DEAD SERIOUS

Gerry's just standing at his desk, cranking a book-binding press tight. He looks up when the bell on the door jingles.

"Hey! Fire guy! Welcome back. Shop's not even on fire this time," he jokes. "What can I do for you?"

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graveling

"I was looking to, um. Buy a journal. Or a notebook. Something nice. As a...a present?" He's not sure how he feels about being called 'fire guy', ducking his head a little, glancing around the shop instead of at Gerry. Because being known for that, specifically, feels weird.

Especially now that he's only on the fire brigade on a volunteer basis.

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In fairness to Gerry, he didn't actually get a chance to learn anything else about Angel except that he can do the fire thing.

"Yeah, sure. I've got a stock of 'em on those shelves by the window if you want a premade one, or we can talk shop if you have an idea for a custom."

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graveling

"Maybe a custom. It's an offering to a goddess, that seems like something you get special. Right?"

Not that Mr. Touched By The Eye is going to have feelings, hearing that, right?

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If he has them, he doesn't voice them, content to simply raise a brow and then decide it's not really any of his business. This guy literally bleeds Terminus into the air like ink in water. Even Oliver Banks would be impressed. So if Angel made a connection to (ostensibly) Mortanne, there'd be no sense in being surprised.

"People who are invested in that sort of thing tend to go the whole nine, yeah. So, if you want a leather cover, I can engrave or emboss nearly anything into the front, as well as press in stones or metal embellishments. I can also do both lined and unlined paper."

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graveling

“Yes. Black leather cover, definitely. And her symbols. Perhaps a horse drawing a carriage through snow? Or if that’s too intricate, just a really nice horse.”

Angel flashes a smile. “I plan to leave it in the temple. For people to write to her in. Especially those of us here who don’t know how to pray in the local manner. I think…she’ll like being called on. In this way. The other goddesses might too, but her especially.”

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Losing control of his amassed notes isn't a problem when he can put it all onto a single device, but here, that isn't an option. He'd heard about Pinhole Printing in passing while working on preparations for work at the clinic, and now he's waiting politely at the front of the store, looking around with open curiosity as he holds his notebook and myriad hand-penned pages that, at least for the moment, are loose under the cover as he uses the book as something of a folder to keep it all from escaping him again.

If there is a bell, it will be tentatively 'ding'ed.

Edited Date: 2023-11-26 07:56 pm (UTC)

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There is, indeed, a bell, but it's on the door. Otherwise Gerry wouldn't be able to hear people come in over the printing press when it's running. So when it jingles, he looks up quickly.

"H'llo." Gerry gives a short nod. "Need anything in particular or are you just browsing today?"

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"Actually, I have something of an odd request," Bart replies a touch bashfully. "I'd heard that you do book binding here, and wanted to know if you might be able to teach me. It's just, this isn't the most stable way to keep my work." He lifts the book crammed with notes for Gerry to see. "I can pay you for your time of course."

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Gerry's brows raise. No, that certainly wasn't the most efficient way to keep notes.

"I wouldn't mind, but book binding requires a gaggle of expensive equipment. For me, it came with the job, but for you I don't imagine that'd be the case. I'd be happy to bind all that for you, if you like. Might be simpler."

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Bart's expression falls some. "Oh dear...that was what I was afraid of. I have a bit of cash but certainly not enough to buy a lot of expensive equipment. If you wouldn't mind, I would greatly appreciate your help with this."

He moves forward to place the book down on the counter for Gerry to have a better look at, trying to straighten out the loose pages a bit better. "Everything is at least in its proper order, including an index mostly for my own reference." He really doubts that anyone else is as interested in the contents of his notes as he is, after all.

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"Yeah, I gotcha covered. Maybe at some point I can teach you to use this stuff and you can borrow it when I'm closed. I don't work on Tuesdays." Because fuck Tuesday, honestly. Gerry straightens up the papers. "You want me to trim 'em so they're uniform or no? Shouldn't be any text coming off unless you wrote real close to the edges."

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Bart does brighten up at the offer to teach him when the timing is better. He nods, then looks back to the notebook and its ill-fitting pages here and there.

"If you can without damaging any of the writing, then I don't see why not. It would be nice to have a uniform volume. Oh, I should ask how much you charge for this sort of service-" he pauses to fish about his person, to find his personal allotment of brass that he only tends to keep part of on him while out.

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Gerry notices the pause and waves a hand. "It's cool, we can worry 'bout that later. You got a specific design you're after?"

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Bart straightens back up, obviously taken aback by the offer. He smiles brightly, nodding in his thanks for the consideration.

"I think simple would be best. Depending on the cover you might opt for, simple moldings, perhaps a stamp bearing my name so that if I somehow misplace it someone would know who it belongs to? I don't know if there's an appropriate method for adding pages between the existing ones later unfortunately, and I would hate to inadvertently damage it after the fact, so once they're bound I'll likely need to start another volume..."

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"Nah, there's a lot of glue and sewing involved. I'll add some blanks in at the end to tide you over while I make the next one," Gerry assures him. "What's your name, then?"

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"Blanks seem like the best course of action," he agrees, satisfied with that idea. "Bart Torgal. I've been assuming that you would happen to be Gerard Keay?" He'd been pointed here when he'd asked around for help getting his notes bound and heard Gerry mentioned by name, after all.

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To make a budget, one must know how much one wishes to spend. Tarantulas's memory is good, but even Cybertronians know better than to rely solely on their own minds for sensitive data, and he does not wish to overextend his trust towards his new, mostly-organic brain. So, the print shop: he's here to window shop, and price-check the blank journals. One hopes they are of a decent quality.

Tarantulas himself is wearing his humanoid body, extra legs tucked decently under his coat. No covering up his six extra eyes, though; they survey the showroom calmly, as he decides where to start looking first.

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The bell attached to Gerry's door jingles loudly, and he looks up from where he was working. He has a book tightly clamped in a wooden apparatus and is running an odd-looking blade over the top. There are shreds of paper littering his work station in little white coiling ribbons.

The minute he lays eyes on Tarantulas, though, he can see exactly what's up. Not only does the spider body fail to escape his notice, he can see the marks all over this guy. Ironically the most prominent among them is the Spiral.

Oh hell no. Nope. Absolutely not.

In an act of blatant defiance and incredible rudeness, Gerry shakes his head and goes back to trimming the edges of his book. He wasn't going to turn away a client, but no way in hell was he giving his barely-passable customer service to some wackadoo who was in here spidering up the place.

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Well! That's not very friendly, now is it? It's not as though Tarantulas expected the shopkeeper to follow him around making small talk -- in fact he'd prefer it they stayed quiet and out of the way until he has a question, like the chatbots you'd see attached the digital storefronts on Cybertron's datanet. Ah, he misses online shopping. But to be dismissed so suddenly, before he's said a single word...that's annoying.

Luckily Tarantulas has almost no sense of shame. He merely sniffs disapprovingly and goes about his business, studying the wares on offer until he discovers...a discrepancy.

In his left hand, a blank journal with white pages, bound in leather with the silhouette of a horse worked on the cover. In his right hand, a blank journal with white pages, bound in leather with the silhouette of several birds in flight on the cover. Nearly identical apart from their chosen motif, but the horse-journal costs nearly twice as much. Why?

"Excuse me," he says, not exactly impolitely but very firmly as he approaches the counter. "Can you tell me about these books? Why is one more expensive than the other?" And don't even think about trying to ignore him now, fleshsack.

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Oh, bloody fantastic.

He stifles a sigh. "Sturdier paper. One's made of recycled fabric, the other is standard wood pulp. The fabric paper is stronger. Also harder to come by. Higher quality, scarcer materials, higher price. Make sense?"

To illustrate his point, he passes Tarantulas two sheets of paper. "You can get a better look, if you like. Try tearing them. See the difference."

He still doesn't really want to talk to this Spiral-and-Web-addled nightmare. But he has pride in his work.

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"This is cloth?" Tarantulas accepts the two sheets and studies them carefully. He tears off a tiny corner of each sheet, worries the torn edge with his fingertips, and even smells it, just in case that turns out to be useful data in the future. "Interesting."

He does not have time to become an expert on papermaking, he reminds himself wistfully. At least not right now. He has to budget his time carefully, at least until they've either destroyed or driven off the demons that make life on this island so hazardous.

"But which type is more useful?" he wonders out loud, and refocuses his attention on Gerry. "To be more precise, which type of paper is less liable to smear when written on with pencil or ink? I keep very precise notes, and I don't care to have my research compromised by something so pedestrian as smudging."

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"Generally the cloth." Gerry sets down his tools, giving the conversation his full attention now because fuck it, why not. "To some extent, that depends on the tooth of the paper and the implement you're writing with, but given that cotton fiber absorbs ink better, you'll have the best luck with the cloth-based paper and a good ink pen. Pencil's hit or miss, it tends to smudge no matter what you put it on unless you seal it."

