6898/Dreamscapes: A Glimmer of Trouble

Dreamscapes: A Glimmer of Trouble
Date of Scene:	12 July 2021
Location:	Sanctum Santorum
Synopsis:	Doctor Strange looks into the troubles at Columbia, and Illyana shares her doubts about certain approaches.
Cast of Characters:	Stephen Strange, Illyana Rasputina

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Stephen Strange has posed:
Something has been weighing upon Stephen's mind as of late.

Over the course of the last couple of weeks, there has been the matter of the Columbia students...and, more noticeably, the lack of energy that they seemed to have. It was a bit ago, certainly..and the student population seems to have recovered, for the most part. But....there is something in there that is nagging at the good doctor. It isn't a mystical tip-off, at least not completely. Just a nagging feeling. One that Stephen receives once in a while.

He...simply wants to *know*. And not knowing? Well...that is almost paramount to torture.

One of the benefits that the good doctor has with his alma mater is the ability to ask for certain favors. And...one such favor is asking for the enrollment records of classes. Names of students are not needed. No, it is simply a report of which classes seemed to be the most popular and the attendance records of those classes, at least for the last couple of months. Research, dull and grinding, to be sure. But...it is something that Stephen is not afraid of doing.

However, it is frightfully boring. Not at all exciting for a potential dinner-and-a-mystery that he was able to spin for a certain partner-in-crime. It was probably a good thing that Stephen was alone, with his laptop, for the moment. For no amount of mystical might could possibly make looking at spreadsheets a thrilling couples activity...

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Columbia University, the old King's College, is supposed to be a breeding ground of possibilities. An Ivy League university invites brilliant young and older minds to come together, brewing brand new concepts or revisiting old touchstones with a fresh set of eyes. In an ideal world, the university harbours conversations to expand human awareness. Post-human awareness, for those mutants, mutates, and aliens that call Earth home, even.

Instead it is a hunting ground where the drowsy students find themselves diagnosed with a host of problems by a vaguely concerned medical facility: anxiety, depression, fatigue. A host of different problems come up on those charts, but it's not something widely admitted. Trickles of information might come out. Social media rings with blunt terms of 'ugh, so tired' and 'haven't seen X in forever.' Messages that meander around the student union and upper faculty associated with the medical centre suggest a pattern, but nothing so severe as to require more extracurricular activities and a targeted approach.

Dorms in summer are, by and large, at a fraction of their normal occupancy. Traditionally visitors and travellers have found their way into those cheaper forms of housing over the summer. The hunger is natural.

So popular classes asked by a world-famous surgeon wouldn't stand out. Certainly Illyana asking for the same thing would receive a battery of questions from the Russian girl. She avoids situations that might bring a magnifying lens over her life, finding the broken bounce between a girl of seven to a girl of seventeen. Otherwise one of the youngest Masters students in their history could be a source of great concern.

When Stephen is locked up in spreadsheets, *things* happen. Numbers move. Information must present itself to that sharp mind.

A cup of coffee floats through the kitchen and drops down beside him. Then a travel mug of tea, black and Russian, sweetened a little by honey and a drop of cream. A digestive biscuit grabbed from a shelf ends up on a plate just there.

Those little touches speak to her presence, the flash portals connecting one part of his life to another meant to ease the burden without intruding. No demonic hands stick out; the delivery comes by the Demon Queen herself as she would not trust S'ym or Nastirh or a thousand others with such a task.

Any more than the ghostly touch of her finger down his nape in greeting is anything less than personally delivered.

Stephen Strange has posed:
There is almost a chuckle, in the back of his throat. Almost. There is certainly recognition, as the coffee cup performs its singular act of levitation over to his side, settling down upon the right as innocuously as a cup with it's own locomotion could possibly be. The tea is noted...not by the sight, but by the scent, the honey present just cloying enough to announce its presence amidst the swirling mini cauldron of darkness. And, of course, with both senses of sight and smell involved, the sense of touch is not to be denied, as that slight contact of fingertip to neck causes the telltale signs of goosebumps to appear.

And, yet, it does not seem to distract Stephen from his screen.

"Hello, Illyana." The greeting is cordial. Even casual. No grandiose use of titles or anything of the like. Just a simple salutation. "I didn't want to bore you with such a mundane activity, so I thought I would be able to finish before you noticed. It seems that, as per usual, I lost track of time." As per usual? It must be a common occurrence for the surgeon. "I am looking for commonalities. Essentially, if our particular ailment for the current Columbia student body can be isolated to common vectors." He's looking for patterns. Of course he is. "The information we have is rather nebulous, to say the least. And...I seem to not be able to get this out of my head. Hence the early morning research." A blink, as Strange looks up from the laptop to notice the time.

