completelycrazy | in the night: ic inbox

[Oh. Perhaps she would have chased that other topic, and they would have grown lighthearted and a little distant again, but not after that.]

What do you discuss?

[Present tense, she notes carefully.]

[He shrugs.]

It's just catching up. I tell them what I can about the work I'm doing and they tell me what's up back home. My dad's the kind of guy who can turn anything into a story, yknow? He used to send me these novel length emails just narrating his day like buying eggs carries the same epic quality as storming Troy.

[Or whatever the ... Romans ??? were getting up to. He's a genius in some fields, not all.]

Illia's an engineer so we talk shop a lot. He likes to ask me for advice on projects and then tell me it's cute that I think that's the fix but actually back in the 1800s we'd hand machine some nonsense part that uncle I promise you can just buy the same thing at the hardware store you're fixing the neighbor kid's RC car again not sending a man to space.

And then I'll say that and next time we talk he'll be like did you get the blueprints I emailed you, I'm building a goddamn rocket now, take that.

I've been told this is the usual parent shit but not with the usual parent topics.

[Her mouth twitches, biting back a smile as he writes about Illia. It's sweet, but not saccharine. Simply . . . pleasant, in a way she isn't used to hearing about when it comes to any kind of parent (look at her examples, after all, her own, yes, but Booker and Comstock too, god).]

And what are the usual parent topics when you're from?

Oh hell if I know. I'm not a good barometer for "usual" where I come from.

[It's not even a "RIP other biologists but I'm different" sort of statement, either. He's spent his life bouncing from one highly specific bubble to another. Who knows what the rest of the world is getting up to?]

More crap like what my dad sends me I guess. Don't get me wrong I read every word of his stupid tangents and like he's an incredibly smart guy, he just never had the education to back it.

Whatever, what I'm saying is pretty much nobody has an uncle that builds a rocket just to lovingly give them the finger. My dad does that crap too but with him it's more like, he'll send me YET ANOTHER article on how the Mothman is totally real and at this point I can't tell if he really buys into it or if he's just doing it to fuck with me, because it's SO specifically, like, where the hell did he find out about the goddamn Mothman of all things? Where'd that come from?

He has like the thinnest grasp on what's up in America.

[It helps, talking about them, but he's still grateful for the necessary silence. It's a comforting cushion between them.]

Lucky him.

[Take that, America. Rosalind reaches over him, tapping at his map, pushing it out of the way for the moment. And rather than bother to type out the question, she holds both hands around the vicinity of her eyes, miming taking a picture. Do people in the future have photos of their families on their phones? Let's find out!]

[He snorts at the mimed question. How whimsical, playing charades. It's a good look on her.

He tabs over to the tablet's photo gallery, where he does indeed have some pictures from his life. Quite a few, it seems. He scrolls past the dozens of dumb instagram pics of him dicking around in the lab or elsewhere in the Shatterdome and eventually lands on a small collection of photos from a couple of years back, when his dad and uncle were able to visit him in Hong Kong. There's a selfie of the three of them huddled together in a ramen shop, a shot of his dad's awe in seeing the Pacific Ocean for the first time, a stealth selfie of Newt looking exasperated with Illia in the background taking apart some piece of lab equipment in the K-Science lab...

Newt passes his tablet off to Rosalind. He's not in the mood to look through these, though it's not painful enough to make a big thing out of changing the subject.

He does take a moment to indicate which man is which, though it's not difficult to guess which is his father. It's not that Newt is a clone of his father so much as the finer details, their expressions... Rosalind herself has witnessed the same energy in Newt that Jacob has in seeing the ocean for the first time. It's that sort of fascination that takes over, blocks out all the shitty stuff going on in the world to instead focus on how awesome life is.

Illia, on the other hand, is the quiet one of the group. He's stockier and taller than his brother and nephew, hovering behind them on their adventures, always keeping an eye out. There's clearly just as much passion in each of the Geiszler men, though, as in all the candid shots, Illia can be spotted inspecting one thing or another, prodding at this and that, wherever his curiosity leads him.

...And then, if Rosalind keeps scrolling, the pictures abruptly shift back to dumb instragram posts about pranking Hermann and raving about a fresh shipment of Kaiju viscera.]

[They're fascinating to look at, honestly: not just for the glimpse of the future (although that, too), but the glimpse into Newt's life. Her eyes flick through the selfies, drinking in the details after the broad strokes. She can see Newt in both men, honestly: in the lines of Jacob's face, yes, the awe in his expression, but in Illia, too: nosing around the lab, prodding not out of ignorance but rather a deep-seated curiosity, equal parts educated and fascinated. Newt's done that: looking at her experiments, asking questions, getting into things he oughtn't-- and yet she can't be too upset, because he's so clever about it.

