midpointsaloon | Another Day, Another Dollar (post-round mingle)

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Another Day, Another Dollar (post-round mingle)

PLAYERS: Everyone!
LOCATION: Midpoint, and anywhere else people want to explore
GOAL: Time to relax after some hard-won rounds.
WARNINGS: None
OTHER: The setting post for those who want to explore

The stagecoach reaches the Ranch... and the cargo isn’t with it. A large, feathery dinosaur reaches the Ranch a little later, with only some of their cargo, having been hit mid-route and between transformations by the bandits.

“Well, we’ll take what we can get,” Lee says sourly at what’s left after the bandits’ raiding - maybe half of the empty crates. He hollers at his ranch hands, “Come get 'em, boys!” Between him and the other workers, and any of the remaining driver team able to be pressed into service (which is mostly just Groot), the crates are unloaded and stacked and filled with supplies for the next train out. Looks like they were useful, after all.

At the end of the day, Lee sends the drivers on their way back to Midpoint, and the bandits can do what they will with their portion of the cargo. Got any use for sturdy wooden crates, friends?

In Tycoon Depot, Tiffany Jamesson has spent a(n enjoyable) day and a half in hiding with Inara, Daylight, and Irene, peppering Daylight with questions and flirting demurely with Inara and Irene, presumably out of boredom. The hand-off with her father goes pretty smoothly, with only Fuwa on the outside - he might be furious, but he's not willing to interrupt and risk the target’s life in a firefight.

Exchange made, kidnappers and bodyguards are free to head back to Midpoint.

In the saloon, North has laid out a buffet of everyone’s favorite foods to choose from, with beer and wine on the house for two days only: the traditional post-round congratulations-or-consolations feast. There’s someone on the piano almost all night providing music, and extra hot water for baths whenever people finally retires to their rooms. Most Players make good use of the additional free food and drink for as long as it lasts; whether for enjoyment, self-medication, or to stave off boredom is their own call.

The dead don't remain so for long, and wake up in jail cells - the same ones they started their round at - at the edges of the game arena around the same time as the round ends, ready to be collected by friends - if there’s anyone who wants to come get them.

The next week and a half belong to the Players to do with what they please, be it sleep all day, spend their hard-earned points on more alcohol, ask lots of questions, or explore the arena. There are no events planned, nothing to steal, no one to murder (unless you really want to, anyway), and plenty of things to learn about and try to get to the bottom of, for any Players not too jaded to try and search. Good luck with that, anyway.

Oh - did you want to know if you won, or how badly you lost? Gonna have to ask North or Booker for your points totals, because there’s nobody who actually announces whether you won or lost...

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Between their horse greeting hers, and the hurry of footsteps, Soldat is sitting up and looking hopefully at the door by the time she's at the bottom of the stairs. "Misty," they say with clear relief. It could have been any number of people, up to and including Fuwa coming to put another bullet in their head. And even if it is Misty, she's probably not going to be happy.

The canteen is absolutely accepted, though today there's no clinging or hugs, just a hesitant hand reached over to touch her hair, as if making sure it's really her, before unscrewing the cap for a drink.

"Mission success," they explain. "Only because I took out Hajime and distracted Fuwa long enough after." If by "distracted" one means "gets beat on and then shot by", anyway.

Slight as it is, she looks pleased for the contact at least. Less so about the rest. The conflict is quite clear in her expression, all soft eyes and pinched frown.

"That's a hell of a way to phrase it, here I was hearing you'd died." Not good for her, not good for others, even worse for him. She's livid she couldn't be of use, but wrestling with the...grim inevitability of it. The uselessness of a grudge.

He's okay. Better focus. "How are you feeling? Are you alright?"

Well, they did die, but dying is only really a problem if you don't come back. And the game makers have been very clear they're not letting Soldat go any time soon. "I'm tired. Hungry, but what's new, I'm always hungry." They have another few gulps of the canteen before handing it back. "Not looking forward to going back to Midpoint after that. Hajime's poor companion spent the whole fight crying."

Try saying that one to her face, Soldat.

A wave; the canteen is his. She resurges thirsty and even if it isn't universal, she feels better knowing he's got it on him. "Back there, you eat, and I don't see you out of bed or off the couch unless there's been some hours in between."

A beat, and then as they approach the door: "Tell me you weren't mean to that poor mantis--"

"I shot his person in the head," Soldat says, a little sadly, but they keep the canteen, maybe even hold it against their chest a little, as if clearly grateful for it and a little uncertain they deserve it. After all, they did make a shape-shifted mantis child cry. "I think that probably counts as mean."

