August 12 | 10:45 PM | The holodeck, open to everyone.

[wise_ass]

It's late, but still a fairly respectable time to be up and about. He passes a few people on his way up to the holodeck but thankfully, when he gets to the door, he finds there's nobody else in sight. He lights up a cigarette and stands in the center of the dimly lit room, a blank page waiting impassively for his command. Bert takes a long, easy breath and sighs; the cigarette smoke is toasty, familiar, divine. The first one he's had in days.

"You wouldn't happen to know Mejis, would you?" he asks. His tone is polite-- it sounds like he's already forgiven the computer for not having the first fucking clue about where Mejis is, but before he can explain himself, the room has already started coming to life.

It flickers a few times through scenes Bert's not sure he recognizes as even from his world, but when it finally settles, he finds himself standing on one of the rolling hills overlooking the little town. The oil derricks, far over the hills to his left, are backlit by a fiercely beautiful sunset. On his right he can see a wide, treeless horizon that tells him he's not far from the Clean Sea.

It must have been a market day. The people below are packing up their stalls and loading up their carts. There's a tense moment where he's terrified he'll see something, someone he'll recognize before he realizes that the computer's brought him to a Mejis about fifty years prior to his ka-tet's infamous visit.

He heads down the hill and wanders a bit, trying to stay out of people's way, but enjoying, as he usually does, the novelty of secret immersion, not even minding when a woman gives him the obligatory small-town stink eye reserved for unfamiliar, unaccompanied young men. In fact, it makes him smile. It doesn't seem to improve her opinion of him any, but he can't help it. He walks through the market with that shit-eating grin, hands stuffed in his pockets, enjoying the alien quaintness of it all with a bizarre brand of contentment he figures can only be enjoyed by holidaymakers in other worlds.

He's in another world even now, though, isn't he? The station? The idea is an uncomfortable but not unwelcome knot at the base of his skull. He's spent nearly all of his time here doing penance, even if he hasn't realized it, but the last month has actually been penance in earnest. Bert had been drinking whiskey when zombi Alain had helpfully suggested he eat a bullet to better cope with his guilt, and mayhap it was a blessing, because the stuff just hadn't tasted the same after that. Or mayhap it was his own self-pity that didn't go down sweet anymore.

Cuthbert wasn't sure what he'd expected to feel, standing in the red dirt of Lower Market, surrounded by the smells and sights and sounds he's spent the last seven or so years trying to smother from memory. And mayhap it'd be different if he'd been dropped in at the right time and seen ole Kimba Rimer or Cordelia Delgado strutting through town. Mayhap.

But right now, the air feels clean, and somewhere a hundred wheels away, Cuthbert Allgood hasn't even been born yet. He closes his eyes and lets the idea sink in.

Behind him, the holodeck door opens, and he smiles-- that wide, idiot grin that says he's actually pleased for company-- and squints to see who it is.

"Hey there," he calls out, his voice warm and animated. "Just mind the cow pies."

Comments

[withmyshield]

That sets her teeth on edge a bit, considering last one she was offered was in Tombstone, AZ.

"Anything but that." But she falls into step with him anyway so they can talk. "This is more Gilead?"

The urge to talk shop is strong, but the influx of strangers has also underscored the few genuine connections she's made, which is still a shock to her system.

[wise_ass]

"What?! No." As soon as he's had the reaction, he realizes it was perhaps a little over the top. "Well, uh, yes, this is All-World. But we're five hundred wheels away from Gilead. This is Hambry. Not a city. Not even the same country, really."

He gives her a sidelong look.

"Does this really look like Gilead to you?"

[withmyshield]

The vehemence of his reaction makes Sharon's grin imperceptibly wider, though the mistake is pretty understandable, she likes to think. Particularly from someone who called New York, New York home for many years. Really, it wasn't so much the landscape that made the connection, either, since they were about as similar as the Catskills and Kansas, so much as the way Bert looked at home in it.

"Don't give me that look. But seriously: Allworld? Allgood? The naming committee might want to hire some new blood."

[wise_ass]

"Yeah, yeah," he says, waving her off. "Anyway: this is Mejis. I've told you about a Mejis. A little, anyway. Sheemie, the big bads and the intrepid young hero who scared them silly with his sling? That was down at the Traveller's Rest. Right there."

