diademlogs | —OPEN; journey before destination

Entry tags:

—OPEN; journey before destination

Who: Jasnah Kholin + others
Where: Panorama + Fringes
When: February
What: Catch-all w/ open prompts and closed starters
Warnings: Will update if needed

—open prompts below, mostly focused on settling in during earlier february
—hit up my plotting comment if you wanna plan something specific. very happy to get a starter going for us!
—prose & brackets both welcome; i'll match you.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

[ Jasnah does not sleep well. For years, she kept exhaustion at bay with Stormlight; without it, the nights stretch long and unkind. She naps only in fragments — curled in the cab of her truck or in a cheap motel when she can spare the joolies.

To stay awake, she has developed a routine. You are most likely to encounter her in one of two places:

—An all-night diner.

She always takes a window-facing booth. Orders a drink called coffee but never drinks it. The cost paid is for light and warmth. And the right to sit undisturbed somewhere dry while the rain spatters outside. Although her left hand is gloved, her right is bare — and moves constantly: turning a pencil, tapping the table, writing precise notes in a cracked-spine notebook.

She watches the street. If you pass by outside, she notices. If you come in, her gaze tracks you until you sit or leave. If you linger too long too near, she'll say something first.

—LuxFilms.

When she can afford it, she attends early-morning documentary screenings at LuxFilms. Always the back row. Always near the exit. Posture rigid, left hand tucked inside her coat sleeve. The moving images remind her (unhelpfully) of a certain storyteller. Captivating and infuriating.

Sometimes exhaustion wins. She falls asleep mid-screening. She snores. ]

[ Jasnah should not be driving. She knows it and does it anyway. She's determined to master the truck, even as she grinds gears and drifts across lanes. You might encounter her in one of the following situations:

—Looting quietly.

Abandoned structures. Roadside stops. She moves efficiently, selectively, favoring tinned food and anything else with a long shelf life and packaging that hasn't been tampered with. If she hears you first, she does not announce herself — she waits, watching.

—Out of gas.

Stranded. Irritated. Flagging someone down with visible reluctance. Her posture makes it clear she dislikes needing help — and resents being seen in the act. She will accept assistance, but not pity. Expect clipped politeness and sharp observational questions in return. ]

[ The building looks promising at first glance: low, squat, and single-story. A wide front window that suggests commerce rather than domicile. Jasnah slows as she passes it, rain ticking softly against her umbrella. The architecture fascinates her. It's clearly commonish to this area but is nevertheless so so so different from Kholinar, or the war camps, or Urithiru. Certainly different to Urithiru. She finds it hard to resist interrogating even the most mundane details.

So she slips inside — gently prying open a door that maybe once upon a time could lock. If she was hoping for maybe a bonus opportunity for looting, she'd be disappointed. The shelves have been picked clean down to the metal ribs. No tins. No sealed packages. Nothing but dust, torn packaging, and the sour smell of old rot. Whoever looted the place did so thoroughly — and a long long time ago.

Still. She doesn’t leave.

Instead, Jasnah walks the interor perimeter slowly, boots careful against broken tile. Her left hand — gloved — trails along the wall and shelves as she moves. She finds herself homesick, suddenly, for Ivory. For the way he would have hovered at her shoulder — offering commentary she didn't need and insights she secretly treasured.

This would have driven you mad, she thinks. The wrong kind of symmetry.

And while she's thinking about someone who isn't here, her boot catches on something half-hidden beneath a collapsed shelf. Metal scrapes and a hollow clatter follows as a stack of empty cans spills across the tile, echoing far louder than she'd hope in this hollow space.

Jasnah stills instantly. Panic settling in her bones as the sound echoes. Incriminating. If anyone's here, they're likely now alerted to her presence. ]

[ Though Cassian has a propensity to want to help others but being out in the Fringes of Diadem is much like being out in space. Pulling up beside a stranded ship or car in this instance is a gamble. There was no shortage of stories of more naive, well-intentioned people that had been quickly overrun by pirates back home just like there is no shortage of that here. All you had to do was replace the word "pirate" for "raiders".

