kore_logs | only listens to the radio to see who's alive

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only listens to the radio to see who's alive

Who: Fortescue, and you
What: Now that things are slightly less dangerous, she's going to have a better look around. And find the bar. As you do.
When: Day 64, whenever.
Where: Anywhere in town.
Warnings: Nothing yet. Will update if necessary. ~~Shameless flirting.~~

It's been a few days since Fortescue's arrival. Her arm's started to calm down, though the swelling at her wrists is still present. According to the little wristband, people are returning to normal. Which should be promising, of course, except that Fortescue can't help but wonder what's in store for the next time. Her mind has plenty of ideas — she's seen too many laboratories and camps for it to be quiet. So, to help work that off, she slips out of her hidey hole and back into town, determined to at least get her bearings. Now that she's at least half sure that she won't have to defend herself on every corner.

Jazz trots at her heels, the little black cat's eyes alertly taking everything in, as she learns the layout of this peculiar little town. It isn't large. She's not sure what to think about that. But perhaps that means less space to cram more subjects into. A smaller sample pool? Whatever the reason, Fortescue soon uncovers the bar. That, at least, she can be pleased about, if only as a space to escape to when the alcohol runs dry. (A frightening thought, which she tries not to think too much about.)

Her cat jumps to her shoulders as she wanders in to take a look around.

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Oh, she called him love! That's...interesting, actually, how they have a similar accent and speech patterns. Should that worry them?

At least he knows she's not an angel. Smiling, he offers a handshake. "You're too kind. I'll stick with Fortescue until I know you better. But I do look forward to knowing you better."

"I imagine dinosaur eggs are very nutritious, but probably not as good as pheasant." Not that he's much of a connoisseur.

Clearly, it means trouble for the rest of the Cape. Fortescue shakes his hand, chuckling quietly.

"There has to be some reason that reptile eggs aren't very popular. I imagine it would be for a similar reason." She considers. Her travels have given her somewhat of an education about food, even if that was far from the reason she'd gone. "Although turtle eggs are quite popular in some parts of my world. I've never tried them, and so couldn't say for certain."

His grip is firm, but there aren't many callouses on that hand. Clearly he's not a man used to much physical labor. "Turtle eggs? That, I hadn't heard, although I've had turtle soup."

Humans will eat just about anything, won't they? Wisely, he doesn't express this thought aloud.

"It was all right, I suppose. I liked alligator better."

She adjusts the bandage around her arm, slightly, as she withdraws her hand, glad that the inflamed feeling around her wrist is gone. But keeping it on is clearly going to be important for a little while longer.

"I've never had alligator." Fortescue chuckles and sips more of her glass. "I sound like I just go out and eat whatever's hanging around, don't I? I swear, my diet is very boring, most of the time. I've no culinary skill to speak of."

He glances at the bandage, but refrains from comment for the moment. He can't heal it for her, anyway, unless he's ready to drop the charade of being human.

Granted, the massive amount of drinking he's doing isn't helping to keep up the facade.

"I've learned to cook breakfast. Omelettes. Pancakes. Hot cereal. That's about it. I do decent mixed drinks, though, with the proper supplies." He gives the bar a rueful nod. There's plenty of alcohol there, but it's hard to make a Bloody Mary without tomato juice or celery.

"Must be rare around these parts, I'm guessing," she notes dryly, smiling. The selection she'd gotten a look at had been mostly of the hard variety, with a bottle of wine here or there. "But that's more than I really know how to cook. More power to you."

It was, more or less, not her fault that she couldn't cook. She had no time to cook. When she wasn't out in the war, she was curled up on her couch recuperating from one thing or another. Scrounged, assorted meals had become her standby.

Perhaps that's a thing that will change, here.

"Am I right in thinking that you're celebrating a return to your normal species? It seems to be going around, right now."

"Well...I hope you won't think the less of me, but I pretty much only learned in order to be able to feed guests before they leave in the morning." He finishes off his glass and pours a bit more for himself from the bottle.

"And yes, celebrating and trying to shake the dirty feeling, frankly. I was a man-eating monster and I bit several people." He grimaces. "I'm hoping most of them will forgive me."

There's a slight twinge of jealousy, there, only because inviting people into her house is never an option. No one goes in or out without a months' worth of background checks. And she's certainly not encouraged to make friends. But fifteen-year-old Bethmora Fortescue had made a promise to her king and country, and thirty-one-year-old Fortescue keeps it. No matter how frustrating it is, only getting human contact fleetingly on missions. And through Darby, of course. But Darby's like a younger brother, at this point. Poor Darby. Hopefully he's not taking a beating for her disappearance.

"Don't worry, you'll get no judgment from me." Fortescue raises her glass, with a sympathetic smile. "To not being a man-eating monster anymore, then? I can't imagine anyone holding it against you. If this place is even half what people have been telling me."

It might make her feel less jealous to know that Balthazar hasn't had more than a few years' worth of opportunity to have friends over. Granted, he made the most of it to the point where he out of notching space on his bedpost.

Smiling, he clinks glasses gently. "I'll drink to that. And I do hope you're right. I think my housemates will forgive me, at least." They're family, after all. "And here's hoping the next time chaos breaks loose, we get treated a bit more kindly in it."

She drains the rest of her glass to that. "We can always hope. Even if it does seem unlikely. But I'm hardly an expert in sinister Capes with robot bears and dinosaurs." Fortescue does take a second to marvel about that statement. It seems like one you'd never say. "...though I suppose I could become one, if I don't disappear first."

