Coffee and Shopping

[spindown]

Who: Rosalind and any soul who is unlucky enough to run into her.
Where: Sand Dollars and the Sundries Shop
What: Harassing her roommate, shopping, having coffee.
When: June, before the camping excursion.
Warnings: Science nonsense and rudeness, probably quantum shenanigans and blood.



Locked to Phil

Rosalind woke up on this boat in a room that both is and is not her own, without her partner that both was and was not herself. The sequence of events that lead her here were harrowing but, in the face of a strange cruise liner and stranger occupants, she finds she actually misses them. She caught glimpse of her roommate when she first arrived, a strange fellow that she hadn't given more than a passing glance as he lie in bed, largely because he was not Robert and that was her greatest concern. Now, having finished muster and being freed from the bonds of whatever force compelled her to attend, she returns to find that she is, somehow, roomed with a non-biblical angel.

She considers the winged fellow as one might consider a particularly curious looking grandfather clock. She knows all the parts involved and, whether she approves of the aesthetic or function, it will continue existing just to spite her. Still, there's no call to be rude, and if she's to be stuck with a roommate it tracks that she should, perhaps, know his name.

"What are you called?" she asks primly, by way of greeting, and crosses the room to examine the bed and the various technological amenities.



Open - Sand Dollars

This ship may lack proper library facilities, be run largely on magic, and be staffed by ghosts, but at least it has coffee. It would have truly been intolerable without some ready source of caffeine and, frankly, she couldn't abide tea. So she sits in the little cafe, Sand Dollars it's called, and reads a terrible, trashy fiction novel about time travel while sipping a very strong, very hot cappuccino. She has a small plate before her filled with madeleines and, every few minutes, makes a derisive hum as she turns the page of her book.



Open - Sundries

The sundries store has a number of useful and useless items, but lacks quite a lot of the amenities she is accustomed to. Or, at least, the versions of those amenities she is accustomed to. It appears to have the lot of them in some more modern format, but they are not things she recognizes immediately. So, with a great deal of frustration, Rosalind spends quite a long time sorting through the items on sale at the shop. She turns over the packaging, reads the labels, reads the chemical composition information (one of the few modern touches she wholly approves of) and then moves down the line.

If you've never seen a Gibson girl reading various convenience store groceries like they're a fascinating novel, now you have.

Comments

Sand Dollars

[decohere]

"Jesus christ," Ava mutters under her breath, exhausted and struggling to pick up the creamer carafe as her fingers pass through the handle for a third time. She hasn't slept well the last couple nights, the anticipation of the camping trip building and tearing through her nerves. Coffee sounded like a good idea at the time, but she's now stuck in an odd catch-22 where she's too tired to properly function and the caffeine solution isn't cooperating.

She makes another sweeping motion for the handle, this time overcorrecting, and knocking the whole thing to the floor, covering it in a milky mess. Ava simply stares, at the forming puddle, and then at the only witness. "I didn't do it."

[spindown]

Rosalind, as a rule, ignores other patrons of any establishment she's in. She's accustomed to some level of fame, had been accustomed to some level of fame, and it's often just easier to pretend other people aren't real. Now, though, the only real thing around her is the other person, so she cannot help but watch as the woman does a great deal of quite grousing and then spills the creamer dramatically across the floor.

Rosalind arches a brow as she considers her and then debates, briefly, if she should ignore the situation or help. Her book is terrible so, ultimately, she opts for the latter of her choices. She stands up and, in doing so, leaves a ghostly variant of herself in her wake, still seated and returned to reading.

"Damn," she says dispassionately but offers no other time or thought to the alternate her as she walks to the coffee bar to render aid. The full fat creamer is now all across the floor and Rosalind steps gingerly over it before reaching and picking up the half-cream, half-milk.

"How much?" she asks and glances down at the woman's cup of gradually cooling coffee.

[decohere]

Ava looks back at the one instance of the woman still reading, to the one offering her help with the creamer. Ava stares. And continues to stare, the little engine of her mind trying to grasp this impossibility. Because she's capable of doing the same, to a very limited extent. But she's never been able to maintain it for more than a moment, as demonstrated by her own ghostly face staring at both women at once although with the exact same expression of confused fascination.

