bigapplesauce | Don't Believe Me Just Watch

Current Location: Carl Schurz Park on the East River (Rift's edge)
Current Music: September 10th (forward-dated)

Entry tags:

Don't Believe Me Just Watch

"All right kids, here's what it is," says Iman cheerfully. She's punchy today. Spent the last couple days helping Greta move into the formerly-ROMAC apartments, now just apartments - under whose maintenance, well, that's still a bit of a jumble but Greta has a home now, a good safe distance from the former Base, and moreover, it's a beautiful day for some science. She flexes her left hand and gestures demonstratively at the park's edge, the river beyond it, and more to the point, the Rift's border. Not that anyone she knows of has tried escaping Manhattan via the East River, but Satan's notes definitely helped her construct a solid map of its perimeter, and now that she's so close she can almost feel the crackle of energy, tingling a little in her fingers. Exciting stuff.

It's dawn, almost no one's out yet, and at least one of her companions doesn't look too pleased with the choice of hour, but he never looks pleased, so it's moot.

"This is the Rift's edge," she says with a mostly mocking long-buried academic air. "Runs all around the waterfront keeping us boxed in. The rumors tell us that its recent, what do we want to call it, tantrum was immediately preceded by two rifties breaching the border, if not physically, then some other way. We don't know how they did it but we know it can be done." She gives Greta a little smile. They know now that the escapees were Andrew Noble, his husband, and their children, the very same Greta had been looking after - and she knows Andrew had been her first friend here. But the escape has left them with something very important: a proverbial jumping-off point.

"What I'm gonna do is feel it out with this baby." She gives them a little wave with her left hand. "This is what I do back home, and this is possibly the first and last time I'll ever be presented with so clearly delineated a membrane. So if I can't breach it, I can at the very least interact with it, study it, get some idea how far it might bend under the right circumstances. And that's what I'm gonna do."

Well, she's excited anyway. Rush knows he's more or less here to spot her in case something goes horribly wrong, an eventuality she's assured him won't happen, she'll be careful, she promises. Greta, she invited for a little clean fun showing off, and because, well, she wants Greta to know if there's hope of getting home. Much as that eventuality pains her to think about.

Anyway. She cracks her knuckles unnecessarily and gives them a big grin.

"Ready?"

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"Yes," he confirms quietly, as though it will not be difficult - which it will not be, because he is certain of this and he may be wrong about this prediction but he doubts it.

"You may want to rest." He sits back, hand returned to the back of his neck, and severs the eye contact. "It may be some time before she recovers."

Which she will.

He told her that she would be fine and so she will be.

He told her that would be fine and so she will be.

The fingers over his neck tighten fractionally.

Greta lets out a mirthless huff of laughter as she looks back at Iman. "I don't think I could." Not while her friend is just lying there, too still and too silent and too small. She doubts Rush has any intention of resting, either, and she doesn't want him sitting up by himself.

But just sitting here for however long it takes might be too trying in its own right. "I think I'll make tea," she decides, getting to her feet. "Would you like some?" As she turns toward the kitchen, she lifts a hand, unthinkingly, intending to give him a pat on the shoulder and remembering mid-gesture that he probably wouldn't appreciate it. She stills, awkward and uncertain.

Somehow that was an answer he anticipated, and he smiles, small and rueful, shaking his head in a barely perceptible response.

"I'm fine."

She is silent, and he looks up, and Greta's hand is hovering in mid-air and for a moment he wonders what the possible purpose of that gesture could be before it occurs to him that she is immensely worried, and stressed, and weary, and physical contact is frequently sought out between parties of that similar state of emotional-physical exhaustion for reasons he has not been wildly interested in examining at any recent point in history and he tenses.

Physical contact as a form of comfort is - expected. Clearly it is expected.

Rush resigns himself to it with slight dip of his head because much of this has likely fallen outside of the range of Greta's depth, and she has only recently obtained a calm equilibrium and to maintain that optimal state he takes her hand because that is what he assumes the gesture is for, applying a faint, gentle pressure for a moment before deciding that he has maintained that for long enough and he lets his hand drop and return to hooking around the back of his neck and his gaze slides away to the opposite wall.

Oh. Well, that's... something. Not what she was going for, but from Rush - who so often acts as if he was raised by a pack of intensely bookish highland wolves - it's rather nice. Greta returns the gentle pressure, a faint, bewildered smile tugging at her lips, then heads for the kitchen once he's released her. He said he didn't want anything, but she thinks she'll make him a cup, regardless.

Yes, well. The strategy, though poorly implemented, appears successful, to whatever extent one can deem such a tactic 'successful'. Greta is fine. Asadi - will be fine. He is certain of both premises. He refuses to keep this solution set mired in uncertainty.

