etrayalogs | Between Mission Catch All

[ Her hands hurt, and, more importantly, they're starting to cramp. That is what, ultimately, pulls Clea out of her apartment: She can no longer paint accurately and she is bored.

Sophie is an excellent antidote for boredom.

Stopping off for two bottles - champagne for Sophie and wine for herself - Clea locates the school and steps inside (and only briefly critiques some of its architectural decisions). That Sophie would be in the dormatories makes the most sense, and so Clea heads in that direction.

There is, however, the problem of not knowing which door belongs to Sophie's quarters.

Except that if Sophie is at home, she can tell Clea is here and looking for her. Clea makes her thoughts obvious: /Are you home, Sophie?/ and tries to stay focused and to the point, though she does end up momentarily distracted by the leaves swaying outside of a window.

She folds her hands in front of her and waits. Clea's her usual put together self, although now there are almost minute specks of color underneath a couple of her fingernails and she smells more strongly of oils, pigments, and alcohols: The smells of an artist's workshop. ]

[ The trip to the 'other' Earth had proven fruitful. While there were limits to what Clea could carry back to Etraya, she'd prioritized. Sculpting material had been out of the question, but now that Clea had a proper set of scultping tools in her possession, she could scavange material from around this strange place. This haul is mostly wood and metal, but she has a map in her pocket with several promising large rocks and stones marked. Her disappointment at the quality (or lack thereof) of the materials is muted by anticipation.

She can sculpt again. Sculpting is such an active form of art compared to Painting - the intermediate art between dance and painting. Clea itches for it: To run her hands along the wood and feel how it will sand, chisel, and take additions. To see in her mind's eye how twisted, discarded things could be reforged into beauty.

God, she's missed sculpting. The little clay doodles don't compare to the true experience.

It was a good plan, except for one thing: She lives on the top floor of the building and she doesn't trust the elevator. Clea has heard too many tales of people ending up stuck, of nearly falling, and of doors almost closing on fingers and other body parts.

She sighs. Merde.

Well. It cannot be helped. She is the one who had chosen to live on the top floor, and she is the one who had chosen to be a sculptor instead of a calligrapher. With a resigned yet determined look on her face, the Frenchwoman starts rolling the dolly towards the stairwell.

And so that's how Clea can be found: holding the door to the stairway open with one of her feet, leg stretched out, while she tries to wrangle a dolly into the stairwell. ]

(Whereas Sophie's room once felt like entering the home of a modern Marylin Monroe, ever since she has come back to Etraya from Earth, it now screams gamer. LED lights, pink and purple, gaming systems and consoles surrounded by shelves upon shelves of games, and the pastel palette repeats throughout the room.

She's just vibing with Sciel for today. Her first week was tough, but she's getting more and more back to her normal self — it's not what she says, but how obsessively she acts at times that tips off her mental state. Words are the same, but hours upon hours of a single activity with no rest in sight? Trouble. So, it's a break, and a very nice one.

She's hanging from her hanging nest chair, in chats and idle conversation as she cuts the strawberries, a little distracted until she feels Clea's psychic signature in mutant territory. Oh, interesting. This could be fun.)

Aha, fate brought one more. Clea's here, I'll just guide her here, a sec, can you take this?

(The knife and the strawberries, that is, because no one wants an accident with her horrible cutting skills as she busies herself with guiding the other woman. Her eyes glow pinkish white, and she adds an arrow to Clea's sight indicating the path to the girl's dorms. The mansion's massive, and if you don't know where you're going? Oof.)

You two got along alright, I think. You mind if she joins?

[This room is insane, and Sciel feels like her retinas are being melted through to the back of her head, but it is so terribly This-Sophie that she doesn’t even mind. While Sophie sits in her dangling chair, Sciel lounges on the couch, a magazine draped over her bare stomach, the pages ignored in favour of yapping.

Cleo’s name makes her sit up a little more on her elbows, eyebrows lifting slightly. This is unexpected.]

Not at all. [It just means she has to pay a lot more attention, keep her thoughts clean. She takes the knife and the strawberries, watching Sophie “work”. Amused:] Did you worry we wouldn’t?

