Tangled Currents - Preston Options

[Mercy]

Thursday 7 June 2075 0635 Suite U3A Gates Undersound Hotel



Tanya laughs, "I appreciate that what we did might have addled your brain. I am a bit dazed by it, too. Shower is this way." She takes you by the hand and leads you to the bathroom, pointing you to the running shower as she sits on the toilet. The water is hot and does a lot to help you recover your senses. At least until she steps in to join you. There are two shower heads so you do not have share, but her hands soaping your back brings up a reaction that is hard to miss. She turns so that you can soap her up and then rinses off. As the two of you step out of the shower she gazes down at your waist and smiles. "I do hope that is for me and not Monique? Here are towels and robes. I think I heard you say that you have other appointments this morning? Too bad. I usually try to get some exercise in before breakfast. The hotel has a climbing wall here that I use a couple times a week. Other days it is racquetball or swimming. Then I try to get a run in before returning to change for breakfast. It would be nice if you joined me, but that is up to you. I live my life and I know that you have yours. But speaking of which, there are two guest rooms here. Would you like to move in with me? Things would be convenient, but maybe you do not want to?"

[Mercy]

Hot water helped bring Preston's brain more fully back on-line. That is, until Tanya threatens to totally divert it into lust again. Then she switches gears, talking about her exercise routine, then about him moving in.

And his voices were still being quiet, leaving him feeling off-balance and exposed. Couldn't she give him more time to absorb all of this?

Even as the words start slipping from his lips he realizes that he is sounding like Uncle Oleg -- the very thing that pulling out that voice into his thoughts was designed to help him avoid. But the realization does nothing to stop the outburst "Spirits woman! Would you give a man time to think? Is it always like this with you, go-go-go, changes by the hour?"

Preston's expression after the outburst, mouth in an "O", hand hovering in front of it, vainly trying to catch the words from the air, might have been comical at another time.

His hand slowly sinking, along with his spirits he adds more gently "And this is why I don't think I should move in right away. As you get to know me more, you might not like me as well as all of that. I ...." his mouth opens and closes a few times as he struggles to find words to express the maelstrom of his emotions right now, but finally he just dribbles out " .... should probably go. For now. You did hire me for a job, and I do aim to do it. I still .... the rest of it all" his hand wave takes in Tanya, the apartment, and possibly all of Puget Sound (it isn't a very well aimed arm wave) "I like it, I like you, but ... maybe we should see if we can walk together before we run together?"

[Mercy]

Tanya seems quite surprised at your outburst. Her hand is suspended in mid-air with the bar of soap in it. Her face moves through several emotions and ends up going calm and neutral. She hands you the bar of soap and, in a voice barely above a whisper and almost lost in the noise of the water in the shower, says, “Of course, Mister Preston. I am very sorry for anything I have said or done that might have created any sort of difficulty for you whatsoever. I humbly beg your pardon for any affront I have committed. That was not my intent. I am sorry that you do not share my vision at this time, but I do look forward to hearing of your success in the task I have given to you. I will have your suit cleaned and sent on to your apartment. Good morning, Mister Preston.” She shuts of the water to her half of the shower and steps out.

By the time you are finished rinsing off, she has left the suite. Monique comes to the bathroom and shows you where the robes are kept and takes you out of the bedroom to the guest room you had used the previous day. Your clothes are cleaned and pressed and on a suit rack near the bed. She stays for a moment. “My mistress is a very special person, Mister Preston. I would give my life for her. I have and would again kill for her. She found me when I was so broken I had no idea where all the pieces were, much less how to put them back together. And that was at a time when she was broken more than I was. Her addictions almost killed her.” She holds up an arm and pushes back the sleeve to reveal an ugly scar that you would bet was inflicted with a knife. “I can still remember the night I found her stabbing herself with a knife from the kitchen, trying to let the demons out. Her blood was all over the floor of the kitchen and she fought as only the addicted can to keep me from stopping her. Her words were gibberish. Her strength was almost more than I could prevail against, but I had a heavy iron pot on my side and managed to subdue her and stop the bleeding.”

