sixthiterationlogs | [MINGLE] Scout's Honor

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[MINGLE] Scout's Honor

WHERE: Hot Springs
WHEN: 21 Sept, after sunset
OPEN TO: ALL - MINGLE
WARNINGS: Please warn in your subject line as needed
NOTES: Details found here

It's been a strange, rough couple of months for our intrepid villagers — Bunkers, superpowers and clones, oh my! Perhaps the Observers are sympathetic to their plight, or maybe they just have a peculiar sense of humor. At any rate, they've set up a gathering space chalk full of summer camp goodness, no strings attached. Not that anyone knows that part.

Just before sunset, a cheery message pops up on wrist devices all across the settlement and beyond. The instructions seem simple enough, although one does have to wonder at what dubious gift awaits them all after everything is said and done.

Marshmallows are on the house, so grab yourself a stick, strap on a sash and get to roasting, villagers. Skinny dipping, sing-alongs and friendship bracelets optional.

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The past few weeks have been... Well, they have been a series of events, haven't they? Kate didn't understand all the brooding that had happened earlier, something about clones, whatever they may be, but the other things had troubled her more. The lists. The damn lists.

The lists with her brother's name. Possibly even brothers' names. She can still feel the frantic despair of where is Ned, where is he, I must get to him, is that Dan's name? Where are they? but she is trying not to let it overwhelm her. Particularly not as her husband has been so shaken at seeing the name of his cousin, the woman to whom he'd been a devoted guard for most of his life. It's more to do with Benedict than any sense of wanting something cheerful that has Kate arriving at the site. He needs to have something distract him, so here she's dragged him. Prodded him. However it is to be described.

Once there, Kate looks around, unsure which part of the set-up confuses her more.

"What are the sashes for?" she asks no one in particular.

Benedict has never been one prone to melancholy.

The warriorborn are, as a general rule, the type to focus far better on the present moment than on something abstract in the future or the past, and it's a personality trait that has served him well for most of his life. It has kept him from impossible ambition, has allowed him to remain attentive when situations are dull or tedious, and made it much easier for him to sink into the meditative tranquility he'd been taught at the Temple.

That tranquility has been hard to achieve lately.

He feels guilty for how useless he's been since the list of names had been discovered, how little he's helped his wife deal with her own grief and fear at seeing the names of her family, which is why he's allowed himself to be dragged along to this gathering, despite the fact that all he really wants to do is to lie down and sleep.

"I doubt any of us know," he replies dully, eyeing the brown fabric and clearly dismissing it as unimportant. "Why would They deign to tell us? Far better to keep us all wondering, don't you think?"

Benedict's always been the calmer of the two. Certainly, never the one to brood and obsess over things. No, that's Kate. Had been Kate. Still is Kate, except now she's had company and if there is one thing to stir her out of selfish obsessing, it is someone she loves needing her.

She isn't aiming to cheer him up - that seems disrespectful of his bond to his cousin if nothing else - but at least, maybe, distract. A little. Or at least stir him.

"There are others who are wearing the sashes," she points out, but mildly. Then she lets her mouth twist into a wry, cynical smile. "Yes, wondering does seem to be more the style. Let us all scramble after clues like we're in a piece of detective fiction."

Edited 2018-09-21 04:35 (UTC)

For a moment, he considers wearing one of the sashes, as seems to be their intended purpose. Kate's right: there are many people around them who are sliding them on to lie across their chests, seemingly familiar with them at least in theory. But Benedict doesn't see the point, and besides, he thinks they're rather ugly.

"I was never one for fiction." He considers leaving it at that, but the guilt that's been nipping at him lately nips a little harder, and he forces himself to continue. "At this point, I'd prefer the poetry I was forced to memorize in school over anything involving any sort of detectives."

Last time she wore something that their captors provided for her, it was a sheriff's badge and all she got in return was some insensible clothing. The boots she appreciates , and the jacket is stylish, but the 'jeggings' as Mr Barnes had called them? She's not sure she wants to risk what the powers that be would give her this time.

