And this ol' world seemed new to me...
Dmitri Lang may be a bit saddened that her prospective new best friend Three Dog won't even return her unsolicited journal messages, but she's a resourceful girl and persistence yields more, if not better, results than spontaneity, so she figures she's going to work out this Chicago Underground thing sooner or later
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Iris doesn't have any reason to recognise Dmitri (and indeed, one reason to specifically not), but she does have one good reason to notice her. It's a world ago since she's seen anyone walking around with a pack like that, and if there was ever anyone who made that same sound when they walked, the clinking of glass against glass, well, she was never fortunate enough to run into them.
She always hoped she would, though.
So she turns in mid-stride, as she's passing her by in the lobby, and pipes up. Hey, she could do with making some more Wanderer, or at least non-angel, friends, if she ever wants to pull herself out of this tailspin. And if this girl's what she looks like-- well, sounds like, at any rate-- then she definitely needs to check in.
"Hey!" she calls, all bright smiles and warmth. "Got a minute? I just couldn't help noticing your pack. I had to stop you, on the offchance we've got another alchemist here."
Well, now Dmitri probably knows who she is, at any rate.
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Dmitri pauses in her bopping inward, tilts her head at Iris, does a little mental arithmetic, and breaks out into a grin. "My corner of the academic world tended more toward the chem-istry than the al-chemi, Reënboog, but I'm always up to learn. You would be the wild Iris, duì bú duì?"
She steps up, offering a hand.
"Dmitri Lang, liminally native to these parts, a scholar and a student, and bearing the one - the only - the traditional - bottles of La Fin Du Monde beer. Care for a drink?"
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It's a few minutes later-- it really isn't far-- when she arrives back, skidding to a halt in front of Dmitri, doubled over and panting. She's got some kind of paper in her hands, but that isn't, actually, the first thing she mentions. The mismatch has clicked in, while she was making the round-trip.
"...Wait, um, you did say Dmitri Lang, right?" There's confusion writ large on her face, because she's never not noticed an angel before, but the space is silent between them. Dmitri's alive, but beyond that, she's not reading the first thing about her. She thinks back to the journals: no, she definitely said she was an Angel of Knowledge, that's why she remembered the paper. So she should read. It's making her want to clean out her ears and rub at her eyes, except the dead sense in question's entirely metaphysical.
So she does the equivalent; pushes her senses out to their limits, which she shouldn't have to, this should be obvious, and yes-- wait-- there's something, just the barest flicker of angel, a pale wisp flitting across the landscape of her mind.
She tilts her head to one side. Interesting. She's never known anyone who could hide from her second sight so well; even Saul can't quite manage that, not with all of his shadows.
"Oh. Oh! Okay," she says with a nod, as if she'd been carrying on a conversation all this time. "Never mind." She lowers her voice and leans in. "You're, um, um, what's the word, incognito, I get it. Just, you're good. Really had me going for a moment there."
She's honestly a little relieved that Dmitri's so good at cloaking. It's a lot easier on her, when she's not being constantly reminded of what she lacks.
And yes, she will be kicking herself for that thought, in time. For all of this, really.
"You said something about a drink?" Not that Iris has ever had beer, but she'll give anything a try once. It's all part of the research.
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At Iris' pronouncement, however, Iris gets a headtilt of her (or Dmitri's) own, right back. "There's one I haven't heard before," she says. "Usually it's more three herds of elephants, half a mile away."
She shrugs off the pack.
"No religious-cultural-moral-personal-or-otherwise-possessing-veto-power injunctions against alcohol, I trust?" she asks, pulling out a bottle. "only met one so far, but best to check. Probably beating the odds there, to be honest."
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She takes a glance at the bottle. "Um, well, where I used to live I'm actually not old enough for this," she admits, a small, sneaky smile curling at the corners of her lips as she air-quotes "old enough". "But you won't tell if I won't, because, heh, it's not like I'm there now. But it always seemed a bit silly... I mean, I make potions with this stuff all the time, right? So it's not like I've never tried alcohol before."
All of which rambling is to say, yes, she'll take some.
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And now back to the paradox at hand.
"Still not sure we're on the same page, parallax," she says. "Gonna need to be more explicit on what form my alleged quietude takes. Certain it can't be orally or aurally; so: metaphysically, psychically, electromagnetically-?"
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She presses the bottle to her lips, and takes a small swig. "Hnnn." Her brows furrow as she tries to puzzle out the flavour, decide what she thinks of it. "That's really weak, but it makes sense. You wouldn't want to drink it straight. What's the other flavours, though? I've never worked with beer, or anything."
She smiles into the taste; a bit bitter, but less than she expected. Interesting. She'll have to dwell on it some more.
"Metaphysically," she says, still with that caught-you grin on her face. "Or psychically. They're sort of the same, aren't they? Normally, an angel would be like... well, like you said. Three herds of elephants." She presses a hand to her heart. "To me. I notice these things. But I can barely feel you at all. I guess with all the wars and stuff lately, though, it's kind of smart of you."
