Once upon a time in a not so specific time and a very specific place, two Luteces stood in a laboratory, hotly debating over two cups of tea. Their topic of debate had recently changed from the latest release of a new Vigor ( Murder of Crows, they called it—quite morbid, if you ask Robert) to their experiments as of late.
"Nevermind the bollocks, Rosalind, I simply must inquire about what you plan to do with Mr. Dewitt."
"Why must you inquire when you simply mean to debate, Robert?"
"You do understand that I mean to simply—"
"You were saying?" Rosalind interrupts infuriatingly, before pursing her pink lips and sipping from her cup.
"What you're learning and researching with Dewitt's many… trials is… unjust."
Rosalind scoffs, rolling her eyes and glancing around, avoiding Robert's knowing gaze. She knows it is unjust, she knows it is inhumane, she knows, she knows, she kno— "Rosalind." Robert says with raised eyebrows. (Rosalind, answer me. Please change this.)
"It's for science, Robert, I know what I'm doing—"
"Really?!" Robert practically yells, putting his teacup down on a pile of folders recklessly. The dark liquid sloshes over the rim of the cup, staining the folders. The stains are strikingly akin to drops of blood.
"Do you know that you're playing God, Rosalind? Do you know that with every trial you do, you are crushing Booker Dewitt with every failure he has? Every time he is this close," Robert demonstrates with his index finger and thumb, "you take it all away, and damn it, Rosalind, that is not science. This is a wicked game you are playing. You're breaking him, Rosalind."
Rosalind was silent in taking in Robert's scolding. He was persuasive, she would give him that. For once, she had nothing to say. She looked up from her cup of tea, on the verge of being cold now, and nearly cringed at the look on Robert's face.
Disappointment.
" 'And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?' It's you, Rosalind. You are the rough beast."
"Don't you dare quote William Butler Yeats at me, you—you bloody prat! What is your point?" She screams, wanting so much to throw her cup of scorching tea at Robert, to burn his face, to shut his mouth for him. She hates when he is right.
"There is no point. Only an ultimatum." Robert said, too calm and too reserved for the conversation. Rosalind was quiet, too quiet. (Afraid.)
"If you do not help Booker Dewitt…I… I'm going to leave you, leave Columbia." Robert murmured, as if it pained him to say it any louder. But Rosalind stood, frozen, weighing the all-too-real consequences and barely-there pros of Robert departing.
Robert shook his head and grabbed his coat, then crossing the room.
"My point is to let Dewitt have the girl. Let him win, dear sister."
"…I'll think about it. Please leave so I may reflect upon this lovely discussion we have had."
Robert buttoned his coat and nodded, feeling prideful of his sister's annoyance with him, "As you wish. Do you want anything?"
"No, thank you. Feel free to gorge yourself on tarts. Don't forget your book."
the poem Robert is quoting is "the second coming" by William Butler Yeats, which was written in 1919, so technically the Luteces aren't supposed to know about it. but let's just pretend the Luteces go tear-traveling and have come across it, yeah?
reviews are appreciated. ~k