Reason says I should have died three years ago... | OTA

[thegreatexperiment]

WHO: Sam Moon
WHERE: The Inn's kitchen
WHEN: January 8 (Sam's birthday)
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: Language, rumination on violence and death

---

When you didn't get older, birthdays kind of felt like a joke. At least, that had always been Sam's feeling on the matter. She wasn't really sure where she stood right now, considering the situation. But all she really wanted was to spend the entirety of her birthday in a blanket fort, watching all three of the original Space Wars movies on her iPad. Unfortunately, as so often seemed to be the case, the fates were conspiring against her. Actually, she had pretty much come to the conclusion that it was somehow her own fucking fault she'd been abducted and tossed into this Skinner Box, but Sam had a habit of passing off blame when she could. So it was obviously the fucking fates.

And Karen, of course. She loved blaming Karen for things. And visions of the night they met--her "other birthday," as Karen euphemistically called it--kept going through her head.

She rolled onto her back. The slight motion made her feel unreasonably sick. She narrowed her eyes, trying to make sense of the whirling colors above her, but she couldn't focus. It was like the whole world had been smudged with Vaseline. And something wet was starting to seep into her hair and the cotton of her tee shirt. Sam tried to lift a hand to touch her forehead, but she couldn't.

More sounds rang out above her, like a symphony of violence. But a face suddenly filled her vision, coming into sharp focus. It was the woman who she'd briefly made eye contact with, the one with the short hair. "Samantha?" Her voice echoed. "Samantha, can you hear me?"

"What's going on?" Sam mumbled, not entirely sure she'd actually spoken out loud.

"An excuse to air past grudges," the woman said. She brisky swept Sam's wig off of her head, freezing momentarily at the sight of her red hair beneath. Whatever surprised her, she shook it off quickly, probing at the damage to her forehead. Sam let out a yelp of pain as blackness flashed across her eyes. "Your cranium has been shattered," the woman said. "You're going to bleed into your brain."

To banish the thoughts--really, all of her thoughts, Sam wandered into the kitchen. In the last few weeks she'd become increasingly obsessed with trying to figure out how to build a still. They had potatoes after all. Potato vodka couldn't be that hard. Applied chemistry wasn't her area of expertise, but she figured the challenge would only help keep her mind off of...things.

So her birthday would be spent in the kitchen. Quietly humming It's My Party by Leslie Gore under her breath, she experimented with whatever glasses, tubes, and burners she could rig up. In between each attempt, she would pause to write up a full debrief in the little notebook Jude had given her. Occasionally, birthday cakes and balloons would sneak into the margins of her notes.

Comments

[notsocommon]

Helen went to the kitchen at least once or twice a day, whether it was to drop something off or to get a bite of something to eat for herself so when she saw Samantha there with what appeared to be the better part of a jury-rigged chemical apparatus set up, her interest was piqued. She had played with her own attempts at distilling, mostly medication, but she had no idea what Samantha was up to at the moment.

"This looks like it might be promising," Helen said brightly, waving a hand toward the glassware. "Though I don't know what it's promising, exactly."

[thegreatexperiment]

Sam glanced up when the woman walked in, although it took her another half a minute to remember her name. Somehow, she'd sort of become both 'Mary Poppins' and 'Soap Lady' in Sam's addled mind. But, no. It was Helen. Sam didn't know where the recall came from, but she was grateful.

Very, very few people appreciated Samantha-given nicknames, in her experience.

"This," she said, patting one of the more stable decanters with her hand, "is either going to make potato vodka or blow me up. I haven't quite figured out which it's gonna be yet."

Nor which she preferred, frankly.

[notsocommon]

"Vodka would be admirable. I would drink homemade rotgut over nothing at all," Helen said. "And the production of alcohol could have other, more medical applications. But I'm a firm believer in having a stiff drink every once in a while."

She preferred whiskey, when she could get it, but this place was notoriously stingy with gifts. She looked over the apparatus for a moment and tried to see if she saw any obvious mistakes. Not being intimately familiar with the distilling of alcohol, none came to mind.

"Have you ever done this before?"

[thegreatexperiment]

"Built a still? No. Blown myself up? There have been a few close calls." Both of the literal and metaphorical kind.

She'd shot herself in the foot plenty too.

Sam gave Helen a lopsided grin. "If I get this thing to work, I'm going to totally pretend that I built it for the medical application. No one but you will know the truth. I just wanna get plowed."

Not like anyone was gonna check her for ID. Although, now that she thought about it, today was, in fact, her twenty-first birthday.

