Closed RP What Has Eyes But Cannot See

[Katpride]

The car coasts to a halt smoothly. Spork sits sprawled across the backseat, seatbelt buckled at an entirely ornamental angle around their hips, purposefully bored and overdramatically forlorn. There’s a rustle from the front seat as the driver gets out and crosses around to open their door for them, and they sigh and slump even more. Their cane dangles from loose fingers. Maybe if they just stay here they can convince him to take them back to their apartment. They’ve got a Mari to bother, and they’d hate to let her get complacent in their absence.

A hesitant hand touches their arm as though to help them stand, and they turn their head so quickly that their teeth snap together with a clack. The hand retreats quickly enough, but they don’t bother trying to turn their snarl into anything nicer. “Don’t. I’m going, I’m going.”

Their parents just had to buy them tickets - no, actually, just the one ticket, which they’re still miffed about - to some museum tour on a random weekday without even asking first. They could’ve had a gig. Not that their parents would know anything about that, but it’s the principle of the thing.

Well, they’re already here. Might as well see what all the fuss is about. They unbuckle the seatbelt and drag themself out of the car, batting away another proffered hand from the driver when he tries to help them down. The drivers their parents hire are always so… helpful. Overbearing. Polished. Spork leaves their hair a mess and swishes their cane around in a semicircle along the ground, ‘accidentally’ knocking into the driver’s ankle.

“Oops,” they deadpan, adjusting their sunglasses and getting their bearings again. Cars passing by behind them, people walking and talking ahead.

“It’s just this way.” the driver rumbles, too much of a professional to sound offended or hurt. He doesn’t try to grab them again, so they relax their posture from ‘lightly murderous’ to ‘vaguely disgruntled’ and follow him up a couple steps and through a door, presumably into the lobby.

They zone out a little as the details get sorted out, then catch themself and try to pay attention, even if it is just a bunch of meaningless pleasantries and rules and what-have-you. They’ve given up on trying to convince their parents that they have more capability than your average toddler, but that doesn’t mean they can’t at least try to prove them wrong. Soon enough, they have an audio player in their hands and an earbud in their ear, and the driver has returned to whatever it is he does when he’s not patronizing them. Probably driving, if they had to guess.

Oh hey, the audio player has braille on it. They run their fingers along the bumps to decipher it as the tour-guide-lady chatters at them, nodding intermittently up until she tries to take their arm to lead them somewhere. She’s just doing her job, but they still yank their arm away.

“Just walk, I’ll follow. I’m a big girl,” they assure her, balancing it out with a smile when their tone tips too snide. There, perfect. They’re totally winning in all their interactions today.

Maybe they can ditch her. If they knew the layout of the building a bit better they might be tempted to, but for now they don’t really want to walk face-first into any of the exhibits.

Spoiler: OOC

Ported for archive purposes - not an active thread

Old OOC vvv
Limited - ask to join. It's a public location, but nothing really big is happening so there's not too much draw.

The museum is The Andy Warhol Museum in Pittsburgh. (Don't let Spork fool you it actually looks kind of neat.)

 

[illirica]

With as young as America was as a country and as little as it had to draw on in terms of greatness, it was really no surprise to Vasia that they should do all they could to elevate mediocrity. The Andy Warhol Museum was one such hallowed hall. She supposed that Pittsburgh had little enough to celebrate in terms of artists - no Praxiteles or Lysippos to figure the contours of humanity and cast them in stone, no tall-standing pottery that told a saga of the ages of learning. Much of American art was derivative rather than formative, and that which tried to be formative sought form in absurdity rather than reality.

What would Plato have thought of all this? But he was fortunate enough not to be here, and he was therefore not forced to contemplate the Platonic Ideal Of A Can Of Campbell's Soup, which was Vasia's current turmoil. She was little impressed by Warhol, but did think him quintessentially American, striving to bring glory to the mundane for lack of any better subjects.

At least the museum was well put together. Even if the exhibits themselves were not to her particular taste, there was space to consider them and different venues for their examination. Tour guides escorted voyeurs around the museum, some more willing than others. A blind person followed one such guide, the expression on their face positively pained. Vasia had to wonder if it was merely the circumstance, or the art itself. She was not often one to be circumspect. The tour guide's rambling paused, momentarily, and Vasia interjected, with some curiosity, "Do you like it?"

