07-23-2018, 10:25 PM
"I don't belong here." Drake said softly.
Quinn had to agree. She was beginning to get the feeling that nobody belonged in this Omniverse. Still, as the dying strains of Radiohead's "Creep" dwindled away on the weathered karaoke machine, Talos added her own polite applause to the scattered claps around the bar. It had that distinctly cramped, near-eastern affectation. The walls were littered with countless, sepia photographs and scrawled Sharpie epithets. Mismatched lighting fixtures filled the bar with amber light, and the gentle clinking of late-night libations filled the pause between songs.
Drake tottered back to the bar where Quinn was sitting, his head pleasantly buzzing once again with hard liquor. Like most functioning alcoholics, the smuggler had switched to plain old vodka at this point. With cranberry. For urinary health.
Meanwhile, Talos sat in an inverted rapture of dissonance as she watched a commercial by Syntech, featuring The Rock, some kind of asian cleric, and Mickey Mouse.
"Why." the vampire breathed. The silent Omniverse gave its only possible reply.
"Donnn't..." Drake said, lowering his chin onto his folded arms, "...try to make sense of the players. Just watch their moves. 'Sall a pattern. 'salways a pattern..." Drake slurred. He pensively plucked a fried chickpea from a nearby dish, considered it, and flicked it back with the rest. Ain't got time to fuckin' dabble with these garbanzo jackasses. Peanuts only for Drake Oneir.
-
Talos nodded slowly at Drake's observation, still painfully entranced by the resolving commercial. This must be what it was like to be a Toreador.
Eventually the collage of styles resolved itself into a blessed conclusion. She tore her eyes away, swiveled on the barstool away from the screen, and buried herself back in the karaoke manual. It was it's own minefield of familiar and strange and surreal juxtaposition. Apparently Ursula had done a cover of Beyonce's Single Ladies and Talos wasn't sure whether to be delighted or wary. She was leaning towards delighted.
(An aside: On arriving in the bar, Talos had excused themself momentarily, informing Drake that they were a magical shapeshifter and needed to attend to their toilette--trenchcoated figures were all well and good on rooftops, but stood out in karaoke bars. She had emerged from the cramped restroom as a freckled young woman dressed in a kaftan. The mask was a throw-away-blend-in--the important part was a lilting soprano voice that could produce the sort of songs Talos was in the mood for.)
She slid the manual onto the bar and looked sideways at Drake, who was two sheets to the wind and rapidly furling out another sail. She was not one to begrudge others their coping mechanisms. She was about to indulge in her own. She was faintly curious to see if inebriation added interesting poetry to his observations.
"What patterns do you see in that clearly not Disney sponsored commercial?" she asked.
-
"Exploitation, child celebrity...thrills and spills for dilettantes and shills..." Drake slurred after draining the rest of his glass. He scooted it to and fro between his hands, as if agitated by a distant memory that refused to distinguish itself in a haze of libation. Quinn was a unsure of what he meant.
"Go on." she murmured, nursing her own drink. Drake let out a frustrated sigh.
"Bread 'n Circuses, Quinn! Put the gladiators and their blood on centerstage, let the unwashed masses forget 'bout the hellgates, the tarrasque, the race wars...shadenfreude may not bring happiness, but it's fuckin' great cultural anaesthetic." Drake warbled.
Quinn nodded. "I'm familiar with the concept."
The drink was decorative. But she was adroit at seeming to sip.
"The people being fed this anesthetic," she starts. "Are they all 'Secondaries' and their descendants? Or are their natives in this world?"
She had to put quotation marks around the term Secondaries. She was starting to find it deeply distasteful.
"And what are the race wars? And the...hellgates?"
She was also curious about the tarrasque, but she didn't want to bombard tipsy Drake with too many questions at once.
-
Drake blinked drunkenly at Quinn before a lazy grin spread across his face. He shook his head slowly and adjusted his hat. This really was a babby, wasn't she?
"All Seckies are native to the Omniverse, same way red cells are native to the body. Well. Most bodies, anyway." Drake said, casting the be-shawled woman a sidelong glance.
