Participants:
| Scene Title | Day of Rest |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Hana finds herself harassed by a wordy and inquisitive Sable. |
| Date | July 18, 2010 |
One of the two best places to actually encounter Hana is Grand Central Terminal. Nexus of operations that it is, it's one of the few places Wireless is prone to appearing in person, especially being acutely aware of potential liability inherent in the indelible tattoo on the side of her neck. She may have to live with it, but she doesn't often worry about hiding it; the brown tanktop she currently wears over charcoal pants certainly doesn't obscure the Mark.
Walking down one of the rehabilitated concourses and into the converted kitchen, Hana carries a small cardboard box sealed with duct tape under one arm. There are no markings on the box to designate its contents or purpose; that she sets it down on the card table unopened suggests it isn't for here. Fishing a hairband out of a pocket, the Israeli ties her brown mane back into a tail, before fetching a bottle of water and cracking it open. Even here, she goes armed — paired handguns holstered on her belt are only the most visible component.
There are, always, other people in Grand Central; but today is Sunday, the nominal day of rest, and while the work never really ends it seems it's either going on elsewhere or on temporary hiatus: this area is quiet.
Sable's position towards the nature of Wireless, both as a gestalt concept and as a specific individual can be described as something hanging between ignorance and indifference. She's heard the term tossed about, heard attributions encompassing both network, utility and individual, and such vagaries - falling under the umbrella of what Sable has generally dubbed 'tactics 'n' logistics' - compose no mystery that grips her rather specific brand of curiosity.
As for Sunday work, the day of rest for Gentiles in not the day of rest for the Chosen.
And a day of leisure for Sable is precluded by the duties she is no longer able to defer. Arm broken, held in sling and splint, she can't practice playing, she can't record demos, she can't even train herself so that she'll do better 'next time'. She's got one hand and two legs, and that's enough to take her to Grand Central and stick a camera in people's faces. The pugnacious little woman has cut a swath through whatever Ferryfolk she can find, but scarcity has let her get as deep as the Whispering Walls, and as she pokes her head into the recreation room, she spots one person she hasn't seen before. Only heard of. And she doesn't know she's heard of her. Ignorance still. Indifference, however…
"Hey!" Sable calls out, stepping into the chamber proper. "Got a minute, hon?" Her head tilts, trying to get a look at Hana's face, or even just her profile. Yellow eyes catch on the Mark. Sable thinks: cool tat. Again with the ignorance.
Hon.
That one word says something more than its intention alone right off the bat, because not even Laudani would use it in her hearing. Probably not at all, in reference to the lioness — but most definitely not to her face. Even casually.
Hana doesn't turn to face the newcomer right away, but takes the time to drink another mouthful of water, cap the bottle, and set it on the table beside the box. If its placement features the slightly exaggerated precision of mild annoyance… well, Sable doesn't have the luxury of familiarity with her manner. Her head swivels around so that the woman might regard the — much younger and shorter — speaker, dark gaze flicking over her clothes, the cast arm, the clothes again. One dark brow arches. "What do you need?" Hana asks levelly.
Sable lifts her camera like a lictor might a fasces. This is who I am right now, it says. This is why I'm here. Duty.
"Ferry business," she says, seeming unperturbed by the irritation on Hana's features, seeming, if anything sort of intrigued, and pleasantly so. A vague smile plays on her lips. Sable's eyes do a quick assessment of the woman before her. This is one of those dangerous people. This is one of the people who is all business. Interesting.
"Figure I should introduce m'self," Sable says, closing the distance between them at a steady pace and then stopping at what she thinks is a respectful distance, about fifteen feet, "Sable. I'd offer t' shake, but I'm down one grabber, 's y' c'n see." She weigh the camera in her hand. "Got an assignment from Colette up at Gun Hill, me 'n' this other gal. Collectin' whatall people saw th' day everyone passed out. F'r th' good 'f the Ferry, 'n' all." And for Colette's personal reasons, but Sable doesn't think this appeal will carry weight with someone like this.
"I saw ol' Tamara givin' me a dog t' tend t'," Sable explains, as she always does, putting her cards on the table first, an attempt to foster openness, and to maybe push towards a sense of quid pro quo. "Just so y' don't think I'm holdin' back as I ask y' t' come forward."