There were many things that could be said of art, after all, and that was why she chose her question to be subjective. Not is it historically significant or does it suggest meaning, merely the more personal, irrefutable do you like it? Did anyone? Or did they just pretend to and pat themselves on the back about how cultured they were? It was an interesting question, but one that almost never was properly answered.

The Americans had much to learn about philosophy as well, didn't they?

 

[Katpride]

Unfortunately for Spork, the tour guide has been working here a while, as she’s quick to tell them. Long enough that she has a lot to say about the exhibits, even when the exhibits are ‘two pictures of Freddy Mercury with his hand behind his head, one with predominantly black ink and the other with pink, but the interesting thing is-’ blah blah blah.

They would rather put their fist through the wall than listen to her do that for every single art piece here. They’re sorely tempted to. Maybe it’ll get them kicked out, or a lifetime ban if they’re really lucky. But not even their least impressed expression throws her off her groove. When scowling fails to work they tune her out somewhat and tap their cane against the floor for lack of a better target.

Act normal. Act normal. Don’t cause a scene. It would be so much work to cover up a murder in broad daylight. Mari would be disappointed and she’d do that annoyed sigh that she does-

A different voice rouses them from their internal mantra, and they pause for a second. Just a moment, in case it wasn’t addressed to them, but when no one else speaks up they turn towards the question-asker. It’s a generic enough question, spoken with a light accent and a bluntness they have to admire. They’ll go for any distraction they can take, at this point. “Haven’t seen anything to like, yet.”

A sharp smile comes naturally to their face as they pass a hand in front of their eyes, waving it briefly before pushing their hair back in one smooth motion. “Museums aren’t as interesting when you have to listen to a twenty minute lecture on every piece. Apparently this place is supposed to be accessible as hell, which, wow, I feel so accessed right now.”

They don’t make any kind of effort to pitch their voice down. If the tour guide takes offense, that’s on her. Maybe she should’ve started with the interesting stuff, if there is any. “I mean, what am I supposed to say? ‘I sure love soup and celebrities, real everyman over here, someone should call my 9 to 5 and tell ‘em I’m skipping. Can’t go home to the wife and kids now, what would they think of me with this disgrace on my record? Just act like a real man and spend all my savings at the bar then lie to my wife’s pretty, worried face, and take the car and crash it into a lightpost.’”

Death of a Salesman was a depressing-ass book. They can’t believe they even remember that much of it, even if they might have gotten the plot a little mixed-up. Was that It’s A Wonderful Life, somewhere in there?

Spork gets the feeling they may have veered slightly off topic. In the vague hope that she hasn’t walked off yet, they ask, “And you? Do you like it?”

 

[illirica]

Vasia would contemplate the words of the blind oracle, for they required some contemplation. Much of what was said was spoken obliquely, in riddle and sarcasm, with references to things that might not make immediate sense but were necessary to understand if one wanted to garner any meaning from the speakings of prophecy. She thought it likely there were still some contexts she was unfamiliar with, for the speech had a note of reference to something. Perhaps it would become clear in proper time. Most things did.

The question she had asked so pertinently was returned to her, and Vasia responded with a smile of amusement that her conversational partner would not see. "It is... like a puppy. It is very proud of itself but it has not learned anything of real value. And it still pees on the floor. But society would be disappointed in us if we did not like puppies, and so we praise it for peeing, as long as it is not in our house." Her arm encompassed the museum, a gesture she knew would not be seen, but it summed it up somewhat. A shrine to house the products of an artistic puppy.

"He is certainly trying very hard, and is, as you say, 'a very good boy.' But I think I prefer art with a few centuries more of refinement. That said, I think it is worthwhile to have experienced it, even if I should not choose to display any of these works."

 

[Katpride]

There’s a smile in her voice when she replies, and Spork’s grin turns downright delighted as she compares Warhol’s art to actual literal dog pee. Right in front of the tour guide, too, and they know she’s listening because she makes a tiny offended noise and they hear the click clack of her taking a few steps away.