She shifts away from Newt as she looks, aware of what started this conversation, aware that he might not want to see his uncle and father right now. The result is a slight gap between them, a rush of chilly air that she dislikes. But there's nothing for it.

She's nosy, going from his family to his . . . hm. Colleague? Is this Dr. Gottlieb? She'd imagined him a lot differently, honestly, and she sort of hates that what Newt describes as grandpa sweaters seems to her to be a rather well put together outfit, if not a little dark. But oh, but the quality of these movies: she watches a little loop of Newt's eyes gleaming as he watches Dr. Gottlieb go for a cup of coffee, tainted with something or another; a small video of him mouthing along to whatever Hermann is ranting about; a video of something pulsating bright blue--]

Oh--

[Oh, holy fuck, that's a kaiju specimen, and she can't even pretend not to be fascinated by it.

In an instant she's back at Newt's side, bodies pressed up together, with no real room between them even to slip their hands. Their shoulders jostle together, a little uncomfortable, but it really doesn't matter, not at all, and anyway it's warmer like this-- whatever! The point is: a little frantically she points at the video: hello, explain, please, she wants to know literally everything.]

[Newt starts as Rosalind bonks into him, pleasantly surprised as she hones in on the kaiju, and on impulse, he loops his arm around her. It's mostly just that it seems the thing to do—it's cold, this is more comfortable, she held his hand that one time ten minutes ago so she's probably cool with it—but he also just wanted the excuse, he supposes. The casual contact feels nice and both of them could probably use it.

He reaches to scroll through his tablet's gallery again until he's found a screencap of Mutavore from the news. He pulls it into the drawing app so he can fill in some specs on it: height, tonnage, a brief rundown on the Category system, and so on. He rattles it all off from memory, and then makes her bear with him a moment while he doodles a stylized MUTAVORE!!! at the top of the pic. Ta da!

He taps Mutavore's head, and then points at his temple and mimes an explosion. This is the one that killed him. Though, he doesn't seem particularly bothered by that fact, at least not in this moment. He laughs it off, and brings up a folder of Mutavore brain pics... with a couple of selfies snuck in, because like, it's a kaiju brain, c'mon.]

[She's stiff under his arm for just a moment, unsure if that's something she wants to encourage or not. But it's not untoward, not really-- and it is cold, which means that after a certain point any kind of warmth will do.

His explanation is fascinating, though, and she soon finds herself enmeshed within it. It's even worth that stylized little name, though she rolls her eyes lightly when he glances her way. The pictures are even better, and she spends ages studying them, memorizing what questions she wants to ask when they can hear one another again.

Time passes, and the thump of the band doesn't lessen any. They futz with the map a bit more, suggesting improvements here and there, as she relaxes beneath his arm. But that grows dull quickly, and so soon Rosalind flicks at his screen, moving it over to the painting program.

She's not going to move away to look at him, but it's fine. She can draw him either way. And she'll start small: a little stick figure with enormous glasses and some truly wild hair. Maybe he'll get a better portrait in a moment.]

[When she pulls up the drawing app, he expects her to write something, a question maybe, but then she whips up that stick figure. Holy shit? He snorts out a laugh.

But sure, this is as good a thing to do as any. He doodles her in stick figure form next to him, with bright blue dots for eyes. He spends a bit too much time getting her hair right, that particular sort of bun she wears it in when they're working, but it's effective. He gives her a little smile and a test tube full of blood, too. There. Perfect.]

[Three out of four isn't so bad, though she reaches over, correcting that smile to something a little more stern. But hm . . . her hand lifts, fingers dragging lightly, sketchily against the screen, tracing out something a little more realistic. It's just a circle, really, at this point, but slowly it will become the curve of cheek, the line of his jaw . . . it's far from her best work, but it's not bad, for that.]

[Oh. What? Hey, he was not expecting this. He'd never thought of her as the artsy type—sure, he's seen her diagrams and lab sketches, all of which had been impeccably done, but that's different than people. He desperately wants to reach over and re-correct her stick figure smile, but he knows better than to interrupt.

Instead, he settles in against her, stretching out his legs. It's annoying, not being able to talk, but then, it's also not. The quiet is kind of nice, actually, with the rhythmic thumping of the parade at his back, watching Rosalind sketch him. It's clumsy, as anything doodled with a finger on a tablet would be, but damn. He'd like to see what she could do with a pencil and paper.]

[Oh, and here she thought he'd interrupt her, but instead he settles so pleasantly. They lean against each other, Rosalind reaching with her other hand to guide his tablet, moving it between them as she might a piece of paper. Slowly eyes emerge, his nose-- he's clean-shaven in this portrait, because she doesn't know how to render stubble.

More than once she glances over at him, though that's as much effort as she's willing to expend; she certainly won't sit up. His hair is next, his glasses-- all in all, not a bad effort, and she nods in satisfaction as she sits back.]