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"'Seal it?'" Tarantulas can't keep the confused look off his face. He hadn't intended to betray the depths of his ignorance when he entered the shop, but...then again, he hadn't realize just how far down that ignorance extended. He sighs and says, "Pretend for a moment I come from an entirely digital culture, and then explain what you mean by that. Please."

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Oh, there's no pretending involved. Gerry doesn't need true sight gifted by the Ceaseless Watcher to pick up on context clues.

"As in with a coat of something protective. Like, uh---" Fuck. This guy won't know what Mod Podge is. Poor, deprived sod. Hair spray? Hard maybe. Paint??? "Like a clear varnish."

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"Ah!" The connection to varnish works -- Tarantulas is still a Cybertronian at spark, after all, and paint and varnish are an important part of the culture. "So the 'varnish' locks the pencil markings into place and stops them from smearing?" He frowns again at the paper. "Won't the varnish eventually cause the organic compounds making up the paper to deteriorate, though? What's the average lifespan for this medium?"

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"There's varnishes specifically for paper, and I honestly am not sure about an average lifespan. It can be destroyed in literally two seconds from tearing or flame, or it can last for centuries if stored safely. So your guess is as good as mine."

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"Hm." A little disappointing, but it's fine. "I'll have to remember to look into that, if I end up staying in this world that long," he says casually -- because he most likely will be. It takes time to invent devices that can pierce the boundaries between parallel universes, all right?

"I'll take both, then. And do you have any of that paper varnish?"

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A stern talking-to from a friend and a slap from the Christmas Devil is enough to finally get Jon's miserable arse in gear.

Yes, he knows, fuck Tuesday, but that's the day he picks, nonetheless. He didn't want to interrupt any business-as-usual or leave a workday tense, and it was partially because he wasn't too keen to wait around any longer.

Here goes nothing?

Knocking on the back-door, he waits patiently, trying to keep his words collected as he waited. And the second Gerry answers, he loses about half those mental notes. Oh well.

"Hello, Gerry. ...Is now a good time to chat?"

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Gerry snorts from behind the partially opened door, trying to keep out the cold. But he opens it further to let Jon in.

"'Bout time you showed up. Well hurry up and get in."

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"I know, I know. Right when we'd spoken last, I was due for a voyage, and only got back in the other day."

He doesn't have to be told twice to shuffle inside, closing the door behind him. The home is cozy, and, admittedly, neater than Jon would've expected. He doesn't remark on that, of course.

"Lovely home you've got here," He remarks in a sad attempt at small-talk, before getting into the actual reason for the visit. "...I'd like to, ah. Start us off here with this overdue talk by... saying that I'm very sorry for the way I acted, during the incident."

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At the apology, Gerry lets out a slow breath. "Before any of that," he interrupts. "I want to know why you bought it."

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Jon hesitates, for only a moment, before he replies.

"...Something about it was off, when I was checking into a rumor that there were tapes in Calloway's shop," He starts, frowning gently. "I couldn't place it, but even at the bare minimum, Calloway being unwilling to sell it to Cecil didn't sit right with me. Even if it didn't have a strange, uncomfortable energy about it, it still felt like... I don't know. Buying a person, in and of itself."

He scratches his neck, glancing away, his frown turning a bit guilty.

"I considered asking him before I did, but couldn't shake the worry that someone else with worse intentions could buy it, being the low price that it was, so I... went ahead and jumped the gun, with a plan to give it to him and ask about it when I could get a hold on some free time. You know how well that played out, of course."

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"You basically did buy a person, Jon. That's why he's so pissed. That's why I didn't wanna tell you what it did."

A hand goes to the bridge of his aquiline nose, and he presses his thumb and index finger firmly to either side.

"I--- In fairness to you, I don't actually know you that well to be able to predict what you might've done with that information. But I know Gertrude Robinson. And I know that if I told her what that thing was, she would want to test it. See how it could be used to further her agenda. And even if her agenda was ultimately to beat the bad guys or whatever, she would've done it at Cecil's expense if she was in your shoes," Gerry explains. "I don't know how much like her you are. I don't know how much of that was Gertrude and how much of it was Archivist, and I don't know what parts of that you got in the change over. I couldn't tell you what that paper could do while it was in your hands. I just had to hope you would take my word for it. A gambit that... didn't pay off."

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For a moment, Jon considers his words, brows lightly furrowed.

"I understand your experience with Gertrude bringing you to that conclusion. For better or worse, though, I am not Gertrude Robinson. I haven't got her-- ruthless, no-nonsense, direct approach to all things she assumed responsibility of. I haven't got enough sense not to fall into half of the traps laid for me, and not terribly much more self-preservation or skill to prevent those things from happening, even if I did."

He glances back Gerry's way from where his attention drifted off to the side, though, and his expression softened.

"Unlike Gertrude, though, I could never justify harm to those around me to further my own personal wishes. Even for the greater good. ...I know she hurt you deeply, and that she set a precedent for Archivists to do much the same, but I hope, with time, I can show you I don't intend to follow that legacy she left. And... I'm sorry. For not taking your word for it. I've no reason to distrust you, but... people wanting seemingly mundane things for incredibly impactful purposes is something I've seen a few too many times, and I let my paranoia get the better of me."

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"...I shouldn't have gotten rough with you," Gerry admits after a moment of processing Jon's explanation. "It's not that I think you're like her, I just--- didn't know one way or the other, and I--- I was scared. I was scared of what could happen to Cecil. I've never had anything so overwhelmingly, beautifully, unstoppably positive in my life as what I have with Cecil and I would do fucking anything to keep him safe. So when I thought he might get hurt, I panicked. And I scared you. M'sorry."

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Jon's quiet for a moment, but gives a nod, frowning gently.

"I understand. ...Getting scared was no excuse for doing what I did, either. I'm sorry. You've had good intentions, as long as I've known you, and I won't let paranoia and panic leave me breaching your free will the way I did. You have my word."

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At that, Gerry lets out a sigh. "I can't really... say how much I believe that. Not because I think you want to do that, but because this was a knee-jerk reaction. But I think you mean well. I just--- gotta explain this all to Cecil."

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"I'll just have to work to prove it to you, then. And I'll do so."

At the remark about Cecil, Jon frowns, letting out a light breath.

"I'm not anticipating much success in mending, if our recent interactions are anything to go off of. ...Do tell me how it goes when you get a chance, though, if you wouldn't mind. If nothing else, then to put some finality on the situation."

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Ryja shows up promptly in the morning, at just the right moment for Gerry to be available. She's leaning on her talent, because she needs this made badly, if things are going to go the way they've been going.

"Hello! I am Ryja, and I am very much in need of your services." Bright and confident thanks to her mask, which is still not her best work but more refined and smoothed than it was before.

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Gerry blinks in surprise, impressed by how early this woman is. She's also got rabbit ears and a mark of the Flesh cut deep into her. Looks fresh. Oof.

"G'morning," he says casually. "What can I do ya for?"

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"I need a book, made in a particular manner. It is required for my magic, and without it I have struggled." To say the least of it.

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Gerry scratches his neck thoughtfully and nods. "Alright. I don't know much about magic, exactly, but if you point me in the right direction I'll do my best. What're we lookin' at here?"

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"I shall need a very strong binding, and an especially thick cover with metal plating in it. The inside, if you bring me some paper I can sketch out some examples of the kinds of diagrams I will need, and we can work out how many pages it will actually be. The cover and pages have to fall within certain ranges for the whole tome to work." Technically the art of crafting a Scholar's tome isn't really magic itself, but this world has different rules and perhaps it would qualify.

"I know it is a lot, but I hope the promise of another healer for the community explains why it is so important." This has a hopeful smile in her voice, because oh, she misses healing so badly. Not of course, that she wants anyone to need it, but oh. It is a passion, not just a job.

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Gerry nods thoughtfully, then grabs her some scrap paper that's too damaged to use for sale. He could've recycled it, but eh. Then he grabs a pen. "There ya go. You can use my desk there."

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Ryja sets the paper at the desk and quickly scratches out some lines, segmenting it so she can show the component parts of the diagrams she needs. She's no artist with a pen, but an Arcanist becomes very good at lines, circles, and measurements. After a little bit, she shows him her work. The diagrams themselves are almost like a mix of arcane sigils and circuitry. "I need to fit all of these in a particular number of pages, based on the size of each page. I leave it to you if a thicker tome is preferable to larger pages?" She never actually bound her own, of course. Learned the basics of the process, because every Scholar should know that much.

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He ponders this a moment. "You gonna be carrying it around a lot?"

