celery_cool (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
celery_cool) wrote2024-06-02 03:51 pm
celery_cool) wrote2024-06-02 03:51 pm
Entry tags:
Unfinished Business
It takes longer than it should for Abbie to start exploring the countryside. In their defense: Darrow's layout wasn't suggestive of the kind of long-running history that might include ruins or other useful archeological insights outside the city proper, and their research into the city's history hasn't included any mention of a supplanted indigenous population. Granted, they've been taking said history with an enormous grain of salt, given how vague and contradictory accounts seem to be. But they're also not an archeologist, and they lack the tools, permits, and expertise to conduct a proper dig, presuming they even found a site worth exploring.
A failure to look for a site worth exploring, however, feels like an undeniable oversight. More to the point, if the city's accounts of itself can't be relied upon, then a baseline list of observations about both Darrow proper and its surroundings will give them a reference they can trust. At some point, they might get creative with surveying equipment; for now, they just tromp through the woods with their field recorder, notebook, map, and compass, attempting a systematic exploration to the best that their wayfinding and the vagaries of the landscape allow. They're primarily looking for ruins or other evidence of historical habitation.
They are not looking for the Mount Absalom Observatory, so it's a hell of a shock when they find it.
It stands on top of a rise that they sluggishly place as Chapel Hill — the hill is here, too? — and they've taken three swift steps up the staircase before they catch themself and pause. They look down at the stairs beneath their feet, at the skeletal remains of old leaves plastered to the concrete.
Mount Absalom's leaves, or Darrow's?
How long has the Observatory been here?
Is this one of the city's weird little gifts that they've heard people mention?
"Okay," they say aloud, sharp and quelling, as if some belligerent asshole had just invaded their personal space. The echoes are swallowed by the surrounding woodland, unanswered, and it occurs to them to feel a bit foolish. "Okay," they say again, under their breath this time, drawing out the first syllable as they lift their gaze back up to the top of the hill.
They'd wanted something worth investigating further. Well, then.
Abbie continues up the staircase, one palm hovering an inch above the railing in case they lose their balance. No need to immediately examine the relative risk of losing their balance, or any superstitious hesitation to touch the railing, as if the whole thing might dissolve the moment they attempt contact. A baseless, nonsensical fear. The steps beneath their feet are perfectly solid and even.
"Urban planners, sure and certain, shape the world we live and work in," they whisper to themself as they ascend. Their eyes catalogue observations that they can't bring themself to commit to tape: that the structure looks sound, roof intact, windows unbroken; that there is no suggestion that a collapse is imminent; that there is, in fact, no immediate evidence that anyone has ever gone on a grief-fueled rampage with a sledgehammer in the not-too-distant past.
"Daniel Burnam made big plans, Chicago's ashes in good hands."
It doesn't look pristine, as if the city had transported it here in its newly-constructed glory. It looks better than Abbie left it, though.
They've reached the door, and hesitate for a beat before trying the doorknob. "Le Corbusier built giant towers, surrounded by a bunch of flowers." It turns beneath their hand with familiar old-mechanism resistance, but it does turn, and they give the door a quick, incredulous shove. The door swings open with a groan of complaint, and Abbie stares wide-eyed at the interior, their feet frozen to the stoop as the door slows, stops, and then sluggishly rebounds back towards them. It makes it to within a few inches of shutting in Abbie's face before they dart a hand back out and catch it, pushing it open again, this time following its arc and stepping into the Observatory itself.
The foundation doesn't tremble beneath their feet.
"Elizabeth Plater Zybeck hates the sprawl," they murmur. Then, with a desperate little veer off-script: "Hope the ceiling doesn't fall."
It doesn't. Abbie swallows, then clears their throat. If the door was left open, anyone could be in here. Anyone at all. There are no reasonable assumptions to be made. "Hello...?"
A failure to look for a site worth exploring, however, feels like an undeniable oversight. More to the point, if the city's accounts of itself can't be relied upon, then a baseline list of observations about both Darrow proper and its surroundings will give them a reference they can trust. At some point, they might get creative with surveying equipment; for now, they just tromp through the woods with their field recorder, notebook, map, and compass, attempting a systematic exploration to the best that their wayfinding and the vagaries of the landscape allow. They're primarily looking for ruins or other evidence of historical habitation.