"Ooh, I heard the robot bear thing, too. I haven't seen any, but it's incredibly bizarre, don't you think? The minds that brought us here are truly deranged, I'm sure." He glances pointedly at a camera.

Returning his gaze to her, he asks, "What is it you normally do, then? I've been talking too much about myself anyway."

Fortescue's not about to ignore an opportunity to snicker at her captors' expense. She glosses over the obvious voyeurism joke, at least for now, and tilts her head thoughtfully at Balthazar's question. "As of late, my job has been ruining the lives of Nazis. And trying to make it out of firefights with my limbs all there. So far, so good. Though I've only traded Nazis for... these deranged minds."

Technically, all of that was completely true.

Jazz bores of his exploration, as the older cat that he is, and jumps into her lap abruptly to curl up and have a nap. She scratches behind his good ear — the one that's intact — with a fond smile.

It's easy for Balthazar to forget the cameras are there, unfortunately, since he does so few of the things humans seem to need privacy for (sleeping? no. bathroom activity? no. changing clothes? no.)--barring sex, which he has no shame over, anyway. Every now and again, though, he feels watched, and remembers.

"Fighting Nazis?" His head tilts. "I suppose that's good work if you can get it. They're becoming less common where I'm from; can't complain. What year is it, then, where you're from?"

"Nineteen forty-one. There are a surplus of them, unfortunately."

Though her work has less to do with the seemingly endless supply of grunts, and more to do with the brains behind all of it. The ones who were giving orders, rather than the ones carrying them out. This suits her far better, if she's to be honest.

"People are telling me that the war didn't pan out in their favor. Which I can only hope holds true in my world as well."

"Where I come from, it's been done with for half a century, and no. It didn't end in their favor. But there are always butchers and lunatics waiting in the wings to take their place, I suppose. Good luck getting rid of them, if you ever return home."

He smiles apologetically, not meaning that to be as bleak as it sounded.

Fortescue chuckles. Part of her work is assured by butchers and lunatics. In positions of power, at least, or simply powerful enough. Sooner or later, they paint targets on their backs. "Thank you. My world is usually lovely when it doesn't have a giant war going on in it," she adds, smiling.

He goes a bit more serious at that, nodding slowly. "I was a soldier once. Glad to be out of it, for now or for good."

For the sake of secrecy, her cover story is that of a soldier or an intelligence agent — whichever suits her needs more, at the time. But she's pretty certain that her handler, Darby, an ex soldier himself, laughs himself hoarse at the idea of Fortescue being a soldier. She pets Jazz behind his good ear more; the cat's now draped across her lap, nearly asleep.

"I'm not fond of the orders part," she notes, smiling. Or the authority part. Given the choice, she'd tell her superiors — some of them the most powerful people in her world — to shove it. "But it's necessary. I'd rather have my race enslaved or eaten. Good for you on getting out, though. That's not always easy."

Watching her with her cat, Balthazar finds himself regretful that he never picked up a pet, himself. He thought about it briefly, but decided he was more interested in running wild than caring for a creature dependent upon him. He's had houseplants, but most of them would have died within a month if he wasn't capable of reviving them with a touch.

"Oh, the orders. Well, I'm not sure anyone enjoys them, but having a direction can be reassuring, amid chaos." He takes a sip of his drink, then frowns. "Did you just say 'eaten'? I don't think the Nazis did much eating people, where I come from."

"Hm? Oh. Right." Fortescue considers a moment how best to answer the unspoken question. "Back in my world there are two sentient races. Humans, and elves. One of the elven Houses has decided to back the Nazi party. They want to go back to the good old days, before the dark ages, when elves hunted humans and used them for slave labor." She smiles sheepishly. "Not really the cheeriest subject. But there you go."

"Politics do make for strange bedfellows, don't they?" He rests his chin on the heel of his hand, thoughtful.

There are fae associated with his own world--not necessarily quite the same thing, but analogous--but as far as he knows they prefer to avoid the issues humanity creates for itself. "I suppose evil elves are easier to swallow than cannibal Nazis. Still, you have my sympathy."

"I've certainly had much more pleasant bedfellows," she notes casually, chuckling as she thinks of all the covering up and red tape that cannibal Nazis would require. "Although now that you mention them... I think I do prefer the elves to the idea of Nazis who eat other people, in the not-fun sense. There are much less elves."

He waggles his eyebrows at her turn of phrase, but chooses not to pursue the topic of pleasant bedfellows for the moment.

"What are they like, then, these elves? Where I come from, they tend to be quite aloof and it's rare for humans to run afoul of them. Most people don't believe they exist, or that they exist any longer."

"There are different Houses, and each of the Houses have a different culture. Most of them look wildly different, from each other and from humans. The Elben Mahr are the House that decided to back the Nazis in the War. They're..."

Fortescue chuckles and pours herself another small drink, shrugging.

"Well, they're bloody stuck up. Nocturnal. Slightly taller than most humans. They live in pocket spaces piggybacked to other objects, like trees, that they call Hollows. ...And they have this odd obsession with birds. Owls, in particular. Killing one in front of a Mahr is like killing a child in front of most people."

"They sound like a fun bunch!" He shakes his head and leans back in his seat, crossing one ankle over the other knee. "What about demons? Any of those in your world? Because there are at least two here; I feel you ought to be warned, although I haven't seen them cause any trouble yet."

Well. No more than anyone else has, anyway.

He's getting fond of Meg, though. He'd prefer she not be attacked by mistake.

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