It's mostly why he's overly cautious, attentive for signs that would be a dead giveaway that it was a raider versus someone who actually needed help.

Even if he hadn't met Jasnah prior to this to sell her a phone, he still might have stopped. It's difficult to hide reluctance, especially since he had clocked quite early on that she held herself in such a way that screamed competence and independence. Cassian pulls up front of her car before getting out of his car as if anticipating needing to do some light mechanic work. It wouldn't be the first time.

As he gets closer he gives her a brief nod by way of hello before - ]

Car trouble? Or did you run out of gas?

[ On his way back to Panorama from the Scrapyard (a regular trip these days), sometimes he'll take a little detour if he's running low on supplies. He can get a few basic things from the shop to keep on hand, but there's never really a shortage of practical stuff he needs. Like anyone here. Stuff he can pawn, trade, or just consume, depending on what it is.

He pulls up by a place that looks like an old, abandoned diner. Probably a goldmine of stuff if it hasn't been picked clean by now; then again, zones like this pop up fast, sometimes disappear quickly. You get the timing right, you've got your pick of anything before someone else gets there.

Never lingers long in these places if he can help it. He's got a singular focus: get in, take what you can, get out. Now — there's always a hyper-awareness about the space around him. He knows all his exits the minute he steps inside. If anyone's here — or comes in after him — he'll catch on quick. Doesn't mean he's instantly aware of every single presence, especially if they're stealthy, but he didn't last this long on luck. Survival was carefully crafted.

They probably become aware of each other as he's stepping out of what would have been the walk-in. As in, she probably hears him grabbing a small, empty stainless steel bin — handy for keeping some tools stored — and he sees the edge of a shadow move past from the slight crack in the door.

Plenty of people here wanna fuck with others. Amos, he's just — getting by. If the person on the other side of the door wants to be a problem, he'll deal with it. Meanwhile, he doesn't like waiting for whatever it'll be — nothing or something. To him, he's perfectly fine just existing in the same space together until he fills up his pack. So he opens the door, shoving the small bin into the pack on his shoulder, looking for the figure he's sure he saw. Now, if they wanna hide and make this a thing, he can go that way, too. ]

[ Kimiko hasn't had the heart to return to her favourite burrito cart alone since returning from the forced sojourn in Acreage, so she ends up trying new places to refuel after her fights. She's learned she isn't a fan of Greek food, finding it altogether a bit too damp, but loves Thai. Tonight she goes for something that reminds her a bit of home, of before — an all-night diner attempting a pastel, retro 50s pastiche that wouldn't be out of place in one of New York's quieter boroughs.

Of course, every time she finds a new place to eat, she has to do the I'm mute, please be patient with me while I try to order mutely song and dance all over again. This time is no different.

Having someone observe this interaction, carried out at the front counter, with such a crisp and unashamed gaze — well, that's a new spin on it.

As the server goes to get Kimiko a hot chocolate, she glances over her shoulder. Spots Jasnah's gaze; it's awkward smile and wave time. ]

[ Plenty of passing cars do not stop. Jasnah doesn't fault them for it; she, too, would be wary of a stranger stranded on the shoulder of the road. Her thoughts would leap immediately to every dreadful possibility long before considering simple misfortune. By the time someone finally slows, she's close to conceding defeat and locking herself in the truck for the night. A bleak prospect.

So when a car sidles past, hesitates — and then pulls to a halt ahead — she finds herself caught in a brackish mixture of relief and apprehension. Her wariness doesn't truly abate until an almost-familiar face steps out into the rain.

Cassian, wasn't it? The man who'd sold her the phone — ironically, its sitting on the passenger seat with a dead battery. Storms, this technology requires so much babysitting.

Learning what a phone even was had taken her on an absurd, circular hunt through the city: bad deals, unnecessary features, things she neither needed nor could afford. It had ended only when a frugal older woman — spitting chew into a pot outside a bookstore — pointed her toward Cassian. After a cautious exchange and an appropriate loss of joolies, Jasnah had left with something simple an refurbished that seemed honestly priced.

