Mingle - Emergency Potluck

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WELCOME POTLUCK

Greetings, residents! Those more observant sorts among you may have noticed a large influx of very crowded ferries. In order to welcome our new residents en masse, Town Hall is holding a potluck in Town Square. Please bring a dish if you are able and make a new friend!

All of our newest arrivals need only bring themselves. We look forward to welcoming you all into our community, and may your lanterns always be lit.

This event is open to all! In light of our new influx of prospective players following the Great Sail Migration, we've decided to offer a small public event to tide everyone over until the TDM this weekend.

Comments

John Rambo - CW: very mild disordered eating habits/phobias

[theydrewfirstblood]

John is still…having a bit of a rough time adjusting to being back. Work helps, the whole Merrymeet thing—well it wasn’t bad, but he never meant to even go.

This is no exception, he learns about the potluck but he’s planning to visit Co at the farm and head home after work.

…but the thing is, it’s a bad day. It’s a really bad day, and he’s self aware enough to know that going home to sit alone in his place is a bad fucking idea.

So he just…hovers. He wanders around, can’t bring himself to eat anything despite the smells in the air (good, all good, good enough he reminds himself about two dozen times about the leftover stew back at his place when he’s done failing at being social), and takes note of the new faces. He sees a couple he knows, a few that are familiar…

But after three years and a lot more bullshit to contend with, he can’t quite trust his memory enough to approach anyone.

Spot the commando ghost on the fringes? Go. Talk to him. This sack is sad and needs friends.

[notinflictthem]

In ordinary circumstances, Hawkeye would clap an arm around Rambo's shoulders. But this is John Jay and not anyone else and Hawkeye likes his arm in one piece, thank you.

"Got a perimeter going in case we get any ants trying to steal our picnic?" Hawkeye asks instead, sidling up next to him. He has a full plate of food, and to someone who saw him prior to winter... He looks bad. Too gaunt, even with how little body weight he's carrying to begin with.

[theydrewfirstblood]

John looks to the voice, a momentary breakdown in his perception after three years and another run into hell…

“…Hawkeye.” He breathes the name with a shaky smile full of warmth and relief, clapping him gently on the shoulder. “Hawk—hey. Christ, doc, you look like I feel.”

And oddly, John looks better himself unless you know where to look. He’s bigger, broader, but the muscle is almost all there is, lean and hard. His demeanor is far more tranquil, but there’s a hole behind his eyes—something missing—and a fresh line of scar tissue cutting from the top outside of one orbital socket to just below his cheekbone, framing his eye.

“What’s going on, man?”

[notinflictthem]

"Oh, y'know, stuffing my face and wondering when the hell you got that thing-" he gestures to Rambo's new scar.

"Because I didn't stitch it up, and if you've cheated on me then I'm taking the kids."

...

"I'm fine. Just been a lean winter. I grew up in the Depression, this is nothing."

[theydrewfirstblood]

It's distant, but John remembers--and absently counts himself grateful that the lean period is over.

"I left for a minute." he replies, letting the joke pass with uncharacteristic lack of even deadpan repartee. "Couple days passed, here, three years on my end. Did some time, then got talked into going back with the promise of a pardon. I was captured...this happened during, uh, 'questioning.'"

Bunnytime.

[maskedstarbunny]

Ryja doesn't approach at first. She finishes her own meal, in fact, before the tilt of an ear says she should be over there in just a little bit. Smile, friendly, not seductive. He's not the first warrior she's met who could use some friendship so badly her talent decided to inform her.

And somehow, she hasn't actually met him, yet. Perhaps it simply wasn't in the stars, until now. So she approaches, quiet and friendly before speaking. "If I remember right, it is John?" The bad day is obvious to her, omens or not.

[theydrewfirstblood]

John's leaning against a lamp post when the woman...with big bunny ears...approaches him. He blinks a little at the sight, but remains otherwise unfazed.

After all, one of his friends is a walking, talking bird of prey.

So he just smiles slightly and nods, offering her his hand. "Yeah...John Rambo. Sorry, have we met? You look familiar, but I was away for 'bout three years on my end, a lot of it kinda got hazy after a while."