At least the sashes could be used as bandages if it all turns to a bloodbath. Or scarves, for any chillier weather.

Benedict seems to pause mid-way through his statement, but then he continues and she gives him a little smile for it. Thank you.

"Now you see, love, poetry is a versatile, useful sort of thing. Although bein' forced to memorize it does sound a bit ghastly, dependin' on your teachers' tastes."

Kate turns her head and smiles up at him, and he feels both appreciative of her gesture and embarrassed that she feels it's necessary. Has he really been that bad, as of late?

(Yes. Yes, he has.)

Benedict might still feel the need to obey strict rules of propriety that most of the other habble residents find baffling, but even those personal rules of conduct don't stop him from sliding his arm around his wife's back and ducking his head to kiss her cheek, both as a thanks of his own for her smile and the effort she expended getting him to come here, and as an apology for how difficult he's been.

"Most of it was horrifically boring. Though I have grown to appreciate the sentimental ones a bit more now that I'm older."

"Ah, yes, because you are so old and wise now," she teases back, relieved. The kiss, the slide of his arm around her back, all that says far more than the actual conversation they are having. And she's grateful for it.

"I've read some about the learning of the upper-classes, and I don't wonder that the teachers choose such boring things. What you need is some who is all passionate 'bout it. And poems with some life in 'em."

Still, it all gives her some ideas.

"Do you remember them still? Those poems you're now fond of?"

Edited 2018-09-23 07:27 (UTC)

“Don’t forget, sweetling, ten years ago I was sure I was destined to become a monk.”

It’s hard to remember the boy he’d been at thirteen, but he does remember very clearly the surety he felt when he first saw the Temple and met the monks living there. Never would that boy have considered the fact that one day, he’d have renounced his vows, would have served as a soldier, would have found his way to the Surface. “I would never have believed you then if you told me I would be married by now.”

He arches one tawny eyebrow down at her when she asks if he can remember any of them, wondering idly just where her brain is taking off to, but he shrugs agreeably and nods. “Some of them, I think. I liked the Auroran ones best, but they can feel a little clunky when translated. Why?”

She has respect for monks and nuns, of course. And her Ben is a wonderful, kind-hearted man who she was sure would have adapted well. But there weren't all that many kind-hearted men in the world, and for him to dedicate himself to God and vows still strikes her as something of a waste. As if God was greedy, keeping the good people to Himself.

She doesn't say that. But she thinks it, and maybe the quirk of her smile gives an indication of what she's thinking.

"Nothin' serious, I promise you. Just.... It might be nice to hear some of them, in the evenings. Be somethin' a little different." A way to pass the time, here in this place with no instruments and few books.

She'd even consider something in the Inn, all regular and involving people, although she's not sure if the culture of oration and poetry is current with most of her fellow villagers.

At this point in their relationship, Benedict has grown accustomed enough — not used to; he doubts he'll ever get used to his Kate — to the way Kate praises his apparent good qualities, that if she voiced that thought aloud, all he might do is blush faintly and glance away.

The tilt of her smile gives him a hint as to what she's thinking, and he squeezes her about the waist gently.

For a moment, he's silent, looking at the fire and the people around it, before he ducks his head again and murmurs into her hair:

"This, I say. This and this. The way her hair looked in summer sun. Her face when she ran. Her eyes, solemn as a Cat at lessons. This and this and this. So many moments of happiness, crowding forward."

Upon seeing the message, Bobo honestly considers hightailing it to the farthest place he can find from all of this. Except that he knows if he wants to make all of this works, he's going to have to try. Damn but the idea of being social in a place where he's not the one they look up to is hard.

Sucking it up though, he heads out for the campsite. He looks damn skeptical, and the fact that he's wearing a long fur coat over red scrub pants and a grey tee definitely isn't likely to help him fit in. Not that he's looking to.

Pausing on the edge of the field, hands on his hips, he looks around with a frown. "Shit, really kumbaya isn't it?" Shaking his head as he hears someone near him talk.

And hating that he knows the answer.