That interaction had placed Cassian squarely in the category of respect, but do not yet trust. A very small, sparsely populated category.

Jasnah pushes off the side of her truck with her bare right hand. She's traded her earlier dress for a skirt, a long raincoat, and sensible boots — less culturally distinctive, more practical. A glove remains on only her left hand. ]

Car trouble? [ She says — but she doesn't sound convinced of her own answer. ] But now that you mention it...

[ With a sharp, inward wince, she realizes — only now — that she may have done something as profoundly stupid as running out of fuel. Navani would never have been caught so flatfooted around such a feat of engineering. ]

Perhaps it is the gas. Storms — I'm not familiar enough with these machines.

[ Perhaps it's bold to be so new and yet willingly step into one of these eerie, logic-defying zones. Or perhaps it's sheer ignorance — she hasn't yet been burned badly enough to learn better. In truth, it is both: a newbie's audacity paired with the sober understanding that meaningful progress sometimes requires reckless moves.

And meaningful progress, today, means food. Enough to last a few more days.

So she's grateful for tin cans. They are not unfamiliar to her. When she was once stranded in Shadesmar — the land of thought and perception and spren back on her home planet — tinned food was the only thing that kept her alive. Finding that technology present here, too, she's come to think of the tins as reliable. They had kept her alive then. They will do so now.

So while (unbeknownst to her) someone else is looting another corner of the establishment, Jasnah works in a narrow back stockroom. She methodically packs cans into a shallow, flimsy box. Paper, of all things. Odd. And the labels are missing. Curious. If there had been less of a sense of urgency, she might want to stay longer. Poke around. Learn something.

She's halfway back toward the entrance, box balanced in her arms, when a sound behind her makes her pivot sharply. Someone else, walking out of another little tucked-away space within the diner. The box slips out of her arms. Tins scatter across the floor, clattering and rolling at her feet.

Jasnah slams her left hand (gloved) to her side, fingers flexing as if... As if — Storms. She expects a sword to condense into being, mist coiling into solid purpose in her grip. Is she adept with her blade? No. Not remotely. But the instinct is ingrained: reach for Ivory when danger presents itself. Only Ivory doesn't come. Not now. Not yesterday. Not any time she's tried since arriving.

Her pulse hammers. She hasn't yet encountered a true immediate threat in this place — but she knows better than to believe that will last. Slowly, deliberately, she lifts both hands to shoulder height, palms open, unmistakably empty.

She hopes the body language of I am not a threat translates across worlds. ]

We can split the cans.

[ Her opening move. A parley, of sorts. ]

[ Cid's been hunting for a spot for a while now. Working out of his motel room had been alright while he was doing small repairs and the like, but now that he's got a hunk of chroma to work with, he needs the space to set up properly. (He supposes that he could have asked Viktor if he'd have another body around, but Cid doesn't know him all that well as yet, and he's not too eager to make a nuisance of himself.)

The last vestiges of late evening light stream through the broken windows, casting deep shadows where Cid has been crouched by the wall. Having cut away a chunk of the drywall, he's busy fussing with the wiring, trying to see if he can figure out how much of it ought to be replaced. He'd been so focused on the task at hand that he hadn't been paying attention to much else.

Everything looking a bit shite means that, for the most part, people don't wander in... except for now, when they do.

At the sound of the empty cans tipping over, Cid is on his feet in a second, one hand going to the sword that sits at his hip.

He steps around the shelves carefully and — ] Oh come on, I just picked that up. [ He looks from the cans on the ground to the woman standing in the isle, then slowly moves his hand away from his sword. ] That was you, then? What? It wasn't messy enough for your liking?

[ Cid sounds more exasperated than anything. He knows that he can't be all that annoyed; a few cans don't make much of a difference either way when it comes to the state of the place. (He did just pick those up though, because he'd tripped over them earlier himself.)