Happy fucking birthday.

[notsocommon]

“I’m hardly going to tell anyone. There’s no reason for the amount of marijuana that Mark’s cultivated at our house,” Helen said. She indulged from time to time, remembering fonder days from the 1960s, and she knew of others who did as well. There was no shame in it as long as it wasn’t to excess.

“What seems to be the issue with it? Have you managed to get any sort of product to come from it yet or is it getting stuck somewhere earlier in the process?”

[thegreatexperiment]

Sam frowned a little. There was pot and she didn't know about it? That felt like a betrayal, somehow. Even though she didn't fucking talk to anyone, so there was no one around for her to feel betrayed by. But shit. If she'd known about that, she would be smoking it up faster than a hippie at Woodstock.

Anything to escape.

She'd have to look into that later.

"The passages are clear," she said, turning back to the still. "But so far, I'm either getting water that tastes vaguely potato-y, or a liquid that I'm pretty sure you could use to clean silverware." She actually flushed a little at the admission. "Applied chemistry isn't my field."

[notsocommon]

Chemistry had always been John's bailiwick but Helen knew enough about it to try and do something about the issue. There had to be some sort of starter they need to make, something that could then be fermented. Then again, was liquor at all like wine? This was one of those times she wished she had a book.

"How long did you let it ferment before you distilled it? How much yeast did you use? I feel like the issue is probably in the start of the process and not your distillery, for as much as I know about the process."

[thegreatexperiment]

There was something terribly comfortable and wonderful about being able to talk shop with someone. For all of their many faults and flaws--and there had been many--the Ordo Dracul had given that to Sam. And she missed it.

The thought was almost enough to make her smile.

She flipped back to the beginning of her experimentation in her notebook and turned it for Helen to see. "I've got the stats on each of my trials here. I have a feeling yeast might be the problem. I've been trying to be stingy with it in general. Except for attempt number 3. I think I went overboard there. Look."

[majorlyugh]

Hot on the heels of suddenly and miraculously getting random bits of electricity at the cabin, Major hasn't been wandering around the village as much as he used to. He's still horrifically lacking in television and console-related entertainment, but the fact that he can see at night thanks to friggin' lights, make coffee, and keep stuff stored in the fridge has caused him to almost refuse to leave the cabin, just to marvel at the wonders that shouldn't really be wonders given that he's from Seattle, 2016. After spending an unutterable amount of time basking in the glory of their new gifts, Major finally drags himself from the cabin towards the Inn, just to see how things are going.

Seems like the Inn's gotten its own bit of electricity, which is pretty dang cool. He decides to check out the food stores, grab himself a snack before trying to venture out and see what he can manage to catch (while also not shattering his psyche over killing another creature, something he's still battling), when he catches sight of Sam. He'd know that hair anywhere, even if she wasn't the only person in the village with blue hair.

"Hey!" he exclaims, full of his usual cheer. "Haven't seen you in a while. I also haven't heard that song you were mumbling to yourself like a crazy person in a while. Are you having a party?"

[thegreatexperiment]

Ah, Major. Sam had sort of been avoiding him, since the half-naked incident at her place. But, of course, considering how little Sam ventured out and about or had anything to do with other people, her avoiding was pretty much just another Tuesday.

She gave him an uneasy smile, only just glancing up from her notes, before burying herself in them again. "Just a pity party," she muttered, drawing a big, thick X through one of the birthday cakes in the margins. "If you need any of this stuff, let me know."

Although Major didn't exactly strike her as a cook.

[majorlyugh]

Major opted to grab a couple of pieces of jerky-ed mystery meat, which he rips a piece off of and begins to chew as he draws closer just in time to see her cross out a doodle of what appears to be a birthday cake. He chews thoughtfully for a couple of moments while his brain catches up with everything, eyes slowly going wide like that sloth in the Zootopia DMV scene (which Major's never seen in its entirety; he'd only seen previews for it).

He points to the birthday cake doodle and taps it a few times with his finger.

"Wait a second! Is it your birthday today?!"

[thegreatexperiment]

There was just something so adorably basic about Major. Sam couldn't quite put her finger on what it was--that would have required social skills which she desperately lacked. But it was there and it was endearing, as much as it was frustrating.

He reminded her of a golden retriever, for some reason.

"So they tell me," Sam replied, moving down the table to the other end of the still, to check the burner. "I mean, I was there, but I don't really remember it. Because. Ew."

Ew on so many, many levels.