Holy shit. Can they keep her? They need more metaphors like that for, like, intersections that are a little too crowded, or homemade PB&J sandwiches that fall a little below standard. This is 10000 times better than listening to whatever the tour guide was going on about.

“I definitely wasn’t planning on running to the gift shop. Although I’m 100% sure it would be in the Warhol spirit to find a terrible jpeg version and print it out yourself, if you change your mind. You could, like, hang it up backwards and call it ‘a creative twist on the ideal of modern art’.” They make air quotes with their free hand, then roll their wrist in a dismissive gesture.

“I think I’d prefer an actual puppy.” Spork tilts their head to the other side, listening for a moment. The tour guide’s voice floats over from where she’s engaged in conversation with someone much more enthusiastic about discussing the ‘merits of color in rendering blah blah whatever’. “Have you seen the bear room yet? I hear there’s a room with bears. A room for the bears, if you will. The bears’ room.”

Smooth as silk, they extend their hand in her direction. It’s fine when they do it. “Spork, by the by. Or technically by the pan. Technicalities.”

 

[illirica]

It seemed that the only one to take offense to Vasia's statement was the tour guide. Perhaps that was not so well done - she was a guest here, after all, and guests were supposed to behave with decorum. Still, it would neither have been right to lie, and so she had made the imperfect choice, and now would see where it led.

"I have not yet seen the... room of bears." It had been advertised, at the entrance to the museum, but Vasia had not quite made it that far in her explorations. A hand was extended to her in introduction, and she clasped it with warm habituality. "Vasia." 'Spork,' a rather strange moniker. A spork was, she thought, one of those things not quite a fork, not quite a spoon. Americans seemed to enjoy crushing words together - not like Germans who just strung them all along whole in a line. Greek words made far more sense, made of convenient building blocks to be reassembled at will for the proper meaning.

The rest of Spork's introduction made little sense at all, until some moments later, when it did - unless Vasia was interpreting it wrong. Nonetheless, she was hardly one to shy away from a potential liason out of lack of courage. "Ah. I see. I shall... keep that in mind." A different sort of smile, still unseen, one that didn't quite yet contain an invitation but certainly might have been amenable to the idea. She let her hand linger a moment longer than otherwise, with the intent to move Spork's to the crook of her arm should they prove amenable.

"Would you like to accompany me to this place of bears? I am sure I know far less than a guide, but I am willing to describe it as I am able."

 

[Katpride]

Now this, Spork can do. If they haven’t scared her off yet, then she must be their kind of person. They like her voice and the calluses on her hand. They like how she talks. There isn’t much more to it.

When she moves their hand to her arm they go along with it, much more willing to be this close to Vasia than the overenthusiastic tour guide or their parents’ hired helper.

“Let’s go see some bears,” Spork agrees. They readjust their grip on her arm, patting her bicep with their free hand and noting the solid musculature there. “Quick, before the tour guide tries to lecture me again. I do not need to be here for five hours, you’ll do just fine.”

They start walking in a random direction, a vague ‘away,’ trusting that she’ll redirect them towards where they’re going. They do not feel a single ounce of regret for skipping out on the tour their parents paid for. They should’ve asked, but they never do.

Spork realizes they’re frowning, and they shake their head before summoning up a smile again. Change the subject. “So, do you work out?”

 

[illirica]

Vasia understood the occasional need for quickness in the face of imminent danger. In this case, the danger seemed to be of spending five hours in this place before being able to return home. It was not quite the struggles of Odysseus, but Vasia was certainly well-versed enough to understand the sentiment. She let Spork pull her undirectionally away and then adjusted their course once the tour guide had given her an exasperated look as if to say that the errant Spork was Vasia's problem now, may she learn to regret it.

Vasia found that doubtful. She had few regrets. Not none, certainly, but few. Spork seemed a bit lost, not so much in the museum but rather in their own thoughts, something less than pleasant being dwelt on for a moment before they forced themselves back to the present and present company with a question that was quite familiar, in more ways than one.