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"At all times, preferably. Not having access to magic has already caused some significant problems." The mark of Flesh certainly might imply that much.

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graveling

A corpse walks into a print shop one afternoon. As you do, right? As you do.

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As you do, indeed. Gerry hasn't seen Angel in a hot minute. He nods in greeting.

"Afternoon," Gerry says. "What can I do for you?"

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graveling

“Hey. Do you make business cards?” Like, it’s the sort of thing a normal printshop would do at home, but he’s not sure how this one works compared to them.

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"Yeah, of course."

Angel is the first person here to ask him, and it's going to be impossible not to think of that stupid movie scene the whole time he's working on it, but he knows how?

"Any specifics on what you want?"

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graveling

"So I saw an image online back home of business cards that a really, really tall guy got printed, that stated his height, the fact he didn't play basketball and the fact that the weather was fine up there."

Angel flashes one of his usual terribly brief and stiff smiles.

"I need that, but for 'So you've noticed the guy you're staring at is a corpse.'"

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Gerry barks a laugh at this, as surprised as he is amused. "Oh, brilliant." He grabs a pen and some scrap paper. "What else are we putting on it?"

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graveling

"My name is Angel. I work at Kasprak Farm and the Temple of Sacred Roots. No, I am not a zombie. No, I'm not contagious. No, I don't remember being alive. Further respectful questions are welcome."

Beat. "Anything else you think people ought to know about me from the jump?"

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Gerry chuckles, delighted by this whole thing. "No, I think that about covers the basics. I'll be sure to hang on to a sample in case you need more. How many you wanna start with?"

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graveling

"A good few. It happens a lot, Gerry." There would absolutely be a huffy little sigh here if Angel did breathing. "And like, politely pretending not to stare is weirder to me than people who just ask questions."

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Gerry doesn’t need to open his front door to know who’s knocking- the soft sound of jingling bells is a dead giveaway. And sure enough, there she is, standing in a slightly apologetic way that makes her seem for all the world like a gentle old lady.

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decrypter

Okay. She can do this. The printing and binding shop - she's practiced this in her head, and she thinks she has this down. The worst that can be said is no, but it's a concept that came to her - something that she can do, and it's as though her sister is squeezing her shoulder, saying you can do this, little bird.

So, during business hours, a young woman comes in, the bell jingling along with the tap-tap of her cane. Pausing as she comes in, she breathes in the scents - paper, ink, and the rest - and that tells her she's in the right spot now. Yes. She listens for footsteps first, and smiles when she hears them.

"Good afternoon. I'm looking for Gerry Keay."

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Gerry looks up from his work. He's got a curved sewing needle in his mouth and a pair of scissors in hand. He cuts the thread and sets everything aside.

"Oh, hey. Yeah, that's me. Can I help you?"

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decrypter

Though her face is bright, her eyes don't meet Gerry's, less focused and the shine in them somewhat clouded.

"Actually, I believe I may be of help to you. I've heard that you intend to move into printing braille, and I was wondering if you or anyone in your shop is fluent in it." Stay calm, this is the important part. "Because if not, I am, and I could make the process much, much quicker and easier."

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It takes all of two seconds for Gerry to put the pieces together. He nods, mostly to himself.

"Yeah, no, we don't. I'm functional in braille, but not fluent. Getting a second press installed next week, but for now we just switch out the plates on this one for braille printing. If I let you feel how I do it, do you think you could pick it up?"

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decrypter

"I think," she begins, but there's a little firmness that comes over her expression. No. She can be more definite than that. "Yes. I could do that easily. And I'm willing to demonstrate here and now."

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"Alright. " He pats on the part of the counter that lifts up twice before raising it to let her back. "This way."

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decrypter

The sound helps direct her, and she follows, cane quietly tapping as her own little beacon. Though she can't see the shop, the echoes tell her much, sketch out an entire world for her, and she feels herself getting a little more excited. She can be brave and definite without crushing pressure overhead. All she has to do is prove she can learn.

"How long have you been making books?"

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Towards the beginning of August, she decides to check in on Gerry again. She's got a loaf of fresh-baked potato bread with her, in a basket hanging from her arm.

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The little bell on Gerry's door rings, and he looks up from what he's sewing.

"Oh, hey, Drelasa. Whatcha got there? Smells good."

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“A little something for both the stomach and the soul. It’s potato bread, one of my old comforts.”

She sets the basket down, lifting the cloth from the bread, and a faintly sweet, starchy smell fills the air.

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"Ooh." Gerry sets aside what he's working on. Bread is more important. "I'll never say no to a few carbs."

He pulls a pair of chairs around the counter, setting one behind Drelasa.

"So, how ya been? Hanging in there?"

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“I would say I’ve been doing better than that, flah. I’ve my own share of the forging business now, and I’m able to use more of the crafting methods of my homeland. And… I’ve met many good people.”

Pause.

“Thank you, for trusting in me enough to ask a personal favor. It has… led to many unexpected things, but not unwelcome things.”

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Gerry's face flickers a strange expression at the word he doesn't know. Is that--- some kind of term of endearment?

~~She does kind of have family vibes... In a strangely positive way.~~

"I'm, ah, glad to hear it," he says softly. "How's he doing?"

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“He knew it was your idea almost immediately. The best way I can describe him is that his heart is bursting with love for you and his mind is on others who might have been affected by being… hollowed.”

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Gerry lets out a sheepish laugh at that, shaking his head. That's reassuring, certainly. Cecil's cute...

"Yeah, I... got the impression it hit him hard. In ways he couldn't really explain to me. Or wouldn't." Gerry sighs. "Did he at least talk to you about it?"

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"A little. He spoke about what he felt his role was in the hive. He called himself 'a room without doors.' I feel like he understands the nature of what happened to us more than most would. But he seemed much more concerned about discussing the well-being of others, yourself included."

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Gerry frowns deeply at this, concerned and puzzled. What the hell does that mean? A room without doors... trapped? Useless, somehow?

At Drelasa's last remark, Gerry lets out a huff of air. "Yeah, that sounds like him. That... abject refusal to worry about himself is why I'm always so damn worried for him. And I do get it, I'm not exactly the self-care king or whatever. But he's just so avoidant and I don't know how to get through to him that he can talk to me. That I want him to."

Ironically, Gerry fails to comment on his own well-being.

"...Wanna split this potato bread with me?"

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“He didn’t strike me as avoidant. To me, it felt more like he’s so accustomed to these sorts of things that it doesn’t worry him as much as the needs of his neighbors. Now, I could have been misreading, but he felt fairly forthcoming during the whole conversation. And yes, I would be happy to share the bread with you.”

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blindwatchersees

Endless shelves stretch up to a crystalline ceiling, behind which hangs the backdrop of a grey sky. Grey robed figures pass by Gerry without looking at him, and from time to time, they will dissolve into a flurry of paper and text, taking their place between their fellow books. Their movements are deliberate, their eyes are pale and certain. Everything feels strangely sharp and precise, even the echoes reverberating off of the smooth stone floor.

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decrypter

Wrapped up for Gerry with a tag that Gwen helped write, there are two parts to this gift. One is a bag of cookies infused with holiday spices, iced and on the sweeter side. The other is a blend of black tea, and when prepared according to the instructions, it comes out strong and slightly bitter. Combining the two, the flavors marry well and create a peaceful, tasty experience. He can share with Cecil, or not.

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cyansoldier

Pinhole Printing and Binding…

The sort of place you find information, right? She hopes so. The man who'd helped her off the boat— no, scratch that— tried to help her off the boat (and who nearly earned himself a whack in the process), hadn't offered any useful intelligence. Just nonsense. A boatman’s sea-sick drivel. She docked knowing nothing, stepped ashore knowing nothing, and now travels down a lonely path into town knowing nothing.

The white-haired woman wasn’t any help either, her earnest message about the futility of revenge falling on deaf ears.

~~Catherine Church~~ Agent Carolina feels naked without her armor.

Like a crab with its shell pulled off, soft, gummy abdomen exposed. To be picked at by birds.

Focus.

Info, that’s what she needs.

This is just infiltration. Plans gone temporarily awry.

Carolina pushes through the door, marshaling her face and body into a shape that deflects from her own internal freak-out. The air smells of paper-pulp and fresh ink.

“Excuse me?”

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There is a man at the counter of the shop, tying up bundles of newspapers. They are to go out to the newsstands around town, when someone comes by to pick them up. He's about to tie off the last stack of Pumpkin Hollow Gazette issues in brown twine when a woman in newcomer's clothes walk in with a look he's grown familiar with.

Like a trapped wolverine.

Long black hair showing blonde roots is tied in a loose ponytail as a man with charcoal smudge eyeliner and eyes tattooed on every single joint looks up from his work. He speaks with an English accent, though a bit nasally and not nearly as posh as the one she's used to hearing out of Wyoming. "Afternoon. Just make landfall?"