But they do scoop up their lantern to sling over one shoulder, and collect their rifle and plethora of knives from the shelf outside before climbing the stairs after her. "And I promise. I will eat a lot."

It's at least a more concerned frown, now. A pang of sympathy that need not be hidden in his company. "I'm sorry it must have come to that, I-- liked him, he seems nice." The pair of them, actually. Good people. Terrible they've endured that, and that Soldat had to deal a blow.

"You feeling okay around it? Gonna need a minute to destress or fold before you fill up and crash?"

"I played poker with him before the mission start," Soldat agrees, adding their hat on top of their head (damn thing, they used to hate it so much, but they're used to it now) and stepping out into the sun. "Ryo kept stealing the peanuts we were using to bet. And reading off Hajime's cards. Doubt they'll want to do that again."

The draft mare perks her ears up at them and snorts, stamping impatiently for them to come and let her scratch her face on their chest again. "I need a bath. Is what I need. And a lot of food. I'm. I'm trying to be more social. To get to know the other players. I don't know anymore how I did it, before. How I made. Actual friends. But can't do it in my room."

"Maybe they'll be magnanimous types, after a couple rounds to cool down. Most people catch on, you know? None of it's fun, and eventually we all know it." God knows she's not a fan, and though she hasn't died yet she's made some careful, reluctant inroads toward accepting she'll one day be working with her murderers yet again.

If not contentment, peace.

Swinging comfortably up into her own saddle, Misty nods. Pleasant surprise isn't exactly hidden. "Look at you, huh? Getting back in the sad-- oh, no, I'm never gonna be able to use that saying again." It's always going to be a goddamned pun. "Getting out there, anyway. I'm glad, and if you're ever in a tight spot and want an excuse to break for it, let me know? We need a signal."

Because however great his intentions are, it seems to be a very lengthy process with more than a few mishaps.

Yeah, the whole... complete loner for multiple years thing has not been great for Soldat's social skills, let alone their social tolerance. Listening from three stories above has always been the standard, until now. Until this round, pretty much, the last two taken up pretty entirely by dealing with Misty and Sam's appearances, respectively.

"I could just look at you," Soldat says, a little dryly, letting the mare scratch a moment before climbing up, themselves. "It's not like I do that to people a lot." Well, they'll look in her general direction probably every few minutes, to make sure she's there and okay, but eye contact still isn't really a thing they do.

It's enough that her smile could generously be described as a relaxed one. Funny, Soldat. "It's not a bad idea," she admits, starting into a trot. "Just a second of actual contact and I'll know to sidle over and make an excuse for you to slip out, that works fine. No straining even if it's just social. Rest, head and brain." When it ceases to be a worthwhile experience, he'd be correct to bail.

"One day at a time."

They hook the lantern onto the saddle, at its usual spot, and untie the mare from her spot to nudge her into motion after Misty. It's a moment before they speak again, eyes on the ground, letting the mare and Misty handle direction.

"I am sorry I made you worry," they finally say. "Things here. I'm used to them happening a certain way. Not used to having people they might affect, anymore."

Don't tug at her heartstrings like that, Soldat, jesus. There's a full swivel in her saddle to face him, as if he'll somehow unravel if she doesn't have him in her periphery.

"Even if I weren't here, it would matter. Matters if you're alone." Because his worth doesn't disappear the moment no one familiar or sensible isn't around to appreciate it. "I'm always going to worry. Just finding out I was right to is...nothing good."

They might unravel. Figuratively speaking, anyway. They own self-worth still isn't particularly high. It might actually be lower than what she remembers, these days. They hit personhood, for certain values of personhood, in Beacon before the end... but even people might not always have a lot of worth to them. And it's been a long time since they thought about personhood at all, here.

"Does it? Does it matter, if there's no one to worry?" They stare at the draft mare's ears, Misty only visible beyond them, not focused on. "It's nothing, to me. It's nothing, if there's no one to worry. Just a thing that happens." It's not like they're not used to dying. They remember her experiences with death, know it's not nothing to her, but to them-- it's familiar. "But now there's you. And Sam. And I didn't think about that."

It settles over her like a lead shroud. Blinking hard against more than dust she allows him a pause, to reveal that was a joke. It's not, she knows. But the lie might be nice.

"Good to know," she starts, and it's tellingly thick, delivered from the back of the throat, "Guess if we're ever separated again I could just up and die without trouble, since witnesses are all that'd matter." He's submerged in more than any person's due share, she understands, but this model of thought is...ridiculous. Dangerous. Uniform application ought to highlight that.

Into a trot, now.