He'll blame it on having watched a child grow up and maybe checking into things that were normal for kid. Not that anything in Purgatory is normal, nor was Waverly ever a scout but...

"They're so a bunch of brats can try and prove they're better than one another by proving they can do stuff their friends can't and getting like patches for it." That's accurate, right? "So basically they want us to play nice at pretend camp while like Bigfoot sneaks up on us or something."

He's one of the newer people, this man. She can't even place his name, which for the village's self-appointed innkeeper is a damnable absence of attention. Still, she can't help but feel at least slightly well-disposed towards him with that get-up. As a woman who insists on dressing as close to proper as she can, with long skirts and a corset under her blouse (although the latter is more practical than most give her credit for), and never mind what anyone else thinks.

Before she can ask what 'kumbaya' means, the man continues. She snorts faintly at the end. "Well, that's somethin' we're all used to here. They do this, throw us parties and give us presents. Our captors are the most fickle creatures.

But camp is somethin' new. Sounds like so much make-busy for children that not got enough proper work to do."

Bobo doesn't expect the people behind this to be generous, to do anything for them. So this whole camping party really has him confused. What even if the point?

Shifting, turning his attention away from the summer camp program to the woman speaking, who had answered without thinking. He talks a lot without thinking. Taking his time looking over the outfit she wears. His posture changes slightly, still a man of his time even if those times have changed on him over and over again.

"They're cultivating some Stockholm games, I would imagine," he says, even cleaning up his language a bit. She's not like the woman in Purgatory now, and he can kind of remember his manners for a lady. As it suits. "Make us feel thankful to them. Especially given, as you said, it's not like there's a shortage of things to be done around, so why else encourage us to play?"

That slight well-disposition, mostly unconscious, deepens a little as he straightens. She hasn't always been shown respect in her life - too poor, too Catholic, too much from a line of Irish convicts who insist on continuing to steal - but there are standards for most people. Standards so few people here know, leaving her adrift and clinging to what she knows. She's been here for so long, but habits are habits, and she still responds to the posture and manners of others.

"Not heard of Stokholm games," Kate says, giving him a curious look. "But, aye, I'd agree with the makin' us feel grateful. If it's somethin' like a party, we can use the food and drink over the next few days. Helps stretch out our stores." Which is good. She hadn't put in place the daily meals at the Inn just to fill in the time: food is important. Making sure she and her fellow captives don't starve is very important.

"It's because of that it's hard not to agree to play, if you catch me meaning, sir," she goes on. "We rely on their gifts because we haven't managed to be self-sufficient here yet. Too many of us, and mostly folks from the cities or that fancy future where no one farms."

There was a time when Bobo would never have spoken to a lady as he did. This place reminds him of those times, even if he's torn between the nature of what he is and who he's been. Falling into it though without thinking as he let's his hands fall from his hips, moving a step closer to let him lower his voice to a more considerate level.

"Stockholm syndrome." His nose wrinkles, making a face. "Had the words thrown at me a bit lately. It's making you want to care about your captors. Or, you know, you could actually come to care of them," he points out. Sure. He's talking about this place. Totally nothing personal.

He hadn't considered the idea of gathering up the items given for later, and he gives her an appraising look and a nod. "Shame they didn't put out hot dogs or anything more nutritious than marshmallows. Though they'd be good on those potato things growing out in the woods. Like that weird holiday thing with yams and marshmallows," he says, half to himself, having only just considered that.

That gets a chuckle, nodding once more. "Oh yes, Ma'am. I definitely understand. Don't play along and who knows what they start taking away. So either play along or suffer." Making a face then, glancing around. "Even now I still live in a place pretty far out, but I've lived without anything but what the community catches or grows."

"Ah," Kate says, and there's a wealth of meaning in that simple syllable. She'd have thought it just common sense to find shared ground with a captor, in the interests of getting them on your side. But just as equally, she can see the disdain for any captive who falls for it too much. The Kellys are a proud clan, after all. Proud and distrustful of authority.

