grave; believe me darling the stars were made for falling;
[It's a terribly simple memorial. Almost insultingly so, frankly: a small headstone with one name and two dates carved on it: R Lutece, 1871 - 1909. Two candles are set atop it, one all but burnt down, the other standing tall and strong. Occasionally the former's flame will stutter, but it refuses to go out, no matter what breeze picks up through the air.
Maybe you leave it at that. But if not . . .
You're in a building. A home. A place that's loved, filled to the brim with books and paintings, worn couches and wooden floors-- and then, further back, even footsteps as you head to your laboratory, with him at your side. He's so neatly dressed, his red hair perfectly set in place, his blue eyes amused as he listens to you argue. You're picking a fight with him over something stupid and pointless, one of those yes-I-did no-you-didn't things that don't matter, that you love because no one else ever, ever keeps up the way he does.
You keep it up as you reach the machine. An enormous thing, so big it goes from one floor into another, crashing through the ceiling in a contained sort of haphazardness. Tap the buttons and pull the lever, your fingers flying over the familiar controls, your attention still caught by him (always, always, you love him so much, you adore him, you'd do anything for him, you'd give him the world, you can't imagine a life without him). The machine roars to life, and that's your first hint. It shouldn't make that noise. It shouldn't-- you tear your gaze away, and it sounds wrong, it sounds labored, gears grinding awfully and wires surging with voltage they were never meant to handle, crackling to life, except it's wrong wrong wrong, it's lightning sparking everywhere, bathing you both in blue light, glass beakers shattering all around you, your teeth buzzing and the hair on your arms standing as it surges in power, and you look over at him, and--
--you know, in that moment, that there's nothing you can do. There's no point to running. You have seconds, if that, and you hate it. You never once thought you would die, not really, not the way others do, you're too smart for that, you're too brilliant, blazing bright burning, utterly immortal, and yet somehow, impossibly, here you are. You take his hand, and it feels so good in yours. Warm and large, his fingers wrapping tight around yours.
It's not fair. You tore him from another world and you've gotten so little time with him, it's not fair, you saved him, it's not fair, you've only spent a handful of years together (and it's despair but it's fury, it's rage, it's not fair and nor is life but you've spent all your years making things fair, and he can't be torn from your side, not yet, not when there's still so much left--)
"Do you have any regrets?" he asks, and there's something terrible about the forced cheer in his tone. His mouth is turned upright, and there's such love in his gaze as he looks down at you.
"Don't be silly," you say, and turn in towards him, into him, even as the machine roars and screams. "Of course I do."
And then there's a noise louder than anything, and an agony that's so bright, so embittering, so awful and terrifying and no--]
bonfire; now that existence is on the wake let's see what we can make;
[It's awful, working without light. Someone ought to fix that. Someone ought to fix a lot of things here, actually, starting from the lack of light and ending in the lack of anything scientific. It means she's forced to socialize if she wants to get any work done, sitting at the bonfire instead of locked away in her room. She's bent over something, but though you'd be forgiven for thinking it formulas, it's not.
It's a drawing.
A portrait, more specifically. It's of a young man, neatly combed hair and a faint smile. It's in pencil, so it's impossible to see eye and hair color, but he does bear a passing resemblance to her. She's really very good, it seems; not, perhaps, whimsical or particularly artistic, but on a technical level, she gets the job done.
But she's more than a little protective of it. She stiffens if someone sits too close, moving to flip to another page.]
Rosalind Lutece; OTA
[It's a terribly simple memorial. Almost insultingly so, frankly: a small headstone with one name and two dates carved on it: R Lutece, 1871 - 1909. Two candles are set atop it, one all but burnt down, the other standing tall and strong. Occasionally the former's flame will stutter, but it refuses to go out, no matter what breeze picks up through the air.
Maybe you leave it at that. But if not . . .
You're in a building. A home. A place that's loved, filled to the brim with books and paintings, worn couches and wooden floors-- and then, further back, even footsteps as you head to your laboratory, with him at your side. He's so neatly dressed, his red hair perfectly set in place, his blue eyes amused as he listens to you argue. You're picking a fight with him over something stupid and pointless, one of those yes-I-did no-you-didn't things that don't matter, that you love because no one else ever, ever keeps up the way he does.
You keep it up as you reach the machine. An enormous thing, so big it goes from one floor into another, crashing through the ceiling in a contained sort of haphazardness. Tap the buttons and pull the lever, your fingers flying over the familiar controls, your attention still caught by him (always, always, you love him so much, you adore him, you'd do anything for him, you'd give him the world, you can't imagine a life without him). The machine roars to life, and that's your first hint. It shouldn't make that noise. It shouldn't-- you tear your gaze away, and it sounds wrong, it sounds labored, gears grinding awfully and wires surging with voltage they were never meant to handle, crackling to life, except it's wrong wrong wrong, it's lightning sparking everywhere, bathing you both in blue light, glass beakers shattering all around you, your teeth buzzing and the hair on your arms standing as it surges in power, and you look over at him, and--
--you know, in that moment, that there's nothing you can do. There's no point to running. You have seconds, if that, and you hate it. You never once thought you would die, not really, not the way others do, you're too smart for that, you're too brilliant, blazing bright burning, utterly immortal, and yet somehow, impossibly, here you are. You take his hand, and it feels so good in yours. Warm and large, his fingers wrapping tight around yours.
It's not fair. You tore him from another world and you've gotten so little time with him, it's not fair, you saved him, it's not fair, you've only spent a handful of years together (and it's despair but it's fury, it's rage, it's not fair and nor is life but you've spent all your years making things fair, and he can't be torn from your side, not yet, not when there's still so much left--)
"Do you have any regrets?" he asks, and there's something terrible about the forced cheer in his tone. His mouth is turned upright, and there's such love in his gaze as he looks down at you.
"Don't be silly," you say, and turn in towards him, into him, even as the machine roars and screams. "Of course I do."
And then there's a noise louder than anything, and an agony that's so bright, so embittering, so awful and terrifying and no--]
bonfire; now that existence is on the wake let's see what we can make;
[It's awful, working without light. Someone ought to fix that. Someone ought to fix a lot of things here, actually, starting from the lack of light and ending in the lack of anything scientific. It means she's forced to socialize if she wants to get any work done, sitting at the bonfire instead of locked away in her room. She's bent over something, but though you'd be forgiven for thinking it formulas, it's not.
It's a drawing.
A portrait, more specifically. It's of a young man, neatly combed hair and a faint smile. It's in pencil, so it's impossible to see eye and hair color, but he does bear a passing resemblance to her. She's really very good, it seems; not, perhaps, whimsical or particularly artistic, but on a technical level, she gets the job done.
But she's more than a little protective of it. She stiffens if someone sits too close, moving to flip to another page.]
wildcard;
[You know what to do.]