ph_logs | Work Friends Are Like Prison Friends [October

Work Friends Are Like Prison Friends [October | Closed to the Ocularum]

Who: Agent Jean & Members of the Ocularum They Don't Know Well Yet

What: Post-Gala Follow-ups & Allaying Concerns

When: Early October

Where: YOU pick

Warning(s): Honestly hard to list but, y'know, Jean Things. Violence, corporate exploitation, discussions of brutality, depression & self-loathing, absolutely bonkers capitalist bullshit

Those members of the Ocularum who have recently joined, or whom Jean does not yet know well, find handwritten letters delivered to them. The writing itself is neat and professional, though at some difficulty; the thick paper bears the marks of scouring sand for the ink, indentations where spelling mistakes or sloppy handwriting from picking up speed has been destroyed and replaced with something the author deems more suitable. Still.

Esteemed Peer, You may recognize me from the recent meeting. I must apologize for not being at my best during that time; I offer no excuses. However, given the state of recent events, and especially rising tensions in Pumpkin Hollow, I am moved to correct my previous state of negligence. It would be my privilege, if you are amenable, to meet and discuss at a time or place of your choosing and explain whatever happenings at the Gala you deem in need of explanation, and answer questions you may have as to my intentions, qualifications, and background. Food and drink can be provided; time of day or inconvenience of locale are no object. Please send your reply via letter, telephone, or sending stone to: Agent Jean of Hyrule (pending), Pumpkin Hollow Recovery Task Force

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

|"You have successfully reached Agent Jean, Commander! At your service! How can I be of assistance?"|

"Well, you wanted to schedule a meeting, right? Figure we can do that now?"

|"Absolutely! If you have no location of preference my home is available."|

Jean's player absolutely does not remember the address right now but Jean sure does, and provides it; a beautiful seaside cottage shared with Zelda and Link.

"Works for me." He writes down the address in his handy little notebook.

"If now works for you then I'll be right over."

|"Please, feel welcome!"|

Unless Crichton has learned to teleport lately, there is coffee and cookies by the time he arrives. The cookies are decidedly mid, the product of a hesitant amateur baker attempting to follow a recipe (religiously, it should be said) but without the technique needed to really make them shine. However, the coffee, done in the Turkish style, is itself quite sweet, and should rescue the cookies just fine.

These treats can be found in the sitting room; not far from it is the little wall desk that is Jean's study and work area. The walls and window around it are completely coated in drawings that have been gently tacked onto the walls, depicting dozens and dozens of subjects. Fragments of the town, portraits of people - candid and otherwise - sketches of beasts, post-facto blueprints, detailed diagrams of plants, animals, and monsters, and more besides. The window stands out, for it is there that drawings of Parade Day rest, gently colored in droplets of now quite-rusty blood.

"Welcome! Welcome to my home Comrade, please feel free to help yourself..."

Give him time and he might pick up the skill from Imbros, but for now he's stuck to walking. The cookies and coffee are a pleasant surprise. (And after the varying quality of cuisine he's had over the last five years, they taste just fine to him.) He happily accepts the snacks and nibbles them idly while he inspects some of those drawings. Wow, these are... incredibly detailed. And a little creepy. Is that blood?

"Thanks. I appreciate you feeding me. I've definitely got some questions, but I'm a little lost on where to start. Maybe we better begin with introductions?"

"Certainly!" Jean gives their odd little salute; a half-bow with one arm over their chest. "Agent Jean, to be of Hyrule pending the success of our project. You may have seen the signs for the local levy!"

"Oh, you're the guy organizing that?" He has, indeed, seen the signs. "Good to put a face to the name."

Following Jean's lead, he gives a somewhat professional salute, "I'm Commander John Crichton, astronaut, formerly from Earth, then Whitestone." And no clue where he's bound to end up next, hopefully Whitestone again. "But, before we get too far, the title isn't military, it's civilian. I was the mission commander for my experimental space flight. A science officer, but that doesn't mean I can't fight."

"I sincerely hope that my need for clarification comes across as bizarre, comrade - when you say civilian, do you mean that your home has a non-corporate governance, and further that control of the military is not corporatized?"