He'll wait to hear what she's got to say for herself, but he's got no interest in fighting anyone who's not here to cause trouble. ]

[ In theory, this could be a tense situation, though not because of anything he'd personally do to spark it; he's not an escalator, he's just the guy who handles it when things get fucked. Preferably, the quickest way possible. Sometimes (many times, maybe) that means killing, but — nah, they're good.

His eyes are drawn to her swiftly moving hand first, of course. Assess a threat, a weapon she might be reaching for, but...whatever that was, those hands aren't packin' and something uncoils in him. His head tips in a brief nod. Though he wouldn't know it, of course, in contrast to her hammering pulse, Amos is calm and steady, like this is the most normal thing he could be doing right now. Ready, sure, if he needs to make a move, but clearly he doesn't. ]

Sure. Peaches are mine.

[ Said flatly, with a note in his voice that may convey a seriousness he doesn't actually feel. There's an array of cans, some with sickly sweet fruit drenched in syrup, some of that mushy green bean shit. All of it's just — food, in the end. If she's serious about splitting the cans, he couldn't give a fuck less which ones she claims. All of it is a step above most of the food he grew up with, and a lot of what they get stuck with out in the black. He'll vibe with whatever.

He waves a hand, silently offering for her to have a go at what she wants first. He'll busy himself rooting around in the drawers and cabinets for anything else of use. At this point, maybe, some people would offer up their name, maybe ask for hers, maybe pivot to any brief point of possible interest to ask about. Amos, though, is just fine operating under the assumption that they'll never say another word to each other and carry on in parallel silence until they're through here.

Or maybe they won't. And that's just fine, too.

Out in the dining area, away from their view at the moment, strange things are happening; the jukebox flickers off and on, all on its own. A seat at the counter swivels back and forth, back and forth. A cup of coffee is poured by an unseen hand, and menus are laid out all in a row on the countertop. Ready. Waiting for them. ]

[ Jasnah watches the exchange with the same steady attention she gives most things: without apology, without softening the act of looking. The choreography is inefficient but effective — gesture, pause, clarification, repetition. The server adapts. The transaction completes. Order restored.

It reminds her, briefly, of a bridgeman she once observed from a distance in Urithiru. One of Stormblessed's crew. A man whose silence had not been emptiness but damage — words trapped behind something that must have felt insurmountable. The camp had learned him eventually. Not through kindness, exactly. Through the blunt, daily necessity of being understood.

Jasnah does not assign pity to the memory. Pity is rarely useful. She files it away and returns her attention to the present, to the woman at the counter finishing her careful negotiation with the world.

When the glance comes — awkward, uncertain — Jasnah does not look away. She does not smile, either. She inclines her head, once, in acknowledgment. Courtesy, stripped to its bones. Jasnah closes her notebook. Slides it aside. With her bare right hand, she taps the opposite side of the booth's table — just enough to make the invitation unmistakable.

No pressure. No insistence. Just an offer to be two solitary someones sharing the same plan to stay out of the rain a little longer. Jasnah turns her gaze back to the window, content to share the silence — or not.

Either way, it costs her nothing to make room. ]

[ A curious thing happens when she watches him reach for his sword — and then change his mind.

Ordinarily, Jasnah would not care. In Alethkar, a man would reach for his weapon reflexively; it is a small, tedious truth of her world. Ordinarily, she would have rolled her eyes, gathered what dignity remained among the scattered tins, and continued on her way. Except — except she dislikes the reminder that she is no longer the greater threat in the room. The absence settles unpleasantly in her chest. Stripped of Stormlight. Of Ivory. Of the quiet certainty that (back home) most escalations would end in her favour. She is reduced now to posture and nerve. Storms, she doesn't even have her reputation to precede her.

She squares her shoulders. Tall and composed; dark hair in one utilitarian braid. She's rain-damp, her boots are muddy, and she's only wearing one glove. But it's the bare hand that she uses to gesture at the surrounding empty space, twirling two fingers in a small, evaluative circle. ]

What's this building meant to be? [ She asks, more curious than apologetic. ] A shop? A quartermaster's store?

