taxonomites | 010 ♠ VISUAL ♠ Strike A Balance

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010 ♠ VISUAL ♠ Strike A Balance

[ Puck appears on the tablet screen, handling an unfamiliar guitar -- it seems that his beloved Les Paul never made a reappearance. He strums once, then keeps tuning it, but his heart obviously isn't in the task. ]

So what's the difference between a glitch and just going crazy? Neither of them is something that just gets decided.

[ private to Paul Smecker ]
So what did you learn from your quaint luncheon, other than that people will never help clean up the mess afterward?

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The sounds of a guitar immediately catch Kobra's attention and he looks at the tablet, head tilted to the side and sunglasses on as always. He ignores everything the guy says, because it doesn't make much sense anyway, but focuses on the important.

"Nice guitar. You been playing for long, tumbleweed?"

Puck stops at the voice, recognizing it from that day where they were on the rooftop. When he answers, it's with a hard edge to his voice.

"Longer than you've been alive."

Oblivious as always Kobra didn't even pick up on the hard edge in Puck's voice.

"Shiny. What's your favourite song to play?"

"Whatever I've written myself. Shouldn't you be in jail or something?"

"Shiny. Play me something?" Kobra asked before he shrugged, unsure of himself again. "No, don't think so."

"You're in no position to demand favors," the fae scowls. "Tell you what. You set yourself on fire, and I'll write a fucking grand symphony."

Kobra actually cracked a smile at that. "I'll try, tumbleweed. Been on fire before though, dunno if that counts in your book."

"Unlikely."

But it's hard to remain so stern when it was obvious that Kobra wasn't playing with a full deck.

"Should any setting myself on fire occur in the future, I'll be sure to let you know. If I get desperate enough I'll do it just so you'll play something for me," Kobra pointed out with a small smile.

Silence filled the tablet for a few minutes, and then Puck finally thaws enough to ask, "How'd you learn to play?"

"I don't play guitar, just bass," Kobra admitted, but it's obviously a topic he feels comfortable talking about, even enthusiastic about. "Jet St-...a friend of mine taught me the basics and the rest I just...found out? I guess."

"You have your bass here?" Puck asks skeptically. He supposes that would make sense since he himself arrived with his own instrument, and only because its gone missing does he not have it now.

"No," Kobra shook his head, lips twisting into a displeased line. "Though might get one because my brother and I have been hired as a houseband kinda thing. I...I miss playing." he admitted, almost shy now.

"You can always hatch one. That's what people do here, most of the time. That's how I got this replacement. Some asshole must've trashed mine after I got trashed."

He understands what it's like to miss something and so replies with less vitriol than normal, "That's good. You should miss something like that."

"That sucks," Kobra sympathized.

"I do. Music is...important," he nodded. It seemed like this was at least a common basis they had. "What do you like to play?"

He gave it some consideration before answering. "I can play most anything. Usually I play guitar as lead though. Rock, metal, acoustic... sometimes I just start playing and something comes of it."

"That's the best way to do it," Kobra agreed. Their band was mostly about enjoying music, not too much about skillfully playing instruments. Even though Jet Star might protest that.

"I'd really like to hear you play sometime."

"Maybe you should try doing some community service first," Puck suggests, possibly joking but hard to tell.

"For the aliens? Hardly," Kobra shrugged. "Serving the community by playing music."

"Yeah," the fae glares. "You've really been a boon by being here, so far."

"I know," Kobra shrugs, not really catching on. At least this guy wasn't constantly happy, more glaring all the time. It was more familiar to Kobra than happiness. "I don't like the city."

It was a bit like talking to a brick wall, Puck concluded.

"You don't like even one thing here?"

Kobra thought about it briefly.

"I like the trees. And the ocean," he finally said. "but that's not really part of the city, I guess?"

"Actually, several people did, and I didn't even have to blow them all," Paul answers fairly cheerfully.

"I learned my lasagna is still fanfuckingtastic, and that I now have at least talked to every single person I'm stuck in this goddamned city with. While I realize it may be a bit below you, special snowflake that you are, as far as human history goes? Escape is more probable when you know your cellmates."

"They've obviously got no bartering skills," Puck scoffs lightly.