They are not looking for the Mount Absalom Observatory, so it's a hell of a shock when they find it.
It stands on top of a rise that they sluggishly place as Chapel Hill — the hill is here, too? — and they've taken three swift steps up the staircase before they catch themself and pause. They look down at the stairs beneath their feet, at the skeletal remains of old leaves plastered to the concrete.
Mount Absalom's leaves, or Darrow's?
How long has the Observatory been here?
Is this one of the city's weird little gifts that they've heard people mention?
"Okay," they say aloud, sharp and quelling, as if some belligerent asshole had just invaded their personal space. The echoes are swallowed by the surrounding woodland, unanswered, and it occurs to them to feel a bit foolish. "Okay," they say again, under their breath this time, drawing out the first syllable as they lift their gaze back up to the top of the hill.
They'd wanted something worth investigating further. Well, then.
Abbie continues up the staircase, one palm hovering an inch above the railing in case they lose their balance. No need to immediately examine the relative risk of losing their balance, or any superstitious hesitation to touch the railing, as if the whole thing might dissolve the moment they attempt contact. A baseless, nonsensical fear. The steps beneath their feet are perfectly solid and even.
"Urban planners, sure and certain, shape the world we live and work in," they whisper to themself as they ascend. Their eyes catalogue observations that they can't bring themself to commit to tape: that the structure looks sound, roof intact, windows unbroken; that there is no suggestion that a collapse is imminent; that there is, in fact, no immediate evidence that anyone has ever gone on a grief-fueled rampage with a sledgehammer in the not-too-distant past.
"Daniel Burnam made big plans, Chicago's ashes in good hands."
It doesn't look pristine, as if the city had transported it here in its newly-constructed glory. It looks better than Abbie left it, though.
They've reached the door, and hesitate for a beat before trying the doorknob. "Le Corbusier built giant towers, surrounded by a bunch of flowers." It turns beneath their hand with familiar old-mechanism resistance, but it does turn, and they give the door a quick, incredulous shove. The door swings open with a groan of complaint, and Abbie stares wide-eyed at the interior, their feet frozen to the stoop as the door slows, stops, and then sluggishly rebounds back towards them. It makes it to within a few inches of shutting in Abbie's face before they dart a hand back out and catch it, pushing it open again, this time following its arc and stepping into the Observatory itself.
The foundation doesn't tremble beneath their feet.
"Elizabeth Plater Zybeck hates the sprawl," they murmur. Then, with a desperate little veer off-script: "Hope the ceiling doesn't fall."
It doesn't. Abbie swallows, then clears their throat. If the door was left open, anyone could be in here. Anyone at all. There are no reasonable assumptions to be made. "Hello...?"
no subject
Still, she is a bit startled and more than a little annoyed by the intrusion. Nobody ever thinks to knock. Why would they, she asks herself a touch too bitterly, and resolves not to make her presence known. Not this time. She is in no mood for uninvited guests.
Except the voice doing that quiet muttering and eventual, uncertain greeting is oddly familiar. It sits within her archive of echoes from multiple previous occasions, each of them short and largely impersonal, but memorable all the same. Memorable because it predates Darrow. This is a voice from Mount Absalom.
What?
What?
Still incorporeal and unseen, Norah regards the intruder with vaguely unfounded disbelief, as if it is both too much of a coincidence and too little. She has never entertained the whim that Darrow might one day see fit to bring her a familiar face; never, because imagining the possibility would have been far too painful. And now, she receives this abrupt discovery with as little grace as if she had been wishing all along. She would have wished for Rudy. If it had not been unspeakably cruel to imagine, she might have wished for Wes.
Abbie Douglas is... very little to her. They only met each other once, during which time Abbie saw fit to record statistics about her as though she were little more than some scientific curiosity. Understandable, perhaps even a recognizable impulse; but it did little to foster much of an impression.
But Abbie knows this place, knows her, and Norah is in no position at all to examine the teeth of this questionable gift horse.
