gmlogbox | [Sandra] :: LOG :: Say Hello, and Shake Hands

Those (like Salem) who've seen this routine definitely know it to be a routine. Zach is, however, a damned slippery mark to track. Something about him makes the eye just slide right off if there's anything else that might be observed or deemed important, instead. Especially in a crowd, even the somewhat sparse one here, between the lunch rush and the going-home version of the same. The occasional jogger, a couple out for a stroll, a pair of men arguing over... something, a lover, a car accident, a debt left unpaid, it's a mystery to anyone not supremely well versed in the subtle nuances of their obviously storied past as acquaintences. They were getting a little shovey with each other - that macho bullshit where they each dare the other to be the first one to throw a punch. Whatever it is about Zach that makes him hard to spot is shattered when he inserted himself into that mess - unwelcomed - and grounded the brunt of their mutual animosity through his own person. It was enough to prevent the situation from escalating further, but as far as his subtle cover goes, the damage is done. He lingers too long, while making a good show of walking. Those familiar with the way he comes by at irregular intervals, obviously a patrol of some sort - always by the Fountain no less, might notice that this time he doesn't do the full lap of the fountain's immediate surrounds. Point in fact, he keeps the Fountain between himself and the river with a certain measure of obvious deliberateness. The lack of that natural course, however, makes his attention on the Fountain itself even more obvious. He's either unaware that he blew his own cover, having grown so accustomed to it holding up under similar circumstances, or simply doesn't give a shit.

Be it intentional or otherwise (it seems 'otherwise' is likely, in this case), Sandra seats herself at the fountain looking for all the world like a business woman looking for a place to put in some crunch time. Presumably in an environment where phones aren't ringing off the hook. Between the attire - with a long, smartly tailored black overcoat to ward off the chill - the briefcase, and the carefully arranged folder she's been picking through for the better part of an hour.
The altercation certainly gets her attention, leading her not to raise but to watch, the folder closed (as it often is when there's too many people milling around; must be a court case or something) her eyes on those assembled. There's vague annoyance playing over her features as it continues, a note of impatience that she keeps quietly to herself, but, otherwise, while she seems perfectly content to go back to what she's doing, Zach is afforded a bit more of an appraisal once it's all done and over with.
She may not even realize why she's doing it. Something to do with 'there was a cat there...'

Salem has something like the opposite of what Zach's got; though he doesn't look particularly out of the ordinary, his Rage rings alarm bells in most people even when he's doing nothing more than just walking along, just another adolescent in hoodie and jeans and sneakers. He keeps his distance from the mens' quarrel, though an eyebrow goes up when Zach makes himself known. He watches Zach wander around a little more, maybe debating whether or not he wants to subject himself to the other's aggressive philosophies again, but then sees Sandra wander into the fountain area too and, with a thoughtful 'hm' noise to himself, heads briskly over that way.

As the two men go their separate ways, and Zach goes back to his patrol, he's got a lot on his mind. Though he would presumably remember Salem from earlier encounters, the prying busybody continues his assessment of the fountain itself. The point where a kid in a hoodie is making conversation with a woman in a suit along that very same fountain is the point where the pattern of people in the park might sufficiently break to draw his eye, at least for a 'wtf.' There's some measure of anxiety - well controlled - in Zach's movements, a quicker turn of his head as new people enter his field of view, and a more deliberate placement of his steps that gives him a little bit the aspect of a wary animal stalking around something potentially dangerous. It helps to keep that 'no one important' appearance away just that little bit longer.

Though Sandra's gaze briefly tracks Salem in her peripheral vision, the teenager offered a nod of acknowledgement, the bulk of her attention remains on Zach. The alteration in his behaviour doesn't stand out quite as much as it should - people have been giving her a wide berth for roughly the same reason as they have with the teenager, though not quite to the same degree - but it stands out *enough* to her to warrant scrutiny once she's in place to, presumably, take a seat on one of the nearby benches.
She doesn't, just yet, her gaze flickering back towards Salem for a moment - a silent question is embedded in there somewhere - before returning to the unfamiliar face, looking at closer range like she's trying to puzzle something out.

Salem looks back at Sandra, raises an eyebrow, and then turns to Mr. No-Fear. "I fucking see you, Zach." Exasperation tinged with no small amusement. "Today's your lucky day." He makes a beckoning gesture, then half-turns toward Sandra. "Both your lucky days."

The moment the Z-word is uttered, range or no, Zach's attention snaps to Salem in the next instant. Surprise registers, and Zach halts in his walk around. He's not happy (with himself) that he missed Salem, and he can't do a better job of covering it up than to look annoyed at the world in general. By the time he's pulled his composure together enough to manage a retort, it's long since overdue and lacks for punch. "And?" Zach answers after he's closed the distance a little; crossed inside that substantial personal space bubble that the pair of them no doubt produce. All that rage seething below the skin doesn't seem to register, for Zach, and given how poorly he hides tells, that's got to be real. He spares Salem some limp-wristed excuse about it being a 'free country' and instead goes for, "You get my text?"

Curioser and curioser.
The brow arch Salem favors Sandra with is echoed back at him, in a slightly exaggerated fashion as per what's said. Another look towards Zach as something seems to click into place, her lip quirking somewhat in a show of vague annoyance, though it comes and goes rather quickly. "'Lucky,' is it?" she asides to Salem, acknowledging Zach with a bit less of a puzzled appraisal now that she seems to have 'gotten' whatever it is that was just out of reach before.

Salem doesn't /quite/ manage to hide his pleasure at catching Zach off-guard, or maybe he just not trying very hard. Though this is somewhat blunted by the other's question. "Text?" He gets out his phone to check, but before that, it seems, introductions are in order. "Zach, this is Sandra. A more distant relation than Trace, but a relation nonetheless. She's been digging at the Nothing issue. Sandra, Zach, a man with some useful skills who is /also/ helping investigate the Nothing. Say hello and shake hands, why don't you two."