[maskedstarbunny]

"We did not quite have the chance. And here and now, you have a look in your eyes." The concern in her voice is genuine, strong, and undemanding. "One I recognize. So I am here to invite you to talk about anything you want. Anything under the stars, or perhaps even the stars themselves?" Astrologians bring good news and bad news, and what kind of Healer would she be if she didn't help with the fallout?

[theydrewfirstblood]

John's smile fades at that, something in his chest sinking a little at being...seen. It's something he wanted for so long, to be seen and acknowledged and understood--to find help.

He knows better now, though. There's no help, and to invite that--invite anyone to get too close...it's just going to get them killed.

...he wishes he could be blind to the rest of it. That rejecting her the way he wants to would be unkind in its own way. He just doesn't know where the middle ground is: to not let go of that last shred of something that belongs to him without letting other people get hurt.

Maybe he should just give it up. Just let it go.

John's gaze drops, and he hates himself for the selfish way he clings tighter to that scrap of personhood he has left.

"...I shouldn't." he admits softly. "People get hurt when I do. When I let them get too--invested."

[skeletonkeay]

There is a man who is also on the fringes. Normally far more integrated at this point, the influx of new has made him rather dodgy, and he leans against a building smoking and sizing everyone up.

When his eyes fall on John for a moment, his stare is... strange. It doesn't seem threatening, per se, and there's nothing on his face that speaks to hostility, buy his eyes seem to bore into their target, seeing too much.

Eventually, he comes over, and without ceremony he begins speaking at length. It sounds like a quote, memorized and mechanical in its recitation.

"On the subject of savagery, I have myself seen the long-term effects upon the psyche of witnessing the violence men may inflict upon one another. A dulling of the senses is merely the first step, though one that few progress beyond. In more acute cases, there comes a strange mania, a fascination with the mechanisms of this violence, the tactility of injury and the sensations that accompany it. The smell of blood especially appears to incite in a certain sort of mind, numbed by the horrors of war, the urge to commit unspeakable violence. I saw it once in the eyes of a young medic near Merey, a thing so grotesque that I have some sympathy with those who decided to crash, rather than risk his rampage. But even that pales to insignificance compared to what I saw in the infirmary at Amritsar. Two dozen Ghurkhas tearing each other to pieces, consumed by the terrible butchery they had inflicted. Such things are not to be dwelt on, but serve to illustrate my proposition that violence, inflicted, received or even just witnessed, can not only deal injury to the body or the mind, but to the soul itself."

He pauses, searching now for his own words, before speaking softly. "Don't let the blood sing to you. Stick close to your people. You still have a choice not to serve the Slaughter."

[theydrewfirstblood]

John recognizes the young man walking over to him--he's been back to keeping his head down, before coming back, but the whole seminar he ran that day stayed with John.

Before he can greet Gerry, the guy starts--spouting something. And every word sinks into John's skin in a way that's...frightening in its raw truth.

It makes him think of 'Nam, the first time and this time--but the mania, the numbness, the fascination?

"Ol' Hairy here's a soldier."

Galt's voice in his head makes him shudder with the memory of that soft, warm drawl playing at friendship, the chill and the sting of the firehose dousing him head to foot.

The remembered sound of gunfire, of Co's body in his arms as the last of her life drained away...

There's nothing peaceful about the serenity in John's even expression as he meets Gerry's eyes.

"My people are the price I pay for turning my back on it." he replies quietly, shaking his head. "People get choices, weapons don't."

[skeletonkeay]

Gerry just continues staring at him for a minute, then, bluntly: "That's stupid."

[theydrewfirstblood]

John can't help it: he laughs at that. Short, soft, and bright.

"Yeah, well--war's not just hell. War is stupid." John replies with a shrug.

[withoutpride]

John isn't the only skittish wallflower here, and there's something in how this one moves that suggests martial arts training. But his face, his face is haunted.

Still, seeing a potential kindred spirit, Jarrod drifts over. Stands nearby. And doesn't say anything yet.