Welcome to Jean, Mr. Crichton. Welcome to Jean.

...Also.

"Oh! And if I might be so bold what should I understand your gender to be?"

Welcome back to Jean, immediately.

Crichton's expression tightens tellingly. With all his heart, he wishes that he didn't know what such a question implies about Jean's former world. He also wishes the answer to that question wasn't so... messy.

"Formally? Yes. My country has a government that's set up independently from, uh... the corporate world." In theory. "It's a little trickier for me. My job was subsidized by government funding. Not just my government, either. It was an international cooperative organization."

By comparison, at least that second question is something Crichton is far more prepared to answer.

"I'm a man. So uh... what should I understand yours to be?"

"More than one nation...wow..." Jean shakes off this objectively concerning statement and beams a sunny smile. "I believe my current answer is that my gender is Agent! It's the best way I've been able to explain, but they/them works. Sometimes people here view me as having a male aspect, which is a bit confusing but everything about the local gender norms is confusing to me! I'm still getting used to the idea that people in dresses aren't necessarily combatants!"

Oh. It gets worse and worse. When did a world or planet having more than one nation become such an oddity? And he thought there was nothing left that could surprise him.

"I think I get what you're saying. Okay. Mostly. What do you mean people in dresses aren't combatants? Do people fight in dresses where you're from?"

"Before I came here I never saw someone in a dress who didn't immediately kill ten or more people."

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Tries again. Still nothing. Congratulations, it takes a lot to make Crichton speechless.

Finally, "Are... all women in your world homicidal or just the ones in dresses?"

Jean peers, as if trying to figure out if Crichton is serious. He seems to be, but it still makes no sense, so, haltingly, they ask: "Why...would only women...wear dresses?"

You know, the way his mouth keeps flapping open and closed, he's starting to look like a fish out of water here.

"Okay, you know what? That's on me. That's on me..."

Another pause while he pulls his derailed train of thought back onto the rails.

"I think the bigger question I should be asking is why are you seeing so many people getting killed by anyone??"

"Ah. Right, civilian science...your home has peace, at least sometimes..."

Vaguely, almost as if dazed, Jean wanders towards that window, with the sketches of Parade Day. Their eyes close softly.

"...When you are born poor, you kill your neighbor to get rent money, or the monsters eat you at night. If you get a respectable career, you can kill strangers instead, maybe have a family, maybe have a marriage. If you move into a Nest, work for a corporation, people like me do your killing for you, and you pretend your hands are clean. The law does care, Commander. It cares to ensure that each death is up close, personal, and in agony. Firearms regulations mean one bullet costs more than a home, but not one line of one law would have ever punished my death."

"That's why."

Any last traces of mirth evaporate from Crichton's expression. He looks at Jean with a hollow haunted knowing that says better than words ever could how much he understands what he's being told. It chills him to the core of his being, and at the same time, it fills him with boiling rage that makes him want to scream. How many lives have to go through a blender before such horrors stop?

"You never knew a day of peace in your life, did you?"

Slowly, Jean shakes their head; they wipe at one eye with the back of their hand, a careful gesture; have your wide travels in the universe suggested to you, Crichton, that the way they bend their fingers towards their palm might be to keep claws away from their face.

A shaky breath.

Two.

"...In any event, those were the circumstances that made me...useful, in terminating the hostile Manager. I am given to understand that my intended new home in Hyrule will require similar, for a short while. The situation there is much more friendly to hard power. I am, hahaha, I am...I feel a bit lost with these investigations."

He almost doesn't want to keep watching. It feels awful to see Jean wiping at their eyes and not have anything to say, or any way to make it better. Especially when he can extrapolate so much from such a small gesture. But, if Jean is much like Aeryn used to be, Crichton worries that drawing more attention to it would only sting more.

"We don't always get a choice about what makes us who we are. But here, at least, we can choose how we want to use what we've got. No sense letting it go to waste, right? I can help you. Can't promise I'll be any better with investigations than you are, but the saying goes that two heads are better than one."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Work Friends Are Like Prison Friends [October | Closed to the Ocularum]

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By tradition I declare: damn OCs and their one-liners

lol

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