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❅ SHITTY LITTLE TOWN ❅ PART 2
There's an article in the local paper, but word travels through the town hours before the first newspaper hits a doorstep: a man went missing down the mine, and they couldn’t even retrieve his body for his wife to bury. The official story is that there was a freak cave-in while the night crew was working, that no amount of preparation or technology could have prevented the act of God that left one of the arterials from the main mining cavern obstructed. Given that it was the night crew, there was only one witness, and he was violating protocol and too far down another arterial to hear or see what happened; because Goluboy has a zero-tolerance policy for breaking protocols, he fired the surviving miner. Goluboy has informed the newspaper that there will be no further efforts to recover the body.
Thus, two events are happening in town this weekend: Ms. Cygne’s debut ball, and a protest against the mining conditions outside the mouth of the mines.
Out in the woods, the fog has been thick to the point where subsistence hunters can’t venture in more than a few yards, and there seem to be strange sounds, almost like music, soft tank drums and ringing, emanating from the murk. It almost feels like the menace of the woods is...encroaching.
PROMPTS
a) PROTEST OUTSIDE THE MINE
The rage at Goluboy has been a long time brewing, but the people who live in his apartments wisely don’t appear at the protest. Instead, it’s all about twenty people who have just managed to avoid being dependent on Goluboy’s grace who have shown up with posterboards and a loudspeaker, rallying during the miners’ workday. This was all coordinated the day before my word of mouth, and it isn’t particularly well organized; people frequently end up blocking the mining equipment, and the foreman shouts at them to stay away from dangerous areas with marginal success. The three people with loudspeakers end up talking over each other and the chants are piecemeal and overlapping; however, the fact that people are upset about the perceived lack of safety for the miners and particularly for the abandonment of the missing miner’s body. Bring Him Home is the main chant and the only one that seems to get any muscle to it. The fired miner seems to be the person leading the most vocal chants.
The administrative staff from MineCorp have been asked to come field complaints from the protesters, armed with nothing but some talking points from the MineCorp mission statement (something something synergized comparative advantage for diversified innovative solutions something something labor is our most precious resource yada yada). One scruffy man seems to have hijacked the protest with his loudspeaker and is rambling about the animal maulings in the woods. At some point, Goluboy arrives in his armored Ford F-250. He calls over his foreman and has an annoyed conversation, and then he gets out, bodyguard looming behind him, to talk to individuals, putting on an evidently forced smile with gritted teeth.
The rage at Goluboy has been a long time brewing, but the people who live in his apartments wisely don’t appear at the protest. Instead, it’s all about twenty people who have just managed to avoid being dependent on Goluboy’s grace who have shown up with posterboards and a loudspeaker, rallying during the miners’ workday. This was all coordinated the day before my word of mouth, and it isn’t particularly well organized; people frequently end up blocking the mining equipment, and the foreman shouts at them to stay away from dangerous areas with marginal success. The three people with loudspeakers end up talking over each other and the chants are piecemeal and overlapping; however, the fact that people are upset about the perceived lack of safety for the miners and particularly for the abandonment of the missing miner’s body. Bring Him Home is the main chant and the only one that seems to get any muscle to it. The fired miner seems to be the person leading the most vocal chants.
The administrative staff from MineCorp have been asked to come field complaints from the protesters, armed with nothing but some talking points from the MineCorp mission statement (something something synergized comparative advantage for diversified innovative solutions something something labor is our most precious resource yada yada). One scruffy man seems to have hijacked the protest with his loudspeaker and is rambling about the animal maulings in the woods. At some point, Goluboy arrives in his armored Ford F-250. He calls over his foreman and has an annoyed conversation, and then he gets out, bodyguard looming behind him, to talk to individuals, putting on an evidently forced smile with gritted teeth.
b) DEBUT BALL
Ms. Cygne’s debut ball at her mansion is the event of the year, with all the lavishness than this sort of town can muster; beautiful dresses, a chocolate fountain, gift bags with expensive accessories and bonbons, fine sparkling wines, and invitations embossed with gold leaf. Plenty of the little treats are the sort that were presumed extinct in this town; no one’s seen a pair of Gucci sunnies or eaten a Ghirardelli’s in years here.
Most of the festivities take place in the massive ballroom that anchors the mansion, and they spill out into the lawn, where Ms. Cygne has insisted on a sit-down dinner rather than a “ghastly” buffet. The lady of the hour is quite active, making sure to check in with every single person at least once to make sure she’s getting praised for her hosting skills and getting a good look at every youth who’s appeared. The youths themselves have been pressured, by family members, teachers or Ms. Cygne herself, to present themselves as elegantly and politely as possible, and to make a “good showing” at their first event as a notable, respectable young person who may be a contender for Ms. Cygne’s prestigious scholarship.
