( Please don't call him cute, Nathan. He'll die a little on the inside. He's going for something along the lines of, like, sexy. Strikingly handsome. "Probably won't show up stoned on a first date". You know, that kind of vibe.
The last time he went on an actual serious first date was probably in his undergrad years. Everything else, he thinks, was done casually or coincidentally. Totally doesn't count. )
You're hilarious.
( Returned brightly, enthusiasm not even remotely snuffed. Breaking and entering round two: locked maintenance closets mean absolutely nothing to Master Thief Ian Fowler, take notes Drake.
As it so happens, what he's going for in the maintenance closet is actually the breaker box. He pops it open, skims the switches, and then starts shoving them over one at a time with a satisfying snap. Outside the closet, the entire lobby changes. From dull and unremarkable to brightly lit and colorful, complete with the electric hum of descending stairs and opening future-doors.
When they step out, the far wall has New Amsterdam Museum of Architecture proudly declared upon it. )
Ta-daaaa.
( Behold his triumph. If he seems smug, it's only because he is. )
They use projections for, like, seventy-five percent of everything in here so... maybe don't go trying to walk through any doors. They're probably totally walls.
[ Should have called the breaker box situation, but he's already slightly off-kilter by virtue of the fact that this is a date, he's on a date, and he should be acting some kind of way, he thinks, but it's been so long that Nate doesn't know how to act and so he takes each subsequently illuminating second in stride. Lights hit the perimeter first, spilling in through the glass panes, followed by flickers of LEDs in vibrant, gradient patterns. Each section switches on with the visible slam of a carnival lighting up for the evening and the projectors rotate, shifting, painting places from another time on the interior walls.
Softly, bordering on reverent: ]
...whoa.
[ Almost immediately Nate pulls away in distraction, a moth to the flame, sucking down virtual tourism as a means of staunching the bleed he's felt since he first arrived in this concrete jungle. A digital archive of a thousand styles and conventions, spread out over a blank canvas.
The sudden urge to explore is overwhelming, and like a kid shown into the candy store he turns sharply for confirmation, looking to Ian with surprise and delight. ]
( That is the ideal reaction, right there. That rapt interest is exactly what he was hoping for, and they're still in the fucking lobby. It doesn't hold a candle to some of the historical and cultural exhibits along the path ahead, and... yeah, granted odds are good Nate might know a hell of a lot more about them than Ian does, but abysmally mansplaining history isn't the route he plans on taking. It's about the displays. He's kind of banking on that being enough to nail it.
And yeah, he's gonna look self-satisfied the entire time.
He gestures easily toward the stairs, the universal gesture for go ahead, knock yourself out. )
Yep. It's closed down because of the...
( Vague shrug. You know, the everything going on right now. Shouldn't be a soul in the place. If he's wrong and there's an unsuspecting janitor, well, they'll cross that bridge when they come to it.
Possibly literally. There are bridges.
Fake bridges. Holographic bridges. They look and feel real as hell, though, provided you don't try and jump off of one. You'll just land on solid floor and get a weird sense of vertigo over the fact that you're not falling.
Circular stairs transition as they pass under the floor, and the place it leads isn't nearly as big as it looks. It does have a few branching doorways at perfect intervals along the walls, though, so Nate can get his labyrinthian rocks off picking a direction. )
[ It doesn't escape him that Ian chose this place for a reason. Indulging Nate's love for the places he can't visit anymore, maybe, or just thinking that a more artsy venue would be right up his alley. Normal museums built as temples to the modern are places he veers away from out of sheer disinterest, but there's something hollowly fascinating about the projected worlds on the walls, the way the crisscrossing stairs dip down into the earth like an old stepwell, the time and effort someone put into making whatever this place was intended to be.
A "museum of architecture," he knows. But it's not, really. It's a catalogue, interpretations made by people from another time with no real concept of the eras before their own that they lost. History isn't revered in this world so much as it is reviled and without intending to, they constructed a database of visual memories bereft of context.
Which is just fine for him, with all the context he needs. ]
Jesus, who the Hell built this place, M.C. Escher?
[ He picks his way down a row of doors and in true Drake fashion, chooses one at random. A short, narrow hall of smooth metallic siding opens up into another projection, colored light streaming in from windows that aren't really there, dappling rugs that aren't there either. It still bends around his skin, would feel almost warm if not for the complete lack of active central heating in this place. ]
...This is Nasir al-Mulk, in Shiraz.
[ Nate says before his HUD even has the chance to register the signature from the room's projectors. ]
They believed God was a source of light, physical representations were like welcoming Him. [ He chatters amiably, half to Ian, half to no one in particular, feeling along a smooth wall with one hand and watching the projection splay over his knuckles. ] I never got to- I haven't been here.
( If it weren't for the (hologram) plaques on the walls, Ian wouldn't know anything about most of the exhibits in this place. A few of the 21st century displays, sure. Maybe a few that are more relevant to his field. Anything farther back than 1950 is hit or miss.
This is actually another perk. He was banking on Nate knowing about at least a few, and after that trip to Tibet he'd be lying if he said he wasn't excited for another opportunity to hear Nate ramble through a history lesson or two.
He's appropriately reverent as he settles into place just a little ways off from Nate's side, hands tucked in his pockets, attention split evenly between the environment and Nate's expression.
He's not sure if he ought to feel sad Nate never got the chance to visit it, or glad that he gets to see a version of it now. )
I guess they might be pretty happy about this, then.
( Ventured almost like a question despite the lack of upward inflection. )
I mean, if they had to fall at all... getting recreated as a source of light...