“She lived, but was only a shell of herself. I understand that you know what is left behind when addictions control you like that. She is much better now and I would like her to stay that way. I do not tell you this to get your sympathy or pity for her. She needs neither of those. She needs strength. Strength to pair against her, to lift her over the challenges she sees in her path. One day, this will kill her, but I will try to delay that for as long as possible. I think she sees a bit of herself in you, Mister Preston, and that attracts her to you. Sometimes that in itself is not enough and I know that better than most. Please stay safe. I look forward to seeing you again. You have my comm. code and I urge you to use it if you need my help with anything.”

Monique leaves the room so you can dress in privacy and is waiting for you at the front door when you come out after dressing. She takes you to the elevator and pushes the correct codes in and sends you up to the lobby.

[Mercy]

Preston is still reeling from what has happened, what he said. Monique’s word register more as an emotion than as content. When she is done he signals her to wait a moment, then composes himself enough to say “I’ve done some pretty terrible things, but I don’t think I’ll be regretting any of them as much as letting those words out this morning.” He’s a bit amazed by the relative calm in his words, the almost flat delivery, an anthropologist observing his own behavior.

He feels that he should shut up and leave, but he can’t resist trying to give an explanation, no matter how inadequate, how his odd calmness might work against it being effective. “I don’t know who or what she thought I was, but I was trying to be that man anyway. I tried so hard that I ignored all my carefully built mental safety systems – until I just blew up, like an old gas burning engine pushed into the red zone for too long. My fault, I ignored the warning signs, I should have gotten myself to a safe distance first. I’ll do so now, now that it’s too late.”

Once dressed in yesterday’s clothes he takes the mournful elevator ride back to the garage. He feels like the guards’ stares are disapproving, like somehow they already know. It occurs to him “The next time I come here, they probably will know. Word always gets around. I’d best not give them any excuse to express how they feel about it.”

He sits down in his car, and sees the package of cookies, forgotten on the passenger seat. It is then that his emotions come rushing back. He stifles one sob, then gives up as everything comes crashing back at him – all of the people, all of the experiences, Tanya’s rapid change from employer to date to partner or maybe mastermind. He feels like he is choking from the sheer volume of it all. His hands grip the steering wheel in a death grip as a burning desire for the mental clarity of the Jazz, or the more-intense-than-life potency of hot sim, either would let him get past this, process it, be able to breathe.

"I could call Shadow, get some -- NO!" He is all the way back to basic cognitive behavioral therapy -- cutting off thoughts. It was his first step out of addiction, and if he is dismayed to not be able to manage better, at least this most basic building block was still there.

Blindly he gropes and finds tissue to wipe his eyes, he needs to be able to see more clearly

* Gamma: it is good that I always keep my car equipped with mundanely useful things.

He nearly sobs again, in relief. He lets the dispassionate internal voice continue, thrilled to have it back and functioning.

* Gamma: I have undergone far more strong emotional swings in the last day than I have dealt with since breaking up with Sonya.

* Gamma: My mental defenses were not as strong as I had thought they were. They functioned for a while, but became increasingly erratic as the day wore on.

* Gamma: Abandoning them completely last night was an extremely risky decision. It worked well for the night, but not for the morning. Such is not un-typical outcome of a high risk, his reward, decision.

* Gamma: My most recent break down was triggered by the cookies. Understanding why may help me understand my current emotional state.

He dabbed at his eyes again, made himself take some deep breaths -- and found he could breath fine after all. Why had the cookies triggered him so strongly?

It came to him easily -- that was when he began to go off his planned track. He forgot the cookies, in the rush to deal with what was happening. From then on things snowballed, as he had a harder and harder time processing and analyzing all that happened. He began to put more and more aside for later, began to miss more details, leave more decisions unmade. He'd had good moments, but he should have realized by the time he got blocked out of the opera that he was careening dangerously off the tracks.

He grimaced -- he'd managed to more or less follow the course until this morning, when he'd gone off a bridge and into a ravine.

He stared at the cookies. "If I'm ever to get out of this ravine, I need to start climbing. The cookies can also be the start of that." It almost felt like wisdom.

He grabbed the pen and note pad that he kept in the glove compartment of the sedan, and carefully wrote a note, aiming for much better than his usual semi-legible scrawl.

Tanya;
Sometimes I'm thoughtful enough to bake 'thank-you' cookies before even meeting a person.
Sometimes I hurt anyone I'm near.
I try for the former, but obviously there is still more of the latter in me than I'd realized.
Here is a thank you, from before I knew how I'd screw things up.