At the table, people rub elbows with people they may not necessarily speak to otherwise, all brought together by the commonality of being someone Ms. Cygne has deemed noteworthy. Almost nobody allows themselves to get too inebriated, but one woman has a bit too much champagne and begins to cry at the dinner table; her friend, another woman in her thirties, ushers her to the powder room, where she composes herself while everyone awkwardly changes the subject. A few people do mannered waltzes in the ballroom, and out on the lawn, people mingle and make toasts.
Ms. Cygne’s debut ball at her mansion is the event of the year, with all the lavishness than this sort of town can muster; beautiful dresses, a chocolate fountain, gift bags with expensive accessories and bonbons, fine sparkling wines, and invitations embossed with gold leaf. Plenty of the little treats are the sort that were presumed extinct in this town; no one’s seen a pair of Gucci sunnies or eaten a Ghirardelli’s in years here.
Most of the festivities take place in the massive ballroom that anchors the mansion, and they spill out into the lawn, where Ms. Cygne has insisted on a sit-down dinner rather than a “ghastly” buffet. The lady of the hour is quite active, making sure to check in with every single person at least once to make sure she’s getting praised for her hosting skills and getting a good look at every youth who’s appeared. The youths themselves have been pressured, by family members, teachers or Ms. Cygne herself, to present themselves as elegantly and politely as possible, and to make a “good showing” at their first event as a notable, respectable young person who may be a contender for Ms. Cygne’s prestigious scholarship.
At the table, people rub elbows with people they may not necessarily speak to otherwise, all brought together by the commonality of being someone Ms. Cygne has deemed noteworthy. Almost nobody allows themselves to get too inebriated, but one woman has a bit too much champagne and begins to cry at the dinner table; her friend, another woman in her thirties, ushers her to the powder room, where she composes herself while everyone awkwardly changes the subject. A few people do mannered waltzes in the ballroom, and out on the lawn, people mingle and make toasts.
c) EXPLORE ELSEWHERE [Link]
OOC: Please feel free to thread with each other at any location in the town. Available NPCs are bolded. Please indicate in bold in your comment if you would like an NPC to tag in, or reach out to Em or Juliet specifically. We request that each player only request one NPC per character so we may respond quickly. Thank you!
OOC: Please feel free to thread with each other at any location in the town. Available NPCs are bolded. Please indicate in bold in your comment if you would like an NPC to tag in, or reach out to Em or Juliet specifically. We request that each player only request one NPC per character so we may respond quickly. Thank you!
There is gossip around town that characters can be handwaved as knowing that might drive some questions about the town and npcs:
- The spooky deaths in the woods that have been going on for ages.
- Mining disasters like this have happened before, always before the announcement of a big new mining vein opening up.
- Children who take Ms Cygne's scholarship never come back to the town, and their letters are very formulaic.
- Goluboy's wife died under mysterious circumstances, his girlfriend went to jail for the murder, and he is about town courting again.
- Cygne has a pond full of so many beautiful swans, aren't they lovely!
- The curfew sure is heavily enforced. Is it because the sheriff knows something about the monsters in the woods and is withholding information?
❅ Deja Vu: Characters may optionally start getting some very brief flashes of memory or deja vu but this will be brief, confusing, and alarming rather than revelatory and full memory regain will not be possible. Still, players can opt to have this cause a feeling of possible unease or un-rightness to the situation that can be used to drive characters to have questions or be suspicious enough to investigate areas and situations.
❅ Event Length: This part of the plot will involve an npcing stage. It will last approx. two weeks before the last part, part 3, though this end time may be shortened to match player pace if npc threads progress quickly.
❅ New Intros: If your character wasn't introed in part 1 you can handwave they've been there the whole time and just intro in part 2.
❅ New Characters: If you app a new character and want to intro them at this time, assume they arrived just in time at the location the plot takes place in to be caught up in the magic drawing everyone in. They would have gotten the Man in the Moon's spiel from the welcome page right before being magically sucked in.
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There is no way he's going to openly talk about the real subject of conversation. He's not an idiot and his family's lawyer would kill him.
"I know placing value to something like owls is a bit beyond someone like you, but people around here have different priorities. They're proud of protecting owls."
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He drums his fingers on the glass, looking thoughtful. "When I visited Australia, I came across some cassowaries. You've heard of those, right? As tall as a human with deadly claws on its feet. They're basically dinosaurs."
