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)

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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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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."

"Yeah, well." Iman doesn't know what to say to that. She's touched, she thinks. Everything is still a little foggy.

"I guess we should go back," she says unevenly. "I... I don't want to keep Greta waiting."

She starts walking, drifting more like, her gait a little unsteady. It's starting to catch up to her, all that fatigue and nervous strain. Maybe he won't notice.

He nods, arms unfolding in a brusque unraveling to trail at his side as he pivots and draws even with her. She walks on a course askew and inconstant, clearly unbalanced from the accumulated daily buildup of unfavorable conditions.

It leaves him with an unclear idea on how to best proceed.

He knows what tactic he would prefer, what level of interpersonal distance he would favor, but in Asadi's case, far removed as she is from his understanding of her baseline, Rush has admittedly a limited pool of options available to him. She appears to hold a firm dislike for any personal mannerisms that may indicate physical or emotional vulnerability. This much is obvious and immediate, and it is not unlike his own aversion to those states of being.

In a situation that has grown potentially tenuous, he is aware that an incorrect choice will yield incredibly poor results.

He is aware of this.

He is also aware that action may be required.

Rush watches her in wavering indecision before insinuating one hand easily into hers as a firm point of guidance to the cab he is reasonably certain he ensured will still be waiting for them.

"She's aware you're unhurt," he says with projected insouciance, vaguely dismissive. "Though I imagine she'll be predisposed to worry in any case."

She can't quell the twitch that passes through her when he takes her hand what, what is this, for a moment she can't do anything but stare down at it, though she doesn't resist it.

This would be the worst thing, the absolute worst, if it had come from anyone else. An expression of pity, or a subconscious gesture of guiding her around like a dog. But Rush doesn't just do this, in fact he makes a supreme point of avoiding it, so why-

It's unfathomable. She cannot fathom.

But it's also something he hasn't extended ever before, and she's in no position to refuse it. Not after today.

She allows him to walk her along. It does help a little. She begrudgingly admits to herself. It's weird and awkward and WEIRD but it's gonna keep her upright and in the right direction. She maintains a sort of detached tone of voice to play-act normal. "Is that what I am?" She grimaces to herself. "Unhurt?"

"You're alive," he says, simple and direct. He does not look at her, concentration devoted wholly to the progression of their path versus the progression of linear thought. "You're here. You've encountered an obstacle."

The cab is indeed still waiting for them when they draw into its view. Rush shoots her a wry upward pull of his mouth, small and sidelong, darkened by the troubled notch of a faint frown. "No obstacle is lacking in workarounds." He releases her hand deftly to open the cab's door with a quiet click, and angles his chin to indicate its interior. "I'd know."

Edited 2015-05-12 01:24 (UTC)

She dips her head to avoid his eyes when he lets go of her hand, leaning down awkwardly to crawl into the cab. She doesn't answer any of his remarks. None of them are a comfort. What use is she like this? What possible workarounds are there.

This is not the place for that conversation.

She curls up against the window, staring dully out as the scenery moves by, the driver delivering them back to Greta's building.

The moment the door had swung shut, Greta had felt like the worst kind of fool. How could she have done that, snapped at Iman right after she'd been through something so terrible? There's no excuse; she should have known better. She should have been patient.

She considers going out after her, trying to catch up, but Iman had wanted to be alone, and the streets are so crowded. She can't even spot her from the window. And Iman had said she would come back - what if she did, and found the apartment empty? No. Greta can't go out looking for her.

So she does the next best thing. A few anxious texts to Rush later, she at least has his assurance that he'll try and track her down.

The scarf is still in a sorry little pile on the bedspread. Greta picks it up and folds it neatly, then holds the little bundle in her hands and stares down at it for several long moments. Her arms twitch and her chin drops, an aborted motion to lift the thing and bury her face in it, but no. This time, it's not home she's missing. She returns it to its usual place, slides the drawer shut, and looks around the apartment in a miserable daze.

Just… the worst kind of fool.

She can't stand the thought of more actionless waiting; she had her fill of that while Iman was unconscious. So she sets about making bread, the motions easy and familiar, enough so that she can still go through them with her attention largely divided between her phone and her worries.

Rush texts her. He's found Iman. Thank goodness.

More waiting. More bread. Until she reaches the part where she has to cover it and let it sit, leaving her with nothing to do but wipe down the counter, and once that's done she'll have nothing to do but pace unless she decides to straighten the rumples Iman left out of her bed, and she's not sure she could bring herself to do that.