"Of course. It is somewhat a requirement. I am... what do you Americans call it? A 'superhero.'" She made a little tch sound, somewhere between amusement and derision, indicating that she really did not think that the people here understood the meaning of the word. "We Greeks do not make so much of a fuss about it. It is not so exciting as they would have you think, but sometimes our historie reaches out to us and there is a minotaur or a cyclops that needs killed. When one takes out the six weeks asea to get anywhere, the epics are much shortened. Hence, I am here as an ambassador, and since you have no teras either, I wander around trying to be impressed by things. Mostly, I am not."

She could not fault the nation its youth, of course, but it was more its refusal to make use of the knowledge that had been gained by its elder nations. A petulant child of a country, insistent on doing things its own way, even when its own way resulted in places like this, with rooms full of things that were not truly worthy of display.

 

[Katpride]

The mention of heroics makes something in Spork’s brain sit up and pay attention, and they let their smile shade a bit more eager. Oho, they’ve managed to bump into a ‘good guy’. That’s fun! They’ve never met a self-proclaimed superhero - they’ve been unlucky enough to completely avoid any superpowered intervention in previous gigs. Well, Mari would say that was lucky, but really it isn’t as fun if no one fights back.

Vasia seems chill enough about the concept as a whole, but this is exciting. Maybe they’ll get to fight her someday, even if they aren’t precisely the minotaur at the center of the labyrinth that she’s hoping for. Or maybe they could fight with her, if the right person pays up. That’s more of a stretch, unfortunately. People calling themselves ‘heroes’ seem like the sort to get all wishy-washy about murder and money being the solution to their problems.

“You know, I’m sort of in the same business myself,” they hedge, delighted by the hidden double meaning in their statement. “Have you ever actually killed a cyclops? Like, do those exist? Follow-up; where can I find a cyclops and what weapons are best for totally smiting those dudes? Besides being a Nobody, which, ha, already failed step one.”

She’s Greek. This is great. Spork couldn’t quite place her accent before, but it sits heavy on the non-English words she says. Is that Latin? Greek? Greek is a language too, isn’t it? They never had an ear for that sort of thing - they barely passed French, and promptly forgot everything as soon as they left the classroom.

“I’m sure we can think of something to impress you.” They tack on a wink, pressing a little closer to her with the reasonable excuse of trying not to bump into anyone. As though that registers on their list of priorities.

 

[illirica]

Vasia quirked a smile, it seemed that this person had at least some knowledge of the classic epics. That was a point in their favor, as far as Vasia was concerned.

"There are those who would tell you the best weapon to defeat a cyclops is a high powered sniper rifle at long range," Vasia answered, her tone not particularly approving of this method, even if it did sound like a reasonable and intelligent way to go about it. "But that is not any fun. And it is not the sort of thing of which epics are written. I like a knife. Spear is a bit more traditional, but unless it's a particularly small one, I haven't got the reach from the ground. Their hide is skin is like bronze, hard to cut through. The eye is the weak point. If you can get a blade in there up into the brain, they'll be finished. Usually with a knife I need to go in up to about the elbow, so it's a bit messy, but it's certainly interesting. I haven't killed many - but a few, yes. Usually one or two come out in the islands every spring. They're quiet in the winter. Like bears."

And on the subject of bears, here they were at the so-called bear room. Vasia paused in the doorway for a moment, quite hesitant, then remembered that she was meant to be describing all of this to Spork.

"Well."

Well. Well, indeed. There were a lot of undertones in that one word, something almost half-strangled, but left to live out of pity alone.

"It is... unironically brilliant. Though... not, I think, in the way the artist intended." She guided Spork into the room, her steps slowed, on guard, approaching one of the bears close enough that Spork could reach out to touch it, if they so desired. "Have you..." Not seen, no - "Heard tales, of horror? The ones that start in a children's nursery, where everything is very tidy and bright, where there are large soft things in colors that are... bold, I think. Like velvet, silk - definitive, nothing the same, primary, easily identified. There are many spaces, but you must move around the large soft things, and you wonder what is behind them, what is in this open room, why it is made this way. It is the sort of room where you expect something terrible to happen."

A pause, then a movement of her arm, probably a shrug. "Or perhaps I am paranoid and overthinking of things. Should we walk, so you can know where the bears are?"