He folds his arms and continues to watch and does not entertain any scenario in which every component emerges in an optimal state.

Consciousness is slow to return. She hasn't been dreaming, just floating in void, a heavier sleep than she's had in a long, long time, and it leaves her disoriented and lost when she comes back, first blinks into the sun. She doesn't remember - where is she? Something terrible happened, something really fucking terrible, something-

She can't move her arm. Someone's put it in a sling. This is - it's Greta's scarf.

No. No, no.

It comes back in fragments - Rush's face as he promises her it'll be okay and rips her circuits out, Greta's hand on her cheek - she wishes she was asleep again. This is too much to bear.

She curls onto her side with a little whimper, resting on her arm. She can't feel it, just the dully throbbing ache of her shoulder, it's just this thing under her. It's broken, it's gone. It's gone.

Greta's the only one in the apartment when Iman wakes. Rush left a short time ago to fetch some things - the little tool kit that Greta has was dubbed 'insufficient' in short order. But that means there's no question of what that rustling or tell-tale whimper could be, and she rushes to Iman's bedside, her heart in her throat.

Her eyes are still shut. Is she awake? Greta drops into a crouch alongside the bed and reaches for her friend's hand. "Iman?" she says. It's all she can manage before her throat tightens. Please let her be all right.

She considers, for a horrible moment, feigning sleep. She can't, won't do that to Greta - stupid to even think about it. She opens here eyes, peering at her friend's face behind a veil of grogginess and frustratingly pooling tears.

The hand on hers is anathema, and it cuts all the harder than she could ever feel that for an affectionate touch from Greta, but she can't stop herself from twitching, pulling away.

She looks around, every part of her feeling too heavy to lift. Greta's apartment. Rush nowhere to be seen.

"Where's Rush?" she murmurs, and starts to force herself up, step by staggered step, rolling onto her back, leaning her weight onto her 'good' arm (HAH!) and more or less levering herself up, wincing all the way. She doesn't look to see if help is offered - she doesn't want it. Doesn't need it. Ha ha ha.

She can feel the hysterics simmering just below her exterior calm, which is maintained only by weariness. She needs to get out of here. Away from this, from worried eyes and questions, from reaching hands, from everything. Now now now. She forces herself to wait.

Oh, thank goodness. There she is, and she looks awful, but that doesn't matter. Even the way she jerks her hand back - bewildering and slightly hurtful as it is - is easily forgiven. She's awake; she's talking.

"He just went out a few minutes ago," Greta replies as Iman starts to ease herself upright. She reaches out a hand, awkwardly hovering again, wanting to help but not sure how it would be received. Iman doesn't see the gesture - doesn't even look, probably on purpose. It tears at her to watch Iman struggling, in obvious pain, but Greta forces herself to sit back, lowering herself into the nearest chair. Much as she wants to just pull her friend into her arms, it can wait. She doesn't want to accidentally make things worse.

"But he's coming back soon," she continues, clenching her hands together in her lap. "He just wanted to get more tools for your--your arm." She resists the urge to look down at it - now, she's certain it would be rude to stare - instead keeping her gaze focused on Iman's face.

Iman doesn't meet her gaze, can't bear to look at it. She stares into the middle distance, her mouth set in a grim line.

"Oh," she says. What, he thinks he can fix it? Like it's just a little glitch, a minor issue? Fuck.

"I, um," she murmurs distractedly, looking around the room, everything looking strangely distant, Greta feeling much further away than she really is - Iman feels like she's sinking, like if she reaches out to touch anything it won't be there. She feels trapped. Distant reflexive instinct bubbles up and she says, "Are you okay?" on autopilot. Forces herself to look at Greta to match the question. She looks so concerned, so gentle, it makes her want to writhe back and hide forever.

"Yes, I'm fine." She's a little taken aback by the question, but perhaps she shouldn't be. Everything was so mad after the Rift pulled Iman in, and then she fell unconscious and missed most of what followed. "Rush is, too, I think. It's a little hard to tell, with him." She attempts a smile, faintly conspiratorial because they both know how Rush can be, but she can't banish the worry from her eyes. Iman has never looked like this before, and that's not even counting the makeshift sling. She looks unmoored, as if the smallest wave might wash her out to sea, leaving Greta torn between wanting to reach out to anchor her and fearing the slightest move might trouble the waters.

"Can I get you anything?" she finally asks. "I made tea earlier, I could make more."

"N-no," she blurts, like that offer is just a bridge too far. "No, no tea. I'm fine."

She is fine.

She starts to take off the sling, much as she wants to just rip it away, she manages to be careful, this scarf is so precious to Greta that she asked for it as one of her essentials from home, it - it shouldn't be used like this, not when she is fine.