He struggled over what to sign his name as, and finally went with the name he'd used with her: Peter.

* Oleg: It never would have worked out anyway, without a proper SIN I never could have stayed by her side, I would have been found out.

Not for the first time he wished he could take a spoon and scoop this bitter part of him out, but at least it was back talking in his thoughts, not out of his mouth.

He folded over the note, tucked it under the strong holding the box closed, and walked back to the guards at the elevator. "Could you please send this to Lady Marisart's suite? It is for her -- although getting it to Monique should serve." He hoped the guards wouldn't read the note, or just take the cookies, but he couldn't bear to look at what was in their eyes, so as soon as he had gabbled his message and placed the box where one of them indicated, he scuttled back to his car, and drove off.

* Coleman: That could be an interesting way to try to deliver a bomb. I wonder how many tests they'll run on it before they decide it is safe to deliver?

He amended his earlier thought: he hoped the guards wouldn't read the note, or just take the cookies, or blow up the box to destroy any possible danger.

[Mercy]

As soon as his car is rolling, Preston's more usual instincts kick in. When he realizes that the parking garage has terrible matrix connections he almost gets panicky, but once he's finally outside he breathes a sigh of relief -- the matrix instantly delivers directions to the nearest dispensary of that most lovely of drugs: soycaff.

Several minutes later, once he's sucked that back, he beings to feel like he could get his mental feet until himself again. As he let's the car drive itself southward through the morning traffic snarls and all-day drizzle he starts processing the masses of data he'd grabbed and filed last night. Names, public biographies, notes of what Tanya had said, what people had said, what he'd observed. He isn't really reading it yet, just sorting it so that he can make sense of it later.

Despite Grid Guide, morning rush hour is as badly named as ever, and after ten minutes he gives up on actually making it home for a change of clothes and back into Seattle proper in time for his appointment with Geneva. With a growl he re-directs his car to the nearest Stuffer Shack in order to pick up some hygiene supplies, then runs a quick search on nearby restaurants that are open for breakfast, running a filter for ratings of the washrooms -- thankful as always that there are people who will comment on and rate nearly anything.

Ten minutes later he is sitting down in front of a truly insipid 'Breakfast Scramble' that he suspects contains the remains of everything from last night's stir fry to chemicals he'd struggle to pronounce.

* Monkey: After yesterday, this food is all the worse.

There was something he didn't need to dwell on. Resolutely he carried on with his data sorting, now starting to sample some of it, and pull in extra details. Suddenly inspired he runs a visual matching tool to see how many of the outfits he saw last night are listed on the matrix by some store or another -- although he concedes that with some of Tanya's guests, they could be wearing an original while his search would find a knock-off, and darned if he'd know the difference.

All of that busy work keeps his mind busy through the forgettable breakfast. Looking in the bathroom mirror he finally registers that his hair is now a spiky auburn, and he vaguely recalls showing off the smart wig the night before, only to find that Tanya was very familiar with such things. Had she liked this look? He didn't really remember.

He tears himself away from the mirror when another patron comes in, then retreats to the lone stall to put on deodorant, and once the washroom is empty to gargle some mouthwash. Popping back to the sink he resolutely avoids looking in the mirror as he scrubs off the last remains of yesterday's face and brushes his teeth. It felt oddly weird to brush his teeth with his eyes clenched shut, but it just seemed safest.

Back out in his car he finally released the wig. As always it felt weird right after taking it off, like he was suddenly naked.

* Gamma: it would be possible to become addicted to being in disguise.

He firmly put the wig away in his duffel, and dragged a cheap pocket comb through his short hair. It wouldn't look great, he could make it look better with the wig, but Geneva was a stickler for reality. He'd often wondered if she had any escapism in her personal life, or if she was one of those who could deal with staring reality in the face 24/7?

Finally ready, he made his way to a parking lot near Accord Safe Storage & Exchange, and dashed through the drizzle to the Accord's entrance. Where had he left the folding umbrella he normally kept in the car?

The security protocol was as thorough as ever before he was let inside. He was pretty sure that most of it he could beat, with enough preparation, but the chat with her would tough -- he'd always suspected that she was ferociously perceptive. Even having good enough files in a voice modulator and an impeccable false face would be hard pressed to deal with that human instinct of 'does this person feel right?' when it operated at a level like this.