 

[Katpride]

The suggestion of a sniper rifle makes Spork huff, a dismissive sort of sound. Nah, that’s no fun at all. Luckily, Vasia shares the same opinion, and they’re quiet as she describes her usual approach.

“Haha, gross,” they comment, tone complimentary. They don’t need to imagine the spray of blood or the soft sigh of a knife sliding home, but they are impressed with how much eye matter cyclopes must have if she has to stab them that deeply to get to the brain. Like a giant flan or something. Oh, they could go for dessert right now.

But first, bears. Vasia stops walking, so Spork does as well, letting their cane drop back into their hand and swinging it out to find the boundaries of the doorway. A few steps inside, and they tuck their cane back up under their arm and reach out, not quite sure what to expect.

If they were expecting anything, it certainly wouldn’t be for something to be right in front of them, just about chest height. It swings when they accidentally smack it, and they push harder on pure instinct. It’s soft - are those feathers? They thought these were supposed to be bears! “The hell is that?”

It swings back towards them, and they catch a - what is that, a leg? - halting its momentum. With the initial surprise gone, they slip their arm out of Vasia’s and run their fingers over feathers, hard marbles that must be its eyes, surprisingly sharp teeth. A thin wire holds it aloft. Must be hooked to the ceiling.

“This thing definitely doesn’t belong in a nursery,” they decide. They grin and let go of the bear with one final tap on its nose to set it swinging again. If anyone has a problem with them messing with the exhibit they can take it up with Spork. They’re pretty sure they didn’t damage it. “But hey, any room can be a room where something terrible happens. You just gotta be in the right company.”

They hook their wrist over her arm again with a sharp smile. “Sure, tell me where the bears are, Vasia. I’d hate to have to be that company today.”

 

[illirica]

"Perhaps they don't belong in a proper nursery, but they seem to be the sort that would be in a nursery set up by those who have no particular experience with children. You understand? 'Children like bears, put bears in it.' 'Children like colors, use many bright colors.' It is a tale about childhood told by one who does not remember it nor know any children."

Vasia wondered how qualified she was to judge on the matter. She'd been raised by her grandfather, after all, and he had been the sort who thought weights and punching bags were perfectly acceptable children's toys. She'd had the feeling that once upon a time he'd tried a softer path, perhaps with her own mother so many years ago, but by the time she came to him he was older and finished with pretending about childhood. He'd seen that the softer touch only led to tragedy, and so Vasia had been raised with sharper things. If her childhood had known bears, they had all been fangs and claws - but at least he had not done her the disservice of pretending otherwise.

Spork seemed to be somewhat enjoying poking the bear, though, in a more literal than metaphorical sense. Vasia was not entirely certain if one was supposed to touch the art - the Greeks had very definite opinions about touching the art - but this hardly qualified as art anyway, and it certainly wasn't going to last for centuries whether or not it was prodded. She supposed that if it wasn't to be done, someone would tell them to stop. In the meantime, she let Spork take her arm once more, beginning a circuit of the room to draw Spork closer to each of the bears. Color would mean nothing to them, but Spork seemed keenly aware of position, and so Vasia made an effort to describe that in some detail with each creature they approached, as if she were analyzing itto see how it might attack, which muscles might be coiled, which lines were open and which defended.

It was an art, she supposed.

 

[Katpride]

Wow, there are a lot of bears in this room. It’s almost like it’s the bear room or something. Vasia has taken to describing the bears like they’re in the middle of an ambush, and Spork listens for a minute before they suddenly stop walking. “Wait.”

Oh no. Oh no. They turn to Vasia with alarm. “Do you think bear statues can be weeping angels too?”

Damn it, they never should’ve let Mari convince them to watch her nerd show. From Vasia’s description, the bears are pretty tiny, but there are also so many of them. And, ok, they know weeping angels don’t actually exist, but also this would be a terribly inconvenient time for that to change.

Spork slides a step closer to their current entertainment, suspiciously nudging one of the statues with the toe of their shoe. “If any of them start moving I am so out of here. That’d be real modern art- no, real modern horror, I swear. Next thing you know everyone’s hopping on the new trend and no museum is safe from the automatons - because who can afford to capture real maybe-imaginary creatures? In this economy? - This could be the beginning of the robot uprising, in the form of little colorful bears.”

