bigapplesauce | Zagreus' arrival [Open]

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Zagreus' arrival [Open]

The first thing Zagreus is aware of, is the obnoxious degree of coldness in the air. In fact, he can see his breath; that's just downright inauspicious, for waking up.

Not that an inhospitably cold atmosphere is out of the ordinary. No, not in the slightest, and his immediate response is a sort of resigned annoyance. However, the sight that greets his eyes, looking beyond his offensively visible breath, is definitely not expected.

Open sky, framed by stark bare branches. He starts to get up...only to slide gracelessly from the crook of the tree he'd apparently been passed out and huddling in, with a noise of general outrage.

Luckily it's a very short fall, but it's still disorienting when you aren't expecting it, and he definitely isn't. Brushing himself off and narrowing his eyes at his decidedly parkish surroundings, Zagreus tries to recall if maybe, just perhaps, there is a reason this is happening. Nothing presents itself. How typically uncooperative of reality.

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Well. Maybe that's logical and maybe it isn't. Who is he to judge? But he suspects she may be right, either way. It's a small multiverse, afterall.

"Who maintains this forum? Who has access to it?" He inspects the phone, though he's not exactly sure what he's inspecting it for, but launching every eyecatching app in quick succession seems like the best way to find out. As of right now, it doesn't seem like an especially useful resource, and if it's a faction specific tool then count him out, of course. ...The GPS might be useful though. If it has that, and if his presence doesn't convince it they're currently located in a body of water. He wants one anyway.

"Not sure who maintains it, but apparently anyone can use it. There's ways to lock it to specific groups or people though," she answers, watching him fiddle it it. "Or so I'm told, I haven't really used it much." She's not really one for that dang new-fangled technology, et cetera.

"Here we are," she says suddenly, as they arrive at an unremarkable building. There's no obviously apparent security (though it's obvious there must be some, just not that noticable), and they can slip in quietly.

Well, convenience will likely win out over paranoia in the end. Though wouldn't it be a genius notion to set up a network like that and then monitor it? As they'd discussed earlier, altruism is the rarest of motives.

"Seems nice enough, for alien refugee housing." The place is unremarkable, but he keeps an eye on it for any means of surveillance anyway. Surely more conspicuous beings have turned up in Manhattan than himself, but he can't expect to blend in, at least to someone on the lookout for the unusual. He follows her in and tries not to think about any other instances of having been reduced to such mundanity in the past. Though hey, at least he's himself this time. That's always a good feeling. Well no, it's terrible, but there are worse alternatives.

"Given it's free, I won't complain too much," Lucy agrees, leading the way to the elevator. There's security cameras, but who knows how closely they're actually watched. Not to mention there's a lot of strange people in this building. Victorian ponce is hardly the weirdest thing.

"Mind you, I moved in a few hours ago, so I hope you're not expecting the tastefully decorated home of a Lady. Or curtains. Or plates." She did go and stock up her fridge a little though, and got like, toilet paper and such. But that's about it.

Expectations are not precisely what he's about. Besides, his criteria on living conditions are a bit special. It's unlikely he'd be aware of 'tasteful decorations' without some form of field guide to them. "I haven't actually seen a plate in its natural habitat in ages. Actually, I spend a lot of my time in a cave, when I can find it." The less said about his standard of living, the better, really. Maybe, given time, he'll miss it.

"Well, I'm sure there's caves somewhere in the park," Lucy points out. Whether they might already be occupied is another matter. Not to mention cold.

The elevator gives a ding, and Lucy leads down the hall, fishing her key out of her pocket. "Welcome to my palace," she says sarcastically and she unlocks the door and leads inside. "Would you like the grand tour?" It's not terrible, but it's very empty. There's a bed, a couch and table, a writing desk, a kitchen area, and that seems to be mostly it.

"Another time, perhaps. Again, it could certainly be worse. But I suppose that's part of the whole 'giving the aliens rights' deal." You know, not making them live in kennels and eat nutrition nuggets or something. This is several steps up from nutrition nuggets. This is a whole damn hardware store of steps up. If you want to get technical.