Zach, up close, has bags under his eyes. He's always had that hint of 'probably experienced starvation a time or two when it mattered,' despite his current state of rude health, but right now he looks like he hasn't seen the right side of a pillow in a few days. He's regulating well, of course, but all the same. He gives Sandra a second look, appraising, quick, but he offers his hand as instructed - courtesy is cheap enough in this context, apparently. "Yeah, text. Friend of mine and I got jumped," he gestures riverwards, without making too much of a deal about the spatial signal, "along the river over there." He looks to Sandra again, then back to Salem. "Same deal as with Birdface McLastDays," still has some snark left in him, though, "only way more aggressive this time. Then she gets a call from the Old Man." He keeps his voice quiet enough that the fountain should do a solid job of screening it from casual listeners, but he also obviously has zero compunctions talking about... whatever."
Zach drops that last quote

Sandra's brows raise at the not-quite-frank introduction, though - like the annoyance - the bemusement is fleeting. Seems she at least trusts the young man enough that that's the long and short of it, what flashes of paranoia there might be in the aftermath quietly put to rest by the ease of the introduction. Zach is afforded an incline of her head, the extended hand accepted for the kind of firm shake one would expect from a business transaction. Fitting.
There is, it should be noted, barely concealed interest at both the topic raised. 'Birdy McLastDays' gets a bit of a brow raise, but there's enough recognition there that she seems to know what's being referenced. That said: "Would this concern what's apparently our mutual study material, or is this unrelated?" is put forward without much hesitation.

Salem skims a thumb over his phone screen, checking his text messages. He answers Sandra without looking up. "Oh, I do believe it's related. Slug's had a run-in with the river thing as well." He stuffs the phone back in his pocket and looks at Zach. "What did he say? The Old Man?"

"Grey-Goo flavored doomsday in a jar?" Zach's question is for Sandra, but Salem seems to provide sufficient confirmation for his taste. So the 'Man with Skills' goes to answer Salem's question directly. "Same horseshit," he says, "still wants to die. Still spouting a bunch of nonsense - but... it was the same nonsense that lined up with those pages your amigo," Fun fact about Zach's speech patterns, his English is exceptionally vanilla - no placeable accent that gives away his origins. The word 'Amigo' however, is pronounced as if Spanish were his first language, even though his use of English idioms and phrase choices clearly mark him as American born and raised, "had some photos of. Homeboy didn't seem to know who dropped those letters, and I'm running two theories right now: one is the old man, the other is Birdface, what with the 'constantly repeating things others have said,' shit it was pulling.
"Either way, he doesn't seem inclined to call me back, but I listened enough to get an idea. And that's the /other/ thing I wanted to talk to you about: I got another idea to solve our Grey Goo scenario. But there's... a security problem."

"There's been notes being dropped to us, as well," Sandra replies, having taken in what's been said more than how it's *been* said, it seems. "Messages written on--" there's an almost imperceptible pause, a glance around, the wide berth hey're still being given leading to, "the 'memory' of paper. Same cryptic nonsense." A beat. "And dreams, besides, though those are starting to fall into place a little more firmly. A touch less metaphorical than I'd originally assumed."
Another pause follows. Then: "In any event, I have my own theories on a potential solution, but I'd be curious to hear others. Warts and all, if you don't mind."

Zach's attention moves to Sandra when she steps up. "Well," he says, "the details get twisty, so let's start with the easy stuff: After I destroyed the first sample the uhhh... echoes... apparently took an interest in me, which is /not/ a good thing. So now, when I grasp any kind of power, they apparently decide that's invitation. So if I'm going to keep experimenting, I need at least a heads-up, and ideally someplace secure - warded if possible - and some folks who can kill those things." He gestures to Salem. "Jack here's the closest I've got to someone who's seen enough of them to maybe know who I should be asking. The rest of the briefing starts with this question: How well do you understand what this black stuff does?"

"More than most for someone who's never confronted it directly," Sandra replies, not sounding as arrogant about that as the statement, or the arched brow, might imply, "but I could always stand to hear more about it. I wasn't aware, for instance, that samples could be 'destroyed' in any quantity." Beat. "That said, perhaps it's better if you approached this in the fashion of speaking to someone who knows enough of the terminology to follow along, but not enough to have a grasp of the big picture. I find it's easier to pick up on things that may haven't been said before if I let people speak on a train of thought, rather than railroad the conversation with everything I know already."

"There are a lot of goddamn pieces to this puzzle, and it's a bitch keeping them all in one head," Salem says. "I've fought the Nothing's monsters before, and managed to come out of it unscathed so far."

Zach grins, even through his fatigue, with some measure of pride that Sandra wasn't aware it could be destroyed. "Near as I can tell I'm the first to manage it," he interjects, quietly. when Sandra's done, and Salem's said his piece, he seems encouraged. "I was hoping you'd say that," he says, to Salem. And then:
"Alright," He says. "From the top then. Whatever you want to call it, 'black ooze,' 'the blood of the world,' or whatever, the substance in question appears to be the residue left over after contact with the Echoes or something like them. I'm not a hundred percent on it's origins, I got handed a couple of jars of the stuff and was told to see what I could do, after I expressed an interest.
"It's a self-replicating anti-memetic object. A lot of people maintain that it is 'nothingness' but that's not just sloppy terminology it's factually incorrect.
"This stuff /exists/, and is therefore not nothing. What it /is/, however, is /magnificiently/ corrosive to... everything. Including the idea of itself. Just looking at the stuff takes some doing, and it actively resists attempts to think about it, name it, or understand it. Material objects only fare a little better, it appears to erase anything it comes into contact with, producing more of itself in the process - which is why I say 'appears.' This is the basic Grey Goo methodology, consume something to make more of your self, repeat exponentially until end of world.
"The good news is, it's pretty fuckin' slow. Other good news is, it /can/ in fact be destroyed." He pointedly turns to Salem now, not in accusation, but for emphais of some special context he expects only Salem to recognize, "/without/ exploitation of anybody." Tired as he is, there's a spark of fire behind that.
"Bad news is: destroying it doesn't stop it, just eliminates what's there. The jar was empty, but then the glass started weeping more of the stuff. So I either didn't get exactly all of it, and some tiny amount of it survived to start the process over, or... well, that's the reason I have a new idea."