"I don't need this. I'm okay." She drapes the thing in a pile beside her, easing her arm down to hang loose at her side, it won't move around much if she just holds her shoulder taut, doesn't look too wildly unnatural. She gets up, shoving herself awkwardly off the bed and to her feet. "I need to go out. Need to take a walk."

"Um." Greta had stilled at the refusal, but it's harder to remain so when Iman starts to pick at the knots in the scarf, and she makes an aborted motion to take over, or to stop her, and chokes back a needless 'be careful.' Iman is being careful.

But she's obviously not fine.

Greta rises to her feet when Iman does, alarmed by the thought of her just walking out the door. Where on earth is she going to go? "But Rush will be back soon," she says. And it's true that Rush probably wouldn't be pleased to come back and find Iman out for an unlikely stroll, but that's not really why Greta wants Iman to stay put. The Rift attacked her; she was so nearly lost. And now she just wants to go? How would she have liked it if Greta had decided to just go out for a wander right after being released from that awful ROMAC cell?

"You can't just leave," she says, caught somewhere between indignation and distress. "Not on your own, anyway. I'll come with you."

Edited 2015-05-09 18:21 (UTC)

"No." She raises a hand in a sharp, frustrated motion, unable to keep it battened down, that feeling when someone tells her she can't. Unable to pull herself together, to give Greta the patience she deserves, unable to look her in the eye. "Just - Don't tell me what I can't do."

She turns away, fussing haphazardly with her hijab. "I'll come back, I just - need to be alone."

Iman has never been short with her before, and Greta blanches, then reddens, as if she's been slapped. Her immediate and entirely unhelpful impulse is to snap right back, and she gets as far as, "But you--!" before she cuts herself off. But she... what, ought to think more of other people's feelings when she's the one who got chewed up and spat out by the Rift? Ought to be more careful, as if she can't handle a walk around the block because her arm is injured? There's nothing wrong with Iman's legs.

And Greta knows, a little too well, the frustration of being ordered to stay put for the sake of someone else's peace of mind.

But that doesn't mean she's happy about this. Her hands lift and drop in a gesture of exasperated defeat, and her voice is ragged when she says, "Fine." Rush won't be happy, either, but what is she supposed to do, tackle the woman? She turns her back on the door and presses a hand to her forehead; the other she flaps in bitter dismissal. Go, then.

Shit.

Shit.

Too late now. Need to go. Can't breathe in here, not in the hallway or the stairwell, not until she's back outside. She barely remembers leaving the apartment, almost as soon as she's outside, everything is all blurred together, everything since the rift pulled her in.

She shudders violently and her arm doesn't move with her, a heavy dead weight. Squeezes her eyes shut against the very close memory and all she sees is Greta and Rush looking at her with, with pity, with-

She walks into the street. Cars screech to a halt, horns blaring around her, some just swerve caustically around her. Whatever. She's already fucked and she's got places to be.

She feels the prickle and sting of eyes much more acutely now, like they all know, like they can see that dead arm for what it is, not just an arm hanging casually at her side - no, no, she realizes, catching the eye of one woman in particular, an obvious tourist with a five year old by the hand, scowling at her from a distance. Oh, right. Look everyone, a Muslim. Apparently that's a big fucking deal here.

She looks back for a while. It used to be so easy to ignore that. These thoughtless people with their mindless prejudices, what do they matter? The people who matter to her don't give a shit. And she can take care of herself. Ain't nobody scares her.

Well, now what. One-armed and weaponless. Now the stares dig at her and the grimaces, the looks of pity, god, it's too fucking much. She reaches up abruptly and rips the hijab off, wrapping it over her shoulder, under her arm, knotting it awkwardly with one hand and her teeth. It's painful and difficult but she pulls it off, hey look everyone, now she has a nice colorful sling. Stare at her for that.

That's better.

That's why she's worth noting now. Get it right.

She keeps walking. She doesn't know why, apart from why the fuck not, but she's heading for Carl Schurz.

Greta's hurt, cold Fine rings in her ears.

She reaches the river's edge, approximately where she stood this morning, and stares at it. The breeze is cooler off the water and she shivers, unaccustomed to having her ears exposed. The involuntary motion almost knocks her loose, and she draws a shaky breath, dangerously close to tears. No. Fuck you. No.

"I was just curious," she mutters. "Why did you have to - I was just trying to..."

She stops. She's being stupid, like a little kid. Arguing with things that aren't there, might not even be able to hear her.

She wraps her arm around herself, willingly pulling at the sore muscles in her shoulder, and for a while she just wishes she could disappear again, if not for good then at least fucking quietly.