[majorlyugh]

"Well, I mean, right. No one remembers being born." A pause, then a shudder of disgust. "At least I hope they don't. What a traumatic experience for most babies." He isn't as grossed out about the whole idea of giving birth as Sam appears to be, but it's easy enough to feel that way since he'll never have to deal with it aside from snipping a cord someday, if he ever helps make a kid. Which .. well, the thought of that is a little too overwhelming right now, being stuck in this village, but he and Liv had talked about it when they had been engaged. They'd both been clear that they each wanted to start a family eventually.

Life had different plans for them both, of course. Strange hostage-taking village aside.

"But heyyy!" he says, putting hands on her shoulders and gently rocking her. "Let's celebrate or something! I mean, we can't do what I'd normally suggest for a birthday, but it doesn't mean we can't celebrate it. Unless you're not into celebrating your birthday for - whatever reason. Personal, religious, whatever. In which case, I take it back."

[thegreatexperiment]

It had been so long since anyone had touched Sam, beyond a simple handshake, that she was a little bit startled. And this time, it had nothing to do with the fact that it was Major, aka, Hottie McHotterson. It was just a startlingly human feeling.

Vampires weren't huggers.

Sam tried to blink and swallow back the surprise.

But she wasn't much of an actor.

"Um, what, exactly, would you normally suggest, out of curiosity?"

[majorlyugh]

"Oh .. I, uh. Sorry," Major says, withdrawing his hands at her surprise. He gives her a sheepishly apologetic sort of look as he tucks them into his jean pockets and instead rocks a little on his feet. "Ah, well. It depends on the person, but it'd involve alcohol, drunken karaoke probably, ridiculous birthday treats, and going out to dinner somewhere. Either somewhere ridiculous or somewhere really nice. It'd be birthday person's choice."

[thegreatexperiment]

Sam lowered her eyes a little, trying super hard not to blush. But, of course, humans didn't really have control over how their blood flowed.

Stupid human bodies.

"Well," she said coyly, "if I could pick where to have my birthday dinner, it would be at a Dave and Buster's. Run the board of appetizers. And one of those drinks they have with a plastic, glow-in-the-dark squid crawling out over the side. And then all of the games. All of them."

This could be interesting, they're birthday buddies

[pretendtoneedme]

While the primary division of anything Clint hunted or scavenged went to feeding and fueling the house he shared with Wanda, Bev, and Jean-Luc, anything extra went into the Inn's supply for the common good. On very rare days when he didn't have anything else to do, he'd even help take a turn in the kitchen, but his talents were really best used elsewhere and so that was only once a month or so. This day found him hauling in more ends of logs and bits of twig that could be used as tinder for the fire, as well as some of the meat they hadn't really needed but others could use. He'd intended to put it all away and go back out in search of more stuff again, but he was brought up short by the sight of all the crap laid out in what was probably some sort of order? He wasn't entirely sure about that, because it didn't follow any pattern he'd ever heard of.

"What is this, chemistry class throwback?"

[thegreatexperiment]

Sam glanced up from her work. She knew the guy's face, in a vague sort of way, from seeing him around the Skinner Box, but she had to admit, she had no idea who he was. Sloppy work, she supposed. Avery would have been horrified at her lack of note-taking as of late. But then again, Avery wasn't here. And she was really accountable to no one.

"Sure," she said. "If you made vodka in your chemistry class. In which case, I really gotta know what the hell kind of high school you went to."

Although, given her luck as of late, the still would probably turn into some kind of lame pipe bomb instead.

And not even one powerful enough to blast a hole in this stupid reality.

[enterprisingheart]

It's mostly chance that has Picard in the Inn, at the moment, much less particularly near the kitchen - he might know how to cook, but he's never been particularly inclined to actually do so either. He'd be willing to lend a hand, yes. But just at the moment it doesn't really seem like there's any need to. Plus he has to admit that most of the dishes he's most familiar with tend to require ingredients that don't seem to be in easy supply in the villages, and hoping that the Observers will be kind enough to grant him the seeds to start a supply isn't precisely the best way to do meal planning.

That said, the tubes and burners that Sam has set up are definitely - if loosely - familiar. True, more as something that's common to chemistry than the creation of alcohol, but to be fair, the sort of set up she has isn't really the sort of thing that wine-making tends to require. But it's interesting enough to have him heading in her direction at the very least.

"That's... classical music, isn't it?"

Admittedly, he'd be hard-pressed to name the actual song she happens to be humming, but going by the overall sound of it, it certainly matches to some of the other things that he'd consider classical - although to be fair he is looking at it from some centuries on down the road.