"Misty-- no. What?" Soldat nudges the draft mare into a trot to catch up, baffled and unhappy, not quite putting the two together. She's not them. Death matters to her, they know that, which is why they're apologizing for not considering that. How did they screw that up? "Wasn't talking about you. Clearly not talking about you."

"Principle applies. What goes for one person goes for all people, it doesn't work as individuals. If that's really how it is, then it doesn't matter whether or not any of us take care of ourselves - if we die - when there isn't someone just around the corner waiting to react to it."

No eye contact, but she doesn't advance to a gallop.

She will cry over this.

The reflexive "not a person" starts to come up, like it always does, but they squash it back down. Misty won't take it well, and it's probably not true, anyway. Probably.

The problem is, that is exactly how they feel. What does dying matter if there's no one who cares? When you just come back? Nothing is being lost. The actual act of dying has become so familiar it just doesn't matter. They know that it matters to her, that's why they apologized, Jesus, how do they even make her see that it's different for her?

They come up beside her horse and reach over to grab the reins, so they both stop. "Misty. I'm sorry. They're not going to let me go. After all this time. I'm going to keep coming back. I've come back thirteen times, here. That's why it doesn't matter. But I don't know if you will. So it's. Different. For you. You're never going to lose me. But I might lose you."

No resistance, but still no eye contact. They're locked forward and watery.

"People came back in Beacon until they didn't." It isn't harsh, but brittle. "I came back, back home, until I didn't. There aren't guarantees like that. And I'm not talking about these weird games we keep falling into, I mean in general, normal life, it can't work like that. I could've died before I ended up here at all and by that logic, it wouldn't matter."

There's a cruelty to that pragmatism, she doesn't cherish being expected to keep safe while he's leaping into fire, but it's laughably forgettable compared to that core grievance. Universal truths, beyond the colorful trapped landscape of the year.

"I don't. I don't know what normal life is like, Misty," they say, unhappy and a little afraid. They hurt Misty. This isn't a memory rock they experienced and can crush for her, it's them, they did this, and they don't know how to fix it. Entire mental paradigms don't change overnight.

Reins looped over their own saddle horn so nobody goes anywhere, they lean over to try and touch her hand. She like touch. They can't well hug her from here, but they'll do what the fucking can. "I'm sorry. I'll try. I will. But it's not-- it's hard. It's not like anything I know."

The contact is made without mishap, and she doesn't shy from it. It isn't dramatic, no heaving breath, but the first reluctant tear rolls. "I know that. I'm not saying I expect something different to sink in and make sense all on its own, or fast. But hearing that is like a slap to the face, to imagine that you'd-- I don't know, that if I'd never shown up here and you'd died it wouldn't bother anybody. That if I'd never shown up and died back home, same rule, it wouldn't matter. Life matters. Yours matters. Whether it's just that person or there's crowds of people close."

"Okay." Soldat will agree to anything if it will make her feel better. They've encouraged her to cry before, like she's encouraged them, but it doesn't make them happy to see it. It makes them itchy and dismayed and desperate to help. The draft mare sidles one step closer, their knees nearly brushing, so they can take her hand fully in theirs, hold it. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean you. Or anybody else. I wasn't. Wasn't thinking."

How in the hell they going to shoot people and let themselves be shot, while trying to hold in mind that their life matters, they have no idea. But if it's what she needs, they'll try.

The trick is not allowing oneself to be shot to start with, Soldat.

But her hand curls as much as it can around his, and with a shuddering little breath she seems to reach an equilibrium. "I don't want you hurt, much less dying. Thinking like that just leads to a whole lot of exactly that happening. You're important to me, and it's-- I don't need it to be instant, but I don't think I could hear that forever. Shit scares me."

This is going to need some hard thinking. Some new tactical models. (A goddamn escape from this place. I'm not sure that's possible, Sarge. But you don't know it ain't.) Regardless, that's a talk for another time.

Soldat looks at their clasped hands, expression blank, as they work out the disappointing but honest: "I can't promise. These missions are... what they are. But I can try harder. I'm not used to someone looking for me. Hasn't affected my tactical planning yet. But it will."

"Good." No temporary pause, a genuine plateau has been reached. Damp as her eyes are they're not getting worse. "You're so important to me, and I don't like thinking you're still so little in your own head. This place won't let me hover around."

Uniquely hellish, that.

Hmm. She can't be with them all the time, but... hmm. Soldat gives her hand a squeeze, looking thoughtful now rather than worried. "I know. I want to be watching over you all the time, too. But there's not a lot of missions they leave me off of, anymore. I'll work on my planning and how I think about it, though."

They let her hand go, hesitate a beat, then lean over to use a finger to wipe away one of those tears. "I'm sorry, Misty."

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