RE: The Great Belligerency [Round 4: Static]
05-27-2013, 04:40 AM
There was a saying among the Rebuilders: Don’t mess with the cook. Society wasn’t quite shit, at least not as shit as before, but resources were still sparse, good cooks even sparser. Not a lot of good cooks had been well-equipped to deal with the apocalypse. The ones that survived, then, were tough and probably didn’t appreciate getting pushed around. They also had very ready access to the food supply. Of course, nobody would ever accuse Whistler of being the type to resort to poison or anything. But better safe than sorry, right?
Furthermore, nobody would ever accuse Whistler of harboring Outsiders illegally in an undisclosed location, ‘wasting’ resources on them because he felt the general principle of ‘kill them all’ was a tad too strict and could be reduced to ‘kill most of them.’
Sometimes the things that appeared were deadly. Dangerous. Mindlessly destructive. Sometimes, he had realized, they were terrified. He probably would be too if he had been randomly teleported among alien beings or spontaneously created apropos of nothing or whatever the shit was going on. And ‘sides, some of them could be real useful in the whole rebuilding project. Taking care of them was exhausting. But wasn’t he part of the Rebuilders ‘cause he didn’t mind exhausting work in the first place?
He made his way to the kitchen/armory (ready access to weapons; another reason not to piss off the cook) and checked to see if anybody had shoved any artillery into the stove again. But right when he was about to start cooking, the jaunty ring of the bell indicated some arrivals. A pile of soldiers he vaguely recognized squeezed in. That wasn’t very surprising. What was surprising was the figure they were dragging in. Recognizably human, or at least recognizable as a human, but not in any other aspect. This ruled out the possibility that she was someone’s daughter who got into trouble. In which case, she was either a kid who had been roaming the ruins and they only now just found her or…
“Outsider?” said Whistler, and the leader of the group, a heavy-set and wide-shouldered man, only nodded as the rest partially de-armored themselves and sat down, as relaxed as one could get in a place like this.
The girl, the Outsider, just lay on the floor. Not dead, he could see her breathing, but certainly not moving. Maybe sleeping. Somewhere outside, he heard cawing, which was a little strange.
“You didn’t kill her,” Whistler observed, which just served to make the leader’s expression glummer. The cook gave a wry grin to show that his comment wasn’t meant to be judgmental.
The leader took off his helmet and rubbed his head, eyes wandering everywhere except towards faces. “I…was gonna take her to HQ…but then they’d just, y’know,” he said with a deep accent. European, maybe?
“Yeah,” Whistler said. “So why here?”
“I was hopin’ the commander’d be here.”
“She just left for HQ.” Seeing the man’s expression, Whistler added, “But I think I have a solution for you, if you and your friends can keep a secret.”
The leader finally glanced in Whistler’s direction, but only to give a doubting look. “I’m not sure – “
“Look, the solution, it ain’t anything shady – well, maybe shady in that it’s not exactly legal, but it certainly ain’t bad. Not as bad as shooting her in the head. Trust me, you won’t have to worry about anything, Mister…?”
“Sasha,” the leader said, suddenly looking uncomfortable. “Um…I...prefer ‘Miss,’ please…”
“Oh,” said Whistler, his eyes glancing to the rest of the small group, who had very suddenly decided to stare outside the windows instead. “Sorry.”
The restaurant-made-command-center fell into silence before Sasha took it upon herself to cough loudly. “…There’s still the problem of what I’m going to report. I can’t say I neutralized her…none of us used our weapons. HQ’d know I’m lying. I can’t exactly return empty-handed either.”
Whistler, who had tried to maintain easy-going eye contact but failed, noticed something on the back of the too-quiet figure. “Well, you could take that.”
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
When Soft woke up, she immediately noticed the lack of the Narration. Before, she would have been worried. Now, she was relieved. And also a little worried. The second thing she noticed was the lack of an ax. That was more worrying. But she also felt relieved. That was two loads off her back. Her surroundings vied for her attentions less, but eventually she realized that she was surrounded by unfamiliar beings. Also, she was underground. The atmosphere seemed to be lethargic, or maybe melancholic, but that didn’t matter much too her. While strange things watched her with whatever visual systems they happened to have, she asked, “Where’s my stuff?”
“No weapons policy here,” said a middle-aged man she had never seen before. He was wandering around the dank, underground ruins, picking up various cutlery and bowls. Normally, the Narration would start telling her his life story. But this wasn’t a normal situation. “As for that giant book you were lugging around, we…confiscated that too. Hope you don’t mind too much. Y’know, it’s nice to have an Outsider who already knows English,” the man said cheerfully, but Soft ignored him.
Someone else had her book. Someone else had her book.
Actually, she was okay with that. Although whoever had it…they might be in a little bit of trouble. Mere mortal minds couldn’t possibly handle the Narration and all that shit. But that was someone else’s problem now, wasn’t it?
While she thought, the man had been talking the whole time. She tuned in just in time to hear him say, “…and you can call me Mr. Whistler.” In the meantime, one of the creatures made its snuffling way towards her and lay what she supposed could be called a head on her shoulder. Looking from the corner of her eye, she almost mistook it for a very pink and very fleshy mop stuck on a larger very pink and very fleshy mop that was in the generic shape of a small giraffe.
“Aw, don’t mind him. He’s just showing some affection.”
“She,” Soft corrected, catching Mr. Whistler off guard.
“…How d’you know that?”
“Because she introduced herself and is explaining to me that you mean no harm.”
The expression on Mr. Whistler’s face was worryingly joyful and psychotically excited. As Soft stared, she couldn’t help but doubt the consolations of Portia. “You can understand them?”
