Two weeks to recover, to prep, to see how Project Throwback gets its work done. It turns out that when she's not in an emergency, Nattie seems to be quite a caring officer. You're not entirely certain what her rank actually is, but your ravaged mind keeps producing the word sergeant, which can't be right. A proper military operation wouldn't trust anything less than an eltee with this sort of thing, and honestly probably wants a major, but, then, is this a proper military operation? None of the Threshold fighters call themselves soldiers. They say things like, "I was paying my way through college," or "I wanted to be closer to the sciences," or "I'm a mom, the kids are back at HQ," and that sort of thing.
About two days in, Nattie hobbles up to you, having finally broken down and accepted crutches, with one of her 'boys' (its nametag says RACHAEL UNDERHILL and it introduces itself with a 'she/her' so how in the gods' eternal names she's a 'boy' is going on the fucking List) cradling one of their rifles and some ammunition. This Rachael presents to you, and you take it carefully, checking the weapon over before slinging it over your shoulder.
"What's this about?" you ask, trying and mostly succeeding in keeping the confusion out of your voice.
Nattie shrugs, and steals a chair near you, which is all the excuse you need to sit. "You're dismissed," she says to Rachael, who salutes and makes a beeline suspiciously in the direction of the HR office. "I saw you handle that thing before. Real professional-like, if a bit tactically sloppy, so...it's yours. Not like the dead guy'll need it, and he'd want it to keep doing good."
You open your mouth, and then frown. "Shouldn't it go back to your armory?"
"Find a dyke that gives a shit and outranks me." Note to self, another new word. New-ish word. You're pretty sure you don't mean she holds back floodwaters, though if she does you really need to see that, the mental image is very satisfying. "You lifting that siege saved a lot of lives, and a lot of knowledge. Our projections for the failure of Project Throwback are pretty bad...there's a reason it's the one that got installed first everywhere we could afford to. I really don't think you appreciate how many people you helped."
This gets a little frown from you. You touch the cigarettes in your breast pocket, remember that you're inside, and get out a bag of chew instead. You kinda shake it, and Nattie rolls her eyes but reaches her hand out anyway. She nearly chokes on it at first, and you laugh. "It's the cheap stuff," you admit. "Gotta make it last...tell me about Project Throwback? If it's so important..."
Nattie finishes slapping her chest and takes a couple deep breaths. "So, the thing is...the thing is, a lot of infrastructure is gonna go down soon if it's not down already. To be honest we hadn't expected the satellites to stay up, so we're ahead a bit there. But give it five, ten years, those birds will stop chirping. Twenty and the nuclear plant is out of fuel. And that's just the future problems - you got those maps on you?" You have a map on you, one of the labeled travel ones with all the marketing, which you fish out of a pocket and spread on the little coffee table between all of you. Nattie smiles, almost fondly. "I hate these things," she murmurs, and the sound is wistful. "And we can't make them right now, because Salt Bay City has zero paper mills. The closest logging operation is eighty miles north at Red Mountain, grinding up redwoods, and that isn't for paper. We order paper in, and now none of those trucks are moving. Ships? If they're still moving, I've got a fear in me. Cargo planes? Good luck with the fucking dragon. We don't produce our own sugar, we don't produce our own salt any more -"
"We used to produce salt?" you ask. "Isn't the ocean full of salt?"
"Sure is, that's how we produced it. But it's way cheaper to mine salt and ship it, so we just stopped." Oh. The full scope of this is starting to hit you. "The farms were mostly cash crops, praise be to Clever Jossil and the farmers both that they're fixing their shit on their own. There was a scenario where we had to go all bandit warlord about it and no one liked that idea. We don't mine our own metal around here either, though that part's easy for a little while. The cars alone are full of the shit. One of the college boys was showing me his plans for leaf-spring blades, tougher and more flexible than anything human hands alone could make..." She shakes her head. "The point is, if the Salt Bay region is going to survive with any element of our culture intact, we need to 'gear down', return to a technological base we can create with the resources at hand, become self-sustaining as a community."
"...What if someone doesn't want to be part of that community?" you ask, mostly out of the spirit of intellectual curiosity.
"Hopefully the obvious benefits are persuasive, but if not..." Nattie sighs and makes a 'gun' with her fingers, with a little 'kshewww' sound. "Captain isn't about to tolerate rival cultures turning bandit on us. Organized resistance to a new Salt Bay ends in blood."
"That's. Horrible."
"Yeah," Nattie agrees, and she can't meet your eyes. "...Yeah, it is. 's why the Captain lets me mouth off so much, I think. She put her conscience on paid leave awhile back, so I'm doin' the job."
You have gained an automatic rifle with ammunition.
* * * *
Marie's feathers are starting to grow in.
"Back in," she corrects, a little gingerly; the teenager lightly touches the fledgling stained glass, hisses when it cuts the tip of her fingers. "Me and Jack and Sasha, we all had proper wings, until we broke 'em trying to run from those dogs. Stupid. Coulda just flown..."
