(no subject)

[originallutece]

is that a motherfucking homestuck reference in the year of our lord 2018

anyway you know the drill voice | video | text | action

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text - post event

[goldrighthand]

And how was the rest of your Tumenalia?

[hey gurl we cool or no]

[originallutece]

Would you like to hear about the part where my friend and I killed two men who thought to force themselves upon us, or the bit where I was forcibly rendered absolutely obedient by someone who had the same intentions as you?

[Ehhh]

text

[mofi]

hey
its murphy

[originallutece]

Hello, Murphy.

Is there something I can do for you?

( 1/2 ) text;

[overshirts]

So I have a kind of weird hypothetical question for you.

[overshirts]

This is Stiles, by the way. Just in case you didn't save my number for whatever reason.

text, I lied we'll get to the lab stuff but first

[heterodoxy]

You've actually slept with him?

[ guess who

has just come across the profile of the American ]

[originallutece]

That's a very vague question in this city, Sherlock.

the day after the above, lab shenans, action

[heterodoxy]

[ and here we are, it's Time. he's arriving at the allotted hour, his presence foretold by a brief text: ]

Hope you didn't want coffee, nobody would let me buy any.

[ howdy hi, welcome me inside ]

[originallutece]

[She buzzes him in. She has her own water boiling, though it's for tea, not for coffee. Her apartment is built much like any of the Up apartments: clean, overly large, and more than pleasant to live in. But whereas most people seem to tend to want to keep that spacey, airy layout, Rosalind . . .

Rosalind has filled it to the brim with lab equipment.

It's all very organized, of course. She has more lab tables than anyone else in this apartment, she knows, and each of them relate to various subjects. He can actually see the subjects change from one to another, biology-chemistry-physics, so on and so forth. They're all clearly used, though it's the chemistry one that's the most fussed upon right now.

There's also a number of hooks by the door, where goggles and lab coats are hung. H. West, S. Stilinski, B. Allen . . . and now, added this morning with masking tape, S. Holmes.]

Good morning.

[She always seems so lofty nowadays.]

m-m-m-misfire, text, SH

[heterodoxy]

Quota emergency. If you've the time and inclination to help, let me know.

-- Sherlock Holmes

[originallutece]

Is that really the best you can do for a proposition?

[J/K u know she loves the efficiency of this, talk practical to her baby]

Come by with some wine tonight. And, possibly, some ammonia. One is for sex; the other is for experiments. Let's hope you can tell which is which.

1/3

[overshirts]

[ it's like fucking 2:13AM. ]

Hey.

2/3

[overshirts]

Are you awake?

[overshirts]

[ it's closer to late afternoon when someone comes knocking on rosalind's door, almost hesitantly at first. there's a brief pause, hardly long enough for anyone to really acknowledge it before they're knocking again, a little more frantically.

the visit is completely random, unannounced, so it's quite possible whoever it is has missed her while she's in, but that doesn't stop him from waiting. it doesn't stop him from knocking, either, pausing for a couple moments inbetween to listen, trying to keep himself from pacing back and front at the doorstep. there's anxiety coming off of him in waves, though something like that might only be detectable to someone like— well, someone like scott. ]

[originallutece]

[As it happens, Rosalind is in. Not performing one of her many experiments, as he might expect, but rather drawing.

It's a soothing hobby, honestly. She's curled up in her armchair, a pad of paper and a pencil held between her fingers, sketching out faint lines. There's a mirror next to her, which suggests a self-portrait, but--

Well, it doesn't matter, because she puts it face-down when she goes to answer the door. Her visitor isn't a complete shock, though there's a certain tension in his body that leaves her in turn on edge.]

Hello, Stiles.

[Perhaps nothing's wrong. She's not an expert at reading people, god knows. Ros steps back, letting him in, half-turning to keep an eye on him as she does.]

gift delivery; 12/25

[hungerneverfed]

[There's a package left outside of Rosalind's apartment on the night of Christmas. It's wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string. There are two books within. One is a textbook-style tome that details the modern understanding of mechanical engineering. The second is a book that examines the contributions of women in science through the ages.

There is also a note, penned in Jonathan's neat cursive.]

Madame Lutece,

I must offer my humblest apologies for my extraordinary behavior on Patara. I was not myself, but that is not and never is an excuse. I will do my utmost best to avoid any other strange effects induced by this place. I still consider you a friend and valued colleague. I hope you enjoy these books. I found them both fascinating while leafing through.

Merry Christmas,
Dr. Reid

[originallutece]

[Her gift doesn't arrive until the next day-- not because she hadn't gotten him a gift, but because she hadn't known whether or not she wanted to give it, and then she has to think about it when she gets his note.

