Simple Gifts

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A: MacCready & Sons Law Office, Morning:

[ Switching from word processing to the typewriters at the office wasn’t that big of a stretch. The hardest part had been looking busy all day, until she started typing her research notes there. Considering she types the interviews of the long-time aware residents in the sme format as the depositions for

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[velesdonnersen]

[He's walking down the hall with the Senior Partner -- a drone of very little brain and no great charm...if any charm at all. As the two amble down the way, Tarvek running on automatic, Mr. Brown stops, and sputters, saying, "Now she's at it again. What is it with that woman, never in the front offices, where she belongs? What does she think she's doing in the Law Library?" Tarvek, still on automatic, goes into yet another role, as is his habit. It's trained into him, and in Mayfield, with drones, his only real goal is to keep 'em placated till the next day, when much of their prior concern fades away, blurred around the edges.]

Oh, dear. That's Ilsa. I'm afraid the poor dear's a few cogs short of an entire clockwork, Mr. Brown. Ilsa, Ilsa, Ilsa, you dear, silly girl. I know I asked you to help prepare for the Smith, Jones and Baker case, but I never meant for you to trouble your darling little brains over wicked fine print like this.

[Pats Ilsa's head, and winks knowingly at Brown.]

Not all there, but, then, women! What can I say? Worst thing we did was give 'em the vote, eh, Freddy? Why don't you head down to the boardroom, and I'll join you in a minute. I think my girl here needs a little more direct instruction.

[Brown blusters and harrumphs, but does leave.]

Dammit, Ilsa, is it so hard to play dumb? Or prepare your own way? If you ask Brown if you can do some research "just to help out," he'll laugh, and think you're wasting your time, but he won't go looking for explanations.

[To him this is all reflexive: prepare your alibi, provide an explanation before anyone even thinks to ask, play to their lowest expectations. He honestly doesn't understand why Ilsa seems to find it so hard to make use of their assumption she's a female moron, or their assumption that "female moron" is an oxymoron.]

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[ Her eye twitches at the head-pat, but she keeps under control until the drone leaves. When Tarvek scolds her for not being prepared, she boils over , hissing her anger at him. ]

Don't you think I know that? I'm covered by pulling reports for Mr. Howe, and YOU assume I haven't done the basic cover story?

[ She's managing to convey the anger of a screaming fit in a harsh whisper. ]

It's one thing to play the role, but when you start treating me like an idiot, maybe I think you're getting too deep in the garbage you're pitching!

[ Ilsa slaps the files against his chest. ]

Since I'm cast as the office idiot, you can explain I've gone home with a headache.

[ She heads out to get her purse from her desk. ]

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[Follows, hurt, pissed, and at the same time guilty. But still pissed...and trapped, because she's just said things he can't respond to properly in-office -- and pulling reports doesn't cover her settling into the research tables the way she had. And.... And...]

[Icy, and frustrated as hell.]

Shall I call your husband to come give you a lift, Mrs. Anderson? Or I could take you home. Heaven forbid Brown, Brown, Brown and Jones fail to ensure its female employees are properly cared for. We take a paternal interest in our staff!

[And even as he says it he knows he's putting his foot in it, but between the rules of Mayfield/the 50s, the trap of office norms, and his own blazing anger and frustration, his attempt at offering her a lift has turned into more fight to come....

And, damn it, he's not the one who acted out of the norms, even if she does think her cover was sufficient. Women don't DO real research here; not during business hours, anyway....]

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[ She had gotten careless, leaving the door open. That still doesn't help the anger, both hers and his. Her shields are not holding up at this point, and she recognizes the signs that she's going to be broadcasting indiscriminately soon. ]

I should be fine, sir. [ She can't help the edge to her voice, but she had to get out now, before she lost control. ] Both of us walked to work today. The air outside should help.

[ Trying very hard to keep out the emotions he's practically shoving at her, Ilsa leaves the office. ]

[velesdonnersen]

[Mayfield's norms leave him no choice: he's got to let her go. To do otherwise would provoke far more concern than they've already risked. He can't do more...and he's scared, because he's managed to lose his usual command of a situation.]

[Teeth gritted.]

As you wish, Mrs. Anderson. Are you going straight home, or is there anywhere you're stopping along the way, in case your husband or children call?

[That's within reason, he thinks -- he can get away with asking that much. Maybe, once they've both calmed down, they can talk. He doesn't like being at odds with the people he cares about...]

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[ Ilsa's actually getting a headache from trying to keep it together, she isn't really hearing him. ]

Of course, sir. If you'll excuse me.

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[The more she loses it, the less room he has to maneuver: someone has to stay fully in role. He pulls himself together.]

Very well, Mrs. Anderson.

[He turns away, internally gibbering -- and damn it, for the first time truly wishing he had someone like Violetta working with him... someone who understands The Game, even if she does hate it.

He doesn't even know what he's going to say to her the next time they meet.

He's not even sure when that next time will be, right now.

Her head may hurt. His stomach does...like Charlie Brown after losing another game...]