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cyansoldier

The man she finds working the front desk is... nothing like Carolina expects. There's modernity to him so unlike his place of work; smokey eyes, tattoos, a little unkempt— better suited for a nightclub than a honky-tonk print shop like this.

Her face says as much, the effort she's made to arrange herself abandoned. When you're so used to wearing a helmet (and when said helmet is taken from you in an unwelcomed transport from war-torn space to Victorian resort island), expressions are often forgotten.

What this man finds is a woman standing ram-rod straight, red hair (dyed, of course), pulled back into a ponytail. Her skin is pallid and her eyes are crystal- a near-transparent green. She looks sick. She's holding herself together and failing.

"Yeah." Find your footing. "Yeah, just now. Those newspapers, are those free?"

From:

The reaction gives Gerry a laugh, which escapes from his smirking mouth as a soft breath. He makes no remark, just offering her a paper from his yet to be tied stack.

"Town hall pays for 'em. They're the easiest way to get safety updates. Y'know, for the monsters or whatever."

His own eyes are a pale grey, like polished steel or a sky before rain breaks. But in certain light, they have sort of an electric green iridescence to them that cuts to the heart of whatever he's looking at, making it impossible to avoid the pervasive feeling of being seen. This sensation is not helped by all the eyes tattooed onto him. Every single knuckle, his wrists, even his throat. The only tattoo that isn't an eye is the pumpkin leaf poking out of his sleeve, connected to a vine that runs under the fabric and ostensibly up his arm.

There is a fire in her. A fire that has eaten up so much of her life. Gerry can see the scorch marks that others can't. There are also distorted faces crawling over her skin and bullet holes chewing at her heart, a fog of isolation behind the eyes, a trace of web in the hair, but those burn wounds scar her deep. What has she lost? What potential has burned away? What violence has been wrought upon her?

He says nothing on the matter.

"So! What fun adventures did you get dragged out of to be here?"

From:

cyansoldier

"Is that some kind of joke?" A humorless beat. It gaps the space between hand and newspaper and she gets a sense it isn't. "Right. What kind of monsters?" She takes it, loose pages unfolding in a noise not so unlike the flapping of wings. The motion feels ridiculous; a leisure she isn't used to. One requiring she be in a chair with legs kicked up on the nearest desk, and in not doing so she performs the function incorrectly.

Carolina reads, however the words go nowhere. She reads and finds she cannot recollect the last sentence. Can't make out the images printed in halftones on the page. Not because she's incompetent, rather because she can't shake the feeling of being watched.

Too focused on the eyes. So many of them, real and fake, staring through her.

Carolina hasn't a single idea what this man thinks he'll see, but she doesn't like it. And so back into the newspaper she goes, expression turned stony. Something about a Love Tunnel— God, is this all nonsense?

"Nothing very interesting. A stroll through the park, let's leave it at that— what does half of this stuff mean?"

From:

"It rotates," Gerry says casually. "Last month it was demons. It's usually demons. Sometimes its eldritch monstrosities, or man-eating spiders, or our own minds. Little wooden creatures that will turn you into a tree, or customized nightmares, or bugs that possess your body and mind, or cultists, or giant crabs, or bloody Krampus. The list goes on and on. There'll be some wretched thing in March to deal with, I'm sure."

He watches her expression turn and his eyes dart away. Staring is hard not to do.

Gerry decides instead to fixate on her ponytail. Pretty color... He tries to commit it to memory, wanting to paint with that color later.

"If you're keen to be genre-aware, you've arrived in a horror comedy, and you're the butt of the jokes. But it's not all bad! Lots of space between to breathe. Honestly, it's a vacation compared to the constant slog of supernatural bullshit I came from."

From:

cyansoldier

She sniffs. Turns a page; infrastructure turned confectionary, cloaked figures caught on winter winds... "Seems to me like you've gone from one supernatural slog to another. How's this one any different?"

You're the butt of the jokes. The expression pierces Carolina's hubris like a round of ammunition. An animal pulled mid-hunt and expected to play, to be laughed at by... whatever it is that rules here. Facial musculature twists and twists until she realizes she's scowling.

Her lips go slack.

A mask cracked, reconstructed, cracked again and brought back to life soon after.

Funny, she still can't tell if he's joking... It's starting to roil her nerves.

"I don't follow."

From:

"It was a slog because it was constant. And all of it was profoundly horrible. Here, sometimes houses turn to chocolate or you get a curse that makes goats hate you. Back home, I spent three years chasing evil clowns embodying the abstraction of identity while they roamed the globe stripping the skin off of people to recycle it for making monsters, trying to stop them from turning the world into a merry go round of endless incomprehensible unreality, and I got sidetracked in France by a guy who'd become an apartment complex for sentient beetles, and then again in Australia having to seal a man-eating pig into concrete."

Yeah, that's a ton of information. A lot of it completely insane. But the point isn't for her to parse it--- it's to demonstrate just how challenging it is to parse it all.

"If the real monsters only show up a few times a month, and the rest are just tricks designed to make a fool of me, I'll take it."

He notes the scowl. How could he not? He does, after all, have such an eye for detail. But again he does not remark. Gerry shrugs again, casual. "And in between, I get to have a life of my own. I'm not ashamed to say that's new to me. My last crack at life was centered around what I could do for other people."

From:

cyansoldier

What to digest first; the parade of evil clowns? The filleting of human beings for the purpose of reconstruction— whatever that means? Abjection in its most unreasonable form, suggesting the real existence of the supernatural? But men can't turn into buildings. Beetles don't lease apartments. Curses are an excuse for poor skill and goats hate everyone. Carolina strains, trying her damndest to make sense of it all or at the very least network it from her ears into her brain.

And if this is a joke, it's an elaborate one.

His postamble cuts loose the stubborn threads that hold her arms up and she lowers her newspaper to look at him. Really look at him, not so different from the way he'd looked at her (excluding, of course, the cobwebs and burns and every other awful physical manifestation). Who she sees is uncomfortably familiar.

"Three years is a long time. But if they were so bad, why chase them? Seems counterproductive, doesn't it?"

From:

"Had to stop 'em ending the world, mate. Unless we wanted everything to be evil clowns forever. Which we didn't," Gerry remarks. "My world was kind of a lot. Can't say I miss it. But I did find out it didn't turn into a clown world from some folks who came here after me, so that's nice."

He wears a light smile on his face. Half joking, half genuine. He extends a hand.

"Name's Gerry, with a G. You?"

From:

cyansoldier

Somehow, Carolina musters the energy for a smile. Tired, chary, a half-assed excuse, but a smile nonetheless. "I never did like clowns. Even the nice ones. If you can call any of them nice. You probably aren't so inclined to do so."

She clasps his hand in hers, firm. An officer's shake.

And perhaps a bit more firm than necessary.

"Strange name. Mine's Carolina. With a C."

The redhead deflates a little now that pleasantries are out of the way. "You don't have anywhere I can sit for a second, do you?

From:

"Eh, it's short for Gerard." He shrugs lightly, then opens the wooden flap-gate of the counter and pushes a chair out from behind it. "There ya go. Not for sale, though."

He pats it twice, then comes out from behind the counter and hops up to sit on it.

"You smoke?"

From:

cyansoldier

"So your name's Gerard with a G," She makes an attempt at ribbing. "Got it."

Carolina tips her head gratefully. Takes up the seat he's offered, folding her newspaper across her lap like a napkin at some fancy restaurant. She watches him hoist himself up. Big rubber boot soles thump against the side of the counter.

"Oh. No, I don't."

From:

"No worries, just thought I'd offer." Gerry shrugs. "Takes the edge off. Terrible for your health, but hey, no one stays dead here. Might as well make the most of the extra lives."

From:

cyansoldier

A flash of metal. Click, flick. Like a tiny engine igniting or the flash before the pow and smoke of gunfire. She likes the smell; fuel and hot metal. "Terrible for your breath, too."

Wait. Did she hear him right?

Carolina turns in her seat to face him, elbows pressed against knees. "So if I walked off a cliff, or you crushed my head under one of your print presses, I'd come right back?"

From:

"You'd come back tomorrow," Gerry corrects her. "You'd have to spend the rest of the day as a ghost. Why? Looking to go barreling bravely into danger?"

From:

cyansoldier

"Depends on what kind. Got any recommendations?"

Nicotine smoke makes her nose crinkle.

"Usually throwing myself into things isn't quite my style, but contrived danger— that, I could maybe get behind." She needs out of here, and if she has to die again and again to make it happen, so be it.

"But I get it. It's against whatever cosmic-supernatural rules exist. I've heard that enough already."

