From Dust to Dust - Plot Point 2

[piper90npcs]

Who: Everyone on the Dust to Dust Mission
What: The hires and their daemons attend a fancy party and follow up on some mysteries.
Where: A ballroom on the mission.
When: After From Dust to Dust - Plot Point One
Warnings/Notes: None yet.

Comments

[ownperson]

What South picks out is, going by its size and cut, probably sized with her brother, or one of the other male hires around his size, in mind. Suit pants and a jacket over a slightly more decorative shirt with a fancy bow rather than a tie that's a token effort at putting any more traditional, feminine touches on the outfit.

She'll do fancy, but like hell she's going to wear a dress again. The 1950s shit was bad enough, but an evening gown? Nope. Fuck that. If they want her to go to this, it's going to be in pants or not at all.

If the face she pulls at the jewelry and make-up tables is anything to go by, she's not exactly eager to engage with any of that, either.

"Who actually enjoys like, any of this stuff?"

The snake draped around her shoulders just replies, "People who aren't you," as South glares at her for being a smartass.

[For North]

Her hair's gotten too fucking long.

She keeps it short for a reason—well, a few, really. The closest to styling she gets is re-dying the front purple, otherwise, she barely touches it except to drag a comb through it. She has absolutely no idea how to make her hair look presentable and it shows.

"Maybe if you hold it up and I wrap myself around it before you let go I can keep it up for you," Anja says with dry humour and South rolls her eyes with a huff, still trying to fight her hair up into a— bun? That's probably a bun she's trying to make.

"Oh— shut the fuck up, I'm trying, okay? I'm not used to this girly shit."

"It's a bun, not a French braid. This should not be hard."

"You don't even have fingers."

"...fuck you too."

South snickers, then curses vibrantly as she fails, yet again, to get her hair to actually stay up in a passable bun. As soon as she lets go, pieces of hair escape in all directions, and she makes a frustrated noise as she pulls it all loose again and barely resists the urge to slam her fist against something. She's meant to be at least trying to rein in her temper.

[bothbarrels]

North's been neatening his suit and talking to Randi, but he starts to pass by South's station right when she's struggling with her hair and complaining—loudly. He slows, turning, and puts a hand on South's chair.

"Still can't do your own hair, can you?"

It's been a while, but he was used to being the one to deal with it whenever South needed it for special occasions.

[ownperson]

South's back snaps ramrod straight again, not unlike it did when he caught her watching him when they arrived. Anja immediately seems to shrink in on herself, contracting her length into a tighter coil where she's settled.

"...wouldn't have to if it hadn't grown so long," she grumbles, not looking back at him. "Would just leave it down if I could."

Which is a no. No, she can't.

[bothbarrels]

He has definitely noticed her stiffening with tension whenever he's nearby. He gives her a light pat on the shoulder, then tugs at the end of the tail of her hair.

"I can fix that up," he says. "And maybe we should talk. A little. I know it's not the best time...but, maybe we should."

[ownperson]

Somehow she manages to get tenser, both at the touch and at the words. No, it's not the best time, but she's not been able to help thinking about it since he put the idea in her head before. The idea of waiting, especially when he keeps being so... so... him, threatens to drive her insane.

Maybe it's better to bite the bullet. Maybe if she has a mental fucking breakdown again she won't have to go to this stupid party at all.

"...yeah. Okay. Sure. Do my stupid hair then— then maybe we can talk in one of the cubicles."

Not that the idea of him standing there doing her hair like when they were kids without knowing where this is going is ideal, either, but who the fuck else is she going to ask to do it?

[bothbarrels]

He waits through her deliberations, and once she's decided, he nods at her in the mirror, then begins gathering her hair into a low tail, intending to twist it into a French twist afterwards. He keeps his touch firm but gentle, not meaning to pull her hair or tighten it too much as he gathers it.