But eventually, he gets his gift, which might say a bit on her general mood.]

The books were well chosen, and I look forward to reading them. I hope you find my gift in return equally as enjoyable.

I'll see you soon, inevitably. We can discuss it more then.

Merry Christmas,
R.L.

[It's a coat, thick and woolen, impeccably tailored and built to withstand the worst of the weather. It comes with leather gloves and a scarf, soft and (of course) blood-red.]

someday you will tire of me here (also this is backdated ok cool)

[overshirts]

[ stiles tries not to make a big deal of it. when he wakes up in the down, in housing that is only vaguely familiar because of the handful of times he met up with scott, he tries not to freak out. he tries, but he has no memory of coming here, of anything following the night before, and his first thought is that it had to be the nogitsune (it's always the fucking nogitsune). that he's been possessed again, and the gap in his memory is from when his mind was not his own.

when he discovers the mark down his throat, he decides maybe it wasn't the nogitsune (though he doesn't rule it out entirely), but something else. someone else. the room he wakes in is empty, though there's clear evidence of another occupant, but stiles doesn't stay long enough to meet them. he can't. he has to figure something out.

he checks the network first, to see if there are any complaints of switched designations, but it seems to be relatively quiet— until he comes across one post. someone else that's been switched. he scrolls through the visible responses, makes a couple mental notes (coincidences, similarities, etc.), but does not respond, and then...

he goes to see rosalind. because they agreed yesterday to meet today so rosalind could teach him something new. admittedly, rosalind helps keep him a little more at ease, keeps his mind occupied so he doesn't spend too much time thinking, too much time researching. too much time spiraling when he can't find the answers he's looking for when it comes to nearly everything about duplicity.

he can't cancel. not right now.

so he doesn't. he shows up at her door in a hoodie and a thick, navy scarf wound around his neck up to his chin, hands buried in his pockets. thank god it's close to freezing in the up, otherwise he might not be able to get away with the winter wear quite so easily. thank god he bought a scarf back when the temperature first dropped (all while thinking of isaac, the bastard). ]

will i?? seems fake

[originallutece]

I ought to have gotten you a coat for Christmas.

[That's the first remark she makes upon seeing him in a hoodie and scarf. It's a little bit sighed out, a resigned but do as you will attached to it. And he's absolutely right: she looks at the scarf and she thinks nothing of it, because frankly it's the only sensible bit of clothing he's donned.

The area of the lab where they typically work is a little cluttered today. Not obnoxiously so, but things left in place from their last lesson. What she has to teach him is new, but it's building off the last lesson-- a complex series, in fact, to help him understand her own Lutece field better.

She's excited by the subject, which means he'll get away with it for a while. But sooner or later she'll notice he still has that scarf on-- and then, nosy thing that she is, she'll stop.]

Why are you still wearing that?

text

[mofi]

hey
can i come over?

[originallutece]

Yes.

Is something wrong?

you know what this is

[goldrighthand]

[it's a beautiful apartment. more than some people could dream about for a multi-family house, back where he comes from. the bathroom alone could house a family-

-and there is someone else in it right now.

someone he did not invite.

Akande stands in the doorframe, somewhere between perplexed and angry. Did someone really break in here to use his bathtub?]

[originallutece]

[Yes.

Yes, they did.

It's not really breaking in, is it? He invited her over. Once. One evening. Maybe he didn't mean that as an open invitation, but here Rosalind is, her clothes off and her hair pinned up, back to the door, soaking in an absurd amount of hot water. She has the audacity to not even look up as the door opens, instead just focusing on her reading.

Like it's her house. Like this is all so natural.]

You have a better bath than mine.

[--is offered after a long few seconds, her head tipping just slightly to the side.]

And my home reeks of blood right now.

[Indeed, there's a slight red tinge to the water.]

[lushlips]

I'm coming over, hope you aren't allergic to fish.

[ He hasn't heard back from her in a while, maybe he's a little concerned she accidentally blew herself up. ]

[originallutece]

[It seems as though he's rather set on that, so she doesn't bother to respond. She only has a minute anyway; before she can clean herself up, there's a knock at the door, and she curses quietly. She has time enough only to wipe her hands clean before she opens the door, and she's--

Hmm. That's a lot of dried brown stains on her lab coat. Blood? A reasonable assumption, because the apartment smells very much of blood, despite the fact she has the window open.]

I'm not allergic, no. You realize most people ask to come by?

text; un umenosuke

[shikomizue]

[absolutely a misfire]

No amount of rope is going to make up for this, you know.

