02.03.3014: As Foretold...
Summary: Nitrim finds that his warnings for Rozlyn held true…
Date: Around 11/15/2013
Related: Other logs relating to those seeking peace with Cantos.
Nitrim Rozlyn 


Rozlyn's Lab, The Ring
This is not one of the larger, sprawling labs within The Ring. There's no requirement for decontamination, but there is an additional level of security one must pass. Tucked into the curve of the station, the lab is largely dominated by a large, domed screen. This screen often displays numerous feeds and reports in a collage across the surface, but it can also render in a three-dimensional hologram to the broad floor before it anything required (most often models of space).

There are a number of work stations; some are merely terminals, while others hold specialized equipment. Tucked to the side near the raised dais of the display, is an office partially enclosed for the lead scientist. Said office, in this case, is very neatly appointed with very few personal belongings on display. The only prominent ones, in fact, are an Orelle family photo and a painting of a large, jungle tree with an orange-pink sky behind it.

February 3, 3014

For some reason, the levels of security on Rozlyn’s lab have been lessened. Visitors don’t have to go through as many layers of security and clearance to get past into the smaller lab. In addition, despite it being just barely past the common ‘dinner time’ on The Ring, the lab is dark and deserted. There’s fewer equipment and some workstations have a sense of almost being abandoned.

Once again, the holographic display is on and their galaxy moves in lazy swirls around a center. Rather than standing in the midst of it, however, Rozlyn is sitting in the center, gazing upward. Her legs are drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped around them.

She very much appears a woman in her mid-twenties. A woman just starting to figure out the world. This is not the capable, confident woman who had everything in hand just days before.

The door opens to the labs with a venomous hiss, the hydraulics taking care of the secure door at blinding speed to allow the cloaked figure to enter. He stops just inside of the door, cowl moving from right to left as he inspects the changed environment and the distinct change in mood, equipment, and the sudden lack of importance the place seems to have. It has been altered against its will; it has become a raped thing.

"You don't have security cameras, do you?" Nitrim murmurs quietly as the door closes behind him. Opting to keep his cowl low and his features hard to distinguish, he folds his gloved hands behind his back and moves to the corner of her platform. "Was this change done by friend or were you robbed by persons unknown?"

“No security cameras save the ones I opt to enable or disable at my leisure.” Rozlyn’s words are stiffer than usual. Where her usual speech patterns denote a casual cadence borne of a soul who thinks over what she says, these come from a dark place in which someone is holding themselves back.

The woman slowly rises to her feet, exhibiting that same grace she usually has. A fluid movement so practiced that it has become a second nature. A thing that could never be torn from her. The holographic display is left churning in place; stars glimmer and planets orbit. It casts an eery glow across the abandoned lab as she makes her way to her office.

There, against the wall, lie two canvases. One, lifted, depicts the scene described to her by the Khournas at their last meeting. The other is smaller and more abstract in nature; the symbols and colors seem to have no rhyme or meaning, yet there is a cohesive whole to their parts. These are held out towards him.

“Please deliver both and inform our mutual friend that I will no longer be able to see her.”

A soft intake of breath flows past Nitrim's teeth as he is about to say something in relation to the paintings, but Rozlyn's words finally reach his brain. His teeth clamp shut tightly, his goatee and lips a snarled pasture of blonde hair as his hood dips, eyes to the metal-grated floor beneath his feet. A moment of silence for the dearly departed loss of privileges crosses the man, who turns to step past her to view the paintings.

"You lost a battle, Doctor." Nitrim's voice is quiet, a near whisper to take care for his paranoia of recording devices and the funerary atmosphere of her lab, "Don't let it be the war."

Taking up the paintings, he secures them in his arms and looks in the direction of his exit path. Once again his teeth bare and the hood turns back to Rozlyn. "I'd offer to buy you a drink, but we shouldn't be seen together unless it ends in me making a pass and you making me look like an idiot for it. It will keep appearances pure." His lips flatten in a moment of I-told-you-so. "This isn't over. We need you."

The woman is certainly a spectre haunting the husk of her lab. It is now what it once was, for years; an endless cycle of research that seemed to lead nowhere. Her search in the stars for an answer… Rozlyn lets him take the paintings and her dark eyes show the pain and lack of sleep by their deep circles and forming lines.

Early signs of age; earned well before her time.

“And what of the next battle? I am stripped of all. Defensive, offensive… I am stripped naked upon the field. The best I can hope for is to be passed over.”

She draws in a breath and looks back to the holographic display. Stars floating in the midst of the room like luminescent dust motes. “I would reject you either way, I hope you do not think otherwise.” Roz turns back towards him, eyes dropping to the paintings he now wields. “You and my brother have all I can offer, Lord Nitrim.”

The scar on Nitrim's neck tightens as he watches the shades of anguish paint Rozlyn's features in dark, bleak colors. His brows lower beneath the protective covering that his low-hanging cowl provides, tilted up just enough so that the woman can see his eyes where any high-perched cameras would fail. Though the man is far younger than she is, the lines that have been forced onto his features through stress, malnutrition, and past drug use become all the more apparent.

He turns, and for a moment it seems that he is about to leave, but instead he sets the paintings onto a table. He turns once more, and a few steps bring him to stand before the soul-battered doctor.

"Two years of Red Eye abuse come to an end." Nitrim whispers to her. "Five engagements on the front lines. Two blood transfusions. Six broken bones. I was there when High Lady Iah was executed on the field. The pictures I showed you. The murders. One dead ex-fiancee, perhaps SIX…" He holds up his fingers, counting them. OneTwoThreeFourFiveSix, the fingers pop up. "…tabloid scandals. One living loss of a girl who I once thought to be my best friend. One…horrible night in a mine at Ignis where my mind went to places I'd rather have not and like that island massacre, I saw things no one should ever have to see… and came out if it with a broken collarbone after bringing down a mutant-nightmare hybrid with chop-shopped cybernetics and terrible surgical scars. I should have quit when it was smart a long, long time ago."

He steps in closer, his head tilted near her shoulder so that his whisper can no doubt find her ear.

"When shit turns black, Doctor, you find a way." He pauses, letting his words attempt to take hold. "The people who are working to do right will need people like you and I; liars and experts, because I assure you that this is far from over and your part is far from over, too." His hand extends to offer a shake to her.

"I will make sure you keep busy, Doctor, and I will make sure she understands you're still accessible…and fighting. Would that be a lie or the truth when I say it? Because FUCK them. Millions are at stake and you, my dear, whatever you did…it just have struck something important."

While Nitrim speaks, Rozlyn bears a blank expression. It’s not the usual focused or serene look she bears, no, but one of a woman who is regressing somewhere within her mind. Still, she does pay him mind, though there is the sense of retraction when he steps in close. The Orelle does not retreat, but she does stiffen slightly. Different muscle groups instinctively tense in preparation for a reaction.

She does, finally, accept the hand. However, there is a tight grip as he continues speaking. “Never call me that again,” is her initial response, focus returning as she levels dark gaze upon the Khournas. “If you find a need for me, use it, but I will not threaten my father’s reputation by pushing my luck.”

With a shake of his hand in hers, Nitrim tilts the cowl to bring forth a moment of steely eye contact and resolute faces. "First time, last time." He nods, fingers unraveling from hers. "I will bring to you not things but questions first, and you'll have the say over whether or not you get involved. I'm lucky enough to have an already tarnished reputation that, so far, has worked to my advantage."

Turning away, Nitrim's arms snake out slowly to gather the paintings, and without another look back, he makes his final steps toward the exit. "I'm not interested in being responsible for damaging anyone else's reputation unless they ask for it for the same reasons."

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