He isn't a big fan of empty, though. It isn't exactly what he's used to, to say the least, but he can hardly protest a lack of clutter. Really, he isn't a big fan of any manner of domesticity, so in that regard it's practically ideal. He helps himself to a seat on the couch and settles in to eat. He almost certainly looks as out of place as he feels, which is frankly odd. Afterall, it's not like he's any more from another universe than usual. Maybe? He'll think about that later.

Even during the year that never was, no one was forced to live in kennels. Well, not really. Sure, the Doctor had a bowl that said 'dog', but he was a special case.

And there will probably be clutter eventually. Clutter of what remains to be seen. Lucy pulls a spare blanket from the linen closet (which doesn't actually have any linens in it, but no matter) and drops it on the couch next to Zagreus for him to sleep with. Look she's being a proper host. Sort of.

"I haven't really involved myself in the details of it, and I don't plan to. Had enough politics to last me a lifetime," she says, sitting down crosslegged on the bed to eat her own sandwich.

Again, considering his general ideas about sleeping arrangements, this is pretty plush.

That's very reassuring to hear. Politics will never be his crusade. Unless it's the stabby kind, but March is months off yet. "I'm glad to hear you have the freedom to make that call." For his own sake, of course. He chews thoughtfully as he considers his options. Really, if they're so lackadaisical about their affiliates, maybe he can swing this with ease. "I wonder what would happen if I pretended to be human?" It's a repugnant idea for reasons he can't even really pick apart.

"Suppose that depends on whether they have any means to discover that you're not, without your cooperation," Lucy answers after swallowing her bite. "It's not entirely unlikely they do, but you could probably fake it for a while. Though probably not with those clothes. Then again, it's New York, so who knows." Probably people would assume he's in fancy dress for some reason, or promoting something. People tend to shrug it off.

Oh, the general public can go hang, of course. But the rebels, or the other whatevers, those he's currently quite concerned about. Would his clothes really give him away to them? Would anything else about him scream 'scan me for nonhumanity'? He's fairly human seeming overall. "Yes, it would rather depend on that. It's not exactly a difficult thing to tell, that I'm not human. But then, I don't know how well they check. What did they do to you?" How good is human tech at this time exactly? Yeah, no way does he know. Well, whatever. It's a potential plan to add to the pile, along with 'asking her to spy' and 'brainwashing her into spying'. At the bottom of the pile is 'find a way to crack reality like an egg', for the record.

Lucy shrugs. "Asked me an assortment of questions, mostly. More like an interview than an interrogation, though," she answers. "No physical examination or anything like that, at least not that I'm aware of." But then, unbeknownst to Lucy, there's plenty people involved with powers to determine these things. They probably know more about her than she thinks. Her level of caring is low, though.

"What kind of questions?" Anything he couldn't answer? Well. He doesn't even know what kind of questions he can answer. He doesn't mind giving out information, but he prefers to do it little by little and always to his own purposes. Giving someone else the reins is rather unappealing. No, he's more likely to test the strength of his cage before casting any lots with any groups. "And how can I get one of those phones, preferably without becoming involved in any of this mess prematurely?"

"Who I am, where I'm from, what I do. Is my version of Earth close enough that I could smoothly integrate here. Et cetera," she answers with a shrug. Probably more than Zagreus could answer - well, without making up a lot of stuff, anyway.

"They sell them fairly cheaply, I'm told, on street corners and such. Ask for a rift phone, perhaps, I'm not sure. I don't think it's a problem getting access, I think you just need to know it exists."

How amazing, not a single question that he can answer concisely and/or non-threateningly. Spectacular. Here is someone who thrives on an unexamined life--unexamined by himself or anyone else. Anything else is downright unsettling.

What is even more unsettling is how definitively he's thinking about the prospect of accepting some kind of affiliation in the first place. But he's no stranger to playing a long game, though perhaps susceptible to forgetting that he's playing, partway through.

At least communications won't be hard to sink his tentacles into, he'd expected much more in the way of hoops where the phone is concerned. "...I suppose that should have been obvious, really. Can you tell I'm not used to having to think in these terms?"