Paul turns his gaze back to Boimler and smiles, finishing off his drink. "But owls are nice, too. No need to strive for anything else when you've got owls to take care of here."
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"There's plenty to strive for, like protecting your family's owls, when other people strive for the opposite." He adds, "And they always do, because they think they can just steamroll everyone's owls."
The "no need to strive for anything else" definitely got under his skin.
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"You're clever, and you're tenacious. I've seen you in action. You'd be capable of so much if you didn't insist on tying yourself down to the vineyard."
He finishes off his drink and sets the glass down, pushing up from the bartop and heading for the exit. He's not really in the mood to go fishing for some overnight company anymore.
"Thanks for the drink."
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As Boimler gets up off his stool to go after Paul, one of the other hands, Lianne, calls after him, hoping to distract him from whatever he's about to go off and do in a bad mood.
"Wait, Bradford! I seem to have spilled my beer all over my t-shirt. Can you help me towel it off?"
"Not now, Lianne!" he calls in annoyance over his shoulder as he storms out the bar's door, leaving her crossing her arm and pouting in the bar behind him.
He doesn't know why it's making him so angry, someone telling him he's capable, that he has potential outside the farm. All he knows is it digs right under his skin, the idea that maybe he should be somewhere else, doing something else.
Boldly going somewhere else -
Okay, that's a weird way of phrasing it, but the feeling is there.
He ducks in between a few of the barflies heading into the bar for the night and catches up to Paul.
"What gives you the right?" he calls after him. "To talk about what anyone else is capable of? That's some ego coming from someone who thinks a high salary and a fancy degree means anything at all when their contribution to the world is - let me check my notes -" He looks at his hand "- making rich people richer and screwing innocent people over."
He holds his hand up and makes a zero with his fingers, emphasizing with it slowly.
"I'd say your contribution to the world comes out to a net zero but really you just make things worse. But hey, you sure do have a nice watch, huh? So I guess it all evens out."
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He jabs a finger to Boimler's chest. "It must be easy when no one expects greatness from you. When no one demands greatness."
He thinks of his father's stormy eyes scrutinizing him, remembers cowering from him out of shame and fear.
"No, you can just coast along being Raisin Guy for the rest of your life. Maybe you can convince yourself it's what you wanted all along!"
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It hurts to hear anyone say he has potential, to pick at the scabs over the wounds he'd done to himself by daring to dream of anything else when he was younger and then ultimately caving into his parents' demands.
But he'd done it for a reason and that reason wasn't just legacy or fear of disappointing his parents or ultimately deciding he wouldn't be good enough at other things to be successful.
It was also because he'd worked with some of the same workers on his family's farm since he was old enough to even work the fields. His parents kept the same people on year after year, even as some got older and slower, paid a good wage, kept up safe conditions, and just outright sponsored VISAs instead of taking advantage of people and paying some with sub-standard wages.
"I've known most of those workers since I was a teenager. They have families. And if I had my druthers -" yes, he actually said "druthers" "- there's no way in hell I'd let that place fold so those families are at risk of winding up with one of those Minecorp officials at their door lying about how very sorry they are."
Now he jabs Paul in the chest back.
"When it comes to high horses, you are practically jockey-sized next to the one you're trying to ride. Next time before you try to get all high and mighty, don't take work from someone that thinks OSHA compliance is just a light suggestion."
He backs away slightly, breathing hard, expression still passionate.
And annoyed. And bewildered.
"You are obviously smart and competent, or else you wouldn't have been such a giant pain in my butt for months. You want to talk about coasting? There is an entire world of better things you could be doing with the education, intellect, and skills you've got instead working for people like Goluboy."
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"Look around you," he snaps, sweeping an arm to motion toward the area around. "Do you think any of this is sustainable? California has thousands of acres dedicated to the raisin industry. The vineyard was already a sinking ship before MineCorp got here, just like every other hold-out farm!"
What he's saying is correct. He's been telling himself that about his clients for years. Why doesn't he feel any better? Why is he still so angry? "Is anything going to change if I tie myself to a hopeless cause in the name of doing the right thing? Do you think there's merit in letting this place drag you down with it?"
When Boimler steps back, Paul steps forward, getting right back in his face. Anger has his heart pumping and his adrenaline rising, and he's desperate to get a reaction out of his opponent. "If you've got so much integrity, why don't you look me in the eyes and tell me this really is where you want to be?"
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How he reacts is perhaps unexpected, though.
"You're right. I've always wanted to be somewhere else. I used to dream of getting out of this town, of seeing far off places - and not just places with other people. I wanted to be out there doing, I don't know, science or something. In places people barely go."