( Kind of seems fitting, right? A little bit like inadvertently honoring them. )
[ He says distantly, and he can very nearly feel the cool stone under his hand, conjuring an image of a place he's never been, smells and sounds he can only infer through what little he knows. The call to prayer, the soft pad of feet on the rug-covered floors, the way tiny motes of dust float lazily through beams of bright, unfettered light.
They might think it a holy thing, to have the hall built of projected colors. They might think it's blasphemous. Hard to tell when his own childhood was as Catholic as the Vatican on Christmas Eve.
Nate's gaze drifts over to Ian, whose divided attention is more than a little apparent. ]
...it's sort of weird, isn't it? [ The images around them seem to shudder, and the walls are suddenly shades of white and ivory and yellowish gray, tinged pink with a warm sun. The Erechtheion in Athens. ] How little this world seems to have any kind of relationship with religion that isn't a cult. I'm not- like, religious myself, it's just culturally weird. Like collective amnesia. You'd think there would be New Protestants, or Jehovah's Other Witnesses, or Mormons 2.
( He volunteers, the natural follow up to Mormons 2 of course. If he doesn't get that reference Ian's going to look like a fucking moron, so he's just gonna... glide on past that and not let it linger. )
It's pretty odd. You'd think as long as what happens after death is arguably a mystery there'd be a religion meant to comfort people over it.
( He's far from religious himself; of all the reasons for it, that would be the primary draw for Ian. He's an unabashed coward, though, and his fear of death is a prime motivator. The reason for life or destiny or whatever isn't so much on his radar. He doesn't have any burning need to believe all things happen for a reason, or that there's a higher power looking out for mankind.
It would be nice to think his mom is somewhere out there still. Shame he's too logical to buy into it. )
I don't know, maybe these... whatever they are that we're calling gods are the jealous type.
( An offhand theory tossed out with a shrug. )
Maybe they actively snuffed it out with... divine intervention or something.
[ He doesn't sound convinced. Nate doesn't believe in God so much as in some higher power, but even his time in Hadriel challenged that. The "gods" there were flawed, powerful reality-shaping entities that allowed the term applied to them because it seemed to make sense, and because their relationship with the previous inhabitants worked within the constraints of that dynamic. ]
I think I prefer it when they're flawed, you know. Like with the Greeks.
[ One hand rises and falls in a gesture toward the caryatids of the southern porch, images no doubt taken and recreated from a time closer to his own. With World War III in the mix Nate doubts a lot of cultural heritage survived the conflict. ]
Bunch of assholes with the same problems as the rest of us. Omniscience and omnipotence is so cheap. Who does it reassure if it's not actually acted on?
[ Also, who wouldn't want to party with Dionysus? ]
...sorry, I know this isn't what we- can you tell I grew up in a Catholic orphanage?
( Laughter probably isn't the appropriate response here; to his credit it's maintained at a quiet, breathy chuckle. It's not over the topic of conversation, so much as it is Nate's own self-consciousness about it. )
I can see some of the roots shining through, yeah.
( Amiably, but without judgment. Happy to concede to Nate's self assessment.
Maybe some people would get hung up on it not being your expected first date material subject, but he really wouldn't trade it for vapid bullshit. Interesting and complex beats out so what do you do in your free time — or whatever the fuck people are supposed to talk about — by a mile. Besides, it feels like they've known each other forever at this point. That's only half true, he knows, but in any case it doesn't feel all that different from the time they'd spend together before this, just hanging out.
Nicer shirts and more anxious nerves, maybe, but aside from that.
The point is: don't censor yourself to meet weird unspoken expectations, dude. He's with you. )
Anyway, one time this pissed off old lady in a grocery store spent twenty minutes telling me I was going to hell because my best friend Dusty got stoned and pierced my ear, so I guess you could say I'm a total expert on religious theology. Everything you're saying... one hundred percent tracks with the scrolls.
( A beat. )
I'm assuming there are scrolls. Just. In general, regardless of the pantheon.
[ He says softly, knowingly. It explains nothing, just adds another bit of pattern to the tapestry woven about Ian's life, teenage years packaged with bits of authoritarian refutation, a desire to be someone without knowing who that someone is yet. There's no earring now, he's noticed, but probably because something got infected or he decided his college interview needed to be more professional and then forgot to put it back afterward. ]
Yeah, you're definitely going to Hell for that. Good news is, you'll be in good company.
[ He swivels around on the balls of his feet, toward Ian, knocking shoulders gently. ]
( Nate is absolutely right; that earring was a spur of the moment intoxicated decision which they accomplished using a safety in and, for some reason, an apple. It got infected, his mother rolled her eyes at him, he took it out and it closed up within a week or two. As it turns out even Teen Ian was not an earring guy.
His lips quirk up involuntarily at the nudge to his shoulder, and while he has plenty of opinions on why exactly Nate won't be joining them in Hell, he'll save them for later. )
I didn't explore the whole thing, I didn't wanna ruin the novelty, but... Out of the ones I've seen?
( A little nod of his head toward the doorway; c'mon. They double back so he can steer them through another passage two doors down. It transitions from sunshine and stone to a gradual aquatic blue, sunlight reflecting off water dancing on the ceiling. It's one of the largerexhibits, and depending on your perspective, maybe the least visually appealing. He likes it anyway, not because of the aquatic theme that might possibly appeal to Mr. Salvage Diver.
It's the spectacular marvel of failed flawless engineering, the sunken remains of the Titanic. )
It had three engines. Two four-cylinder steam engines and one low pressure Parsons turbine. The four-cylinders were sixty three feet and they each weighed more than seven hundred tons. A hundred and fifty nine coal furnaces. It was kind of genius, actually. The combination required way less fuel for way more power than just using one or the other. The whole ship's design and execution was actually perfect. No faults. No flaws. In the end, that didn't matter in the fucking slightest.