And finally there was the lady herself.

[Mercy]

Preston left Geneva with the usual mix of satisfaction at dealing with a polished professional, and fear from the woman's sheer perceptiveness and insight.

* Oleg: Forget 'Geneva' she should just call herself 'Marple.'

His amusement at that thought didn't stop him from taking precautions -- after all, he was walking out with just over three thousand nuyen of gold coins, and just under three-thousand added to one of his cred-sticks. Finally the payment from that work he'd done on Carlin Avenue had come in, so his cred-stick was leaving the bank heavier than when going in, rather than the other way around.

He took a moment to call his car to the door, and to put the gold coins into his smuggling compartment, while removing his taser from the compartment and holstering it at his hip. He'd already slipped his arm-slide back on, so that his hold-out was ready as a thought's notice.

After that he had several hours before being due at the Korean barbecue restaurant. That gave him time to finally go home, where he could think and ruminate. The idea beckoned enticingly.

It stayed enticing through his drive, parking his car in the garage half a block from this apartment block, and the careful walk to his building. But by the time he had opened the door, he knew he wasn't staying long.

I _would_ be good to think, to analyze, But his nerves were still too fired up for quiet sitting.

* Monkey: Hot Sim would be perfect right now.

He did take time to change clothes and make himself a soycaff with his home machine. Others may have better ingredients, but there was something about being able to make it exactly as he wanted that brought its own satisfaction.

The caff let him think at least long enough to make one decision -- he poured the remains of his 'caff into a portable mug, and headed back to his car to head off and see Digriz-- hopefully he could catch the mechanic at the shop. A talk and a couple of mods would both help.

[Beta]

Before heading out, Preston takes time to pull on some clean clothes, and to put yesterday’s into the small washing machine in his apartment -- he wants his color changing shirt clean for Friday.

* Monkey: If I'd stayed at Tanya's, someone else would have taken care of laundry
* Gamma: That sort of luxury could be habit forming.
* Oleg: That sort of thing isn't right. A person should take care of themselves!
* Coleman: Operational effeciency is increased in many cases through specialization. Everyone doing their own laundry is not an effecient allocation of labour, merely a retention of control and of using available time to preserve currency. It is entirely sensible for the rich to optimise for time.

change to fresh clothes, put on his armored jacket, and put his various weapons about himself. Not that he's expecting trouble, but better safe than sorry. He's helped to take too many people who stopped being paranoid for just a little bit, because they were not expecting trouble.

For better or worse, nothing happens on the way to Digriz's garage -- or whatever it is that the warren of parts, tools, and just plain stuff should be called.

* Coleman: I might have enjoyed someone trying something right now. Wouldn't have gone so well for them, though.
* Gamma: That I'd welcome danger says I'm still not entirely rational.

Preston eventually found the skinny dwarf mostly embedded in the guts of a delivery van. He wasn't moving, which could mean he was thinking about what to do, that he'd decided to take a quick nap while he was repairing the thing, or that he'd only crawled in there in the first place to undertake some transcendental meditation. Experience said he'd notice Preston eventually, so he helped himself to some of Digriz's truly terrible soycaff, found a box to sit on, and started putting some serious work into his notes from the previous day.

Maybe it was the peaceful chaos of Digriz's shop, maybe it was earlier work with the data, maybe it was just that he'd finally had enough time for his sub-conscious to finally start catching up, but things began to make sense.

Out of all of it, oddly the first thing that came together for him was the fashion. It was suddenly obvious that some people had dressed to stand out, while others had dressed to blend in. Some seemed to have been unsure of what they were going for, and they were the ones who didn't seem as well dressed. It was incredibly obvious, given how much he'd worked over the years to blend in, but it had never really occurred to him that fashion could signal intent, that more broadly fashion was a signal, a way of communicating.

He was just starting to get into what that said about his usual clothes, when he noticed Digriz slithering out of the van. The grease coated dwarf chuckled and said "Preston, you could almost be a dwarf with that sort of patience -- except knowing you, you weren't being patient, just effeciently grabbing matrix time."

Preston shrugged, and admitted "Well, sort of. Sorting through a lot of data I'd gathered, in person and from the matrix. Last day has been a bit of a whirlwind, it was good to finally have some quiet time."

