Owner	Pose
Illyana Rasputina	Columbia University out of semester isn't exactly quiet. Grad students still do their work outside the regular punctuated times of undergrad work. Students come and go. Labs need to be performed. Plenty of people have plenty to do, not the least because their lives are dictated by the hard work that doesn't care about a semester's end, or it being too early or anything like that. The dorms hum with the slow-motion roll of students awakening, though many who aren't year-round residents have retreated to wherever they live for the summer. Cheap accommodation in New York is pretty hard to find, and some would surely pay the lower rates for staying over the summer and being reassigned in the autumn. Either way, the student body is less in the dorms, but the apartments and other housing around Columbia are fair game. Perfect hunting grounds for someone or something preying on drunken semi-teens and early twenty-somethings who don't know better. Perfect places for the Sorcerer Supreme to look for evidence of _bad things_ from other places, doing what they shouldn't. A place such as this is a kaleidoscope of impressions, since mutants, mystics, and mutates that are a tiny sliver of the population *do* show up here.
Stephen Strange	While it may be perfect places for a Sorcerer Supreme to look for evidence of nastiness of a other-worldly nature, it isn't necessarily the sort of places to look around while *dressed* as a Sorcerer Supreme. Students being students, having a person walking in mystical garb, complete with cloak, would still be noticed. And...the concept of the day is 'inconspicuous'. And so it is not Stephen Strange, Sorcerer Supreme, that walks the grounds at Columbia, but Doctor Stephen Strange, known surgeon, that strolls along the pathways. There is little that Stephen can do to hide his former occupation, but that should only really stir those studying in their respective medical fields. And really, it wouldn't be all that farfetched to have Strange about as a consultant and guest lecturer, from time to time. Especially since he is an alumni. Really, not all that usual at all. And so, in as casual of dress as Stephen will allow himself, he walks along the promenade. The walking seems somewhat random, almost as if he is reminiscing. But...far from it. The randomness isn't random. It is investigation at work. Research. "When I was studying here, I was much too concerned with my studies to be of much use socially. So, perhaps this is an effort to capture some of that misspent youth. A date, on campus, to go hunting, then to dinner. Highly unorthodox, I know." A glance is given towards his partner on their patrol...the stunning blonde Russian at his side. "I do hope you will forgive the stroll down memory lane, Illyana. I promise. Dinner afterwards."
Illyana Rasputina	Behold the nature of the beast, then. A hot day bubbles under the humidity of a summer in New York, which is always next to disgusting and hardly tolerable even for the fish in the East River or the Hudson. Gross, all in all, and Columbia's green grounds that hold a memory of being King's College during Revolutionary Days just don't offer enough shade to be tolerable. It's pretty hideous. Baked beneath the sun, blacktop turns into a tarry mass of shadows and the air smells of rotting trash in cans, sweaty bodies, and the rough concrete sticky with patching that reeks a bit of rubber and aforementioned tar. It's not the best or the worst place to be. Students recovering from their stupor or wishing they had an air conditioned place mill around, hiding under trees, trying to get to the cafes surrounding the campus. Some head for the library and labs. They definitely don't notice Stephen immediately unless they belong to the med school, and most of the unfortunate listless beings are more in the arts and sciences side of things. They pass him by, as they past most people by, occasionally swivelling to staaaaare. Yes, Matilda, that totally is Doctor Stephen Strange, neurologist who made your life hell because all the textbooks follow his unorthodox methods. They might also double-take the blonde wearing her black sunglasses and a black crop top, black high-waisted shorts the only thing letting them get away with not being assumed as rudely dressed for anywhere 'nice.' It's no work at all to transform that outfit into something less overtly punk-Goth, but it makes her smirk to see the others. "Your misspent youth. What was that? Drinking, stealing cadavers for practice? Maybe you spend too many hours in front of the practice dummy?" The teasing is just that, as she keeps her hands in her back pockets. This is, technically, her school too; the time she spends here is limited, thanks to Limbo, but there. Off the main dorms and across the way, student housing takes over in lower apartments fringed by bars and coveted streetside parking. "There is where the trouble started, da? The students moving like no thoughts in their heads." She tips her hand back. "Dinner afterward? I agree. Too hot here. Would spoil your appetite for dessert."