( Maybe he sounds a little too upbeat about that considering the less than optimistic conclusion in his tangent, but... it's kind of a lesson. It makes a profound point, if you think about it.
Like two idiots on a cliff in the rain, sometimes problems are just completely out of your hands. )
[ Nate recognizes it immediately, like spotting an old friend in a crowd.
The first hollow, rusted-out and seawater-eaten passage emerges from the blue and he knows, remembers voraciously poring over the articles and interviews, wishing he were on a professional enough level to warrant that kind of involvement in discovery. As with most of the lost wrecks, lost cities, that he reads about, Nate felt - feels - that hideous impulse to chase them down, still wars with need versus want. It's made life difficult but rich in people, in associations. Hard to let it go when you've become accustomed to the comfort of the known.
This feels comforting. Not underwater, cushioned by crushing pressure, but the rippling light that feels so familiar, the surroundings unobscured by the bubbles of a diver's exhale or the shift of a remote-controlled submersible. His gaze trails over the empty hologram of an old balustrade on the port side, rich blue descending into inky black, and settles on Ian's face as he talks.
It's not an easy thing, to keep from smiling. It's just- his tone. The inflection. The excitement bleeding into his voice as he describes the mechanical systems of a ship that's probably nothing more than trace fragments of iron on the ocean floor of the Atlantic.
Affection of this caliber is an odd sensation to feel after everything that's happened, but it certainly isn't something he thinks himself capable of picking up and packing away. Not when Ian's eyes light up like that.
Nate's expression slants for the sly when he wryly adds: ]
( An act of God. He's more than a little amused and pleased by how things sweep full-circle. It's always cool when there's accidentally a running theme to touch on, like a neater version of an inside joke. )
Sure.
( Could be, could very well be. Alternatively — )
Or an act of hubris. Captain Smith got maybe a dozen ice field warnings, but he never slowed down. Kept on at 22 knots. Somebody dropped the ball, one little lapse in communication caused damage so irreparable not even the built-in safety mechanisms were enough.
( He wanders over to stand at the edge of the gaping hole leading to pitch black. It isn't real, there's no need to stop two or three inches short, there's just more floor where it seems to drop off. It's subconscious, human nature. )
Maybe this whole thing is just history repeating. Humanity thinking too highly of itself for a while, abandoning reverence for things that are bigger than what they can really understand. Maybe acting like we've got it all figured out, skipping out on religion for a while because they've been worshipping themselves. Then something comes along to sink the unsinkable. Put us back in our place.
( You know, get all arrogant and try to use an entity unknowable and powerful enough to be considered a god — then proceed to fuck it up to unbelievable heights and ruin thousands of lives in the process.
It's a maudlin concept, and he quickly punctuates the monologue with a light quip laced with a touch of self-mockery. )
Great, now I'm doing it.
( Throwing out arguably terrible first date talk. )
[ Nate meanders over to the "edge," catching the details in the rendering. He can almost hear the dull, water-muted scrape of metal on metal, can perfectly imagine the soft give of rotting wood and dull click of glass, of tile. Would it have been better to sink in anoxic depths, or worse? At what point does the ship stop being a ship, a grave, and start being a projection of nothing at all?
Something about standing in a building dedicated to the wan shadows of the architecture of yesteryear certainly has its hooks in deep, the enjoyment of one view shifted, altered, blown into proportions of the room they're in, before being replaced by another. A rotating album for a dead world.
Grisly and a little macabre, a leaf out of Odysseus' own book. ]
No, no, I like getting existential on first dates. [ He says lightly, rocking on the balls of his feet. ] Really makes the anxiety cosmic instead of localized.
[ Nate's shoulders rise and fall in a gentle shrug, his voice soft. Not distant, not faraway, just remembering. ]
History's always going to repeat itself, Ian. It's not a matter of if, but when. And whether we can learn to live with it or challenge it, whether we can make our own paths. [ A beat, then more quietly: ] For what it's worth, I'm glad you're here.
( There's a lot he could say about history repeating itself, about what it means for them. He doesn't, because he's been trying to blank out the slate as much as possible -- not to erase the life they lived in the aerie so much as just... temporarily shelve it. Draw a little from Kyna's wisdom and a little bit of his own, now that he's had time to think about it.
It's been rolling around in his mind that maybe he'd like it if they could work based solely on the original version. If the two of them could be something without external influence, without the shortcut of another set of memories layered over the other halves of themselves to lay a ground work, like bumper rails keeping them out of the gutter. He wants to see if the dumb kid from Weaverville matches up with the dumb kid from -- what, like everywhere in South America?
He really doesn't plan on invalidating the Aerie. It still feels real to him down to the bone, and it's still something he'll wind up wearing off and on without even realizing it, like a well-fitted sweater. It's a temporary compartmentalization for the sake of trying to do something the right way.
If there's such thing as a right way. Jesus Christ, life keeps getting progressively weirder and harder to neatly define.
In any case: I'm glad you're here.
It earns a soft smile, small and genuine, eyes dropping back down to the sea floor automatically. He drags them back up again after a beat, and sways in place just a little to gently bump Nate's shoulder with his. )
Me too.
( He means that in both possible interpretations. Me too, I'm glad I'm here and me too, I'm glad you're here. This place kind of saved them both, and while he's definitely not selfish enough to be glad Nate's fucking dead, he is glad it seems like he plans on staying here if the Displaced ever find a way to go home. It opens up stupidly optimistic possibilities that he otherwise wouldn't even consider.