From:

Sorry, Carolina, you'll have to get used to the nicotine smoke if you're going to be hanging around Gerry. He reeks of the stuff. He fiddles with a brass lighter idly.

"I'm guessing the transition from a totally non-supernatural world to one with magic and monsters just parading around like they own the place is a bit of a culture shock. But you'll acclimate. Most people do, and you strike me as adaptable."

She also kind of strikes him as the sort of person who could really use some external verbal affirmation, but he can't place where he gets that impression. (Certainly not because he sees some of himself in her.) He most definitely doesn't remark on that part.

"So, what sort of place is it, then? The world you came from. Completely average city in the mid-2000s? Wild west? Sci-fi space adventure? Wild west sci-fi space adventure?"

From:

cyansoldier

Oh, that's alright. If she concentrates hard enough, it's like she's at a very shitty barbecue. Nicotine braised meat with a side of paper pulp. Anyone want a shot of black ink, too?

She watches black-nailed hands fuss with his lighter, her expression sort of far away. Old friends, same habits. Same stupid lighters. Same lame party tricks.

"Thanks, I am. But— yeah, this stuff's way beyond my wheelhouse."

The only clowns she'd ever had the pleasure of meeting were those damn Reds and Blues. Idiots, all of them. The least they could have done was made her a balloon dog for her efforts.

"I guess you could call it a sci-fi space adventure. Grew up on Earth, Earth extended its reach far into the galaxy and before you could blink, war. We called them The Covenant. They were aliens, and not the nice green kind."

From:

Gerry snorts out a laugh. "Us humans are pretty good at that, aren't we? War. What was it over, anyway?" Hands on the counter, he leans forward coyly. "Did someone steal someone else's toy from the sandbox?"

From:

cyansoldier

"Remarkably."

Gerry's question, by no fault of his own asking, draws a groan from Carolina's throat. She presses a hand to her forehead like she's got a headache.

"It's— complicated. There's an alien race called The Covenant, like I said. They're incredibly advanced in their technology but their customs are old, sacred. Their religious leaders believed that humans were a contradiction to their principles and so they began a genocide. We didn't stand a chance and we didn't win very often, either. But... Yes. There was stealing."

From:

"Wow! We finally made it past the Earth's backyard in terms of the universe and we managed to find sapient beings that were more xenophobic than we are. Amazing." Perhaps that's reductive, but Gerry can't help but be bitter. Every universe is just like his own.

No gods of love or hope.

No aliens whose ideology is as progressive as their technology.

Nothing capable of complex thought is anything but hostile and selfish.

Isn't the multiverse amazing?

"Well, you're here now. New things to fight with, but you're in good company. I'm absolute shit in a fight against anything other than another human, but intel? I got that covered in spades." He flicks his lighter closed and pockets it again. "True sight, they call it here. Easy enough way to explain the Beholding. I can see things others can't. Mostly things related to people's fear, since that's the name of the game where I come from, but also passkeys, lock combinations, secrets... I can see through illusions, pick out small details. The more someone doesn't want me to know something, the easier it is for me to see."

From:

cyansoldier

She matches his bitterness blow for blow, nothing but contempt for the alien race who'd attacked her people. "Yeah, they weren't a welcoming bunch. Not that we made it any easier for ourselves. Factions— Outer Colonies, most of them— had the great idea to revolutionize while this was happening. Wars within wars. We couldn't even manage to hold ourselves together."

Humankind's propensity for dissevering never ceases to amaze, does it?

True Sight, Beholding; they're ancient-sounding words from ancient script she's never had the misfortune to read. "Banks must hate to see you coming."

And it's all innocuous enough; magic to unlock doors or see through mirages beyond her non-magical comprehension. Like a parlor trick. A practical skill, like York's. Then he continues. A natural propensity to see through things extends to fears, to people, and she goes cold. I can see through illusions, pick out small details.

The more someone doesn't want me to know something, the easier it is for me to see.

What a treasure-trove she must be, then. Her lifetime of masking, compartmentalizing and crushing her emotions to a fine, numb paste is suddenly rendered useless, and she feels naked. Seen, although she can't be certain what he sees, and somehow that makes it all worse. Carolina's flight instinct begs her to leave. To give him no more than crumbs. To wrap the thick black cloth over herself and disappear.

When she speaks, it's through a battled-tightened jaw.

"Sounds more like a curse than a blessing."

From:

"Yeah. It is." His transparency comes unflinchingly. It's only fair. If he can know her so well, then she can know whatever she likes about him. "I lived in a world governed by malicious gods made of primordial terror, hiding just on the outskirts of the world. My mother brought me into that space without my consent, before I was even old enough to meaningfully give it, and once you know it, you can't escape it. Eventually, there came a point where I had to align myself with one of them to survive. Even then, it didn't keep me alive forever. But I stood a better chance with it than without. All that's left now is to try and use it to help."

From:

cyansoldier

He sees you.

He said so himself. The harder you try, the easier it is.

She doesn't know how to reorient herself. How to make her face into something less... threatened. It's fine, she thinks. It's not as literal as you're thinking. It could be— an aura or an energy. He doesn't really see—

She never imagined a simple statement could paralyze so utterly. Of course she's seen; he's got a pair of working fucking eyes and then some. But it isn't the seeing that's the problem it's the knowing. She hadn't walked into this conversation expecting to be filleted. It's fine. It's not what you're thinking.

Gerry speaks candidly about the horrors he's born within, more so than she anticipates. A mother who took his hand and lead him into her world's cacophony without first considering his own, then marrying him to it. She gropes at his every syllable to keep herself a float. Feels herself recoil from him and lean forward all at once, a horrible ebb and flow

There's a heft in her chest she'd usually address on the training floor. She's sitting at full attention. Her body wants to move.

"What an awful thing for a mother to do to her son." Carolina forces the words up her throat.

And she means it.

And she needs to know what he sees.

And she needs to walk out through the door.

To help, he says. He wants to help you. He thinks you need help. He thinks you're wrong and weak and need fixing.

"What happened to you?" Carolina asks. Because asking about him is easier than addressing herself. "To bing you here. What happened?"

From:

Gerry cannot read her mind or know her thoughts, he is no Archivist. But he doesn't have to be to see the halo of eyes upon eyes upon eyes engulf the air around her head, all ogling her, drinking in her insecurities, her fear. Oops. Yeah Gerry can tell he did that.

"Cancer," he replies bluntly. "Brain tumor caused intense seizures. I really shouldn't have been capable of standing up for months beforehand, but I just... didn't notice. After everything I dealt with, cancer got me. Insulting, really."

He shrugs.

"You can relax. I'm not psychic. I can't read your mind. If you have questions, I'm---" He stops a moment to laugh at his own joke. "I'm an open book."

From:

cyansoldier

"You chased abstruse curses and monsters who flay people and evil clowns— and cancer is what killed you?" She doesn't mean for it to come out so flat, so dry. It's an awful, awful thing to have experienced and Christ she's an idiot—

"That's... horrible. And insulting, yeah. Like... Elvis dying on a toilet."

Oh my god, shut up.

He tells her to relax. She tries, and when Carolina tries to do anything she really does give it her all. These attempts don't always amount to anything, like when she'd told herself she ought to try and be nicer, but the intention is there. He's right, anyway. She's making a fool of herself. Her shoulders go minutely slack. Her eyes drift away from him, toward the door or the number of print presses at the back room.

"You see everyone's fear? If you look in a mirror, can you see yours?"

From:

At the "Elvis dying on the toilet" remark, he howls with laughter. "Christ, it really is! God, that's fucked. I didn't even think about that," he says through tapering chuckles.

She relaxes. The eyes diminish. Smaller, less. Imperfect, but less intense.

"Yeah, I can see my own marks," he says. "I try not to look too hard at 'em. It makes me... dwell. It's not worth it."

Red raw Desolation marks up around his neck, crimson stains of Flesh set deep into his hands, sickly spinning Vast at his temples, Stranger-shaped vivisection lines, Spiral snaking up his jawline, Buried seated heavily at his shoulders, and a big veined End mark that takes up his whole chest. Lonely sprawled out around his feet, lingering like a bad smell. He knows why they're there. He doesn't need to reminisce.

"No sense focus on the negative, right? It's in the past." Most of it.

From:

cyansoldier

She wants to ask him how he does it. How could he not dwell on his past when he wears it like a mismatched costume? It's not worth it, Gerry says, and the statement bewilders that innermost cruel part of her. Forgiving to himself in a way she can't afford. Won't allow. You deserve this, it says in protest. Their deaths were your responsibility.

She gets far enough to open her mouth, but the words dry out like sand on her tongue.

"You make it sound simple," Carolina scoffs. "Do you also give seminars on self-forgiveness and embracing change?" Okay, that one she does mean to deliver dryly. Even so, there's no real malice to the tease, just incredulity. Curiosity, at an arms length. Safely far away.