"Alright, my late morning research. I had started early."

A soft laugh. Then continuation. "With the summer session decidedly less than the usual population on average, I thought it would be easier to see a correlation. A commonality between the students that we are generally aware of experiencing a decided lack of vigor. Perhaps they all shared a specific course..."

Hence...the spreadsheet, the laptop, and the apparent loss of time.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Recognizing who invades his space may be a useful thing, since the average space-warping wizard or being probably does not intend the Sorcerer Supreme well. Illyana expects defensive spells and protective wards, rarely threatening the Sanctum with her innate ability to pierce space through a disturbing leap through dimensions. That's a fine way to discover what sort of protections the Vishanti or legions of sorcerers supreme in the past laid down on their home turf.

Translocation by spells is a more difficult matter, made onerous by the careful movement of magical energies instead of relying on her mutation to manage. She can still apply it, were the incision strike from Limbo not desirable. But given she carries a shard of the good Doctor's self within, be that energy or some less nameable concern, perhaps the mildest variations to her own aura prove sufficient not to get clocked by eldritch blasts from somewhere close.

Her own coffee is black, piping hot, and hardly drinkable. Just the way she likes it.

At least it means her finger is warm, there is that much. "Strange," she offers in that deadpan tone, almost teasing. They stand on a first-name basis, yet she is willing to defer to that term instead; surname, for the moment. "Bore? Is correcting flaws in a legion better than this?" The roughshod Russian accent tiptoes around the words. "Nyet. Time is old friend, sneaky bastard with me. You spend two hours, I spend two hours or two weeks. All the same, mm?"

Limbo's a hell realm where time barely seems to work the same way twice. She then leans over, approaching, peering at the webs of charts and work that apparently tell him something that it doesn't for her. A foreign language as much as Cyrillic is incomprehensible for most. "You find people hurt or responsible parties? I have a sharp sword to scare them with." What nice teeth you have, Miss Wolf.

"You make me think I am needing to work harder to keep better things in your head. Growing lax, am I?" She curls her fingers, and sips that coffee, ruminating over possibilities. "Specific course, specific location? Da, could be. Maybe pass same spot, if it drains them there. This thing hides somewhere."

Stephen Strange has posed:
"Oh, there is no need for you to work harder." A hesitation in speech is due to a hand reaching out for the coffee cup first, taking a sip before the cup returns to the surface of the table. "It is something that latched on to my fancy, in the early hours, true...but also a notion that has been stirring in the back of my mind. It just couldn't help but make itself known." Eyes glance over the edge of the laptop screen, focusing on the welcomed newcomer.

The key, of course, is welcomed. While it is certainly plausible and most certainly possible for the domicile in which both Sorcerers Supreme are currently present to fight back, with brutal efficiency, there is a modicum of control that the present owner does possess. A mystical keyed system, if one would be so vulgar, set to not immediately fire arcane bolts into the darkness...or into welcomed guests. And, for this particular system, it is a very specific, yet simple key. That very shard, given freely, nestled within the Queen of Limbo herself. The home does indeed recognize it and allows the person that holds said shard safe passage. Even if it about as safe as a watchdog on its guard because the master bids it so.

As for the intricate lattice of schedules and syllabuses? Nothing too blatantly obvious, though some possibilities do present themselves. The screen is tapped...a finger upon one of the hubs within the connections made. "This. Here is a class that seemingly was picked up due to it being relatively simple as well as the time itself." Looking at the screen, Strange seems to be highlighting a basic introduction to sleep disorders, at Columbia's Pediatric Sleep Disorders Center. "The records show an uptick in enrollment when the class opened and, judging from the curriculum, it is a relatively simple class. Essentially, it looks like they just play with children and ask about their sleeping habits." A shrug is given. "Easy, it seems."

A pause...then more information. "And...it does seem that anyone that has reported our specific criteria of ailments that we are looking for has either been to this class or has been in the general vicinity of this classroom, given what little actual information we were given."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
"Not nearly effective enough. Quality over quantity then?" The blonde doesn't even question the predicament that faces Stephen, coffee or tea or not. Liquid refreshments await him, the doctoring of those substances to his tastes taking a few moments. Not before she glides behind him, considering through frosty ice-blue eyes until he puts it back. /Then/ it is safe to act.

By planting a light brush of her lips to where her finger went, unless said high, arched collar of a given Cloak of Levitation gets in the way. In which case, /it/ gets the kiss and too bad for him. He can deal with the smug opinion of the artifact.

It is a point she herself is smug about whilst Stephen is the master of scheduling and organizing, the better to understand which students attend where. Large lecture hall, two hundred students, and how many are infected by the sorrowful monster that hides behind their chairs and devours their spirits?

