retrospec | (no subject)

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I know we've all been a bit distracted lately, not only from the abrupt loss of two colors from the spectrum, but all the usual school madness that occurs in June. Grades are coming in, summer sessions are about to begin, and that's an understandably stressful time.

[To say nothing of sleep loss. Rosalind certainly looks exhausted as she glowers into the camera. Behind her, chalkboards are filled with equations, and someone with a particularly clever mind might be able to spot a trend towards space and time.]

However. Let me give a few of you a piece of advice. I know several of you are in university right now, or about to graduate high school and enter into it. If you ever send a professor who failed you something like what I'm about to attach, you will not change their minds. Point in fact, they'll be even more determined to fail you. I know I certainly am, and I'm not even the one dealing with this right now.

Rosalind Lutece shared a photo.
6/16 near Recolle University

Honestly, I preferred the bribes to this.

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Not yet.

[A fact that's discouraging, but not so much so she's defeated. Rosalind absently pushes a stray lock of hair back, leaving a chalk smudge on her face in its place.]

But if she can figure it out, I most certainly can. I now know that it's possible; the trick is simply to figure out the method. And it's not an unresearched topic . . . the subject has fascinated scientists for decades. I have the benefit of being able to build off others.

[Her eyes dart over the chalkboards. There's a lot of erased equations there, numbers crossed out and redrawn, frantic notes scribbled in corners and on papers scattered over her desk.]

As for why . . . I should think the fact that they could at all would be incentive enough. Perhaps we're guinea pigs.

Ah... guinea pigs. [And in one surprisingly swift movement for a man of his stature, Ardyn stands to his feet again, straightening and making his way to her. He's digging in his pocket for something.]

Just what I wanted to hear. I do love being someone's science experiment. Having my life tinkered with, given magic I didn't ask for, et cetera, et cetera.

[And out comes a clean handkerchief, folded neatly, and offered to Rosalind. She can try to figure out why he's handing it to her. (The chalk on your face, gurl.)]

For what it's worth, if anyone can figure it out, it's you. But please tell me you've at least slept since this revelation of yours?

[No, clearly, and that's obvious not only from the dark circles under her eyes, but the way she blinks owlishly, first down at the handkerchief and then up at him. What . . .?

Oh. Oh, and she rubs absently at her forehead, trying and failing to get the chalk off.]

I can sleep once I've figured this out. This is too interesting to stop just yet.

[He gives her a look. JUDGING, BRUH.]

And what good will sleep deprivation do you, hm? You can't work on equations if you've passed out on the ground.

[DON'T YOU JUDGE HER YOU DON'T KNOW HER LIFE YOU DON'T no he's absolutely correct.]

I'm not passed out yet, am I?

[A+ comeback.]

[ROS. SLEEP. HE'S A HYPOCRITE ABOUT THIS, BUT REST.]

And when you do, I have full permission to say "I told you so". Over and over, until you're sick of hearing me speak.

We can't have that. So come now, pull yourself away from the classroom. You'll be covered in chalk at this rate.

[The trouble is, of course, that he's absolutely right. And yet Rosalind hesitates, wavering, and looks longingly up at her chalkboards. It isn't just stubbornness keeping her from agreeing. She's getting closer by the hour to cracking the secrets of the universe, and he wants her to stop to take a nap.

But her equations will suffer if she's too tired. And that, ultimately, is what gets her to relent: not the damage to her own health, but the fear that she might make a mistake.

With a little sigh she tugs out her phone and begins photographing the boards.]

If you'd care to help, start erasing once I've finished photographing, please. I won't have anyone else looking these over.

[Good, because if she argued any further, that was exactly the point Ardyn was going to bring up. He seems satisfied, but he can't help but jokingly cry foul at the task delegated to him.]

Do I look like your minion? [He says, as he's already reaching for an eraser, waiting for her to take a picture of a chalkboard so he can wipe it clean.] Now I'll be the one with chalk dust all over me.

Poor Ardyn! If you'd let me be, this wouldn't be happening . . .

[But that's more distracted than anything, as she meticulously photographs her work.]

. . . does that ever happen in the law world? People stealing one another's work?

Law's a bit different than science.