"...What do they look like? Generally."

In other words; not mine. God, not mine.

From:

Gerry snorts. "Not yet, but I gave a seminar on queer theory once, so maybe I ought to. It's definitely a learned skill. Originally it was just apathy, you know? But this is---"

He hesitates a moment, rolling the idea around in his head until the words look right.

"This place has been good for me. In spite of everything, it's a hell of a lot better than where I came from. I spent my original life being passed from one set of chains to another. For the first time ever, I've got none. So I taught myself to allow myself to start fresh. Things got better." Finally, he shrugs.

What do they look like? God, what a question.

"Scars," he admits. "Sort of. They're like... spider-web. Shimmers of something you can only see half the shape of, when the light hits right or when a person turns just so. The shape of it depends on the fear. Fear of agony and loss looks like burn scars. Fear of being controlled looks like spiderweb. Fear of madness is spirals. Fear of scrutiny and judgement looks like... well." He holds up a tattooed hand, waggling his fingers.

From:

cyansoldier

Things got better.

He would give a good seminar.

And Carolina is glad for him; she is. That being said, the idea of staying in this place for any longer than what's required makes her stomach summersault. Triggers some animal instinct to flee, knowing it cannot within the confines of the cage it finds itself, driven closer and closer to madness.

This is temporary, she tells herself. That's fine. She'll figure it out. Make the most of wasted time. It doesn't have to be wasted so long as she does something productive. Something useful. Work, train, run, climb, stretch, train, run, work, work work work.

And she'll be out of here in no time. No time at all.

"Finally got the chance to figure out what it is you want. Were newspapers always part of the plan?"

Carolina leans forward to inspect his hand, her own eyes partially narrowed as if she were unconvinced by the entire thing.

"What happens if someone has an obscure fear? Like... the fear of odd numbers. Or eating out for dinner. Do they get a special scar? Maybe the irrational ones don't count."

From:

Gerry snorts again. "Nah, that's just part of being the guy with the printing press. I knew I wanted to make things, figured book binding was something that could be both useful and beautiful. They asked me to help print the paper, paid decent money to do it, so I said sure." He shrugs lightly.

Pent up like a caged tiger, this one. And with that red hair and those toned muscles, she kind of looks like a tiger, too. Some wild Bengal in a circus trailer.

"That fear, however, irrational, is probably rooted in one of those deep, primal fears that's built into us to keep us alive," Gerry muses, entertained by philosophical questions like these despite the occasional bratty answer. "So it's like--- why is that person afraid of odd numbers? Is it because broken patterns or imbalance makes them nervous? That's probably tied to the Spiral. And that person afraid to go out to dinner probably is just a very specific flavor of agoraphobic. That's the Lonely."

From:

cyansoldier

"I haven't held a book in—" A strangled laugh. "Forever. We used data pads back home, mostly. Books were one of those things they left behind. No one wanted to spend the money to have them published, not when they could be funding more... lucrative commercial ventures."

Like the military; unbelievable amassments of wealth funneled into weapons and technology, into soldiers and human experiments, the products of which could decimate the enemy like never before. Like her. Who has time for books when war wages right outside your window?

Her lips part into a noiseless 'ahh'. It makes sense, after all. Intrinsic fears; the parents we're born with who steer us away from harm long before words enter the equation. It begs the question;

"Can't people overcome them? We all start off afraid of loud noises, and that's an instinct too, isn't it? How many of us actually maintain that fear later in life? Everyone learns how to get over things." Get over; were it only that easy.

Carolina pauses, curiosity pushing at the edges of her conscious mind begging to be acknowledged. She indulges it after a minute of deliberation. Leans forward a little.

"You ever meet someone with no fear?"

From:

"Sure, people can get over them sometimes. Fear marks, like scars, can fade. Takes effort and time to heal them, and they still linger faintly, but they can get better, yeah," Gerry explains. He's a little pointed about the time and effort bit. Yeah, that means the scary work of confronting those fears instead of swallowing them.

She leans forward, conspiratorial, and asks the question that Gerry loves and hates answering. A ghost of a smile curls his lips. The answer is plain and simple.

"No."

What else is there to say?

From:

cyansoldier

Time and effort better allotted elsewhere. What use is training a muscle she can't see? Half the pleasure of a hard day's work in the field comes after, in micro-torn muscles and skin tacky with sweat. In the ache down her legs and feet, and in the bruises she's sustained from her efforts. In black eyes and busted lips. In knuckles turned purple. The body pushed to its limit. A win.

If she could drive her fist into the ugly mirages that surround her, maybe she'd be more willing.

Maybe.

For now, Carolina pitches her back against the seat, crossed arms, disappointed but not surprised by the answer he gives her. The single word is proceeded by a long, chary silence.

She stands.

"I'll make sure to come find you when I'm ready for my nature retreat. We can therapize each other."

From:

Gerry snorts. "If that's what you wanna take from that, be my guest. You're the one who wanted to know, and I answered."

With a shrug, he hops off the counter, keen to get back to work with the departure of his guest.

"In any case, like it or not, you're part of the community now. So if you need intel, that's me. Let me know if you need anything."

And with that, he plonks down unceremoniously into his workshop chair and begins stitching the spine of an unfinished book, boots kicked up on his desk. There is a certain release of pressure that comes with his eyes leaving her.

From:

cyansoldier

The bell above the door to Pinhole Printing and Binding tinkers, hailing another customer. This one has no interest in books, journals or the latest issued newspaper, but for the man meandering behind the counter.

And she, like the flame to set paper burning, walks in like she owns the place.

"Hey. You busy?"

From:

Gerry is sitting at a work station beside the front counter, feet kicked up on his desk with a book-binding frame balanced on his gut. It's a ridiculous, awkward position to sew in, but it suits him somehow. He looks up. "Oh hey. Technically I'm busy, but I could be not busy if I wanted to. Whatcha got for me?"

From:

cyansoldier

Wasting no time, Carolina bows over the counter, gives his frame a cursory glance and says, "It's my birthday. Which means we have to do something."

From:

"Then I'm not busy."

Gerry sets aside his apparatus, tucking his needle into one of the binding ribbons, and hauls himself up. A quick note to Gwen that she doesn't need to finish this one, he'll get it tomorrow, and a shout down the hall to Helena that he's headed out, and Gerry's ready to go.

"What're we doing, boss?"

From:

cyansoldier

"First we're going to get drinks. Two, maybe three. Not enough to get drunk, just tipsy. We'll talk, whatever, and when we decide we've had enough we'll go back to mine. You're going to sit on my front porch with muffs over your ears and I'm going to pick up my gun and shoot logs like they're tin cans. Bring your sketchbook, shoot, fall asleep, I don't care."

A pause.

"...After that, I'll consider suggestions."

From:

"Very specific," Gerry notes. "I can respect that."

He follows her out, hands in his pockets.

"Better than any of my birthdays. Well... there was one decent one, but. Kinda sour now."

From:

cyansoldier

"I like having a plan," She admits, pushing through the door and onto the cobbled street beside Gerry.

Then, stopping abruptly, Carolina turns an intense look on him. How could anyone disrespect the sanctity of birthdays?

"Sour how?"

From:

Gerry shrugs awkwardly, regretting saying anything. There's very little that he doesn't want to talk about, so his hesitation is glaringly obvious now.

"I didn't really celebrate birthdays at all before. But I last year, I was seeing someone who... made it a really nice day. For the first time in as long as I could remember. It... yeah. It was good. But then he left the island right before my next birthday, so."

He shrugs again. "Easy come, easy go, I guess. This year I just closed the shop and slept all day. Nice in its own way, I guess."

From:

cyansoldier

Carolina searches between his words the way she might stalk an enemy's military base, apt feet carrying her to possible conclusions. None of them feel right. She's never been good at reading these kinds of situations and doesn't pretend to be. Ask her what the best method of approaching a Covenant dropship is and she'll tell you. Ask her to define interpersonal relationships and she's likely to throw herself through the nearest wall.

"You slept all day?" She asks in a tone not meant to be judgy but sounds that way. "Okay, change of plans then. It's our birthday. And because I'm feeling nice— and because you're now involved in the logistics— I'll let you pick something special to add to the agenda."

From:

Gerry snorts his amusement, flashing that slanted smirk. "How generous," he teases. "And what if I like what you've come up with, mm?"

From:

cyansoldier

"That's fine. We'll do my stuff first, then we'll do yours. So start thinking. It better be good," She bumps Gerry's shoulder, the first time she's let herself touch him since their ballet fiasco. Remember, no hands.

Carolina strides a few steps ahead and whips a look over her shoulder.

"Come on, hurry up. And tell me what building I'm looking for."