[ The best way to describe Clea's approach would be 'meandering'. Although she follows the provided arrow, taking it as an acceptance of her presence, she frequently stops to examine her surroundings and the small details of the mansion, running her fingers along parts of the structure to appreciate how it's built and looking at small flourishes in the environment.

She does eventually end up outside of Sophie's door. Clea raises up a hand and knocks, a quick and musical succession of sounds, then waits. While she does so, her thoughts turn to color palettes and sculpting, her mind less sharp than it had been previously as she luxuriates in potential creations: paintings, sculptures, and even the odd dance inspired by the insect like creature she'd encountered during the other mission, flashing images of something between an aerial show and a ballet performed in the air. ]

(Good question, Sciel. There's a laugh as she keeps an eye on what Clea's doing through the woman's optical nerve, a shrug ensues.)

Me? No, actually. Clea is moody, but you don't strike me as someone who takes a person's personality personally.

(Sciel feels too mature for that, after all. Once the knock is present, her telekinesis opens the door, and she gestures towards the room and well, the extra company before she sees the bottles. God bless Clea.)

Hey, amour, great idea, we're cutting strawberries to dip on chocolate and then... We were going to do something, I don't remember what it was. Come in, close the door, make yourself at home.

[Person’s personality personally. What a turn of phrase. Sciel just smiles, shifting how she’s sitting entirely so she can continue cutting the strawberries. She’s handy with a knife, skipping the cutting board in favour of just pinning the fruit between the blade and her thumb and pressing through until the blade just kisses her skin, often without even looking.

She smiles as Clea comes in.]

Bonjour, Clea. [A beat:] Surprise!

[ Ah. There will be three of them. It's unexpected, but if Sophie hadn't wanted Clea's presence, she would have made that known. ]

Strawberries sound delightful. I'm sure we shall find something suitable to stave off the boredom and ennui.

[ Since her hands stubbornly refuse to spend any more time sculpting or painting. Clea stiffens ever so slightly; Sciel makes her uncomfortable. It is not the other woman's fault, however. Sciel would be - is - a pleasant conversationalist and Sophie should be able to enjoy her. ]

Bonjour, Sciel. Ça va?

[ Clea takes the invitation seriously, looking around the brightly colored room until she locates drinking glasses. Pulling a wine opener out of her voluminous pocket, Clea opens both bottles expeditiously and cleanly, then pours a glass of champagne for Sophie and wine for herself before looking over at Sciel, her eyes following the smooth, efficient motions of Sciel's cutting with admiration.

She waits until there's a pause in the cutting before speaking, not wanting to distract Sciel while she's working. ]

Which is your preference, madame?

("Were you worried"? No, Sophie was not worried, but she is very entertained that she can sense that little nugged of discomfort from Clea. Interesting, and it does make her want to go digging so she can see the root, because of course it does — but well, she's been good for a while, she has no plans of actually doing it, hence why she lets their thoughts and feelings go into the background of her mind, white noise that she doesn't pay any attention to.

No complaints about the champagne, in fact, she's thrilled! A sip ensues, a satisfied little dance at the pleasant taste before she puts it down on the table she has in front of her.)

Ah, yes, French, we all speak it.

(No, they do not.)

I got a pool, a baseball field, a music room, a Danger Room, videogames, movies, and my wonderful company, so I'm sure we will figure something out.

[ The mood in the apartment has been a little tense since they arrived back from Earth and found that Verso was still missing. Maelle is upset and morose and trying to pretend she isn't where Gustave can see her, and Sciel seems blithely unbothered by Verso's absence, and neither of them are all that willing to talk to him about it. It's a conversation he'll have to gently force, he thinks, but until then, it's helpful to get out of both apartment and building when he can. Walking down by one of Etraya's many rivers isn't the same as wandering along Lumiere's pier or one of the Continent's small lakes, but it gives him some much-needed fresh air and movement, helps him sift through and sort his thoughts.

And, on returning, he occasionally runs into a neighbor in the building, giving him a chance to stop and chat — or assist, as the case may be. Gustave breaks into a quick jog as he enters the building lobby, making his way quickly to hold the door for the woman and her dolly full of — what is that, wood? ]

Need a hand?

[ He takes in the scene at a glance: Clea, doing her best to drag a loaded dolly past the heavy stairwell door, apparently to... what, drag it up at least one flight?