[theydrewfirstblood]

John is propping up a wall when he senses movement, then spots the the young man finding a place of his own, just barely in John's periphery, still and silent.

He lets it happen. The kid moves like a fighter, but not quite like a soldier--not like John's kind of soldier anyway. After a few moments he turns his head just enough to get a better look...

That expression he wears makes John ache inside--raw and bleeding. He's a fucking kid.

Pushing off the wall, John moves into the kid's line of sight, catches his eye, and jerks his head for the kid to follow him--specifically, over to the tables where there's food.

The best place to start with any kind of wounded animal, especially the human kind, is with a full stomach.

[withoutpride]

Slowly, skittishly, Jarrod moves to follow. He maintains distance, though. Less out of a fear of attack, more like he's sure he isn't welcome. Why would he be?

Why would any place welcome him after what he has done? What he has been?

[astrogator]

New arrival Tayrey also sees some familiar faces, but with a noted exception or two, they're the people she is doing her best to avoid. The young lieutenant has lived an absolute nightmare for well over a standard year and was roundly condemned for her desperate efforts to escape. She's wary. Mistrustful. Only willing to extend the benefit of the doubt to total strangers.

Like this man here. She's drawn to him, on the outskirts of the gathering, because there's something in the way he looks that seems to mirror how she feels. Tayrey approaches deliberately, stepping into his line of sight at a distance, no surprises. She's a young woman, on the shorter side, ill-fitting plain clothes and stiff military posture.

'There are a lot of people here,' she remarks - which is about as insightful as commenting on the hum of a starship engine, or the local climate adjustments, but... small talk. It's an opening.

[theydrewfirstblood]

"Good eggs, the lot of 'em." John replies, equally terse but with warmth in his deep, quiet voice. Definitely a soldier, this one--or maybe JROTC? She looks so young, but some women just have good genes like that. Regardless of her age, she's got an air about her he knows all too well.

Military, disconnected, and paranoid--but it's a healthy dose.

"You're gonna be okay here." he muses aloud, then takes a few steps forward to offer her his hand. "Captain John Rambo, United States Army. Special Forces."

[astrogator]

There's something reassuring in his voice, something that makes her want to believe him, despite everything. Tayrey's not sure what to think when he says captain. There was a time when that alone would have been enough to gain her respect. All courtesies due a foreign holder of that lofty rank. The captain is the ultimate authority aboard a starship, after all.

All the individuals she has met lately who styled themselves that way have been lying, one way or another. Beginning with the captor who ruined her life. So while Captain John Rambo is given the benefit of the doubt (every stranger gets the benefit of the doubt, it's her way) it's not without caution.

She shakes his hand, her grip firm, bringing her free hand to briefly clasp his forearm, Tradeline-fashion.

'Peace and prosperity, Captain' she says quietly. 'Lieutenant Arilanna Tayrey of the Tradelines, second astrogator aboard the TS Prosperity with Captain Kavarai.' None of which she suspects will mean a thing to him, but there's some comfort in it, introducing herself just as she would have back home, one officer to another.

'You're from Earth, then. I know the United States.' A small smile of recognition. 'I hope you're right. That this is a good place to stand.'

[hate_gettin_older]

What Edgar notices first, not quite consciously, is the fact that the man's not eating.

What he first consciously notices is something about the way he's standing, something about the way he holds himself. Not Tail, not exactly -- more muscle on his frame than anyone in the Tail ever built up, and skin with the quality that he's come to recognize as gets sunlight -- but something close to familiar, some near neighbor of it.

He moves closer gradually, waiting to see if there's any body language that says Go Away.

[theydrewfirstblood]

John is leaning against a lamp post on the fringe of a couple food tables. His arms are crossed, and his posture is military in bearing--but he's otherwise relaxed, arms crossed over his chest more a habit than anything exuding negative.

It soothes the rough edges of that eternal ache in his bones. It makes him feel like he's taking up less space. It means he can more easily reach for a weapon if he needs one, closer proximity--and that knowledge helps him relax.

