ph_logs | Mingle - Emergency Potluck

"I get it," Hawk agrees, a hand going to the piece of paper still folded up in his breast pocket.

"Yeah, I uh... haven't seen my dad since I was shipped off. Sorry- this is uh, a lot," he doesn't exactly try to flirt with beautiful women to remember his problems.

"What can you do?" he asks rhetorically, but... yeah. What can they do?

"An eight?!" he demands, affronted, "where's my scope for improvement?! I have a scowl comparable to the look Caesar gave Brutus!"

"He'll have to get in line. Behind Chris. Who'll already be doing it."

Just kind of gestures.

"Look this is cute but I have some fliers to continue to hand out. Are we done?"

This is not Arilanna Tayrey's event. This is only her second day on this planet - but when she sees the other young woman's uncertain look, she can't resist stepping in to help. She's used to organising others, after all.

'Here, let me move these dishes and make space for your contribution,' she says brightly, and starts doing precisely that, shifting bowls and platters to make room.

'Is it? Well that's an oversight!' She smiles, and speaks up with mingled pride and amusement. 'Lieutenant Arilanna Lorenza Kittredge Carrington Tayrey.' As if every part of it has significance, all those illustrious Company names - but she's self-aware enough to add: 'Try calling all that across a chart room! Just Tayrey is fine.'

It's with a certain delicacy that she asks her next question, memories of the Village still fresh enough to trouble her. 'And what should I call you?'

'It's no trouble! There's something nice about a plurality of customs, too,' she reassures him quickly. 'Back home, a person can omit it in a way that makes it very clear they'd rather wish war and poverty on the other person, but that takes hostile intent, not just forgetting.'

She hadn't thought about broth, and there's a flicker of concern on her face. Yet a community pot sounds like some sort of charitable endeavour. She can't fault him for making the assumption, given her current appearance, but Tayrey's pride means she has to correct any misunderstanding.

'I...I do have work here. Casual work for now, but I'm hoping to secure something more reliable very soon. So I'll be able to pay for the soybeans, when the time comes. And eggs!' She grins. 'Fresh eggs are a delicacy. But I shan't be in need of community assistance. Good that it's there for those who need it, but-' she shrugs. She can pay her way.

She nods politely when he tells her about the food supply issues. It's the trouble any colony with a growing population might have. Or any starship carrying more people than it accounted for, for that matter. That might be a closer analogy, highlighting the acute nature of the problem. They seem to have it hand, she thinks as he introduces himself and she attempts her usual Tradeline gesture, left hand briefly clasping his right forearm as they shake hands.

It takes a moment for his last words to register. When they do, Tayrey has to hide her wide-eyed surprise and incredulous smile with a cough.

'Well. I'm sure you do good business.' Upper-level Company types might prefer to pretend such lines of work don't exist, but spacers are different. Of course she'd heard talk, back when she was an apprentice and still barred from going stationside herself. Pavarey teasing her, telling her not to worry about the future, that pretty young lieutenants looking for stationside overnights never had to pay for them.

He'd been right. Back home, where everyone knew what to expect and there were no complications. No Earther cultural traps for her to fall into.

Tayrey smiles at Erik again, leans in closer so she can speak more quietly. 'I'll have to plead the junior officer's trouble of not being able to afford premier overnights, presently. But maybe you're worth saving for.'

"Yeah?" He looks around at the people gathered, clearly encouraged by Max's seal of approval on his candy. "Which one's Ylva?"

But! Wait, Jeff wants to circle back around to the butler thing.

"Dude! I just got hired for the same thing! I mean, not a butler, but, uh..." He looks thoughtful for a moment. "What's the difference between a maid and a butler? Got any advice?"

"Shalom u-pharnassah tovah," Zivia corrects, emphasizing the long u and softening the p-sound into ph. "Sorry, yes, there are grammatical modifications -- I know them well enough to translate most of the time, but unfortunately not really well enough to teach them."

And she listens to the explanation about the Tradelines with growing interest. "That's fascinating. We don't have anything like that where I come from, as far as I know, even on a smaller scale ... An independent organization? Not run by any one of the colonies, or the -- whatever central civilization they came from?"

And so she does, guiding her out of earshot of the party before looking to Daisy with a wry smile. "Can you keep a secret?"

Now the way she looks back at Dahlia takes on that uncanny air, a keen curiosity in the subtle raise of a brow. "Yeah. I can keep a secret. Wouldn't of made it this far if I couldn't."

"Sector Standard it is. I'll level with you, I don't remember the going rate for language lessons back on Earth, but I just fuckin' got here, I can't be hashing out payments. Consider it...damn it I used to know this phrase...not a pre-negotiation that's setting up the meeting and procedures..." Erin snaps her fingers a few times in rhythm, trying to remind herself, and then straightens up with the epiphany. "Declaration of intent, there we go! Formal contract later when we've had time to be at our best."