He looks up at the stairs, brows furrowing, and turns his attention on Clea. ]

Are you sure you wouldn't rather use the elevator? I think this might be difficult to get up the stairs.

[It’s only the second time she’s met Clea in person, but the image is no less striking. Clea has those blue eyes, those quintessentially Lumièrian full skirts. Sophie –– her Sophie –– used to bemoan all the hemming they demanded of a seamstress. Sciel can only smile, serene as usual.]

Ça va! [It’s alright, she thinks, for this Sophie’s benefit. It is fun to spring between languages –– something she’s never known to be a possibility –– but they can’t alienate their company.] Wine, please.

[To Sophie:]

That sounds like enough to fill a whole week, honestly. Which is most fun tipsy?

Edited 2025-08-19 16:49 (UTC)

[ Clea's reaction is the opposite of Sciel's. Where Sciel goes out of her way to be accommodating, Clea sends a teasing thought Sophie's way, quite deliberately: Quelle horreur! Seeing as Sophie has her own extra layer of social knowledge, what harm is there in one shared by her and Sciel?

Teasing aside, Clea does switch to the tongue they have in common from then on.

She pours Sciel a glass of the wine and holds it out to the other woman, keeping it perfectly balanced between her fingers until Sciel opts to take it. After she does so, Clea reaches out for a piece of strawberry and places it in her mouth, closing her eyes to savor the taste. The sweetness and the tartness meld together in a way that is divine. ]

What is the Danger Room?

[ Baseball is quite out. As is the music room, unless they happen to have a harp (or want to be subjected to Clea's utterly mediocre piano playing). Even then, that's hardly a group activity. The other options are...acceptable (she thinks - Clea isn't sure what a 'video game' is?), but she is most intrigued by the Danger Room. ]

Oh, it's X-Men shit. It's basically this room with high-tech that simulates some danger, so you get some training in it. Not great for tipsy work, so it's out.

(Mostly because it'd be a hassle to deal with, on her viewpoint. She also doesn't even remember if she explained what the X-Men are, but whatever, it is what it is.)

Didn't you guys want to see Paris for a little bit, by the way? We should decide on that before we get tipsy, actually.

[Sciel smiles, her thoughts simple, meditative-calm. She passes over the board with the strawberries when Clea reaches, trading one for one, an ease in her movements that she's sure will only smooth out more now with a glass of wine in her hand.]

I'd still like to see Paris. Your version of it, anyway. And you, Clea?

[ Ah. The Danger Room is similar to a fighting Canvas. That isn't particularly interesting: Clea can make her own when the desire arises. One that is much better. She takes a drink of the wine, relishing the contrast between its taste and that of the strawberry.

Clea isn't particularly interested (she can create her own replica of Paris if she desires) until Sciel mentions Sophie's Paris. That earns her attention. ]

What an intriguing idea. How much detail can you render? The only thing of Paris here is not particularly suitable for gatherings.

I guess with 5 people's worth of senses, probably a lot? It might or not be 100% accurate, though, because memories kinda fade and get replaced and mixed and matched and in my case you'll get what the others paid attention to too, but it's the closest to the real thing as we can get anyway.

(... Nevermind the fact they were partying the last time she was there, that will definitely color her memory somehow, but look. It sounds fun, and they can chill after, especially if they spend a while in Sophie's brain — she'll want to relax.

Girl's night?)

I'm down.

Merci, monsieur.

[ For the door. She pulls the dolly into the stairwell and then looks at the stairs apprehensively. Sacrifices must be made for the sake of art. (Though she misses when those sacrifices were made by strapping delivery men.) Clea inspects her materials, making sure that they're all strapped into place. She's about to lift the dolly when Gustave speaks: She hadn't expected him to stay - she'd expected that he would go about his way (either by stair or by the death trap they call an elevator). ]

It is going to be quite difficult. And yet it is preferable to falling to my death in an elevator.

[Sciel watches Clea’s attention shift, a quiet observer of her reaction. Of course, Paris might be boring to her, if she lives there. But why the change?

She just shrugs, smiles, and lounges back into the couch, a strawberry pinched between two fingers and her wine in her other.]