Stephen Strange	"Mostly study and far too little socialization, to be perfectly honest. Much too dull for what might be considered a 'normal' collegiate experience." That is not too farfetched for the surgeon, considering the focus in which he devotes to his endeavors. The looks that Illyana receives in her black ensemble does generate a bit of amusement from Strange. Almost as much as the looks that he gets when those unfortunate students realize that the gentleman in the grey t-shirt and jeans next to Illyana is that same guy in those expensive textbooks. "And I will decline to comment on just how many hours were spent in front of the mannequin..." The tone is straight, but the side-eye and the slight smirk betrays the jesting nature. The playful banter pauses as the pair reach the edge of student housing, the typical apartments showing the standard decorating tastes of the standard college student, visible through open windows in an attempt to beat the heat. Stephen pauses, his head tilted to one side as he seems to listen. Or ponder. In reality, a little of both, sensing the residue of meddling not of this particular dimension, pairing it with past investigations. "Yes, here. Both generally and physically, if I am not mistaken. It was remarkable timing, though a little too stereotypical of the frazzled student mind to be completely believable. But yes, most certainly. Emotional and intellectual voids. Merely on auto-pilot." The eyes narrow as Strange takes in the sights...though nothing that the typical person would see appears to stand out. It is just students, apartments, local businesses. Nothing dramatic at all. Back to talks of dinner. "Yes, certainly. As much as I do have some fond memories of college life, the present olfactory reminders do lend themselves to be a natural appetite suppressant." Meaning...that yes, too hot. Too smelly. At least for anything grander than a fast food burger and fries, which is certainly what is not for dinner.
Illyana Rasputina	"Dull? Medical people are always tired and working. No life, just drinking, da? Vodka and coffee." She speaks altogether too well about coffee, her tone ironically warming to the black brew that's a ticket to a whole new plane of existence. Arabica, burnt garbage, doesn't matter. "I think being us is easier than new doctor student. Interns never sleep. They are treated like serfs." There's that word that shoots through the fabric of Russian history, again and again appearing as the source of war, revolution, suffering. Theirs has always been defined as a ruinous conversation between the poorest and most overworked with their ruthless overlords. "How many hours fighting with a body? I see." Illyana flicks her gaze to the passing trouble, the frost-blue of her eyes an unwelcome weight. "You spend all that time cutting and stitching, over and over. The takeaway to me is that it all sounds the same for other students, maybe you were not so different?" Maybe he's not pleased to be lumped in with the others, even if his intellect set him head and shoulders above any possible peer. Toying with the possibility is one way to joke with him, perhaps, in that macabre Russian way. Though soon enough they are among the housing, away from the buildings devoted to learning to those preferred for recovery and accidental social networks, traveling different journeys and breaking out from familiar routes. "Auto-pilot," she agrees. "Bumping up against other people and not reacting, going through the motions. Dangerous, you know?" He surely does. That's how people die from car accidents, and get run over by errant vans, or somehow drown in a bathtub for not noticing the water creeping over their noses in sleep. Sad ways to go. Mundane, mortal, everyday happenings. Except there's the slightest sense of wrongness, a smudge on the environment to the sensitive. Opening up his third eye is another matter; it's beyond dramatic there, full of hopes and fears and rage and despair, anxiety, joy, lust and longing as torrid affairs and doomed students clash in microcosm for society itself. The blonde smirks, black lips turning up. "So unpleasant? I have no thought about smells when eating. It must be done. I keep grinding on." Limbo didn't spare her; eating is survival.