She allows herself to materialize at some distance, out of Abbie's light of sight, lest she cause unnecessary alarm. "Abbie?" she says, soft and hesitating, as if she still cannot believe it.
no subject
She looks... they want 'fine' to be the only adjective that matters; they want the simple fact of her presence to outweigh all other variables. But the truth has no concern for sentimental selectivity. Norah is here, yes, but she stands in the outfit she died in. Her level of saturation is consistent with how she looked when Abbie first encountered her. And while she clearly knows them, the expression on her face suggests that surprise is the dominant emotion.
"How... long have you been here?"
no subject
It doesn't seem like Abbie to say obvious things. That they follow with a question is more expected. A sensible question. A practical one. One that Norah would also like to ask.
She has to answer, first. And she has to think about it. What day even is it? Is it June now? She thinks it just became June. She'd prefer to be exact, and a faint feeling of embarrassment keeps her from asking the actual date, so instead she gives the most precise reply she can: "It will be three years on the eleventh of August."
She studies Abbie thoughtfully. She isn't terribly good at noticing things like hair length or clothes. It's difficult to tell how different this Abbie might be from the one she so briefly met. Not that that makes much difference, when Darrow stubbornly operates on its own scale. It is easy to assume Abbie has only just arrived, but she'd expect a little less composure in that case.
How long, then? How long without Norah even knowing there was someone who might... who might know what's happened in her absence?
"And you?" she says as flatly as she can.
no subject
"Since March fourteenth," they answer. These numbers are easier to tally: they've spent two-and-a-half months sharing Darrow with Norah without realizing it. Eleven weeks and two days. They had reason to hypothesize that it wasn't possible — not for Norah or Wes or Tim or any other ghost for which Mount Absalom had a use — but the truth is that they hadn't hypothesized. They hadn't even considered the possibility that Norah might be here, that Mount Absalom Observatory would just be sitting out in the fucking woods.
Should they apologize? Do they owe an apology in this instance?
"We need more data." They pivot away from her, pacing across the floor. "The Observatory looks different than it did when I left it." She looks different. "Do you remember the date that you left Mount Absalom?"
no subject
Not a very long time, on the one hand. An atrociously long time, on the other.
Abbie wishes for more data, as they generally seem to do. Norah watches them pace with a blank expression. How did the Observatory look, she wonders? When they say, 'When I left it,' does that mean they had visited recently? Does it mean they were there when brought here?
One thing is certain: it means that the Observatory is still in Mount Absalom. It exists in two places. And so, too, probably, does she.
"The date," she says slowly, struggling to remember. It was autumn, she knows that. Echoes filter through without her even noticing, as though she were rather literally thinking aloud: soft and subtle noises of the muffled outside world, wind stirring the branches, the delicate clatter of dried leaves along the exterior stone walls and steps. "November," she says. "It was November. I do not recall the date. It was the day Lily Harper ventured down below."
She hesitates. She must say what she means. After so, so long, she must.
"It was the day I told Wes what he was," she says.
no subject
November. Not just before Thanksgiving, but functionally before everything, as far as their... acquaintanceship... is concerned. A dispassionate part of them notes that the dates do not add up: the day Wes disappeared was less than a year ago from their perspective. That probably means something. They can do the math later.
"That was months ago, for me," they hear themself say. "We didn't perceive your disappearance. I've gathered that's normal."
no subject
Norah still hadn't properly allowed herself to imagine that level of time dilation. Why bother? To think she might be wallowing, wasting years here while time stood still or slunk along slowly back home; or worse, some sort of inverse that would leave her with years and years of missed time. No point considering these possibilities, as if the wallowing weren't bad enough.
So it feels like a failure on her part that it catches her off guard now. She hesitates, trying to assess if this changes anything in any meaningful way. She and Abbie are worlds apart either way. Abbie hasn't really missed anything of note; Norah can't even calculate what would be noteworthy to them. Norah has clearly missed a great deal, just in a shorter span than she'd imagined.
"I see," she says eventually, and for a moment she stands stymied, not sure what to ask, if she even should.
But she can't; after so long, answers finally standing before her, she can't. "Is Wes—" she starts, and breaks off abruptly, feeling as though she doesn't deserve to ask it like that. She tries again: "Did he— Was he found?"
Passive voice, as if to neatly revoke the agency of all parties involved. She regrets the question immediately but there's no taking it back and no point agonizing. She knows she'd regret it regardless of the style of asking.