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Spirit Log: event forty-two.

Should one find one's self in the uncommon position of standing before a tear in space (and/or occasionally, time), it is advisable to first assess if the tear is not, in fact, a mirror. Statistically, the latter is far more probable (until it isn't). And aesthetically identical. Because, upon opening a tear in the fabric of reality for the first time, the most likely outcome is you: an alternate you—from a different world, from a different yet cosmically homogeneous location—opening a tear in the fabric of reality for the first time. You might wave to yourself. And because you are you, you wave in perfect synchrony. A mirror would be cheaper.

At this point, Spirit—standing between the Luteces haloed and framed within the humming, blue-ringed tear—(who does not recognize, nor remember being, the other Spirit) waves. Having regularly visited, and influenced, Spirit's reality, they've grown desensitized to its composition and complexion. Her world feels more akin to a room temperature glass of water. Refreshing and tolerable. Not at all rousing.

They have moved on to worlds containing alternate Spirits. This time, for the first time, Spirit Prime, at her request, is brought along. Accommodations are made. The Luteces do not need tears to travel. Spirit does.

Robert combs his hand through his hair; it's in a sorry state from hours of continuous research: the part, were it a road, would be an un-navigable, razed path, the volume is teased from frequent, inquisitive head scratching, the previously gentle, gelled quaff at his hairline resembles the frayed end of poorly spun, rusted-old-gold yarn. To Charles: «Impeccable hair.» Rosalind's arm gestures to the tear for Spirit Prime to step through.

Charles knows that. It does not stop him from getting up at 6am, every day, to prepare meals and other such enjoyments to be embarked upon (or cast aside by Spirit's impulsivity) once Spirit wakes. I don't know if she's anything like me: "Oh!" I guess I want you to be the judge of that: "Oh." I guess I want you to be the judge of a lot of things: "Oh!—?" He blinks, the turn of this conversation is obvious and apparent but it hits him, doe-eyed, like a deer meandering into a speeding car—still unaware. "I don't— You shouldn't— I can't judge people, Spirit!"

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To bare witness to scientific advancements without documentation reduces the event to mere conjecture. Stories. Lies. See one thing one time and scientists discard it as an outlier. Luckily for Spirit, there are two of them.

Rosalind pats at her yawning mouth with a beautician's grace. «This one is a bit jumpy.» The polar air of this reality has not adequately awakened Rosalind; it has elicited a puny spritz of adrenaline. One reality shift usually suffices. She will need to reapply. Step into another reality that might squeeze her adrenal glands—those funny, little bags above the kidneys—like the bulb of a perfume bottle. «Perhaps we should go.» They have no ties here. Robert easily acquiesces. «Our fare share.» He flips a large Columbia coin off his thumb and it spins (so quick it looks like a translucent orb) high into the air—meters above his head (note: the metric system is not a universal measuring system, it is a cross dimensional one; this, and teabags, are a constant). «That currency is worthless here.» «The currency, not the coin.» Pure silver. The two disappear the moment it lands in Spirit's palm.

Spirit Log: event one.

SPIRIT IS STILL A LITTLE SKITTISH, A LITTLE FLIGHTY. Time spent in Harris's presence, living by his rules and according to his attention-seeking actions, makes her this way. Put another, cruder way: battered woman disease.

Robert's jumpscare would perhaps cause a baby to shriek in delight. It is that whimsical and un-frightening. Spirit, meanwhile, looks genuinely alarmed. She shrinks back into the unforgiving plastic of the bus seat.

She shakes her head, swipes her flat hand across the air between them: a decisive cut it out gesture. A warning look. She is infuriated by her compulsion to be silent.