His demeanor closes up a bit when Paul tosses the 'special snowflake' comment. He'd debated as much about revealing even that small portion of himself as he had dithered about attending at all and in the end, against his better judgment, spoke a small truth about himself.

"Then you're all set in your plans, is that it?"

"None whatsoever, passing up excellent blowjobs like they were."

Paul fishes out his perpetual cigarettes and lights one up, although his eyes are sharp on the face of the young-looking man on the screen, taking in the tiny tightening at the corners of his mouth and eyes.

"Set in our plans? Christ no, we don't even have plans yet. But we at least know who we are not-yet-planning with.

"I spent twenty years trying to carve through the bureaucracy of the US government; the fact that we didn't stop the introductions to hold a Committee is progress, see."

"Progress," Puck says disdainfully. "You have too much faith that people will want to help each other, if put into such a situation."

Then he falls silent, as though he's swallowing whatever rest of the the vitriol he was intending to disperse. After a few moments he speaks again, more neutrally.

"Then what else have you got planned?"

Paul sighs. He takes a drag on his cigarette, exhales the smoke at the ceiling, closes his eyes.

"Do you know who one of the only people I've met who hasn't expressed at least some desire to help is?" he asks, and doesn't wait for an answer. There's no edge to his tone, no sarcastic bite, just weariness. "You."

"Back in the real world, I worked a job where I spent most of my time figuring out homicides and mob hits. I've seen at least 80% of the methods human beings kill each other, I've worked cases where children were lined up and shot because their dad stole money from some mafioso or another.

"I'm not someone who has an especially rosy view of human nature, Wynn. Which means that when I do have faith people will try and band together for their own good, it's usually earned."

He takes another drag, runs his hand through his own hair, and clears his throat. "First thing is compile a list of methods people have used to try and get out. We don't even have a full list of what's been tried."

"And have you considered that there may indeed be a good reason for that?" Puck says icily. "You don't need to recount heavy-handed tales to prove that humans can be mindless murderers. That is no secret. That is an easy truth to know."

It had been a while since he had felt genuine anger over this; over the centuries it had trended more and more towards cold apathy. But having it pointed out that he was not eagerly leaping to help the humans (and assorted other things) trapped here was enough to spark some real ire in the fae.

He stares at Paul, as though waiting to see whether the man will pursue that topic, or stay on with the second half of the conversation.

Paul grits his teeth, rubs at the bridge of his nose.

"Did you bother to listen to anything I said after the 'heavy handed tales' or did you just leap onto the part that conformed with the obvious judgment you've already formed of my entire species?

"I'm agreeing with you that people can be dicks, for fuck's sake. But we shit out da Vincis as well as Hitlers, we make goddamn Mother Theresas too. I'm no fucking rosy-cheeked optimist and even I can admit that there are good people in the world, and that some of them are here.

"Evidence does not support your conclusion that all humans are nothing but shit. Funny thing, though-- keep operating with your very clear attitude that we are? You'll prove yourself right, because, surprise, surprise, no sentient species reacts well to being constantly spat on."

"... and even I can admit that there are good people in the world, and that some of them are here."

All the venom seems to go out of him in an instant. All the people who'd been civil to him -- no, actually nice to him -- had vanished along with so many others two months ago. In light of that he hadn't really put much effort into meeting any others, and just sort of coasted since then.

And now that he'd attempted to interact with a few more of the ones who were left, it was his own bitterness and long-standing resentment which proved the barrier to having even one or two amiable relationships. He wasn't blind or stupid; he knew he was the one at fault here. Most of the time he didn't care, or he made himself not care, but Paul's words hammered home the very accurate point that he brought it on himself.

"That'll be fine," he said dully. "I don't care."

"Sure you don't," Paul says wearily. Because that's why you bothered talking to me at all, because you don't care.

He doesn't say it aloud though; the game of attempting verbal one-upmanship wears on even his nature at times.

"Rock that apathy, then. Should you wake up deciding to care? We're all still likely to be here. Unless, of course, we aren't."

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010 ♠ VISUAL ♠ Strike A Balance

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[Locked visual] (eep sorry so late!)

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[Locked visual] god I am the worst and slowest