[He starts to erase one particularly long equation, though a puff of chalk smoke releases into the air when the eraser makes contact with the surface. He frowns, waving it out of his face.]

There's not much to steal; only many different ways on interpreting what is already there. And, believe it or not, lawyers and politicians are all very vocal about that sort of thing. There's no air of secrecy surrounding it.

Not like all of your equations here. Clandestine scribblings about time and space and other things most people can't hope to comprehend.

But certainly can hope to capitalize on.

[She presses her lips tight together as she takes her next photo, her eyes narrowed.]

This blasted thing has started to affect my perception. I can't tell if--

[A beat, and she shakes her head.]

I've become a bit . . . I suppose you could call it paranoid about someone stealing my work. It's not an entirely unfounded fear; it happens quite often, especially to women in the STEM field. But nothing has happened to make me suspect the possibility of such a thing is somehow more likely, and yet I'm growing more suspicious.

And I can't tell if it's baseless paranoia, if intuition is at work, or if I'm simply getting some kind of bleed-over from this other woman.

[He continues to erase. One equation, two. Another and another, trailing behind at a decent pace as she photographs away.]

Could it not be all three?

[He would shrug if he were not busy right now.]

If these equations have to do with space, time, and alternate universes, then I think you have reason to want to protect them. Not just from anyone who might stumble in here and steal your grand ideas, but...

[Retrospec.]

Those who started all this nonsense to begin with. You may be treading upon a revelation that they're not ready to share with us, just yet.

It's certainly possible.

[She purses her lips at her phone.]

But if that's so, they're bound to see them already. They've already proven they can simply hack into our phones on a whim. And frankly, I'd be pleased to hear from them, if that's the case. If I've annoyed them into retaliating, at least . . .

[. . . wait. Rosalind's voice falters, her tone going from firm to hesitant. She stares at nothing, her eyes wide. It's not . . . she's speaking hypothetically, isn't she? Of course she is. It's not as if Retrospec is going to send someone after her, but at the same time, she feels an awful sense of apprehension. As if she's tempting fate by simply saying that.]

[He continues erasing only for a second or two, expecting Rosalind to continue. But there's a faltering to her voice, and the way it trails off into nothingness and concern that has him turning to look at her.

What he sees has him concerned in return. He places the eraser down, walking closer to her.]

Rosalind?

[Quietly but quickly, his mind gathers up all the context and connections of what they had been speaking about. Retaliating, was that it?]

Are you... worried for your own safety?

I'm being ridiculous.

[Which isn't necessarily a no. Rosalind glances away, the fingers of her left hand curling into a tight fist. Her nails dig into the palm of her hand, little shocks of pain running up her arm to distract her from her sudden, absolutely illogical panic.

Why? What the hell is wrong with her, this is stupid. She's going beyond paranoia, but it doesn't feel like paranoia. Nor does it feel like an attempt to blow up her own ego; she isn't pretending there's a threat because she wants to be important enough to be noticed. This feels like . . . this feels like something she's gone through before. Like being scared of a dog after one has bitten you. Her breath comes shorter now, and if she doesn't get a tight grip on it soon, it'll blow up into a full-on panic attack.]

There's-- there's absolutely no reason for me to, to suspect something might happen--

[But it will, and she feels that with a sickening certainty.]

[Ardyn's frowning now. A step closer and he can see even more clearly the distraught threatening to creep across her features. The way her breath shortens, the spark of something not unlike panic beginning to surface.

The need to understand why falls to the wayside for now. Instead, he looks at her evenly, and his voice is uniform.]

Rosalind, look at me.

[He makes certain to lock her gaze with his own, if she listens.]

Here, in this room, in this very moment in time, you're safe. Try to breathe.

[Later on, she'll be embarrassed at how quickly she latches onto that steady tone. She ought to be stronger than that; she ought to not need someone else to keep her stable. But panic is most certainly taking hold, and her eyes dart up immediately, focusing on Ardyn's steady gaze.]

T-they took them-- they took my patents, my work, they stole them, and all because I-- because we--

[Her eyes dart about his face, but Rosalind isn't really looking at Ardyn right now. One hand presses to her mouth, and for a long few seconds she simply stands there, face pale, memories flicking over her mind's eye.]

