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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The silence is beyond tolerance; the air is stiff and silent and the cadence of uneven breathing in triplicate will drive him mad. When Asadi speaks, it is bleak but not the utterly hopeless collapse it was, and the plurality is, potentially, promising.

"Unacceptable," he snaps, and he finds he cannot confront the immediacy of that judgment and so he backs to lean against the table, fingers curling over edges, the heels of palms wrapped over wood in an even, bracing press.

Having accomplished that buffer, the space between words and consideration, he continues with a leveling off of pitch and inflection.

Reassurances are not what he would regard as a skillset he possesses, but the necessity of their function is inescapable, and undeniable. He claws for that instinct for consolation, knowing its inadequacy.

The snap of past context layered over present is earsplitting and utterly silent.

"You continue," says Rush, quiet and even and unequivocal. "You live. I could refer to a number of vague platitudes, but I doubt you'd find them very constructive." He suspects that Asadi may, like him, find such aphorisms to be contemptibly short-sighted, and infinitely unhelpful.

He shrugs slightly, a fluid lift of both shoulders. "It took me roughly twenty seconds to decide that you were both interesting and pure dead brilliant. This was prior to any knowledge of technological advantages." With a shadow of his former composure as her arm had fractured under his hands, he inclines his head. "You're gonna be fine."

Rush's absolute confidence is bolstering, however misplaced it might be. That, at least, is beyond Greta's reckoning. She can't begin to guess how difficult Iman's arm might be to repair, even with both of them bringing their considerable minds to bear against the problem. Perhaps their combined skill won't be enough.

But she's not friends with Iman's arm. And as fascinated by technology as Rush might be, she's quite certain that her arm isn't what he dove into the Rift to save.

Greta exhales slowly, leaning against the island with her arms folded. "And you will continue to be worth just as much to us as you ever were," she says, her tone gentler, but no less firm, the cadence giving it an implied 'the end,' like the conclusion of a bedtime story. No room for arguments. That's just how the story goes. "If not more."

Edited 2015-05-12 11:20 (UTC)

Iman doesn't know what to do with any of this. She can't muster the appropriate gratitude or acknowledgment of their reason. She drops her head back down, looking at her limp, demolished arm. Even if they can get it working again as a limb, well, that's not something she's concerned about, this world has made plenty of advances in functional prosthetics, but she doubts, truly and completely, that they'll ever get hers back to the level of functionality it once was.

But she can't voice that. Rush will just keep insisting. It's exhausting to fight him on this.

"Okay," she mumbles. She doesn't thinks he can manage any greater response than that.

"Good." He nods, short and emphatic, and returns his attention to what is not an the most ideal collection of implements for the intended task but is what is, regrettably, all he has available to him.

It is supremely perturbing to be addressing Asadi without the presence of her typical focus and unshakable resolve, and the silence is unnerving and his short, sharp economy of motion stills and he does not face her because he cannot face her because he cannot look at either of them just now, but the conversational vacuum is unbearable and there is something profound and unsettling that hovers outside his periphery, dense and unaddressed.

"Iman," he says, his voice level and abruptly intense. "You were successful in dismantling a government-sponsored organization in a resource-poor situation. You did what should not have been possible on both my account, and Greta's." His hands snap again over the table's edge and he leans over it and he does not look at them he looks at his tools but he does not see them he stares unwaveringly ahead. He breaks off the words in a short sequence with a low, quiet ferocity. "I intend to return that favor."

Iman's response isn't very enthusiastic - if anything, it just sounds like a different kind of defeat. But being resigned to accepting help is better than being resigned to utter misery and self-loathing, so Greta supposes it's a reluctant quarter-turn in the right direction.

She's not quite sure how to follow Rush's promises, delivered with such intensity that she half expects all of his tools to roll a few inches away from him. But she has to say something; the atmosphere in the room has grown unbearably heavy, and Iman's in no shape to lift it. So she takes up the two cups of tea that have been standing by since just before her outburst and carries them over to the table, nudging aside a screwdriver so she can set one before Iman and the other a few inches from Rush's hand.

"I'll help any way I can, of course," she says mildly. "I don't suppose I'll be of much use with all this, but at least I can feed you." None of them have eaten since this morning, and it's getting on towards lunch. She hesitates by the table long enough to rest a hand on Iman's shoulder, then returns to the kitchen to rummage for a bread pan, the domestic clatter fending off another oppressive silence.

Iman looks up at Rush when he uses her first name. It's weird hearing him use it, but he probably did so calculatedly; it's enough to finally pull her back out of herself, at least some if not completely. She watches him for a moment before nodding slowly, searching out his eyes.