Sounds like fun to me. If it’s a little different, it’ll just make it more interesting.

Memories are quite fickle.

[ Two people can experience the same event very differently. Then time layers its pressure, pressing down upon the original memory until it is a compressed version of itself. Finally, when a memory is recalled, new perspectives and emotions are laid atop the remembrance. ]

Seeing through multiple perspectives would be intriguing.

[ Ignore Clea's mind being distracted again, wandering down the avenues exploring what a multi-perspective Canvas would look like. ]

[ There's no doubting Clea's stubborn determination; he watches as she surveys the stairs, as she reaches for the dolly. How she thinks she's going to drag that absurd weight all the way up who knows how many flights, he has no idea, but he knows a bad idea when he sees one.

It may be courting death (or at least her displeasure), but he reaches out, curls his metal fingers around the handle of the dolly to keep it here on the floor, and — by extension — to keep her here, too. ]

There's another option, you know. Bringing it safely up in the elevator and not falling to your death.

[ As if by agreement, an elevator happens to cheerfully announce its arrival in the lobby with a bright ding! and the gentle shushing sound of its doors sliding open. They've made marvelous advances in the technology since the elevators he's more familiar with; that automation is a thing of beauty.

He angles his head toward one shoulder, lifts his brows at her. ]

Have you ridden in them yet? The elevators.

Well, alright. I'm gonna put you two to sleep, just for ease so I don't have to keep an eye on you on two planes, so you two, find a place to nap on.

(Bed, couch, all very comfortable. Sophie would not settle for less at all, so she gestures with a smile.)

[Sciel feels mildly surprised by the concept, even if makes sense. It seems exhausting, being Sophie, constantly untangling other peoples’ heads.]

Sounds fine by me.

[The least she can do is make it simple, and she pops another strawberry in her mouth, sets the wine down, and scoots down on the couch so she can lay on it.]

I haven't taken a nap since I was six.

[ At least this spell of sleep will be for something useful. In contrast to Sciel, Clea prepares extensively, stripping herself of her shoes and socks before testing the pillows on Sophie's bed and arranging them to her preferences. Clea peels back the covers and climbs underneath them, curling herself into the fetal position.

She feels ridiculous. ]

[ How was she going to get the dolly up the stairs? Step by step. Or at least that had been the plan. Clea looks at Gustave, her face carefully neutral, eyes flickering down to the metal hand on the dolly. It's an interesting contrast: From what she's seen of Gustave, he is very warm and alive, and yet his arm is the opposite.

Perhaps the arm is why he is so comfortable with the elevators. The man is a piece of technology as well. ]

I see you are a dreamer and an optimist, monsieur.

[ Whereas Clea is no optimist. The 'ding' of the arriving elevator earns both the elevator and Gustave a suspicious look, as though he'd summoned it on purpose.

Had he? Some people here had 'powers'. Perhaps Gustave could control elevators. ]

I have not. I see no reason to take the risk. The stairs are more than acceptable.

Well. Look at your character development, Clea. Sleep.

(It's just a trip into their consciousness, shifting their brain awareness, saying it just helps focus. Part one is done, she's just gonna go around to see if the girls are comfortable, grab a blanket for Sciel considering Clea took the bed with a thousand pillows.

Once she finds that everything is alright, she pulls them both into her memory. It's like they truly are walking those streets in Les Halles, the aroma of food gently pulling them in every direction, clear and crisp. The details, the lights, the sounds of people and cars. Sophie is not alone in here, she has four other girls who look just like her walking in synch. It is a memory, after all, and this is her little gift for herself.

She misses them. Hates that she does, does not want to go back even if asked to, but she misses them as if they're her blood and the oxygen in her lungs. So, they all speak at the same time, unison and perfect synch of tone and cadence.)

Pretty, right? We enjoy coming here from time to time.

[Sciel lays there for a long moment while Clea prepares, a look of transparent amusement on her face. Is it that serious? Oh well. When it’s time, off she goes to Paris.

It immediately strikes her as… different, somehow, from what she expected. It’s beautiful, and it has the bones of Lumière, but they’ve been bleached clean. The apartments lack the same patina, the modern structures are cold, with uninterrupted lines that seem built by machines, rather than artists. It’s more vibrant than San Francisco, more grounded –– there’s still character, there, or at least the language of it she can recognize –– but it’s far more different than she expected.