He's not looking in the direction of the man approaching him--but he's aware. He's quite aware--but the gait he's attuned to is cautious and careful, not deliberate and calculated. He's not trying to be quiet, so he's probably not a threat.

He lets the guy get about three feet away before glancing over--and it's with a small smile that's brighter on his lips than it is in his eyes, but it's still real. It still connects within.

[hate_gettin_older]

And he's known smiles like that before, hasn't he?

"Hey," he says, not very loudly, and offers a small smile of his own.

cw: oblique of unethical military conduct inre: recruits, active personnel and veterans

[amourtician]

Well, John's in luck, because here in attendance at the pot luck is a middle-aged doctor with plenty of experience with ghosts—literal and metaphorical, and absolutely the kind that result when wars end and once bright-eyed young men are honourably discharged into the neglected cul-de-sacs of train stations and crowded homeless shelters, if they're lucky. And even if it had not been for the revolution, Dr Menelikov's had to deal with his fair share of kantonisten.

Which is all to say, he spends about five minutes closely watching John and only then makes his approach, making sure that John can see him coming and can see that he intends to start a conversation.

Behind the doctor trails Lev Morgenshtern, in the precense of his husband now much more content to be a wallflower until something interesting is said. The contrast between their heights is striking, but otherwise, Anzu's overall *mien* is as subtly odd as Lev's.

Lev's third eye is usually hidden by his hair. Anzu's extra six eyes are far more obvious, and though at a distance they could easily be taken for make-up, up close they're *definitely* eye-spots. But though he's tilted his head to look up at John when addressing him, he just barely misses making eye contact. All but the most careful observers often fail to notice the fact he avoids looking people in the eye.

Anzu waves to John, and bows, a little ostentaniously.

"Begging thy pardon, darling," he says, cheerfully. "My *companion*"—he nods towards Lev, who gives a slightly wobbly smile—"has seen fit to mention thee to me, and in light of his, ahh, recommendation, I'd love to make thy acquaintance."

[theydrewfirstblood]

John's not sure what to make of the guy he sees heading in his direction--but hypervigilance has its rewards, and that comes in the way of spotting Lev.

The familiar face immediately relaxes him, insomuch as John relaxes around any unknown quantity. The body language says enough, in the moment, that the tension genuinely eases out of his shoulders as the guy approaches with a look that makes John wonder if he's possibly blind with that just-off way he looks at John.

"Any friend of Lev's is a friend of mine, sweetheart." John replies, his quiet tone pure friendly teasing at the term of address. Unsure if the guy can see, he hesitantly offers his hand.

"Seriously, though, pleasure's mine. John Rambo, good to know ya."

i only have Daniel Boyarin's word for the handshake thing being a Thing so don't quote me on it

[amourtician]

Anzu's not blind—blindness in old age is a near-guarantee for those from his world, yes, but he's still got a few decades to go 'til it'd be a going concern —and as studiously, carefully observant as he is, his hypervigilance hasn't had a real workout in years now, and he neatly misses any signs that John's puzzled by his lack of eye contact.

But he doesn't miss John's demeanour changing—the subtle relaxation, the easing of his expression—and he doesn't miss the implications either. He's seen enough veterans. Sometimes in the mirror, on evenings he's feeling charitable about his own experiences in the Revolution, and though he'd never point it out outright, often enough he's seen his own husband wince or freeze much like any of the Red Guards.

He smiles at John, and then there is but the merest hesitation, as conflicting impulses vie within him; what he expects would be expected, in a place such as this, is a firm handshake, an assertion of a something-or-other he wouldn't have had even if he'd not been a cultivar. What his upbringing conditioned him to offer is not quite that.

Upbringing wins, this time. He takes off the glove, and proffers his hand in turn—the wrist held limp; he does not hurry to break the handshake, but nor does he attempt to strangle the life out of John's hand, either. The clasp is soft, and after withdrawing his hand, he inclines his head, more comfortable with bowing.

"Charmed, ziskayt," he says. "I'm called Menelikov. Anzu Tamiratovitsh, if it's the local custom to go by paronymics. Nyura, if first names offer no breach of politeness."