"Thank you," she says.

Greta's interjection helps pull her out all the more; it gives her something to focus on, something nice, comforting. She manages to reach up, almost in reflex, to touch Greta's hand on her shoulder before she returns to the kitchen. Tea, that'll help. Tea and listening to Greta move about the kitchen like everything is normal, and then maybe a forty-eight hour nap. She lifts her tea to blow gently on it, looking over the rim and the steam at Rush's tools, tired, nervous, not sure how much of this she can handle. She takes a little sip. It's hot but that's good. Sensation is good. Better than numb.

The tea placed by his hand is a mild surprise though not a wholly unwelcome one. He regards Greta with a faintly perplexed air but does not question the decision on her part, simply lifts the cup and takes a soothing pull of the liquid that is surprisingly successful in sharpening his sensory perception appreciably.

Asadi appears to be equally grateful for the substance and its beneficial properties, but her trepidation is obvious, even to his limited understanding of minor kinesic cues.

"I suspect we will not be able to begin immediately," he says, fingers curling more securely around the cup and its bracing warmth. "There are a number of concepts with which I will doubtless have to familiarize myself." His understanding of neuroanatomy is most likely woefully inadequate in comparison to what will be required.

Greta catches the vaguely baffled look Rush sends her way, but chooses to ignore it - and is rewarded a few moments later when they both start drinking. It's already been a long, stressful day, and it won't be improved by either of them neglecting themselves on the basic sustenance front. She's a bit more worried about Iman than Rush. Her friend, she fears, might not have the heart to eat, but she's beginning to suspect that Rush will put away whatever's put in front of him, as if he just forgets food and drink are things worth having until they're set right under his nose. Ridiculous man.

Rush's comment catches her as she's in the act of sliding the bread pan into the oven, and she raises an eyebrow. Does this mean he's cluttered up her table for no reason? Or was it merely for show, a demonstration of his willingness to help? That seems an odd choice for someone as deliberate as he is.

"Well, neither of you are doing anything exciting until you've eaten something," she says as she fetches a few apples out of the fridge and begins to slice them. "And if you're not going to be using those," she pauses to waggle her knife at the tools spread across the table, "you can clear them away, or at least make a little room."

"Mmhm." Iman nods noncommittally, her eyes drifting somewhat unfocused over the array of tools. She reaches out at a bit of an awkward angle and starts separating the tools into two little piles. Potentially worthwhile, utterly useless. She expects Rush will be able to follow her intent.

If he won't let her argue that he'll never be able to bring the arm back as it was, then she'll focus on fixing its functions as a prosthetic, a working limb. That will be her goal. His can be whatever he likes.

She's so tired. She wants to lie back down and sleep. She can't sustain this for much longer, conversing with them, taking so much kindness and generosity without being able to give enough back. She focuses numbly on her little task, the warm smell of baking bread only a distant comfort.

The original intent had been to require use of them, obviously, though Asadi's current state is not amenable to a great deal of experimentation or arduous work or mechanical progress on his part, and this will have to be acceptable. He is not the one with the disengaged circuits, nor was he one to survive the potentially fatal buildup of an internal charge, and he may not have any reasonable metric for how one typically recovers post-brachial-prosthetic-overload, but he is not about to force her into some recovery scenario against her will because he does not do that to valued colleagues for fuck's sake.

Asadi has engaged in a meaningful division of tools based on a criteria that is not difficult to ascertain, and he observes her choices with his head at an oblique angle.

"Fuck's sake," he says, and the abruptness of his tone is somewhat startling as he had not intended for it to emerge at a brusque pitch and volume, but he continues regardless. "Get some rest."

Greta's just stepping out with her bowl of fruit when Rush speaks, and she pauses there, studying Iman with a pensive frown before deciding he's right (though he could have been a bit gentler about it). The bowl is resettled on the island with a little clunk, and she sweeps over to her friend and sets a comforting hand on her back.

"You can stay here," she says quietly. It's not an order, but Iman doesn't seem to be in any shape to take a cab home, and Greta can't stand the thought of shuffling her off to an otherwise empty apartment. Someone ought to stay with her until she's more herself. "How does that sound?"

She startles slightly at Rush's outburst and looks up at him as though he's said something amazingly offensive. What, he doesn't want to talk about this? Hand holding, first names, prioritizing sleep above work? What is going on with him, anyway?

Greta's gentle interjection keeps her from saying anything affronted. Her posture sinks down slightly at the hand on her back, part of her wants to resist all this attention but that part is getting quieter.