"No infection?" Sandra asks Salem, pulling a pen from her pocket and opening the folder to flip to an empty page of scattered notes. There's... a lot of notes, with a couple more added to the pile in crisp shorthand.
She doesn't write anything down when Zach is speaking. Instead, she appears to be paying rapt attention, as if committing most of this to memory. In all likelihood, she probably is. There is a note of satisfaction couched in there, of course: at the sloppy nature of naming it 'nothingness,' but not so much that it qualifies as back-patting. Further, there seems to be recognition at the mention of exploitation; seems she wasn't kidding when she said she has a firm grasp on the matter. And its various players.
"It feels notable that glass is its means of containment. Given its affinity for nuclear waste--" She trails off, there, glancing at Salem for a time. "Just how much 'clearance' does he have, if you don't mind my asking?" she says to him, not, apparently, caring about how impolite it might be to pose the question in Zach's presence.

Salem raises both eyebrows at Zach's mention of exploitation but merely nods his agreement.
"He's an ally in the know," the young Walker says to answer Sandra, with a slight emphasis on 'ally'.

"Glass doesn't contain it," Zach corrects, "It just doesn't eat glass quite as quickly as some other stuff. Originally, before I decided to try some obvious methods for destroying the stuff, I was just doing exposure samples with various pure materials to see what it likes to eat and what it doesn't like to eat. No patterns emerged from that, but like I said, it /does/ eat glass, too. If you've got any in long-term storage, check those jars periodically and re-pot the stuff." He waits for further signal that he should either continue his briefing, answer questions, or quit while he's ahead.

To the assurance - if it can be called that - Sandra gives a nod. To the rest: "I should point out that I was using 'containment' in the loosest possible sense," she replies, "as, yes, I'm aware that the method isn't indefinite. The trait still seems notable, given its dining habits. But that's a matter of preference." She flips the folder shut again. "By all means," she says, letting that trail off as well with a loose 'prithee, continue,' gesture.

Salem sticks his hands in his pockets and rocks back slightly on his heels. He seems as interested in what Zach as to say as Sandra is.

"Right, so. Old Man called my friend," Zach clarifies: "The one who got jumped with me on the river bank a couple of weeks back. He describes the stuff as 'the blood of reality.' Because of course he does." As if remembering that this is supposed to be a basics chat, he turns to Sandra for this sidebar:
"The Old Man is a... basically he sould his soul - I'm pretty sure to this stuff, but not one hundred percent on that - lots of circumstantial evidence that supports the idea though. He hijacks the phone of folks who come into contact with the Echoes, so I'm guessing this was this girl's first time.
"Anyway, calling it 'blood' is... poetic, but not terribly instructive because blood doesn't make more of itself when it gets loose - but there was one idea I had that might pan out. When these Echoes started forcing their way in and skipping around like they like to do, I managed to slam the door on 'em. Nothing I'd recommend, it was just the only thing I coudl think of since they seem to feed on power in motion, or at least try to draw it out of you - long story.
"But if this stuff isn't the problem, but like, a symptom of the problem? Then the blood analogy holds a little... ooze I guess. So I'm thinking - maybe I did get it all - sure felt like a clean kill - but the 'wound' in this analogy was still open? I want to try closing the wound. If I'm right? This plus that will mean we've got a clean-up an containment strategy. Even if it's... costly. It's a place to start that doesn't involve..." he looks to Salem, again.

"Her," Sandra says simply, supplying at least the pronoun so as to avoid any further Knowing Looks. "What sorts of 'cost' are we talking about, anyway? And what sort of 'side effects' should we anticipate? There's still a counterpart out there that might be a bit-- irritated-- by its other half going missing."

"Costly is fine," Salem says. "Costly that doesn't involve anyone doing anything against their will is excellent. Possibly giving the middle finger to the person who's been screwing with Ghost's life and trying to turn her into a /tool/ would be absolutely goddamn wonderful." The Walker might have a little extra grudge against the Old Man/Black Mage, yessir.

Zach turns back when Sandra supplies the pronoun, and Salem confirms that on this thing/ They agree. "Costly in terms of free qi. The method I used isn't precisely..." he struggles for a word here, "'kosher.' A lot of people find it to be an affront to everything they claim to believe - then again half of them turn around pull the exact same shit with pretty euphemisms so... fuck it, it works. But it needs fuel to work, and handling raw qi in that form is... pretty fucking risky. Mind you, being around this stuff makes it less risky, but that's unsettling in its own way.
"Which reminds me," he says, mostly to Salem, but now including Sandra in the theorycrafting, "I think I got a solid fix on why the Old Man got himself mixed up in this shit. Turns out, some very, /very/ stupid person might decide this was weaponizable in a very personal, 'give me shittons of power' sort of way."

