On her way out of the spin, she snags her cup and steals a sip of wine. "There are parties the whole week before, but on the last night--Fire Night--things go from sundown to sunup."
"D'you burn shit?" Jennifer asks, brow creasing for a moment. She's all for the fun that bonfires generally provide, but she has never drawn that much enjoyment out of the fumes (it's not good for her complexion, at the very least).
"New yeah, huh? How does your calendar work, anyway?"
"Just the wood. Some people throw in bits of incense, but not always."
She shrugs one shoulder. "Ten months; five weeks in a month. Last week of the year is for parties and the last night--tonight--the party runs from dusk to dawn."
There is a pilot in the bar. Well, ex pilot. Dead ex pilot. Her Samson's outside, and she can't get her to fly. trudy's working on that.
So, one dead ex-Marine pilot in the bar, boots up on the table, cross still around her neck (as is her shell and bone, but they are on a longer chain, and hidden by her shirt), flicking through a mechanic's manuel.
Of course, being from the 22nd century, said manuel looks more like a datapad than anything else.
"...under the circumstances, I'm happy she's still in one piece," comes the reply. American accent, still with a slightly southern twang. Then Trudy glances up.
"Didn't your mother ever tell you not to play with knives?"
There's a man sitting not too far off from Dollface, legs crossed, one elbow resting on his table. Offering her a slow smile as he runs his tongue over his teeth, he cants his head off to one side.
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"Who have you been dancing with?"
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She sets down her wine long enough to twirl Tiwa.
"It's the new year, or it will be tomorrow. Tonight we light fires and dance and drink and remember--it's the best night of the year."
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Twirling is always fun and Tiwa laughs as she spins before twirling Kite in return.
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On her way out of the spin, she snags her cup and steals a sip of wine. "There are parties the whole week before, but on the last night--Fire Night--things go from sundown to sunup."
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"What does this do to your skin, anyway?"
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Her fingers twitch once at her side; she thinks about reaching up and touching Jennifer's hand.
"I mean, it's for the new year. We've got bonfires going back home."
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"New yeah, huh? How does your calendar work, anyway?"
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She shrugs one shoulder. "Ten months; five weeks in a month. Last week of the year is for parties and the last night--tonight--the party runs from dusk to dawn."
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So, one dead ex-Marine pilot in the bar, boots up on the table, cross still around her neck (as is her shell and bone, but they are on a longer chain, and hidden by her shirt), flicking through a mechanic's manuel.
Of course, being from the 22nd century, said manuel looks more like a datapad than anything else.
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"...she giving you trouble?"
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"But, yeah, she's giving me trouble."
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She shrugs.
"...should I ask about the circumstances?"
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(He brushes close enough by her as he sits to catch the scent in her hair; he smells of bergamot and sandalwood and oprur and the halls of his house.)
"There's ash on your cheek," he begins, more as a conversational segue than a strict observation. "In celebration, or otherwise?"
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"Celebration," she replies. "The new year."
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(Typical symbolism for the end of a year and the beginning of another, he thinks; the burning and rising from the ash.)
when there's nothing left to burn
you have to set yourself on fire
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"Somewhat. Also, for the dead, burned and unburned; we light fires all over the city as memorials."
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There's a man sitting not too far off from Dollface, legs crossed, one elbow resting on his table. Offering her a slow smile as he runs his tongue over his teeth, he cants his head off to one side.
"Might cut yourself."
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"It wouldn't be the first time."
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"All grown up into a big girl," he drawls (his speech is slurred and yet his diction is crisp as cold air).
"How's the big bad treatin' you?"
(He knows. To some extent, he always knows. She isn't of his world or his universe, but there's a reason he hasn't lost the war of souls.)
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"Like it doesn't know whether to kiss me or cut me. It's the kind of sentiment that grows on you."
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