Hana tilts her head slightly, looking down at the girl as she explains herself. Fifteen feet is a good distance; far enough that any impulse to physically excise the irritating factor needs to be fairly strong to be acted upon. For now, none are. The woman blinks exactly once — and turns away from Sable.
"What I did, or did not, see," she replies coolly, cardboard scuffing faintly against the table before being nestled back under her right arm, "is my business, and mine alone." Of course, a simple no would've been the more effective answer.
Sable's brows lift. That's a vehement response.
"Now," Sable begins, with a tone and pitch defining a projected arc of circumlocution, "I more 'r less respect yer, like, position, feelin' as I do that a fate's a man's own, 'n' as what we're talkin' 'bout here is just that, eh? Fate. As that's what we're talkin' 'bout, if a man owns his own fate as he oughta, what y' saw - 'r didn't, as some didn't - is surely yers by that there argumentation…"
Leading to the inevitable 'but'… "This stated 'n', like, acknowledged by yers truly, 'n' thus makin' us alike in our thinkin', may I therefore, without fear 'f offense, go on t' suggest that we 'r' both 'f us part 'f a, like, larger group 'f interconnected-type fates, 'n' as such our fates cease t' be our own insofar 's they, like, 'r' tied t' those we've sworn ourselves t', protectin' 'n' protected, so, when those others call on us t' speak, mebbe it's our, like… duty? t' give a little 'f what's ours away, 'n' make it 'ours' in truth, as shared f'r a common good?"
If Hana was inclined to parse Sable's circumlocution, her argument may have carried some weight. …Or maybe not.
"We are not alike in our thinking," the woman replies, words sharp-edged, tone nearly a growl. 'Without fear of offense', it seems, does not hold here.
The box is in her right arm; when Hana pivots, bringing herself into reach of the girl with three long, gliding strides, Sable is on her left. Narrowed dark eyes fix on yellow as she snatches at the camera. "Don't try to lecture me about duty." She slides a half-step forward, looming over the far shorter musician. "I'll put it simply so you can understand: No."
Give away what's ours.
If Hana was inclined to do that, her life would've been very different.
"Woahnow, Jesus gal!" Sable says, dodging back at once and instinctively, lifting camera out of reach and to shoulder level as her arm forms half of a 'hands up' gesture, "That wasn't no lecture, 'n' lemme be th' first t' apologize if it was taken as so, as I surely hate that sort 'f thing. It was a line 'f thinkin' I attribute t' our fellow Ferryfolk in the highness 'f their morals 'n' grandness 'f their thinkin'. Now, I dig, y' clearly 'r' yer own woman, not taken t' be pressured by th' high 'n' mightiness 'f th' ones above. I fuckin' respect that, honest. 'n' I won't press th' issue."
And here's the next 'but': "However, I've got my bit t' do, so how's 'bout we come t' a compromise. I need t' show that I at least put in th' effort so… as y' ain't 'fraid t' put yer foot down before God 'n' the Ferry 'n' everyone," she lifts the camera, "Mind if I get yer statement 'bout how y' ain't gonna say?" She looks bright, hopeful. "Just so they don't send no one else t' bug y' 'bout it." Because that's totally what's going to happen. She'll just be left alone.
Of all things, Hana smiles as Sable yanks the camera back; a thin and grim expression, almost more sensed than seen, but a smile nonetheless. It doesn't, however, lighten her irritation in the slightest. "They won't 'bug' me," she states flatly. "And if you continue to, Diego, I will break the other one."
But as she stalks past Sable and walks into the corridor, the woman adds one more remark, albeit without looking back: "Good luck."
Sable skitters back a bit further when the physical threat is set down. There's a moment's confusion, one that turns into a moment's alarm as she hears a name Hana should not know is hers. Sable's mouth thins into a defiant line. She manipulates the camera one handed, lifting the eyepiece to her eye and pointing it at Hana's retreating back. Recording.
"Woman states she ain't sayin' what she saw, threatens harm on m' person should I pursue th' topic," she recites, clearly and audibly, for the camera's mic. She lifts her voice, calling after Hana, "Name's Sable, ma'am! Do I look like a spic t' you?"
The woman walking down the concourse doesn't turn, doesn't twitch, doesn't stop walking, and doesn't reply either: Sable's out of her way, and Hana's making good her departure. Half a bottle of water still sits where she left it on the table, obviously not as important as the box in her hand.
Whatever Sable looks or doesn't look like to her, the girl may just have to continue wondering.