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And then Dmitri blinks, and tilts her head in a new way, scrutinizing Iris with some surprise. "....hhhuh," she breathes. "You got species sensing, or is that a native ability, where you're from?"
She gestures toward the stairs, and starts moving with a jangle and a thin, sidelong smile.
"That's not skill, Glaisean. Happenstance. I'm from-" she jerks her thumb at the wall. "The next Chicago over; cam through the Rift, and ol' Osscy had some fun with me on the way in. Tamped down most of the markers. But I can turn into a serval, now, so it's all good."
Not... actually, no, not really at all. But Dmitri Lang isn't one to mope about things she can't change, and she's had a while to get over any inclination to. The bitterness is another issue, but these days it's like the bite of the beer - there, but part of the package and not as much as you might think, anyway.
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"I'm... well, I'm an alchemist," she says, as if that explains everything. But she knows that it doesn't, not around here, and so elaborates a little more. "I'm used to working with the energies of things. You can't really do alchemy very well, if you don't train yourself to sense what things are, the kind of sense you get from really knowing them, not just looking or touching." She gives a little lopsided smile. "Makes Chicago feel kind of intense. I'm not used to so many supernatural people around."
Her smile fades to a look of curious concentration, though, as Dmitri speaks. Then slides all the way into faint shock. "Wait, the Rift took--" She wants to be sure she's hearing this right. "The Rift took your energy? What?"
Her mind skips right over the serval part-- she doesn't even know what a serval is, actually; imagines it's some kind of golem-- and goes straight to the cold, curling feeling in the pit of her stomach. It's too close to what she feels, herself, for comfort, except the powers are something she never had. But to have all that, then have it taken away....
That can't be what she's saying. No, it can't be. She needs to still her heart, and hear her out.
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"Hath not an angel hands, organs,
dimensions, senses, affections, passions; fed with
the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject
to the same diseases, heal'd by the same means?
"You can kinda dice up what makes a person angel or demon rather than human; the physiological that keeps you whiteblooded or red; the psychological that fixes your mind on a calling; the metaphysical-or-magical that sticks you on the journal network and slips you out of the law f conservation of matter when you need to show or hide your wings. Sure, a set, but look at those things and you've gotta wonder what ties 'em all together. Say they're all angelic, but it's mostly the fact that all those unrelated bits come as an all-or-nothin' package that makes the species easy to define. Like, you can look at a tree and say it's an oak or a cirtus or a larch, but the instant you get a tree dropping acorns and clementines both, give it needles instead of leaves, all your self-evident categories go all to hell."
She shrugs one shoulder.
"I had the whole set back home, but I stepped through the Rift. Now I'm our metaphorical larch: an anomaly on the face of the Earth, to quote Poe. The calling's still there, but the metaphysics have been overwritten to Wanderer and the physiological..."
She shrugs again. There's an itch creeping over he shoulderblades, but she ignores it.
"Fun news, though; the Board of the Sciences ruled that the calling and the heritage were enough to grandfather me in, as I'd never engaged in any of the activities that'd traditionally impel a Fall, so in the limited legality of the Angels of Knowledge, I'm angelic enough to count. Got signed certification and an ID card and all."
In other words, Iris... yeah, that's about what she's saying.
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She's only really hearing Dmitri's words in snippets, the broader framework of it something her mind would normally latch to, but now falling by the wayside in comparison to what's implied. The Rift steals things from people, as well as gives. The Rift can steal that, unmake something so incredible. The Rift can....
"You're not an anomaly," she says, shaking her head. "You're...."
She's not sure what she wants to say, but the words keep coming back to mind, a lot like me. And what's worse, she does feel like an anomaly, which means Dmitri's one too, really. But she isn't sure she would appreciate the comparison. She isn't sure anything she's saying now is appropriate.
"I'm sorry," she says, with a shake of her head. "I shouldn't be asking, I... that's just so. Terrible. Unbelievable. I'm sorry."
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She hops up a couple of stairs, then turns so she's walking backwards up them.
"Beginnings and endings, anyway, and what else is change. 'God is change,' says the blessed Olamina. It's a wonder Earthseed hasn't taken root here. It's the only reliable part of the world, here more than anywhere, and you'd better believe the static parts of the Self and Identity are no exception to that."
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"It's funny," she says. "I believe in heroics, humility. And the Rift-- the idea that it facilitates that, I--" She looks down at the paper in her hand, now sort of crumpled, and gives a weak laugh. "Kind of what I wanted to show you, actually. Was having some thoughts, and I wondered.... Sorry I got sidetracked. I must've just made you feel bad."
She still feels bad. There's a lump in her stomach that keeps rotating. But it's not her pain to hate, to be affronted by. She's trying to keep hold of that.
She holds out the piece of notepaper. Written on it in a neat hand, the margins adorned with doodles of birds, is the following.
Theories on the Nature of Chicago.
