Post-It: ETD 00:14am [Video]

[maced_eggs]

[Down on level 4, Mason seems to have been in the process of cleaning up his horrible, horrible room. You can see the floor now! Where he sits, crosslegged, an infant brown bunny in his lap. He's feeding it lettuce, fond and preening.

On the door is tacked the sign Yard Sale.]

So I figure there are two things I need to do.

I am thinking that if I give away all of my things that Gwenny says I can't have any longer, I can earn my bloody stickers, get my powers back, an' give a home for Johnny Ramone.

So let's see what we've got...

[Mason pans his camera to the collection of booze, bongs, prescription pills, and general illicit or controlled substances he's managed to collect over his months on the Barge]

Seeing as how there is lit'rally no money on this boat, I will accept payment in the form of either rabbit things or stickers.

Comments

[walkingmeltdown]

Because it's only natural for a society to engage in regular amounts of trade and financial transactions. Symptom of a healthy organ, one might say.

[maced_eggs]

This is neither a society nor healthy.

[walkingmeltdown]

I'm with you on the second part, frankly. But as to the first? This is a small community of individuals to some extent reliant upon and forced to interact with one another, depending on each other to see the majority of their needs met, bound together by commonalities.

That is the very definition of a society.

[maced_eggs]

We're not meant to be in society, reapers. We're meant to live on the fringes.

[walkingmeltdown]

My whole life was spent on the fringes; just because we have nicer things up in our lonely little island doesn't mean we're any less disconnected. And yet here we both are. I'm adapting. I suppose that means you can too.

[maced_eggs]

It's not that kind of disconnect. We were specifically ordered never to tell anyone about us, never to have connections, or families or friends. We observe. We don't interact.

Fuckin' hell, I sound like Rube.

[walkingmeltdown]

Who's he? Your boss? Assuming you people have one of those - but you must have since, as previously discussed, your system is one big bureaucracy.

[maced_eggs]

My boss, yeah. Fucking wanker. Rube's so old, he's reaped Jesus.

[walkingmeltdown]

Is that hyperbole or did he actually?

[maced_eggs]

Is it what? What's hyper-bollie?

I mean he's just fucking ancient. But he probably died around the turn of the century, is my guess.

[walkingmeltdown]

[SIGH.] ...Exaggeration, embellishment. Florid prose and notions of fantastical whimsy.

You don't talk about it? Compare notes?

[maced_eggs]

Rube's a very private man. He doesn't like talking about how he died, any of that. I know how all the other reapers died except for him.

Also he thinks I'm a fuck-up and won't talk to me on fuckin' anything.

[walkingmeltdown]

His loss, then. [So very wry. Let's be honest, he can sympathize a lot with this 'Rube'.]

[maced_eggs]

You think?

Thanks, mate.

[walkingmeltdown]

You're welcome, I'm sure. [Must not facepalm.]

So, I'll try to be by later today to make the swap.

[maced_eggs]

Right. Right. I'll keep it warm for you.

[walkingmeltdown]

Oh, I never need somebody to do that for me, Mason. But thanks for the thought.

[maced_eggs]

[Mason doesn't get it. He nods obliviously, and shuts off his comm]