"He cares enough to caution against using her as a sacrifice," Sandra asides to Salem, the dry tone she uses saying enough about her opinion on its own. "But I suspect most brilliant minds would feel that way about their pet science projects." The subtly arched brow manages to accentuate the low-level venom that's injected into said tone, but it dissipates on an amended, "Or their Hail Marys, in any event," her attention turning back to Zach.
"There's theory regarding the Old Man's interest in atomic energy, as well - hubris at its best, as always - but if this 'very stupid person' is who I think it is..."

Salem casts a look skyward. "Christ on a crutch. One trying for power from one unimaginably destructive force, goddamn Jeb trying for power from the opposite imaginably destructive force, and--" And his phone buzzes, urgently and briefly. "And /shit/," he finishes, looking at the contact name. "Excuse me," he says to them and moves off, his expression tight.

Zach watches Salem go, then turns back to Sandra for a glance, briefly, with a hint of 'soooooo, hi?' Then back to Salem as he retreats for his emergency. Zach's mouth twists for a bit, and no, he can't resist the snark: "Dude won't text me back when I'm trying to get someone safe from this shit but his phon..." And then his brain catches up with his mouth and he seems to put together scenarios that might lead to exactly that pattern, but render it perfectly acceptable to Zach's tastes. He doesn't like those scenarios. "Fuck." Back to Sandra, then, with nothing really to do for it. "Short version is this: One of the things that this stuff is corrosive to, are the rules that we've all agreed on, at least subconsciously. As those come apart, it's trivially easy to do.... pretty much whatever the fuck you want. Fly, nuke a city block, create a new world, grow four heads, whatever strikes you. And nothing anyone gets to say to the contrary matters. Including destroying this stuff..." He trails off, not explaining the connundrum, but perhaps prepared to do so, if necessary.

Another glance is cast around them for a moment, Salem's departure not seeming to be taken as anything more than what it is. Given what *she* is, for Sandra, this is likely just par for the course anyway, whether or not she knows the Glass Walker particularly well. Looking back to Zach, she says, "I don't know if you're aware, but it's already wiped out an entire species from the Washington landscape. And avid birdwatchers that would have noticed never seemed to have been aware that the magpie ever existed here in the first place. Needless to say, though it's not 'growing four heads,' it's been observed. Though I'm not terribly familiar with the-- for lack of a better word, mechanics of it."

Zach ponders for a moment, "Wasn't aware. Magpies, like the bird species? Are they gone globally or just locally?" He's thinking outloud. "The way these things work, if it's this stuff that did it, the idea of a magpie is corroded, or maybe just the specific idea of them being around here. If it's related directly. If it's just someone screwing around... but birdwatchers would notice if you just changed the species' habit... no, this sounds consistent with it. See, when someone runs into something they don't want think about? They self-implant new memories or understandings until they've resovled the cognitive dissonance. Most of the time it happens subconsciously. So, good on you for catching it. Not much of a birder, myself."

"Others caught it," Sandra replies, "I documented it. And the effect is local. I haven't gone looking online as I haven't had much time for it, so it might be something to look into yourself to see if standard sites like Wikipedia and others have been altered, or if the territory maps for the species still show the species as active in Washington, but-- to my knowledge, none of them are here. On either side of the proverbial fence. Hilliard hospital is a similar case, though it's much more local. Something the public at large doesn't remember. But we do, for some reason." A pause. "Makes me wonder what all we *have* forgotten, if anything. I cna't imagine the-- 'protection' we've enjoyed so far is absolute."

"It might be," Zach offers, though he's clearly not certain of it. "There's a cognitive line, a level of mindfulness, that comes with dealing with shit like this on the regular. It's not so much a protection as it is... a willingness to accept the change. Anyway, the dude I know who has success in putting these things down just walked off, so I'm waiting either way. Unless you've faced them too?" He'll hope, anyway. "You said something about an 'infection?'"

Sandra nods. "It seems to be spread by contact," she says. "A wasting disease, of sorts. The worst case of it came and went recently. Another 'relative' that was engulfed in it during an expedition to Hilliard's parking garage, which I believe is where you're most likely to find the bulk of your 'samples'-- and, apparently, an audience with the Old Man, if he's feeling chatty." It's hard to miss that she has a keen interest in going herself, but she's not doing much to dim that impression.
"In any event, it left her with wounds not unlike bacterial fasciitis, extremely cold to the touch, and-- not so much depleted reserves as *absent* reserves." She takes another look around, then, and says, "By any chance, is there somewhere we can talk a little less like a pair of bit part actors in a Russian spy thriller? There's something you might be interested in seeing, and this isn't the best place to bring it out."

Zach might've just rolled his eyes a bit. "Whatever," he says - confirming any suspicions on the matter. "Pretty much name it. Or if you want to be mobile," he makes a thumbing gesture, "My Jeep's on the curb. I don't have a permanent address in town so... beyond that it's up to you. Anywhere but near the river."

The dismissal of that concern gets an arch of Sandra's brow. Then, "I was trying to place where I've had a certain feeling before," she says, seemingly apropos of nothing. "A feeling of having seen something, but not entirely." It's a fiddly way of putting it, but it's the best way she can think to phrase it; in the end, it earns a shrug, and she moves on. "*You* might have tricks to dodge acknowledgement, but, to my knowledge, I don't. And neither does an eleven-and-a-half by seventeen piece of paper if a stiff breeze decides to get cheeky with it." She pauses. Then, "That said, reading something over isn't exactly conducive to driving, either."

"I've done worse," Zach offers, 'helpfully.' "But sure, if you've got an idea. Worst case we could find somewhere. The wind won't be a problem, I promise you that." He's sincere in that promise, too. "But like, aside from finding a patch of woods off the road somewhere, or someplace reasonably abandoned... I guess we could rent a motel room?" He's grasping at straws here, but the tone suggests something like 'its your sensibilities, so you'll have to make the call.'