It's the tavern he's been ambling toward, but he points toward it like the bar itself is the villain of the story, or at least complicit. Really, everything about Hambry felt off to Bert from his first day, fine from the outside but rotten at the core. The pink glass, mayhap. Or small towns are just full of unhappy hillbillies. One of the two, for sure.

[withmyshield]

"I'm not in the mood for a dramatic reenactment, just so we're clear." She's all prepared to give a good 'fuck off' stare to any townsfolk looking askance at her bluejeans, but there aren't that many compared to Gilead. It's almost a disappointment.

"So, how does this place relate to Gilead? Geographically, politically?" She and Bert reach for the tavern doors at the same time, busting into the dim little bar a tad more dramatically than was necessary.

[wise_ass]

"I won't promise a thing. I can't abide a bully."

Looks like the Rest is short on bullies tonight, thankfully. There are a few well-to-do looking men in front of the bar, bankers or merchants, mayhap, with loosened cravats and whiskeys in rocks glasses, a bartender with an impressively wooly beard, a piano player plunking out something that seems a little too thoughtful for a Saturday night to Bert's ears, and a small, politely obvious collection of doxies in the back by the billiards table.

"Gilead is five hundred wheels northwest of here," he says, tugging her chair out for her with his toe, then following suit with his own. "'Bout a fortnight and change on horseback if you're riding hard."

The bartender calls out to him, and if he looks at Sharon at all, Bert's Our Lady of Green Days. "What's yours?"

"Two grafs, my good man. New Canaan apples... nothing like them!"

"Cry your pardon, sai--we en't stocking them. Can't, not with the weather and harriers. These are Tepachi fruit."

"I'm sure it'll be a revelation." And then, to Sharon, out of the opposite side of his mouth, all in one swift whisper: "Check yours for worms."

He clasps his hands together on the table and gives her a beatific smile. "Where were we? Ah. Politics. So. The Affiliation sprang up from the collapse of the 'Kingdom of All-World' back in the days of my great-great-great-grandfolks. It split into a passel of separate governmental entities with Gilead as the seat of power, providing economic and military aid to the Outer Baronies, of which Mejis is one. We-- myself, Roland, and Alain-- were sent out here for our first job as working gunslingers to do a bit of reconnaissance regarding Affiliation loyalties. Civil wars had been breaking out in some of the more distant regions and Mejis was a special case, for it had oil derricks that were rumored to be flowing once again. Some more excitable sources were claiming that insurgents had found a way to use the oil to power the war machines of the Great Old Ones." He hesitates for a moment, thinking of his history lessons from the pod classroom. "Tanks. Submachine guns. Sound familiar?"

[withmyshield]

"Sure does." A conflict hinging on oil interests has a very "Gulf War" ring to it, so yeah, Sharon's familiar. It also doesn't get past her that if she had walked in here alone, the reception would have been very different. She doesn't much care for being anybody's +1, but she's got zero right to complain, having walked into Bert's universe already in progress.

"Earth hasn't gotten around to a Post-Post industrial age yet, but I wouldn't count it out as a possibility." The barman brings over two cloudy pints [more like pitchers, but who's counting these days], and Sharon does indeed take a cursory look over it for worms. Satisfied that she's not in for a nasty surprise, she hefts the pint, stopping only when she catches Bert's look of disapproval and raised glass. Jesus. It's always a production. Not only that, he's clearly waiting on her toast.

"OK, uh. To a momentary escape?"

[wise_ass]

"To a momentary escape," he echoes, and takes a sip. It's the first booze he's had in weeks, but of course he hasn't told Sharon that, and he finds he doesn't really want to. He's not quite ready to hold himself to it. Momentary escape indeed.

Besides, he thinks before he takes a sip, how strong can Tepachi graf be?

One eyewateringly potent draught later, he's blinking back the shock of the single most sour potable he's ever had the amusement of tasting.

"Zounds," Bert says calmly, exercising the muscles of his mouth. "That's unique."

[withmyshield]

Between the obliterating tartness and Bert's face, Sharon's lucky to choke down her sip at all. She sets down the pint and wipes her watering eyes.

She's got about half a dozen questions, and is pretty sure each of them individually is a good time killer, let alone stringing them all together in an interrogation. The gentle approach has never been Sharon's style, but she makes an effort for Cuthbert.

"Is this a good sign? Wanting to be here?" They're both aware that Cuthbert's been wrangling some pretty robust demons over the last few months, and this lightheartedness could be him on the other side of it, or really, really not.