[He's beaming by the time she's finished. Clever of her to do this now, when he can't ask her what brought this on—and now he'll never know, because it's not the type of thing he can casually bring up later.

He saves the drawing because um of course he's saving it, and then tugs the tablet over to balance it on his leg. His turn! It'd be easier with his other hand to hold the tablet steady, but... he'll make this work. They're comfortable.

In the space next to her portrait of him, he starts on a sketch of her, full body this time, and his style much more cartoony than hers. He puts her in one of the outfits he's seen her wear around the lab, all practical and straightforward, those silly goggles of hers on top of her head, lost in her hair. He draws her holding a clipboard too, so she can squint pensively at it.]

[It's ridiculous, of course. A portrait is one thing; a doodle is quite another. And yet she's amused by it-- the doodle, and the fact that he remembers an outfit she wore. It's a little more attention paid than she would have expected-- or maybe not, she thinks quietly, and then pushes that thought away.

Color, then: she'll add a red tint to her hair, filling it out, smiling faintly as she does. He'd made hers too bright in his last doodle; it's best for her to take over, clearly.]

[He snorts when she takes over, choosing a color so pointedly not the one he chose last time. He lets her fill in his sketch, though he chimes in here and there with some added details, most of which he's sure she'll object to, but, like, um, it's his drawing? He adds in some highlights to her hair, her freckles, some fictional accent colors in her outfit.

...And then he corrects the smile on the stick figure.]

Stop that.

[It's a reflex to speak out loud.

The highlights are fine; the freckles less so, and she wrinkles her nose, erasing them the moment he draws them. The smile is next, but she switches tactics: instead drawing a more formal look on her initial drawing, a slight frown she's never seen him wear. Solemn. Dignified. It's a stick expression with a lot to say for itself.]

[Oh, she's not a fan of her freckles. Noted. That's a bummer, though. They're cute.

But then she defaces his stick figure, and there's a moment where he's actually annoyed. He has not been that sulky lately, if that's what she's trying to imply—before he realizes that it isn't. Of course it isn't.

He points at her dumb dignified stick figure of him and gives her an exaggerated frown. Is he mimicking her drawing or giving her his opinion of it? Both, probably.]

[Of course it isn't, but there's a split second where Rosalind looks at him with a faint frown, unsure why his mouth had gone pinched for a moment. It's not that she's so overcome with worry for his feelings, but at the same time, she likes being an irritant only when she intends.

But it barely lasts, and then they're moving on. What else . . . why not that kaiju? Mutavore, the name and the creature it belongs to still vivid in her mind. It's inaccurate, of course, but it's somewhat amusing to try and see how much she can get right.]

[Oh! He recognizes the kaiju instantly—she's got the spirit of it down, with its weird boomerang head and hunchy stance. Every so often, he chimes in helpfully, correcting bone structure and adjusting the mass. He doesn't take over so much as offer insight, like Clippy, but like, not so smug.

But, huh, the way she sketches the tail gets him thinking. He reaches over her to grab for her tablet (so as not to interrupt her drawing) to type up a little crash course on kaiju biology.]

The lower half looks kinda like Knifehead, this other kaiju. Neat thing! They're all clones! They're grown by this other more advanced alien species, so different bits of them are grown and stitched together, like Frankenstein. You're like designing your own kaiju.

[She squints at him for a moment, a nonverbal . . . hm, not disagreement, because she trusts his opinion, but more bafflement at that possibility. Organ donation isn't a thing in her time; she can't imagine how a creature doesn't go into shock when a liver or a lung is forcibly inserted into it.

Then again: she can't imagine how they bring the things to life.

She gestures with two fingers-- go on, keep talking-- as she continues seeing how much of the kaiju she can remember drawing. And once she runs out of details, she continues on, adding her own in orange, little corrections to Mutavore's design.]

[He notes the squint, and he can all but read her mind, given how many times they've had this conversation before: so much of her knowledge of his field is sorely outdated. Through no fault of her own, of course, and she can still run circles around him when it comes to physics—whatever, point is! He gets to teach her something, and that's maybe his favorite thing to do these days.

This would be so much easier if he could talk, unlike so much of the other ground they've covered today. He makes it work, though, alternating between typing up explanations and eventually moving onto drawing his own versions of the kaiju. They're diagrams at first, anatomical models, but before long they dip into cartoonier doodles. They still get his point across.

He can't be sure how long they spend like this, Newt rambling about his past five years of research and Rosalind casually listening and critiquing kaiju designs, because Rosalind Lutece is certainly not the type to passively absorb knowledge, no. In any case, eventually Newt will realize the thumping at his back has faded, the parade having long since moved on...

But he'll wait until Rosalind points it out before getting up. He's in no hurry to get back.]

in the night: ic inbox

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