ArchivedLogs:Possibilities

Possibilities
Dramatis Personae Anette, Isra, Regan	2015-01-07 Part of Future Past TP.
Location <BOM> Kitchen and Dining Room - Main Lodge - Ascension Island
Though equipped to feed and seat a few dozen people, these rooms lack an institutional feel. A large stone fireplace along one wall has a wide mantelpiece above it; the walls and floors are smooth blonde birch and darker grey stone. The solid wood tables are circular, designed to seat six apiece. The lighting overhead is soft, stained-glass hanging lamps over each table and recessed lighting studded at intervals into the walls. Though the tables all match, the chairs do not, an assortment of styles from extravagantly ornate high-backed oak to plastic-and-metal folding chairs. The kitchen adjoins the living room through a large pair of swinging doors. Recently refurbished, its new appliances still gleam. The giant fridge and freezer to the right are generally well-stocked, as is the large cool stone walk-in pantry set alongside them. Its back door opens out onto the gardens. The center island is a long granite counter, the cabinets underneath it stocked with pots and pans and cooking dishes of all types. Three sinks are set against the left-hand wall. Overhead, numerous cabinets hold dishes and glasses and mugs for actual eating; the drawers below have utensils for the same. Hooks on the walls are available for hanging -- dishtowels, oven mitts, severed body parts, whatever is in need of hanging. The scent of coffee fills the air. Normally that's not a bad, or even unusual, thing around here except for the hour. Most people tend to ease up on the caffeine in the evening. Anette apparently has other plans. She sits casually enough at one of the tables in the kitchen, the New York Times propped open to the arts section, and casually sipping at the large, steaming mug of black coffee sitting beside her. In the background, the whirring of the coffee machine suggests another pot will be ready any second now. "Oh, thank God." Regan is peeling off layers as she comes in from the snowy day outside. Shedding scarf, mittens, hat, eventually peeling down to a sweater that has been pulled on over her scrubs -- evidently in after a work shift. "Please tell me there's enough of that to go around." She pushes a stray wisp of blonde hair back from her face where it is kind of /clinging/ with melting ice. "I'm not sure whether I need the warm or the caffeine more." Both will be /great/, though; she is already moving to get herself a Very Large mug. Isra sweeps in from the living room, her wings folded down over her shoulders. She sheds her cloak of gray and green to reveal a hunter green wrap tunic and matching skirt, both edged in gold knotwork trim. Currently gray-green, her skin sports deeper green tiger stripes. Bits of ice cling to the hems of her garb, dangle from the trailing edges of her wings, glaze over the tips of her horns. Her nostrils flare and her pupils dilate. "I'll make more if there isn't enough." "Help yourself," Anette mumbles, waving her hand vaguely in the direction of the coffee, not looking up from the newspaper. "Yes, more, probably going to need it..." She flips to the next page and, apparently not liking anything on it, sets the paper down on the table and finishes off her coffee. "Sleep is overrated anyway..." "I am going to have to register my firm disagreement with that. Sleep," Regan says, pouring herself a mug and lifting the pot -- and her eyebrows -- with a questioning look at Isra, "could not possibly be rated highly enough. One of these years I may even start getting some again. But I don't pass judgment on anyone who prefers coffee as a substitute." "I enjoy sleep, but I'll take the coffee." Isra gets her own mug from the cabinet and holds it out for Regan to fill. "Thank you." She brings the coffee to her nose and inhales deeply, then edges her way around Regan to set about cleaning the coffee-maker's filter. "And how has the new year treated you ladies?" She somehow manages her task while holding her coffee mug in one hand. "Normally I like sleep but these goddamn dreams..." Anette mumbles, standing up and pouring herself another cup of coffee. "So I'm settling for not sleeping until further notice. Or at least...fucking up my sleep cycle enough that I don't dream." She sighs and rubs her eyes. "New Year...good, pretty good. Same old really." "Dreams?" Regan tips the pot, filling Isra and Anette's cups both as well before setting it -- empty -- down on