it's weird how society in this city can be both ultra-modern and practically medieval. Not that it bothers her, but it can make for a surreal, sort of post-modern state of mind.

"Would it even be worth it to ask anything else? Like what would happen if I just stopped talking, would we just keep going forever in silence? Oh, you'd fucking love that, wouldn't you, you miserable bastard." Penelope June Lane is the only person in the known universe (maybe ALL known universes) who can say that with genuine affection.

"Maybe."

It is a beautiful skill, to be sure, but - and this is unlikely to be a shock - this is not the first time anyone's called Bruce a miserable bastard. Even in fondness. (Though Penelope has a certain flair to her delivery.) He stays quiet for a while; he can't really go into detail, and even if he could, he's not sure he wants to. What happens when he goes home? That Penelope still exists.

He can't even tell this one his real name, much less what they went through. He can't admit to anything near any of that. His capabilities, his tendencies - he has to keep it quiet.

"This isn't weird, to you?"

"What, this?" Penelope gestures between them, pointing lazily back and forth between him and herself. "This you and me thing? Yeah, fucking massively so, actually, but compared to the last few years of my life? Or actually, the last few, like, weeks? This is nothing. This is a stroll down the street. It is a fucking bizarre-ass street, as you can see, but it's just a fucking street, and these fashionable yet affordable boots are made for fucking strolling if you know what I mean."

Like water off a duck's back, Penelope is pretty well acclimatized to weirdness at this point, sir. (She still hasn't run into Balthazar.)

"But then, I'm not running into a buddy of mine who doesn't recognize or remember me. So I'd say I've got a leg up on you, figuratively speaking. Obviously, I mean, again, with the apparently-not-fucking-you."

It's never just a street, with him - especially not with someone that he ostensibly trusted in some slight way. While it's nice to see Penelope, he can't - won't - just drop everything and pretend it's the same woman. She isn't; it's not even a matter of time. If she'd recognize him from somewhere else while they were in Taxon, he's positive she'd have said so. (Loudly and repeatedly, probably.)

"I'm trying not to be a jerk about it." To the other her, or whatever he'd like to call it. He's not enough of an asshole to think of it in terms of 'his Penelope' vs 'this Penelope'.

He can't just let go of it, and he can't use it like a tool, either.

"Don't worry about it. Anyway it's probably not the 'being a jerk' you're having trouble with. You don't take losing people well, do you?"

She pauses here, to smoke the last bit of her cigarette. It was almost like she'd been purposely ignoring it, and it had burned away while they chatted. She crushed the butt underneath her heel while she spoke.

"It's cool; most people don't. It's when you start taking it well you should be worried." Penelope herself is far, far past that point, and its in her reluctance to look at him as she says it that delivers that point home.

She answers the question herself, so he doesn't feel the need to find a way to gloss over it - then again, it is a pretty general observation, albeit a keen one applied to him personally. It's not the loss, not really; the Penelope he knows isn't dead or hurt and certainly better off not having her life torn open again by abduction. It's more how protective he gets of the few people in his life who tolerate having relationships with him.

So he'll concede that, and not mention how he catches how she's holding herself right now.

"Not a lot of people put up with me."

Something they had - have - in common.

"You don't say?" But it's with her little sardonic smile, so what it really means is 'thank you'. For at least that small concession, anyway. Taking her frustrations out on the wrong people should be Penelope's job, not his.

"Well, at least that answers the question of why I'd hang out with you." She gestures at him. "No offense, but you're a little more... I don't know, grown up than my usual crowd. Definitely not my usual clientele, if you know what I mean. Not shiny enough. And I mean that as a compliment, actually."

Translation: I can be civil if you can. Civil for her, anyway.

He doesn't really mind if she isn't civil. Then again, she's probably figured that out.

"I'm sure you'll be shocked to hear it," oh here we go, "but I don't actually get out all that much."

Indeed.