A hand comes up to absently scratch at the back of his neck, one of those universal faintly awkward gestures that comes from somebody a little embarrassed about what they're saying. )
And I know it's stupid, this whole... official date thing. I mean, we're not fucking kids, this isn't... High school or a romcom or whatever. I just kinda thought...
( His hand drops away from the back of his neck, drifts toward his pocket to the rhythm of a (deliberately) casual, absent shrug. )
I don't know, it's nice to have something... personal, you know what I mean? Everything's so fucking huge lately, it's all this... enormous godly scale, thinking about a hundred people collectively, every decision feels like practically life or death sometimes. I kind of wanted to take the night off. Zoom back in to a micro level and remember that we're allowed to focus on actually living life once and a while. Make it so the biggest decision to stress over today was what fucking shirt to wear.
( And he genuinely, genuinely doesn't know if any of that makes sense, but... there you go. That's what's going on in his head. )
[ It's difficult, not starting from scratch. At the back of his mind Nate knows he's always going to be thinking about it in these terms, with these conditions, with caveats attached to another world and another life. A desire to avoid being presumptuous about what this is and how he's balancing it with the shit show that is the rest of his afterlife.
He's seconds away from pointing out that he never went to high school, so no worries, but Ian interjects further and Nate's mouth shuts with a dull click, waiting out the storm of conflicting emotions.
It's a sentiment Nate strongly identifies with and, more than that, something he regrets he didn't recognize sooner before he decided to take a deep dive into accidental existentialism. He's so unbelievably tired of carrying the big things around day in and day out, every twenty-four hours depositing some new horror on their collective doorstep. The problems are regional. Global.
And he's tired. Watching Ian in the periphery, he recognizes an old tell for discomfort, the forced coolness with which he sidesteps the emotion as soon as it rises to the surface.
God, he's good at that. ]
No, I- I get it. Sometimes I wish I had problems like "oh crap, I lost my wallet" instead of "oh crap, time for another interdimensional vortex to swallow us whole".
[ Something he thinks they all might relate to, one way or another. He didn't mean to bring them to this point, but recognizing what's top of mind is the first step in learning how to avoid dwelling on it the way they're being trained to. ]
So...thank you. [ A little lighter, less burdened. ] For giving me the opportunity to agonize over what I'm wearing.
( It's not even that he's rebuking the conversation; it's interesting, it feels more philosophical than like tangible problem solving. They're not digging into logistics desperately searching for a real answer, not chasing a solution, not putting themselves on a timeline and injecting any sense of urgency. Not bitterly fighting to be heard without being misconstrued to an audience of their peers. Melancholy as parts of it might be, even being this far removed from their daily oppressing problems is an improvement.
This is good, is what he means. Right now, what they're doing, it's good. Judging by Nate's answer, it seems like he's been largely successful.
He puffs out a breath of a laugh around lost my wallet — in part because that's one of those ancient previous-life normal problems he's actually forgotten about entirely. When you don't carry pictures of anyone you love, there's absolutely no reason to carry a wallet through the apocalypse.
His eyes peel away from what he's officially dubbing "the existential crisis hole" to instead fix Nate with a distinctly, deliberately (for him, anyway; Ian the Ever Mild) playful look. )
Yeah, make sure you thank whoever painted that shirt on for you, by the way. Hope you tipped 'em, the economy's rough right now.
[ It's hugely relieving to not have to delve into fixing the issues, when he can postulate around them instead without having someone shout him down about it, but more than that it's nice to be in a museum. To look at places that used to be, the relics of the culture's to which they used to belong. To not be forced to think about the ever-present threat to his previously-nonexistent social status, the way he so often has to now when he steps outside.
Just people enjoying each other's company. ]
Really? You wanna go there?
[ For the most part. Ian is nothing if not predictable in the sheer delight he takes poking fun at Nate's pecs. ]
I think it looks- hey, I mean, my chest is covered-
( Yeah, he doesn't even try to hide that delight. It's there in a beaming grin and the settling of his thumbs in his pockets, elbows sticking out behind him, shoulders loose and low. Easy pleasure incarnate, and all it takes is getting a reaction out of him. )
You gotta be breaking out in hives over that.
( He's not thinking about the Aerie. About how it might play a factor into Nate's wardrobe choices. They haven't talked about it much, not in any real depth. Enough to acknowledge it and its importance, enough for an understanding, but the nuances like that...
Probably for some time when they're alone and they're past dancing around things. For now, it's just a light call back to months ago in a bar before things got complex. )
I'll have you know I used to wear crew-necks all the time, thank you.
[ There is something pure and engaging about being ragged on for his choice in shirt even when he's wearing the right thing - logistically and for his current comfort level - so as per his usual Nate takes it in stride and waves Ian off and decidedly does not linger on how delighted he looks.
Nate gestures futilely at himself, at nothing in particular. ]
Mostly- for work, but it's just more comfortable to not- all right, seriously, stop making that face-
What face? I'm not making a face. This is just my face.
( He says, while maintaining the face. It's that slow-casual I'm so full of shit drawl. It's a lie in words alone, with neither tone nor effort making any attempt to sell it.
Go ahead, man. Keep 'em coming. The more excuses he hears the funnier he finds it.
Laughing in the wreck of the Titanic. If this were the real thing, oxygen aside, it would be grounds for getting haunted by like forty ghosts minimum. )
[ Nate doesn't mind getting razzed or roasted or picked at about the stuff he's been razzed, roasted, and picked at for over a decade, but honestly, sometimes people could use fresher material. There's only so many times a guy can have his chest winked at with a little elbow nudge before he wonders whether his other body parts are worth mocking in equal measure with just as much enthusiasm. He rolls his eyes and genteelly steps around Ian. ]
Okay, well, this has been fun, but I'm gonna find the next room-
[ He says mid-stride with unmistakable confidence, reaching for one of the hatch doors from the deck to the "interior" of the ship, arm colliding with solid concrete with a muted thud. Nate pauses, mouth thin, and turns on his heel again to impart his newfound wisdom with the air of a man didn't just walk into a wall. ]
...That's not a real door.
