completelycrazy | in the night: ic inbox

[She, meanwhile, sets one blanket down as padding and then settles in with her back against the wall. They could, of course, both climb on the cot, but if it's all the same she'd rather not, thanks.]

Oh, assuredly.

[Hm. She settles in, her legs stretched out before her, two blankets already piled atop her. It's quite cozy, and it's unfortunate he'll have to join soon, but so it goes. He's far too useful a lab partner to allow him to freeze.]

Why not? If you can die via your throat being cut or what have you, why not a more mundane way? Frankly, I'd rather die that way. I'm told it's rather peaceful.

[. . .]

Close the door, please, it's cold enough here already.

It's not. Dying's never peaceful. That's just, like, a thing people say.

[But that's a bummer thing to talk about, so instead he drags a trash bin over to where she's decided to nest, propping the torch up inside of it. The one nice thing about this physics-breaking fire: No risk of accidentally setting themselves ablaze while trying to stay warm.

He plops down next to her, close enough to make use of the floor blanket without invading her space. He would bet against any huddling for warmth in his future—research suggests such an idea would go over, uh, poorly. It's not dangerously cold in here, anyway.

He pulls his lantern into his lap, hugging the glow in his hands. There, that's a bit warmer.]

So what's the plan? Sleep here and hope the weather clears up overnight?

More or less, yes.

[It's a decent plan. Not exciting, perhaps, but a decent plan nonetheless.]

We've plenty of water and the ability to sleep. We shan't starve. And I imagine between the two of us, we can figure out some way to pass the time without going mad. Sooner or later the storm will end, and we'll be on our way.

[And until then, that lantern trick isn't such a bad idea. She scoops up her own, shifting in closer to him: body warmth may be out, but sharing the proximity of lanterns isn't.]

I don't suppose you've some hidden side-project I don't know about that you could describe? That would pass the time nicely.

[He can't help but balk a bit at the plan.]

Sooner or later? Sure, hypothetically we could hang out here until spring, but—

[But they're double stuck, is the thing, and he doesn't like the sound of that. This town is already far too quiet and still for his liking. Holing up in rickety, cold building telling campfire stories will just maybe be entertaining enough to get him through a single night.

Instead of saying all that, though, he drops it abruptly. This is a good enough thing to do for right now, since she's pretty good company, and it's not like he feels like trudging back to the Invincible. Tomorrow, when he's inevitably going stir crazy, he can worry about tunneling out of here.]

Uh, not really. I've just been helping you—oh, I did make this.

[He digs around in the pockets of his coat until he unearths his old cell phone. There's a makeshift flash drive-looking thing plugged into it.]

It's a really, really shitty bluetooth adapter. Good for basically nothing except data transfer, but it kept me busy for a couple days.

Oh--

[That's very interesting, actually, because though he's explained things like bluetooth and cell phones, it's still fascinating to see in person. Without thinking she reaches for it, tugging it out of his hand so she can look at it properly.]

Data transfer meaning what, exactly? Can you access your files on your tablet?

[He laughs a little. Right, she's from... whatever time she's from. Well before his time, that's for sure.]

Yeah, I can move stuff around between my phone and tablet. I just made it to pull my music and pictures onto my tablet.

[Since Beacon's tech is still more advanced than the stuff he's used to. Somehow. But hey, that works out. Who thought hologram screens were a good idea, anyway? Here's hoping that fad dies soon.]

Interesting . . .

[And a bit of culture from home, which is a rare enough thing. Almost nonexistent, in fact, save for clothing and a few paltry items. Rosalind runs her thumb against the drive, then separates the two curiously.]

Hm.

[She might ask him how he made it, but let her try and figure it out. She doesn't look up as she adds:]

Show me a song from your world.

[She's had a taste of music from the future once before, and she hadn't particularly cared for it-- but perhaps this will be different.]

[Oh, that wasn't the response he was expecting. Sure. He digs around for his tablet this time, scrolling through his collection before settling somewhat arbitrarily on the first song that catches his eye. He sets his tablet on the blanket between them so he can watch her examining his work.]

I've recognized some of the songs that play around town sometimes, like when the ferry shows up. Congrats, you've already heard stuff from my world.

[That should maybe register as weird to him, but the queue for weird stuff in this world is way too long already.]

How unfortunate.

[She does not hold a high opinion of the ferry songs. Rosalind shifts, setting the flashdrive between them so she can reach for her tools. She's got a few just for delicate work like this, and it's as good a distraction as any.]

A man in my world stole music from other universes. He was quite irritating, and I never enjoyed the way he twisted the songs to fit our standards. I don't believe the original artists ever intended God Only Knows to be a barbershop quartet.

[The thought of another person taking tools to his tiny creation is fairly appalling, but just this once, he'll let Rosalind do whatever she's gonna do. She's been letting him help with the Lutece device, which has way higher stakes than his dumb little adapter, so it seems only fair. He doesn't have a ton of use for it now that he's got his music, anyway.]

Hey, don't knock remixes. There's a lot of value in a good cover. Here.

[He shifts his lantern so she'll have more light to see by. The torch casts enough light, sure, but working with pieces this small is a pain in the ass if you're constantly casting shadows on your work.]

So... You really think this thing's gonna get us out of here?

[Speaking of scientific endeavors, he nods at the Lutece device half-assembled in the corner. Clearly if someone had the ability to pirate music from across the multiverse, that bodes well for them. Right?]

I don't see why it won't.