What he means is: he doesn't have a usual crowd. And, yes, he's definitely older than Penelope, ambiguously in his early thirties with something just behind his eyes that speaks of a soul much older than that. (Or maybe just someone really patient and boring - hard to tell.) But he seems comfortable there, walking next to her. It doesn't happen often.

"Fucking speechless," she deadpans. "I'm stunned beyond words, really. Like I can't even think of a single thing to say in response. My mind is blown."

It's not that she hangs out with people all that young-- what few friends she has are about her age, twenty-three through twenty-five or so, with a few notable exceptions-- it's just that they're so much more steeped in pop-culture than this Tom character seems to be. Her friends are much more on the Sound-And-Fury-Signifying-Nothing side of things. She likes it that way-- it means she doesn't have to invest emotionally in them too much. And we all know why that is. Loss is her constant.

"You're not missing much, but. You know. I've never been one to let life pass me by. Or opportunity, or whatever. Somebody's gotta be the one to tell you about the kind of bullshit you're successfully avoiding in your self-imposed hermitage, anyway." Just to be off-putting, she offers him the last couple of bites of her donut.

"I just work a lot."

And his work is terrifying... To be fair, even before all that, he kept to himself; when he's quiet and sneakily personable like this, it's hard to tell whether or not he's poorly socialized or pulling this act on purpose. In truth it's a little of both.

He's totally taking the offered donut.

Edited 2011-11-13 09:13 (UTC)

"Yeah, we all work a lot. Money don't grow on trees, bills to pay, mouths to feed, et cetera et cetera we all know the song."

She is just gonna watch to see if he eats it. She dares him.

"Working a lot has its advantages though. I mean besides the cash money milli. Like I hear stuff. It's funny how rich people talk like they forget the people who work for them are actual, like, people. I could probably pay my rent with just the shit I hear from my clients during fittings, not that I'm a Chatty Cathy or anything. You'd be fucking stunned how much I know that I don't say out loud."

Of course he eats it. It's a fucking donut. "Thanks." For the donut.

"Is it the same here?" That's not actually a concept he's ignorant of - growing up, his friends were not in his tax bracket, and Bruce, personally, is always intensely aware of that dynamic. Oftentimes it makes him uncomfortable, his own privilege like soot on his hands he can't ever get off. Not that he has the extent of here, which is, even more perversely, a relief.

He is very welcome. For the donut. Don't say she never did anything for you.

"What? Oh, I was already talking about here. Back home I was working retail. Which, let me say for the record, I am glad I am no longer doing. At least here I get a better chance to make a name for myself. 'Land of Opportunity', you think? Fucking mental."

She has sold more of her own work in the few weeks she's been in Baedal than she did in her entire 24 years in her own universe. In a smaller pool of resources to draw from, people want to know what's new and exciting in the outside world. Penelope's making more than enough to get by. (She's saving almost all of it, though. For a rainy day, you understand.)

"Oh."

He doesn't sound surprised, really, just sort of a misconception. Maybe because he remembers Penelope making things for people in Taxon, and has always associated her with the kid of broad and fascinating artistic spirit he doesn't fully understand. It's nice to know she's successful.

"I definitely can't afford you, then."

"You wouldn't want me anyway, I'm shit with menswear. All that structure. Your bodies are weirdly pointy in bizarre places, I can't deal with it."

Talking about men is making her crave another cigarette. She's trying not to turn into one of those chain-smoking whiskey-voiced cigarette-hags, really! But she is eyeballing her bag as if there's a particularly annoying and slightly threatening imp of some sort contained within (clarification, since this is Baedal: there isn't).

"Tell you what though, I can screenprint a t-shirt with the best of 'em. How about I make you something for old-times-i-don't-remember's sake? Call it a 'Welcome to Hell' present."

Smoking is bad for you, Penelope.

He raises his eyebrows. "You're giving me part of a donut and a t-shirt? You're not gonna come asking me for my soul after, are you?"

He's teasing. Mostly.

there is a community of the spirit.

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i make good on my threats fyi

you dick.

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