She gazes at his work, listening as he stitches truths and ideas together. Introductory issues with sleep disorders at least make some sense to her. "We see something you can trace, like footsteps. They are hidden here? Many people, but it could give an option to start with. Go and sit in. See what appears."

Stephen Strange has posed:
Fortunately for Stephen, or unfortunately for the Cloak, he is not wearing it at this particular moment in time. So, while that small patch of skin is graced once more with Illyana's ministrations, perhaps the Cloak might feel a hint of jealously. But only if it was told. Which....Strange has little intention of doing.

It is enough to cause a moment of recess in the doctor's studies, as the left hand reaches up behind him, the fingertips perilously close to contact with the Russian's left cheek. Instead, the fingers find a few stray blonde locks of hair, content with the flaxen strands. The hand lowers, as Stephen offers an affirmative gesture...a slight nod, in this case, as he continues onward. "This doesn't provide us with a more intricate dataset, unfortunately. We know the classroom. We know the general time. But, we do not know if it is specific times...like if it is the third Wednesday of every month but only during the waxing or waning lunar crescent moon phase." Strange's delivery is so on point that it is almost missed that he might be joking.

At least, a little.

"In any case, it is certainly a place to start. Perhaps the focus of young minds, more malleable and therefore susceptible to outside influence, draws interest from elsewhere that the students are finally feeling the effects of. Or, perhaps one of the young charges of the research center brought something in unwittingly. In any case, it does bear a closer look."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Alas, fair Cloak, your time shall come. The mightiest relic that Illyana posssesses may stir dread into any enchanted item -- and rightly should. But the second best she can lend is the dark kiss of a fair Russian nightmare. Behold! The jealousy it might hold shall be reserved with a nudge of her arm to lend what amounts to a somewhat imperfect embrace that hardly would squash that miraculous red garment, the vestment afforded plenty of stolen glances and pets.

It says something her faulty ability to show affection, so broken in Limbo, is most easily expressed to sneaking up on the Cloak and ambushing it with hellos. No doubt it's a game of cat and mouse while the Sorcerer Supreme is busy.

No doubt he knows, too, and being in kahoots on both side keeps the darned thing occupied.

"The classroom and a time. Da, you mean I must enroll in... children." The idea of that is horrific. "Playing? It is too much. I do not know these things. Can we make someone else do it?"

Really, NO ONE wants Illyana entertaining small children. Really, they don't. "Could we make maybe a ward or mark? It passes, the alarm goes off for us?"

Stephen Strange has posed:
Illyana doesn't want to be entertaining small children? In this aspect, Stephen cannot fault her on this. For, really, he does not foresee the event as being particularly well for both parties, the children or himself. There is a reason that Stephen did not immediately go into pediatric medicine. So, the comment is met with a straight expression and a slight shake of the head. "No, no one is asking you to sit with children, my dear. In fact, it is probably best that we do not interact with the children if at all possible. They are far too impressionable to become directly involved with without some sort of damage to their psyches."

At least, Stephen recognizes that. "Besides, our targets are the budding young students. The children may not be aware at all that there is anything amiss. And, should either you or I walk in, whatever is the cause would be alerted to our presence and flitter away before we could have a chance to respond. Yes...I do believe tact is in order."

The concept of a ward or mark is intriguing. Again, Strange goes to the list, to see if the class is still in session. "Perhaps...we send in a proxy. Someone more congenial to the potential of children being present. A person or group of persons that will not alert whatever presence is there. It is worth a shot."

"However, whatever we do, we should do it soon, before something more adverse than just listlessness, insomnia, and a general lack of spatial awareness occurs."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
How indeed might that go? She is a creature of Hell. Children can sense it. There could be a startled look from the Sorcerer Supreme or a knowing one, and her expression remains entirely fixed as it is. When he keeps that straight expression, she replies, "Good. I do not know what to do with them. Small and angry, not allowed to use any training I know. Different if they were mine, maybe. Then it is easy to fix problems. But others..." She shrugs. That hidden school that graduated her in Westchester County is an open hole in their conversation, after all.

She rolls her shoulders back and shivers off the idea. "I think these little ones all running around you, speaking in babble like medical students, is better. Funnier, da?" Stephen, with the hordes at his gate. She is truly evil. Utterly. Full of wicked mischief and malicious whimsy that would have him subjected to such utter cruelty. Bad, bad Illyana.

She nods at the mention of a proxy. "Something better than showing our hand. Go in, not seem odd. Better if they have reason to be there. We need a person not inherently magical. Supposed to be around kids. Failing that, we ward-trap it. The alarm goes off, the dome goes up."