Deep breath. Erin steeples her fingers. "...Now, I said I'd circle back around. Our contract of friendship, I dunno if it's still valid by your lights. We had it pegged to time, with a duration, and time just got fucky from our perspective. But...I still value it. I'm still holding to it, on my end. I'm half-starved for Glamour, Tayrey, and I've been autocannibalizing my fuckin' selfhood as a result."

"What I'm saying is, I'm not at the top of my explanation game here. Can I ask you to strain your remarkable mind to extend me the benefit of the doubt here?"

"I cannot tell if you are making at dig at yourself or me, madam." Erik says in good humor.

"Presumably, we are all at the cusp of death to be here. But I am, you may notice, a little further along in the process than some." Go on. Say it.

'Right. Formal contract later.' That's easy enough, for something as simple as language lessons. Easy to make fair. But the rest...

Tayrey frowns. 'I wasn't going to say anything, Erin, given I know I'm hardly any better, but you do look rough. Within the boundaries of our contract, I've got to ask if you'd rather hold off on the difficult conversations, because - I can extend the benefit of the doubt, but you know me. If I don't like what you have to say, I can't pretend I do. And by rights I should be robust enough to hear anything. Freedom of speech matters. But I'm... damaged, Erin. I can't tell how bad. I might not be up to it. I can't do anything about that right now, but I- is there anything I can do for you? Materially, to help?'

It's a hard admission for her to make. Freedom was supposed to solve everything. It hasn't. The scars on her body might be gone, but there are people here she can't even look at without a jolt of panic. Hard to keep it all in proportion, and criticism of basic Tradeline customs would only be a reminder of how alone she is.

Although nobody on the construction site had cared about those differences, just that she pulled her weight at work, and she was more than capable of doing that. Maybe it's just a matter of finding the right places, she thinks.

"If nothing else, we brought a lot with us," Erin agrees. "And when I find people in charge I ain't gonna be shy about it. You know how I feel about it."

Deep breath...

"Think I can get you to steal me some food?"

John loses his smile--and for a second, he's too warm. He feels shaky again, carrying the dead weight of a body whose soul has taken flight.

"You...not...forget...me?"

"Monsters are human, too." John replies quietly, lowering his gaze. "Some of the worst ones...and they get a choice, too. I never did. I tried, once--very recently, I tried. To free a man who didn't deserve to be a prisoner. There was a woman, someone who saw...different in me. Thought like you, that I could still be a person--and the hell of it was, I believed her. For one second...I believed her."

He pauses, fingers curling into a fist that stings his skin with the kiss of nails--stops him short of drawing blood.

"The second I did, they killed her."

He looks up into Gerry's eyes again, his own filled with hollow grief.

"There's a point when what's inside stops counting. When no amount of desire or faith can change a damn thing. You can keep wanting and keep believing, but if the whole world refuses to let you it'll drive you nuts. Acceptance can sometimes be the only thing that keeps you from breaking--at least a weapon that works won't hurt anyone when it's left alone. That's all I am: a gun trying to stay in the locker. Least that way, fewer people will get hurt."

"I can't ask you for what I need most. I'm not gonna harvest your Glamour, not when it unavoidably breaches your privacy." Erin hangs her head, but she's smiling. It's fragile, but it's there. "...The offer means a lot. I know we'll talk again after I can sleep and eat and maybe get a bar fight and cuddle Ylva and...all that, but if I don't say this now I'll forget, and I can't be having that. So. Before I start, this is a matter of...strategy, and dignity, not of our frequent debates. I'm not asking you to believe anything different."

It still takes her a bit to work up to it, stretching with audible Popping Sounds and faint groans of both pain and relief.

(We've got to try.)

Yeah. I know.

"...We've taken a job," Erin murmurs. "With a pretty good paycheck. To live again, that's a big ask, and more importantly, we can leave. I remember that part of the deal, and it's not something we could do on the ship. If the work doesn't seem worth the payment, we can die, really die. Everything we ever argued about, I never disagreed about the right to die."

"But the people we've been hired to help, they don't have that choice. They can't leave, and they can't die. They're prisoners in their own home, maybe the only home they've ever known. They can't work hard and save up their money to hop a ship to another city, they can't be safe in their own houses, they can't import new technologies or even new ideas." Her fingers curl into a loose fist; her arm is shaking. "All they have left is their dignity, their idea of doing right by others, their idea of being good people. This potluck is part of that. A housewarming gift can be part of that...if they couldn't take care of each other, if they couldn't show hospitality, well, then they'd really be wretched. Things would really be bad."

"Please tell me I'm making human sense."

It's not enough. he wants to say. This hangdog looking kid who lights up at the thought of being able to just feed himself if he needs to--he's a good kid, he doesn't deserve that.

He wants to stick something sharp in whoever or whatever put that kind of hunger in a guy like this. He reminds John of Co in all the wrong ways, trampled on but untested. The tiniest scrap of hope still in him where he can see something meaningful or even magical in basic survival training.