Once it's twisted up he nods at the bobby pins on the dressing table in front of her. "Can you hand me some of those? One at a time."

[ownperson]

She swallows a heavy lump in her throat and almost nods, but doesn't, since he's messing with her hair and all. So, without a nod and without a word, she hands him back bobby pins one at a time like he asks her to.

The memory of this is going to sting if the coming conversation goes the way she expects it to.

Anja rests her head on South's other hand as this all happens. She'd wrap herself around South's arm or shoulders, but she'd only get in the way.

[bothbarrels]

Eventually it's pinned up enough that it looks like it's not going anywhere. He reaches across her shoulder to grab the gel that's sitting on the dressing table and squirts a small glop of it into his hand. He rubs his hands together and swipes it along the places where hair is trying to come loose—at the temples and above the ears.

"Good?"

[ownperson]

She stays nice and still for him as he pins it up and doesn't even flinch like she feels like she wants to when he uses the gel. Inhaling and exhaling, she nods, tilting her head slightly to get a proper look in the mirror. It feels secure, and it looks better than anything she'd ever have pulled off on her own.

"Yeah. Yeah, that... that looks good. Uh— thank you, for the help," she says, flicking her eyes up to meet his in the mirror for the first time. "Let's uh— grab one of the cubicles next to one that isn't occupied, then?"

Rip off the bandaid. No point dancing around and delaying.

[drladysounds]

"Aw, it's not so bad! People usually don't get to doll up and play socialite -- if you're a social butterfly you have fun, I guess"

Like Shelley, really. She'd try to get along with everyone, including the daemons.

"Not that I have been in parties that aren't really casual or costume parties. I hope this won't be as stiff as it sounds like"

[ownperson]

It takes South a second to place Shelley's face, but then the dots connect. Right, she was in her head during that memory bullshit—wonderful. Though, far as she can remember (and her memory of that whole thing is a bit blurred by later events) this one wasn't nosey about it, so, there's that.

So she just snorts quietly. "Probably gonna be stiff as a board. My kinda party's a lot more... well, I'll do bars and clubs and shit. Not this fancy-pants stuff. If they were the sorta riffraff you get at military bars I could chat 'em up easy, but I'm pretty sure all I'm gonna get here is weird fuckin' looks."

[drladysounds]

"The key is to not care at all what other people think. So what if they give you weird looks? If you focus on enjoying yourself somehow then what other people care doesn't matter at all"

Shelley certainly wouldn't do not even half of the bullshit she has been known for if she was self-conscious about what other people thought of her.

[ownperson]

South actually chuckles at that. "Not giving a shit about what people think is pretty much my whole thing, so, yeah, that's the plan."

If she cared, she'd probably just wear the damn dress to avoid it, but nah. Fuck that. It might actually be kind of funny to see the looks on the faces of the most traditional of the people here.

"There's gotta be a way to at least make this shit bearable." Maybe she and Brand can prop up a wall somewhere and just talk shit about the pompous fuckheads that are probably going to make up the party goers. "You the socialising type?"

[drladysounds]

"Usually yes, especially if there's some drinks involved. When they say alcohol is liquid courage they mean it"

And thankfully, she has enough selfcontrol to not embarrass herself even when totally wasted. Now that she has Lepakko, though...she gives her bat the good ol' fingerguns. Took no time at all for her to grow attached to that daemon.

"But now that this guy is in the equation I don't think how that's going to go. He's like a me with zero inhibitions. At least you probably won't have to worry about yours causing havoc the moment you're not looking"

[ownperson]

South looks at the bat, then looks down at Anja, whose long body is wrapped and draped comfortably around South's shoulders. "Probably not havoc, no."

Get weirdly friendly with people she likes but won't necessarily admit she likes, or likes that much? That's another problem entirely. Anja knows exactly what she's thinking, and responds only by looking about as smug as a snake can.

"Guess you better not look away," Anja jokes. South's not sure if its directed entirely at Shelley, or partially at her.