Stephen Strange	There is a somewhat apologetic shrug from Stephen. "Well, since you put it that way. I merely wanted to ensure it was an enjoyable dinner for us." There is a rather vast difference in experiences, the two of them. And the ego is still there, though certainly muted from back in the days of medical fame and glory. It was that ego that spoke. "I do apologize." Getting Strange to admit he is wrong and apologize? That is true magic, right there. Or, rather, a miracle wrought by Magik, herself. The wrongness was felt, certainly. Even before the opening of senses beyond the normal. For those that know where and how to look, it is evident, despite the subtleness. However, when that extra-sensory door is opened, the barrier set aside to allow for true insight, the flood of emotions causes the sorcerer to pause for a moment. The intensity was not unexpected. After all, these are young adults, most of which are barely above children with their control of their own emotions. Still, it is other thing to be so close. The filters are established, cancelling out all but the most fervent of those feelings as Strange probes. Fortunately, for him, it is not the strength of emotions that he is looking for, but more the absence thereof. Something was sapping away the essence of these students. It might very well be doing so currently. That is what Strange looks for. "Oh, I know full well the dangers of just going through the motions." There is no mention as to why Strange knows, but there is none needed. And really, it is not that Illyana probably expected an answer. It is just one of those traits that the two share...mysterious referrals to past events within their lives. Still other traits they share, as well. Such as performing actions with little to no explanation. Strange's fingers entwine with Illyana's own, as he takes her hand. Seemingly an expression of companionship, certainly, but also more. As Stephen starts to wander rather aimlessly, he gently guides Illy with that hand clasp, should she be willing. For Stephen is dousing for mysteries, using himself as the mercurial dousing rod to guide the two.
Illyana Rasputina	An apologetic shrug meets with her rounding on Stephen, stepping into his path. Illyana may be uncultured and unschooled in many ways, but not this one. "I said something wrong." She tilts her head at that, and then steps forward, pressing her palm to his chest, not to shove him away but stop him. As if it's not an unfair fight to begin with, him perfectly capable of tossing her out of a dimension or saying hell no. "It will be enjoyable. You are here, da? No shadows, no monsters, no calls collect from Avenger or Justice League to fix what they broke. That is enough for me." Her fingers are light, not exerting considerable pressure, but just enough to make her purpose felt. "You at dinner, all I want. You are all I want." As if the latter is somehow separate from the former, it absolutely is, painted in a thousand shades of luminous paint beside an everyday photo or sketch. Her voice doesn't drop, though it carries a greater weight under the burden of her accent than before. Her hand drops away if he doesn't stop it, a concern to be dealt with in kind. But for that moment, the effort to breach the human divide with some understanding is relevant, clearly important to her. Students' emotions here paint the landscape in a different way. Great ghostly clouds in red signal a fight and simmering resentments. Spiders crawl all over a building where ideas spin, fed by doubt and anxiety and bold bravado. Spirits are everywhere, on nearly every surface, from Columbia herself as personified as some woman in an Athena-esque chiton and mitre, though her complexion is more a mix of Asian, Latino, and Caucasian features, and she carries a cellphone instead of a sword. It goes all the way down to little drops of gooey tar giving way to pollution mites, scampering left and right. The apartments are reservoirs of weariness and conversation, sanctuaries for one or two people, sometimes four. Good thing they can't see the frat houses, the view's pretty gross. Nothing well to be said for a place of venal stickiness and excess of all sorts. Though the listless weight of summer is normal, this may just be an excessive weight. A heavy one, drowning and sticky, left in runs like those behind a slug. He's going to come back mentally slimed from jabbing around in there, but the offness of something alien to the void is plenty real. They also smell of rotting leaves, wild ivy, electricity, crumpled paper, and old cheese. When he takes her hand, that is enough, and her eyes narrow slightly in quiet retreat from the precipice of sharpened concern. Very well, that will do, especially knowing the wounds to those hands, the freedom needed to shape spells through them. Just a man and a woman, wandering the campus together, that's all. Where he turns, she goes, right to the unremarkable Pasadena - a building of roughly five stories, chipped and grey, a classy name for dull 1970s architecture.
