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2 - Video, public
[Open, Video]
[She got caught by the women's council, near the end. They dragged her off when she claimed to have no family to be returned to, interred her in a tiny church with other troublesome, unmarried young ladies. Most of them had had a child out of wedlock. They did laundry together, work and penance, the heavy lye soap burning their hands hour by hour. Mira could have swaggered out bloody, but she didn't - something about the mumbled prayers and the delicate stained glass windows and the blunt, human directness of it, the brusque cruelty and judgement appealed to her. Their God was hypocritical and describable; the things he required of her were concrete and impersonal. It didn't matter that she was no one, in the cloister - all of them were no one, were discards, and they showed her how to do the work and took her unhesitatingly in. She enjoyed it, in her way, listened to the other women talk about their children, taught one how to break her boyfriend's wrist the next time he came home drunk. And she stayed until the barge caught her up again.
She's in the chapel now, dull and bare by comparison, not gaudy morbid stories or old ash marks on squat brick. She rolls a candle from one hand to the other. She has kept to herself, so far, has made no announcements or introductions, done nothing to draw undue attention since the nature of this place was explained to her. She was content with that state of affairs. But she is curious, now.]
How many of us are religious?
[Spam, forHarvey Two-Face]
[Several days after the fair, Mira shows up at his door, tense and eager. She's put it off - she's nervous, if she's honest, because she doesn't know how to do this, and she can't trust her own memory. She thinks he was crazy, thinks he responded the same way she did, but what if she's wrong? What if smashing his jaw with a billiard ball was too far?
At least she has an excuse to be here. She has presents.]
[She got caught by the women's council, near the end. They dragged her off when she claimed to have no family to be returned to, interred her in a tiny church with other troublesome, unmarried young ladies. Most of them had had a child out of wedlock. They did laundry together, work and penance, the heavy lye soap burning their hands hour by hour. Mira could have swaggered out bloody, but she didn't - something about the mumbled prayers and the delicate stained glass windows and the blunt, human directness of it, the brusque cruelty and judgement appealed to her. Their God was hypocritical and describable; the things he required of her were concrete and impersonal. It didn't matter that she was no one, in the cloister - all of them were no one, were discards, and they showed her how to do the work and took her unhesitatingly in. She enjoyed it, in her way, listened to the other women talk about their children, taught one how to break her boyfriend's wrist the next time he came home drunk. And she stayed until the barge caught her up again.
She's in the chapel now, dull and bare by comparison, not gaudy morbid stories or old ash marks on squat brick. She rolls a candle from one hand to the other. She has kept to herself, so far, has made no announcements or introductions, done nothing to draw undue attention since the nature of this place was explained to her. She was content with that state of affairs. But she is curious, now.]
How many of us are religious?
[Spam, for
[Several days after the fair, Mira shows up at his door, tense and eager. She's put it off - she's nervous, if she's honest, because she doesn't know how to do this, and she can't trust her own memory. She thinks he was crazy, thinks he responded the same way she did, but what if she's wrong? What if smashing his jaw with a billiard ball was too far?
At least she has an excuse to be here. She has presents.]
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[Turn around, or don't turn around? She does, in the end, one arm over the pew, looking at him straight-on for the first time.]
You don't watch other people the way you watch me.
[This is not, quite, an accusation. It is incongruous..]
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[His smile doesn't flicker.]
That's true. You've probably got theories about that. Since you're not a god, so you're not omniscient. But you're curious.
[Like most people. But she's especially so, he thinks.]
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At first I thought you were watching me for someone else. But you're not. I - perturb you.
[It's clear enough, the way he draws closer and then slips away, fascinated and repulsed, wary as a feral cat. But she does not understand why.]
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[An annoyingly telling statement. But it's true. This is for him. It's also true that she perturbs him. Some little muscle in his jaw twitches, far out of his control.]
You remind me of somebody is all. I had to make sure you weren't. And you're not.
Now you're just interesting.
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What is so interesting about me? I'm not. I'm -
[No one.]
- quiet, and human, and I don't make trouble or juggle geese or tell maudlin stories to the network so how the hell am I interesting?
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[A smile flickers onto his face, then off again.]
'Cause you get mad about people thinking you're interesting, for one.
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If nobody thought I was interesting, I probably wouldn't be here, would I?
[This is entirely true as far as her suppositions regarding the admiral go; it is entirely false as an implied reason for anger. She has no idea whether she wants to be here or not, but she isn't angry about it.]
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[Honestly and truly. Although he'd be hard-pressed to name one right off the top of his head, and Mira certainly isn't among them.]
Anyway. You don't deny it. That you're mad. Are you scared? Do you not want people interested in you?
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[And so far, you're not boring.]
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How did you know?
[How wouldn't she know, all things considered - reputation, attitude, the gravitational pull with which he's dragged towards her. The look on his face. Common sense.]
[She is scared, he thinks; he's very, very sure.]
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[Flippant, charming. She is scared - she is always scared of the Gods, and there is no trace of them here. It's disquieting. They were insidious, ubiquitous, they forbade her from ever hiding from their voices again. She doesn't know what they will do, when they find her. She hopes, in fitful moments, that she really is dead.]
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Or simple observation. You're a lurching catastrophe, too, which I can tell without falling back on anything as subjective as intuition.
[He worries his lip. Should he tell her? No. Probably not. Maybe. He doesn't know. This is confusing. He never thought about it before now. About the real deal showing up, yes, but someone who could be her twin, just as charming but different in appearances and action, though not wholly in attitude? He's off-kilter.]
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[This isn't flippant, now, and it's barely bitter. She just - she did.]
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Just because you've already happened doesn't mean you won't happen again, over and over.
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[Not terribly upset. Dubious, in the cynical way. She should be so lucky.]
Seems like a minor obstacle.
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Are you a dumbass, Mira?
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Well, I trusted someone once.
[Wry, tart, an unmistakable affirmative.]
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[And people trusted me, he thinks, with a crooked little smile.]
Welcome to the Good Ship Dumbass, then. I'm Cassel. Your captain for this voyage.
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[He'll know that already - Iris has used it on public conversations. But it's polite.]
Am I a passenger or a sailor in this metaphor?
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If you're a sailor, you're the worst sailor in existence. You have no idea how to navigate the ship you're on. And you want to know where you're going, but you never will.
If you're a passenger, it's even worse, because you can't delude yourself into thinking you have any control.
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[any more]
- delusions.
I think.
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[He twines his fingers together and looks at her - not tenderly, but with some measure of softness.]
So what do you want?
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I wanted something different. I guess I got it.
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[A nod.]
I guess you did.
If you figure out what else you want. Maybe I can help you find it. Maybe not.
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[A little amused, in spite of herself.]
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