"Whether or not a Prime summons them or they're just filled into the cracks...some have memories lasting aeons, some come into the Omniverse just as confused as Primelings. But they're not the only people who like a dog 'n pony show, nahh...nah plenty of Primes buy into the pageant too." Drake said, his tone suddenly becoming very dark. He stared at his empty glass as if it had just spat on his mother's grave.
"People love to find reasons to kill eachother. Nothing new there. The OV is so fucking loopy, though, that the easiest one to mark is race. Trolls versus Dwarves. Pokémon versus...everyone. Humans versus Orcs. Elves versus Ninjas..." Drake said. Quinn raised a sculpted eyebrow.
"I didn't think 'Ninja' was a race..." she murmured. Drake just bleated out a sharp laugh.
"Then...then..." he said, adjusting his seat and holding up a conspiratorial finger, "...beneath it all, in the shadows and stuff, there's the Underverse. Literal hell, very much at home here. Getting in and out is...well it's a unique place. But getting out is usually harder. Depends who you are." Drake spluttered, looking over his shoulder reflexively. It was generally a bad idea to discuss the Underverse in Empire territory, but at this time of day, in this small of a bar, it was probably fine.
Probably.
-
Quinn did not miss the blood-reference and sidelong glance. She took a prim fake-sip from her glass.
She made a face at the term "Seckies." Of course there was a short hand slur form of an already derogatory word. It was interesting to know that not all of them were attached to Primes. It made her a little less ripshit infuriated at the irresponsible godlings responsible for this world. A little.
She wondered how 'naturally occurring' people worked. It occurred to her that Rick's wouldn't look right without the gambling crowds. So to have the cafe, you had to have...that couldn't be it, could it?
You interest me, so I have made you part of it.
Quinn was wrested from her ruminations by fear.
"That is a very concrete assertion of the existence of hell."
Quinn scowled at her drink, briefly resenting it for being indigestible to her, and thereby denying her the numbness Drake currently enjoyed. She would probably be able to reach at least tipsy by taking a few sips from him, but she didn't think their relationship had reached "lend me your jugular" just yet.
"So what do you...do?" she asks, then waves a vague hand. "About all of this. Apart from drink."
-
"...depends on the person, Quinn." the smuggler said softly.
"I mean all existence is involuntary, right? We don't get to choose to be here, so we cling tightly to our only remainin' option; to choose what we do with ourselves. Some Primes make trouble, some Primes smooth it over. Gilgamesh
..." Drake said, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder in the vague, cardinal direction of Nippur, "...'smakin a whole new city. New laws. New jails. Tryna make something. Anything! But as for progress? Fixin' this whole...mess? Primes have tried. They don't exist anymore." Drake mumbled, settling back onto his elbows.
-
"An establishment with an agenda will resist change," Quinn murmured.
She had a germ of an idea. An insidious and fascinating seed she was reluctant to cultivate. But she suspected that, regardless of her attentions, it would sprout weed-like into a grotesque blossom given time. Minds were like that.
"But let me rephrase," she said, swiveling her chair to face Drake.
"What do YOU do."
She touched him gently on the nose.
"About all of this."
She gestured about. From Nippur, to Carrefore, to the karaoke stage.
"Apart from drink."
She tapped his glass.
"Mister Drake?"
His full title, Mister Drake-possibly-a-crime-lord-definitely-a-drug-dealer-who-I-just-watched-incinerate-a-corpse, was implied.
-
"Sweetheart..." Drake said, sitting a little more upright, "...I'm part of the problem."
It was said in a tone that indicated Drake's role in the Omniverse should be self-evident. He was a scoundrel. Opportunist. He saw the downward spiral as a benefit to his ability to project a profit.
"Some people change the world, some people skim what they can off the top. I don't do anything about the mess, Quinn. I live in it."
-
"A self-aware scoundrel," Quinn murmured. "With opinions about bloodsports."
She tipped her glass into his. He needed it more than she did. Even if she could enjoy it.
(Aside: The glass was only half full. Part of pretending to drink is finding surreptitious moments to empty one's glass.)
"Good character concept," she observed. "Let me know if you're ever interested in a redemptive arc."