"Hunh, sounds like you are growing up kid, that you can appreciate the quiet times."

"Hey, I've always appreciated quiet."

"Not always, I remember you practically vibrating like a too-tight guy wire, more than once."

"It wasn't that I didn't appreciate quiet back then, I just couldn't find it, like not in myself."

"Like I said already, I think you are growing up."

"Maybe, probably not fast enough. I lost my inner quiet this morning, hurt a woman who didn't deserve it. May have destroyed something that might have been good. Maybe not, maybe I couldn't have found my own quiet around her, but screwing it up that quickly was no way to find out."

The dwarf stared at him suspiciously, then chided "You know I don't fix broken hearts, right?"

Preston laughed, glad to be teased out of his maudlin mood. "Yah, and not sure I'd want you meddling with my heart anyway, it would probably end up with a smokestack and a turbo-charger, or something."

"A smokestack? A smokestack! Have you EVER seen me put a smokestack on something?"

Preston smirked "That one time, I was in here for the run-flat tires on the old truck, you had something here, looked almost like an agricultural machine of some sort, sure looked like a smokestack on it."

Digriz nodded slowly and allowed "Well, it wasn't exactly for smoke, but I can see as how it could look like that, since I made it look like that was what it was."

Preston waited, but it seemed that no more explanation was forthcoming. Eventually he said "Look, I'm way overdue for this. That Americar you patched together for me a while back, I couldn't afford the morphing license plate and ID spoofer for it at the time. I know that irked you, sending a car out into the wild with no way to conceal itself from predators. Well, I'm here to rectify the situation. In other words, I came into a little bit of money, and if you have the time I'd like to get those put in."

As Preston explained his mission the dwarf gained more animation, and by the end he was pumping Preston's hand. "About fragging time, chummer! I should be sticking to this job, but I'm always glad to take a moment to help the herd protect itself more. If only more people woudl do this, all that passive tracking they do would become so worthless they'd stop bothering."

Preston zipped his car's current security codes to the mechanic, along with grand and a half to pay for the features, and let Digriz's usual monologue on the evils of corporate and state monitoring of the populace wash over him, interjecting the occasional 'uh-hunh' or 'absolutely!' to show that he was still paying at least a bit of attention. It wasn't that he disagreed with most of what the dwarft was saying, but that didn't mean there was a lot he could do about the state of things, or that if the world ever did go that way that it wouldn't make his job a heck of a lot harder.

* Oleg: If the world ever went that way, beggars would be fragging riding and I could travel on my own personal flying pig.

Eventually Digriz was happy with how the new features were functioning, and he sent Preston on his way with admonishments to "Make it up with your lady. And confuse The Man!"

[Beta]

Time was ticking down to his second planned appointment of the day, so Preston sent his car to the Korean Barbecue place. Not just any Korean barbecue place, and as always it took a bit of time to convince the dog brain that he wanted to go to a specific place. Any other category of restaurant and it seemed to accept a specific restaurant as being a reasonable thing, but for some reason it always tried to direct him to another, more convenient Korean Barbecue restaurant.

* Oleg: Maybe the piece of drek dog-brain is smarter than me.

This was not the first time that thought had crossed Preston's mind. Like most of his professional contacts, he'd inherited Korean Gordo from Fisher. The grizzled bounty-hunter had viewed the well-fed Korean as one of the most reliable suppliers of disposable identities. Maybe not the best source for high end fakes, but with the best stock of lower-grade IDs. Preston agreed with that assessment.

He just found the man disturbing. It wasn't that he was a gangster, or foreign, or fat, although maybe they were all related somehow. It was that the man didn't seem to even to pretend to care about anyone else outside of his own narrow group. It was an attitude that Preston had tried, but failed, to emulate in his own life.

Still, creepy or not, a reliable source of low-end ID was not to be ignored just because he didn't like the man. He had few enough contacts who would still talk to him these days.

*******************

By the time he was done, it was all the harder to justify working with the man.

* Coleman: He likes his gold coins, but demanding payment in them is also a way to flaunt his power, showing how he can make everyone else dance to his tune.
* Oleg: A tune played on rusty instruments, accompanied by fingers on a chalkboard. There is nothing pleasant about that man.
* Gamma: It is unsettling to deal with someone to whom you just a thing, not really human and certainly not of note.