[ Mornings are not usually hectic for Sylus. Mostly because he's not much of a morning person—or a daytime person in general. He conducts his business as the sun begins to set, works throughout the night, and by morning is winding down for a well-deserved nap.

But he's not yet caught onto the rhythm of Panorama; is still learning the beats and notes of the population. Still learning where to press to make it sing the way he wants. Needless to say, he is particularly interested in a documentary at the moment, but the theatre is relatively large, and boasts plenty of poorly lit rooms. All of which means it makes a good enough location for him to throw some pursuers off his tail.

He tosses the helmet that he'd been wearing into one of the empty rows—the sudden sound of contact likely loud enough for Jasnah to hear—and then saunters over to where she's seated.

Sits down right next to her, and doesn't say a word. He looks suddenly engrossed in the documentary. ]

[ Sure. Whatever. She doesn't even know what a peach is — so he's welcome to them. Just as well; she wouldn't have enjoyed the sweetness. One slim advantage to being here, rather than home, is the complete absence of pressure to eat the too-sweet foods and flavours reserved for the women's tables in Alethkar and Urithiru. That advantage is immediately undercut by the reality that everything sealed in a tin tastes uniformly bland.

Ah well. It hardly matters. What matters is nourishment, not enjoyment. What matters is survival. And survival doesn't require small talk.

So Jasnah finds it oddly comforting how the next several minutes pass in silence. Wordless, save for their brief negotiation over the cans, they share the space in a state of perfunctory peace. She sets about retrieving what spilled — kneeling to fish a runaway tin from beneath a prep station — until the shallow box is once again full. Methodically, she sorts through them, setting aside anything whose peeling, sun-faded label might once have read something like PEACH.

Then out in the dining room, a jukebox crackles and sputters to life.

Only then does she pause. Her gaze tracks across the space, landing on the man with whom she's been sharing the silence. She does not speak; instead, she waits for the opportunity to catch his eye. Then she merely tilts her head subtly in the direction of the noise. Because that is all it is to her. Noise.

Shall we peek? ]

[ At least she isn't caught asleep — snoring — in her cinema seat. Though she had been drifting, attention fraying somewhere along the margins of a fascinating digression on poisonous mushrooms enlarged to absurd scale on the screen. (How does this technology work? Would they let her into the projection room to learn? But what if she just closed her eyes a moment...)

Embarrassing, really. Jasnah once went nights without sleep, sustained by discipline and thin sips of Stormlight. Here, without that raw power, she's locked in constant negotiation with her body. Stay awake one more hour. She would like to blame it on self-importance alone — no one here knows who she is, she's got no crown to draw knives — but Panorama has proven dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with assassination.

So when someone with light hair — too pale, almost — and sharp features and that nose drops into the seat beside her without so much as a word, recognition jolts through her before she can stop it. Perhaps it's little more than homesickness, seeping in where her vigilance has thinned.

Hoid had worn many faces on Roshar. The one she knew best was chosen, curated. Taller and dark-haired. But there had been one moment brief and unguarded when she had seen something closer to his real appearance. And the resemblance of that real appearance with the man sitting next to her is...unsettlingly precise.

But doesn't it make sense? He had always spoken of other worlds as casually as most people spoke of other cities. He appeared where conflict brewed and where stories tangled. It was only a matter of time before Hoid turned up — either to court trouble or to become it.

Or perhaps she simply needs it to be him. A familiar constant in an unfamiliar place. Proof that she is not as unmoored as she feels. ]

I should have known you'd show your face eventually.

[ Jasnah speaks coolly, not daring to look too directly at him. Arch. Stiff. Controlled. If this is Hoid, then the last thing she did was leave him behind with nothing but a letter. And if it isn't Hoid? Well. Won't that be embarrassing. ]

[ This particular diner is a place Sunday frequents, too, and those visits at first were for the same reasons. A place to go besides the motel which feels slightly more like home after spending months there when the length of time recently registered, but this habit? On restless nights, it's still his first choice.