[thegreatexperiment]

Sam glanced up when Baldy came in, but didn't think much of it until he addressed her. And then she felt a choke rise in her throat.

Classical music?

"Well, maybe from your perspective," she said. "Although, if anyone ever said that to my mother, she'd probably threaten him with the remote control and launch into a long lecture about how she wasn't quite that old yet."

Ann Lyons had never been proud or vain. But she occasionally had certain get-off-my-lawn qualities that made everyone giggle and squirm. And music was a particularly touchy subject for her. Right up there with splitting infinitives and wearing jeans to the theatre.

Sam sat up straight, cracking her neck to the side. "It's My Party by Leslie Gore. Early 1960s, I think."

[enterprisingheart]

"I'll keep it in mind."

Admittedly, he doesn't really expect that he will run into Sam's mother at any point. But that doesn't mean that it's any less possible than most anything else, either. Especially when the Observers very clearly have some sort of link to Sam's world - and any of the other worlds represented in the village besides, even if he doesn't have the first clue as to the nature of that link. Simply that it has to exist, otherwise they (presumably) wouldn't be able to draw anyone into the village, regardless of where it happens to be located, and whether or not this is universe that anyone would be familiar with.

(He doubts it is, to be honest. But he doesn't have a whole lot to go on either.)

But there's not much sense in continuing to dwell on that, and so he turns back to the rest of Sam's comment.

"I can't say I'm terribly familiar with that particular song."

Or, for that matter, most music of that era. He knows it exists, of course. But that's not really the same, in the long run.

[thegreatexperiment]

"It was a big deal, back in the day," she said. Her junior high music teacher had had a weird thing for the 1960s. And because Sam was Sam, she'd retained a surprising amount of the trivia. "People were so sad about how it ended that they wrote letter after letter to Leslie Gore until she finally wrote a second song to undo it. Which was neither catchy nor all that memorable."

Even Sam didn't know it. Other than something about 'Judy's turn to cry.'

But that may have been the title.

[enterprisingheart]

Given that he's spent a not insignificant amount of familiarizing himself with the works of Shakespeare, he can't really blame Sam for having retained the particular details of this bit of trivia. Or any trivia, to be perfectly honest. It might not be anything that he would have expected, perhaps, but there's hardly any harm in it either - and he can't deny that it is interesting besides. Especially given that he hasn't spent a lot of time looking into the finer details of that particular era of music.

"I'm not surprised. Especially if the ending it was undoing was a more bittersweet one."

To say nothing of the fact that he can't imagine that a song someone wrote simply to appease the people who wanted to have the ending of the previous song undone would have had quite the same emotional depth as the first, even if all the people involved in the song's creation had put in as much effort as they could without it seeming over the top.

[thegreatexperiment]

"Well, life doesn't work that way."

It was a bit of a downer thing to say on her birthday, but that didn't make it any less true. The more distressing part of it all was how much Sam was letting her bitterness get to her.

And Claudette wasn't even here to be the cause of her misery. She had only herself--her horrible, useless, wasted self--to blame.

She cleared her throat, gesturing to the bowl at the end of the table. There was a murky, clear-ish liquid dripping into it. About a pint so far. "You're welcome to sample the product if you like," she said. "But I should warn you that the last batch was pretty much good for nothing except cleaning the tarnish off of silverware..."

[enterprisingheart]

"It doesn't," he agrees, with a somber nod of his own. "I can't blame people for wishing that it did, sometimes, but even in the best of times there are always things that people regret. Things that people wish could be undone and can't. And those losses, those regrets, stick with you, regardless of how long it's been."

Even he has things he regrets. True, he does his best to not dwell on them in the course of his daily life (which is, admittedly, helped by the fact that his daily life is so busy), but that doesn't mean that those losses and regrets are still with him years after they've happened. That whatever failures - or presumed failures - should still be haunting Sam doesn't strike him as the least bit surprising. Nor is it anything that he's going to suggest shouldn't be the case.

"I'm afraid I wouldn't be the best judge of success, if that's what you were looking for? My experience in such things is primarily with the creation of wine, as opposed other sorts of alcohol."

Plus he'd been more interested in the process itself rather than the actual results.

"And even that is something that could be useful? I doubt the Observers would be particularly inclined to replace the silverware in the Inn simply because it had gotten a little tarnished."

Sure, it might not be what Sam had been going for. But that doesn't mean that it might not still be useful.