[ He informs him politely, as though remarking on the weather, and walks past Ian in the other direction to a hatch that does (thankfully) open. ]
( Ian, the honorable and supportive date that he is, knows that is not a real door. He knows, and he says absolutely nothing, just watches with the kind of rapt and giddy excitement that comes with knowing you're about to see something hilarious.
And he's right.
Have you ever laughed so hard it just sounded like snakes?
It might genuinely sound like Nate's being followed by a bunch of cobras with flat tires as he follows blindly out, head thrown back, eyes unstoppably squeezed shut, arms winding around his own middle. Is it rude to flat out laugh at your date? Yes, probably very. If it's any consolation, he's not cruel about it. It's good-natured, it's just...
Fucking great, is all. )
I am--
( Started and stopped because he can't keep his voice steady long enough to finish; I am so happy about everything happening right now. Thank you for this gift and blessing, Nate. )
[ Nate is no stranger to being an object of ridicule. It is, in fact, a comfortable place in many respects, because it means people underestimate him. They don't fully see beyond the funny bit, except in this case Ian has already seen a great deal of that, so it itches a little more than it normally would because he just managed to look like a complete moron in front of the guy who asked him on a date.
Awesome, hitting all sixes tonight, really smooth, Nate. ]
Yeah, yeah, get it out of your system.
[ He grouses, but there's little to no vitriol in it as he leads the way through another narrow corridor while Ian hisses laughter behind him. ]
( A quickly rolling promise his hands coming up into a lovely and earnest surrender. The laughter still lingers around his eyes, but he manages to school down the rest of it. Yeah, maybe he feels a little bad for it. Just a tiny touch guilty.
He catches up, falling into step and nudging Nate gently with one shoulder. It's okay, man. If it's any consolation, he looked good as hell walking into that wall. )
C'mon, I got one more thing I wanna show you. After this it's a mystery.
( They breeze past a T intersection, ignoring the faint sound of a train whistle — god only knows what the hell's in there — and he hangs a left. The room opens up to a courtyard. )
It's real. Just in case you wanted to see something... not fake.
( A lame finish, but at least he's not the one that walked into a door.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
The last time he went on an actual serious first date was probably in his undergrad years. Everything else, he thinks, was done casually or coincidentally. Totally doesn't count. )
You're hilarious.
( Returned brightly, enthusiasm not even remotely snuffed. Breaking and entering round two: locked maintenance closets mean absolutely nothing to Master Thief Ian Fowler, take notes Drake.
As it so happens, what he's going for in the maintenance closet is actually the breaker box. He pops it open, skims the switches, and then starts shoving them over one at a time with a satisfying snap. Outside the closet, the entire lobby changes. From dull and unremarkable to brightly lit and colorful, complete with the electric hum of descending stairs and opening future-doors.
When they step out, the far wall has New Amsterdam Museum of Architecture proudly declared upon it. )
Ta-daaaa.
( Behold his triumph. If he seems smug, it's only because he is. )
They use projections for, like, seventy-five percent of everything in here so... maybe don't go trying to walk through any doors. They're probably totally walls.
no subject
Softly, bordering on reverent: ]
...whoa.
[ Almost immediately Nate pulls away in distraction, a moth to the flame, sucking down virtual tourism as a means of staunching the bleed he's felt since he first arrived in this concrete jungle. A digital archive of a thousand styles and conventions, spread out over a blank canvas.
The sudden urge to explore is overwhelming, and like a kid shown into the candy store he turns sharply for confirmation, looking to Ian with surprise and delight. ]
Do we have free rein?
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And yeah, he's gonna look self-satisfied the entire time.
He gestures easily toward the stairs, the universal gesture for go ahead, knock yourself out. )
Yep. It's closed down because of the...
( Vague shrug. You know, the everything going on right now. Shouldn't be a soul in the place. If he's wrong and there's an unsuspecting janitor, well, they'll cross that bridge when they come to it.
Possibly literally. There are bridges.
Fake bridges. Holographic bridges. They look and feel real as hell, though, provided you don't try and jump off of one. You'll just land on solid floor and get a weird sense of vertigo over the fact that you're not falling.
Circular stairs transition as they pass under the floor, and the place it leads isn't nearly as big as it looks. It does have a few branching doorways at perfect intervals along the walls, though, so Nate can get his labyrinthian rocks off picking a direction. )
no subject
A "museum of architecture," he knows. But it's not, really. It's a catalogue, interpretations made by people from another time with no real concept of the eras before their own that they lost. History isn't revered in this world so much as it is reviled and without intending to, they constructed a database of visual memories bereft of context.
Which is just fine for him, with all the context he needs. ]
Jesus, who the Hell built this place, M.C. Escher?
[ He picks his way down a row of doors and in true Drake fashion, chooses one at random. A short, narrow hall of smooth metallic siding opens up into another projection, colored light streaming in from windows that aren't really there, dappling rugs that aren't there either. It still bends around his skin, would feel almost warm if not for the complete lack of active central heating in this place. ]
...This is Nasir al-Mulk, in Shiraz.
[ Nate says before his HUD even has the chance to register the signature from the room's projectors. ]
They believed God was a source of light, physical representations were like welcoming Him. [ He chatters amiably, half to Ian, half to no one in particular, feeling along a smooth wall with one hand and watching the projection splay over his knuckles. ] I never got to- I haven't been here.