"Shouldn't you be buying me dinner first?" Sandra says dryly, tone taking on just the barest *hint* of suggestion. She looks around again, considerate; looks from one person to the next, most of whom seem perfectly happy to ignore her entirely, whether they can figure out a reason why, or-- not. "Charming as a motel might be," she says, then, "with or without dinner," she turns back to him, "I suppose you raise a fair point about hiding in plain sight."

Zach snorts somewhere in the back of his throat, and gives a shrug that's either 'I mean, you know... whatever' or 'be careful what you wish for' and there's probably room for healthy dollop of both. "Folks who may or may not be listening, here, boil down to two people I can think of readily - both of whom already know about this shit, so if you're worried about tipping them off that you're involved? You picked a bad venue, and a bad topic; that ship has sailed." He picks back up where the track ended, then, "That feeling, like you saw something... but didn't? That's what it's like to look at one of these echoes."

There's a note of amusement somewhere in the blonde's look at his initial response, though it's muted. It also sobers rather quickly in favor of saying, "Salem didn't get to where he is by being foolhardy, so I suppose if he's comfortable speaking in this 'venue,' then there isn't much wrong with it. I just prefer to err on the side of caution, if I'm able. But as I'm largely unfamiliar with the city, I don't have many suggestions for a change of scenery." A pause.
Then: "As for the echoes-- I've never had to face them, myself, though I consider myself rather-- proficient-- in dealing with threats of this nature. Still, I'd prefer not to speculate on whether or not that proficiency carries through until the situation is done and over with. That said: it doesn't mean I'd shy from a confrontation." So. Healthy does of confidence; equally healthy dose of realism. "As it stands, however: I've only ever seen them in dreams."

"They're..." Zach doesn't have words, but then, that's rather what's at stake here isn't it? "Unpleasant. You'll know one when you see it though. So... what's this thing on paper? notes? I'll trade you for mine, if you want to know what materials best hold it back."

"I would, actually," Sandra replies, finally setting the briefcase down on the bench. "As many notes as you're willing to copy or part with. The more information, the better, especially for a project of this magnitude." The briefcase is flipped open after a combination is punched in, after which the folder is set inside. A folded piece of paper is withdrawn not long after, the briefcase nudged aside to let her sit, a vague motion made for Zach to join her. Once he has, said 11 1/2 x 17" printout is unfolded. A massive flow-chart.
"This," she says, "is everything I've pieced together so far. I'd been meaning to show it to a more-- 'direct' relative, to keep on hand if she had any notes of her own, but I haven't seen her much lately."

Zach's eyes glance over the page and /immediately/ they're darting to and fro, following channels at a pace that's probably pushing the limits of comprehension, but she basically just opened a treasure chest in front of him. It's where he slows that gives away more of his own investment here. He sees the bits about Ghost, their location on the far left of the page an easy tell, that - like Salem, he's... pretty angry on that point. Angry in a directed way - and while he has no Big-R Rage that Sandra can feel - he's far from passionless in this. Again, he regulates very well. He may roll his eyes at the root section titled 'The Mage,' but he still has something to contribute: "He damned himself, decades ago, maybe. He doesn't need to be signaled. He can find what he's looking for without you first reaching to him. But he really only cares about people who've come into contact with the Echoes. That he wants to die should concern you. He wants to get away with shit that he's pulled. Like I said, I'm not a hundred percent that it's to this corrosive essence that he surrendered his entelechy to, or something else and maybe he thought this stuff was his ticket out of the bargain... but he sold out, he didn't even have the good grace to deny it when I called him out on the carpet for it."

It's possible to see, perhaps even feel, a slight stiffening in Sandra's posture. An alertness that kicks in with or without her say-so, leading to another brief glance at the fountain, at the trees, as if expecting something other than a park-goer to arrive.
She doesn't miss what's said, however, mulling that over, at least capable of being paranoid and attentive to the actual conversation, all at the same time. "I'm familiar with the word 'entelechy' but I'm getting the vague sense that you might be using it differently than I'm used to," she notes. She looks over at him again. "Speaking frankly, if he *was* dabbling in atomic energy, at a time when most of humanity was only just beginning to understand its impact as a weapon--" A beat. "Well. It's speculation, as it says, but that doesn't seem a force that one plays around with without reprecussion. Regardless of whether or not he had a hand in waking the 'Not' with the usual self-fellating nonsense he's become known for." A pause. Then: "Do you believe he's responsible for the dreams, out of curiosity?"

"It's certainly a thing he could be capable of," Zach admits. "I haven't seen any direct evidence to tie him to one, though. And screwing around inside someone's head to find out?" He nopes right on out of that. "I keep away from shit like that. Entelechy is the object, idea, and force that draws you towards your perfect self - all three in one, because they arise together as one. Folks like this guy know this, but for whatever reason they don't /want/ the better angels, they just want power, /now/. And if this guy was screwing around with nukes before nukes were cool?" Another beat. "Oh shit. No wonder he favors cellphones. Oh man. If this situation weren't gonna throw them into a genocidal 'sanitation' frenzy? I would /hella/ narc on this fucker."

"Narc," Sandra repeats. "To whom?"

"The government," Zach answers. "They've got... divisions responsible for enforcing The Rules. If they learned about what this shit did to those precious rules? They'd lose their goddamned minds. They're all about control and stability. This is... basically the opposite. But if he was into 'beyond cutting edge' tech at the right time? I'm laying good odds he's a former employee. This shit went south from Hanford, right?"