Tonight's no exception as he steps inside and pushes his hood back, glad for it with the rainfall that's lighter than it's been the past few days though he doubts that'll last. The diner has a few more patrons than usual - or quite a few more as he scans the tables to find most of them occupied. In the process he catches Jasnah's gaze and nods politely, meaning for that to be the end of that interaction... only to realize in the next instant with one of two open tables being claimed by a couple who'd walked in ahead of him, that leaves the remaining table right next to the booth. Well.

Sunday approaches the table, takes a moment to remove his coat and drape it over one chair, then seats himself and casually glances again to find she has a notebook before her. His gaze doesn't linger long enough to give any impression of attempting to read what she was writing before he looks up. ]

It's not often I find others taking notes here.

[ Said mildly, and while withdrawing his own journal from his bag. Just as confirmation he's not making this up, for what it might be worth. ]

[ Eddie really should still be in a hospital, but he has neither the funds to afford an extended visit, nor the patience for the white walls and the repeated insistence that he stay in bed, so he’s opted instead to continue with daily life, trying to fill every moment to avoid from spiraling into anxiety.

That includes helping the poor souls that can’t seem to get their vehicles to move for one reason or another. It’s a common thing for him now; he’s given fly-by driving lessons, changed tires, jumped batteries.

The van that Jasnah flags down has a hand-painted mural painted on the side of a scene featuring a dragon, a wizard, and a red sky full of bats. It slows, someone rolls down a window, and the face that peers out is framed by copious amounts of wild hair and a nice sized wound on his jawline and neck that’s in the process of healing. But he grins, and it’s friendly enough. ]

Hey.

[ He calls out over music that’s turned up at an ear-splitting level, before realizing that's probably not the best way to talk to someone and reaching over to turn it down. ]

You, uh, broken down or just…don’t know how to get it going? Which--not trying to imply anything. We get a lot of both.

[ The park is small. Neglected. Poorly kept in ways Jasnah lacks the proper framework to name, having never seen a park that wasn't neglected.

Intellectually, she knows that this is grass. The stationary type. She has read about it — extensively, in fact — most notably in accounts of Shinovar. Where the land is said to grow soft things openly, without fear of the wind. Still, knowledge and experience rarely align on first encounter. This grass is longer than she expected. Thicker. It bends beneath her boots instead of recoiling. It's off-green. A little sickly, maybe, because of the season.

Fascinating.

Jasnah walks the perimeter first, cataloguing benches with peeling paint, a rusted play structure half-swallowed by vines, overgrown desire paths. The space feels abandoned but not unused. She crouches near a patch where the grass has grown especially wild, gloved left hand braced against her knee as her bare right brushes carefully through the blades. They whisper against her skin. Yielding. Alive in a way Rosharan flora never is unless frightened into motion.

She is mid-thought when she notices the shape nearby. A person, stretched out in the grass. At rest. Entirely unconcerned with cremlings or dirt.

Jasnah straightens slowly. Recognition follows a heartbeat later.

It's the taxi driver. The one from earlier in the month — the one she'd had to cling to, arms locked around her sides, just to keep from flying off the bike. She remembers the cadence of her voice — the way she'd offered to help with the helmet — the terrible, terribly business practices that likely lost the woman money.

She studies her now with the same frank, unapologetic attention. They'd never exchanged names. Silent, just yet. ]

[ It would be a reasonable car to flag down, depending on your perceptions - or, for that matter, whether you're even from a world that has police. The light on top is flashing red and blue, but the rogue siren is at least staying off today, so Mike hasn't managed to accidentally pull anyone over on his trip to the scrapyard. Not this time, at least. Not a single use of the loudspeaker to clear up confusion, or tell people they can stop trying to toss bottles of booze out the passenger side windows.