And staying with Greta sounds like the best thing in the world right now.

"Okay," she says softly. "That'd be nice."

Asadi is looking at him with an expression tantamount to that which might follow some utterly acharacteristic declaration, and clearly the end result they are all approaching is one in which he will not be extremely useful or extremely necessary, and so he sweeps the arrangement of instruments deemed useless from the table's surface in a brisk sequence to return them to their supply and moves to the door with a purposeful certainty that is not entirely congruent to his current sense of indecision.

"Yes, well." He pivots neatly to face them and jerks his chin indicatively toward the door, one hand snapping over the knob. "Research. Much work to be done."

Iman slumps a little under her hand, and Greta lets out a breath, looking down at her friend with a faint, anxious smile. She can't help but worry, seeing Iman so weary and defeated, but the larger part of her is just glad she's agreed to stay (and, perhaps indirectly, to let Greta look after her for a bit). She gives Iman's back a soothing rub as she looks back up at Rush, already poised to leave with his excuses at the ready.

"Yes. We can, er, reconvene later." She nods once, a little reprise of the gratitude she's already made plain.

Oh what, now he's going? This is all so weird. She doesn't know what to do. But Rush seems intent on pretending everything is fine, so. That's what she'll do.

With minimal effort she forces a smirk. "Whatever, loser," she says. "I guess we'll see you later, if you wanna miss out on that fresh-baked bread."

This feels like so much levity so soon. It feels awkward, alien. Her smirk fades again pretty quickly into a smaller, weaker smile. "Thanks," she says softly.

He is not entirely certain how one is meant to address the denomination of loser. Is that meant to be a nickname of some kind. But it is uttered with something approaching Asadi's more typical verve and Rush will interpret this as a sign of relative improvement from her former, disconcertingly quiet demeanor.

He nods to them both shortly and departs in a rapid opening and closing of the door.

That's an unexpected rally on Iman's part, and Greta's not entirely sure she believes it. But it's meant to be reassuring, to Rush if not the entire room, so she doesn't question it, either. They can all just pretend things are fine until reality catches up to them and they don't have to, anymore.

"Well," she says once Rush has departed, "I suppose I'll just have to dote on you, then." She smiles again - less anxious and more fond, this time - and lifts her hand to brush back Iman's hair. "The bread won't be ready for about half an hour, but you could eat something else in the meantime. Or you could go back to sleep. Whatever you like." It's not as if the bread's going anywhere either way.

Iman doesn't know what she wants. She stares at the remaining tools for a moment before looking up at Greta.

"I don't want to sleep," she says. "But... I could lie down, I guess."

Her gut twists at the thought of it. She tries not to let Rush's departure depress her, but it's too late for that - even if what he wanted to attempt was beyond her willingness and grasp, it was still something, still distraction, and his presence was a foil to act against, balance her out. With just Greta here she fears she'll crumple. The urge to escape makes a little resurgence, but it's not strong enough to overpower her. She wants to be with Greta, allow herself to be soothed, even if it feels like a concession, like just straight giving up.

That's what she's supposed to be doing, right? What she told Rush she needed to do, essentially?

She looks away when she says, "Could you maybe just... stay with me for a bit, while the bread does... whatever it's doing?"

What a horribly embarrassing thing to ask.

Greta's smile dwindles into something small and fixed. The question doesn't bother her in the least; comforting Iman is what she's wanted to do ever since her friend woke up. It's the only real help she can offer in the wake of all that's happened, the only relevant skill she possesses, and Iman needs it. A proper cry would do her a world of good, Greta thinks. But comfort is clearly not an easy thing for Iman to ask for - more accustomed to being the conquering hero than the damsel in distress - and that's a pity.

But she did ask. At least Greta doesn't have to worry about her efforts being an imposition.

"Yes, of course," she says quietly. "I'd be glad to." She pauses a moment, considering. Iman isn't favoring her arm as if it's paining her. Perhaps she can't feel it at all, now that it's broken. But it should probably be in a sling regardless, just to keep it still and avoid further damage. "Shall we redo your sling?" she asks, leaving it up to Iman to decide how much help she wants. Greta could tie it off quicker, but she's not going to push.

"Nah," says Iman dully. "Don't need it. It was just for outside." She looks down at the limb with a strained half-smile. "It's not broken like a bone it's just... nothing."

She gets up, standing a bit unsteady and forcing herself to lean on Greta. Take the help as its offered, like she'd expect of either of them. She starts making her way back to the bed.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I mean, I know it's not my fault, really." (Isn't it?) "I wanted to show you something cool, not... that."

