bigapplesauce | Welcome to the World of Tomorrow!!! [closed]

Current Location: ROMAC Base
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Welcome to the World of Tomorrow!!! [closed]

Iman is in a perilously good mood after the last collective dream - apart from very nearly embarrassing the shit out of herself in front of the TARDIS, a situation which she's fairly hopeful righted itself, all her interactions were lovely and stress-free. She remembers meeting Greta especially, since Greta is someone she can track down, and more than that, she essentially promised to. Work moves at a reasonable pace and she manages to enjoy it - she and Rush are back to an acceptable state of banter, and Julian continues to be friendly and fine - and it's payday. Maybe she can take Greta out somewhere.

It's quick work getting the roster of registrants living at the Base, and sure enough there's a Greta Baker - Baker, really? Did she not have a last name, did they just assign her that? - up several floors in the living area. One elevator ride and several fiddling adjustments to her hijab later, she's standing outside Greta's door. She gives a quick series of knocks and then folds her hands behind her back. She's a little nervous, she thinks. Probably because they were sort of all up in each other's business last night, and this is someone she seriously doubts has any idea of bisexuality or indeed, anything outside the medieval heteronorm, but that's half the fun, surely.

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Greta feels awful.

Her dreams last night were pleasant - unusually so - though the memory of how she'd behaved with certain individuals would be enough to make her blush if she wasn't already flushed for unrelated reasons. She'd been warned that there might be some poor reactions to the barrage of vaccinations she'd been given shortly after arrival, and she's pretty sure that she's been struck down by every single one of them. She's achy and congested and feverish, and has spent most of the day moping about her little apartment and ~~feeling sorry for herself~~ drinking tea.

She's not expecting a visitor, but she supposes ROMAC might have sent someone 'round to check in. There's really no hope of making herself properly presentable, but she does discard the blanket she's been wearing around like a cloak before shuffling to the door. Not bothering to check through the peephole, she just pulls it open.

"… Oh." Oh, it's the woman from the dream--Iman, wasn't it? She had said she would visit. Greta peers at her blearily for a moment, then realizes how ridiculous she must look and presses her hand to her forehead, embarrassed. "Hello. Sorry, it's--it's good to see you," she says, and she really does mean it. "I'm afraid you haven't caught me at my best." She coughs into her sleeve ~~like an incubus of viral plague~~, then steps back sheepishly. "I'm told it's not catching. It's from all the, the… things. Vax-somethings."

"Oh!" Iman echoes, startled by Greta's flushed, messy appearance. She works out the explanation almost before Greta gives it, nodding quickly, her expression turning from surprise to intense sympathy. "Of course, the vaccinations - you poor thing!" For fuck's sake, didn't anyone consider this, her immune system has to be miles off the average and they just shot her full of shit her body's never had to contend with before. And here she is all alone. That won't do in the slightest. Before Greta can possibly object, Iman steps inside, shutting the door behind her. She takes Greta by the arm and leads her over to her bed.

"You settle in here," she says briskly, then casts about until she finds a chair, pulling it to the edge of the bed and sitting. "This is something that happens sometimes, when they try to protect you from sicknesses, you end up catching them instead. But they're right, it's not catching and it will pass. Still, you shouldn't be alone for it. It's a good thing I came by. Have you been able to eat today?"

This isn't really Iman's thing, taking care of the sick, but well, she can't just turn around and let this poor newcomer fend for herself. She's not brilliant in the kitchen but she can make soup at least.

"I'm all right," she tries to insist as Iman steers her right back to her only-just-vacated bed. But even if she really wanted to be left alone, she doesn't have the energy to bully Iman back out the door. So she does as she's told, getting back beneath the covers and absently hugging her pillow to her chest, as if it's a stuffed toy ~~or an infant~~.

She'd always had an excellent constitution back home, which makes this all the more galling, being laid up in bed and needing someone else to look after her. It goes against the grain. But it's a relief to have Iman here, to not be alone anymore, and she offers the woman a weak, sheepish smile.

"I've had tea," she says, "and some bread from yesterday, but I haven't made anything new." Hardly the picture of self-sufficiency. Ugh.

"Tea is good," she says. "And it's good you're keeping something down. But you need something more substantial if you can. Are you stocked up?" She gets up abruptly and whirls toward the little kitchen area. "I'm not great in the kitchen but I can make soup! Soup is the best thing." She starts poking around in Greta's cabinets, seeking anything helpful. She'll go grocery shopping if she has to.

Greta leans back against the headboard with a little sigh, resisting the urge to get back out of bed and help. She has a realistic idea of how Iman would respond to that, and being ushered to bed once was enough. Well, it's a small kitchen; it shouldn't be that hard for her to find her way around.

