scythe_anastasia (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
scythe_anastasia) wrote2019-03-16 12:17 pm
scythe_anastasia) wrote2019-03-16 12:17 pm
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Anastasia still doesn't know how to feel when they return to their suite in a Fulcrum City hotel. It's too early for relief. No matter how pleased the others were at dinner, no matter how well things technically went, a stopgap isn't a solution. She's still standing there with her finger in the dyke, stalling for time.
But they have time. And she'd be lying if she said it wasn't just a little bit satisfying to imagine Goddard stomping home to sulk. He'll probably get right down to making everyone around him miserable, but at least that's the worst he can do. He doesn't have the entire Midamerican Scythedom under his influence, yet -- and if things go well on Endura, he never will.
She lets her focus drift as she heads toward the en-suite bathroom, wondering what Endura will be like. She's heard stories, and figured she'd visit it sooner or later, but not this soon. And definitely not under these circumstances. 'Bringing an inquest before the Grandslayers' is a far cry from 'going on vacation with Marie.' She wonders if they'll be able to actually enjoy the visit, or if she'll be too busy worrying about the inquest to take in the sights.
Probably the latter, if she's being honest with herself.
As she steps into the bathroom, everything shifts in an eyeblink, the space before her blowing out to encompass an entire city street. Anastasia reels, trying to set her hand on a door frame that no longer exists and instead just batting at the empty air.
"What--?" is the only word that escapes her before she catches herself. She is a Scythe. Scythes don't panic in the middle of a public thoroughfare. She takes a slow breath, then steps back out of the flow of foot traffic, where she can look around without being in the way.
This isn't Fulcrum City. Everything looks too... old-fashioned. The cars are all being driven by actual people, and there's no sign of the Thunderhead's ubiquitous array of cameras. The road has holes in it, as if someone dug up chunks of the pavement with a spoon, a bizarre detail that occupies a full five seconds of her attention. Where on earth would something like that be allowed to exist without being repaired?
Is... is this Texas?
But they have time. And she'd be lying if she said it wasn't just a little bit satisfying to imagine Goddard stomping home to sulk. He'll probably get right down to making everyone around him miserable, but at least that's the worst he can do. He doesn't have the entire Midamerican Scythedom under his influence, yet -- and if things go well on Endura, he never will.
She lets her focus drift as she heads toward the en-suite bathroom, wondering what Endura will be like. She's heard stories, and figured she'd visit it sooner or later, but not this soon. And definitely not under these circumstances. 'Bringing an inquest before the Grandslayers' is a far cry from 'going on vacation with Marie.' She wonders if they'll be able to actually enjoy the visit, or if she'll be too busy worrying about the inquest to take in the sights.
Probably the latter, if she's being honest with herself.
As she steps into the bathroom, everything shifts in an eyeblink, the space before her blowing out to encompass an entire city street. Anastasia reels, trying to set her hand on a door frame that no longer exists and instead just batting at the empty air.
"What--?" is the only word that escapes her before she catches herself. She is a Scythe. Scythes don't panic in the middle of a public thoroughfare. She takes a slow breath, then steps back out of the flow of foot traffic, where she can look around without being in the way.
This isn't Fulcrum City. Everything looks too... old-fashioned. The cars are all being driven by actual people, and there's no sign of the Thunderhead's ubiquitous array of cameras. The road has holes in it, as if someone dug up chunks of the pavement with a spoon, a bizarre detail that occupies a full five seconds of her attention. Where on earth would something like that be allowed to exist without being repaired?
Is... is this Texas?
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He licks his lips and shakes his head. "Capybara." Which means he's, what, six months behind her? He'd lost track during his time in Texas, with Goddard.
Why, why had be been so stupid with Brahms?
"I don't--" Something like a wince flashes over his features. He manages to look Citra in the eye, rather than be blatantly evasive.
"We have to be careful about this. I don't want to know what happens in the future. And if you know what happens to me... You might do things that shouldn't be done."
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But she doesn't know how he could have wound up in a revival center without getting caught, and that's not encouraging at all.
Citra pulls in a breath, then huffs it out, frustrated. "We're stuck in some random dimension with nothing to do but twiddle our thumbs, and you think it would be bad to share information? Come up with some kind of plan?" What could Scythe Lucifer do with the knowledge of Goddard's resurrection and a several month head start? They could use this, weird as it is. It would almost be a waste not to.