I did something. Or I-- I didn't do something, I annoyed the wrong person, I refused him, and so they-- they did something to me, something awful, and they stole my work, Ardyn!

[He watches as Rosalind's look becomes not one focused on him, but something else on the edges of her mind. He may not know the specifics of what she's trying to tell him, but he knows that feeling -- that rush of knowing, so suddenly, that it's jarring. And in Rosalind's case, it's something almost enough to incite a panic.

She's remembered something. That much is obvious from her words, now.]

Hold on, calm down. [If she's going to remember, he would rather have her unfold the experience piece by piece, have him guide her through it with steady questioning. The worst feeling, he thinks, is to have a revelation dumped into your lap that you don't understand how to untangle.]

"We". "Him". Do you have names to go with these thoughts?

I--

[She squeezes her eyes shut tight, struggling to parse through the images flashing through her mind. We, him . . . she thinks of a man by her side, his face pale and shaky, eyes wide in horror as a light surges in front of them . . .]

The man. The, the man I keep remembering, my gentleman, he was with me. They did it to him too. They did it to us both, because we refused . . . I don't know who. Someone. Someone powerful, someone I shouldn't have.

You weren't-

[And then there's an obvious hesitation on Ardyn's part. He doesn't want to spark any unnecessary fear by asking, and yet he feels as if clarification must be made.]

You weren't killed, were you?

[Or, perhaps, not her. This other her.]

I--

[For a long few seconds, Rosalind stares up at him in horror. Killed? How could he ever ask such a thing? How could she ever be killed? She's immortal, invincible; she's thirty-three and she knows (secretly, of course) that she's going to live forever, because everyone young knows that. Dying is impossible.

But she thinks of that flash of light; she thinks of her gentleman's look of horror, his hand grabbing hers and holding on so tightly . . .]

I don't know.

[Not a reassuring response, and certainly not the one he was wanting to hear. Still, if he feels tension rising in his shoulders for her sake, he forces himself to look calm. He'll not rebound fear with fear, not concerning something like this.]

...

[Of course, it's also difficult to know how to respond to that in earnest.]

You're here now. That's all that matters.

[A beat. Because he's a worried friend, he has to add:] ...Are you going to be all right? Maybe we should find a place for you to sit and process this.

[Again, her mouth opens and closes, and for a moment it seems as though Rosalind might stiffen and pull away. That's what instinct tells her to do: close off, bear up, stiff upper lip, don't let anyone see just how weak you truly are. Her expression closes off, and she glances away, though she doesn't step back.

He'll leave her alone, if that's what she truly requests. He isn't unreasonable, and though he'll push at her when it comes to eating and sleeping, he won't be unbearable. She's a grown woman; if she tells him to leave her be, he will. But . . .]

Sit with me?

[There's a couch in her office, something large and broken-in that had come with the room.]

[If it's what she truly wants, then yes. Ardyn would respect her wishes and leave Rosalind alone, though he'd not be happy about it. He'd worry about his friend until he saw her again, and then ask if there was anything he could do once more.

So when she asks for him to stay and sit, of course he'll oblige her. He nods, a bit more solemnly than what others are used to seeing from the man.]

Of course.

[She leads him to her office stiffly, settling in on a corner of the couch with her arms crossed over her body and her shoulders hunched. Even as Ardyn follows, she can't seem to look up at him anymore: her gaze is focused firmly on the ground, apart and away.]

It's, ah, it's . . . foolish to be so upset.

[Is she trying to convince him or herself?]

It's not as if-- it's not as if it's me. And I have no proof she even died, I just--

[That isn't what's bothering her, though. Or rather: it is, but it isn't the reason her hands are trembling. It's not the deadly flash of light, nor the knowledge that the other woman might have died from annoying the wrong people. It's not even the knowledge that she herself might meet the same fate if she keeps going along this path.

It's just . . . it's that look of terror on her gentleman's face. It's the way he'd reached for her, his fingers interlocking with hers; the way he'd looked at her so resignedly, pulling her in close, and then there's been light and then nothing--]

. . . I've never seen anyone as scared as he was.

Rosalind Lutece shared a photo. 6/16 near Recolle University

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HOT DAMN MEMORY REGAIN

YEAAAAAH

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