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This is actually another perk. He was banking on Nate knowing about at least a few, and after that trip to Tibet he'd be lying if he said he wasn't excited for another opportunity to hear Nate ramble through a history lesson or two.
He's appropriately reverent as he settles into place just a little ways off from Nate's side, hands tucked in his pockets, attention split evenly between the environment and Nate's expression.
He's not sure if he ought to feel sad Nate never got the chance to visit it, or glad that he gets to see a version of it now. )
I guess they might be pretty happy about this, then.
( Ventured almost like a question despite the lack of upward inflection. )
I mean, if they had to fall at all... getting recreated as a source of light...
( Kind of seems fitting, right? A little bit like inadvertently honoring them. )
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[ He says distantly, and he can very nearly feel the cool stone under his hand, conjuring an image of a place he's never been, smells and sounds he can only infer through what little he knows. The call to prayer, the soft pad of feet on the rug-covered floors, the way tiny motes of dust float lazily through beams of bright, unfettered light.
They might think it a holy thing, to have the hall built of projected colors. They might think it's blasphemous. Hard to tell when his own childhood was as Catholic as the Vatican on Christmas Eve.
Nate's gaze drifts over to Ian, whose divided attention is more than a little apparent. ]
...it's sort of weird, isn't it? [ The images around them seem to shudder, and the walls are suddenly shades of white and ivory and yellowish gray, tinged pink with a warm sun. The Erechtheion in Athens. ] How little this world seems to have any kind of relationship with religion that isn't a cult. I'm not- like, religious myself, it's just culturally weird. Like collective amnesia. You'd think there would be New Protestants, or Jehovah's Other Witnesses, or Mormons 2.
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( He volunteers, the natural follow up to Mormons 2 of course. If he doesn't get that reference Ian's going to look like a fucking moron, so he's just gonna... glide on past that and not let it linger. )
It's pretty odd. You'd think as long as what happens after death is arguably a mystery there'd be a religion meant to comfort people over it.
( He's far from religious himself; of all the reasons for it, that would be the primary draw for Ian. He's an unabashed coward, though, and his fear of death is a prime motivator. The reason for life or destiny or whatever isn't so much on his radar. He doesn't have any burning need to believe all things happen for a reason, or that there's a higher power looking out for mankind.
It would be nice to think his mom is somewhere out there still. Shame he's too logical to buy into it. )
I don't know, maybe these... whatever they are that we're calling gods are the jealous type.
( An offhand theory tossed out with a shrug. )
Maybe they actively snuffed it out with... divine intervention or something.
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[ He doesn't sound convinced. Nate doesn't believe in God so much as in some higher power, but even his time in Hadriel challenged that. The "gods" there were flawed, powerful reality-shaping entities that allowed the term applied to them because it seemed to make sense, and because their relationship with the previous inhabitants worked within the constraints of that dynamic. ]
I think I prefer it when they're flawed, you know. Like with the Greeks.
[ One hand rises and falls in a gesture toward the caryatids of the southern porch, images no doubt taken and recreated from a time closer to his own. With World War III in the mix Nate doubts a lot of cultural heritage survived the conflict. ]
Bunch of assholes with the same problems as the rest of us. Omniscience and omnipotence is so cheap. Who does it reassure if it's not actually acted on?
[ Also, who wouldn't want to party with Dionysus? ]
...sorry, I know this isn't what we- can you tell I grew up in a Catholic orphanage?
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I can see some of the roots shining through, yeah.
( Amiably, but without judgment. Happy to concede to Nate's self assessment.
Maybe some people would get hung up on it not being your expected first date material subject, but he really wouldn't trade it for vapid bullshit. Interesting and complex beats out so what do you do in your free time — or whatever the fuck people are supposed to talk about — by a mile. Besides, it feels like they've known each other forever at this point. That's only half true, he knows, but in any case it doesn't feel all that different from the time they'd spend together before this, just hanging out.
Nicer shirts and more anxious nerves, maybe, but aside from that.
The point is: don't censor yourself to meet weird unspoken expectations, dude. He's with you. )
Anyway, one time this pissed off old lady in a grocery store spent twenty minutes telling me I was going to hell because my best friend Dusty got stoned and pierced my ear, so I guess you could say I'm a total expert on religious theology. Everything you're saying... one hundred percent tracks with the scrolls.
( A beat. )
I'm assuming there are scrolls. Just. In general, regardless of the pantheon.
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[ He says softly, knowingly. It explains nothing, just adds another bit of pattern to the tapestry woven about Ian's life, teenage years packaged with bits of authoritarian refutation, a desire to be someone without knowing who that someone is yet. There's no earring now, he's noticed, but probably because something got infected or he decided his college interview needed to be more professional and then forgot to put it back afterward. ]
Yeah, you're definitely going to Hell for that. Good news is, you'll be in good company.
[ He swivels around on the balls of his feet, toward Ian, knocking shoulders gently. ]
Where's your favorite place here?
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His lips quirk up involuntarily at the nudge to his shoulder, and while he has plenty of opinions on why exactly Nate won't be joining them in Hell, he'll save them for later. )
I didn't explore the whole thing, I didn't wanna ruin the novelty, but... Out of the ones I've seen?
( A little nod of his head toward the doorway; c'mon. They double back so he can steer them through another passage two doors down. It transitions from sunshine and stone to a gradual aquatic blue, sunlight reflecting off water dancing on the ceiling. It's one of the larger exhibits, and depending on your perspective, maybe the least visually appealing. He likes it anyway, not because of the aquatic theme that might possibly appeal to Mr. Salvage Diver.