Quinn had to agree. She was beginning to get the feeling that nobody belonged in this Omniverse. Still, as the dying strains of Radiohead's "Creep" dwindled away on the weathered karaoke machine, Talos added her own polite applause to the scattered claps around the bar. It had that distinctly cramped, near-eastern affectation. The walls were littered with countless, sepia photographs and scrawled Sharpie epithets. Mismatched lighting fixtures filled the bar with amber light, and the gentle clinking of late-night libations filled the pause between songs.
Drake tottered back to the bar where Quinn was sitting, his head pleasantly buzzing once again with hard liquor. Like most functioning alcoholics, the smuggler had switched to plain old vodka at this point. With cranberry. For urinary health.
Meanwhile, Talos sat in an inverted rapture of dissonance as she watched a commercial by Syntech, featuring The Rock, some kind of asian cleric, and Mickey Mouse.
"Why." the vampire breathed. The silent Omniverse gave its only possible reply.
"Donnn't..." Drake said, lowering his chin onto his folded arms, "...try to make sense of the players. Just watch their moves. 'Sall a pattern. 'salways a pattern..." Drake slurred. He pensively plucked a fried chickpea from a nearby dish, considered it, and flicked it back with the rest. Ain't got time to fuckin' dabble with these garbanzo jackasses. Peanuts only for Drake Oneir.
-
Talos nodded slowly at Drake's observation, still painfully entranced by the resolving commercial. This must be what it was like to be a Toreador.
Eventually the collage of styles resolved itself into a blessed conclusion. She tore her eyes away, swiveled on the barstool away from the screen, and buried herself back in the karaoke manual. It was it's own minefield of familiar and strange and surreal juxtaposition. Apparently Ursula had done a cover of Beyonce's Single Ladies and Talos wasn't sure whether to be delighted or wary. She was leaning towards delighted.
(An aside: On arriving in the bar, Talos had excused themself momentarily, informing Drake that they were a magical shapeshifter and needed to attend to their toilette--trenchcoated figures were all well and good on rooftops, but stood out in karaoke bars. She had emerged from the cramped restroom as a freckled young woman dressed in a kaftan. The mask was a throw-away-blend-in--the important part was a lilting soprano voice that could produce the sort of songs Talos was in the mood for.)
She slid the manual onto the bar and looked sideways at Drake, who was two sheets to the wind and rapidly furling out another sail. She was not one to begrudge others their coping mechanisms. She was about to indulge in her own. She was faintly curious to see if inebriation added interesting poetry to his observations.
"What patterns do you see in that clearly not Disney sponsored commercial?" she asked.
-
"Exploitation, child celebrity...thrills and spills for dilettantes and shills..." Drake slurred after draining the rest of his glass. He scooted it to and fro between his hands, as if agitated by a distant memory that refused to distinguish itself in a haze of libation. Quinn was a unsure of what he meant.
"Go on." she murmured, nursing her own drink. Drake let out a frustrated sigh.
"Bread 'n Circuses, Quinn! Put the gladiators and their blood on centerstage, let the unwashed masses forget 'bout the hellgates, the tarrasque, the race wars...shadenfreude may not bring happiness, but it's fuckin' great cultural anaesthetic." Drake warbled.
Quinn nodded. "I'm familiar with the concept."
The drink was decorative. But she was adroit at seeming to sip.
"The people being fed this anesthetic," she starts. "Are they all 'Secondaries' and their descendants? Or are their natives in this world?"
She had to put quotation marks around the term Secondaries. She was starting to find it deeply distasteful.
"And what are the race wars? And the...hellgates?"
She was also curious about the tarrasque, but she didn't want to bombard tipsy Drake with too many questions at once.
-
Drake blinked drunkenly at Quinn before a lazy grin spread across his face. He shook his head slowly and adjusted his hat. This really was a babby, wasn't she?
"All Seckies are native to the Omniverse, same way red cells are native to the body. Well. Most bodies, anyway." Drake said, casting the be-shawled woman a sidelong glance.
"Whether or not a Prime summons them or they're just filled into the cracks...some have memories lasting aeons, some come into the Omniverse just as confused as Primelings. But they're not the only people who like a dog 'n pony show, nahh...nah plenty of Primes buy into the pageant too." Drake said, his tone suddenly becoming very dark. He stared at his empty glass as if it had just spat on his mother's grave.