[originallutece]

I can think of a few uses.

text/image | un: alucard | ye ole misfire

[reposing]

[attached is a sketch on a canvas!]

I suppose this is actually far more dramatic than she would have agreed to, but I do think of their relationship fondly. I could still use your input on the composition before I start.

[originallutece]

The angle is certainly entrancing, as is the pose. If you're looking for suggestions, I might have her head tipped down a bit more, but that's me.

Who are they?

un: 0100000101001101 | MISFIRE

[godofthemachine]

If I weren't far too kind, you would be suffering in that disgusting jail in the Down.

[originallutece]

I'm almost positive this isn't meant for me, but now I'm terribly curious as to whom you do mean.

misfire;

[ailurophilian]

[originallutece]

what.

misfire.

[sorserer]

[ stephen is responsive to texts, but doesn't usually text first unless he has a problem, question, idea. he's never been the type to check in either, neither hawkish nor paternal, so it's good that rosalind isn't usually the type who needs it.

but suddenly, a text that's just an attachment.

it's not the best photo, a little blurred. (shaky hands.) probably stephen was in the middle of a message, or checking something, had maybe simultaneously hit that rare sweet spot where his dry humor doesn't inspire an equally dry response: it's just rosalind mid-laugh in her own flat, one of those wide open laughs that seems mostly the province of the youthful and giddy, her eyelashes against the curve of her cheek, her head near-slumped in her arms so she can crack up safely into them, hair loose and soft enough to touch.

not drunk, probably. (not anymore?) there's sunlight in the background. (he'd stayed for breakfast, he's done it before; not so unusual, stephen doing some disney shit in the kitchen because he doesn't hold pans.) it looks like her laughter is the loudest thing in the room, everything else sedate, soft, comfortable.

(stephen had probably been smiling back: the last of his reflexes to be refined.)

the picture can't be that old. two months, at a maximum. but it's not recent, either. stephen has only visited sparingly since that dinner. they're both busy people. ]

[originallutece]

[It's a photograph of herself unlike any she's ever once seen before. Of course it is. Her family had a portrait done once, and of course, Comstock had wanted to publicize her, but those were different. Formal, composed. Every factor in those photos had been meticulously chosen and arranged-- especially when it came to her later ones. The little lady who made Columbia fly, they'd called her, and she'd glared down into the camera, cold as ice and hard as diamonds, daring them all to try and call her that to her face. Those photographs and videos were as much a challenge as anything, another obstacle to fret over and overcome.

This isn't that.

This is candid, for starters, which is something she'd never normally allow. She's smiling, her hair is down, and oh, she looks so terribly soft, soft and weak and vulnerable. Not the icy figure she wants to cut, so terribly inhuman and distant, but rather a person, who laughs at startling remarks and has to hide her face to salvage it.

She remembers that moment. She can't recall the joke; she just remembers the shock of the unexpected, dry humor elevated and twisted into something that she couldn't help but laugh at. Not drunk, no-- but maybe a little intoxicated on who was with her. Delighting in something even faux-intimate, after being starved of her Robert for so long.

Why had he taken a photo like that?

She stares at it for a long while, and then, carefully, saves it to her own phone.]

How many other candids do you have of me?

hacked; un: forgery

[lushlips]

[ No message attached, only a simple photo: window.jpg ]

[originallutece]

Did you kill a man?

▶ action

[calloused]

[ since coming back from the fort, derek's mostly been trying to keep to himself. the gunshots from veracity's executions still ring in derek's head when he tries to sleep. the rewiring effect he saw and experienced through vitd and the slut machine have made him fearful for his own agency in a way he'd only ever experienced back home, when isolated and kidnapped by a woman who profited from the deaths and the torture of his kind. he still feels like there's a bullet in his arm, sometimes, right where the veracity guard shot him, even though it's long since healed.

but his apartment feels too small, sometimes, and his obligations are piling up. he's let stiles rot away in the down alone for too long. he's lost track of people like tate, who he was supposed to keep an eye on, having promised to keep him out of trouble. he made a promise to rosalind, back before the escape, over the network. a promise to give her a run through on what she could do. a promise to fight, in exchange for information, should he lose.

truthfully, derek respects rosalind's willingness to find strength in a city where strength is so hard to come by. stiles has only ever had positive things to say about her, and alongside discussing old plays and the constant reassurance that rosalind has no reason to hurt vampires like derek might have initially suspected, that's - helped, but. it's the fight that's really going to bring a head to their relationship and give derek solid ground to stand on. when he invited rosalind out to the Arena out in the down, he didn't care so much about getting out of his own head or fulfilling his promise to her, he just... wanted to get closer to her. wanted to figure her out, once and for all.