He does, however, use it now, just as he slows the car down a few yards from Jasnah. ]

Do you, uh- need any help? [ Bracketed by radio static, but it's clear that he's young. Young, and a bit hesitant about the situation. You just never know out here, which is why he generally avoids the Fringes. He has no real weapons, aside from a baseball bat in the back seat, and his arm strength is close to that of spaghetti. ] I mean, like, other than fixing your car. I can't do that.

[ Please say no, please say no. ]

[ Honestly, it's starting to get a little too crowded for Jasnah's liking — but the alternative is to loose herself back into the rain. And, unfortunately for her, her only other outfit is currently drying (poorly) on the passenger seat of her truck. Which means she's stuck here for the foreseeable future. At her elbow is an untouched cup of something that's long gone cold.

And when she's not paying attention to the people around her, she's certainly absorbed in her notes. Currently, she's scribbling a few thoughts on why there's such an alarming lack of spren in this place. They should be crawling, bubbling, appearing from everywhere in a spot so occupied as this. And yet.

The most recent body to join the fray addresses her, and produces a notebook of his own. Hm. Although there were exceptions enough even back in Urithiru, it's still a little strange to realize now...normal and unremarkable it is, here, for a man to be literate. ]

I imagine it depends.

[ A gentle indication of the space around them — and the window beside her. ]

For some — [ for me ] — this 'here' is notable in itself.

[ — Initially, quite before anything else, Jasnah is struck by the image on the side of this vehicle. Especially the red sky. With an uneasy shiver, she thinks about the Everstorm and its sickly red glow. Enough to make her wary.

And then outright apprehensive when the noise pours forth from the interior. She visibly recoils — stepping backwards towards her truck, as if distance could somehow dampen the sound. She's wincing, still, even as the volume lowers and the music (??) rings in her ears.

Jasnah is convinced that if emotionspren existed in this place, the pink motes of irritation spren would have appeared around her head. ]

The latter.

[ She answers. Dry — a little uncertain. But to expedite the understanding, she dares to admit: ]

I'm a new driver. [ ... ] Very new.

[ There's a soft metallic clanging as he rifles through another drawer looking at cutlery and considering what could be useful to trade, to melt down, or even to substitute for a part in one of those in a pinch situations that bubble up. He's nearly oblivious to the company near him, and the quiet respect they've adopted is appreciated. This'll make the little detour here quicker and easier.

Away from the city, all pretense of predictability disappears, though. To Amos, Panorama — in its neon glittering decay and seedy underbelly — is, at least, familiar. Been a while, sure, but not a whole lot different from Baltimore. Everywhere's Baltimore, though, when you scratch the surface. But out here — anything goes. The zones that pop up are generally varying shades of harmless, just usually always different in some way.

So the music kicking up is just — that. Strange. Strange, he can handle.

His gaze lifts, he sets down a busted spatula that's not good even for scrap, and his eyes meet hers; a wordless question and answer exchanged in an instant as he gives a brief nod, to her, and towards the front, the same direction her head tilted. Yeah. Let's take a look.

To get to the front from the back area they're currently occupying, there's just a simple swing door that's seen better days as it flops precariously in its hinges. It'll creak when they nudge it open — whoever gets there first — and the sight greeting them on the other side will be a lively, fully lit jukebox continuing to play the same song (and it will continue to, over and over, on a loop, for longer than a normal song). There are multiple counter stools now swiveling back and forth, coffee pouring into a cup by someone who isn't there, for someone who isn't there. (Yet.) The menus laid out are standing up at attention, facing them both now. There's wording scrawled on them in messy ink, and it's clear even from a distance that what's on the menus isn't just food. Amos steps closer, observing the cup of coffee first, moving it out of the way, tipping it a little to the side, watching as the stream from the pot continues to pour and fall onto the floor now. Seemingly unbothered (on the surface), he pushes the cup back in place and tries to decipher the writing on the menus, though for the moment it's just — words in a jumble. Like a puzzle. Letters out of sequence. He looks over at his temporary partner in the land of the bizarre they've suddenly been plunged into, an eyebrow slightly raised.