Fortunately, the knock comes just as she's finishing the counter.

She opens the door, and there they are - Rush looking typically inscrutable, Iman with her hijab repurposed into a sling. Greta lets out a heavy sigh, and there might be a hint of and-what-sort-of-time-do-you-call-this to it, but for the most part, it's just immensely relieved.

"Greta," says Rush with a polite nod, as though he is initiating a nebulous, courteous, moronic exchange of superfluous introductions prior to some routine social gathering and not returning an injured, wayward dimensional physicist to an apartment that is not hers.

He sweeps in once Asadi has crossed that threshold and spreads out the unexceptional arrangement of tools procured from the desolate canvas of his old apartment, depositing them neatly in a lateral spill over one of the more immediate lateral surfaces. Asadi had not been terribly responsive for the majority of the trip and had crossed into a territory of locked, deadened silence, and it had been a state of affairs he had found manageable if not ideal. Greta, he has found, is rather more adept at interpreting and reciprocating those nameless conversational cues and he will leave that task to her capable skillset while he organizes his own.

Iman steps in, keeping her arm wrapped around herself as though trying to make herself look smaller, keeping her eyes first on the floor, then on Rush as he walks around her and deposits his paraphernalia, oh great, looks like he's all set to figure out his 'workaround', she so looks forward to having that conversation.

Finally she looks up at Greta, feeling her heart sink with the shame of what she'd said, how she'd treated her. "Greta, I-" she stammers, feeling herself flush. "I'm so sorry."

Rush steps past and sets an assortment of tools on the table - just as well he didn't pick the counter, or she would have had to scold him - but she only gives him a cursory glance, most of her focus on Iman. Iman, who stands there, shamefaced, as if she only caught the trace of impatience in Greta's sigh and not the overwhelming rest of it. Iman, apologizing.

"Oh," she says softly, appalled. "No, it's--I'm sorry, I, I shouldn't have..." Oh, dear. This is all wrong.

And she should probably give Iman the space she obviously wanted and might still want, but now that she's standing right in front of her... she can't stop herself. Greta closes the little distance between them and pulls Iman into her arms, taking care with her left shoulder. "I'm glad you're back," she murmurs.

"No, it's okay, it's-" With relief and surrender Iman slumps into her arms and lets Greta hold her up for a bit, resting her head on her shoulder. This moment isn't going to last, in fact it's going to die very soon because Rush is still laying out tools, working away over there, and she's going to have to confront that and soon, but not just this minute.

"I just needed to breathe," she murmurs. "I'm sorry it was like that. I..." She won't get any further, she suspects, without her voice wavering, and that would be unacceptable. After another moment she pushes back gingerly. "I'm okay," she lies.

That's done. She can't hide there anymore. Slowly, heavily, she turns to look at Rush.

"What are those for," she says dully.

"What do you think," he says, halting abruptly so he may brace one hand atop the table's surface and grind the heel of the other against his temple in a vicious, ipsilateral press of skin-to-skin. "I assumed you'd want to begin immediately."

With more effort than is possibly necessary, he tears himself from that skewed position and faces Asadi fully, punctuating the sharp jerk of motion with the meaningful supination of a hand. "Though it is your choice, naturally."

Thank goodness hugging her wasn't the wrong move. Greta lets out another little sigh as Iman leans against her, relieved that she hasn't made a misstep, relieved Iman is letting her do the only useful thing she can do, considering how much of this whole disaster is technological in nature. There is nothing she can do for Iman's arm, but at least she can do something for the rest of her.

"Come sit down," she urges, gentle and practical, giving Iman a light, encouraging nudge in the direction of the table and then going on ahead to pull the chairs back over from beside her bed. "There will be food soon, but in the meantime, you two can..." she flaps a hand at the tools in general incomprehension.

Iman mostly ignores Greta, allowing herself to be nudged and directed into a chair. She keeps her attention fixed on Rush, saying nothing until she is sitting. She starts to undo her sling to give herself something to do.

"You think you can fix this?" she says, and it's not at all a question. There is no grain of hope in her inflection. It's a challenge. She nods pointedly at his menagerie. "With those?"

He folds his arms fluidly over his chest, eyes narrowing.

"I think I intend to do whatever I can," he says quietly, his tone a delicate veneer over the sudden expectation of flagrant doubt and opposition. "Unless, of course - you have some sort of objection."

