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Zachary Hale

12/16/17 near Recolle

Starting this by saying the name on my damn profile is wrong. And yeah, already contacted technical support.

Anyway, the name's Booker DeWitt. Not exactly a fan of social networking, but plenty people use this, right?

I work for Recolle Metro as a Detective, but I'm extending my services to Private Eye work. Spread the word, give me a call, whatever piques your interest. Got ten years of experience and rates are fair.

Direct message me for questions or details.

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[Liar. But she lets it go, giving him only a knowing sort of look, smug and self-satisfied, in return.]

Then I'll continue working at my own pace, thank you. How long do you imagine you'll take with the hole in the ceiling?

[ He scoffs in return to that look, giving a pointed one of his own. There really isn't a need to verbalize certain discussions between them. And it's one of the more refreshing traits of their companionship. ]

You do know that I work full time at the precinct, right?

It was a question, not a passive-aggressive way to demand you be done next week. I simply want to know if I'll be seeing you around for the next two months or eight.

Until I can get it done. Can't exactly gauge anything with my current workload.

[ Not necessarily spoken in a miffed fashion, just in Booker's normal tone. Which naturally sounds sarcastic and irritable. ]

I'll get a head start tomorrow morning.

Thank god you and I are familiar.

[Because that's her bedroom he's working in, and while Rosalind isn't exactly running around in front of him in her underwear, she feels a lot more comfortable flitting around him in the morning than she would some normal handyman.

Silence falls for a few seconds, as she burns through her cigarette and watches him. Then, quietly:]

I promised I'd eventually tell you some of my regained memories. Do you want to hear them tonight?

[ Booker burns through his cigarette, exhaling a heavy cloud as he flicks the ashes into a nearby ashtray. His free hand reaches for the bag of food, which he promptly starts to unload for the two of them.

He pauses at her question, peering back at her. ]

I'll admit that I've been curious since you promised.

[ He hands her her food. ]

Sure. Fire away.

All right.

[The tamest one, to start with. It's going to be a hideous conversation when she tells him how she got that hole in her house, and she doesn't know if he's up for it.]

. . . I was on a rowboat in the rain, sailing toward a lighthouse, and I was annoyed with the man who was rowing. And yet at the same time, I was affectionate towards him. We were bickering, and I enjoyed it, though I was still needling him. We argued about . . . rowing, I think. He was asking me to, and I told him he could do it, because it was his idea to come out there in the first place.

[ Tame, but strange. Booker's had his preconceived notions about how these "memories" come on, but it seems he wasn't even close. What Rosalind presents makes little to no sense, mostly because there's little to no context around it.

He takes another drag of his smoke, brow perked. ]

A lighthouse.

Any idea what this guy's idea was?

Beyond rowing out to sea? I've no idea. And there was . . . we argued semantics, and I still don't understand the conversation. We must have had a third person in our boat, because I told the gentleman to ask him to row, if he was getting so fussy, and he replied that he doesn't row. And I said, he doesn't row? And he said no, he doesn't row.

And that made sense to me, because I settled back and accepted it as a valid answer.

[ Booker's brow knits, silent for a second as Rosalind goes through the memory. Still zero context to drive on here, and honestly he is absolutely confused when she elaborates. ]

Was...

Was that English?

Of course it was English, it simply lacked context.

. . . though admittedly, it was rather cryptic English.

Do you know who the guy was?

[There's a little pause.]

A man I was very much in love with.

[ That piques his interest. ]

In love with.

[ He repeats, curious. ]

How's recalling that been for you?

Not tonight, Booker.

[It's a gentle dissuasion-- though after a moment, she adds wryly:]

Which ought to give you answer enough.

[ He clams up, simply looking at her. And though his gaze is stern, it softens a touch. Booker knows more than anyone what it's like to deal with lingering feelings and unfinished business. So when she puts up the wall, he respectfully concedes. ]

So, there's obviously more beyond this lighthouse business. What else is there?

. . . I used to live in a floating city.

[What are the chances he says bullshit? Fairly high, she imagines, but perhaps not. She says it with a slight smile, cheered that he both respects her wishes and amused at the thought of telling him such a bizarre fact.]

Bullshit.

[ Spoken immediately, even. Rosalind knows Booker far too well. He sits up straight, lowering his cigarette. His expression suggests that he doesn't believe her in the slightest. ]

Why on earth is that unbelievable, but the fact we can't taste our dinner isn't?

[But that's rhetorical. Rosalind gets up, heading into the front room, seeking out a particular book. Over her shoulder:]

I hardly know how you expect me to share memories if you're going to ignore me at every turn. But fortunately for you--

[She returns, a blue book in her hands.]

--I've proof. Go to chapter four.

[Where, indeed, there's a very long and detailed explanation on how the city of Columbia manages to stay midair: not a matter of levitation, but rather quantum suspension.

(Will he think to check when the book was published? She wonders).]

[ Booker makes a face at that, mostly because he has no patience to fight back with her. Rosalind hands the book over to him and he scoffs before begrudgingly taking a look. It makes no sense from start to finish, but he somehow gets more interested the deeper he looks through.

He squints at the text. ]

Giant balloons.

[ That's what he's getting from this. ]

I'm going to pretend you didn't just say such a stupid thing.

[UNIMPRESSED TBH. Rosalind takes a few steps over, leaning her hips against the back of the chair so she can peer over his shoulder at the book.]

Quantum physics. It's something to do with atoms and what have you.

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