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Time is elective. Robert hopes this Mutt lives long enough for him to show the boy that. He winks at Rosalind with an umpire point that swipes across the alley: fair ball. «What we think should happen—» «—and what will happen—» «—is the very matter at hand.» Robert's hand, ideally. He assumes a hiked, one-legged pitcher's stance and hurls the apple directly at Mutt's crack-chapped lips. (An impressive speed. One must have hobbies (Robert juggles juggling and baseball in-between daily lunch and their inaugural murdering of the lighthouse keeper).) Milliseconds before the apple is dodged, it is halted. Suspended in midair. Unmovable when touched. To them, a simple parlor trick. They've ascended cities. Kings. Life itself. Rosalind, beginning to understand: «Show us how you survive—» Robert smiles. «—And we will show leniency.»

his eyes twitch-narrow, darkened skin underneath the eyes pulling tight. mutt has always had very little patience for those who beat around the bush. he doesn't lose the sense that he is being lured and baited, or at the very least that the twins are trying. and might be it's just the way they talk, but he doubts that's all there is to it. thorns and bristles work up under his skin like so many protective nettles.

his pulse thrums at the base of his throat. stubborn as the rest of him. as uncompromising as a weed growing up through whichever crack in the sidewalk, returning year after goddamn year. or a mouse, learning how best to outsmart the cat. or two.

"you can try." he warns, in the end. there's a feral tension in the slink of his shoulders when he adjusts his weight, shuffling noiselessly against pavement made damp by—something. "though i wonder what you think the outcome oughta be."

a few seconds pause. another warning, though perhaps more an appeal to whatever sympathies they might hold. "my lodgings stop letting folks in in a half hour."

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yes, the luteces will kill the lighthouse keeper ad nauseam. yes, they will murder if it's the only way to enact their pursuits. no, they don't feel guilt or remorse. but that's because they have a back pocket heuristic: if they are capable of appearing anywhere anywhen, then, if they wish, they could appear at the exact moment an earlier version of them goes to kill the keeper and tell themselves to stop. like, yes, they killed him/kill him/will kill him. but, also, he's not necessarily permanently dead because they could go back and prevent it from happening at any moment. the world is very theoretical to them. all sequences of chess are equally possible, even the ones not yet played. every act is a dirty dish piled in the kitchen sink waiting to be maybe moved to the dish washer to be slate clean. life has lost meaning but gained definition.

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send 🤲

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Some infinities are larger than others. There are more infinite realities lacking alternate versions of themselves than there are infinite realities hosting alternate versions of themselves. Said distinction is immediately obvious upon entering a new dimension. Realities wherein they have never existed feel like a disturbed coldness. Like plunging into a morning ice bath. After the twenty-fourth hour of unflagging research, they sometimes dip into a random Lutece-less world to shock their systems alert. Here, now, is one such occasion.

Rosalind, questioning Spirit's unperturbed demeanor: «No hullaba—» Robert's fingers splay toward Spirit like popped confetti streamers; loudly: «BOO!» Rosalind yawns.

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ON ONE OF THE BUSES THAT TAKES SPIRIT BACK TO HARLEM FROM THE HARRIS HOME PROPER IN POUGHKEEPSIE, SPIRIT SITS IN THE BACK ROW WITH A RECENTLY-SPLIT LIP AND GENEROUS CARTONS OF LEFTOVERS.

This is when the Luteces appear to her. Maybe they really did just appear. Maybe they have been on the Hudson 802 for several stops before Spirit's arrival and she simply elected not to care because doing so would be too complicated.

Robert and Rosalind flicker in and out of Spirit's peripheral perception. With their presence, ghastly staticky shrieks and whispers accompany. Spirit can hear all of the places in time and space that the Luteces have visited or will visit; their forms, as she knows them, are not tethered to this rickety bus. With them comes what most similarly sounds like the raucous chatter and buzz of a busy cityscape in the middle of the day. It is excruciating.

She glares.

She does not speak. She knows how doing so will make her appear to the bus driver and other lone passenger because she is one hundred percent confident that they cannot see the Luteces. The well-dressed pair plagues her, specifically—she knows it. Her curse is familiar to her. Thanks a lot, Erik Eriksson!

The cut on her mouth itches. She scratches it by dragging her teeth against her lower lip. She does not stop glaring.