“We must inform the presses. It’s like, civic duty. Or maybe you don’t have that, do the Greeks have that?” They tug lightly on her arm to get her moving again, angled towards the door out of the room. Now that they’ve had the thought, they can’t help but imagine all the bears turning to look at them as soon as they have their back turned. Or, hell, they wouldn’t even have to wait, it isn’t like Spork has any natural defenses against those hell-beasts. Damn ableist sci-fi creatures.

They take comfort in the fact that they could probably punt about ten of these bears into the sun before being overrun. They wonder if they could punch through stone, with the gauntlets Mari made for them. They’ll have to test it sometime. Just in case. And also because that would be cool as hell if they could.

 

[illirica]

It seemed these tales had gotten slightly out of hand. Vasia was not certain about all this concern about angels, but it seemed to be something other than the standard. Perhaps Spork had an overactive imagination. This was not necessarily a criticism, as Vasia felt that having a very active imagination was generally helpful for seeing things as they were rather than ignoring everything about oneself and insisting it had been something else.

But then again, Spork would have their own way of 'seeing' things, would they not? Perhaps it involved angels of varying degrees of catharsis. The offer to alert the presses seemed a little far-reaching, but then again, Spork was American. They were always rushing forward to do something, rarely appreciative of the past.

And civic duty, of course. Spork would not see the raised eyebrow, which was perhaps for the best.

"We invented it." Of course, the Greeks were responsible for so many of these modern concepts, but Vasia supposed it was to be expected that other peoples wouldn't know of such things. They were not Greek, after all. She let Spork's tug at her arm precede a movement, guiding them both out of the room.

"There. 'Exit, not pursued by a bear.' Shakespeare, yes? Not Greek, but at least he took our advice. And now that we have escaped, where would you like to go next? Elsewhere in this museum, or have you had enough of soup cans and vibrant bears?"

 

[Katpride]

“Invented it?” Spork laughs, not even a little bit embarrassed by the correction. “Damn, didn’t know you could patent a concept.”

They let her guide them out of the room, though they don’t need much direction to step around the bears they’ve already passed. They get a lot of practice memorizing room layouts. At least this place has way less moving parts for them to account for than, say, a heist or something.

They exit from the room into the larger corridor, and Spork pauses right in front of the door to consider their next destination. There are a couple people waiting to get into the room, from what they can overhear of a hushed conversation off to their right, but they pretend not to notice.

“If I have to listen to someone describe a soup can I’m going to start killing,” they deadpan. Although, there’s an idea. “How would you feel about… getting some actual soup?”

What? They’re hungry. They level a sunny smile at Vasia, projecting as much ‘you want to go get soup with me’ energy as they can. “Perfect for the cold weather, right? I think there’s a place near here, or if there isn’t there should be. Absolute wasted opportunity, to have the Warhol museum and not have a Campbell’s soup store right next door.”

They snicker a little to themself, mumbling, “Buy some clothes there, maybe. Oh, I gotta send that one to Mari.”

 

[illirica]

"Soup?" It was not the inquiry Vasia had expected, but then again, she was not entirely sure what to expect of Spork. They were somewhat inclined towards non-sequitors, it seemed.

Still, once the idea had been proposed, Vasia found herself shrugging agreement, almost instantly recalling that she needed to vocalize and doing so. "Yes. Certainly. Soup would be... good. You Americans are quite good at soup, as it turns out." Art and architecture, not so much, but when it came to culinary matters, the Americans had made some true progress. "Not Campbells, though. Campbells is the American faux-classical architecture of soup. You can do so much better, and yet you do not. Do you know of a soup place in this area, or should I search for one?" Vasia was certainly not familiar with the area herself, but with today's technology it only took a few seconds on a phone to find your way where you were going - no wandering about the sea for a decade required.

Spork seemed to be amused at something, which was well enough. Vasia noted the name spoken, with a curious: "Mari is.... a... friend?" Or perhaps something more, in which case this day might go differently. Really, of all the things for Americans to be particular about, why did it have to be that one?