In a move that's very thanks for the entertainment, but no thanks, he makes his way towards the front door. It's all harmless now, sure, but he's seen this goes sideways fast before, and yeah. Door won't open. ]

You had anywhere to be tonight? Might be a while.

[ He's already looking for something he can use to try to break the glass, though, spoiler alert: it won't break, at least while they're trapped in this loop that's just getting started. ]

[ Radio static is an objectively terrifying sound to process when you come from a world without radios. That tinny, distant quality to the stranger's voice is — off-putting. To say the least. Scratchy and artificial.

And then juxtaposed with the oddly hesitant substance of what he's trying to say? Bizarre. Rounding away from the strange car — entirely ignorant of what it is and why it might be a notable shape or paintjob — she squints at the windshield. ]

I can't say — [ Jasnah answers, perhaps responding a little too...loudly? As if to match the radio's volume. ] It just — stopped.

[ She officially hates cars. ]

[ The woman's got the bearing of a soldier or a noblewoman, Cid thinks, and nearly a head's height on him besides... but she makes no move to reach for a weapon of her own, so he'll take what small blessings he can get. He's got no idea what to make of her expression, or the way she sets her shoulders as if to weather some insult.

He could have been a bit nicer, he supposes. Gotez would have scolded him for greeting someone like that.

When she speaks again, Cid raises an eyebrow at her. It's the question, more than anything else, that engenders some sympathy in him. ]

It was a shop, aye. [ Just a flat response, without judgement. He knows exactly how it is to see all of this for the first time. ] Hasn't been one for a while, so I thought I'd borrow it and have a go.

[ Without asking anyone for permission, obviously.

Cid pulls an old rag out of the pocket of his jeans so that he can wipe the sticky black dust from his hands. He should probably get some work gloves, but no one's going to sell him that in exchange for the pocket lint that comprises his current budget. ] Have you just arrived, then? Looking for something?

[ Jasnah falls back a step or two, taking the rear in a move that feels more cowardly than it truly is. On Roshar she would have taken the lead without a second thought, Stormlight already humming in her veins. Here, she is acutely aware of how narrow her margin for error has become. Of how much she must now rely on others to compensate for what she lacks.

Helpless is not a word she enjoys. But in moments like this, she can't deny its accuracy.

Once through the door, Jasnah surveys the room with the same brisk, unsentimental efficiency she applies to most crises. What greets her is a closed system in the midst of misbehavior: moving parts, repeating motions, actions severed from Intent and user both. Worse, she has no baseline — no sense of whether this is aberrant or somehow strangely normal by this world's measure.

Not until she watches her temporary ally move the cup and — oh. His raised eyebrow tells her everything. Whatever this is, it's notable. Perhaps one of those Diffusion Zones? Beneath the unease (and the prickling horror) there runs an infuriating countercurrent of curiosity. Some reflexive part of her wishes she had her notebook.

Eventually, her attention settles on one of the counter stools: metal-legged, vinyl-topped, spinning steadily on its axis as though nudged by an invisible, idle hand. She steps closer and reaches out with her fingertips and applies pressure — firm enough that the motion should stop.

Instead, the result is immediate and deeply unpleasant. Metal screams against metal, a high, keening shriek that vibrates up her arm and sets her teeth on edge. The stool judders, resists, and continues to spin beneath her fingertips, utterly indifferent to her interference. Jasnah releases it at once, jaw tightening. Charming, she mutters. Mostly to herself.

She is still studying the stools when, across the room, she hears the soft, dull ka-thunk of the front door being tested. He asks his question. She exhales slowly through her nose, a long, controlled breath. ]

Nowhere terribly important.

[ Turning away from the door — and from him — she widens her focus. Some of the phenomena are almost playful when considered in isolation. Taken together, however, they chill her. She speaks again without looking back. ]

Does this happen often?

[ Outing herself as fresh meat. ]

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—OPEN; journey before destination

—PANORAMA; open

—FRINGES; open

@CID; closed

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looting;

all night diner!

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diner!

out of gas!

@SCIEL; closed

out of gas.

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