All the aches and pains, the cold and the loneliness--all of the stuff he learned to give up on in prison just wants to come crawling out of him again with a suddenness that makes him vaguely nauseous for a second.

I won't fail you like I did her.

The colder, more direct thought makes the agony settle again, lets him breathe and reclaim his equilibrium.

"Survival's a right. Not a privilege." he replies softly. "S' no trouble, promise."

"It's fudge." He's really trying not to be insulted that anyone has to ask. Shouldn't it be obvious? Maybe it's just not so well-known wherever this person comes from. That's what he's choosing to cling to.

"And, yes, the clothes do give it away but I am also making it a habit to recognize faces and yours is new, Moiré." He pronounces it in the exact way that they themselves did even though the rest of his accent is deceptively unremarkable Midwestern English.

Ari Tayrey listens. She doesn't interrupt, doesn't say a word, just listens carefully to all this. For a long moment afterwards, she's silent. She clasps her hands together, wearing an expression of deep concentration. Careful thought.

'I follow,' she says at last, slowly. 'To a point.' Tayrey takes a breath. 'I willingly signed that contract. It's not perfect, no contract ever is, but it was more than good enough. I mean to fulfil it. I certainly want to protect the essential rights of the local people, so far as I can. And to free them from this... situation. It matters to me, and you know why. But what I don't think you see-'

Here's the tricky part. 'They have the right to their own customs. I'd be a monster if I tried to prevent them from giving each other gifts or following their religion or doing anything else that seems right to them and doesn't harm anyone else. Their rights matter. But so do mine, Erin. Being here under some kind of agreed indenture doesn't alter that. I didn't sign away my culture. If I had to accept charity, no fair contract in return, then I'd be wretched. Yes? I did day labor so I could purchase a dish to contribute to this gathering, and attend it. I'm participating in their community, as I can, without betraying my own beliefs in the process. You can't ask more of me than that.'

(Untested isn't how Edgar would describe himself -- and yet, in comparison to John? In some ways, maybe.)

"Not a privilege," he repeats with approval, and that light in his face is sharper now, harder, with years of anger underlying it. "Fuckin right."

"I'm not asking more. Just for some flexibility, and for once in my life my experience with growing up poor as hell is helpful here." Erin's expression goes almost nostalgic. "...Growing up we had these neighbors for awhile, the Robinsons. Down on their luck. Mom used to go over every now and again, right, and the thing is we'd have 'em over for dinner or give them leftovers from Dad's job at the diner, and Mom would go over and ask to borrow something little. Some sugar, cleaning supplies, stuff we had but wasn't expensive. When I was a kid, confused the hell out of me, but after I became Lost I saw it for what it was. Taking charity from us would have shamed the Robinsons, but Mom made them feel like they were paying back what was owing. She gave them their dignity. What I'm getting at, or trying to, is there's ways to navigate this, yeah? Fair trade, wearing a different hat."

John feels like he can't breathe for a second, because she sounds so fucking much like Co in that instant it hurts--the way the lack of human contact used to hurt before he learned to live with it, the way the nightmares used to hurt before he accepted they would never go away.

I shall accept the consequences of mine actions.

Rambo! You not expendable!

"Some battles don't end." he replies, shaking his head. "Some soldiers don't get to rest."

Warriors are something else--guys like Barry, Westmore, Danforth. Men with honor, men with something to live for, men who had a future when the fighting was done.

Warriors are people. Soldier...it's just another word for anything you can find locked up in an armory.

"And friends are just the bodies they leave in their wake."

Now she's confused. Possibly as confused as the child Erin had been, albeit for different reasons.

'You're almost talking about generosity and goodwill in contract,' Tayrey posits. 'If someone offered me a full meal in trade for a bit of sugar, I'd be offended. Because I'm not needy and the imbalance is obvious. If I were truly needy, that sort of arrangement is a way to give charity without having to say it, and I'd be grateful my benefactor did it that way.'

She shakes her head. 'I'm not sure which side of the equation you're trying to put me on, but I'm not needy. I'm not going to play poor little refugee happy to get a culturally inappropriate gift because it makes some local feel better about their situation, having some worse off stranger to care for.. I'll work flat out to pay my way. At anything.' Tayrey speaks with a fierce sense of pride, but there's no anger in the words, just determination. As if she needs to prove herself.

"Heh. Lieutenant, you've got it backwards. If I know you even a tenth of how well I think you do, you're gonna be the one well off soon enough, and people doing worse than you will be bringing gifts so they don't feel indebted." Erin looks up, flashing a smile. "You're about to learn real fast how many people on that fucking nightmare ship never had a real job. Think it over while you meet people. And do spare a thought for the fate of your inevitable business empire once you cash out and go back home, yeah?"

Mingle - Emergency Potluck

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Hrmmm...wrap?

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CW ethics of suicide

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