"Wait. How can you do that?"

[spindown]

Her answer is not, as Rosalind had hoped, an answer to the question at hand. The way her face shifts with her confusion, however, is considerably more fascinating than the creamer or the coffee. While Ava stares both at her and at the her who is not her, Rosalind stares at Ava who is and Ava who is not. Unlike her deviation, the woman before her remains tangled with hers, intertwined with the potentiality.

"What a curious state," Rosalind remarks and leans so she can better examine the angles of what is and is not her face. "You're constantly refolding into yourself, how has the collapsing not absolutely decimated your particle cohesion?"

Oh, but they are having two...or perhaps three separate conversations, aren't they? Rosalind returns her attention to the coffee and pours an amount, indiscriminately, into the awaiting cup. She then, promptly, puts the carafe of creamer back down. Now that she is...and is not holding something, (she is at least not holding the volume of creamer) she answers the question at hand.

"I cannot. It happens spontaneously and without my input. I would really rather it not."

[decohere]

"Oh thank god, somebody not blathering about magic for once," Ava sounds absolutely relieved to have somebody speaking in terms she knows, breaking into a smile despite herself. The creamer amount is perfect, no matter how much it actually is, because Ava has very little interest in being picky over such a thing. As long as the added liquid has helped make it cool enough to drink more immediately.

"I'm absolutely decimated, trust me," Ava reassures, struggling to pick the mug up, brows drawn together in concentration until she finally manages to lift it to her lips. Her body seems still and solid again, no visible sign that there's anything unusual about her at all.

"It's called molecular disequilibrium. A unique condition, in my world. Sometimes I control it, sometimes it controls me..." She glances back toward the reading Rosalind. "So you're not always in agreement with yourself?"

Sundries

[businessorlibation]

Nevermind the mild self-conscious glance coming from the short man in the suit as he picks up a couple bottles of Midol and a box of tampons. Yes, he knows what they're for--he's quite aware of the exact use of these items.

It's as he gets a better look at her outfit that he hesitates slightly. Outfit and hairstyle. She'd fit in, in Gallery. Lady Hawthorne's signature updo is a similar look. How interesting. Maybe it's worth asking. "I'm sorry if this is rude, but where and when are you from, Miss?"

[spindown]

Rosalind, who is currently inspecting the bottles of various medications and reading through the chemical levels and the intended dosages, turns and arches a brow at the man next to her. She is silent a moment before glancing at the nearby rack of little digital watches. It's mid-morning. He is a touch overdressed, but he's not the first fancy fellow she's ever seen in white-tie outside of appropriate hours.

"The answer to that depends a great deal on whether you have a background in quantum mechanics," Rosalind answers primly, not out of offense. That's just her voice.

"But the short answer, assuming you don't, is: somewhere above the mid-Atlantic and...most recently 1909."

[businessorlibation]

"I leave all matters quantum to César. Though your year of origin is nearer to mine than anyone else on the ship. Fascinating--I doubt it's the same world or timeline, but it is nice to meet someone else from the era."

She can be as prim as she likes; he sounds slick, suave, the perfect gentleman. European, though the exact where is hard to pinpoint due to that different timeline thing. Upper class background. His eyes eerily golden.

[spindown]

Ah, so he's a continental lush. Somehow that makes enough sense to assuage all of her curiosity. Most of her curiosity. Why he wishes to defer to a Roman emperor on the topic of quantum mechanics, she cannot fathom, but she also doesn't care. He has also, she has noted, failed both to introduce himself or return the favor of equivalent information.

So he's European aristocracy and rude. Those features are frequently synonymous. Good to know that also is a constant.

"Indeed," she agrees blandly. "...and you are called? Or is that also rendered unto César exclusively?"

[businessorlibation]

"Johnny Summer. I'd say it's nice to meet you, but I'm reserving judgment for the moment." He tilts his head slightly to one side. "I'm from 1918, Gallery."