And then it finally hit him, who the Korean gangster reminded him of. "That fragging mage." It drove home to Preston how much he never wanted to be on the bad side of the man.

* Monkey: But the food was pretty good, and even if I had to give up the gold, I got what I wanted.

It was true that he obtained the basic fake ID, with attached driver's license. Perhaps a bit more expensive than from a specialist, but Preston didn't have any specialists talking to him right now. The gold coins he'd provided should have been worth enough extra to ask for a bit more, perhaps another license on the ID, perhaps some information about Arthur, but in the end Preston hadn't wanted to push his luck in trying to negotiate with the man, he'd been sure it would go badly.

He was still trying to shake off the feelings from that meet when Sonya called.

[ Spoiler ]

fake ID rating 1 (2500) + driver's licene rating 1 (200)+10% for going through a fix =2970. Paid with the 3100 worth of gold Reals bought from Geneva earlier in the day. Preston moaning about 'he should have gotten more' is just fluff, he didn't overpay by all that much.

And obviously one more post, at least, coming about Thursday.

post ~12 since coming back to these boards

[Beta]

When the link in his head told him that Sonya was calling he nearly panicked. What did he tell her? He should have called her sooner, what could he even say about that? And that reminded him, he should have thanked Radiant Shadow.

That last part he could do something about; the speed of DNI made it easy to fire off a quick "Thank you so much for coming yesterday; let me know when you have time to talk, or when I can do something for you." A bit curt, but it would have to do right now.

Then he picked up the call.

* * * * *

Sonya: I figured I'd hold off calling, unless you were up until dawn and sleeping the day away. How did it go?

Preston: Hold on a sec, let me get microphone and earbuds running, I know you prefer real voice to DNI translation.

Sonya: Sure, and thank you. I didn't wake you up, did I?

(pause)

Preston: OK, set up to talk properly now. No, no worries, I've been up for hours, am just in the car, hadn't thought about being ready for a call. Sorry I didn't call earlier, had some things I had to take care of today and just didn't get my mind out of that and into being a propery socialized human being. Your flowers were magnificent, by the way, they played their part perfectly.

Sonya: Oh dear.

Preston: I said the flowers were good!

Sonya: I know -- but the way you said it, that says that not everything else went as well.

Preston: Even just by voice you can read me far too well. Yah, I ... may have screwed things up.

Sonya: Oh Preston!

Preston: I know, I know. I tried, I really did. I went along and went along, trying not to disrupt things, trying to be what she wanted me to be.

Sonya: Until?

Preston: Uh, Tanya wanted me to stay the night, and I did, even though I knew it was a bad idea. I mean, it was fine, the night, um, ah, heh-yah. But this morning, ah, she kept on laying out plans, assuming I was going along with them, and I snapped.

Sonya: Snapped?

Preston: I snapped at her, I mean. I went full on Uncle Oleg. And, uh, I may have hit a sensitive spot. She should have slapped me or kicked me out, or something, you know? But she ran off, really upset.

(silence)

Preston: Sonya, you there?

Sonya (very flat voice): You got to know her well enough to call her Tanya, you fucked her, then in the morning you were cold and dismissive, and left. I really thought better of you.

Preston: It wasn't like that! I mean, all the power is her's, she the rich one. And it wasn't deliberate, I didn't mean to break anything off, it was just, it just got to be all to much and I lost it, briefly, at the wrong time.

Sonya: Sure. And did you run after her? Did you come back with flowers? Did you, I don't know, put together a medley of music that expressed your feelings and send it to her? Anything to show her how you really felt?

Preston: Uh, I said sorry to Monique. And I sent up cookies.

Sonya: Cookies?

Preston: Yah, I'd made cookies to give her when I got there, but I forgot them in the car. So when I got back to the car I stuck a note on them and left them with security to send up to her suite. The note was something about how I'd made these ahead of time as a thank you, before I knew how things would go, and that sometimes I thought of things like that, and sometimes I was a jerk.

Sonya: So you never tried to talk to her directly, you sent everything through staff, you told her that the cookies were nothing to do with what you'd said to her. And you haven't done anything since? Other than whatever 'things' you are taking care of, that are apparently more important that however upset she is.

Preston: Oh.

Sonya: Exactly.

