Room 7, Carriage House, Friday evening
Nadia had been taking a nap.
Well, if you could call having slept in from her evening class the night before straight through the vast majority of the day until well into evening again a "nap".
She would certainly be calling it that, later, despite any resemblances it might have bore to taking a "coma".
Whatever force it was that she was tapped into had thrown open the giant door that held back her dreamed visions, and demanded that she sleep. Still, she snapped from deep sleep to wakefulness in moments the second the dreams had finished, and suddenly she'd gone from being curled up in her bed in her room to being on her feet and running around the room in an absolute flurry.
The dreams had been much the same as the bits of visions that had been dogging her steps all week. Gray, black, and red, and a voice speaking another language, talking about power and plans and things. The difference was, in these dreams, she finally recognized the voice. The difference was she recognized the language. And that voice and that language had no reason to be connected together.
She called the orphanage; not Sofia's private line, but by connecting through the Argentine information network with the public number.
"Hola,"
"¿Hola, esto es Nadia Santos, puede yo hablar con Sofía Vargas, por favor?"
"Hay nadie por ese nombre aquí,"
"Eso es imposible. Sofía Vargas. Ella está en carga."
"¿Quién es ése?" "Nadia Santos. Ella dice que ella desea hablar con una Sofía Vargas." "¡¿Realmente?! Sofía no ha trabajado aquí por años, no desde que enseguida después de Nadia Santos escurr --"
Nadia swallowed and hung up.
Sofia had been lying to her. For more than a year now. Possibly much, much longer. She snapped the phone shut and cursed under her breath, then grabbed her helmet and headed quickly out of the room. She remembered the restaurant, at least. From there, it shouldn't be too hard for someone with her skills to pick up Sofia's trail.
There would be hell to pay.
[ooc: establishy only as I run off for the weekend. Details of phone call NFB, but the fact that Nadia headed out of town on her motorcycle is perfectly fine.]
Well, if you could call having slept in from her evening class the night before straight through the vast majority of the day until well into evening again a "nap".
She would certainly be calling it that, later, despite any resemblances it might have bore to taking a "coma".
Whatever force it was that she was tapped into had thrown open the giant door that held back her dreamed visions, and demanded that she sleep. Still, she snapped from deep sleep to wakefulness in moments the second the dreams had finished, and suddenly she'd gone from being curled up in her bed in her room to being on her feet and running around the room in an absolute flurry.
The dreams had been much the same as the bits of visions that had been dogging her steps all week. Gray, black, and red, and a voice speaking another language, talking about power and plans and things. The difference was, in these dreams, she finally recognized the voice. The difference was she recognized the language. And that voice and that language had no reason to be connected together.
She called the orphanage; not Sofia's private line, but by connecting through the Argentine information network with the public number.
"Hola,"
"¿Hola, esto es Nadia Santos, puede yo hablar con Sofía Vargas, por favor?"
"Hay nadie por ese nombre aquí,"
"Eso es imposible. Sofía Vargas. Ella está en carga."
"¿Quién es ése?" "Nadia Santos. Ella dice que ella desea hablar con una Sofía Vargas." "¡¿Realmente?! Sofía no ha trabajado aquí por años, no desde que enseguida después de Nadia Santos escurr --"
Nadia swallowed and hung up.
Sofia had been lying to her. For more than a year now. Possibly much, much longer. She snapped the phone shut and cursed under her breath, then grabbed her helmet and headed quickly out of the room. She remembered the restaurant, at least. From there, it shouldn't be too hard for someone with her skills to pick up Sofia's trail.
There would be hell to pay.
[ooc: establishy only as I run off for the weekend. Details of phone call NFB, but the fact that Nadia headed out of town on her motorcycle is perfectly fine.]