Well, that's not quite the spirit of cooperation she was hoping for, but Greta decides it's best to just leave them to it. She heads back into the kitchen - there's only a little island separating it from the rest of the apartment, so she can still keep an eye (and an ear) on how things are going over there as she starts to brew some more tea and checks on the dough.

"Whatever you can is not going to be enough." She pauses her fussing with the sling to press her hand to her forehead. "This is not just fixable. Do you understand? Everything inside it is totally fried, irreplaceable. What you had to do, severing it like that, you're not supposed to do that, it wasn't built to withstand that kind of strain. It was an emergency fucking procedure. There's no coming back from that. It is dead."

She can't keep the edge of bitterness out of her voice. Yes, Rush helped finalize the death of the limb, but he did it at her request, to save her life, and it's not something he can take back now. She's too tired to humor him. She can't afford hope.

"This technology doesn't exist here, we can't just rubberband it back together good as new. We helped bring down the only place that might have had the resources, if you remember."

He waits for the resolution of her bitter diatribe, fingers drumming against the surface of a folded arm.

"Nothing," he hisses with an abrupt flare of icy self-possession, one hand unfurling into the savage jabbing of a finger in her direction, "is not fixable. I create workarounds all the fucking time. You haven't evaluated what we have on hand. You haven't even attempted to."

His eyes harden with a cold, faintly mocking edge, digging the bladed edge of his tone behind every ground syllable. "In fact, you've made an alarming number assumptions in the last thirty seconds alone. You seem quite eager to dismiss any and all possibilities, Ms. Asadi; I never categorized you as defeatist."

"You don't fucking get it," she snaps, looking up at him abruptly. "This isn't about scientific method, it isn't about logic, goddammit Rush, this is me. This part of me is gone. I can't get it back, and I need to face that now because hope will fucking kill me."

She wants to get up and pace but she doesn't have the strength or the balance. She sits tense in Greta's chair, staring him down even as her voice starts to betray her, starts to shake. "Don't tell me I'm being a defeatist, don't you fucking dare. This isn't defeat, it's survival. I know this tech better than you do and I know there's an extremely low fucking probability that we can get it back to what it was, so no, I don't want to waste any energy trying, because I'm not that person anymore. That person is gone. If anything happens to either of you now I can't go busting you out, I can't do shit. I'm nothing now. Just some regular fucking nobody."

Well.

She didn't mean to say about half of that.

But it's too late now. Just like a lot of things.

Never going home. Never gonna be that person anymore.

All gone.

She buries her head in her hand and shakes with brittle laughter.

Greta listens to their conversation with rapidly unfurling discomfort. Iman's refusal to even try to fix it surprises her as much as it evidently does Rush, but she's still half-expecting Rush to talk her around. Then it abruptly stops being about just her arm and starts being about how worthless Iman apparently thinks herself to be without it, and Greta looks back over her shoulder in astonishment that quickly gives way to indignation. She lets the kettle clatter back onto the burner and she turns to face the table, hands akimbo.

"No," she snaps, aghast. "'Nobody'?! How--how can you say that?" She can feel her face flushing, and this is probably a mistake, snapping at her again, but she can't just let that awful sentiment go unchallenged. "Don't you dare presume to tell me that you're worth nothing to me without your arm. I didn't even know it was a prosthetic until a few weeks ago! Was everything that happened before then worthless?" She cuts herself off, quivering a little with the effort of holding herself back - not just from saying more, but from marching right up to the table and doing something truly regrettable, like whacking Iman upside the head.

Greta's interference is the necessary buffer between himself and the physicist who is so obviously and utterly at sea. He has at his disposal too many points of reference aligned with this, too many spirals into the embittered slide away from self-worth, and in the tensing of his shoulders and the darkening of his gaze he slams the memories bound in loss into the forefront and neglects nothing, dismisses nothing, conceals nothing. His hands drop and his eyes blaze an escalating warning, and he closes in on the chair and its occupant in a brusque stride and pins her with a glare vicious and direct.

"You're not," Rush growls, the words ground out, slow and deliberate, between teeth gritted on an unstable edge, "nobody. You're fucking brilliant and you've one of the finest minds I know. Your worth is not defined by mechanical or technical skill. I'd have thought that was fucking obvious."

His voices lowers, soft and vibrating with cold, furious intent. "Do you have any idea how many problems with extremely low probabilities of success I have circumvented in the past five years alone. Do you think a lack of technology has in any way impeded me in the past." He straightens, his contempt bare, his scowl hard. "One solves the problem. A solution," he hisses, "always exists."

Edited 2015-05-12 05:03 (UTC)

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