the counter. "Well enough. Work, mostly. Perhaps a bit restless. Dusk is --" Her fingers curl around her mug, eyes lowering to it with a small pinch of lips. "Reluctant to have us intervene until his appeals are through, and I can't say he's wrong about that. But." She leans back against the counter, inhaling the steam rising from her coffee though not actually sipping the hot beverage yet. "Not sleeping seems like a problem that will rectify itself in a matter of days. Is dreaming really /that/ bad?" "Dreams. Mm. I don't wholly disagreed." Isra takes a generous gulp of her coffee and flicks water from the filter basket. "The /future./ The present is enough of a plateful." She takes down a canister of coffee beans labelled "Permata Gayo" and dumps two scoops into a waiting grinder. "Dusk is right. The timing is just--unfortunate. Again." She jabs the power button on the grinder savagely and holds it down for longer than probably necessary. Anette looks up towards /isra. "You've been havin them too?" she asks curiously. "They're...they're intense. They just feel so real and they're...it was everything that could possibly going wrong that could go wrong. There was an internment camp and...I had a baby. A baby I couldn't protect and I don't know where he is or was or will be. He's not even real and I'm still guilty...sorry, I don't need to be complaining about dreams to you guys." She takes an extremely large gulp of her coffee, her hands shaking slightly with suppressed emotion. "Ah. /Those/ dreams." Regan's expression relaxes into a greater understanding. Her eyes cant sidelong to Isra as she manhandles the coffee grinder, then lower down to her cup. "You don't need to apologize. They do get intense, don't they? The running theory is that they feel real because they are. Not so much dreams as visions of the future. But. Visions of /a/ future. A /possible/ future. One that could, theoretically, be averted, given that we are seeing what might be coming." Now she takes a sip of her coffee, slow and cautious given the steam still rising from it. "Is the timing for jail ever /good/? Though it has been --" She pauses, head tipping slightly to one side. "I've been sending Ion and Eric to check on him, regularly. If there's any communication you'd like to send, we could arrange that." Isra's ears swivel back sharply. "A baby," she echoes. "Not yet in this world, then?" She dumps the fresh grounds into the filter basket and slots it into the machine. "Luckier than ours, then." She fills the machine's reservoir up with water, not looking at the other two women. "Dusk should know," she says at last. "I'd like to tell him myself, if Ion can take me, but it's more important that he know than that I bear the message." Anette frowns slightly as they discuss the dreams further. "So...you think he could exist? Or...will in the future?" This does not appear to be helping her. Neither does the sudden discussion of Dusk. "How is he? I haven't seen or heard from him in ages. I suppose that's obvious though. Tell him I'm thinking of him, would you?" She takes a large gulp from her coffee and sits back down at the table, leaning back against the chair. "I'm starting to see how the dream thing could be real. Definitely seems like it's heading that direction." "If you're concerned," Regan says mildly, "There are some very excellent and reliable birth control methods available. Unless you /want/ children, in which case --" This trails off into another sip of coffee. "She could. That whole world /could/. But. With work. Will not." Her head shakes at the question of Dusk. "In jail. Again. I will talk to Ion when I," a very small twitch of smile pulls up at her lips, "manage to /ground/ him next. Send you along together. He is -- healthy, but." The smile fades. Quickly. "Would appreciate the company." "We cannot let it happen." Isra leans back on the counter and wraps her long, taloned fingers around her mug. "That future cannot be /allowed/ to come about. I will not countenance it--could not have before, and now..." She drains her cup and swallows hard. "To be honest, I may need his company more than he does mine." The cup goes into the dishwasher. Isra stays facing the cabinets a moment longer. "Long night," she mutters. "I should rest a while." When she moves to leave it is with a nervous twinge in her gliding step. "Thank you for the coffee, sister." This, softly to Annette. To Regan, no words at all; but a long, unblinking glance and the firm press of an index phalanx as she passes.