And then there’s Sophie, in quintuple. She’s momentarily drawn to look at them, these perfect copies shadowing the young woman.]

It is pretty. [These are her people, in some form, she will ride or die for them, too.] More cars than I expected.

[ It's an interesting experience. To be transported elsewhere in the blink of an eye is familiar to Clea, but this is a pale imitation of a Canvas. Clea can tell where the memory is hazy at the edges, that the experience is entirely subjective, filtered through Sophie's mind - certain smells and sights are more prominent in a way that is incongruent with the real world, but they also lack a Canvas's structure.

Nevertheless, it is enough for them to see.

For a few moments, Clea ignores her companions, turning and watching in a clear desire to drink it all in. It is different, of course, but she is glad to see it. It would bring her to despair if the city had stagnated: Paris is a living thing and like all living things, it must grow and change. ]

More cars, but they are much more organized.

[ And there are no longer horses on the streets. It certainly smells better than Clea's Paris. Clea inhales deeply, enjoying the familiar smells of the foods mixing with newer, more unknown fare.

Suddenly, she is filled with a deep and sorrowful longing, that she cannot see the Paris of 2125, or 1031. That they are all so woefully stuck in time, limited to a sliver of the city's existence and therefore that they will never behold her in her totality.

Finally, Clea turns her attention back to the women. The copies of Sophie are discomforting, and Clea angles her body away from them, towards Sciel, as there is a single second flash of a memory: Of Clea looking at what appears to be herself, but not in a mirror - rather as living, breathing flesh. ]

Of course you enjoyed visiting. You have taste.

(It's interesting to hear. Of course both of them would have different reactions to her own version of Paris, considering one comes from one that has been fractured, and Clea is, well, old-timey. To Sophie, this is just a city of art, one that vibrates with passion even through the changes of time. Lively, like New York is. There's even a Hellfire Club, which is kind of where her feet guide them to without her even noticing it. It does mean taking a stroll through the streets, five hands touching the architecture and Sophie every now and then pointing to buildings she knows stood through the centuries.

Also, of course she picks up on Clea's discomfort, but that's literally not her problem. It's not like she didn't explain the Stepford Cuckoos to her before, and she'll probably ask about it when they're not having a little party in her brain.)

Any place you guys want to see specifically?

[Beyond aesthetics, it's so difficult to place anything; maybe with hours to comb through, she could line something up. A facade, a specific building, a lamppost –– something. Some of the structures she can see look like the Hanging Gardens, but it's not the same. How can she ask to see something familiar?

But she knows the name of her neighbourhood, or what her grandparents called it.]

I'd love to take a walk to the Tower, perhaps. See what's different between yours and mine.

[She meets Clea's eyes as she turns, noting the unusual body language. What, she wonders, is going through the woman's head? She smiles, pleasant as ever:]

What about you?

[ Clea pushes away the discomfort, looking at the Cuckoos and smoothing away the tension. Looking at Sophie. Who is her friend. She will not let that mar this...is it an outing if they are all in Sophie's quarters? She isn't certain. In that way, too, it is similar to spending time in a Canvas.

Whatever it should be called, it is glorious. Clea takes no effort to hide her quiet pleasure from Sophie, equally appreciative of both the old and new aspects of the city, blending together to create something whose roots reach into the past and the future. The people, the sights, and the sounds all wash over Clea as they walk. It is home, but without the unpleasant ghosts of memory of her Paris. A Paris of new people and new memories.

Will she live to see this Paris? Or something like it? How will the city change in the future? How will she change?

Lost in her thoughts, it takes her a moment to bring herself back to the conversation. ]

I agree with Sciel. I would enjoy seeing the Tower. I have always enjoyed the 7th.

(The five voices reply easily.)

That can be arranged.

(And with a gesture of their head, they lead.

Sophie knows this is hardly the same thing that they were expecting, nor is it the real thing, but as long as they are enjoying it, that works out perfectly for all of them. Click clacks of their shoes, perfectly synchronized, as they point to buildings the girls might recognize and naming them.