She shakes her head. "...that actually makes me wonder how these guys act if we do drink and get drunk."

[drladysounds]

That's a good question, question she's sure the guides would know more about. There's no way an answer doesn't exist, is it too late to contact them? The thought of things leading to Lepakko getting so drunk he divebombs the buffet table and ruins the party is a little too likely for her comfort.

"...on second thought a night without cocktails doesn't sound so bad anymore. Jorgmund will kill me if all they get from this important trip is a lawsuit"

[ownperson]

South gives an amused snort, "Fuckin' imagine us messing up the objective because of a drunk daemon. That'd be one of the more hilarious fuckin' ways to piss Jorg off if nothing else."

Which reminds her that Jorg is still expecting her to help 'ensure Jorgmund's interests' are prioritised, aka that no one goes off-script and fucks this up. Ugh, faking working for the corp sucks. At least it's probably hard for even this group to fuck up this one, so she won't have to interfere or, y'know, not interfere anyway and have to come up with something to tell Jorg to cover her ass.

(That is, if this really is as simple as just going to a party.)

[for Brand]

[ownperson]

South stays in the cubicle for a long time, after North leaves. She starts off standing, leaning against the back wall with her head in her hands trying to just breathe, but no matter how hard she tries to hold them back the tears come eventually and she finds herself sliding to the floor. Knees up to her chest, she buries her face in them and cries, arms over her head and her shoulders shaking.

The few sobs that break through are quiet, muffled, inaudible from the outside—or at least she sure fucking hopes they are. This is pathetic, this is by far the most pathetic time she's started crying over this—as if the fact she can't seem to replace her tears with rage anymore wasn't bad enough, now she's breaking down in the middle of a mission, surrounded by the other Hires.

Fucking. Pathetic.

It wouldn't be obvious who was in the mostly-but-not-quite closed cubicle, if not for Anja having taken up a post by the door, watching to make sure no one interrupts South. Or, well, that no one interrupts South without Anja letting them, that is.

Re: [for Brand]

[runes_brand]

Brand isn't keeping an eye on South. Not particularly at least, he keeps an eye on everybody because he's lives his life in a constant fucking state of vigilance. That's what it means to be a Companion, keeping track of the movements of everyone in the room in case someone turns out to be a threat to your independently-mobile heart. Rune being a universe or two away doesn't mean he stops doing that; if anything Brand dives into it more deeply to distract himself from the lack of Rune.

So when South and her brother disappear together into one of the dressing cubicles, Brand notes it and files it away. Same when North leaves. It's Fi who brings it to his attention, having grown bored with Brand's ongoing struggle with his tie fifteen minutes ago. She knocks his leg, leaving white hairs all over his black trousers. She doesn't say anything, it's all significant eyebrows, but Brand huffs at her and heads for the cubicle because apparently this is what they're doing now. Assuming the snake at the door lets him through.

At least it's not fighting with his fucking tie.

[ownperson]

Anja looks up at him as he approaches, tongue idly flicking out to taste the air. She's taken up a state of vigilance of her own, or, well, of South's own, but the thing is, for all South claims she'd rather be alone? It's all a front, and it's not one that Anja's interested in the upkeep of.

She doesn't say anything, but she does slither out of the way and nudge the door open a little more as she does. It's as good an invitation as any.

South doesn't even hear the door creak open another inch, or notice when Anja moves. Her head's already clouded by the weird haze that comes with crying that she hates, so she stays curled up, face buried in her knees.

Her hair's done up in a pretty nicely done French twist that South, who rocks bedhead more often than she doesn't these days, clearly didn't do herself. Despite the arms over her head, she's seemingly been careful not to pull a single hair out of place.

[runes_brand]

The cubicle isn't big enough for South, Brand, and a dog of Fi's size, so the latter remains with Anja as Brand pushes through the door. He's not quiet about it, so that South knows both that someone's coming in and that that someone is Brand -- they're familiar enough with the sounds of each other's gait and breathing now that she probably won't even need to look up to identify him.