Preston (quickly): I thought I was being hired as a decoy or something, not to have anything like a real relationship!

Sonya: Same here -- or I would have thought twice about providing your contact information. Well, your pattern is clear to me now: you care enough to get emotionally entangled, then you can't handle those emotions and you break away.

Preston: What? NO! I ... that is, I ... Drek. I never thought of it that way.

Sonya: At least I know now that it isn't just me.

(Silence)

Sonya: Well, with luck she'll also still like you well enough not to cut you off from whatever she wanted to hire you for. Or maybe you still have time to salvage something from this, if you actually want to. If you need flowers ... maybe you should get them from someone else, though. I don't think I'm up to coaching you on what you should do about this.

Preston (contrite): I'm sorry.

Sonya: Good -- but not good enough. DO something about it, don't just wallow in the failure. And don't you dare go seek oblivion until the pain passes. Don't piss away that work we did.

Preston: I won't. Oblivion, I mean. Thank you, and I'm sorry in so many ways.

(line goes dead)

* * * * *

Preston's voices didn't have anything to say, for once.

[Beta]

Thursday 7 June 2075, 16:20, Auburn

Eventually Preston realized that his car was sitting in the parking lot of 'Fresh 'n Go,' the grocery store he'd pointed it at when leaving the Korean Barbecue. He wasn't sure how long it had been sitting still while he tried to figure out what to do next.

* Coleman: Whether or not I manage to win, practicing from a currently-losing position is good planning.

While that was not a cheerful thought, he had to admit that it made sense. Tempting though it was to say that it was just as well, that things would never have worked out for long -- how could know, and even if this couldn't be saved, maybe the next time he would do better?

* Like with many things, knowing that the other person is making an effort can go a long way on its own.

Ugh, he couldn't keep having a nameless voice, it was just too disturbing. It wasn't like there seemed to be any science behind how he'd named his voices. Monkey had been first; Sonya had worked with him to 'recognize the voice of the monkey on your back' when she was helping him kick his addiction to The Jazz. Apparently she'd not meant to literally give it a name and chance to speak into his thoughts, but that was where the advice had taken him.

Then she'd gotten tired of some of his knee jerk reactions, which were coming out a lot during the misery of withdrawal, and helped him recognize the close-minded, negative, views he'd been subjected to while growing up, and he'd chosen the name of his not-so-dearly-departed Uncle Oleg to represent that bundle of prejudices, sourness, and pessimism.

Coleman he'd figured out himself, while trying to understand how it was that in the middle of action he could become so cold blooded. It had been a bucket of cold water when he realized that he'd spent literally years training himself to be a cold-blooded killer in some of the games he'd played. They said that most people didn't get influenced by the games much, so maybe that side had always been there in him and the games had only helped it to get better at what it already was, but whatever and however it was a part of him that he'd felt he needed to recognize, and be able to monitor. He'd named it after his teenaged gaming handle.

In the latter stages of getting over the hot sim addiction that he'd fallen into while getting off of The Jazz, Sonya had talked to him about different layers of thoughts. He'd thought that the way she described them was excessively vague and spiritual, so for his own notes he'd labelled the levels Alpha, Beta, Gamma, Delta. It had turned out that once he had done so, he'd recognized that he was often disapearing into a state of detached self-observation, what he called Gamma thoughts. This sort of self-commentary seemed useful, but he recognized that detaching in this way was another avoidance behavior, and he'd learned to pull that voice out to, and simply kept the term 'Gamma' for it.

But those voices he'd sought to recognize. Having one present itself, on its own, that seemed ... potentially bad. Still, potentially it could be good, too. And having a name for it would be the first step in being able to pull it more clearly into the light of his conscious thoughts.

He'd never really had a particularly social phase, so he didn't have an name or identity he'd used that would work. While Fisher had been far better with people than he had been, he'd never been a coach, so that didn't seem right -- and that also seemed like it was down the path of cackling.

One thing he knew, he wouldn't give any of his internal voices the names of people he was apt to deal with. That just felt like a step towards cackling madness or something. So while he'd probably gotten more good socialization advice from Sonya than from anyone, and the voice even reminded him of her at times, that was right out.