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Richard Ayoade moments ✨

LOL: Last One Laughing UK - Season 1, Ep.1 Shake Your Tush

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#BBC Sound Effects department, 1927

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«Ah. Then you have caught us in a—» Rosalind lobs a red apple stolen from the catering table to Robert, «—catch—» Robert catches it and lobs it back to Rosalind, «—twenty—» to which she promptly throws, again, to him, «—two.» Robert catches the apple with a single, satisfying slap to his palm and examines the small fruit, held like Hamlet holds dear Yorick. «If we tell you what we want, you won't want to tell us.»

An... unnatural pause.

Robert is still preoccupied with the apple, turning it at different angles. He does not finish Rosalind's thought, as anticipated. She puckers her lips, mildly irritated (at his neglect and what this distraction may mean), and continues for him; voice louder, tone pressed: «But you won't tell us unless we first tell you what we want.» Robert knows what they agreed to. They both know what rests in Rosalind's suit jacket pocket. To Rosalind more than the boy (indeed, he is looking at her), tone eager: «Let us do as the english teachers ironically do:» Rosalind looks vexed. Her mind rapidly playing catch up to wherever Robert's deserted and diverted to. It's an easy enough fill in the blank. «Telling others to 'show don't tell'?» Though Robert's seemingly new plan still, maddeningly, alludes her.

he is there, down the street, five minutes beforehand—or so he thought. seeing them waiting caused him to briefly stop, boot soles scratching against the pavement at the suddenness. mutt catches his inhale halfway in before continuing. this pause only lasts a few seconds, hardly a blip.

a single-tone hum, "mhm," is all he deigns to give in terms of a response. they hear it, or they do not, rosalind already having attempted speech, robert interrupting. he looks underneath the cloth. as if cued, his stomach clenches, achy with hunger. he stacks a small tower of duchess potatoes between his thumb and index finger, his free hand tucking the napkin back around the edges.

his gaze flicks, slate-hard and illegible, between their faces. "tell me what you want. exactly. then i'll decide whether it's worth my time." depends what they want to know. depends what they plan on doing with him. his jaw works on two of the baked purée spuds, given to his mouth in quick succession. he barely blinks, waiting with that unwavering stare.

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BioShock Infinite: Favourite Lutece Banters

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To most, time is a linear line. One long, grand procession. Where all others toil about in the mandatory, miserable conga line they call time, the Luteces waltz.

This gift of time travel has subtly thinned their patience. Or, rather, remained with them beyond its function: patience is a vestigial feature they've outgrown the need for, like wisdom teeth or the tiny fold of skin in the corner of one's eyes. They needn't wait for the boy's shift to end; then, they will not.

Cordial despite Mutt's coldness, in unison: «Ta-ta.» «Ta-ta.» Robert and Rosalind bow at the hips, then leave.

****

The two exist—suddenly—in the dark alley outside the gala the minute Mutt's shift ends.

Ten minutes pass.

Perfectly poised, hands clasped in front of them, as though having only waited a moment (indeed, to them, it has been nearly that) and not five point one six repeating hours.

«We were beginning to think your feet had grown cold.» «Luckily,» Let them not lie to the boy; this is not luck. Amending (a kinder way to say Robert interrupts Rosalind): «Likewise,» It is not, after all, an interruption. There is a perfect pause in Rosalind's speech; she had the same thought. Seamlessly: «—your food has not either.» Robert gestures to a white, ceramic plate wrapped in a cloth table napkin sat atop a pile of plastic milk crates. The food contained within is as hot as it was five hours ago: taken with them from the exact moment they left. They suspect he had no break to eat. Despite one's suspicion (and their dispositions), the food remains un-poisoned: an olive branch (not all that un-literal: amongst other delectables offered, they plucked a spoonful of peranaza olives from the table-wide charcuterie display). They are the carrot, they are the stick.