He kicks the door closed behind him and sinks down on the floor next to her, a fancy dress version of the way she'd sat with him when Rune had snapped back home.

"...Not really good at talking about shit," he says, like that's a fucking surprise. Their friendship is largely based on not talking about shit. "But I can sit. Or I could shove his head in a fucking toilet."

He doubts she actually wants him to shove her brother's head in a toilet, but he can at least make the offer. Maybe she'll laugh; North is big enough and well-enough trained that shoving his head in a toilet would take Brand some significant effort.

[ownperson]

There's an audible hiss of air, distorted by being dragged in harshly through her teeth, when she hears him come in, and the line of her shoulders pulls tight. But she doesn't raise her head and snap at him to fuck off, she doesn't even raise her head at all at first, she just... sits, sniffling quietly, listening to the shuffling sounds of Brand getting himself situated and then his words.

Of course he knows who she's crying about. Fuck.

There's a weak, wet sound that's not quite a laugh and not quite a snort, but that's all she musters. The thought of how hilarious the mental image of Brand trying to get North's head into a toilet even crosses her mind, but she can't seem to connect the actual humour to it.

"It-It's not—" her voice comes out weird and raw and she coughs, clears her throat. Lifts her head and drags a hand over her face. "He doesn't... it's complicated."

Even if either of them were any good at talking, she's not sure she could ever really explain this. Brand would drop her like a rock if he knew the full story, of that she's sure. In the end, she only really has herself to blame for the hurt she's feeling.

[runes_brand]

There's not a single fucking person on this mission or the Rig that South would cry like this over other than her brother, Brand himself included. It's not a hard conclusion to draw. The wet noise is a positive, it means South's grief hasn't swamped her connection to reality. Brand definitely doesn't know her well enough to help her with that shit.

He shifts his weight, settling in for the long haul, or as long as it takes everyone else to finish getting dressed and made up.

"It usually is," he says, as gently as he can manage. "'s why it sucks."

[ownperson]

She drops her head back against the wall with a sharp thunk, fingers splayed across her face, trying to breathe. She hates this. She hates showing vulnerability like this. First in front of York and now in front of Brand and okay, she saw Brand at rock bottom that day Rune went back home, but he wasn't blubbering like a little kid who just skinned their knee for the first time.

"S-Shouldn't have talked to him here. Fucking— stupid," she mumbles, scrubbing that hand over her face again and then letting it fall into her lap.

She should've known better than this, than to think this was a good idea. Waiting would've sucked, but at least she wouldn't be crying like this, when they're meant to be going to this stupid fancy party soon. Her eyes are going to be red and her face is going to be a mess and fuck, she's going to look ridiculous.

"Knew this was coming. I fucking knew it," she says, still mumbling. It's not talking when you just make vague, frustrated comments, right? "So fucking stupid."

If he has to forgive her to let her back into his life, then that's it. You don't forgive a person for that kind of betrayal.

[runes_brand]

Had South put voice to the comparison between their respective breakdowns, Brand would have had a couple things to say about it. But all she's saying are self-recriminations and things he has no context for, so he's got nothing. Obviously something had gone down between North and South, and whatever repair they'd made of it back when Brand had called North to give him shit on South's behalf hadn't been enough to hold.

Rune doesn't like to be touched when he's upset, except incidentally. Max doesn't either. Corbie does, but Corbie also views the adults in his life as climbing equipment and South strikes him as being more in the former camp than the latter. So Brand lets his continued presence speak for him rather than reaching out further.

"Well, just..." he gestures vaguely at her face, not looking at her. "Get it all out now while you've still got a private corner. Or else it's going to keep happening." He sighs, staring at the opposite wall. "Grief's a wound. You've got to clean it, or else it'll get infected."