Sophie's been on top of the tower, so that might be nice, to get them there so they can see all the lights, all the life from a whole different point of view. This is Sophie's brain, she can create a night sky full of shooting stars, a gentle breeze, fireworks...

Just a good, relaxing time.)

[Sciel takes a deep breath and follows, letting the world’s current sweep her along. She’s happy to go along with it, to take in this place that is not at all home but could have been, if her soul had found a different place to slip through the veil and into a waking life. Who would she be, in a city like this? Where would she go, what would she do, who would she love?

None of the buildings are familiar by name, but there’s some shapes she recalls. That’s a boulangerie now, that’s an office. That’s a store where she once bought a skirt and didn’t like the length so she’d given it to Sophie, her Sophie, and together they’d laughed about the risquéness of it. Imagine, showing your knees like that. Sciel finds herself smiling.

But it’s dangerous, too, to bring her own memories into someone else’s; it’s an easy way to cross wires. So she lets those thoughts drift away, centering herself in the present moment, her mind a peaceful place.]

Did you live in the 7th, Clea?

[ What a strange walk it is - they stroll down familiar streets and yet everything looks different. But as soon as she thinks all the signs of her Paris are gone, one pops out like an old ghost. Reminding her. The memories of home are bittersweet, but the moment Clea senses her nostalgia deepening, she cuts off the ruminating swiftly, as though taking a sword to the thoughts.

There is no time to indulge - that way lies madness.

Instead, she appreciates what is front of her, taking her time to look around and savor the sights that Sophie has gone out of her way to show them. Clea feels a sudden rush of fondness for the younger woman. ]

No, we live across the Seine. In the 16th.

[ She wonders if this will be the Paris of the future for her world. How would they know? ]

How many Parises do you think there are?

[ Surely there would be a Paris in almost every world. But how many is that? How do they differ? Are there Parises without the Tower? ]

Maybe so, but I'm also an engineer, mademoiselle.

[ A small distinction, but an important one. He's had his share of dreams and what Emma sometimes considered hopeless optimism, but he'd done the work needed to make the dreams come true, to build the future he so optimistically hoped for. She regards the arriving elevator with undisguised suspicion, and he suspects that to laugh at her in this moment would mean courting death.

He isn't inclined to laugh, anyway. If she doesn't know how the things work, how the safety measures are implemented, how they're tested and iterated and tested again, then of course the strange, confining boxes that lift and lower at dizzying speeds would seem like death traps. ]

The stairs are more dangerous. What if you lose your grip and this thing comes crashing down on someone's head? Or what if it drags you down with it?

[ The elevator door closes, but no one has called it up; it's just sitting there. Waiting. ]

The elevators, on the other hand, have safety measures installed. Any risk is well mitigated, I promise you.

(Another day, to another person, she'll ask who exactly Sophie is for the people who came from Lumière. Today is not that day, Sophie is... Just enjoying her own memory. When they're not addressing the other girls, Sophie is enjoying the conversation they were having last time they were here.

'Maybe we should get some food. Stop by a restaurant and all?' 'Don't be silly, Celeste, we're dancing all night long, do you really want to do that on a super full stomach?' 'I'm just saying, Esme! Sophie, what do you think?' 'Okay, well, we can get something light and then we can eat more if we feel like it after the party. Agreed?' 'Agreed.'

Little things. People tend to think they're one, because that's what they'd like everyone to think, but they fight and they bicker like everyone else. Sophie is smiling to herself as they walk, the tower in sight, and the girls point up to let the French know they can go up.

Each sentence comes from a different mouth.)

Several. There is more than one universe, after all. Just in Etraya, how many people would be aware of it? Worth checking. Perhaps a poll?

[ That explains it. Clea has never heard an engineer or inventor say their devices wouldn't work flawlessly. Some of the time, they are even correct. Clea can appreciate that she doesn't live in the dark world her grandparents had inhabited, before the gas lamps. And yet, she's also heard so many tales of mishaps. Before, she could tuck them away in her mind, the sort of events that she would classify as happening to other people. Acceptable risks.

Now, she finds that harder to do. The world is an uncaring place that is more than happy to cut off anyone's life in a blink. Hers would be no exception.