The world attached to Chicago has a higher incidence than most worlds I've experienced, and it seems most worlds that its non-native inhabitants have experienced, of dangerous and frightening incidents. (Note from AoK source: that seems to be centred on Chicago specifically.) At the same time, people are coming through to this world at an unknown (to me, get this info) but rapid rate.
Hypotheses to study:
1) What is the direction of causation (if causation exists)? Are more Wanderers causing more conflict (either on a metaphysical or physical level) or are Wanderers appearing because of conflict?
2) Theories on metaphysical nature of Chicago:
a) world-healing theory - Wanderers appear to solve conflict, fight battles. A world in an age of revolution/apocalypse?
b) world-damaging theory - Wanderers placing metaphysical strain on the world, damaging. The Rift needs to be reversed. (What event caused the Rift to open, in that case? Where does m. damage begin?)
c) unknown element theory - Chicago's problems hinge on a third element
i) external element - metaphysical unbalance needs resolving
ii) internal element - people's attitudes to Chicago need resolving? (doesn't explain problems with clear m. origin e.g. monsters)
"...What's an Earthseed?" she asks. The alcohol is slowing her heart rate just enough for her to feel she can shift topics, again.
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"All that you touch
You Change.
All that you Change
Changes you.
The only lasting truth
Is Change.
God
Is Change.
"Has a few adherents, fictional origins or none. Though the largest organized group renamed it SolSeed, for reasons entirely unknown to me."
Pause for a moment while she scans the paper.
...and, done. She grins. "Now, that's interesting," she says. "Traditional analysis places the Rift firmly at the center of any inquiry, not the conflict. Wish I could get you to the Prophet of the Rift; always had it in my books to meet him, but time was mad back then and he passed away before I had the chance. Good questions, though you might be missing a few extra options."
She hands the paper back.
"Causative, cosymptomatic, chimeric. You're also basing it all on the assumpton that conflict is increasing. Consider one data point, though: Chicagoland is one of the very few parts of the world with a codified treaty demanding peace between angels and demons. That's the Old War, the one that's predated history. And it's us, ancient Ifa, Japan... I'm abridging, but the chaos here is still nothing to the stories you hear of the genocides of early Ireland or the Aksumite Empire. What would your hypotheses be if it turned out that the players changed but the themes stayed the same?"
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"God is Change. It's... not really too far from what the alchemists believe. I could like it, it's got a-- cadence, feel. Rightness." She makes an apologetic face, as if none of that's really what she meant. She's scrambling for words for something vaster, deeper. "Just... I'm used to change going forward, I guess. Not this chaos, this tangle." She spreads out her arms, gesturing with the beer bottle as she does so.
If she's sounding a little more florid herself, it's not, actually, the alcohol. Well, it is, but it's only that it's put her a touch more at ease. Florid is the mode Iris naturally defaults to, when her words aren't clipped by stress.
She accepts the paper with her free hand. "There was a prophet?" Oh, now we're speaking her language. That's comfortingly familiar, ancient oracles of sacred wisdom, and for all she says she seeks change, Chicago's pulled the rug out from under her so often lately that for once, she's just craving a stable place to breathe. To forge forward from, because you can't change meaningfully unless you have a direction. And right now, she's being pulled in every direction and none. That's the heart of it, really. She wants change, but not without purpose.
"If the players changed... I'd say it's a symptom of the world. Its basic structure." She takes a more moderate sip of her drink, no longer feeling the need to chug it down so fast, though she is, in fact, a good way through her bottle. "You say it's been said to be Rift-related, but then... were the Rifts bigger and more frequent, out there? If this is the more peaceful place in fact, then whatever's here-- that's a positive, almost, not a negative. A stabilising force, even."
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Dmitri is leading Iris back toward the lounge she made, what seems so very long ago. They pass one wanderer, wandering about - Dmitri gives her a little wave, and she gives a little wave back, though not without staring at Dmi like she's not sure where (or if) she knows her from.
"The Prophet of the Rift," Dmitri says. "A nephilim - naphil, rather, though you don't catch many people using that term these days. Just like Wanderer's succeeded Riftcomer to refer to people like us. Nephilim are the rarest species you're liable to run into, if you run into them at all; they're born to an angel and a demon, and the old blood fueds and mistrusts mean that almost never happens. And they don't tend to live long. For most, the competing biological heritages tear them apart before they reach fifty. But they can sense and manipulate the Rift itself."
She pulls open the door to the lounge and grins - no one's using it, apparently, at this particular moment, and it's still there in all its thrift-store glory, mismatched couches and a pile of blankets in the corner and an old TV and oversized stuffed animals perched here and there. She steps in, puts her bag down, and flops onto a plush alligator significantly larger than her torso.
"The Rifts in Chicago are larger, more numerous, and more active than anywhere else in the globe," she says. "Which might account for why we get so much attention. For a while it seemed like the major angel and demon families would both stay at arms' length - ask me about Romana Angelos and Luther, sometime - but that's coming apart now, if rumour has it right."
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