Well. Though Sandra's expression isn't all that exaggerated (perish the thought), it does take on a rather grim look for a moment as she ponders that. She gives a quick shake of her head, then, and says, "I'll have to take your word for it, unfortunately." A pause. "And yes, it did. To an extent. And that the Old Man ended up - reportedly - at the site of Last Days doesn't seem like a coincidence, either. As to your stating that he only communicates with those who've seen the echoes-- he's breaking that pattern. I've never seen them in person-- but I *have* had the dreams, and saw them there in clear detail."

"You sure you've never seen them?" Zach wonders, aloud. "You told me you felt like you saw something, but didn't really? Like I said, that's what it's like when one's around. Takes a bit to look right at one. But hey, I'm working with less evidence than you are," he gestures at the flowchart. "There's a lot here. But.. right... my point is this:" he shakes his head, picking up the thought he lost when he had that moment of revenge-fantasy. "Dude's sold his soul. I'm as much for redemption as anyone else, but you /cannot/ trust him as a source. Verify and cross-check everything, and if he asks you to kill him in a specific way? Be ready for that to be all part of the plan, for him."

"I was talking more about the sense I got when I first saw you, for what it's worth," Sandra replies. "Feeling my attention being diverted. Being fair, however: I wouldn't have noticed at all if the effect hadn't been pointed out to me before. And may not have, if Salem hadn't called your attention to us." A pause. Then: "In any event, no. I'd never seen the creatures personally until a dream. Black; living oil slicks fashioned into wolves, except not. Eyeless. Massive. Clawed, human hands in place of front paws."

Zach is... maybe aware of what she's talking about? But... "Hm. Fair enough. People... don't like me. Don't like what I represent. You've got two choices when you're confronted with that: get aggressive, or pretend I'm not here. Most folks go with the latter. Maybe you're still on the fence. I dunno." He discusses it like one might discuss why some people see the young girl and some people see the old crone, in that image. Not a thing that can be readily explained. "Alright so let's say that's true. If he's keeping to his pattern, he's not the one sending the dreams - though... to be honest, you've gotten up to your elbows in this shit. Were you building that chart before the dream, perchance? Like, /thinking/ about this stuff means you're engaged with the idea of it - which means you're fighting its influence right there."

"I had been, yes," Sandra replies. "And you're not the only one to point that out. That concentrating on it calls attention. I hadn't been working on the chart by that point, no-- I was just trying to familiarize myself with it. With what everyone had been saying about it. When the dreams hit-- I suppose, in part, that was the impetus to start putting the information together. As much as it could be, anyway. Getting everyone on the same page so we're not all playing catch-up with one another."

"Fuckin' /thank you/." Zach half spits, with a measure of frustration. "I won't name names, but I got sicced on this stuff and then... no one returns my calls but every once in a while and then they won't shut up long enough to let me even give them the heads up. So.. this?" He gestures at her detailed files, "this is a breath of fresh fuckin' air."

There's a hint of a smile on Sandra's face, though there's a humorless quality to suggest that perhaps that frustration is-- or was shared. To that end: "You wouldn't be the first one to point that out, either," is noted. She folds the paper, and says, "You're welcome to keep it, if you like," handing it to him. "I plan on making revisions the more that I write up the information I've obtained from everyone I've spoken to, and go over what records and notes I took down when I'd first arrived-- but I'd say this represents a good two thirds of what I've gathered so far."

"I've already got it," Zach affirms, holding up a hand to decline the offer. "I'll get you my 'lab notes' from my experiments... well, what's left of them that survived Birdface..." That, he realizes, might need some context. "First Echo I ever met was this creepy bird-dude-thing, covered in feathers.. sort of. Kept taking things I said and parroting them back to me. First it did it by sending me texts... or actually, re-writing texts I was in the middle of sending. Then it started re-aranging the notes I'd been taking, forming new words with the ink. Then it started speaking in my voice. That's when it said 'We are the Last Days.' And that's when I decided to take my leave."

Sandra's brow arches, but she shrugs slightly, sliding the paper back into the briefcase with the rest. The comment on the Echoes-- that gets both brows to arch a bit more noticeably. "That's-- different," she says. "Also not one I'd heard before. Not the line spoken, anyway." A pause. "It's been posited that the echoes that 'parrot' are the Old Man's doing, not necessarily the Nothing's. I'm not sure I buy it, entirely, but I suppose it's not impossible." Beat. "Still, seems like a lot of wasted energy when he's made it clear that he has other methods of communicating."

"Sometimes a good con requires you to be both sides of the coin at the same time," Zach suggests, purely speculatively. "But I think the Echoes have more of their source material - at least sometimes - than is let on. I think that's how he's surviving in this stuck stay, he's managed to hold onto some part of himself even after being partially erased. At least that's my theory based on your chart. If you've got a lot of... free ki, maybe. Or you understand enough about yourself to hold it together during whatever process is eating you up. I slammed the door on the echoes that hit me here in the park simply reminding the rules that, you know, they /were/."

Though it's there and gone rather quickly, there's a note of discomfort in Sandra's features at the mention of 'free ki.' If 'discomfort' is even the word for it. It's not the easiest thing to get a read on.
"The rules," she echoes, considerate. "I've heard it mentioned as being a 'consensus?' Is that correct?" She'll only wait as long as a nod of confirmation, if there even is one, before saying, "Either way, it would make sense. And, for what it's worth, I'm inclined to agree with you on the matter of whether or not the Old Man is allowed to die on his terms. But want is a powerful thing, especially to those who are as clearly desperate as he is-- and he's tipped his hand to that particular want more than once."