[wise_ass]

"Nooo, I don't think so," Bert admits seriously, shaking his head and studying the deep grooves in the table. "Wanting to be in Mejis? I'm out of my tree."

He waits a few seconds, not looking up at her expression, because he doesn't need to. He knows it's there, lying in wait, ready to sober him up.

"I think so," he contradicts without missing a beat, apparently letting up but in as serious a tone as before. "I s'pose I wanted to see if I started howling at the sky or tearing out my hair. So far so good."

Bert tips his glass toward her with a game smile.

Gods, he can't be serious around her. He just can't.

[withmyshield]

Sharon turns her glass on the table, thinking. There are certain steps Bert ought to consider to get further toward being actually OK, but it's not her place to push him. Things like this can't really be pushed, and under the circumstances, he's actually bearing up pretty well. Now, anyway. Sharon thinks about how she'd want to be treated if she was trying not to lose her shit.

She wouldn't want well meant suggestions, that's for damn sure. She'd want something concrete.

"Forgive me if this sounds selfish, but I really need you right now. I need you with your head in the game, not a stiff drink away from blowing a fuse." She doesn't brace for a reaction -that would imply that she isn't always ready for just about anything.

[wise_ass]

Even knowing what her mood is, he's surprised when she actually calls him out. Frankly, he's grateful he didn't fall out of his chair at the phrase I really need you right now coming out of Sharon's mouth.

One corner of his mouth turns up ruefully, and he continues to trace the deep cuts in the wood of the table with his finger.

"I'm doing the best I can right now." There's no defense or self-pity in his voice; it's delivered as a frank self-observation. "So what did Zoe tell you?"

He looks up at her, matching her no-nonsense mug and then some.

[withmyshield]

That's the real kicker in the current situation; part of Sharon knows he's already doing everything he can, and it's unfair if not downright impossible to ask him to speed up the process. Never having been big on healing, herself, Sharon wouldn't know how long she ought to hold her breath for it either.

The lack of intel rankles pretty sharp, too. Zoe's told her precisely jack shit about what went on for Cuthbert during the monster attacks, and his rapid decline after clues her in to its importance. So she goes fishing, once again, hoping for a better result than the last time.

"Less than you assume." He probably won't fill in the blanks, but there's always a chance.

[wise_ass]

He purses his lips against a wry smile at her answer; there's something funny about its unabashed vagueness. It almost makes him wonder if Zoe's told her anything at all. At one point, he was in agony at the thought of Zoe relaying the experience to anyone, but now he finds that somehow, the memory feels heavier knowing she apparently couldn't even bring herself to retell it to a friend. It stirs up murky guilt at the pit of his stomach.

"Ah. Okay."

Cuthbert eyes the pint glass briefly and then returns his focus to the table.

"Long story short, Zoe had the pleasure of finding me with my gun to my head." His voice is casual, like he doesn't want anyone drinking nearby to mistake their conversation for a loaded one. "There's more, but that's basically the worst of it."

He swallows, trying to keep his voice smooth. "So. I have got to find something to do with myself, Sharon."

[withmyshield]

So the binge drinking shut-in act had actually been the aftermath of a suicide attempt and not the main event.

Perfect.

Sharon makes a mental note to have a little chat with Zoe about keeping critically important secrets.

"I guess you do." She sits back, pint in hand once more; now she feels like she actually could use a drink. Not as much for being a crappy friend as the enormity of what she has to do, with less help.

"I'm thinking...basket weaving?" A wink before she sips her drink. The joke is his last chance to get off the hook if he needs it.

[wise_ass]

He smiles weakly at the joke despite not actually hearing it; it's the beat and tone he recognizes and his response is rote. His real focus is reading her expression, every nuance of it, in her reaction to what he's just told her. Alain had the Touch, and even Roland could manage it in a pinch, but Bert's had to rely on his crummy old observational skills all these years. In his head he'd had a dozen ways to tell her what had happened, some of them starting at the very beginning (Mejis) and others just with the arrival of zombi Alain, and he hadn't figured in any of those scenarios he'd just lay it out plain for her like that. The seconds following had been agonizing. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting from Sharon, and even now, he's not sure how he feels about her response.

It's a complex, heady few seconds of thought and emotion before he feels the switch flip, but when it does, his face is just about impassive. He sits back, unconsciously mimicking her posture, holding his cider.

"So: what's your plan?"