He'd wanted to explore. Wanted to learn things.
"But every paycheck I give those people means they're better off. That's a little more time they're working in good conditions. That's a little more time they can put money away. Some of them almost have enough for retirement, or paying for their kid to finish college, or getting out of this town to somewhere with better work. I know this might not last forever, but even giving them time where things are still good helps them."
He lifts his chin slightly, knowing he has the high ground, no matter how much Paul tries to tug on the truth of his resentment for this town or his desire to just be...out there.
"Because just as much as I wish I could be doing something else, I also wish this was a world where people were taken care of, where they didn't have to work themselves to the bone and fight to survive."
And that's what this town has done to his real self, poised the two halves of himself against each other: the half that wants to be out in the stars, and the half that has a sense of justice informed by growing up on a version of Earth where there's no longer want, where everyone's needs are met, where everyone is free to just try to better themselves and find fulfillment.
He jabs Paul's chest again - although it is now so close. They're almost pressed against each other at this point.
"Also," he proclaims it like a revelation, because him caring about ecology actually is the truth. Leaning forward and saying in almost a whisper, like he's unearthing a deep secret from his soul, "I actually care about the owls. They're endangered due to climate change and habitat loss."
If he had a mic he'd drop it at this point because he's not even lying about the owls.
(If he'd been himself, he'd have ollied out while throwing sarcastic Vulcan salutes.)
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I wanted to be out there doing, I don't know, science or something—
He'd be so good at science. Paul can just picture him buried in the inner workings of some device, urgently disarming it before it can explode. It's a weirdly specific scenario, but it's so vivid.
Tension winds up in his chest, rage and frustration bubbling up beyond anything words could convey. In Paul's mind, Boimler's words are suddenly accompanied by music, of all things. He can hear a dissonant, fast-paced canon in his thoughts, and the chord progression keeps circling without ever resolving.
Paul's almost tempted to belt out a note, just to slice the tension both inside and outside of his thoughts.
But that would be ridiculous.
He reaches forward and grabs Boimler's shirt with both hands. He half-pushes, half-drags him several feet back around the side of the bar, where any nosy patrons wouldn't see.
"You stupid, brilliant—"
Words aren't enough. Singing is out of the question. Paul yanks Boimler's shirt toward him and pulls him into a kiss, and the chords in his mind finally come to a satisfying resolution.
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Of course it is. He was in the middle of trying to take-that at his much-maligned legal rival, who he has pointedly tried to ignore the hotness of all this time, despite it being incredibly difficult to ignore. Boimler goes from being angry enough to flip a table to...maybe wanting to do something else on a table. All in the space of a heartbeat.
So he does kiss him back, but the kiss is a little uncertain.
It's when they finally draw apart and he stares at him in breathless confusion, that the uncertainty disappears.
"Dang it!" he growls in frustration at himself, and at how hot Paul is, and at the whole stupid situation. (His lawyer is going to murder him if he finds out about this.)
He's rarely ever aggressive about this kind of thing but what else can he be after all that? He grabs Paul by the shirt lapels, wheels him around, and slams him into the alley wall, kissing him this time, as if the kiss was some kind of attack and he has to one up him by kissing him back even harder. Full phaser spread, fire the quantum torpedos, he's apparently doing this.
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For a moment, he gets the feeling that this is finally happening, as if he'd wanted it for a long time.
Paul tilts his head, breaking away for a moment to kiss the curve of his jaw. Some part of him wants to take a second to examine his actions, because maybe this wasn't the smartest move, but he can't seem to focus on anything but the feeling of Boimler's body against his own. He sighs softly.
"My..." He struggles to put the thought together, then murmurs near his ear, "My car is close."
A thought flutters through his mind, something about this escalating way too quickly, with brief touches of confusion and anxiety, but they quickly drift away in the heat of the moment.
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So...
Does he bang the guy trying to completely screw his family?
He decides a) legally, he's not the one that has to answer to the state bar association over any impropriety/conflicts of interest if this gets out somehow, b) it's not like he's going to yell out secret facts from his family's side of the case during climax, and c) he can always justify this (just slightly) by trying to spy a little bit while Paul is asleep, on the tiny off-chance he's left something important from the case lying around.
It's deeply unlikely and it may all just be cope, but he still has some excuses.
Which he needs because of d). The fact his sworn enemy is an absolute smokeshow and he hasn't exactly been with anyone in a while.
He draws away, body language tense with his continued state of annoyed attraction and gestures sarcastically for him to lead the way to his car.