There's a nod from him about 'consensus' being a thing. He waits until she's done before contextualizing his response, "Consensus theory is one of like, eight different ways to explain why we exist, yeah. It's the one that seems to hold the most weight when tested. Which is why shit like this ooze is something he wanted, I presume: It corrodes the idea of the Consensus, erases the idea of having agreed to the basic rule set, and thus the basic rules stop applying. The price, of course, is Grey Goo. But to someone who's damned himself like that, if he's having a change of heart? He might be trying to use it to free himself, and dying in a particular fashion - which, as you've said, is his constant demand? He claims he's tired of limbo, just want's to die on his terms - but I figure it's his backdoor. Death stops having a meaning once you no longer have need of a body, and who knows what state he's even in, physically, after being in contact with this stuff. Either way, it sounds ritualistic to me. If it were me? I wouldn't kill him until and unless I basically couldn't think of any other way and something forced my hand. There's just too many variables on that one. But we can't let this stuff run rampant. And if we wait too long, it may become too costly to arrest its further growth."

"I want to get back to that," Sandra replies, seeming more or less in full agreement with what's said - and quietly thankful for him taking the time to explain a word that had, more than likely, just been thrown at her until now, even if it wasn't altogether difficult to figure it out. "About finding a way to destroy it. And the caveats that come with it. First, though-- I've been told to stop considering the use of this 'back door' as a bargaining chip. A means of getting him to play on our terms. While I agree the information he'd hand us is guiding towards *his* preferred outcome, I'd still like to know more about what it entails. Mostly so it can be avoided. It's possible that he could give us a route to take that neither of us had considered before, be it a means of destruction that's less 'costly,' or at the very least a means of keeping the Nothing's counterpart from running amok on its own terms. Which, conversely, is my primary concern when I hear 'destroyed.'"

"I'm pretty sure the source of all this is above my paygrade," Zach admits, without ego either (cherish that while you have it). "I'll be straight with you here? I met this girl, was told she was being considered the way to stop it. I was told to protect her - in the 'even if she doesn't want it' kind of way. That? Doesn't sit well with me. I was told this ooze was the reason for the concern, so I've been putting my time and effort into fixing /that/, however... haphazardly, so that someone who's had a shit /enough/ life thank you very much, can catch a fuckin' break. I'm pretty sure this 'Nothing' is a separate deal. Related? Sure. But I've mostly been focusing on the mess it leaves behind."

Sandra breathes a short laugh at the first admittance-- more a 'ditto' than derision. She sobers, though, listening-- and says, "If this 'girl' is who I think it is, I think it's up to her to decide if she wants to commit to assisting in the effort, but-- if it were me, I'd want the suffering I'd been through-- that I'd continue to endure to mean something. It's something a lot of people fail to keep in mind when they think of 'protection.'"
There's something a bit personal about the way it's stated, but she doesn't leave much time to dwell on it. "It might be that she doesn't much care, though. Still-- it's good there's someone around who's thinking about her agency. Even if it might end up being inconvenient." Beat. "Now-- you said something about closing the fissure. I may have misspoken by calling it 'destruction,' but it seems like it might run into the same pitfalls. Aggravating the other-- cosmically supercharged 'thing' that serves as its other."

"Well I don't see a lot of choices, really," Zach says. "We can't let this stuff multiply. I'm not willing to bleed someone who doesn't want it - fuck Utilitarianism. And what I've got is a way to clean up the mess. The Old Man is laying this blood/wound metaphor pretty thick. I don't think sealing the wound, prevening further bleeding, is actually going to stop the source of the wound - which is the Echoes. Certainly this experiment won't do that, anyway. It'll just neutrilize one sample. In terms of whatever source these samples are coming from? If it's as large as folks have implied... indirectly I'll add, then that's a thing I'm going to need help with. I'm good, but there's a limit to what I can do on my own. So for what it's worth? I'm not about to cowboy into the heart of this thing and try to be a hero. But I would damned well like to know that we have options other than her."

"It's partly why I suggested another dialogue with the Old Man," Sandra replies. "Get a better sense of how he wants to guide us. The more we know about his agenda, about how he wants this to play out, the better idea we'll have about how to sidestep backing ourselves into a corner." Beat. "That said: I'm willing to lend my assistance if it's needed. Anything that takes us a step forward is better than nothing, and I'm admittedly getting tired of being told that the best method of doing something is to sit and speculate."

"It's best if I'm not the person to talk to him," Zach offers. "I think I understand him pretty well at this point, but I think if he knows I'm around he'll be on his guard more, less likely to let something slip. But yeah, get him talking. He loves to run at the mouth. But a lot of it's just the same old same old."

"He said the last time people spoke to him 'directly,'" Sandra replies, "that he wasn't offering any more favors without firm promises." A pause. "If you understand him pretty well, what's your assessment on how best to approach him, given that?"

"If it were me?" Zach shrugs. "I don't play ball. You don't want his favors anyway. Folks who sell their soul like that? They learn pretty good to sell that same snake oil themselves. His 'favors' are 'first one is always free' at best. Besides, he's already claiming that folks broke their promises to him - if he's still bargaining at /all/ he's tipped his hand that he doesn't have many options. Probably reasonably safe to let him rot. If you are going to sit at that table, though? Figure out what you're about. Figure out what the stakes are. When he asks for something, you need to know if it's safe to give up or not."

"I never said anything about bargaining in good faith," Sandra replies simply. "I have no intention of giving up anything. My only interest is in getting him talking; providing a roadmap. Speaking frankly, I'd be perfectly content to learn that he'd been devoured by the very thing he may or may not have helped to awaken. But that still answers my question, regardless." A pause. "You said earlier, by the way-- you thought you might know a 'very stupid person' with a vested interest in all this?"

"The Old Man," Zach nods. "I think he originally got involved in this mess because he wanted to harness the Consensus-corrosive properties of the stuff. I think he figured he could use it to get power. This may even be the thing he sold his soul /to/, for all I know. But the very stupid person I was speaking of was purely hypothetical." He raises a hand, "And... a cautionary note? If you negotiate in bad faith, there's a solid chance he'll be able to tell. /Especially/ if he's the one sending the dreams, but even without. That's one to approach carefully." He does not, however, have any moral issue with it.