From:

"Mmm," Gerry hums thoughtfully. "You ever been to Empty Pockets? The music bar?"

From:

cyansoldier

Carolina shakes her head, lips pursed. "Nope. Sounds perfect, though." She gestures grandly ahead. "Lead the way, Gerry."

From:

Gerry nods, and does exactly that, taking a sharp turn to the left. A few blocks away, there's a small, quaint-looking brick building. It's fairly non-descript and modest, its only identifying feature being the bricks of the steps being painted to look like piano keys. He leads her inside.

Within is a warm lounge with a small but well-cared-for bar and a handful of round tables positioned around a stage. Raucous folk music is being played on the stage by a quintet of satyrs. Gerry lights a cigarette and makes for the bar--- far enough from the stage that people can still talk.

"Happy birthday, by the way. Don't think I said."

From:

cyansoldier

Carolina blinks against the darkness, her senses overwhelmed.

Candles and mismatched sconces throw light against guests who smoke, drink and call words above the noise; bodhrán drums and timbre from stringed instruments she doesn't recognize. The air is charged. Thick with tobacco. Gerry starts for the bar with a cigarette between his teeth.

She, in awe of the place, takes a little longer to get there.

"Do those men have goat legs?"

And horns? (The beards are negligibly interesting.)

And as if in direct response to her (and keeping beat with the rest of his crew) a satyr beats his hoof wildly against the stage.

She takes her seat beside Gerry. Drinks are ordered. 'Whatever's strongest'.

"Thanks. Last year, I think I spent the day waist-deep in mud. We were scouting a trade outpost on what we sometimes call a wet planet. Arms dealers like them because nobody wants to be there for more than ten minutes." The bartender slides a glass of heavy-bodied whisky into her hands.

"My group and I were there for—" a scoff. "—Eighteen hours."

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"Sure do," Gerry replies, jovial, nodding to the one on the fiddle. "One of 'em is a woman, even. You've never heard of a satyr?"

Gerry's heard the Deadwood Five play a few times now, enjoying their energy. A group of four brothers and a sister from the island's only satyr family.

Noting Carolina's choice of drink, Gerry sticks to beer. It's his preference anyway, and he figures he ought to stay somewhat more sober so that if the birthday girl needs anything, there's someone around in a fit state to help with it.

"Eighteen hours? Christ. That's worse than the time I took a wrong turn in the Distortion's hallways and he let me stay lost for an indiscernible amount of time just for fun. Mum said I was gone for two days, but I wasn't really perceiving time. I'd rather blank out for two days than actively live through eighteen hours of bullshit."

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cyansoldier

"Yeah, in stories," She marvels. "They're all old-world. From your time. Like... Woodstock or Benjamin Franklin. You know, myths? That's probably why no one remembers them."

She lets the horrifying hypothetical-reality settle, then pulls a face. Kidding.

"It wasn't so bad. We camped, mostly, and ate crappy canned food until it was time to blow things up." She remembers Agent Maine— the poor, massive thing— sinking further and further into the bog in his desperate attempt to outrun a water-spider. And Florida, spending the 8th to 10th hour in an epic battle with a two-jawed reptile.

"At the time it seemed like an alright birthday present. We made it out alive, for one. Not that I was worried about that. And anyway, I'll take it over wandering through the indiscriminate, evil hallway."

Carolina downs half her drink.

"Something tells me you aren't the camping type."

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The look of abject horror on Gerry's face is indicative of the tirade he very nearly goes off on just before seeing that cheeky little expression and fizzling. "Christ, don't scare me like that. Haven't I been through enough?"

Frankly, even without the monstrous details, Gerry can't help but think it sounds a hell of a lot like one of his little expeditions. Wading through London's stinking underbelly in search of Journal of a Plague Year or taking long bus rides through the countryside trying to make contact with some Lonely avatar that didn't want to be found or trekking out into the woods after some Hunt relic his mum wanted.

"I typically don't unless I have to, but it's fine. There's worse things."

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cyansoldier

Seeing him suddenly horror-stricken makes her laugh the kind of unrestrained, nasal laugh which comes as a surprise even to herself. To doubt its sincerity would be to question the most fundamental laws of the universe; an easier thing to do here than she's comfortable with. Fundamental law states that men and women don't typically have horns and stand on animal legs. Yet here she is, having been proven wrong.

"Sorry, couldn't help myself."

Carolina stares over his shoulder, chin resting atop her palm, looking utterly fascinated. Good pick, Gerry. This particular birthday is already one for the books.

"Like spending two days in a hallway? I wonder if your tolerance for worse things is skewed." She tips her glass back. Waves over another. "Camping can be fun, if you do it with the right person. And if there's no obligation hanging over your head. Things just feel... different, at night. Like you pressed pause for a while. Nothing moves, no one bothers you."

She meets his eye. "You know what I mean?"

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God, that laugh. For a woman so determined to be dangerous, she can damn sure be cute. The fact that it's so unnatural to her, that she'd usually resist it, honestly only makes it cuter.

And there's that fascinated look. The green of her eyes, trained on something that catches her. It's common for the eyes of Beholding avatars, his ilk, to turn that color when taking something in. The association makes her eye color give the impression of constantly absorbing everything. Drawing the world in like a vortex. This moment only deepens that impression.

She's beautiful.

Gerry can't remember the last time he thought to feel embarrassment at being caught staring.

"I'd be open to it," Gerry offers. "Marrow Isle isn't short on places to camp. Mind you, they're all full of monsters, but if anyone's equipped to handle that, it's us. I've got the spookies under control, and you've got a gun."

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cyansoldier

She could get used to a place like this. Drinks, music, an acquaintance on the odd weekend. The ecosystem they've walked into feels self-contained. Bawling enough to stave in her loudest thoughts and dark enough not to worry about being seen. An awful thing, then, that Gerry's so damn good at it.

She spots him in the blurred foreground of her vision staring fixedly ahead at her. A perfectly normal thing to do in conversation, however the trapped and slighted animal part of Carolina wants to turn away. Completely unseen.

The killer soldier in her traps this animal under its boot, then pursues him.

She wills Gerry back into focus. Golden nodules of light catch on his cheekbones and pitch his long, sharp nose in shadow. A human knife's edge.

Touching him in any way would mean imminent disaster.

For now, she's happy to consume him only with her eyes.

"I don't remember saying you were the right person," Carolina teases dryly. "But I can make do. I'll give you all the real important jobs like shaking the trees for sticks. You're tall enough." Very tall, actually. "I ran into something a couple weeks ago. This giant swarm of— I don't know, moths, butterflies— trying to attack this kid. It was a disaster."

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"Oh, scuse me for inviting myself! I'd hate to impose and deprive you of the opportunity to shake trees for sticks," Gerry teases, giving her a slanted grin. "But yeah I think I read about that in the paper. Sounds like a fae thing. Assuming you're willing to believe in them yet."

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cyansoldier

Amusement flowers across her face, 'stupid' caught on the tail-end of a laugh. "You can reach higher than I can, and I hate climbing trees. It works out perfectly. Don't worry, Gerry, I'll make it worth your while. Cook you up something awful like canned soup and crappy coffee."

Carolina angles herself toward him.

"Fae... I didn't know the word for it. But, yeah. That sounds right. I don't know how I couldn't believe in them even if I wanted to. It's hard when the thing's right in front of your face, buzzing around and being a nuisance."

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"Well, I guess I can't pass up an opportunity to eat shitty food, drink shitty coffee, sleep on the ground, and do manual labor with you, 'Lina," Gerry teases, smirking over the rim of his glass. "Can't think of anyone I'd rather be deliberately inconvenienced with."

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cyansoldier

The neat wires in her brain spark a little. She chases down the rest of her drink.

"You're an idiot."

To any unsuspecting on-lookers, Carolina looks muscles-primed to kill him. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Do you dance?"

And like all threats, there's a clear right answer here.

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Gerry snorts a laugh of his own. Does he dance. What does she take him for, some boring, jocky cishet guy?

...Honestly, probably, now that he thinks about it. He wonders if she's ever known anything else, with her soldier crowd.

"Yeah, of course I dance." He offers a tattooed hand decked out in pewter rings.

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cyansoldier

The answer to that question, although he doesn't ask it, is no.

She'd needed to get York dead-drunk to dance with her. That, and toy with him enough to think she'd sleep with him. (Cruel, she knows, but she loves dancing). Even then, he only swayed. As most jocky, cishet men tend to do.

His admission comes as a pleasant surprise. Carolina's eyes say as much, igniting like green fire.

Gerry offers her his hand.

She grabs his wrists and starts toward the empty patch of floor by the stage.

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Oh hell yeah.

