ph_logs | (open) and these thoughts are in my head

(open) and these thoughts are in my head

Who: Fever & open
What: Settling into the town in varied ways.
When: Second half of March/early part of April.
Where: Varied locations - see prompts.
Warning(s): Likely intrusive murder thoughts, others to be added should they arise.

work - town hall.
The newest clerk at Town Hall is a woman with a scar on her face and an eagerness to learn the system. Soon enough, she's figured things out, as if she'd been working there for months instead of the short time it really has been. Things flow easily, aided by both the strange item she'd retrieved from that one shop and what seems to be an innate understanding. But then again, if one can negotiate tactics midbattle, a job with paperwork and filing is practically nothing. So, if you need something, she's likely the one to dispense the forms or take them, working through the level of administration that all the new arrivals warranted.

Of course, it's not always business, and at the right time, someone might catch her at break, a novel from the library at hand and a dictionary close by as she needs to look up words. Some concepts and items are as of yet unknown to her, but she believes firmly with a bit of study, it can all be sorted.

training - "fight club."

When she joins the ranks of those sparring, talking her way into a day when the militia and the Enforcers are doing their training, it's really to satisfy her own desires for combat no matter what she tells them. Sure, she can go out in search of monsters, but that requires a companion and planning. This is more freeform, and fighting against someone else here lets her look at their capabilities. No magic to start with - best to be fair to all involved - and instead, Fever relies on a sturdier branch. Peter's not done with the staff yet, so this is the closest she can get. She fights with a clear joy in her movements, happy to test herself against anyone until either her opponent yields or someone outside calls the match.

That said, there are moments of downtime, where one has to catch their breath and drink water, where she's just leaning against the side observing or lightly applauding at the end of one spar. Catching a fighter's eye, they're offered an amused but restrained smile, and win, lose, or neither, it's clear something impressed her.

They're still never getting her to sign up with the Enforcers, though.

festival green - picnic.

Though she shies from the doll making, Fever can't deny the appeal of being able to picnic on the green, and waits until the event is over and dealt with before she takes her inspiration and heads outdoors. It's not perhaps the most ideal weather for it - clouds, the wind - but it's not so bad as to keep her from it. So here she is, with a simple lunch that's been ferried over and a blanket to sit on, trying to think about if she's ever done this before. Had reason to, really. But a passerby will interrupt her thoughts, and she'll raise her hand to get their attention.

"Does it seem like rain to you?"

Of course, there's enough room on the blanket for two, if you're feeling particularly sociable or are eyeing a free snack. Or, it can start to do as much as lightly rain, and she's not budging from where she is, considering it still fine weather.

wildcard.

Different idea? Throw it at me, I'm wide open for other scenarios. Will match the format of any tag-ins. Opt out post.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

And César has no idea how close he's sitting to a potential fatality. Or how his words have set off an internal struggle within Fever. He is looking down at his water, focusing in the middle distance.

"That's the million brass question, isn't it?" César replies quietly. "It's one I'm not qualified to answer; I don't know enough about rehabilitation or the science of the mind to give you a satisfactory answer. But what I do know is that too many countries forget to remember they have a duty to care for those in custody. They just punish and strip them of all dignity, not preparing them for life outside. Ignoring how they've usually lost their jobs, their homes, and likely most of their possessions. Some places even release you in the middle of the night with nothing more than your old clothes on your back and whatever possessions you had on you."

Something rattles around in her head, finds purchase and jogs a memory loose enough to reply, after a moment.

"...I think if you told that to the law where I come from, they'd look at you like you were currently growing a second head. A stone cell is the favorable alternative to the gallows."

All were equalized, in death, nobles and commonfolk alike. At least in a cell you had your life.

"And you'd get quite a few people asking why prisoners should live in comfort while they struggle day in and day out as honest, hardworking sorts. Caring for them is likely the last thing on their mind, if they aren't calling for their blood."

"That's the biggest argument against any sort of reform. 'Why should criminals be comfortable while I suffer?'" César takes a drink and sloshes the water gently with his wrist movements, considering. "It's the wrong argument, perpetuated by the people made rich by letting it all continue. Norway supports everyone, thus eliminating that argument altogether."

He thinks for a moment. "Pumpkin Hollow is a unique scenario given we're trapped and can't die, but its solutions aren't. Everyone's fed and housed with access to healthcare. We help each other and treat everyone with respect; we weathered the famine together. Most people will rise up to the challenge if given a supportive community, even people considered irredeemable back on their worlds. And the town hasn't burned down, has it? Even if it's partially because only certain types of people would agree to Mortanne's bargain."

... Even Dabi's taking care of the chicks, as much as people might think that's lazying about. But he's thinking more about how Magne's flourishing here than about the studies he read during the early days of the Nanite Project. Her smiles are so bright now. Their stresses here are easily eased with loving touches and words.

"I have a chance here," Magne laughed incredulously, finally moving back enough to not keep him pinned against the wall, the feeling of their first kisses, desperate, still fresh on his lips.

Will this man ever stop thinking about his girlfriend constantly? Probably not. Sorry not sorry.

Irredeemable.

The word sticks in her throat from where he says it, a thin needle that pierces the windpipe, dividing the flow. That's the only way she can reason why it feels a little funny to inhale, exhale. Breathe around it. Later, she can extract it from where it's buried in her flesh.
Better to die than live on an earth walked by you. Each of your deaths is a mercy.
Carefully, she breaks a piece of bread off of the main part - it's a simple picnic - and offers it out to him if he's hungry. It gives her hands something to do. Gives her a place to put her eyes.
if you knew if any of them knew but even they don't know everything
"Then it invokes more and more questions, doesn't it, with the way this place is. On the nature of what is and isn't 'redeemable'. In part because you can't just declare capital punishment."
the dead world the dreams of the dead world
A beat.
kill him i can't kill him it's the only thing you know how to do
"And how much of their own actions someone is willing to carry as their own."