"I am, yes," she says, snagging a tissue from the box near her bed. "I went to the grocer's just the other day. Pots are in the cabinet by the stove." She watches Iman putter around for a few moments, then adds, "Thank you. It's very kind of you to do all this." Not surprising, perhaps - hadn't she said something in the dream about wanting to help everyone? - but this is still more care than Greta would expect from a near-stranger.

Iman gives a little wave at the thanks. "I don't mind," she says. "It's rough when you don't know many people yet. Rifties have to stick together."

She extricates a small pot and the beginnings of a chicken broth. Greta doesn't have as many spices on hand as she'd like, but it'll have to do.

"Besides, even if you're bedridden it doesn't mean I can't start your 21st century education," she says brightly. Phone lessons can still happen, at least.

Greta's smile widens. Strange as that dream was, she's glad she met Iman there. The only other Rifties she really knows are Andrew and the Balladeer, and she can't imagine either of them looking after her like this. Andrew ought to have someone looking after him, given how far along he is, and the Balladeer might be eager to help, but she doubts the poor fellow would know how. (Has he ever even been ill?)

"I suppose I could still use my phone from here," she allows. And if she dropped it, it would just land on the bedcovers - probably the best possible outcome.

She sets the pillow down, feeling overheated. She certainly can't say she's impressed with twenty-first century medicine thusfar. "Let me know if you need any help in there," she says, fully expecting Iman to wave it off, but feeling compelled to make the offer, anyway.

Iman doesn't even dignify the offer with a response, other than a slight nod and a small private smile. Once she's got things set up and heating, she comes back to the bedside and sits again.

"So what do you already know?" she says, nodding at the phone. "Did they show you how to use it at all?"

"A little." She thumbs the tiny machine into wakefulness. "I know how to call people, and text." Credit for the latter is due entirely to the Balladeer. Once he got a phone of his own and figured out the feature, he'd sent her a deluge of brief missives and even some pictures he'd taken. He really is excitable, but she knows enough of his universe to not blame him in the least. "I know it has a camera, and I know there are those… app things. But that's all."

"Well, calling and texting are probably the most useful functions," says Iman encouragingly. "A lot of the apps - that's short of applications - aren't really necessary. Some of them are useful, but you have to be quite savvy for them to help. Otherwise it's just more confusion. Here, may I?" She holds her hand out for the phone.

Greta's more certain no harm will come to the device under Iman's care than she is that she won't break it by accident, so she passes it over with a wordless hum in the same key as 'knock yourself out.' Shifting a little to better watch what Iman does, she asks, "Is your number in there?" It must be, though that doesn't mean Greta would have an easy time finding it. Maybe there's some way to make it simpler.

"Should be," she says, scanning deftly through Greta's contacts. Mostly the same list she has - the ROMAC register. She takes her own phone out and adds Greta to her list. "Here, I'll add me to your Favorites. See?" She tilts the phone and works slowly to show Greta what she's doing. "This makes it easier to find people you know or contact more often. Looks like you've only been in touch with one person so far." 'The Balladeer', whoever that is. "So I'll add that one as well. See? Now you have a shortcut." She smiles brightly.

"The trick to getting used to these things is accessibility," she says, closing out of the contacts. "Like I said, you're not gonna use 90% of this crap. So I'm just gonna move things around a bit." She starts collecting the more useless apps - Greta's not going to be checking stocks anytime soon - into a single folder, labeling it 'Miscellany', and moves that onto the next screen, again working at an angle that Greta can follow.

"So now you've got just a few basics on the first page here. Phone, texting, settings - that's all a lot of technical stuff but I can walk you through that too if you want - maps, weather, so you know what it's like outside - and this guy is the camera."

She taps it and a moving display of her own hand and sleeve shows up. She holds it up and snaps a selfie, then hands the phone over with a grin. "That'll be fun to dick around with whenever you get bored."

Edited 2015-02-04 21:03 (UTC)

Greta watches carefully, making note of how the whole 'favorites' thing works. She can add Andrew to the list as well. A short list, to be sure, and she's not certain if she ought to be sorry or grateful. The Rift might take her home at any moment, so it might be better not to leave too many new friends behind if or when it does. But the thought of being stuck here for months with only a meager handful of acquaintances sounds unbearable.

Honestly, the thought of being stuck here for months regardless of how many friends she has doesn't hold much appeal.

But Iman deserves better than beetle-spirited moaning in response to her kind efforts; that much is certain. And the camera is intriguing (though she's not entirely sure what Iman means by 'dick around,' and she's extremely hesitant to ask).