Stephen Strange	There was not an immediate response to the hand upon his chest. Not a verbal response, at any rate, to Illyana proclaiming that she said something wrong. For, of course, she did not. Stephen knew this. He knew it was his own prejudices that, however unwittingly, he had stated and that it was his own attempt at apology that caused that momentary pause. Still, his answer, non-verbal as it may have been at the time, spoke volumes. Stephen chose to hold Illyana's hand, without reservation nor hesitation. The very hand that arrested his movement, held in a loose embrace. It may very well be a failing on his part he was not able to convey verbally his intentions. Certainly, in his own mind, he did. But the joining of hands....that speaks clearer. They are, indeed, just a man and a woman, wandering together. Specifically, wandering into a grey, blocky building, a throwback to design that is not old enough to be retro hip, but not new enough to be unique. As they cross the threshold into the Pasadena, Stephen turns towards Illyana, this time with a wry smile upon his features. "You are more than enough." The only words offered in response. Dinner with Illyana? That is all he could have hoped for. But first...first they have a little more investigative work to be done. A pause, just within the doorway, as Strange holds up a finger on the opposite hand. "Do you smell that?" A strange question, to be asked in an old building, certainly ripe with the scent of multiple dwellings, each with their own unique bouquet. "It is a rather singular trait. And it leads here, to this building. Shall we go apartment hunting, my dear?" Apartment hunting. How quaint. If anyone else were to view the pair, it would look like all the world that they are simply looking for a place to reside together. Perfectly innocent. Yet, for Strange, it is quite literal. For the two are certainly on the hunt for something. And, as a certain literary character would proclaim, the game is afoot.
Illyana Rasputina	Just that silent touch is enough, at times, to conduct whole conversations. They can communicate through myriad means. Illyana is blunt, direct, and shrouded in the guarded self-defense of a blade honed under horrific pressures that make the bottom of the ocean seem quaint, friendly even Another matter altogether when dealing with the matters of the heart, the mind, and more difficult entanglements in understanding what people mean when they don't always speak as directly as they might. But a squeeze of fingers for punctuation is enough, sometimes. The Pasadena has seen better days, but the fact it's a rental accommodation for university students doesn't bode well. The various names on the directory wrapped in brass have been replaced, whited out, or possibly scratched beyond recognition in most cases. A buzzer leads through the glass door into a lobby choked by recyclables overflowing from a bin, a few mail slots, and quite a number of scratches on aged vinyl plank flooring. At least two bikes lean conspicuously against a wall, practically shouting 'Steal me!' to anyone who might know how to jury-rig the lock or wait until someone heads outside. Chances are good each floor has at least four units, meaning twenty or so. Again, not a big building, but respectable enough to be troubling. The smell isn't from the trash or the dumpster out back on the alley with several other buildings, but coming from the building's interior and streaked over some of the windows. Asking her to open up her sharpened Sight to that is -cruel-, though she does so without preamble. Grooooss. Her mouth turns. "It better have a good view. I do not want one of those slum-lord places." There, it's sealed. Next they'll be looking for a church. Perfectly innocent, and perfectly rotten, which applies. She gestures, though it's a bit premature to draw the Soulsword forth. Black on black garments aren't impressive, but a gauntlet wrapping around her wrist is something.
Stephen Strange	"Well, if this place doesn't have a good view, I know of one that does." Grey eyes flicker downward, noting the manifestation of gauntlet to right hand, even as the left remains entwined with Stephen's own right hand. That is all the answer that he needs to the question from before. Yes, the Russian at his side senses it, too. The metaphysical grime that is within the building that they now stand in. Windows that appear clean, or as clean as one can expect with university students, are certainly not. And the fingers of the left hand twitch, a spark of amber eldritch energy momentarily visible, the sign of a spell being cast. If Illyana is preparing herself, then so shall Strange. "Well...there is a view here. Though, I am uncertain if we would like it or not." The pretense is barely there. But the sub-context is present. Stephen sees the filth, the traces of intrusion from something or somethings from another realm of existence. "If I did not know any better....I say we are looking for residents of the 6th." The 6th what? Well, that is the wonderful thing with the two sorcerers. Sometimes they work as if of one mind. And even if Strange did not verbally declare it, Illyana may have still picked it up. The Sixth Dimension. Which would mean... "Soul-Eaters. Of course. I should have known." Was that spell of his an extra-sensory cantrip? Or merely a sort of metaphysical ping, a mystical sonar to confirm suspicions? Stephen isn't telling. But one thing is certain. Judging from the tone of his voice, Strange was not looking forward to the possibility of encountering Soul-Eaters. So much for the possibility of dinner.