And there's the real test--does she recognize the name of his country, or is she another from a reality where the Platinum Wars never happened?

Sundries

[lightconductor]

"Pardon me, madam."

Watson, nattily dressed in tweed, gives her an apologetic smile. "If I could just reach that bottle there in front of you, I would be much appreciative." He gestures to a little bottle of painkillers just out of reach from where he's standing.

[spindown]

Rosalind looks up at the pardon and, before she's even registered the man next to her, steps back to make room. She does register him, after a moment, and at first thinks nothing. It is not entirely unusual to see working types in the market after all--and then her higher brain function catches up. She's not in Columbia and this is not the market. This man is dressed in appropriate daytime attire...albeit, well, somewhat unfashionable and ragged.

The novelty of seeing someone vaguely familiar (in the broadest sense) has her staring a moment before she remembers herself.

"You may wish to use the one on the shelf below, if you simply seek a painkiller," she suggests politely. "The chemical composition is similar but it has less filler medium."

Assuming the ingredients lists have not been falsified in some way, that is.

[lightconductor]

"I like to keep both on hand," Watson says, equally polite. "Sometimes the lower dose is convenient. Were I practicing economy, I might very well follow that advice, though."

Oh, this is... she is a lady, in the truest sense of the word. Not the sort of person who typically does her own shopping, he suspects, but she seems to be doing well.

"Are you looking for something in particular, madam?"

[spindown]

His address is proper and polite, as is his declination, and Rosalind finds that she wholeheartedly approves. She considers the products in hand and replaces one to the shelf as she regards the other. It also lacks the ingredients she is seeking but that is, unfortunately, not a surprise. For once, she misses the whole hale access she had enjoyed under the religious zealots of Columbia.

"Several particulars, but it seems I shall not find them here," Rosalind admits and lets out a short sigh as she places the other bottle of painkillers on the shelf. "Ah, but where are my manners? Rosalind Lutece."

Sand Dollars

[lachtara]

Would there ever come a day that he would awaken feeling refreshed and ready to face the day? Perhaps. Whatever the future may hold, today was not that day.

So Emet-Selch wearily finds some beverage to call his own and sits at a table nearby the busy stranger who is tending to her book. He sits, takes a few sips, and has his attention drawn to her by her pervasive hums. One at nearly every turn of the page.

Without so much as looking at her, he asks, "Are the contents of your book truly that intruiging?"

[spindown]

"No, it is utterly dreadful," Rosalind replies without looking up. She turns the page again and makes a disgruntled noise before letting the book fall to her lap and picking up her cappuccino. Then and only then does she glance sidelong at the man at the nearby table.

He looks exhausted in the way that only a man hunched over a nondescript coffee mid-morning can look. It's an exhaustion that comes with a vague sense of disgruntlement and it reminds her of her brother. Without much rhyme or reason, apart from that vague association, she decides to bother this man.

"What are you drinking? I daresay a coffee order would be more interesting than this book."

[lachtara]

"Then it must be a sorry book indeed." Emet-Selch lifts up the cup to see if there is any kind of identification on the outside of it. There's nothing unique about it; Just a paper cup.

"This is the black coffee that was on offer." He shrugs. Trying to gather anything to put in it besides that was beyond the level of effort he was willing to put into it. "Its effectiveness is certainly wanting."

roomies!

[goodweather]

He'd been doing some thoughtful staring out of the window when he hears the door open behind him, and he turns to see a woman who's completely dressed to the vintage nines. She looks like an Oxford literature professor--not that it's a bad look. And he's still stuck in his workplace's business formal suit. Don't they make for a pair of pretty lookers?

Funny that. He wonders if whatever force organized this knows that he's already married.

"Phil Connors." He gives a polite nod and a smile. "You're assigned to this cabin too, right? Nice meeting you."

[spindown]

"Assignment is certainly a way to put it," she cedes and plucks up the digital alarm clock on the nightstand. She examines it offhandedly and then regards him. He seems a decent sort, wings aside. She extends a hand to shake--it's a bit masculine but she can't have him getting the wrong idea about their situation.

