completelycrazy | in the night: ic inbox

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?

Terrific.

[But, really, it's more of a relief to hear her admit that so much of this is treading new ground. It's a horrifying prospect, for sure, but it's also exciting, this stage in the scientific process. This thing she's invented is entirely new. How cool.]

Wait. Are you suggesting we'd have to do some Spy vs. Spy shit to take down our doubles?

[Awesome??? The science can wait. If they've got a whole evening to kill, they have plenty of time to circle back to science.]

What? Good god, man, no.

[She actually glances up at him, amusement now clear in her gaze.]

That was simply a taunt at your intelligence, Newt, nothing more. Don't make the mistake most of your gender does and leap to violence. You can get along as amiably as you'd expect yourself to-- which is something that's individual to each person.

Oh my god, you have never sounded so British.

[He says it lightly as he reaches to grab a blanket out of the pile. May as well get comfortable.]

So you've met doubles of yours, then?

Just the one.

[It's said lightly, though after a moment she sits up, abandoning her work in favor of copying him. And, maybe, keeping her hands busy and her expression brisk.]

Miraculously, he did not try to kill me, nor I him. Indeed, he nearly didn't survive the crossing, his mind too muddled with my memories.

[Oh, holy shit. There's a lot to unpack in those couple of sentences, but mostly, it's the way this hypothetical congeals so abruptly into reality that slaps him in the face.

Instead of pausing to absorb it, though, he just starts talking again.]

Wait, he? Were you pals with your rule 63? Dude, tell me everything.

[There, that's easier than asking any particular questions. He settles back against the wall, blanket spread over his lap.]

My what?

[No, wait, this is probably like the time he tried to tell her about Godzilla: interesting in another context, but right now she's got more interesting things to discuss, so whatever, she waves a hand to dismiss the question.]

His name is Robert. [Ah.] Was Robert. And yes, he was my counterpart, and we were companions for a time.

[She sighs softly and joins him. Not against him, not with the flashdrive still between them, but at least with them both against the wall it means she doesn't have to glance over at him.]

He nearly died from blood loss the first night. Continuously hemorrhaging, babbling nonsensically . . . but music stabilized him. Sleep did as well. So he recovered.

[The way she leans back against the wall and out of his natural line of sight isn't lost on him, but he's not about to challenge it. She hasn't changed the subject, and that's what counts.]

I guess it'd be pretty cool to meet another version of myself. And it'd be less weird if the other me was a woman, I think.

[Staring down a literal clone of himself sounds trippy.]

How'd you figure out the music worked? You play him opera?

Not as cleverly nor as neatly as I said I did in my book.

[That's wry, in her own quiet way.]

But classical music soothes me, and I assumed that soothing would carry across universes. But, as we soon discovered, a middle c is the same no matter what world you're from. He was far more coherent when music played; it wasn't a difficult association to notice.

And after that . . . I suspect we listened to more music in three months than I did in all my life.

You wrote a book? Neat.

[Good for her, staking a claim like that. A book is a good idea. He should write—ah, well, never mind.

He can't believe this is coming out of the same woman that just staunchly told him sentimentality was for the birds in matters like this. Kinda seems like she's disproving her own theory here, but she has to know that. He won't rub it in.]

And you listened to all that music because he needed it? Or just 'cause?

[She hums softly, yes I did well done of you to congratulate me.]

Both. It wasn't as if either of us disliked it, although we found he had more patience for vaudeville than I did. I don't suppose your music has anything like that, does it?

[This is honest curiosity, not a weird way to ask him to switch off Arcade Fire.]

[He's gonna read it sometime. Assuming he feels like braving the Librarian, that is.]

Dunno about vaudeville, but, uh...

[Time to just mash shuffle until he settles on a song he feels like listening to. LCD Soundsystem is good "snowed in" music.

He's quiet for a long moment, half listening to the song and half wondering if it'd be rude to press. Probably not, right? She brought all this up. If it's a misstep, he has all night to make up for it.]

So what happened to him?

[And she'd been enjoying the song, too.

Rosalind says nothing for a long few seconds, but it isn't angry silence. Surprisingly, nor is it full of grief. It's just quiet, as she presses her lips together and realizes she's not on the verge of tears, not at all. Six months is a long time, and what was once a bloody open wound has since neatly scarred over.]

He died, just as I did. We had . . . we were trying to see if we could fix something, a grave misstep we'd made, and save our world all in one fell swoop. I was against it, I thought we ought to just escape and cut our losses, but he was desperate to.

Unfortunately, we weren't subtle enough-- or so I assume. Our machine-- the very machine we're replicating now-- exploded. I awoke here.

[She glances over at him.]

He did not.

[Oh, it's very much not the thing he should do, he knows it even as it happens, but he glances up at the apparent death machine he's been helping her with for weeks and has to huff out a small laugh.]

Sorry, I don't mean—something I invented killed me, too. Talk about the ultimate betrayal, huh?

[It's still not funny, but he's hit his limit on being pissed about it. Or just, like, buried it for now, but same thing.

Anyway, someday he'll ask her a thousand questions about all the differences between her and Robert, since that sounds downright fascinating on the biological front... or the quantum physics front? Psychological? Not sure—either way, it's wild stuff.]

But, uh, sorry about your... Robert. It sounds like you guys were close.

[Ah. There's a few things he could be talking about, but she thinks she knows what might have killed him. It's not as if he invented a whole host of things that have a high possibility of killing him.

But ah . . .]

. . . yes. We were.

[. . .]

He was, for all intents and purposes, my husband.

[She grimaces. She's regretting glancing over at him, but turning away now would look ridiculous.]

Don't overreact.

Oh!

[Another automatic response. He can't help it. It's not a judgmental sound, at least—it's more that he was not expecting this turn. His mind hadn't fully moved on from the "Spy vs. Spy" prospect. No wonder she got all open your mind about your options in encountering a double.

And then it's almost fine? But her mouth twitches and she watches him so intently... It's like they're staying up late on a school night and she's just confided in him who she's asking to prom. But, nope, just married to her—oh holy shit was she sleeping w—anyway, it's just a funny thing, is all. He does his best to bite back a smile.]

No, I mean, that's awesome. Really. Good for you, marrying yourself.

[It's said with all the affection of a man who would absolutely marry himself, like, are you kidding? What a deal.]

I bet he was amazing to have around the lab. I'd kill for a clone husband.

[All of this is a bit lighthearted considering she's just told him, in so many words, that her husband is both dead and not here. That's a bummer thing, but... Eh. It's hard to find things to laugh about these days.]

[Well, he doesn't leap to his feet and start screaming about sin, so that's something. Still, there's a measure of tension in her until he keeps speaking, going on just a little too excitedly about this.

But then, of course he is. He's a genius. Of course he can consider all the wonders of the relationship instead of the inherent oddity of it.]

He was, both in the lab and out.

[Her voice is far warmer.]

It certainly made building that a great deal easier, save for when we disagreed.

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