sixthiterationlogs | keep that fury deep inside you: primitive weapons plot

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keep that fury deep inside you: primitive weapons plot

WHO: Kira Nerys
WHERE: the Inn
WHEN: Saturday,
OPEN TO: All (August Plot, part 2)
WARNINGS: none at present
STATUS: Open

When Nerys heard about the boxes that Jo and Killian Jones had found, she was surprised. When she heard what was in them, that they were all marked with intent, the surprise lessened, and now was turning into sinking overwhelming tunnel vision in her head, her gut. The physical sensation of knowing, knowing that someone had plans for you, and those plans were likely ugly--oh yes, she knows it. Just because it's familiar, though, doesn't make it something she enjoys by any stretch of the imagination.

No, it's the kind of feeling that Nerys had learned at a very young age to transmute into anger. The kind of anger that fed her family, then the kind of anger that blew up Cardassian weapons depots, then the kind of anger that kept her focused on her job and kept her people safe.

She knows that if she's feeling this way, things are just as bad or worse for others. While she hasn't been entirely candid with everyone about her past, though she certainly hasn't lied, she's pretty sure she's seen complexity (let's be frank, darkness) in some of the people she's met, and like fuck did they need a full-scale civil war on their hands here.

It's a good way for them all, in the not-so-long run, to die.

Clearly, they all needed to have a gods damned talk before this boiled over, and as Nerys sees no one else volunteering, she steps up, roaming through the village like an old-fashioned crier. "Hey," she shouts at the people in the field, around the town, using the rather powerful pipes the Prophets had seen fit to give her. "Hey. Meeting at the Inn, fifteen minutes. We need to talk."

She gets to the inn in a few minutes' time, then clambers up onto one of the tables in front of Jo's lists, and sits, cross-legged, to wait. Folks filter in, a few at a time, and Nerys taps her jaw with her fingertips, counting out the seconds (she'd like a chronometer, but that'd be like asking for latinum dust). Once enough time's passed, she clears her throat. It doesn't really do much, so she rolls her eyes, then turns up the volume a little--not aggressive, but enough to catch people's attention. She's accustomed to walking the fine line between too much and too little leadership, because unlike her Starfleet colleagues, she doesn't expect the hierarchy of rank and linked formality of sometimes-grudging respect. Makes it easier to actually talk to people.

"Hey. My name's Nerys, for those of you who I haven't met properly yet. You've probably heard what was found out in the forest," she starts. "I figure we should all sit down and discuss it, because the last thing that's going to be any good for anyone is us starting to distrust each other and get into fights. So...let's hash it out, right?"

If she has to scream the 'this is what they fucking want, they want us to hurt each other, fuck them' message into people's heads, she's willing to do that. Eventually. Hopefully someone else will agree.

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Jo hasn't gone far from her table, or her seat. (Or Thorfinn.) The better part of ten or fifteen feet.
To the crates, and the weapons, both on the table and still in the boxes. The front, where they are displayed.

Where she writes and listens. Hasn't turned herself toward anything more than the exact same as everyone has found her in this room every single day before this. Early mornings, and middays, and late nights. Whenever things strike, and whenever there are updates. Of which this counts among the biggest so far. Which is, she's pretty sure, why no one actually comments on it. No one needs to. They know what she's doing, and what she's been doing for weeks.

Frank even looks to her, to make sure she's done before approaching on it all.

She doesn't need notes to point to how fast 'for the community, for all of us' becomes 'only these weapons, for only these certain people,' which immediately spiderweb cracks in the first denials, and disagreements. Justifications for 'only us' and 'only we know.' She doesn't say anything. Some notes, and some acknowledgements, don't need writing. Especially not in a book that is expressly and absolutely for the community, and not for herself alone, and has been for weeks. Instead of only for a few minutes.

She does meet Kol's eyes, and there's a flicker there in her own.
Because she looks, and maybe because he looks to her before going.
Without a single slander for her choice, that she thinks he might understand.

It's not emotion, in that flicker in her eyes. More a recognition that refuses resignation.
They don't get to win. Not by any inch anywhere. Not even if no one in this room gets it.