César doesn't speak immediately again. Fever's chewing on them, and she needs to finish the bite first, or else she might choke. He takes the piece of bread with a quiet thank you and takes a bite. A nod. It's good. He swallows his bite.

"They're questions that need be asked, and questions I don't have the answer to off-hand." He looks at his bread, because he, too, needs a break from eyes. "But they're questions whose answers span a lifetime. It's one of the reasons I don't agree with capital punishment unless absolutely necessary. The answers can't be found if you're dead."

He looks up at a bird when he hears it start to sing. "And the very nature of the questions change when you can't stay dead and everyone lives in the same town. Things get awkward when the neighbor you murdered slaps you in the face and calls you an asshole the next day."

Edited (reworded to be less awkward) 2024-04-10 04:22 (UTC)

She laughs in response, but it's more of an exhale, something without real humor in it.

"Makes it easy for them to demand what in the hells you were even thinking with all that."

But none of it answers the questions at hand, the ones that sit in her chest like miniature lumps of metal and perhaps always will. The ones that ask where the line is drawn, where -

It isn't forgiveness, isn't being excused, isn't atonement. Isn't being saved, isn't clearing any debts, isn't being absolved. Perhaps it's where the cost is too high, where one looks at one's eyes and cannot see a face without all that is behind it. When what was done can never be divorced from a name.

She wishes it was hours later, and the downpour was already coming towards them. An excuse to back away from whatever wants to stir in unsettled fashion low, low in her blood, wanting to thrash away from uncomfortable situations. She'll stand in the rain about it later, and let the feeling of the water hitting her skin wash it out of her.

César can see the stress rising, even if she's doing her best to hide it. She had to avoid his gaze for a bit, there. And he had to avoid her gaze, too. Because part of him always wonders if he deserves forgiveness for things he's had to do. ... and yet, he knows that is altogether different than some of the things others have committed.

Fever's brain is clearly latching onto those thoughts.

"Which has definitely happened, let me assure you." Magne had confronted Vika, both died as a result of the escalations, and then they kept right on arguing until it became a proper conversation; and then they had blizzards. "... is it time for a change of subject?"

"...only if you no longer wish to speak about it."

It's a hard conversation. It is. But she's used to pushing herself through worse - and if she keeps backing away, it may never come up again. She can survive this.

"I'm fine continuing. It just looked like I had given you a particularly large chunk of brain bread to chew on." César makes a face, huffing a laugh. "... okay, that came out wrong."

"Brain bread..."

And now, she starts laughing, breaking the tension with honest amusement, looking at him and shaking her head a little.

"Now I'm just picturing small breads shaped like brains."

César giggles a little. "Brain shaped cakes would mold better. Brain cupcakes. A good glaze would not only make it wet-looking but fill the crevices in a way to make it look absolutely vile. Maybe you can even make little cake pops and put them on sticks."

What the fuck is this conversation, suddenly.

"The answer to 'what's on your mind' becomes 'a very thin icing' if one isn't specific."

Sometimes you simply take a left turn into very strange talks.

"That makes more sense than my idea of tiny meat pies."

César starts giggling harder. "... you could always inject them with a meat filling afterwards? or carve out the middle and put the tops back on after?"

"Oh, that'd be such an odd surprise for anyone bold enough to take a bite. The textures alone..."

And yet, the novelty for one day would be fun.

"They actually make filled bread in general. Magne's probably got some recipes. ... I wonder if a bread would hold a mold. I—wait! Concha!" César laughs. "A sweet bread from home. It would work. But I lack a mold for the top."

"How much do you think the blacksmith would charge if I walked into her forge and asked her to make a little brain bread mold?"

It'd be worth it to look at the perplexed look on her face.

César laughs at the idea. "No idea, but I'd love to see River's face. Maybe a deep cookie cutter, too, because that's what's needed to cut the shell."

"We should ask her anyway. If nothing else, she'll laugh, and best case scenario is that she can make it." A pause. "Though when it comes to the cooking in this whole imaginary plan, I have to warn you, the best I can do is what I'm told. Recipes and actual skill, that's all you."

"Or wonder why she puts up with us. A win either way." César smiles warmly. "Don't worry, I know how it works. Including what they don't tell you on recipes."

"Hang on, I've been doing my best to follow a recipe, and now you're telling me there's secrets they aren't disclosing?"

At this point, she's just going to eat the ingredients as is next dinner.

"Things like 'debone the chicken' are missing all the steps to do that, aren't they? Or telling you to bloom the yeast but not how. Or kneading the dough" César shrugs in amusement. "Recipes assume you know how to do certain things already."

"Which you don't always know. But they can't tell you how to do it in every recipe, or it'd be too long and unwieldy to handle."

But still. Things like that, where she doesn't know what to do, it's often that she'll look for something simpler. Whatever her past self did or didn't do, culinary genius wasn't in the list of deeds.

"Are you just used to cooking?"

"Exactly."

César smiles softly. "Yes. I learned when I was sixteen and my mother was pregnant with my baby brother. We split house chores between the three of us, although they made me put school first."

There's a look of interest, but also a tiny bit of wonder.

"I didn't know you had a sibling."

She's pretty sure even without remembering that she didn't have one - not in the traditional sense, at the least.

"It's partially his fault that I ended up kinder. You have to have patience with little kids. And then you start to learn to give patience to other people. Which is good, because his name is partially my fault."

cw: discussions of incarceration and unjust systems

yeah that's continuing

oops suddenly poltiical systems, too

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