souffle_girlek | (no subject)

(no subject)

Oswin has a routine. A routine is good - it keeps her from having to think too much, and right now, thinking too much is a problem.

Right now, in her routine, it's time to make tea.

Involved tea. The most elaborate, time-consuming tea making she can devise.

Bother.

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"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."

"We were so close, too," Autor says, and cups her cheek. He leans forward to kiss her forehead, and then draws back with a small smile. "I'm sorry I made you worry. But thank you for the game."

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