Edited 2016-08-23 00:02 (UTC)

Killian crosses over to the crates, to the harpoon he's had his eye on since they found the items. "Well, since I'm cursed anyway." It's an attempt to lighten the mood, possibly ill-advised. But that's him. "If there's anyone else who knows how to use a harpoon, they're welcome to find me and work something out for its use." He's pretty sure he's the only one who's consistently fishing though.

"I know that this is what whoever left this here expects me to do. Someone's toying with us, that's obvious, and that's the hardest part of all this to take. What it comes down to is letting them know how we feel about it, or increasing our chances of survival."

That's what it sounds like to him, at least. His tone turns a little more conversational. He is about to reveal something personal, after all. "I loved a woman once, more than I ever thought I could, or anyone could love me. Then someone took her from me. I don't mean they went off together. I mean someone killed her, and I swore to make him pay for what he had done. I tried so hard to get my vengeance, until one day I realized that it would get me was my own death. It wasn't worth that. He wasn't worth that. My survival mattered more than anything. So as much as it irks me to know that these were left for a purpose, that they're just toying with us, as much as I would like to make a statement by refusing to use all of this, by burning it just in case, whoever has done this is not worth it. Survival, mine, and that of everyone in this room, comes first." He wraps a hand around the harpoon. "This is how I can assure that survival."

"No," Kate says.

It's not quiet, but it's even. Tempered steel underneath the outer trappings of a wide-eyed, round-faced girl. It's another reflection of the strength it takes to stand in that kitchen, day after day after day, in the boring drudgery of food preparation. So many hunters, and Kate could join them. She's got, she's willing to bet, as good an aim as anyone else here. She made her livelihood with her gun, and never killed anyone. Never had a bullet go off into the crowd or behind stage. But too many hunters, not enough cooks, so she stays in the kitchen.

It's not a whipcrack of a word, her word, but Kate can project over livestock and crowds, while her torso is encased in boning and steel. Here and now? It's easy.

"The bow, yes. I see your point, Mr Frank," she says. "And after planting, yes, we need to make more. Harpoon, same. But if we're to use these for the community, then...

We need to trust each other a bit. If we store them communally, we don't have to run around tryin' to find it if someone's injured or needs it. It doesn't turn into these things been given as rewards.

I'm injured. Any of us could be, or worse. I haven't had anything like what happened to Captain Jones happen to me. But I know a lifetime of hunger and bein' played with. And I know that the best way for us to survive is to work together.

Which means, other people need training in the bow. In the harpoon. Or others where who know how to shoot-" She looks at Miss Margaery, at others who may or may not have spoken.

"And honestly and frankly, you can use slingshots to take down game, too. Why not store all these things together? Practice with them. Return them after use, so we all know where they are in case anythin' happens. I think after a few days of being here, people will get the story that our situation is precarious soon enough."

Hunger does that, after all. And she's only providing the minimum - no, less - than what she's comfortable with to try and keep people alive.

"Dividin' it all up makes it feel like loot."

"The lady has a point," I say with an assenting nod Kate's way. She reminds me of Lewis, I realize, the way her polite diplomacy can give way to steel-bound certainty, but only when the situation calls for it. Kate isn't a woman who raises her voice, but she knows how to make people listen.

"As much as I'm sure none of us want to think about this, something could happen to any of us at anytime. The things I know, I'm trying to teach. Honestly, I started doing it just to have more help, but if something happened to me, if I wasn't here tomorrow to help with the fields, there would be some people who at least had some of my knowledge. Divvying up the loot to the most skilled people helps us today, but it's not necessarily helping us tomorrow."

I slide a look over to Jo. Yeah, I see you over there, scribbling.

"I suggest that we make a list, and people can check out the weapons or tools like a library. I know we're not exactly swimming in convenient writing utensils at present, but we can figure out a system. That way, even if someone doesn't return something right away, if someone really needs it, they know where to go. And in the meantime, we try and spread the knowledge around. I mean, I can't even fucking fish with a line and pole," I admit with a soft laugh and a glance Killian's way.

While Cougar can be famously possessive over certain things (his rifle and hat come to mind), nothing here is his to the point that he can do that. Nothing has been soaked in blood and sweat and pain the way his items at home have been. Still lingering by the crate and leaning against it with his elbows, he shrugs and doesn't see a problem with making them available, making them be training tools, but he's still concerned about upkeep.