Nothing. There's that word again. Greta wants to object, but can't really think of anything reassuring to say that couldn't just as easily be taken as awful. She's glad the limb isn't painful, but how much comfort can be milked from that when it's also effectively dead? It would be like someone trying to ease her mind over her absent family by pointing out that at least her son can't wake her up in the middle of the night anymore. It doesn't even qualify as a silver lining, let alone some kind of boon.

So she says nothing, just supporting Iman on her way over to the bed. Once her friend is settled on the mattress, Greta sits down beside her.

"I'm sorry, too," she says, though it's no more her fault than Iman's. But if they're going to toss out general apologies for one another's rough days, there's no question of whose was rougher. "That the Rift... did that." She shakes her head and stares down into her lap for a moment, then looks back up at Iman. "But it could have been worse," she starts in what she hopes is a bracing tone, though she can't keep her voice from wavering a little as she concludes, "We could have lost all of you."

No, no. She needs to be the strong one. Greta curls an arm around Iman's shoulders and presses a kiss to her temple. She's alive. She's here. She may not be fine, but at least she's still here, and that is enough. "I'm glad we didn't," Greta says, and her voice is perfectly steady.

Edited 2015-05-16 02:13 (UTC)

Iman leans around to look up at her, reaching out to grip her hand. She smiles faintly at the little kiss. "Yeah," she murmurs.

Yeah, that would have been much worse.

She would rather be alive any day. No matter how bad things get. She's always felt that. That's why she asked Rush to sever her arm.

This will be easier at some point. She doesn't know when. She hopes soon.

She holds onto Greta's hand for a while, moving her thumb slowly back and forth over her knuckles. "Bread smells good," she mumbles sleepily.

The grip on her hand and that little concession are a pleasant surprise. Perhaps this means Iman's coming back to herself, if only by degrees. Or perhaps she's just making a particular effort in response to Greta's own unsteadiness, held largely but not entirely at bay. Either way, it's encouraging. Greta doesn't have enough poise to regret losing it for a good cause, and the steady run of Iman's thumb over her knuckles is relaxing.

"It has a little ways to go, yet." She gives her friend's shoulder a gentle rub. For all that Iman had said she didn't want to sleep, she seems close to nodding off. "Why don't you have that lie-down? The bread's not going anywhere." If Iman dozes off, that's fine, and if she manages to stay awake long enough to eat, so much the better. So long as sleeping and eating both happen, Greta doesn't much care about the order in which they occur. "And neither am I," she adds with a faint, reassuring smile and a gentle squeeze of Iman's hand.

"Mmkay," she says, too tired to argue, her body failing her mind's imperative to stay up stay alert - just a little rest, with Greta's hand on her, that's okay. Greta's hands are so nice. Greta is so nice. More than nice. She's wonderful.

She tips slightly, lowering herself down onto the pillows, curling onto her side with the dead arm beneath her. Her hand is still clutching Greta's, pulling her arm down along with her.

"Thank you," she says softly, clinging to her hand like it might be a child's stuffed animal.

Well, this is a bit awkward. Greta hadn't expected Iman to drag her along with her, and by the arm farthest away from her, no less. Her smile takes a turn for the bemused (and slightly panicked) as she finds herself in immediate danger of landing right on top of her friend - a fate she avoids only by executing an odd little twirl. For a few tense moments, she fears she'll either fall off the bed or start laughing. She can't laugh, not when Iman's that close to falling asleep and thanking her so sweetly; that would be terrible.

So she doesn't, by sheer force of will. And she manages to balance herself on the portion of mattress Iman's left for her, curling toward her friend to make certain she's not going to fall to the floor. It's not the most comfortable position in the world, but she can manage until Iman drifts off. It won't be long, from the looks of things. And yes, they're a bit close, but if Iman minded, she could easily move back.

She doesn't. Her eyes are shut, and her breathing is slowing. She probably hasn't even noticed. Greta studies Iman's face for a few moments from this unusually good vantage point. She's paler than usual, and a little drawn, but that's better than how unnervingly slack her expression was the last time she was laid out on this bed. It's not a pleasant memory, and Greta's brow furrows. Then she lifts her hand - the one Iman hasn't already imprisoned - and gently brushes back her friend's hair, tucking it behind her ear. Iman stirs, and Greta snatches her hand back with a twinge of guilt... but her friend doesn't wake, and Greta thinks she looks a little less drawn than she had a moment ago. And if her grip on Greta's hand is weakening, it's by slow degrees, not sudden and awful like before. She's all right, just drifting off.

And she's going to be fine.

They'll make sure of it.

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Don't Believe Me Just Watch

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