Lucy smiles. "Perhaps a little. What did you do before you got here? I assume you must've lived somewhere?" she asks. It's been ages since she's had to think about all the little things too. Prison sort of robbed you of choices, and now she has to deal with having them again.

Yeah, sorry, Zagreus, now even Lucy is asking these questions. But she won't actually kick you out if you fail to answer, so that's something.

"What, stationarily?" Yes, and for an encore he was learning to quilt. This is such an outrageous idea he may have just made up a word. Whether it's a feature of his neurosis or a bug of his inherited Doctor...stuff, stationary living isn't appealing at all. It comes with all sorts of consequences and realities and linearities that just don't suit Zagreus at all. "I lived aboard a ship and did as I pleased." Sort of. That all came with its own set of problems. "But nothing about tormenting the odd author or painter or exploring sentient castles really prepares one for mundanity."

"Well, I'm sure you'll figure something out," she answers. He's got plenty of special skills, if you can call it that. The main thing is probably having the dedication to put any sort of plan into action which results in him gaining, well, mundane things, like money.

"I'm sure there's authors and painters enough for you to torment, but I'm afraid I haven't been informed of any sentient castles."

"Just as well, really. They don't tend to get on well with me." Then again, what does? At least he still has his sense of humour.

"You know, I really envy your adaptability. It's quite...inspiring." Humans are a sort of disease, able to cling to all manner of inhospitable environments. As a sort of disease himself, he can appreciate that degree of determination.

Lucy raises her eyebrows. "Are you referring to me specifically, or my species?" she asks. She doesn't consider herself very inspiring. Honestly, she feels like she's barely going to scrape by, and it's only been a day. She might agree with the whole disease thing, though.

"I suppose it's easy to adapt when you don't really care that much." Partially thanks to Zagreus himself, of course.

"Hmm, yes, I imagine that does help. Shame you couldn't return the favour." Now there's something he'd rarely say even as a bit of dark humour--it was almost an admission that being other than he is could be in any way preferable, and that's unheard of. But of course he couldn't have wholly manufactured her apathy any more than she could effect any change upon his mind. The foundations were already there, from what he remembers. Though perhaps that's just linearity failing him once again.

"I'm not sure it's really that enviable," she answers, an admission of her own. Look at them bonding and sharing, or whatever this is. "I mean, at least you've got an idea of what you want and what you don't want."

Just no specific plan of how to get it. Whereas Lucy has no goals or ambitions, but actually has some knowledge of, well, how to be mundane. How to go about getting things. They'd make a great team.

Sure, a great team, if you ignore the likely eventual destruction of probably a lot of things. Or maybe that's what makes teams great? A question for the ages.

"More an idea of what I don't want. Which is, basically any part of this." Not that he's exactly a stranger to want, but specificity tends to escape him in that regard as in any other. His wants tend to be fickle and often actually contradictory, or just inchoate stirrings of will. Want is more a thing he is than a thing he does with any clarity. "But surely there are things you want, or want to avoid." Apathy only goes so far. And prying at others is more interesting than being petulant about reality.

Great and terrible, perhaps. But Lucy might be able to keep him out of the worst of troubles. Maybe.

She shrugs again. "Quite a few things I can't have," she answers. Some of which basically involves not being the person she currently is. It would probably be easier if she actually cared about the things she used to. But she's not about to ask for help this time - she's become more averse to having people fiddle with her mind, after she spent so much time rebuilding it.

"Honestly I didn't think I'd be alive past yesterday, so I didn't really plan ahead." As for what she wants to avoid... Feeling like she currently is, probably. There's just this empty feeling.

"Then surely this is a step up from that, at least. Not being dead, always a good start in most endeavours." Despite the sarcasm, this is bordering on optimism, which almost feels dirty. But really, as being supportive goes, this is grade A work, relatively speaking.

"Why didn't you think you'd be alive past yesterday? Was it going to be a painful death?" He is, naturally, curious and morbid and morbidly curious. But there is also the matter of...what commonality might be behind them both turning up here. Not that pure chance isn't an appealing culprit, but one never knows.

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