Greta cradles the phone, watching the view on its little screen changing as she aims it around the room. She makes no move to take an actual picture, though, instead selecting the tiny image of Iman, smiling up at her from the bottom corner of the screen. A soft laugh escapes her as the picture fills the screen, and she glances between it and Iman a few times, astonished by the likeness.

"This really is like magic," she says, giving her head a slow, bewildered shake. "To be able to take a moment and--and capture it like this, with just a tap of your finger. And it looks so real." And ROMAC just gave it to her, as if it's only natural that she have something like this - she can scarcely get her head around it.

She gives the picture of Iman a gentle, uncertain prod, then starts when the image seems to rush forward, as if she's toppled through the screen. "Oh, dear. What have I done?"

Oh no, she's so CUTE. Iman barely stifles a giggle at Greta's earnest concern and gently zooms back out.

"It's very sensitive," she says. "If you tap on a picture on like that it'll get closer, so you can see more detail or what have you. You'll get used to that kind of thing with practice."

Leaning over like this is awkward. She gets up and sits down on the bed beside Greta, making it much easier for them both to handle the phone at the right angle. That's better.

"This little symbol here lets you flip the camera around," she says. "So you can see your lovely self." She taps it so both of them are visible on the tiny screen. Poor Greta certainly isn't looking her best now, but that doesn't stop Iman from grinning like they're about to take a photo. "Doubles as a mirror, if you're in a tight spot."

"I see," Greta murmurs, shifting over to make more room for Iman. It is easier for them both to see the phone this way. It also puts her in mind of last night's dream, a little, but compared to the retrospectively mortifying closeness she'd shared with the Balladeer, her memories of Iman are just… nice. Uncomplicated.

Which doesn't even begin to stop her from being embarrassed when Iman turns the camera on them both. 'Lovely,' indeed. Greta puts a hand over her face with a groan, peeking at the screen through her fingers. "You're too kind," she says with a pointed glance aimed at Iman's impeccable reflection. It is rather like a mirror, isn't it? Pity it's so small... and that she looks about as dreadful as she feels.

"Hey, you look good for being so diseased," says Iman, and because she's a shit, she snaps a picture of her grinning and Greta peeking adorably through her fingers like a shy woodland critter. She hands the phone back and gives Greta a little pat on the head, then gets up to return to the kitchen and check on the soup.

"We have to get you some cayenne pepper," she muses. "But this'll do for now." She gives everything a stir and then switches off the burner. Quick and easy. She fetches a bowl, pours the concoction in, and brings it back over to Greta.

"It's still pretty hot," she warns, setting it down on the chair within arm's reach and then settling back beside her on the bed.

Oh, for...! Greta makes a strangled little hoot of objection when Iman takes another picture, this one including them both. When it comes to moments worth capturing, she's certain that one didn't rank very high. Regardless of the phone's capacity to hold pictures (how many could she take before she ran out of room?), she can't imagine just taking pictures willy-nilly. They ought to be of important things, surely.

Well, maybe a new friendship is important enough. She lets out a faint sigh when Iman pats her head, but when the woman goes to dish up some soup, she carefully snaps a photo of Iman ladling some into a bowl. Look at that: moment captured. Feeling suddenly shy - is it rude to take a picture of someone when they're not looking? - she banishes the camera and opens her contacts, instead. By the time Iman returns to the bed, Greta's in the process of adding Andrew to her favorites. Best to do that before she forgets how.

"'Cayenne'?" she repeats. "Is it terribly expensive?" She'd only ventured a little ways down the spice aisle when she went to the grocer's; she'd already amassed what seemed like a staggering price tag by that point, and she expected anything but the basics to be well outside her price range.

Edited 2015-02-05 18:46 (UTC)

"That kind of depends on your parameters," she says. "On the one hand, everything is expensive, as I'm sure you've noticed. Spices especially. But there are places where you can get them in bulk for not too much. I'll have to show you all the best places to get things." She'll have to teach Greta lots of things. But that's okay, she doesn't mind. She leans back on the bed, watching Greta idly, hoping the soup is okay. It's simple - she's not really a cook - but it should be soothing at least.

Greta reaches for the bowl now that it's had some time to cool, cringing a little in response to Manhattan's cost of living. "Six hundred dollars seemed like so much," she says. It still does, really - it will take more than a few days for six hundred to stop sounding excessive, regardless of what it's applied to. She's pretty sure she's never had six hundred of anything in her life. But she has a better idea of how far that will stretch, now - or how far it won't - and she gives Iman a grateful smile. "That would be nice, though. It usually is cheaper to buy in bulk." A baker's wife ought to know. "And it seems you have a wider variety here." She speaks with cautious interest, still fully expecting most of it to be prohibitively high-priced... but there was just so much of it at the store, many with names she didn't even recognize. Surely there's no harm in taking a closer look next time around.