 

[Katpride]

Oh excellent, she even has opinions about soup. Spork has no idea what point she’s trying to make about architecture, but they do like the way she talks. They shrug in response to her question. “I’ve got no idea what’s around here.”

Hearing a familiar click clack approaching from a slight distance, Spork takes her arm again and guides them both in the opposite direction of the sound before the tour guide can get on their case again. The hallways are pretty wide, or at least their cane doesn’t bump against anything when they swing it in a searching sweep.

“Yeah, Mari’s my friend. Roommate. Partner in crime.” There’s that sharp grin for a moment, as they amuse themself with their own roundabout sincerity. “My main bro, even if she is sadly uneducated in the way of the true memelord.”

They shake their head in mock disappointment. It’s hard to find image descriptions for, like, 70% of everything everywhere, but they manage to stay on the up and up. She has no excuse.

They slow their pace once they’re in a more open space. They can hear the rustle of fabric, though it seems more in the form of big sheets rather than clothes. Weird. “Is there a back exit to this place? Not soup-er eager to get snatched by my chauffeur.”

 

[illirica]

"Interesting." That was another Americanism: the use of a single word to convey any number of things based on the tone of it. Often, Vasia found it bothersome when it was directed at her - there were many cultural nuances that simply didn't come across. She had learned, though, that more words did not necessarily imply more meaning. The American art of small talk was baffling - an entire culture based around talking very much and saying very little.

On the other hand, the one word answers were somewhat useful for when she wasn't entirely sure about the thread of a conversation and where it was meant to be going. It could encourage elaboration without offending, or let the conversation just move on to other places without commitment. Vasia was still not entirely certain where the relationship with this Mari character stood, and she wondered, for a moment, if Spork even knew. Americans did have a way of being both ridiculously insistent on definition and simultaneously failing to define things.

Her smile quirked. Vasia was not exactly a memelord herself, but in this day and age it was hard to avoid at least a casual exposure. "So. 'They were roommates,' then?" She let Spork make of that one whatever they wanted to, simultaneously letting Spork be the guide down this stretch of hallway. After all, it seemed that they had it covered perfectly well without her assistance, and that gave Vasia the time to pull out her phone and start looking for well-reviewed places within walking distance that might provide the requisite soup.

"I can't say I'm in the habit of breaking out of places." Vasia considered this statement with casual absurdity, then amended, properly, "Or into them. As it were. But if you need your chauffeur to, ah, just miss you, that I can do."

 

[Katpride]

“And they were roommates,” Spork parrots delightedly, accompanied by a wild cackle that draws more than a few weird looks from nearby museum-goers. Oh, they’re gonna have fun with this one.

Vasia seems content letting them lead her around for a change, so they meander closer to one of the weird fabric-sounds. Their cane bumps into something solid, and they slow to a stop, reaching out to run their fingers along what feels like sheets, lots of stacked sheets. Is it really just fabric?

“Huh, I guess heroes like you must be invited into places pretty often then.” They return, just as casual. “Even so, if you wanted to practice you could always try breaking in anyways. What’s the fun in just strolling in when you can do it in style? Presentation.”

They do the accompanying arm spread and shoulder shimmy, a grin turned in her direction. “I’m always missed, tragically, but I’ll bite. What exactly can you do?”

Because she’d said superhero, hadn’t she? Honestly, they’d believe that her sense of comedic timing was something supernaturally enhanced.

 

[illirica]

"Hm. Most of the invitations heroes receive are... obligatory. They do not wish to send the invitation, but they must because it is polite. I do not wish to accept it, but I must because it is polite. And so I end up in many places making small talk with people I do not have anything in common with, when we would both rather I were somewhere else hitting monsters with a stick. You cannot hit politicians with a stick these days, whether or not they are monsters. Not even in Greece. I feel we've lost something in that regard."

Her amusement with the matter was probably audible, although with all things there was a grain of truth behind it. Leadership had meant something more, Vasia felt, when it also included the understanding that if something were to happen, you would lead your ships to war and your men upon the battlefield. These days it was all direction and no action, and it was far more hollow.

But what could she do?

Well, that was the question, wasn't it? Vasia quickened a smile, naturally unseen. "Me? I have excellent timing."