"We need a place to store them. Avoid flooding, humidity, animals," he says, a man who'd cleaned his rifle three times a day just to avoid specks of dust interfering. "Use spares or others for practice. Keep the best for the hunt," he says. He's not sure he's the best teacher because his English is bad, but he'll do his best. "And we need ways to preserve the food," he reminds people. "No point in the big game if it goes bad."

"I'm willing to share." It's true that even with people willing to teach, he won't get much use out of most of these items, but if agreeing to share is what gets him to be able to use the harpoon, then he'll do it. As long as he gets to use it, that's what he cares about.

"Perhaps if we're going to do some sort of check out system, then instead of having to record it every time, we need some sort of symbol to put where each item goes. A trinket or something, unique to each person, so that we can see at a glance who has it." What that might be he doesn't know, but there are enough people here that someone must be able to figure it out.

"I won't get much use out of most of these, it's why I've been trading fish, but if someone wants lessons, I'll trade those instead." He does still have to think of his survival, after all. He's willing to work some things out, but there will likely be some areas where he won't budge.

Frank is tight-jawed while the others talk. While he respects the steel in Kate's tone, even understands the sounder social politics she's advocating, the truth is he doesn't trust everybody. Not with the safety of the whole group. Not with the things he considers his responsibility. There's nothing to be done about it here and now, though.

"If something or somebody worse than a boar comes out of those woods, we'll all be stuck defending ourselves with sticks and rocks while our weapons are safely tucked away somewhere we ain't," he says, but he sets the bow and arrow back down on the crate all the same. With the right weapon, Cougar just needs high ground to keep people safe. Frank is the same. Others among them too, he'd bet. And it won't do a damn bit of good if it's not on them. But the truth is, Frank can kill a small army with a kitchen knife if he has to, too, and even he can see an argument he isn't going to win today. So:

"If we're gonna keep 'em somewhere, it should be here in the inn. Centrally located, building's in good shape, and you've got people around on the regular to keep an eye out for flooding or damage."

"And if we're gonna start taking down deer, we're going to need to build a smokehouse out back," with a nod to Cougar, "and start coordinating who's hunting what, when, and where - for the group, not for trade."

She doesn't counter Frank's statement with other points of contention: that his statement also requires those weapons to always, always be in reach, which can't be good for maintenance. That as a group, they are scattered as it is.

But he's a proud, rough man, and he's conceding, and so Kate just breathes out and moves on. Like building a house of cards.

"We have plenty of space in the inn, still," is what the woman actually says. "First room on the second floor? Just after the landing? So it's off the ground floor, but still easy to get to."

She doesn't know how badly flooding can get here, but better safe than sorry.

"And, I agree. Group, not trade. We're too desperate right now. The only reason I'm just organisin' a midday meal right now is because we don't exactly have the resources for more than that. Not consistently.

Smokehouse, there's a house, one of the ones Miss Jo took the curtains from. We could dismantle it, or turn it into one of these. Might save us some effort?"

She's not sure, so she turns the statement into a question.

Admittedly, the weapon thing isn't as much of a concern for him given that he has one attached at the end of his arm all the time, but he sees how it's a concern for others. Whether they dole out the tools or leave them in the inn to be used as needed doesn't matter to him, so he'll let others hash that out.

"For the group? What's wrong with trade?" He holds up his hand, to stall an objections. He'll make his case, and then he'll listen. "Say that we all put our extras in here. Fish, meat, firewood, crops. What's to keep someone from helping themselves to some supplies without contributing anything themselves? I don't mind letting someone have the excess I can't use. I do mind someone benefiting from my effort when they haven't made any themselves. What's to prevent that?"

Find some way of making it fair and he's all for it.

Kate shifts in her chair, tilting her head and fixing Captain Jones with a cool eye.

"Are you... advocatin' letting people starve, Captain?" she asks, coolly. "I've not been keepin' tabs on people, or what they do. People bring food here, people come here to prepare it, people eat. That's how I've been runnin' it.

Not everyone here has skills beyond a sound body and willingness to work. If we run into trouble later, with theft, then we deal with it. But so far it's been a month and a half, and we haven't had trouble yet.