Her sense of smell leaves something to be desired, so she can't quite appreciate the soup on that level, but just the warmth of the bowl in her hands is a comfort. After a cautious spoonful, she hums in approval. "Well, you can certainly make soup. Perhaps you'll take to baking." Lessons seem like a small thing to offer in return for all Iman has done and pledged to do, but Greta hasn't forgotten the offer she made in the dream, and she doesn't want Iman to think she has.

Between spoonfuls, Greta nods at her phone, now resting on the bedspread. "I did have a question about the weather app. What do all the numbers mean?"

Iman nods in sympathy and agreement with all of Greta's pronouncements, then watches casually as she samples the soup. She grins a little at the approval and says, "We'll see. Baking's quite a bit different, seems to me. One of the sciences that I never did pick up."

The question catches her off guard, but of course she should have considered that - Greta comes from a time where cold was cold and hot was hot. "Sure thing," she says, picking up the phone and opening the weather app. "This big one is the temperature - that's how cold or how warm it is outside. In this country it's measured on a scale called Fahrenheit. Right now it's 75 - that's pretty warm, I'd call it perfect weather, actually. 80s is starting to get hot, 90s and above is too hot. And when winter comes it'll start to drop - 40s and 50s are all right, 30s and below is where you're gonna want to start wearing a coat." Hopefully that helps. "You can see what the projected numbers are throughout the day - it's not always accurate. And these other numbers are really specific information like humidity and stuff. That you probably don't need to worry about."

"It's not very exact," she admits. At least, not the way she's used to doing it. "But once you get a feel for it, it's not too difficult."

Greta continues with the soup while Iman explains temperature. How strange, to use numbers to measure how hot or cold it is - something you could do just as easily by feel. That's how she's been using her oven; the numbers on the little wheel hadn't meant--oh.. "Is that what those numbers on the oven are? The temperature?"

"Yeah!" says Iman, a little surprised. Has she just been feeling it out? Well, guess that's how they would have done it in Greta's time. "Yeah, that's what that is. It's useful, having a scale - makes it easier to prepare. You'll get used to it." She smiles and gives her a little pat on the back.

Greta tries to commit the numbers to memory - thirties is cold, seventies is comfortable, nineties is hot, and baking is into the several hundreds - as she finishes her soup. She supposes it would be nice to know specifics about the weather a few days before it happens, if the predictions are accurate. Goodness, how do they do it?

She sets the empty bowl on the chair, then leans back beside Iman with a sigh. The soup, she thinks, has helped, but more so has the company. She really has been trying not to dwell on how terribly lonely she is here, but it's hard not to feel sorry for yourself when you're alone and ill. How lucky that Iman stopped by, and how good of her to take such care of someone she hardly knows.

Greta lets herself lean into Iman a little. Well, it's easier to see the phone this way, and the bed's not that large. "Thank you," she says softly - and again. It bears repeating. Then, because it's hard to gauge something's importance when you don't know what it means, she asks, "What's humidity?"

Iman's smile becomes a little softer when Greta leans against her - well this is nice, and without whatever pretense and effects of last night's dream. She turns the backpat into more of a gentle stroking motion.

"You're welcome," she says, and then, "humidity is the level of moisture in the air. On a hot day if the humidity is higher it'll make you feel sticky, which can make the heat even worse. And in the winter the air gets really dry. Technically we're on an island, so the humidity can be pretty fierce, but so far it's not been too bad." She's sort of delighted that Greta is asking these questions. She didn't want to overwhelm, but a curious person is her favorite kind.

Greta sighs, both in response to Iman's hand on her back and to the information. "You've got words and measurements for everything, here," she says in drowsy, mild exasperation. She's familiar with both the hot stickiness of summer and the bitter dryness the colder months can bring, but it never would have occurred to her to come up with a name for how the air feels and a number to measure it with.

Maybe this is just what people do when there aren't any curses or giants to distract them.

"How can you tell if the humidity's higher or lower? Is it measured the same way the temperature is?" What a strange idea. She's not entirely sure what the point of knowing the humidity would be; it's not as if she'd dress differently for hot and sticky than she would for hot.

"Sort of," she says. "It's a percentage system. 100% humidity would be full humidity and 1% would be the least. It's that, instead of its own scale, because it's measured in comparison with the temperature. It's relative." This is probably getting to be boring. "It's not something you have to understand in depth, I promise. Honestly you'll probably do all right operating as you always have, with your own senses." She taps out of the weather and into the map. "This will be much more useful to you. Have you used this yet?"

