From Ruin - [3/??] - Alpha Dave + Alpha RoseundersaffireskyMay 5 2012, 01:42:29 UTC
-(ø)-
Rose first meets Dave by coincidence. Well, not entirely by coincidence. Rose has come to terms with the fact that very few things that happen in the world are completely coincidental.
She has seen Dave before, in the imprints of colored light that often blaze behind her eyes, in the flickering embers of insight that come to her when she searches for the right path, weighing her options like they were piles of coins on opposite ends of a balancing scale.
It’s an ability that took her years to make sense of and control with some degree of mastery, because in this universe she has no mentor to manipulate and guide her. All she has is herself and her intuition coupled with a penchant for experimenting with the dubious and the occult-interests that are best kept confined to books and out reality’s reach, not so much because believing in such things would make her crazy, or because such flights of indulgent fantasy aren’t real, but because they are dangerous.
(But that has never once stopped Rose Lalonde from pursuing anything.)
And so Rose has learned to embrace what has always been hers, and trust in what the lights and the voices and the careful nudges of preternatural intuition tell her.
And it has guided her (and only because she allowed it) to this young man in front of her. She knows him, in her own way. She knows his name because he told her-or will tell her in a matter what can only be moments in the hourglass. She knows much more about him because she has done her research. She knows that he grew up like her, without a family, through reasons that were no fault of his own. It was never because he was ever unwanted or unneeded by anyone in life, just like how it was never about her never being good enough for a family: it’s just how the cards of an apathetic universe fell.
She’s also well aware that his eyes are red and that he always wears sunglasses. She’s read his comics, five volumes of which have all ready been published with the rumor of a film in the making, and they are ever growing in both popularity and notoriety. This is mostly because the people of the world do not yet know what to make of Dave Strider. She doesn’t blame them. She was curious once, too.
Perhaps with enough effort she could figure out why he is here now in New York, but she doesn’t depend on her sixth sense for everything, as such knowledge is often vague and frustrating, like a gift wrapped up in layers of paper and duct tape and boxes obscuring its shape.
He’s dressed in a suit, wearing the same sunglasses she would never imagine him doing without, taking photos with an moderately expensive-looking camera. People nearly bump into him as he paces around the sidewalk, and by the time he’s stopped moving a few do. Their general reactions, however, are almost all the same: nothing. Most don’t bother to give him a second glance or say a word in anger or apology. They’re all preoccupied with other business, after all, minds tucked safely away in the dark red bands encircling their foreheads, in the red chokers around their necks that masquerade as fashionable necklaces but seem more like collars, or sometimes in the touchscreen watches with large faces that do more than just tell the time.
Rose first meets Dave by coincidence. Well, not entirely by coincidence. Rose has come to terms with the fact that very few things that happen in the world are completely coincidental.
She has seen Dave before, in the imprints of colored light that often blaze behind her eyes, in the flickering embers of insight that come to her when she searches for the right path, weighing her options like they were piles of coins on opposite ends of a balancing scale.
It’s an ability that took her years to make sense of and control with some degree of mastery, because in this universe she has no mentor to manipulate and guide her. All she has is herself and her intuition coupled with a penchant for experimenting with the dubious and the occult-interests that are best kept confined to books and out reality’s reach, not so much because believing in such things would make her crazy, or because such flights of indulgent fantasy aren’t real, but because they are dangerous.
(But that has never once stopped Rose Lalonde from pursuing anything.)
And so Rose has learned to embrace what has always been hers, and trust in what the lights and the voices and the careful nudges of preternatural intuition tell her.
And it has guided her (and only because she allowed it) to this young man in front of her. She knows him, in her own way. She knows his name because he told her-or will tell her in a matter what can only be moments in the hourglass. She knows much more about him because she has done her research. She knows that he grew up like her, without a family, through reasons that were no fault of his own. It was never because he was ever unwanted or unneeded by anyone in life, just like how it was never about her never being good enough for a family: it’s just how the cards of an apathetic universe fell.
She’s also well aware that his eyes are red and that he always wears sunglasses. She’s read his comics, five volumes of which have all ready been published with the rumor of a film in the making, and they are ever growing in both popularity and notoriety. This is mostly because the people of the world do not yet know what to make of Dave Strider. She doesn’t blame them. She was curious once, too.
Perhaps with enough effort she could figure out why he is here now in New York, but she doesn’t depend on her sixth sense for everything, as such knowledge is often vague and frustrating, like a gift wrapped up in layers of paper and duct tape and boxes obscuring its shape.
He’s dressed in a suit, wearing the same sunglasses she would never imagine him doing without, taking photos with an moderately expensive-looking camera. People nearly bump into him as he paces around the sidewalk, and by the time he’s stopped moving a few do. Their general reactions, however, are almost all the same: nothing. Most don’t bother to give him a second glance or say a word in anger or apology. They’re all preoccupied with other business, after all, minds tucked safely away in the dark red bands encircling their foreheads, in the red chokers around their necks that masquerade as fashionable necklaces but seem more like collars, or sometimes in the touchscreen watches with large faces that do more than just tell the time.
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