How do you propose to keep people fed if they've got nought to trade, other than themselves?"

It's an implication she hopes he - and the others - understand. She's a young woman, and it's a fact of life that she's achingly aware of. What women do to survive, if things get that desperate. If people start withholding supplies to get an upper hand.

"Of course I'm not advocating that." He'd just been advocating the opposite, after all. "I'm simply saying that everyone should be pulling their weight around here. All someone needs is a sound body and a willingness to work. They can be taught a skill, or they can help with the cooking or the cleaning up. If all someone is going to do all day is sit around and wait for someone else to do all of the work, why should they get anything out of it?"

Sam is a little more comfortable with where the conversation is going now. He likes the idea of a weapons storage for everyone to learn from and use as opposed to giving them out like individual gifts. Not to mention that will very much circumvent the color labeling that had been placed on the boxes. He had fallen silent, given that the conversation was more civil, however a thought occurs to him since he had explored several buildings that were not houses.

"You guys do realize there are buildings we could use that aren't houses that might actually already have the equipment to be a smokehouse? I mean, I don't recognize some things from whenever this village was built...but one of the buildings I checked out a month ago looked a lot like an abandoned butcher's."

Kate had managed to say what Margaery had in mind as well, far more effectively than Margaery imagined she would have. The idea of sharing weapons and keeping them communal was better in her mind than others having more than the rest.

"I have yet to see anyone in this community unwilling to work or contribute the same amount of time and dedication." Margaery said softly. "If there are those who are enjoying the hard work of others and do not add in their own, that is something that should be brought to our attentions. However, I don't believe we will find anyone who will fail to contribute."

Her eyes glanced towards Cougar and Kate, recalling what they had discussed before about everyone pitching in and helping each other.

She didn't know Sam, but his idea was a good one. "Perhaps we should consider utilizing these other buildings? The butcher's shop would benefit us more than storing things in the inn."

For the weapons they've been given, Raven has no use for them. Though she could learn how to properly use a bow and arrow and a spear, she much prefers a gun. She can stay far away from those who can easily overpower her and use a single shot to take them down at a distance.

Besides, she still thinks as though she's one leg down.

Her comfort remains with technology. Building bombs, fixing radio channels, using a rifle and even fixing those. She looks to the weapons with not much of a personal interest in them. She isn't desperate to hold any in her arms unless she's being taught by someone she thinks to be skilled in handling the weapon. So far, there's only one person she'd consider, and he's named after a giant cat.

"The inn has people living in it," she says conversationally. She remains unaffected by the concerns being raised. "The butcher shop doesn't. Unless someone's moved in next door?" She quickly glances around, shoulders lifted. She doesn't quite know where everyone's staying, and a part of her knows she should. "Do we really want to store the one thing we've got to use to our advantage in a place where there's no security? Just because this place is deserted doesn't mean it's safe."

All this talk of people not pulling their weight has Frank's trigger finger twitching at his side, tick, tick, tick in the small crowd, but his weight shifts back onto his heels, and his body language shrinks into the background a little. Margaery is right, anybody sitting on their asses while their neighbors starve ought to be brought to somebody's attention — and Frank could easily provide a deterrent. But this isn't the time nor the place to voice his opinions on crime and punishment, and he's a little grateful the conversation veers onto another subject before he convinces himself otherwise.

He nods to Raven. "She's right. Putting the weapons any farther out of reach doesn't do us any favors." But Sam has a good point too, "If there's a smokehouse in the butcher's, though, or a fire pit we can salvage, or even a couple sheet tipis over holes in the ground, that's something that ought to be away from the rest of the buildings anyway. Last thing we need is a fire."

The Australian of the group, the poor woman from the Victorian-era and all of its fire-fighting technology (or rather, lack there of), shudders a little at the idea of fire. She's been worried about it, with the chimneys and boilers and ranges. What if, what if, what if.

"I agree. A fire here would be disastrous. But the butcher might just have what we need to really start storin' the mean. I've been tryin' a little with the oven, here, but it's hardly a large amount."

Then she takes in a deep breath.

"We've been given gifts, some of us. Mine was a box of salt. Not enough for everythin'. But we have some."

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keep that fury deep inside you: primitive weapons plot

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