Which is why she listens to his words, frowning slightly. He's correct that dragging the material up the stairs might harm either someone else or (worse) damage the materials. Materials are at a premium. ]

A promise is a high bar, monsieur.

What safety measures?

[ Is she asking or demanding? It is difficult to tell. ]

Ah, I see.

[There’s nothing more to say to that; she just smiles pleasantly, continuing on their walk, the following question more interesting.]

How would anyone be able to prove that two were different, or the same? Perhaps one Paris becomes another, and the people could never know, if there were so many years between them.

[ Listening to the argument between Sophie and her sisters sprouts a bittersweet feeling in Clea: The affection between the women (who reveal their differences the more they speak) is clear even in the midst of their squabbling - a feeling she's quite familiar with. But there won't be any more such squabbling in Clea's life.

Before her mind can turn toward the maudlin, Clea allows her mind to wander. Could Sophie have all of them sing together? They could produce an interesting effect. ]

Any universe worth saving would have a Paris in it, non?

[ Not that she is in the least biased. She nods at the suggestion that they can go to the top of the Tower. ]

I'd enjoy seeing the view. You had the right of it in the argument. I hope they listened to you.

[Sciel's question requires a bit more thought. How would they know? Clea hasn't the slightest idea. All she can try to do is look at it pragmatically. ]

The person from the time ahead would know, I'd imagine. If someone arrives stating they're from Lutetia and describes our land, I would know they are from Paris. But the person from the past wouldn't know.

[ Thinking about it makes Clea's mind hurt, but not necessarily in a bad way. She wonders if time could be folded like paper, rendered into shapes too complex for the eye to behold. ]

I always do.

(It's time. Sophie gives her sisters a nod, meaning she'll go from here now on her own. It's just her, and it should be so as they sit on top of the tower.

I was... Nice. It usually isn't so nice when she thinks about them, but that? That was good.)

There are people in this place who are adjacent to mine. As in, they have the same people, similar events that happened in the past for me, but they don't have mutants, for instance. Whatever do we make of that?

(Peter with his Thanos situation, which she barely can be bothered about in her own world. Scott, whose world is just so... Nice, comparing to her own. Go figure.

Well, up to the tower they should go. She remembers the restaurant on the second floor very, very well. This should do, right?)

[Clea’s words initially put an odd little smile on Sciel’s face; it’s tight, even. Somewhat ironic, given Paris seems to be the only city that’s survived in her world, and even then, by a slim margin. Then, some surprise: what’s Lutetia?]

Perhaps the land stays the same, but the people within it change? Like a hundred performances of a play, all on the same stage, but the actors switch around, and say their lines a little differently…

[It’s difficult to come up with any clean answer as to how that would work, and, admittedly, Sciel is inclined to leave that to smarter people. The only person she wants a proven connection to is right here, walking only a few feet from her.

To Sophie:]

Is it possible they do have mutants, but they’re just in hiding?

[ The look on Sciel's face is satisfying. She can be surprised. The woman isn't completely unflappable. Though what is surprising her isn't clear: perhaps her history education is as rough as Clea's mathematical one?

Clea being Clea, her response to the second story restaurant is to look over at the food being served, trying to judge if it is worthy of occupying the same place as Eiffel's masterpiece. ]

Maybe something changes and that leads to what you describe, Sciel. For example, if the weather on a certain day is different, battles go differently, leading to nations being different. Which results in different persons.

[ Clea isn't certain. This is a problem for men of science, which she is not. She barely understands what a mutant is. ]

But that's kind of what the multiverse theory says? There are an infinite number of universes, and everything is possible, etc, etc. Which makes whatever Echo is trying to do here kind of weird, because what even is their parameter for what world they choose, anyway.

(If there are infinite universes, are there infinite places about to crash. Is this reality one where this is all happening, does that mean there are realities where it isn't? Ugh, this is some nerd talk.)

And it's unlikely. Mutation is triggered around childhood or teenage years, and all the mutants we have here in Etraya are human-passing, so you know, you're missing stuff like guy who is basically jelly surrounding his skeleton and organs, or guy with a thousand eyes, or girl with fly wings, that kind of stuff. It's hard to miss us.

Between Mission Catch All

Sciel and Sophie (so sad Clea's name doesn't start with S)

Gustave - 2 weeks after return

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