immature. boyish. playful. these are uncommon adjectives concerning him. none hit a bullseye. regrettably, there is very little he can do to change how others see him in those first few moments of judgment. folks will always have those, and he has learned not to waste his energy on them. (there is always an impulse to defend himself, though.) he doesn't owe them anything, and they do not need to know everything about him. nobody here does. that being said, it is a good thing—for the lutece twins, and perhaps him as well—that he cannot read minds, despite what that preternatural stare might suggest.

his eyes flicker-narrow. the skin hardly jumps, but it is there. do they expect a moppet, or at least the putting on of a similar act? mutt begins to grow very tired with these two. likely he reached that threshold the second they starting boring holes into him instead of walking away. his fuse is very short when it comes to beating around the bush—and other likewise alliterative phrases that translate into bullshit, according to muttspeak.

without preamble, he moves, over-sudden yet deliberate all the same, to unwrap a napkin from where it binds dinnertable cutlery. woe to the poor soul who will get chewed out over that. they will swear every place looked proper before the party of nine entered following that night's performance of the follies.

"look. if you have something to tell me, or show me, or whatever the hell," he wraps the rest of the cookie in it, tucking it into his right hip pocket, "you can meet me down the street when my shift is over."

deadpan: "otherwise, ta-ta for now."

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We used the universe as a telegraph. Switching the field on or off became dots and dashes. Dreadfully slow. But now, you and I could whisper through the wall.

#TIMELOOOOP. independent writing account for rosalind & robert lutece from bioshock infinite. written by jordy.

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Their attentive loitering is, perhaps, too intense, too prominent in relation to the other waitstaff who flow unobtrusively through the crowd of guests or stand in pockets of dead air where natural footfall streams past: the space behind foundational pillars, the perimeter of the room, the invisible barrier that seems to exist around every trash receptacle.

The child, to some degree, notices this disparity in behavior. His wariness is not concealed. Indeed, the opposite: it is immaturely broadcast; how he mirrors Rosalind's monosyllabic announcement is boyish in its retributive defiance. His held gaze, too. The negligible bite. All of it is a bullish, playful, goading act. Both Robert and Rosalind's heads tick to the side in perfect unison, minutely so, like the hour hands of two finely tuned clocks one hour after midnight. Heralding. And unbothered.

Mutt's wariness is warranted (aside: and is, no doubt, a contributing factor to his consistent longevity), but it is also anticipated.

There are other methods to test Mutt's—colloquially put—resilience. This is merely the cleanest—and least strenuous option. One will not readily accept an axe into one's body; not in the way one may a cookie (laced with cyanide).

And so, they do not yet abandon this stratagem. Patience is a practiced, conscious effort held within them much like perfect posture—not a natural state but a beneficial one.

Robert, not missing the opportunity to continue the ongoing riff developing between them, opens his mouth wide. Beckoning: «Aaaah.» Rosalind, understanding, plucks a chocolate chip cookie from Robert's tray, turns it in her hand to idly admire, and then slots it into Robert's mouth. He takes a larger-than-he-normally-would-were-this-solely-an-act-of-nourishment-and-not-a-deceptive-and-placating bite.

without entirely meaning to, he parrots rosalind. "ah," as if testing the faint pressure it creates in his own larynx. reflexive, not reflective. definitely mocking. mutt's gaze settles, unblinkingly watchful, as they stare him down.

unstoppable forces, meet immovable object.

in the back of his mind, he still wonders if he is being observed. if this is some test, the end of which he has yet to uncover, or—whatever it is, he has no intention of baring his throat or exposing his belly. it all seems remarkably too much for a goddamn cookie, but one never knows. he decides to give them the benefit of the doubt, seeing that no one in the dining room is currently suffering from poison ingestion.

out of habit, mutt gives it a preliminary sniff. he takes nothing more than a nibble after deciding it satisfactory, studying them over the rounded topmost edge.

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i support women in STEM (Scary experiments, Time loops, Existential dilemmas, Madness)

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Quarrelling James Tissot, 1874-1876

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vincent: you think i’ve gone crazy. maybe i have, a little.

«You have not gone crazy.» A puckish pause before adding: «You have gone to it.» Altogether true, but unhelpfully equivocal.