On nameless instinct, you ruffle her hair. "So what's this party you've invited me to?"
"You'll see. It's a secret."
It is not, you surmise, a very good secret. Privacy is at a minimum in your new community, something about which everyone has grumbled but what is there to do? However, when the kids (and you, evidently), go up onto the roof where the garden has been enhanced by patio furniture, no one follows. When objective privacy is at a minimum, you grant people privacy. It's a lesson in living amongst other people you managed to pick up on without being told. In short order, the council of children (and you) are gathered around a picnic table, and each of you places a stuffed animal in front of you.
"So," Marie says haughtily, opening the meeting. "We can't just keep doing odd jobs. We need to do something helpful."
There is a general chorus of agreement, though you're confused as to why, exactly, you are here.
"And," Marie continues, "I've been noticing that a lot of people have trouble fitting into normal clothes. So I thought we'd all learn how to sew, help Andrea out." And here she shoots you a look and does that same eyebrow waggle thing her sister does. "There's lot of scrap cloth, so the way I figure it, we'll start by getting out little friends dressed." Here she strokes her plush snake, which rejoices in the name Scaley, which you cannot give shit to because yours is fucking Barkley. "Any objections?"
One boy, maybe seven, holds a hand up: "Mom says needles are sharp."
"Your mom doesn't have to know," Marie says simply, as if that settles the matter. You raise Barkley's little hand, and Marie graciously gestures at you to cede the floor.
"Why am I here?" you ask, blinking.
"'cause you get it," Marie answers. "You're the only grown-up who has a little friend, and since you're in charge you make this official. That way people can't complain that we're 'slacking off' or whatever." Your smallest (and yet still taller than you) friend sniffs with Exaggerated Dignity. "That's why."
"...Are...grownups...not supposed to have little friends?" you ask, worry in your voice, hugging Barkley closer to your chest in case someone notices and takes him away.
This produces a babble of reassurances and objections to the idea that you should ever give up Barkley, and when you admit that you just kinda keep him around and don't know what to do with him the babble changes tone and tenor, becoming a bubbling froth of suggestions. Marie is quick to point out that dressing him up is a way to play with him and it's useful learning, while a short little thing sagely proposes regular tea parties. After a few minutes of this you get your notebook out and start taking suggestions formally, writing out detailed notes on the care and feeding of your Barkley, including some very detailed laundering advice from a tiny thing in a dress that says it's "eight and a half". When everyone is staring at it, the child proudly explains that "Mommy says I'm autistic. I think it means smart."
It is generally agreed that this must be the case.
By the end of this meeting it is agreed that Marie and yourself will secure the instruction books on sewing along with whatever scraps can be spared ("The doctors might need them," you warn, and everyone eventually agrees that the doctors come first), and meet again next week to practice and play board games. The tea party is being shelved until after the rescue mission, so everyone can celebrate.
"Barkley will need it," you muse, gravely. "He's gotta go with me."
An hour later, one of the kids hands you a tiny toy gun for your wolf, which you nestle into his lil' paws.
* * * *
"...So this is music," you say dubiously, at a mix of college students and Actual Children on their breaks attempting to play recorders.
"No, dearie, that will one day be music," Andrea corrects with a bit of a chuckle. She's been wearing the new perfume she mentioned, which gives her a distracting lilac scent; any time the wind shifts you turn your head to look at her, and she gives you that indulgent smile that is Doing Things to you. "You may be a bit young to remember, but the record labels got exclusive rights to sell in their partner stores, oh...goodness, was it forty years ago? No matter. The point being, I am rather looking forward to your trip to the Bay. I would love to have something more...professional, around."
"You have very polite insults," you observe. Andrea laughs and links her arm with yours as you two continue to listen. It's bad. It's really bad. Somehow that only makes it more endearing.
"It's among many skills I've cultivated with experience, my Elector," Andrea demurs. "Though I will reach the limits of my patience if Charles keeps leaving me sports drinks. The youth have gotten so disrespectful - 'thirsty', I tell you."
You run that through your mental translator, come to the correct conclusion, and turn a little red.
"Think nothing of it, dear," Andrea assures you; the 'song' comes to a 'close', terms and conditions apply. "You will be eminently aware when my patience with you has ended."
* * * *
Your second attempt at 'music' is joining some manner of drum circle. You're not certain why the drums have to be in a circle, but here you find that you, evidently, have rhythm, so all you really have to do is keep pace and watch what everyone else is doing. The point of this activity eludes you, the spoken-word poetry some members recite is full of metaphors you have no context for, and yet, when it's done, you feel strangely better.
You're not sure this is music either, though.
* * * *
Journaling. Journaling. You already take extensive notes, but there's a voice in your head that might be memory or it might be new experiences, telling you that maybe you should talk to someone about what you're writing down, get some perspectives...
Who double-checks your brain thoughts? If you want more than one person, format it as X & Y
[ ] Jill
[ ] Sasha
[ ] Jack
[ ] Andrea
[ ] Marie
[ ] Write-in?
