Post-It: ETD 00:02am

[maced_eggs]

[Sitting in someone else's cabin wearing someone else's stolen leather pants is Mason, playing with a stolen mess hall fork. Either he can't remember where he lives or he just straight up has difficulty caring]

So wait.



I'm a pris'ner.


But I don't have to work.

And I get free food and my own bed.

And no one's fuckin' yelling at me to pay rent. An' I'm basically on a cruise line with a spa and a pool and pretty girls.


Honestly, I'm struggling to find a downside. Isreally hard.

Comments

[routemistress]

I know, right, lovey? I love it 'ere meself. Best job I've ever 'ad. And folk look at me like I'm batty when I say that. People are peculiar, that's what.

[maced_eggs]

Issa job for you, maybe. Not so much for me. I'd be perfectly content flitting around from galaxy to galaxy doing nothing but enjoying the fruits of the land, or whatever the fuck grows here.

That is a very lovely hat you're wearing.

[routemistress]

Oh, you are sweet! Thank you.

Nah, I'd get bored without trouble and danger and dangerous bastards to wrestle on a daily basis, me. But those are laid on 'ere as well. It's brilliant.

[maced_eggs]

Least we can't die again, eh? Seeing as how we're already dead.

Which leads me to my next point. Why the fuck did it take me this long to figure out that all I needed to do was kill someone an' that would take me here? Not that I've been here long enough to properly judge but this is a far, far better place than where I fucking left, excluding one or two things on the side.

Honestly, it's like receiving a get-out-of-your-shit-afterlife-free card.

[routemistress]

Speak for yourself, lovey, I'm very much alive. Though getting killed doesn't stick 'ere - when everything's working right, any road.

Would you 'ave done it on purpose? If you'd known?

[maced_eggs]

You're alive? That doesn't make any sense. I was told all of us were dead. I'm dead. Dead dead...capital D.

It was on purpose. The whole..killing bit. Not the coming-to-the-space-cruise bit, but yeah, most probably.

But I'm not a bad person.

[routemistress]

I don't believe there's such a thing as a bad person. Just people that do bad things. There's always a reason.

Admittedly, sometimes their reasons're just that they like it, but it's still a reason. What were yours, love?

[maced_eggs]

Ray was a fucking wanker and deserved to die. Thassmy reason. He deserved it. He was the piss scum of the earth and he.

Did things.

Things I did not like.

[routemistress]

And I'm not dead 'cause I'm a volunteer.

'Ow did it make you feel?

[maced_eggs]

No one told me I could volunteer. If I knew I could volunteer I'dve gone and done it decades ago.

Bloody satisfied.

...An' scared, but not at the time. A little.

An'...regretful. Not for him, he was a diseased rat in human form.

...Do you think that makes me a bad person? Not being sad because I went and killed someone?

[routemistress]

No. I don't. You don't look to me like you enjoyed it, or like you did it casually. Like you think people don't matter. Or like you'd want to make an 'abit of it.

[maced_eggs]

I wasn't making a habit of it. I was making a habit of his not being alive anymore because he is a fucking arsehole an' he deserved every bit of it.

But I'm not normally a killer, right? I didn't go off on him planning to kill him. It was not premedicated.

[He means premeditated]

[routemistress]

Some of me best friends've been professional killers. Retired, mind you. I'd 'ave a hard time getting on with someone doing it on the regular still. I don't like people being dead, as a rule.

Then again, there's always the odd exception.

[maced_eggs]

I don't like people being dead either. Isfucking depressing, isn't it? I have seen too...too much death.

No more death, please. Thassa best part of the Barge. No more fucking death. No babies dying of heat exposure in the car because their mum ran into the supermarket on a hot day, no kids fallin' off trains breaking their necks. No one jumping off buildings going splat.


I am badly in need of a drink.

[routemistress]

[She only nods, her eyes gone distantly sad; Iris has spent her life trying to save people, and she's had her share of missed catches and outright failures. It hurts her; the pain and the stupidity and the waste, and whatever else might fly over Mason's head, he gets that. She can see it in his face.

It's here and now she loses any doubt she had about Mason.]

Get your arse up to the pub, then, why don't you. Meet you there.

[maced_eggs]

[No need to tell him twice. He's off and scurrying to the pub, grabbing his fork with him. On his few lucid moments, it's clear his job weighs far, far too heavily on his mind.]

