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

[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?

[maced_eggs]

[A high-pitched, drunken giggle in response, as Mason rubs at his mouth, looking Iris over. He's definitely drinking what constitutes for him as 'usual', but in the case of the Barge may be far, far too much]

What d'you mean, how does it work? It's bloody ridiculous. That's how it works.

Ev'ry morning, I wake up, I go to der fuckin' Waffle Haus. We sit aroun', I beg breakfast off of Georgie or whoever's in a good mood or maybe, just maybe I'll have collected some money of my own, an' then Rube will send his little post-its over to me an' I'll have to go out, find who's meant to die, an' take their soul.

An' he would be right pissed if he knew I was tellin' people. Don't tell him I told you. I could get in trouble. Lots and lots of trouble.

[routemistress]

Go careful there, my love. One thing the Barge does is damp down any ...more than human powers you might 'ave. I'd 'ate to 'ave to pump your stomach.

Not killing folk, I can see that. Just sort of... like delivering mail, am I right? Someone else does the sorting, and you just drop it through the right letterbox?

Interesting.

[maced_eggs]

[In response, Mason only takes another swig at the bottle, the smile beginning to drain from his face]

Issnot interesting. It's a pain in the arse.

You can't tell him I told you. Rube's going to be upset because I'm not at der Waffle Haus an' it's not right to go around talking about the job for whatever fuckin' reason but he's not here so I'm going to talk about it anyway.

I'm in External Influences.

[He holds up his hand, counting off his fingers one by one]

Suicides. Homicides. Accidents. Why I couldn't fuckin' get the "dies peacefully in their sleep" division's beyond me.

[routemistress]

Oh, I won't tell, petal. Soul of discretion, that's me.

[Which, when it comes to other people's secrets, is true more often than not.

She shivers a little, though, when he describes his work.]

Day after day, death after death, and not ever one you can fix or prevent? Aye. That sounds like the shite end of the stick to me, all right, sweetheart.

Well, no problem. You don't 'ave to go back to it.

[maced_eggs]

No interfering. Thassa rule, hard line. You can't prevent death from happening. All you can do is 'ease their passing.' So you go in, you nab their soul just before they bite it, an' that way they don't feel any pain, right?

But it's fuckin' hard sometimes. It's fucking hard watching it happen. You'd think you'd get used to it but all you end up doing is drinking more.

[Speaking of drinking more, Mason takes another generous gulp from the bottle, his face flushed]

'Course I have to go back to it. I've been reaping since 1966. There's no option left, Iris love. It's what happens when you die.

[routemistress]

Oh lovey. I'm a time traveller. I know all about the no interfering rule.

[She leans across tto drape a companionable arm across his shoulder; this is genuine affection, but it's also a feint to distract him so she can nab the gin bottle with her other hand.

What, she wants some more.]

I mean, you can, sometimes. If you're very very clever - and I, Mason, am stunningly clever - but most of the time, anything that's 'appened 'as to stay 'appened. Spacetime unravels on you, otherwise. And then you've got a right old mess on your 'ands.

[She lifts the bottle in a toast and takes a deep swallow of her own.]

Nope. Not if you graduate, you don't. That's a rule 'ere.

[maced_eggs]

[Easily susceptible to women with their arms around him, Mason barely notices it when the bottle's taken away. He goes back to his peanuts, staring at Iris through red-rimmed eyes]

You can't. You really, really can't. You'd break death. Reapers need to be there to take souls. Isswhat lets you go on to the next life. Instead of trapping your soul inside you.

An' I...have to do it. Until whoever the fuck says otherwise. The Admiral, maybe. I dunno.

[routemistress]

Dirty job, but someone's got to do it.

[He really is adorable. And venial shallowness aside, it clearly does bother him; it would bother anyone with a vestige of empathy. Iris pulls him closer.]

Well you're stuck 'ere for the foreseeable, my darling. So they can just find some other mug, can't they?

[maced_eggs]

[It is nice, sitting in someone else's arms. Mason does not usually get much comfort these days due to the smell and the petty larceny and the taking advantage of other people's generosity, but here he's new enough where he can enjoy it, letting Iris direct him every which way like a rudderless toy boat]

Yeah. Yeah, I'm replaceable. All reapers are, all they do is just transfer you around or get some new, recently dead one to do it.

I've been doin' it forty fuckin' years. I don't want to do it no more.