sixthiterationlogs | Half a proper gardener’s work is done upon his knees [OTA]

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Half a proper gardener’s work is done upon his knees [OTA]

WHO: Mark Watney
WHERE: Fields and nearby
WHEN: 23 May, evening
OPEN TO: OTA
WARNINGS: Poop
STATUS: Open
NOTE: Please don't feel you have to talk to him about plants. I know how boring it can get.

The weather is starting to become a concern.

Now, I really am not a person prone to panic. Things have to be going pretty badly pretty abruptly for me to freak out. But I'm also aware of how nefarious a gradual change can be, and how dangerous to people not paying attention. Personally, I'm not interested in being a lobster in a slow-warming pot.

Then again, maybe I don't have much choice in that.

Point is, it's easier to pay attention to the fact that the sun is taking the opposite path in the sky than that we're getting way too warm too soon for this time of year. (And I could get into why it's implausible that the Earth has actually reversed rotation, including disruptions that would likely end all life, but it's way more boring than it sounds, so I'll just say I'm not buying it.) People are finding ways to cool off, and that's good -- Apart from physical health reasons, we don't get nearly enough opportunities to simply relax and have unfettered fun. The plants we've all been so tending so judiciously, though, don't have the option to take a dip.

The hail was bad enough. The damage was... Well, it wasn't great, obviously, but nothing we couldn't recover from. Assuming, of course, that everything stays relatively predictable. This heat and lack of rain? It isn't predictable.

I've been out in the fields all day today, even longer than normal, taking notes and measurements, doing what I can to ensure the plants are well fed and watered. We really cannot afford to lose a significant part of this harvest, not with the number of people in the village now. It's tedious, back-breaking work, but it has to be done.

And it's honestly probably a testament to how tedious and back-breaking it is that I am tired and distracted enough that I end up covered in shit. Not metaphorical shit; actual shit, courtesy of a poorly-timed misstep while I was shoveling fertilizer. Manure's coated all along the front of my thighs and torso, splashed up to my neck and chin.

"God damn it," I moan, picking myself up with a wince.

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If there was one thing Sam could appreciate, it was a good snark. And this guy seemed to be made of it. Which helped her look past the whole covered-in-shit thing.

With a bit of a smile that was bordering on genuine, she flipped her hair over her shoulder and turned around, trotting off in the direction he'd indicated.

She found the butcher shop easily enough. It was good to know that this was around. Every resource had to be inventoried, she supposed. That's what Avery would do in a situation like this. And as pissed off as she was at him...well. He wasn't entirely wrong. About everything. Anyway.

It took her a little longer to find the water. She'd never had the best sense of direction. That's what GPS was for. And everything was still too new. In the end, it took her five minutes or so.

I'm already in the river up to my thighs, shit-covered shirt in hand as I try to preemptively rinse the solid matter off of it as best I can. Catching sight of her, I lift an instinctive hand in a wave despite that I'm the only person out here in the water at the moment.

"Did you find it?" I call, turning back toward the shore, wringing my shirt as I wade out again.

"Uh huh," Sam said, tossing the soap up in the air and catching it left-handed. "Insert prison joke here," she added, before tossing it underhanded to him. Not too hard. She wasn't a total dick, after all.

Of course, less of a dick might have looked away. But if she saw something she hadn't seen before, she'd throw a dollar at it.

"Should I ask why there's just a bunch of soap laying around?"

"Helen and I make it for everyone," I reply as I reach out to catch the soap and start lathering up the shirt. "She got some essential oils in a mystery box, and we're lucky enough that she uses them when she makes her batches to share. Just be careful of the liquid soap, it's for cleaning and is a lot more harsh than the bar soap."

To be honest, I'm probably going to need the liquid soap to properly clean my shirt and pants, but this works for now.

"And if you ever walk by the butchers and it smells terrible, just remember you get free soap out of it."

Sam made a mental note to look into 'Helen.' Anyone scientifically-minded enough to understand the basic principles of making soap was probably someone worth knowing. Fuck, though, did Sam miss the luxury of the Ordo Dracul. She'd been spoiled by the opportunity to constantly be surrounded by other scientists. Now she felt like she was in a fucking desert.

More than literally, right now.

"I've been hearing about these mystery boxes," she said, folding her arms. "What's the deal with that?"

"Nobody knows, hence the mystery," I say with a soft laugh, and then squint back up at her. "They just show up, loaded with things that our generous captors presumably want to share. They put your name on the tag and everything. I'd probably be more creeped out by it if I wasn't always getting things I need." Or, more to the point, things everybody needs.

"People get clothes, food, razors. Just about anything except for something that'd help get you out of here."

She wrinkled up her nose. "Why do I suddenly get the feeling that we're living in a giant Skinner Box?"

Probably because it sounded like they were...living in a giant Skinner Box.

It was hard not to think about the Predators. Who had apparently treated the whole world like a Skinner Box, punishing the 'lower beings' when they 'forgot their place.' The Black Death. Spanish Flu. The Rain of Fire.