Please and thank you. Thank you. A thousand times thank you.

[routemistress]

[She's waiting by the door for him, smiling, her dogs flanking her.]

I 'spect you found out you can't get in on your own. I'm always 'appy to oblige so long as you don't take the piss, though, love.

This is Elvis and this is 'is baby brother Solace. They used to be dead and all. What'll you 'ave?

[maced_eggs]

'Ello, puppies!

[Bending down on his knees, Mason greets the dogs with genuine affection, ruffling both their heads]

Whoosa good boy? Yes? Yes you are? Are you sure? Yes, you lovelies.

[putting his hands on both their snouts to direct their heads downwards, Mason hoists himself back up at a leap, heading gleefully into the pub. He seems completely unbothered by the "used to be dead" phrasing]

Wouldn't dream of it.

Anythin'. Everythin'. Anythin' strong, my tolerance is...woosh.


What d'you mean, 'used to' be dead? They're not undead. They're not fuckin' reaper dogs.

[routemistress]

[She grins, because he's adorable in his illfitting trousers and his cheeriness.]

My mate Riddick's got an undead dog. I expect you'll meet 'im when 'e comes for the cutlery. But no, my lads're alive properly. Barge magic. Gin, then. You can tell us about reapering while I pour.

[maced_eggs]

Goggle-boy? Yeah. Yeah, the one about the forks. God, he needs a life, doesn't he?

Gin sounds lovely.

[he plops down on a bar stool, stealing a bowl of peanuts and wrapping his arms around it, nibbling at them bit by bit]

God, why don't they let me in here by myself? Don't they trust me?

[routemistress]

'E can be a bit deficient in the fun department, can Riddick, aye. But one of the best.

[YOU'RE ALLOWED TO TAKE THE PEANUTS. It's not like Iris didn't more or less live off bar snacks before she took to doing kitchen shifts.]

Mason, sweetheart, I'm the last girl to criticise a bloke's little quirks, but you're nicking forks, you were dossing in Crichton's room and ...those never started life as your trousers if I'm any judge. And when it comes to trousers you'd best believe I am, chuck.

Do you think you've answered your own quetion?

[Have a large tumbler of gin. And the bottle in easy reach on the table.]

[maced_eggs]

[Mason continuously eats like he expects not to get a next meal. It hasn't yet sunk in that everything around him is free or that there will be food the next morning. Instead, he grasps a bowl of pretzels and brings it over to him as well, mixing and matching to his heart's content]

...A'right, so maybe I'm a little grabby. But is it my fault I can't remember which room is mine? Sometimes I wander into the wrong one by mistake. But it's an honest mistake, an' there were so many pants.

[He brightens at the appearance of gin, grabbing the bottle in one go]

[routemistress]

Doesn't bother me any. I never pay for owt if I can 'elp it. But it's a small boat and folk'll get narky over it sooner or later. Sooner, most like.

[Iris picked up the habit because she was self-reliant from a very early age; is Mason's story similar, she wonders?

She doesn't ask. Not yet.]

I can knock you up a homing keyring, if you like. Lead you back to your own room no matter 'ow much you put away. Easy as pie. And you can bloody well top me up before you finish that bottle, sunshine.

[maced_eggs]

[Mason holds off downing the thing in order to wipe his mouth on the back of his hand, reaching over to pour Iris a generous amount. He brings the bottle back to himself, looking...confused. The sudden dizziness is unexpected, because he's spent decades at a very high tolerance and is only just now starting to realize that he's baseline alive human again, and thus susceptible to hangovers]

Could you? I'd like that.

No, not me: I don't usually have cash on me. Bit of an in-between-jobs situation right now. I mean real, paying jobs. Not the usual...

[he reaches over to Iris, his hand ghosting down her arm, and pulls back, satisfied]

[routemistress]

'Course I can, poppet.

[Anything to stop the inevitable ructions when he keeps parking himself in other people's rooms. What if it had been Harvey's? Or Blight's. Or Arthas.

The wicked amusement of that mental picture almost distracts Iris from the other thing. Almost. But not quite. Iris is a tactile sort of person herself, and she's always putting her hands on people. But this touch is odd; it reads to her like a gesture from a language she doesn't speak.]

...So what's the usual? Reapering? 'Ow's that work, then?