[Which isn't the same thing as yes, and he's smart enough to know it. She shifts, lying more on her hip than sitting up, getting closer to the flashdrive.]

But it seems too easy. But it worked in my world; there's no scientific reason it oughtn't work here. Dimensions are dimensions, oddities contained within or not.

[Is she worried? A little.]

But I suppose we'll simply have to see.

[He doesn't respond right away, opting instead to just sort of nod lamely as he gets lost in the implications of what she's said. I don't see why it won't. He can't, either, and that's far more horrifying a concept than it would've been a few months ago. He saw no reason why his Pons system wouldn't have been stable enough to maintain a neural bridge without killing him too, and yet, here he is.

She's right. There is no scientific reasoning why it shouldn't work, so then, what if it doesn't?]

And you've used this thing to jump around between worlds before, right? Like, you, personally?

I-- yes.

[Sort of. Kind of. She'd peered through them, anyway, and Robert had come through, and there's really no difference therein.]

Yes. So long as we don't attempt to enter into a universe where a version of us already exists-- but if we do, I know how to counter that affect.

You're doing it right now, in fact.

[Oh, yeah, he totally notes how she trips over her words. Sure you have, Rosalind. It's a bit like hopping into a car driven by someone who doesn't technically have their driver's license, but...! But the physics is sound, the machinery is in part designed by him, and most of all, it would be very hypocritical of him to shoot down the slapping together of a groundbreaking scientific tool from spare parts. That's, like, his MO.

More importantly, what else is he supposed to do around here? This is fun.]

Hm? What am I doing?

[He looks down at himself, like an idiot.]

Playing music.

[She glances over-- the song's at a closing, and she wants to note the title of each that comes up.]

Many things can change between worlds. Everything from moral standards to technology to fashion can be entirely different. But certain things-- certain laws of nature-- stay the same no matter what.

Music is one of those constants. A song can only be itself: change a note and suddenly it becomes a new song, entirely different from what it was before. There's no overlap. There's no room for confusion. A mind confused and veering wildly from one world to another can focus on something steady and stable.

[She pauses as she pries open the flash drive.]

I'm sure people will read into that, citing some sentiment, but it's nothing more than logic.

[Newt has to snort at her waving off the sentimentality of it. Typical. What a nerd.]

Oh, come on. It can be both. I get the logic of it, but you can't tell me that's not kinda sweet.

[Meanwhile, time for a new song.]

Just like that, yes, well done on the example.

[She glances up, flashing him a rather flat look. It's not angry, though. Maybe slightly amused.]

The universe does not care that an art form happened to be useful, Dr. Geiszler. Don't be sentimental.

[Well now he's just outright laughing.]

Don't Dr. Geiszler me! I bet you a million dollars that if we bust out of here and end up with doppelgangers, LCD Soundsystem would ground me way harder than, like, Alanis Morissette.

[And he stands by his song choice, as this is a bop. He leans in a bit to suggest she focus on her work, like, c'mon. Show some professionalism.]

What music would work best on you?

Edited 2020-01-12 08:46 (UTC)

I'll keep the preference in mind. You realize I've no idea who either of those are?

[She doesn't look down, not at that little lean, just because she knows precisely what he's suggesting. Instead: she holds his gaze, both eyebrows raised skeptically.]

Oh-- opera, I suppose. Certainly it would beat some of the bleating I used to hear constantly on the radio. If I never have to hear the blues again, [she says, and now she ducks her head,] I'll stay dead happy.

[He grimaces hard at opera. Ugh, of all things. In fairness, though, the odds were stacked against her—Newt can't think of any music from her era that he's particularly interested in. But, still. Opera.]

Well, I guess we're both screwed if we run into doubles.

[...Which, actually,]

What, uh, happens if we do?

[Ah. Slightly less pleasant a subject, but not insurmountably so.]

Hemorrhage.

If there's already a Dr. N. Geiszler wandering about in the same world, the second one is an intrusion. He's trying to force himself into boots already filled. And thus his mind rebels: is he the N. Geiszler that, say, graduated from university, or the one who failed out because of some odd circumstance? Both are true in a sense, and your brain isn't built to cope with such truths.

So it stops trying.

[There's a flash of a moment in which he hopes he'll get to experience what she's describing. It sounds unreal, quite literally, something you can only truly understand by living through it.

But then he circles back to the word "hemorrhage" and it snaps him back to his senses. Probably not worth it, all things considered.]

And the cure to this condition is listening to music, huh?

[He understands her reasoning, sure, and she's probably right. He doubts there's actually some sort of emotional connection with the music that can't be chalked up to brain chemistry.

But belaboring the point is gonna annoy her. It lightens the mood on this grim topic, one way or another.]

You have to know how you sound right now.

As though I'm knowledgeable about the subject, I assume.

[She wasn't holding her breath, not really, but still something in her exhales as he gently reroutes the topic. The subject of Robert isn't the awful black pit of grief he once was, but it's still not easy to talk about him, not really.]

Oh, sure, you obviously are.

[That goes without saying. There's physical proof like ten feet away.]

How likely is it that we'd run into alternate versions of ourselves?

[Time for a new song. It's the Arcade Fire station tonight, it seems.]

Oh . . . frankly, there's a whole host of factors I've no idea how to calculate for. As few as one in twenty, as many as one in a billion.

[Almost idly, her foot taps. It's not entirely repulsive music, and at least fast enough to keep her awake. A short exhale, and then she continues her careful dissection.]

Worried you'll be outsmarted?

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