Gerry's only had one beer, so his weird dance choices cannot be credited to drunkenness. No, the blame for his dance moves, which consist mainly of somewhat coordinated jumping and kicking, can be attributed to his growing up in the 80s and 90s, and his alternative taste in music. But he does so with enthusiasm, genuinely having fun and grinning surprisingly genuinely at Carolina as he tries to coordinate with her.

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cyansoldier

Gerry's dance choices are odd. He kicks his feet in beats of two like there's a very large, very angry rat nipping at his ankles, and he does so without a care. Confidence in every kick, twist and arm circle. His hair flies wildly— he hasn't even bothered tying it back.

She loves it.

Carolina jumps right in, every bit as confident as a dance like this requires. Where his movements are weighted and unrestrained, her's are loose and graceful. Limbs like ribbons. Years spent at the barre doing pliés and Rond de Jambes form the structure and now movement of solid muscle.

Her two glasses of straight whisky on an empty stomach make her face feel hot and her feet feel weightless.

"Not bad!" She calls over the thundering band.

Edited Date: 2025-05-20 04:46 am (UTC)

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Gerry can't help but laugh with delight as she matches his energy. Nothing like dancing with someone who's willing to get weird with it. He kicks and twists in time with her, on the opposite foot from her so that they criss-cross almost dangerously sometimes. He adds a weird little spin for flare. He nearly trips over a chair at one point. Gerry flails about for several entire songs, seeming to barely tire before finally winding down after the third song.

"Phew!" Thoroughly tossed hair sticks to sweaty skin in a few places as he laughs breathlessly. An arm is thrown over Carolina's shoulder. "You picked that up quick! That was wicked."

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cyansoldier

She's pleasantly surprised that Gerry makes it through one song, let alone three of them. She honestly doesn't know how he keeps himself upright. It's like watching a skyscraper jump on a trampoline, its hundred stories swaying left and right to the beat of folk rock. He's unable to be stopped even by the chair he swears 'came out of nowhere', and she commends him for it— without saying, obviously.

By the end of the third song, the room teeters.

Gerry slings an arm over her shoulder. Carolina scowls, irritation surging like a flamethrower's pulse, and although she threads fingers in his shirt and begins to push him away, he's just as useful as an anchor.

"You're sweaty," She mutters, eyeing the wet sheen and black tendrils plastered across his forehead. For emphasis, Carolina draws her thumb across his skin and feels dangerous doing so. For some reason. Whatever happened to hands-off.

"Let's leave."

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A broad smile, more genuine than usual, and a sheepish laugh. "Yeah, I'm all nasty now," he jokes, squinting as she swipes her thumb over him. A lightness rises in his chest.

She bids that they leave, and Gerry doesn't protest. It is as the lady commands. A hand extends to gesture to the door. "Back to yours, then?"

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cyansoldier

Carolina lingers, as if testing the space. Taking advantage of proximity to gleam details that might have otherwise gone unnoticed. Then she peels away from his chest to make confidently toward the door.

"It's a long walk," She warns, intent on dragging him along anyway, and made obvious by the way she looks expectantly over one shoulder. "I live in the middle of nowhere. Farmland." Her brows rise, "You up for a hike?"

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"What, you're not gonna carry me?"

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cyansoldier

She stops, turns around.

"Is that a challenge? I could walk five laps around this whole island wearing you like a backpack."

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Gerry looks her dead in the eye with all the seriousness of a doctor telling someone they have a terminal illness. "Bridal style."

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cyansoldier

Okay, maybe bridal style isn't ideal for carrying weight long distances, but there's no way she's chickening out now. Not with Gerry staring at her like he's got bees in his mouth. And anyway, she's strong enough. Even if she's a little drunk.

"Fine."

Carolina meanders her way over to him, eyes him up and down a little pointedly, then scoops him up in well-muscled arms. One hand splays across his back. Heat radiates from him. She tries not to think about it. Just walk.

"Better start rehearsing your vows now."

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Feet lifting off the ground, Gerry cackles. He didn't expect her to go for it but he commits to the bit anyways, arms looping around her shoulders. "Lessee, sentimental or funny?"

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cyansoldier

Gerry’s laughter, giddy and unrestrained, grates her nerves for all the wrong reasons. Again, Carolina insists on ignoring it. No point in acknowledging nothing— and this is nothing.

She’s carried dozens of soldiers like this. All he needs now is a few bullet holes in him.

She hoists Gerry once or twice to adjust her grip, then starts the long trek home.

“You have an actual response? Mm… Sentimental, then funny. I want both.”

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"Mmm," Gerry hums, thoughtfully. "Let's see."

"When I met you, you seemed like you were barely restraining yourself from hauling me across the counter and killing me. At first glance, you seemed like just a surly, fresh-off-the-boat fighty type who didn't wanna be here and might not even last. So when I somehow managed to annoy you into liking me, I was surprised. Moreover, I was pleased with myself, 'cause it meant I'd get to see more of you," he intones in the manner of a speech. He gazes into the distance as he thinks out his words, partially skyward.

"And now I'm here, marrying you under the sunset on our birthday. Funny how life works. But I'm not complaining. Not just 'cause you'd hit me if I did," Gerry teases, looking up at her. "Thanks for being the prettiest thing to ever want to kick my ass. Of which there have been many."

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cyansoldier

Every new sentiment is somehow worse than its predecessor. She can't fathom how he does it. They collect like cars piling one on top of the next on a city freeway, thoughtful monologue of blaring horns, runaway tires and mass casualties. She's mortified. Feels laid out across the pavement.

Carolina thinks about dropping him flat on his ass.

She thinks about bidding him goodbye and sending him off in the opposite direction, never to see him again.

She considers the horror of him— Gerry goddamn Keay, cryptic, scrawny, shoddy dye-job, covered in tattoos and cloaked in black and so, so far from the military meat-heads who she might have entertained otherwise— in the same awful, chrome-and-glass room as her father, poorly indulging his Southern traditionalism.

And what, exactly, are your intentions Mistah Keay? He'd ask in his slack-jaw drawl, and Gerry would respond with something crass or stupid or both. Probably get himself killed.

He's looking at her again. She wishes he wouldn't do that. Her face is a clenched fist.

"That's all very sweet, Gerry," She says, indulging in his stupid game of pretend before she can tell herself not to. "I'm touched." There's a lowness to her voice, as if she'll turn on him at any moment. "We can consummate the union by never speaking about it again. How's that sound?"

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Gerry snorts, shaking his head. "You started it," he teases. "Don't dish it out if you can't take it."

Easy to pretend it's a joke. Especially when this feels like rejection. That's fine, though. She's a friend. They're friends. Gerry is fortunate to even have those, especially in such abundance. What he had before was his mother, and Gertrude Robinson, and those fucking Hunters. Beyond that, he only ever knew monsters for more than ten minutes.

Cecil was an exception. Lightning in a bottle. A bottle Gerry let crack. He cannot be trusted with another, even if he wasn't being violently shot down dead by the look on her face.

If Gerry knew what she was thinking, he'd tell her exactly how he'd handle her father. He played the role of "polite young man who just happens to be alternative" for George Stacy flawlessly until he was given a reason not to, back during the too-brief run of the Visitor's Center. Gwen, his shop girl, like a daughter to him, deserved far better than the blame and disrespect thrust upon her by her ignorant cop father, and Gerry told him so. Politely at first, then violently. His own father, long dead, was one of the ghosts haunting that Visitor's Center as well. Gerry thinks, entirely separately, of how warmly the man might have welcomed Carolina into their family. Considering Gerry's mother murdered me, I'd say he got his taste in women from me, so you're welcome! And they'd both groan with embarrassment.

"I s'pose you've suffered my commitment to the bit long enough! You can let me down."

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cyansoldier

She lets him down. Something like dread settle in her stomach where there had once been glowing embers. Cool night air hits Carolina's front and her temperature drops steeply. She's never been good at these things. No use in pretending. The UNSC soldier boys that had steeled themselves enough to approach her were left running with tails between legs. They were distractions. Irritations. She was smarter than to fall for their sweet words. Knew they'd call her a bitch in the inevitable aftermath. No, she kept her head on her shoulders and worked hard.

Now, she kicks herself for dropping something she hadn't realized she'd been holding onto.

They walk quietly. Her's is a clenching silence. His, loose and cool. Cobbled streets break down into dirt roads; city housing into cropped hills. They roll out into fields and small pastures where animals graze, pink and orange light sprawling across their bowed heads and backs. She points to a calf which trips over its own gangly legs and springs back to galloping. 'Looks kind of like you'.

The dirt path slopes down, and on the horizon is a quaint, if somewhat run-down farmhouse with a strawberry field flanking its side.

"That one's mine."

Carolina slows her gait and takes ahold of his hand.

"Careful. It gets slippery."

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