"Rosalind Lutece, a pleasure Mr. Connors," she says and cocks a brow.

[goodweather]

Phil takes the hand and offers a firm, professional shake. He's done enough of these for the motion to come easily enough to him. He wouldn't give anything but even on most days, but the air of dignity about this woman, the way she calls him "Mr. Connors..." it seems that this is going to be a very formal arrangement, here in the room. That's fine; it means the lines should be pretty clearly drawn, at least, and that they can speak like adults. Good.

And she shouldn't worry too much, in case the idea was on her mind. Phil shakes with the hand that wears his wedding ring.

"What do you make of all of this so far? Myself, I... can't say that I'm in a very 'vacation-ready' mood."

A tone of strain enters his expression and his voice there. Yeah, all of this fucking sucks.

[spindown]

"All of this, meaning the ship, or the artificially constructed reality?" Rosalind asks, as though speaking to him about the weather which, honestly, she probably should. The complete lack of it had certainly been telling for the time she spent outdoors.

"It's not a neat job, bit amateurish, but I've never attempted building a space whole hog, so I suppose I am not an apt judge," Rosalind cedes, begrudgingly. "It will be an interesting challenge to crack it open, I expect."

The effort in that sounds like something of a vacation to her and, frankly, the expression on her face makes that clear.

"Have you wandered much of the ship, yet? The coffee shop is tolerable."

Wildcard!

[ossie_oswald]

Oswald's leaving his house in the morning, lost in his own musings about his daily plans such that he forgets to check for all his belongings on the path down from the cottage to the gates. So he's standing in the doorway, half-in and half-out, doing his usual pat-down of his pockets. Was his lighter in his breast pocket? No, no lump there, where did he put the ruddy thing...

Behind Oswald, to anyone looking over his shoulder, there is a beautiful English country garden and a pleasant thatched-roof cottage where the inside of his cabin should be. The pleasant spring breeze occasionally ruffles his hair. It would be unfortunate if someone were to notice.

[spindown]

Mornings have become something rather routine for Rosalind. She likes routine. So much of her life is devoted to the study of the unpredictable that predictability is dearly a cherished asset. So, she leaves her room at the same time she does every morning, walks down the hall toward the lift, and thinks on her order at the coffee shop.

This morning, however, there is a variable.

A nominally attractive gentleman standing with one foot outside of his cabin door, checking back for something he's forgotten. She would write him off but, unfortunately, she is very well versed in the study of strange variables. She knows something is afoot well before she walks within range of his door--there is an incorrect light source and a vague updraft stirring his well coiffed hair.

Neither of these things exist on the Serena Eternia.

When she finally comes up alongside, she can see past his shoulder at the charming garden and the little stone path leading back in the sunshine. There are trees about. She stops, glowering already, and gives the back of his head a nasty sort of look.

"Hm," she starts. "Opening tears in reality at this time of morning, are we now?"

[ossie_oswald]

There is a moment of panic as he remembers where he is- which is to say, not coming out of one of the doors in his London apartment where he usually accessed the cottage from. Further was the panic of being drawn and bloody quartered by Winter for being careless with the use of overt magic. But 'keep the people lost to every outsider' didn't really apply when everyone was lost. So after a temporary ruffling of his feathers, he eased into a brilliant smile.

"It's not a tear. It's very obviously a door. You'd be amazed the kind of places you can get to when you knock politely."

[spindown]

Having semantics argued at her by a man holding open a portal to another dimension is hardly her ideal morning. She gives him a flat look and says, drolly:

"I would not, but only because I've existed in the vast majority of them all at once," Rosalind informs him. But, of course, she's being terribly rude and if there is one thing she cannot abide it is impropriety. Without proper manners, everything descends into religious cults and chaos. She's seen it.

"Impressive dimensional gateway, I should love to know how you managed that," she says and extends a hand to shake. "Good morning to you. I am Rosalind Lutece, Doctor of Quantum Mechanics, Columbia, currently of Cabin 137."