when rosalind arrives, derek's just heading out of the lockers, dressed in a tank and sweatpants, black and loose-fitting. he's drinking from a waterbottle, yet still manages to look appropriately miserable to see her, even though he was the one who texted her and asked if she would be free between work hours to get this going. typically, fights held here are rule-heavy and monitored by referees, but derek figures they can just make this between them. spar out near the training equipment, where nobody will be interested in interfering, or maybe find a private room completely shut off from prying eyes, in case things get hairy. literally speaking. bark bark aroo.

he pops the top of his waterbottle down with his thumb and lets it dangle at his side, held precariously with the tips of his fingers. he's a little sweaty, and the muscled slab of his chest poking out from his tanktop is already a bit red, indicating that he's been working out pretty hard on the wait for rosalind to show up, but. he doesn't look the least bit tired. just... ready. ]

You've still got time to back out, if you want.

[ hellos are for cowards. ]

[originallutece]

So do you.

[Maybe he'll smell it first. That's what werewolves do, don't they? Scent everything. Rosalind has a newfound appreciation for that nowadays, when her nose informs her of things nearly as much as her gaze does. Derek, for example, is overwhelmingly intense, all steel and musk, so unlike any other person she's encountered-- werewolf, she catalogs the scent and stores it in the back of her mind.

She's dressed much the same as he: a tank top and sports bra, leggings that cling out of necessity, not salaciousness. Her hair is tied back, and yes, that's all very interesting, but maybe way, way more of interest to him: the red eyes that stare steadily upwards. Oh, and those little fangs, too, those are pretty cute.]

Are you going to fuss over this?

[The whole species change, she means.]

[overshirts]

Hey.
Two questions:
1.) Does the name Kamiya Tsurugi sound familiar to you at all?
2.) If you need more assistance in the lab I pretty much have open availability for now. Whatever hours you need me for.

[ because someone's gotta start paying for a new place. so. mo' money less problems. ]

[originallutece]

1) It does not, no. Should it?

2) Is that a kind-hearted offer, or are you looking to make more money?

text; un: gwenzelle

[gwenzelle]

hello!
you've been randomly chosen to give me completely unbiased advice for a problem i have literally no idea how to navigate and never thought i'd have before
do you accept the challenge?

please?

[originallutece]

. . . all right.

Go on.

text.

[goneforawalk]

rosalind, might i ask a favor

i will say it seems as though it will interest you greatly, though

[originallutece]

An interesting distraction would be nice. Tell me.

text; early afternoon

[overshirts]

Hey so uh
How desperately do you need me today?
What is your policy on personal days?

text;

[originallutece]

Considerably more lax if I have warning instead of being texted an hour before your shift.

Why won't you be appearing?

[azhee_maii]

[Earlier in the day, Roy had gotten an official notice from LIES that he "had an appointment" that he was required to attend. He was pretty sure that was not how appointments work, but of course his attempt to ignore the summons only resulted in some armed guards from LIES giving him a nice friendly escort all the way there.

He doesn't try to fight that, at least-- he's not looking to get tossed in that disgusting human rights violation they call the People Zoo.

He knows his three months to find a contract is coming up quick, so it's a decent guess this is something to do with that. He's led to a perfectly normal-looking office building in the Up, apparently housing Contract Lawyers if the signs are anything to go by. They direct him to an unoccupied office to "wait" and refuse to answer any of his questions before they leave him in there alone.

The window's way too small for him to get through, and just walking back out the door definitely isn't gonna fly. So, he waits, rooting through the desk in the meantime.

There's just some standard forms, blank paper, and pens. All the forms do is confirm his suspicion that this is about his contract. He flops down into one of the chairs across from the desk with a huff.]

Guess I'll just wait. [He grumbles. No matter where in the universe he is, bureaucracy is the same.]

[originallutece]

[It most certainly is. And yet in this moment, Rosalind is immensely grateful for it. It's been three months since her contract had ended, and yet in all that time, she hadn't managed to find a Submissive. Part of it had been the Fort, of course, consuming her attention and leaving her breathless with pain, but she knows that isn't just it. It had been Jonathan's betrayal, all the confusion of Stephen and what they aren't doing, coupled on top of the general horrors that come of living with this city . . .

She just hadn't paid it much mind.

But doing this is better than potentially losing her spot as a Dominant, and so here she is, prim and proper, her skirt hugging her hips and her gaze proud as she walks into the room. Her eyes dart over the young man, and she raises an eyebrow.]

You're to be my Submissive, I suppose? Madam Rosalind Lutece.