It's the spectacular marvel of failed flawless engineering, the sunken remains of the Titanic. )
It had three engines. Two four-cylinder steam engines and one low pressure Parsons turbine. The four-cylinders were sixty three feet and they each weighed more than seven hundred tons. A hundred and fifty nine coal furnaces. It was kind of genius, actually. The combination required way less fuel for way more power than just using one or the other. The whole ship's design and execution was actually perfect. No faults. No flaws. In the end, that didn't matter in the fucking slightest.
( Maybe he sounds a little too upbeat about that considering the less than optimistic conclusion in his tangent, but... it's kind of a lesson. It makes a profound point, if you think about it.
Like two idiots on a cliff in the rain, sometimes problems are just completely out of your hands. )
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The first hollow, rusted-out and seawater-eaten passage emerges from the blue and he knows, remembers voraciously poring over the articles and interviews, wishing he were on a professional enough level to warrant that kind of involvement in discovery. As with most of the lost wrecks, lost cities, that he reads about, Nate felt - feels - that hideous impulse to chase them down, still wars with need versus want. It's made life difficult but rich in people, in associations. Hard to let it go when you've become accustomed to the comfort of the known.
This feels comforting. Not underwater, cushioned by crushing pressure, but the rippling light that feels so familiar, the surroundings unobscured by the bubbles of a diver's exhale or the shift of a remote-controlled submersible. His gaze trails over the empty hologram of an old balustrade on the port side, rich blue descending into inky black, and settles on Ian's face as he talks.
It's not an easy thing, to keep from smiling. It's just- his tone. The inflection. The excitement bleeding into his voice as he describes the mechanical systems of a ship that's probably nothing more than trace fragments of iron on the ocean floor of the Atlantic.
Affection of this caliber is an odd sensation to feel after everything that's happened, but it certainly isn't something he thinks himself capable of picking up and packing away. Not when Ian's eyes light up like that.
Nate's expression slants for the sly when he wryly adds: ]
An act of God.
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Sure.
( Could be, could very well be. Alternatively — )
Or an act of hubris. Captain Smith got maybe a dozen ice field warnings, but he never slowed down. Kept on at 22 knots. Somebody dropped the ball, one little lapse in communication caused damage so irreparable not even the built-in safety mechanisms were enough.
( He wanders over to stand at the edge of the gaping hole leading to pitch black. It isn't real, there's no need to stop two or three inches short, there's just more floor where it seems to drop off. It's subconscious, human nature. )
Maybe this whole thing is just history repeating. Humanity thinking too highly of itself for a while, abandoning reverence for things that are bigger than what they can really understand. Maybe acting like we've got it all figured out, skipping out on religion for a while because they've been worshipping themselves. Then something comes along to sink the unsinkable. Put us back in our place.
( You know, get all arrogant and try to use an entity unknowable and powerful enough to be considered a god — then proceed to fuck it up to unbelievable heights and ruin thousands of lives in the process.
It's a maudlin concept, and he quickly punctuates the monologue with a light quip laced with a touch of self-mockery. )
Great, now I'm doing it.
( Throwing out arguably terrible first date talk. )
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Something about standing in a building dedicated to the wan shadows of the architecture of yesteryear certainly has its hooks in deep, the enjoyment of one view shifted, altered, blown into proportions of the room they're in, before being replaced by another. A rotating album for a dead world.
Grisly and a little macabre, a leaf out of Odysseus' own book. ]
No, no, I like getting existential on first dates. [ He says lightly, rocking on the balls of his feet. ] Really makes the anxiety cosmic instead of localized.
[ Nate's shoulders rise and fall in a gentle shrug, his voice soft. Not distant, not faraway, just remembering. ]
History's always going to repeat itself, Ian. It's not a matter of if, but when. And whether we can learn to live with it or challenge it, whether we can make our own paths. [ A beat, then more quietly: ] For what it's worth, I'm glad you're here.
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It's been rolling around in his mind that maybe he'd like it if they could work based solely on the original version. If the two of them could be something without external influence, without the shortcut of another set of memories layered over the other halves of themselves to lay a ground work, like bumper rails keeping them out of the gutter. He wants to see if the dumb kid from Weaverville matches up with the dumb kid from -- what, like everywhere in South America?
He really doesn't plan on invalidating the Aerie. It still feels real to him down to the bone, and it's still something he'll wind up wearing off and on without even realizing it, like a well-fitted sweater. It's a temporary compartmentalization for the sake of trying to do something the right way.
If there's such thing as a right way. Jesus Christ, life keeps getting progressively weirder and harder to neatly define.
In any case: I'm glad you're here.
It earns a soft smile, small and genuine, eyes dropping back down to the sea floor automatically. He drags them back up again after a beat, and sways in place just a little to gently bump Nate's shoulder with his. )
Me too.
( He means that in both possible interpretations. Me too, I'm glad I'm here and me too, I'm glad you're here. This place kind of saved them both, and while he's definitely not selfish enough to be glad Nate's fucking dead, he is glad it seems like he plans on staying here if the Displaced ever find a way to go home. It opens up stupidly optimistic possibilities that he otherwise wouldn't even consider.
A hand comes up to absently scratch at the back of his neck, one of those universal faintly awkward gestures that comes from somebody a little embarrassed about what they're saying. )
And I know it's stupid, this whole... official date thing. I mean, we're not fucking kids, this isn't... High school or a romcom or whatever. I just kinda thought...