Okay, maybe that was less Skinner Box and more shock therapy.

Still. The idea of being watched made Sam's skin crawl.

"That's one of the most popular theories going around," I reply with a knowing tilt of my head. "The rub is why. Well, why and how. You've got all these people here who are from -- Or at least believe they're from disparate times and places. That's the big mystery, how they got us all together here. But they've fed us enough to confirm we're being watched." I pause in my scrubbing to glance back up at her. "And it's the only thing that really makes sense."

And good on her, really, for even knowing what a Skinner Box is, even if it means her time here is bound to be that much less ignorantly blissful.

"I'm Mark, by the way. Watney. Apparently also known as The Plant Guy."

"Sam," she replied. She supposed there was really no point in giving her standard fake name. It wasn't like anyone here was bound to know the Halpers from Lake Forest, Illinois. But by that same merit, she saw no reason to give a surname whatsoever. Very few people seemed to care or expect one.

In fact, no one had, so far.

So many new social norms to learn...

And, frankly, Sam tended to think of the social sciences as hokum. At least, she had. Before being unceremoniously tossed into a Skinner Box.

"I doubt we could figure out the 'how,' no matter how hard we tried," she sighed, looking irritated to admit it. "Anyone capable of creating and sustaining some kind of Einstein-Rosen bridge shaped like a fountain probably has a shitload--you'll pardon the phrase--of equipment beyond our puny comprehension." She sighed irritably. "Which means focusing on the 'why,' doesn't it? Fuck."

"Well, that assumes that everyone here is telling the truth," I say. "Not that I think anyone knows they're lying, but there's a lot of evidence to suggest that we're in a simulation." The reversal of the Earth's rotation being the most glaring and absurd example.

"If the simplest answer is the most likely, it then seems more likely that we're being manipulated mentally rather than someone is bending the laws of time and space. But you're right, that still leaves the question of why."

"A simulation?" Sam repeated. At first, it actually made complete and total sense. She was familiar with multiple theories that all of life was just some big simulation anyway. But if that were true. "Then what would that mean about our memories of different worlds? If there was no Einstein-Rosen bridge involved, then that would mean that some of our memories were implanted."

Now there was an idea she hated.

No, an idea she fucking loathed.

"Yes it would," I agree with a slow nod. "And I don't really know about the philosophical side of that, the definition of what's real and isn't -- If we remember something with clarity that didn't happen, is it real, etcetera. But of all the crazy possibilities -- And let's be clear, they're all pretty far out there -- that's the one that seems most plausible to me."

It was clear enough the concept wasn't one she was happy to be considering, but who would be? It definitely doesn't help me sleep better at night to think that everything I went through to get back from Mars was just somebody's idea of a cool backstory.

"I might be wrong," I allow with a shrug. "I just know that there's pretty clear evidence for us being in some sort of simulation, and that puts us one step closer to complete mental manipulation rather than quantum physics."

"Occam's razor," she muttered, feeling like the sulkiest little scientist there ever was. "I dunno, though. Seems that anyone powerful enough to do the one would theoretically be powerful enough to do the other. And there are some serious blurred lines if you factor in magic." A pause. "You know. The types of science our puny, human brains just don't understand."

Hey. She'd called herself human. It wasn't exactly the first time, but definitely the first time in awhile she hadn't put a lot of thought into it.

That was sort of progress.

Truthfully, I don't factor in magic, for exactly the reasons Sam's just said. It's difficult for most scientists to accept something so easily, in my experience. There are always explanations, sometimes it just takes some time to find them.

"Like I said, I might be wrong, but again, the evidence seems to be pointing toward this place being a simulation, even if that doesn't fully account for how we all got here."

"Well, it's definitely a line to pursue."

Unfortunately, Sam's experiences had left her very open to elaborate hoodoo and other such supernatural possibilities.

Ironic, since the Predators had used science to end the world. Sam and her friends were the ones turning to magic to try to put things right again.

So to speak.

She shrugged. "It's nice to be able to theorize, at least."

"That's all we can really do," I answer with a nod. "Collect the evidence we're able and see where it leads us." It's worked for mankind since the dawn of time; no reason to stop now.

My clothes are as clean as they're going to get under the circumstances, and I slap my damp shirt over my shoulder and wade slowly back out, the cotton of my pants clinging to my legs until I shake it loose.

"We've got people who don't seem to really worry about why they're here, and they probably have a lot less stress than the rest of us, but I don't really know how to stop asking questions. It's honestly a little annoying," I add with a laugh.

Sam gave him a quick, approving once-over. She wasn't a pervert, but she was human after all.

For the first time in awhile.

And, anyway, he was kinda hot.

But she nodded, letting out a slow sigh. "I have a feeling you and I are either gonna get along, or annoy the fucking hell out of each other." Maybe both. Both was always good. She laughed a little. "Questions are kinda my thing. That and swearing, but given the choice between the two, I'll take questions every time."

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Half a proper gardener’s work is done upon his knees [OTA]

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