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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[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.

[Ardyn takes a seat on the couch next to her. He watches her expression, and it's worrying that he can't seem to catch her gaze. Still, he'll give her time, and let her say her piece first. He holds his hands in his lap, tilting his head as he listens.]

Your gentleman friend. [He says, after a brief moment of silence, when Rosalind is done. Ardyn lets out a soft exhale, trying to imagine what it was she might've seen.]

It isn't foolish to be upset. We all have the right to be. Even if you were granted the happiest, most innocent memory instead, you should feel indignant that this is happening to you.

[He knows that's not exactly what she's getting at, but it does require the clarification.]

The loss of someone we care about is not to be taken lightly, even if it might be the memory of another version of you. It's a memory all the same, and the emotions behind them are just as poignant. Do you... wish to talk about what you saw in more detail?

[Does she? Yes and no, all at once. She can't get the image of that man out of her head, and surely talking about it would relieve that pain; isn't that what you're supposed to do when you're upset? You talk about it, and that helps. That's what everyone says, and she clings to that liner logic.

But god, she doesn't want to put words around it. She hates being vulnerable, she loathes it; she trusts Ardyn more than most people, but god, she never wants to appear anything less than invulnerable around anyone and everyone.]

I--

[Her breath catches, and Rosalind bites her tongue, trying to focus on the pain instead of the sudden pinpricks of heat the corner of her eyes.]

I simply . . . I've never . . .

[Her eyes close tightly for a long moment.]

I think I loved him, Ardyn. I think I really, truly loved him, because I can't bear the thought that he died. I can't stand even the possibility. God, I don't even care about myself, I just can't bear the thought of him being hurt, and I don't even know his name, but it doesn't matter, because there are days where it feels like I'd do anything at all for his sake.

[Love. The emotion that never fails to complicated matters no matter how it rears its head -- whether in their reality, or experienced through second-hand memories, the feeling likely never loses its poignancy. Ardyn can only assume as much, as there was none in his memories that he remembers loving dearly, but if he did, how would he reconcile that? Even more so if he remembers losing that person?

For a brief moment, he's frustrated. Angry, even, that Retrospec would allow these experiences, personal and painful, to seep into their daily lives. To allow Rosalind to feel the way she's feeling now, uncertain and grieving for a man she doesn't even know. He feels useless, unable to help his friend in a way that feels beneficial, and that only spurs his irritation on further.

But he knows righteous indignation isn't what Rosalind really needs right now. Only an ear that will listen, and that he can gladly provide.]

And you still feel that love now, coupled hand-in-hand with grief. Is it of any comfort knowing that these are not actually your own emotions? Only those of a woman who might be an alternate you?

They feel real.

[She hates the words the second they slip past her lips. How pathetic they make her sound, how utterly vulnerable and needy and human. That's a child's answer, whimpered out and desperately in need of comfort, and she hates it. Rosalind's shoulders hunch, her fingers digging tight into her forearms, and she adds briskly:]

You're correct, though. You're absolutely correct, they're not my emotions.

[That's not what he said, but she says it anyway, her voice sensibly firm.]

I shouldn't be giving this so much mind.

They're not. [He knows he's right, but her counterargument in return was not something to be ignored, either.] But that's easily said, isn't it? Believing it is another matter altogether.

How do we draw a line between what we feel, and what we know isn't ours? This is going to be a growing problem as we continue to experience these memories. Not letting them affect us in any prominent way; is it possible?

[So no, Rosalind, you shouldn't be giving it that much mind. But no one will blame her for doing so anyway.]

It ought to be.

[That's not an argument, though. It's not anything really directed towards him; it's just a miserable little statement, spitefully said with a voice that's just a little too thick. It ought to be, because Rosalind wants nothing more in the world to wall off her emotions sometimes. They're inconvenient and messy, making her appear vulnerable and utterly weak. And she can't ever be that.

For a long minute, there's nothing but silence as Rosalind fights for control with her own emotions. Her fingers press tight against her lips, and she doesn't look at him as she takes in deep breath after deep breath, determined to stave off her grief just a little longer.

She can't stop herself from crying forever. But she can at least stop herself from doing it in front of anyone.]

I wish I could remember his name.

[She finally glances over at him. Her eyes aren't wet anymore, and she manages to get the sentence out with her voice firm and her expression resolved.]

Even his face. I've been trying to draw it, but each time I try and pin any details down, they escape me.

[Ardyn knows that's the look of someone who's warding off grief, tossing up a bulwark in hopes that the armor doesn't crack. His empathy spikes at the sight, even though he's fairly certain Rosalind would not want it to -- it doesn't matter. He can't help it, and his words slip through before he can stop them.]

You don't have to keep it all in, Rosalind.

[Trying to remember her gentleman's face, his name... he can ask about that after he's made certain that her emotions are not going to fall apart at her feet when she's no longer in his presence.]

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

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HOT DAMN MEMORY REGAIN

YEAAAAAH

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