"People love to find reasons to kill eachother. Nothing new there. The OV is so fucking loopy, though, that the easiest one to mark is race. Trolls versus Dwarves. Pokémon versus...everyone. Humans versus Orcs. Elves versus Ninjas..." Drake said. Quinn raised a sculpted eyebrow.
"I didn't think 'Ninja' was a race..." she murmured. Drake just bleated out a sharp laugh.
"Then...then..." he said, adjusting his seat and holding up a conspiratorial finger, "...beneath it all, in the shadows and stuff, there's the Underverse. Literal hell, very much at home here. Getting in and out is...well it's a unique place. But getting out is usually harder. Depends who you are." Drake spluttered, looking over his shoulder reflexively. It was generally a bad idea to discuss the Underverse in Empire territory, but at this time of day, in this small of a bar, it was probably fine.
Probably.
-
Quinn did not miss the blood-reference and sidelong glance. She took a prim fake-sip from her glass.
She made a face at the term "Seckies." Of course there was a short hand slur form of an already derogatory word. It was interesting to know that not all of them were attached to Primes. It made her a little less ripshit infuriated at the irresponsible godlings responsible for this world. A little.
She wondered how 'naturally occurring' people worked. It occurred to her that Rick's wouldn't look right without the gambling crowds. So to have the cafe, you had to have...that couldn't be it, could it?
You interest me, so I have made you part of it.
Quinn was wrested from her ruminations by fear.
"That is a very concrete assertion of the existence of hell."
Quinn scowled at her drink, briefly resenting it for being indigestible to her, and thereby denying her the numbness Drake currently enjoyed. She would probably be able to reach at least tipsy by taking a few sips from him, but she didn't think their relationship had reached "lend me your jugular" just yet.
"So what do you...do?" she asks, then waves a vague hand. "About all of this. Apart from drink."
-
"...depends on the person, Quinn." the smuggler said softly.
"I mean all existence is involuntary, right? We don't get to choose to be here, so we cling tightly to our only remainin' option; to choose what we do with ourselves. Some Primes make trouble, some Primes smooth it over. Gilgamesh
..." Drake said, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder in the vague, cardinal direction of Nippur, "...'smakin a whole new city. New laws. New jails. Tryna make something. Anything! But as for progress? Fixin' this whole...mess? Primes have tried. They don't exist anymore." Drake mumbled, settling back onto his elbows.
-
"An establishment with an agenda will resist change," Quinn murmured.
She had a germ of an idea. An insidious and fascinating seed she was reluctant to cultivate. But she suspected that, regardless of her attentions, it would sprout weed-like into a grotesque blossom given time. Minds were like that.
"But let me rephrase," she said, swiveling her chair to face Drake.
"What do YOU do."
She touched him gently on the nose.
"About all of this."
She gestured about. From Nippur, to Carrefore, to the karaoke stage.
"Apart from drink."
She tapped his glass.
"Mister Drake?"
His full title, Mister Drake-possibly-a-crime-lord-definitely-a-drug-dealer-who-I-just-watched-incinerate-a-corpse, was implied.
-
"Sweetheart..." Drake said, sitting a little more upright, "...I'm part of the problem."
It was said in a tone that indicated Drake's role in the Omniverse should be self-evident. He was a scoundrel. Opportunist. He saw the downward spiral as a benefit to his ability to project a profit.
"Some people change the world, some people skim what they can off the top. I don't do anything about the mess, Quinn. I live in it."
-
"A self-aware scoundrel," Quinn murmured. "With opinions about bloodsports."
She tipped her glass into his. He needed it more than she did. Even if she could enjoy it.
(Aside: The glass was only half full. Part of pretending to drink is finding surreptitious moments to empty one's glass.)
"Good character concept," she observed. "Let me know if you're ever interested in a redemptive arc."
"To live in this world you must be able to do three things:
To love what is mortal;
To hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it;
And, when the time comes to let it go,
To let it go." – Mary Oliver
To love what is mortal;
To hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it;
And, when the time comes to let it go,
To let it go." – Mary Oliver