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"If there were something you could do, don't you think you would have already done it?" he counters. "I would have done it? It doesn't-- I don't think it works that way, Citra. I don't."
He's stuck in a corner with no way out. He's past the point of pretending that nothing happened out of the ordinary back home, that he's simply doing his duty of gleaning the ungleanable and evil. But, if there's one fact he's got on his side, it's that things are so horrible that Citra couldn't possibly guess at what truly happened.
"I got into trouble. I got into a recovery center. I got out. To here. I think. I assume. I woke up here, not there, so for all I know there are BladeGuards waiting for me."
no subject
The Winter Conclave would have featured a very different kind of spectacle than Goddard's reemergence.
There's still something he's not telling her, and she gives him a sharp, searching look -- less because she thinks she'll be able to figure it out just by staring at him, or because she thinks he'll cave, and more because she wants him to know he's not off the hook. Then she shakes her head with a soft sigh.
"So where are they hiding this packet of mine?"
no subject
He knows from that look that he's not going to get away with this scot free, but a little breathing room is all he needs. He'll tell her. Maybe. One day. But today definitely is not that day.
"Train station." They're already headed in that direction, so Rowan resumes their walk, away from the cafe. He kind of wishes he had a coffee now, or something stronger.
"There you get ID, apartment, and cash. You get a stipend every month, enough to get by but nothing extravagant. Everything seems normal. Until strange things start happening."
no subject
"Stranger than pulling random people from other dimensions into this one?" she asks. Presuming it's random. It's grabbed both Rowan and her, so maybe it isn't. "None of this is normal." She sounds sharper than she means to, the shock of her own arrival mingling with her frustration over what Rowan's not telling her and her uneasiness over the fact that he's been here long enough to know what Darrow's 'normal' looks like in the first place. None of this should be normal for either of them.
no subject
"Somewhere along the line, that gets normal," he admits. It's strange to admit, perhaps, but it's true. Just like it gets somewhat normal to be the only (or near only) immortal in a sea of mortals.
"Just like being a scythe got normal. Didn't it?"
Being treated differently. Being the only one with immunity, with ability, in a sea of people who moved like sheep through their lives.
"Until... weird things happen." Like Goddard. Like them being pitted against each other. Like her skirting the rules so beautifully, so masterfully. And him choosing the path that he did.
"But in this case, it's... okay." He sighs and gives her another look, brows arched in emphasis. Believe him, Citra, because he's not playing with you. Promise.
"On New Year's Eve? The gingerbread cookies came to life and tried to kill everyone."
no subject
She remembers Marie's warning about how being Goddards apprentice would change him. She wonders if she's reading too much into it.
"I think 'normal' is a stretch," she says, a part of her noting that it's a more diplomatic response than what Rowan might consider usual. A more Anastasia response. "It makes it sound easy, or routine, and it's not. Or it wasn't the way I did it."
She gives him a more openly dubious look as he braces himself to explain Darrow's brand of weird, just because his tone and his please-believe-me expression invite a little preemptive skepticism. But what he describes is so absurd that she doesn't think he could make it up, and she barks out a startled laugh.
"Cookies?" she repeats, diplomacy heaved out the window for the time being. "Come on."
no subject
Except...
He spins on his heel and looks at the stream of people moving around them. He nods at someone up ahead, someone who's come into that cafe Rowan likes more than a few times. He knows his name, knows what he does, but they're not friends. Still, he gives him a greeting like he would any other day.
"Hey, man, my friend's new." Mild discomfort flashes across the other man's face, but Rowan continues on so quickly that it disappears easily.
"Tell her what happened at Kagura. On New Year's."
"Aw, man." He chuckles as though this is old news (it is) and nothing to be concerned about (it is). "Killer cookies. Crazy, right?"
"Right," Rowan says with his own matching chuckle. Totally normal stuff here.
"See you around."
no subject
But it's not as if she has to befriend this guy, or even speak to him. He just confirms what Rowan said about killer cookies, and then he's on his way. Citra stares after him for a second or two, mouth slightly open. Then, pressing her lips together, she turns back to Rowan.
"I hate it here," she deadpans, mostly for a lack of any other rejoinder.
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"You'll get used to it," he promises. Maybe he's only so sanguine because she's here, her presence filling him with glee. But it's true that, in the end, she will find a way to adapt. She's Citra. Of course she will.