"If we do this, I'm getting breakfast in the morning, and it's going to be fancy. Understood? We're not Christian Grey-ing this shit."
IE where it's all transactional and there's some stupid power imbalance. His boundary is that he's staying the night rather than immediately getting used and kicked out the door, and they're going to have a nice, civil breakfast as two people before being back at each other's throats in the court-room again.
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"I don't — I'm not sure what came over me."
Apollo always was kind of a slut, he thinks, which is a weird thought to suddenly have but okay. Good for that guy.
He did come here looking for a distraction. And at least while he's tangled up with Boimler, where suddenly everything feels right, he's too distracted to contemplate how wrong everything else about his life feels.
"This doesn't change anything," he mutters, leaning in close again, "but I do make a mean eggs benedict."
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"Car. Now."
He wants sex and fancy eggs, sue him.
After they get in the car, get buckled in, and get moving, Boimler does something that is perhaps unexpected. Most wouldn't suspect him capable of any seductive power moves.
...Except, as his normal self, he once waited for his GF to meet him on an orbital platform, and turned around in a chair in a captain's pose to greet her.
Naked.
So as Paul drives, he very casually reaches a hand over and rests his hand on his leg, fully grasping his inner thigh, like that is just a totally normal place for his hand to rest. He watches the speedometer and predictably, the speed of the car does go up.
Very casually, he says, "You should really stick to the speed limit around here. Lots of sudden curves."
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Paul's house isn't far, and they arrive in minutes. He's grateful to have a garage — He can drag Boimler out of the car and into his house without fear of being seen.
Neither of them gets much sleep that night.
-
Paul is grateful that he'd learned to cook all those years ago. He likes nice food — The kind you can't get in a small-town diner. He's pretty sure you can't poach eggs on a griddle, and surely no one in a diner kitchen has the time or patience to make hollandaise sauce.
Paul whisks the sauce while keeping an eye on the meat sizzling in another pan. A pot of water is heating up to poach the eggs. He's even gotten out the ciabatta bread to elevate the whole experience.
He doesn't worry too much about Boimler snooping around. He doesn't have a lot of personal stuff here in his house, and all his case files are at the office.
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Sadly, there are no case files to be found, aw shucks. Too bad his sleeping with the enemy plan only allowed him to sleep with the enemy. Golly, what a shame.
The apartment is rather barren. Maybe it makes sense if he's only supposed to be in town a few months but some people would still liven the place up a little with something colorful.
"This place needs a houseplant."
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Paul takes the sauce off the heat and turns to the pot of water. He pours a little vinegar in and stirs it quickly, dropping two eggs into the whirlpool that forms. The motion will help the eggs keep their shape, and the vinegar will further help hold them together. He'd learned that from a chef he'd dated, back during...
...actually, when was that? Paul can see them vividly in his mind, enthralled by the joy in their eyes as they cooked, but he can't figure out when that could have possibly taken place.
He doesn't dwell on it.
"Can't say I've ever really thought about that before. I don't think it's necessary."
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Even in his normal state of hating the vineyard and living on a starship, ships have hydroponics and arboretums for a reason and it is because there is inevitably a point where some species like humans feel like they need too look at some green stuff or they'll go insane.
"Is this a lawyer thing? Is this what you're all like when you come off the factory conveyor line?"
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"No, my parents were rich enough to send me off to school for customization." He says it as a joke, but it feels that way sometimes. Being his dad's oldest son, there were certain expectations of who, exactly, he was supposed to be.
He glances back at Boimler, finally realizing he's wrapped in a sheet. It looks ridiculous. Paul can't suppress a soft smile. "Do you need to borrow some clothes?"
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"I still have my clothes, but I can tell the thread count in these sheets is absolutely crazy so I'm going to enjoy it while I can."
His own sheets at home were dingy linens, washed a thousand times over probably. They'd always had to be frugle to keep the vineyard going.
He shrugs the sheets up a little more, bundling it around his waist but his shoulders are still bare.
"Seriously, though, you should get a houseplant and get some color in this place. We evolved from apes; needing greenery is ancient instinct."
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...Except he is a human being, so probably not exempt from their shared ancestors.
"You can keep the sheet. I've got a couple more sets." Paul tells him as he starts to plate breakfast. Ciabatta with Canadian bacon, topped with poached eggs that will be perfectly gooey when punctured, drizzled with golden hollandaise sauce. He brings the dishes to the small dining table.
"You look good with your shoulders exposed." His warm smile turns a little flirty as he eyes Boimler up and down. "And if you're up for another round, you can pull it off dramatically with ease."