"I was going to ask about that, as well," Sandra replies. "How much he might be able to see, especially once he was actively speaking to someone. And what sort of damage he might be able to cause if he suspected that someone was yanking his chain."

"If he's surrounded by this stuff? I'd say... anything and everything is on the table." He gestures around, "The rules do a solid job at smacking down anyone who gets too far outside them when folks are looking. He's had decades to sit there and learn about the stuff. The same reason you want information from him, makes him someone you probably can't underestimate. Just hope he's too busy fighting off the decay of his own existince or something."
"The thing that keeps you safe from him, isn't a lack of ability on his end, but the fact that he needs us for something - or he'dve done it himself."

Sandra looses a slow breath. "And now it's my turn to thank *you*," she says. "I'd been speaking to another name--" A pause. "One of your relatives," she corrects dryly, rather than go with 'namebreaker' in its entirety, "and he's been insufferable about providing details like this. Actual, practical details, anyway."

"I /really/ doubt you've been speaking to one of my relatives," Zach answers back, either completely missing the point, or deliberately missing the point - it's a toss up. "They live in New York and don't know shit about this stuff. But like I said, I give a shit about this friend of mine, I don't like the way the wind is blowing for her. I'd hate to have to piss a bunch of people off by pulling a White Knight if someone got stupid." No he wouldn't, really, says his tone. But he's pragmatic enough to recognize why it's probably not the best go-to. "Plus... I like... you know... existing. I like the world. All my shit is here."

"If it helps-- the people in power who would have tossed her aside once her 'usefulness' came and went are gone," Sandra says carefully. "And I've positioned myself to be on good terms with those looking to fill the void. Neither seem particularly averse to her, and have said nothing about any 'plans' to put her to use-- and both are committed to being more proactive about this problem, overall." A pause. "In short: things are changing. *Have* changed. And I don't honestly believe that either of them have the stomach for tearing apart one of our own, no matter how 'beneficial' that might be, at face value."

"I'd feel more comfortable about that if she felt like she was 'one of your own.' I'm alllll too familiar with how quickly people's minds can change on that subject. But I'm glad you're hopeful, anyway." He sighs. That one's a long story, to say the least. "Either way though. If you really wanted to say thanks... you any good in a fight if it comes to it? Jack's probably pretty good, I figure. There's someone else I could ask, but I haven't seen her in forever. But I'm kinda keen to be rid of these stalkers, and that means making progress to silence their mess sooooo... feel like science sometime?"

Sandra's brows arch slightly at the first observation, more a quiet acknowledgement than anything more telling. To the questions, she merely offers a faint halfsmile, the arch of her brows taking on a different 'tone.'
"It was never my best subject," she says, "but I think I can handle that. That, and handling myself in a fight." A pause. "We may need the assistance of your friend when all is said and done, though. Even you. To my understanding, this sickness is-- pervasive. And only gets worse as time goes on. There's no known means of fixing it without her involvement-- and no known means of subduing these creatures without getting hands deep in tearing them apart." Beat. "It's possible Salem's already been-- innoculated, for lack of a better term. But I haven't been. And I know of no preventative means ahead of time to keep Ghost from taking the burden of that."

"Well," Zach says, "Before it comes to that, I've got some... techniques," is a very diplomatic way of phrasing it, "that don't require contact. And if y'all can't muster up so much as a sword for the job? Get me two tons of coal, a MIG welder, and something with a roof and good ventilation. I'll fix that easily enough."

"I'm better with knives, personally," Sandra replies, "but there's nothing saying I can't improvise." A pause. "Still," she says, "someone should approach her about it, and see about gaining her consent ahead of time. And it probably shouldn't be me." Beat. "If she's uncomfortable with the idea, forcing her into a corner if something goes wrong seems like the opposite of 'having agency.'"

"Knives I can do too," Zach assures, with a grin. The grin fades a little bit as Sandra moves on. "It sure as hell won't be me," he says, firmly. He's not the type to accept a 'yes' from Ghost here as morally correct - though he might feel obliged to honor it anyway. Maybe that's part of why he'd refuse to ask. "I plan to do my best to make sure it's just not necessary."

"I do, too, believe me," Sandra replies. "Nonetheless-- I have some duties I need to attend to." Retrieving her phone from her pocket, she says, "I'd like to pick up those notes at some point, though. Would you mind giving me your number so we can arrange a time to do that?"

"I don't have a permanent one," Zach warns, as he reaches into one of those many pockets and produces a small black Nokia, the pre paid kind. The burner kind. "But yeah," he rattles off the number from memory all the same. "Text me a drop and I'll leave you some copies - or we can meet up again, either way. I'll be in touch back when I've got as prepped as I think I can be."

"I have a feeling I'll have more questions anyway," Sandra replies, plugging the number into her contacts ('Temp' is written in brackets at the tail end), "so meeting up would probably be for the best. Similarly, if I run across anything new that I think you might be interested in, I'll give you a heads up." She gives her number, as well, and gathers up the briefcase. "In the meantime," she says, offering her hand, "it was nice meeting you."

"Yeah," Zach agrees, shaking that offered hand. As before, it's firm - precisely matched to her own in fact. "Likewise." He spent the time thinking about whether or not that was the case, too. He didn't record her number. Then again, it's probably comitted to memory too. "Be safe." He makes to move off when the handshake disengages.

"Please," Sandra says mildly, one brow raising. "Being safe is what lead us to sitting on our hands in the first place." She sobers. Then: "But I'll see what I can do." She turns as well, then, "Take care," offered over her shoulder before she sets off down the direction she arrived from.