The difficulties Rush endured in locating yet another cab were far from the most disagreeable circumstances to arise from a day that has been little else but a sequence of disagreeable cirucumstances, but that ridiculously complicated task managed to stand out by virtue of requiring him to adequately manage the exchange and request and money and distance and navigation and various social cues for which he had very little time or patience, and he has a profound objection to the necessity of interaction with people who insist on wasting his time. As if in recompense, pinpointing Asadi's most likely location was no great challenge.

The solution set to the problem of her arm had presented itself easily, though the difficulties arose in converting theories in abstraction to practice in what is immediate, and the solution set to locating her had been a deceptively simple function. He is certain Asadi is aware of this.

He fires a brusque response to Greta's anxious commentary - 'found her' - as he approaches Asadi, she who has her back to him and her arm in a sling and with her hair spilling over the lifting breeze, and finds he can think of nothing to say.

He stops, clipped and weary.

The subtleties of meaningful interaction are not a science he is wholly interested in, and would have preferred to leave that largely to Greta, who rather excels in that particular area. But clearly that will be a non-workable solution here, and so he does not execute.

He watches her, and the crease between lowered brows darkens.

"Well," he says neutrally, folding his arms. "That was fair fucking predictable."

She lets her eyes fall shut, for a moment not certain if she's annoyed or relieved, too numb to feel either very strongly. When she turns around it's slow, awkward, like she's confronting someone she hasn't snapped at plenty of times, half-carried to safety more than once, rescued from his own failure to interact with people on countless occasions, and considered, in passing and never out loud, a friend. Sort of withdrawn and sheepish. She's been caught.

"I yelled at Greta," she says meekly. It's not very helpful but it's the only thing she can think to say.

He blinks at her once, slow and exaggerated, and hisses a lengthy hush of breath out between his teeth.

"And?" he says pointedly. "I thoroughly doubt she'd be one to hold it against you, particularly given your current predicament. And there's the matter of her rather rampant - " He pauses as his phone hums its indication of another text, eyes narrowing in exasperation. " - concern over your whereabouts."

He is aware he has entered territory through which he has little idea how to correctly navigate.

Asadi's gaze is difficult to meet, but he meets it steadily regardless, his tone even enough to perhaps be construed as gentle. "That sort of reaction is not atypical."

She feels a little tug of longing, faint and far-off, at the knowledge that Greta is worried about her. She nods almost obediently at his awkwardly delivered wisdom, swallows and pulls herself more or less back together. She looks around herself scornfully.

"If you wanted to say you told me so," she says, "I guess go ahead."

A glimmer of her more characteristic hard edge notches into place, which is beneficial from multiple perspectives. Most predominantly, it is beneficial from the perspective of concern regarding her emotional-mental state, which had not been altogether optimal for reasons that were clearly delineated at the time.

Rush looks away, one corner of his mouth twisting in a muted grimace.

"Attempting to predict what is by its nature unpredictable," he says quietly, "is an inherently problematic approach."

The air silent but for the hiss of wind over water. He inclines his head, and adds with the faint lift of eyebrows, "and there was no predicting the end result."

Not much of a comfort. She chews her lip and stares for a few moments at the ground. He wants to take her back, obviously, but she doesn't feel like moving - glued more or less to the scene of the event.

"You went in after me," she says, drawing out a pause, not entirely sure where she's going with this. "Did it..." What, hurt? No shit. She knows that much. She shakes her head as if to brush away the question. "Are you okay?"

The locked nature of his demeanor resolves under the pressure of a faint smile, uneven and incomplete.

"I'm fine." A conclusion quickly reached from a relative standpoint, and from any standpoint worth his time and interest. The pain in his shoulder has not completely faded following its initial flare, nor has that collection of raw and searing nerves regressed to their painless baseline, but he found both discomforts negligible and he will not devote undue thought or worry to anything so insignificant. He has this as a policy, and that is vastly preferred. "Frankly, that's not what I'd consider my primary concern."

He closes the distance gapped between them, to all exterior appearances untroubled and unhurried, indicating her arm in its sling with a subtle tilt of his head. "Are you?"

"No," she says flatly. It should be obvious. She knows it probably is. She doesn't want to get into it here. She'll have to, soon, but not yet.

"Look, um." She looks down briefly, then back up at him, meeting his eyes. He's gonna hate this, and she's not super comfortable with it either, but it needs to be said. "Thank you for saving my life."

He can appreciate bluntness, as bluntness has the favorable tendency to cut cleanly over useless social requirements and or niceties and arrange everything surely and visibly, a neat, clean drape over the obvious pain and subsequent discomfort. There is no need for them to discuss what neither of them are willing to discuss. It is well understood.

"You have made quite the habit of spontaneously saving mine, even when I've specifically told you not to," Rush answers dryly. "Though if present memory serves, that count still seems to be rather skewed in your favor."

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dissociation tw

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dissociation, self-endangerment, lateral bigotry

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