( His hand drops away from the back of his neck, drifts toward his pocket to the rhythm of a (deliberately) casual, absent shrug. )
I don't know, it's nice to have something... personal, you know what I mean? Everything's so fucking huge lately, it's all this... enormous godly scale, thinking about a hundred people collectively, every decision feels like practically life or death sometimes. I kind of wanted to take the night off. Zoom back in to a micro level and remember that we're allowed to focus on actually living life once and a while. Make it so the biggest decision to stress over today was what fucking shirt to wear.
( And he genuinely, genuinely doesn't know if any of that makes sense, but... there you go. That's what's going on in his head. )
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He's seconds away from pointing out that he never went to high school, so no worries, but Ian interjects further and Nate's mouth shuts with a dull click, waiting out the storm of conflicting emotions.
It's a sentiment Nate strongly identifies with and, more than that, something he regrets he didn't recognize sooner before he decided to take a deep dive into accidental existentialism. He's so unbelievably tired of carrying the big things around day in and day out, every twenty-four hours depositing some new horror on their collective doorstep. The problems are regional. Global.
And he's tired. Watching Ian in the periphery, he recognizes an old tell for discomfort, the forced coolness with which he sidesteps the emotion as soon as it rises to the surface.
God, he's good at that. ]
No, I- I get it. Sometimes I wish I had problems like "oh crap, I lost my wallet" instead of "oh crap, time for another interdimensional vortex to swallow us whole".
[ Something he thinks they all might relate to, one way or another. He didn't mean to bring them to this point, but recognizing what's top of mind is the first step in learning how to avoid dwelling on it the way they're being trained to. ]
So...thank you. [ A little lighter, less burdened. ] For giving me the opportunity to agonize over what I'm wearing.
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This is good, is what he means. Right now, what they're doing, it's good. Judging by Nate's answer, it seems like he's been largely successful.
He puffs out a breath of a laugh around lost my wallet — in part because that's one of those ancient previous-life normal problems he's actually forgotten about entirely. When you don't carry pictures of anyone you love, there's absolutely no reason to carry a wallet through the apocalypse.
His eyes peel away from what he's officially dubbing "the existential crisis hole" to instead fix Nate with a distinctly, deliberately (for him, anyway; Ian the Ever Mild) playful look. )
Yeah, make sure you thank whoever painted that shirt on for you, by the way. Hope you tipped 'em, the economy's rough right now.
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Just people enjoying each other's company. ]
Really? You wanna go there?
[ For the most part. Ian is nothing if not predictable in the sheer delight he takes poking fun at Nate's pecs. ]
I think it looks- hey, I mean, my chest is covered-
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You gotta be breaking out in hives over that.
( He's not thinking about the Aerie. About how it might play a factor into Nate's wardrobe choices. They haven't talked about it much, not in any real depth. Enough to acknowledge it and its importance, enough for an understanding, but the nuances like that...
Probably for some time when they're alone and they're past dancing around things. For now, it's just a light call back to months ago in a bar before things got complex. )
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[ There is something pure and engaging about being ragged on for his choice in shirt even when he's wearing the right thing - logistically and for his current comfort level - so as per his usual Nate takes it in stride and waves Ian off and decidedly does not linger on how delighted he looks.
Nate gestures futilely at himself, at nothing in particular. ]
Mostly- for work, but it's just more comfortable to not- all right, seriously, stop making that face-
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( He says, while maintaining the face. It's that slow-casual I'm so full of shit drawl. It's a lie in words alone, with neither tone nor effort making any attempt to sell it.
Go ahead, man. Keep 'em coming. The more excuses he hears the funnier he finds it.
Laughing in the wreck of the Titanic. If this were the real thing, oxygen aside, it would be grounds for getting haunted by like forty ghosts minimum. )
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Okay, well, this has been fun, but I'm gonna find the next room-
[ He says mid-stride with unmistakable confidence, reaching for one of the hatch doors from the deck to the "interior" of the ship, arm colliding with solid concrete with a muted thud. Nate pauses, mouth thin, and turns on his heel again to impart his newfound wisdom with the air of a man didn't just walk into a wall. ]
...That's not a real door.
[ He informs him politely, as though remarking on the weather, and walks past Ian in the other direction to a hatch that does (thankfully) open. ]
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And he's right.
Have you ever laughed so hard it just sounded like snakes?
It might genuinely sound like Nate's being followed by a bunch of cobras with flat tires as he follows blindly out, head thrown back, eyes unstoppably squeezed shut, arms winding around his own middle. Is it rude to flat out laugh at your date? Yes, probably very. If it's any consolation, he's not cruel about it. It's good-natured, it's just...
Fucking great, is all. )
I am--
( Started and stopped because he can't keep his voice steady long enough to finish; I am so happy about everything happening right now. Thank you for this gift and blessing, Nate. )
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Awesome, hitting all sixes tonight, really smooth, Nate. ]
Yeah, yeah, get it out of your system.
[ He grouses, but there's little to no vitriol in it as he leads the way through another narrow corridor while Ian hisses laughter behind him. ]
Let me know when you're done.
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( A quickly rolling promise his hands coming up into a lovely and earnest surrender. The laughter still lingers around his eyes, but he manages to school down the rest of it. Yeah, maybe he feels a little bad for it. Just a tiny touch guilty.
He catches up, falling into step and nudging Nate gently with one shoulder. It's okay, man. If it's any consolation, he looked good as hell walking into that wall. )
C'mon, I got one more thing I wanna show you. After this it's a mystery.
( They breeze past a T intersection, ignoring the faint sound of a train whistle — god only knows what the hell's in there — and he hangs a left. The room opens up to a courtyard. )
It's real. Just in case you wanted to see something... not fake.
( A lame finish, but at least he's not the one that walked into a door.
Home to the oldest tree in New Amsterdam. )
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