Being the spirit of fairy tales meant having dominion over all fairy tales. Meaning having knowledge of the tales of different cultures. More importantly, knowledge of other languages. So yes, of course she knew how to talk to different sentient beings, even alien beings, as long as they had some sort of storytelling tradition behind them. And she could have told Mr. Whistler all this.
Instead, she said, “Um.”
Furthermore, nobody would ever accuse Whistler of harboring Outsiders illegally in an undisclosed location, ‘wasting’ resources on them because he felt the general principle of ‘kill them all’ was a tad too strict and could be reduced to ‘kill most of them.’
Sometimes the things that appeared were deadly. Dangerous. Mindlessly destructive. Sometimes, he had realized, they were terrified. He probably would be too if he had been randomly teleported among alien beings or spontaneously created apropos of nothing or whatever the shit was going on. And ‘sides, some of them could be real useful in the whole rebuilding project. Taking care of them was exhausting. But wasn’t he part of the Rebuilders ‘cause he didn’t mind exhausting work in the first place?
He made his way to the kitchen/armory (ready access to weapons; another reason not to piss off the cook) and checked to see if anybody had shoved any artillery into the stove again. But right when he was about to start cooking, the jaunty ring of the bell indicated some arrivals. A pile of soldiers he vaguely recognized squeezed in. That wasn’t very surprising. What was surprising was the figure they were dragging in. Recognizably human, or at least recognizable as a human, but not in any other aspect. This ruled out the possibility that she was someone’s daughter who got into trouble. In which case, she was either a kid who had been roaming the ruins and they only now just found her or…
“Outsider?” said Whistler, and the leader of the group, a heavy-set and wide-shouldered man, only nodded as the rest partially de-armored themselves and sat down, as relaxed as one could get in a place like this.
The girl, the Outsider, just lay on the floor. Not dead, he could see her breathing, but certainly not moving. Maybe sleeping. Somewhere outside, he heard cawing, which was a little strange.
“You didn’t kill her,” Whistler observed, which just served to make the leader’s expression glummer. The cook gave a wry grin to show that his comment wasn’t meant to be judgmental.
The leader took off his helmet and rubbed his head, eyes wandering everywhere except towards faces. “I…was gonna take her to HQ…but then they’d just, y’know,” he said with a deep accent. European, maybe?
“Yeah,” Whistler said. “So why here?”
“I was hopin’ the commander’d be here.”
“She just left for HQ.” Seeing the man’s expression, Whistler added, “But I think I have a solution for you, if you and your friends can keep a secret.”
The leader finally glanced in Whistler’s direction, but only to give a doubting look. “I’m not sure – “
“Look, the solution, it ain’t anything shady – well, maybe shady in that it’s not exactly legal, but it certainly ain’t bad. Not as bad as shooting her in the head. Trust me, you won’t have to worry about anything, Mister…?”
“Sasha,” the leader said, suddenly looking uncomfortable. “Um…I...prefer ‘Miss,’ please…”
“Oh,” said Whistler, his eyes glancing to the rest of the small group, who had very suddenly decided to stare outside the windows instead. “Sorry.”
The restaurant-made-command-center fell into silence before Sasha took it upon herself to cough loudly. “…There’s still the problem of what I’m going to report. I can’t say I neutralized her…none of us used our weapons. HQ’d know I’m lying. I can’t exactly return empty-handed either.”
Whistler, who had tried to maintain easy-going eye contact but failed, noticed something on the back of the too-quiet figure. “Well, you could take that.”
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
When Soft woke up, she immediately noticed the lack of the Narration. Before, she would have been worried. Now, she was relieved. And also a little worried. The second thing she noticed was the lack of an ax. That was more worrying. But she also felt relieved. That was two loads off her back. Her surroundings vied for her attentions less, but eventually she realized that she was surrounded by unfamiliar beings. Also, she was underground. The atmosphere seemed to be lethargic, or maybe melancholic, but that didn’t matter much too her. While strange things watched her with whatever visual systems they happened to have, she asked, “Where’s my stuff?”
“No weapons policy here,” said a middle-aged man she had never seen before. He was wandering around the dank, underground ruins, picking up various cutlery and bowls. Normally, the Narration would start telling her his life story. But this wasn’t a normal situation. “As for that giant book you were lugging around, we…confiscated that too. Hope you don’t mind too much. Y’know, it’s nice to have an Outsider who already knows English,” the man said cheerfully, but Soft ignored him.
Someone else had her book. Someone else had her book.
Actually, she was okay with that. Although whoever had it…they might be in a little bit of trouble. Mere mortal minds couldn’t possibly handle the Narration and all that shit. But that was someone else’s problem now, wasn’t it?
While she thought, the man had been talking the whole time. She tuned in just in time to hear him say, “…and you can call me Mr. Whistler.” In the meantime, one of the creatures made its snuffling way towards her and lay what she supposed could be called a head on her shoulder. Looking from the corner of her eye, she almost mistook it for a very pink and very fleshy mop stuck on a larger very pink and very fleshy mop that was in the generic shape of a small giraffe.
“Aw, don’t mind him. He’s just showing some affection.”
“She,” Soft corrected, catching Mr. Whistler off guard.
“…How d’you know that?”
“Because she introduced herself and is explaining to me that you mean no harm.”
The expression on Mr. Whistler’s face was worryingly joyful and psychotically excited. As Soft stared, she couldn’t help but doubt the consolations of Portia. “You can understand them?”
Being the spirit of fairy tales meant having dominion over all fairy tales. Meaning having knowledge of the tales of different cultures. More importantly, knowledge of other languages. So yes, of course she knew how to talk to different sentient beings, even alien beings, as long as they had some sort of storytelling tradition behind them. And she could have told Mr. Whistler all this.
Instead, she said, “Um.”