It's not boring so much as bewildering, but she's reassured when Iman confirms that she can get along just as well by feel. She'll have to keep an eye on the app to see how accurate its predictions are, but the weather, whatever it is, will have to be dealt with as it comes.

She watches Iman pull up the map, unaware that she's starting to list against the woman's shoulder. "Yes--well, no, not really," she amends. "They showed it to me when they gave me the phone, but I haven't used it, yet." A general wariness of her phone combined with the fact that she hasn't gone so far afield that she's needed the map to find her way back again are to blame for that.

"Well this is gonna be very useful to you, I predict," says Iman. "See here? This little dot is you, and all the yellow lines are the streets, so you can see where you're going. Manhattan's streets are mostly numbered, and they're just lots of boxes, see?" She zooms out a bit. "There's the park in the middle, and then it's just a grid. So it's not too hard to find your way around. Plus, if you have an actual address..."

She shows Greta how to punch in an address - she uses the address of her Greenwich Village apartment - and a path pops up. "So that's how you'd get to me," she says. "But it's a really long walk, so I'd advise taking a train."

There's a lot to go over, and Greta seems to be getting a little weary, so Iman doesn't continue just yet, taking sometime to stroke her back some more. "You doin okay?" she asks.

Greta hums, both in appreciation of the map's usefulness and to demonstrate that she is awake and paying attention and not at all inclined to doze off on Iman's shoulder. "I'm fine," she says. "Much better now than I was an hour ago."

And not tired in the least. Never mind how good it feels to have Iman stroking her back - something her own mother used to do when she was under the weather, years and years ago. Greta casts about for something to hold her attention, then says, "I've never seen the trains, though." Heard of them, briefly, but never been on one. Truth be told, what little she'd heard had sounded rather terrifying. "What's that like?"

"Not that exciting, once you get used to traveling so fast," says Iman lightly. "The ones underground here are all pretty grimy and loud and crowded. Everything smells terrible. They're incredibly un-glamorous. But that's sort of in the spirit of New York. And they are very convenient. I'll take you on one, if you want - you shouldn't go alone your first time, it can be overwhelming. For one thing the maps down there are way different. They don't correspond to the streets."

She can sense Greta getting tired, and tilts her head down. "You sure you don't want to rest some more?"

It doesn't sound very nice - well, the trains don't sound very nice, but the cadence of Iman's voice has grown familiar enough to be soothing. Greta's eyes drift shut and her mind wanders, idly taking in bits and pieces of Iman's explanation and letting them slip away, like flour through her fingers. I'll take you, she says. Shouldn't go alone.

She is not alone. That's nice. And good.

Is Iman asking her a question? She might be. It's too distant for Greta to tell, and it doesn't seem terribly important. Surely there's nothing she needs to do but stay just as she is, warm and comfortable.

Aaaand that answers that. Iman smiles, a little bemused, and just sits still for a moment, not sure what to do. Once she's sure Greta is good and out, she delicately extricates herself, lowering the other woman carefully onto the pillow and tucking her in. She takes out her own phone and flicks on the rain sounds app, leaving it on the chair, and takes the soup bowl to the kitchen.

She does what few dishes there are to do and inspects Greta's cabinets and fridge to see what kind of things she might need, and starts making a list. Might as well, right? Poor thing will need all the help she can get.

Once she's run out of menial tasks to do, she leans against the wall and watches Greta for a moment, smiling fondly. She's not entirely sure how long she does this - eventually she realizes that she is literally watching someone sleep and turns away, looking out the window instead. She's not sure if she should just leave or stick around - evening is approach, and Greta could well just sleep through the night. She supposes if it starts getting dark she could just leave a note.

For now she recovers her phone and settles down on the little sofa for some light reading. She's started following a lot of science journals and blogs, still trying to get a feel for the weirdly removed way things are done in this universe.

She does not reflect at all that this situation is weirdly domestic, or that that's not really something she does. It's just an unusual circumstance, that's all. It's not a problem. She's just being helpful. Reading the same paragraph over and over again.

She sighs and sets the phone down for a moment, looking at the softly snoring lady. The sweaty, red-nosed, medieval, pre-queer-culture married lady.

God dammit.

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Welcome to the World of Tomorrow!!! [closed]

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EXCITING SMARTPHONE TUTORIAL, HOLD ONTO YOUR SKIRTS

NOW WITH 500% MORE INFORMATIVE KNOWLEDGE

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hot meteorology crash course action

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