souffle_girlek | (no subject)

"Maybe if you weren't so busy demanding a loincloth and squirrelclothes, she wouldn't have gotten so far." Oswin retorts, "And I will put in for the record that I look hot in a squirrel-tail bikini."

"Oh my god," Autor moans, covering his face with his hands. "Oswin, I love you, but there are some things that need not ever enter my mind, please, and that is one of them. It will remain there forever, I hope you know."

He peeks between his fingers. "Oh, good. Someone stole all of our oxen. Wonderful."

"Alright, so now I'm pulling this wagon in my squirrel-kini..." Oswin narrates as she starts them down the trail again. "I think I saw this in a movie once."

A movie Autor would probably explode from whilst watching, no doubt.

"Aaaand now I have dysentary. That's going to do a number on the fur."

"Squirrel-kini?" Autor says, and then he can't stand it anymore. At first, it's a little snicker. Then it's a giggle. Then he falls over on his side laughing and clutching his middle.

"I don't w-want you to have dysentery!" he calls, eyes tearing up from his incessant chortling. "This is sad! This is awful! Ahaha... Hahaha... Ha, okay. I'm good. I'm good."

He sits up, adjusting his glasses. "Looks like the trail splits?"

"Looks like we can go north, or... further west and then north. Why would you go the longer way?" Oswin asks, confused, and chooses what looks like the shorter path.

"Whoops, I'm dead. I expect a nice funeral. Only the nicest squirrel skulls on my grave."

"We'll give you one," the boy promises, patting her foot. "We'll bury you in your nicest squirrel-kini, with most of the lice picked out. 'Here lies Oswin', we'll say, 'devoted friend, and squirrel-kini champion, who pulled the wagon until her cholera and dysentery exhausted her. Frankly, we're surprised she lasted this long.'"

He smiles, leaning his back against the couch. "Erna has exhaustion. Ah, well, yes. Of course she does. She's working all the time," he says. And then, a little later, "Clara broke her arm. Well, yes. Though those hurt. I hope she'll be okay. Erna broke her arm. ... Okay, that's just ridiculous."

"Sorry, that'd be me, haunting the wagon. You shouldn't be snarky at potential poltergeists." Oswin sniffs, selecting the 'be ferried across' at the Snake River.
"And here we have Chief Running With Dumb Fat Bears, who bought that outfit off of a real native three seasons back and is running a nice tourist business on the side."

Autor furrows his brow. "Why is he white? Did they... not have enough colors to give him the right skin?"

The ferry tips, and Clara drowns. Autor looks momentarily horrified. "Augh! Why is she the one that drowns? I'm the one that can't swim! Nothing has happened to me or Rae in this gam--Rae has a fever."

He looks to Oswin. "I don't know what I expected."

"Well, now it's snowing - maybe that'll help with the fever." She offers helpfully, right before a wagon wheel breaks. "That was not me, I promise, that was the Clara poltergeist."

Autor covers his eyes with a hand and laughs helplessly. "I see," he says, eyeing her. "Well, we can take the river or the trail. Do you have a preference?"

"See, I would say the river, if only because our luck on land is starting to suck." Oswin points out pragmatically. Why she thinks floating is going to be any better is one of life's great mysteries.

"Oh, wow, that's a big river," Autor says, watching her little wagon travel down the expanse of neon blue. "Left, Oswin. No, your other left. Left, left, left--ah, you hit the rock. We lost six hundred pounds of food? I didn't know we had that much left!"

"For the record, that rock definitely jumped out in front of the wagon." Oswin argues, finding that wagon navigation is not at all like driving a car. "Whoops, sorry, I think that's all our ammunition. Now the squirrels of Oregon are safe."

"So we have no clothes, no food, no money, Rae has a fever, you and my sister are dead and haunting the wagon, and my mother has a broken arm and exhaustion," Autor sums up, counting off their troubles on his fingers. "Even if we make it to Oregon, we're going to starve to death in the winter."

"But we have seven wagon wheels!" Oswin chirps, "We can... roll faster. With those. It'll help the one oxen." She pauses, frowning.

"Oxen? Ox? Ox...let? What is an oxen anyway?"

"It's a big work animal," Autor says, furrowing his brow. "Like a horse--which are terrifying--or a cow. Traditionally it pulled plows--which is a... something to help dig up the dirt in a farm. Ox is the singular, oxen is plural--Oswin! If you hit another rock, we'll have nothing left."

"You want to drive this thing? The rocks are definitely moving to get in the way." She protests, struggling to keep them on course. "Besides, doesn't matter to me, you're the one that's going to be sold into indentured slavery in Oregon to provide a living to whoever survives this. I'm going to go to the ghost parties."

"No, I wouldn't be," Autor says, adjusting his glasses. "Even though I'd be an immigrant to America at that time, in this scenario I'm male, I'm not black, and I'm able-bodied, too, so I technically have rights that even you women don't. Like voting. And I vote that no one gets sold."

The boy wonders if he has put his foot in his mouth. He continues talking around it, having clearly not learned his lesson. "Granted, I might work myself to an early grave trying to keep everyone alive, which might be the same thing. Hmm. I wonder if I immigrated to avoid conscription?"

Oswin blows a raspberry at him in intelligent debate about the voting rights of women. It's a completely foreign idea to her that people would get different rights based on gender. Sure, there's jackasses everywhere who can't help but make stupid comments towards a girl in a dress, but generally they're just jackasses.

It sounds like what's going on with the cyborgs. Though she supposes that's not really her problem anymore either.

"Dunno - what's conscription?"

Autor glances away from her, focusing on the game. He wraps his arm around his knees.

"Conscription... is when countries require compulsory military service for men of a certain age," the boy says, adjusting his glasses again. "In Germany, where I'm from, it's from seventeen to thirty-five. They pay you a pittance, but provide food and shelter and a uniform. They teach you how to fire guns, and maintain a front line, and in general prepare you to be ready in case a war breaks out."

"... Well, you don't have to worry about that, right? I mean, you're an artist, not some burly military type." Oswin encourages.

He smiles a little. "No, I'll be drafted. I'm male and able-bodied, remember? And I'm the right age," he says, and rests his chin on his knees. "I told you I'd worry about handling firearms when I had to."

Oswin shakes her head in denial.

She has nothing against soldiers. She adores Clint, and is decidedly thankful for his gun-handling abilities to be sure, but... Autor is not Clint.

Sorry Autor, but you're being hugged. And by the way, the wagon is sinking

"No."

Autor's a bit startled when she hugs him, but he wraps his arms around hers. "I... might be moving to Milliways before then. I'm not sure," he says, blinking as he embraces her back. "It's okay! I'll be all right."

He wonders if he should continue lying to her. If he should tell her everything. But that might make her worry more, and he's planning to take care of the situation. There's no need to make her worry.

"You sunk the wagon."

"Oh! Well, damn." There's really no arguing with the stark words on the screen, is there? She tries to regain some composure - after all. She wasn't supposed to be encouraging him, was she? She finds being aloof difficult. "Next time you can float the wagon."

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herr_bookman - 2015-01-16 07:51 (UTC) - Expand