"We're doin' much better now. Taken us a few years, with nearly everyone droppin' here without knowing anythin' practical 'bout food or how to get it. And we have a collection of leather and furs for the winter. Stores can get thin over winter. Unless in your livin' far out you've found some salt?"

She can be hopeful. She is, in fact, hopeful. Not with any great expectation, mind, but there's a trace of hope.

Now she's saying things that have his attention. Many have talked about being here, but not for that kind of time, not for years. Shifting a bit closer, not invading her space but wanting to show the interest he suddenly feels at that admission.

"Years? Really? No one else speaks of having been here that long. Just how long have you been here, wherever here is?" He shakes his head, still wanting so many answers and suddenly realizing he may have found a source for them.

"Most seem to be from a time with only supermarkets and catering, and I'm curious to see what's going to happen come winter." Pausing only a moment and then... "I assume those winters are fairly harsh? I'm used to it where I'm from."

All of it. Even if it's been a lot of decades since he's had to care about making a living, but he's capable of it. He nods though.

"Already looking into tanning hides and doing the best I can to preserve things I kill. As well as gathering the tubers and such. Stew will get a person through a lot of cold winters," he says with a shrug.

The lists are, as far as Phryne's concerned, nothing more than someone's attempt to get under their skin. The fact that it also happens to be working only makes it worse. She doesn't (entirely) mind being here, for all that she has a sneaking suspicion that she's not going to be going home at any point soon. But Dot never deserved anything like this. Never deserved to be dragged into whatever strange hell this is, and the fact that she's not still here is deeply concerning besides. With any luck it simply means that she's back where she belongs and will be waiting when Phryne manages to return. On the other hand there's part of her mind that can't help but say what if she's not. What if she's trapped somewhere, lost and alone. Or worse.

Still, for all that she can't entirely get the thought out of her mind, she's aware that dwelling too much on the matter isn't going to help any. And if there's going to be a bonfire besides, well. There are worse ways to spend an evening.

It's Kate's accent that catches her attention. A flicker of home, in a place where she might not otherwise have expected to find it.

"I would assume for the badges that were mentioned. Although I would have expected a little more instruction as to how one is meant to earn them in the first place."

Kate has been avoiding Miss Fisher. She'd caught wind of her accent, and for all the sudden, almost unbearable wave of homesickness, she'd promptly taken herself off to be busy elsewhere. Which is an easy thing to do for her. There's always something else that needs doing. Cleaning. Cooking. Scrubbing floors, either at the Inn or at her own little home. The chickens and rabbits to tend to. Preservation and farming and oh goodness, it hadn't been hard at all.

Australian means home. Australian means that Miss Fisher might, if she's anywhere close to Kate in time, know who she is. Or heard the rumours. Even an upper-class lady like this one. And Ned's name had been on the list...

At least now she can introduce herself as Mrs Sorellin rather than Miss Kelly. It's not a betrayal, it's just common sense.

"Now, miss, why'd our generous captors do anythin' so clear as give us instruction?" she comments, all wry tartness. "Though it seems some of the others have got an idea 'bout what it all means."

She's not exactly as upper class as she might seem. Or at least, she hasn't been born to it, but either way she very much does know the rumors. Rumors which have become rather more than, by the time period she calls home, but just at the moment she hasn't the slightest idea that the Kate Kelly she'd spotted on the list is both that one, much less the young woman she happens to be speaking to. As far as she's concerned, she's simply speaking to a fellow Australian, and that's enough for her.

(Anything else can, and likely will, wait at least until after introductions have been had.)

"I would have said out of the goodness of their hearts, but after some of the things that have happened lately... I'm not entirely sure they care about that sort of thing." Which isn't the most comfortable of things to consider, and never mind actually admitting to it. But given what little she's seen so far, it certainly doesn't strike her as being an unreasonable assumption.

"As for the sashes," she continues on after a moment, "they do bear a similarity to the ones worn by Girl Guides, although I can't say whether or not that was intentionally done."

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[MINGLE] Scout's Honor

Kate Kelly | OTA

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