Although, the voice did have a more feminine feel to it, somehow. Certainly it wasn't his mother -- although she'd done a pretty good job of hiding the bottles from outsiders, he knew well where his addictive side came from and he would never take advice of any sort from her. He had an older sister, but she'd never been the helpful advice type, either.

Come to think of it, he hadn't exactly had many women in his life that he'd had good relations with, or that he would call sources of good advice. Other than Sonya, but he'd managed to mess that up.

* Gamma: I've had this thought before, and always put is aside to think about later.
* Oleg: Women, pfah, more trouble than they are worth.
* Monkey: Oh, they are worth it, once you get them in bed.
* Gamma: These would be considered belittling thoughts towards women.

He didn't look down on women, did he?

* Did I ever seriously consider Tanya as a partner in crime?

Oh.

It seemed to be afternoon -- no, he looked at the failing light: an evening -- of unpleasant self-revelations. His self-renovations were obviously not as far finished as he'd thought.

* Gamma: I came here for groceries, but I'm navel gazing.

That got him out of the car and into the store. A bit pricey by his standards, but he knew they'd have ingredients sufficient for the baking he was thinking about. Not great ingredients, that really wasn't in the budget, but adequate. And so it was that he was able to pick up actual wheat flour, sugar, Bake-Rite powdered milk substitute, industrially produced eggs, ground cinnamon (guaranteed to be at least 50% authentic cinnamon!), and two real apples. As an afterthought he picked up some spicy simulated sausage, tofu, and one pricey cabbage which should give him some real vegetable in his diet for the rest of the week. He took care in placing the real-food ingredients in his car, and pointed it at home.

Although the drive home wasn't that far, the rain slowed even GridGuide managed traffic, giving him unwelcome time to think. He gnawed on what had happened yesterday and this morning, doing a little more analysis of everything but mostly going over yet again what he should have done differently. Eventually, to force his thoughts onto another track, he forced himself to think about his evening's plans.

Was baking another thing for Tanya a good idea? Sonya had complained about how much he had baked, saying he was making her fat. He hadn't seen the problem, since he's always thought that she looked better when she was more pillowy, but he'd reluctantly stopped. He didn't think extra weight would suit Tanya so well, nor that she'd appreciate putting on weight any more than Sonya had, but he also didn't think she'd gain weight easily. And one apple upside-down cake couldn't make that much difference.

* Gamma: Baking soothes me, whether or not it helps the situation with Tanya
* Monkey: And I get to sample some of the batter!
* Oleg: Do I really think a fancy lady like her is going to care about anything I bake? She just wanted to re-make me, like in that old flat-trid.

What had that thing been called? It was a musical, with catchy lyrics, but it was a man trying to re-make a woman in old-time England, maybe? The woman had been spunky, he remembered that much. Something about the Rain in Spain, because he recalled looking up where Spain was. As he approached his garage he idly fired off a query through his link.

[Beta]

(posted for Mercy, with a couple of minor additions)

Thursday 7 June 2075 1700 Preston’s Apartment

It has been a long day. Certainly the morning had not begun well, but the chores you had set yourself to do had taken your mind off what had happened, at least until the call from Sonya had brought everything crashing back in on you again. As you ponder the deeper meaning of what Sonya had said, even the weather conspires against you and turns Seattle normal as you pull up into the parking garage, which means it is raining, and by the time you lock the vehicle and get to the street, it is pouring. You still have not been able to find the umbrella that you were sure was in the car, so you pull your shoulders in and try to stay near the buildings in a somewhat futile attempt to avoid the worst of the downpour for the short walk from the garage to your apartment. You pause under the awning of the bar entrance and toy with the idea of going inside. No, face it, the idea has a lot of merit. Perhaps just one drink to clear your head, and the rain might let up a bit while you are inside.

You're query comes back; the flat-trid had been called My Fair Lady. It had been a professor who thought little of women's value who chose to re-make a cockney flower girl, who in the end stood up to him because he didn't value her. He'd been the educated one, but she'd been the wise one. And you? Were you more full-of-himself professor, or flower girl doing what she needed to in order to get ahead in life? Now that was a thought that called for a beer, putting away the groceries could wait long enough for a beer, maybe even two.

Then something catches your eye from the quarter block from the bar to your apartment building. Someone is standing on your stoop in the rain, umbrella over her head. You can tell it is a woman because she is in profile and men do not usually look like that in profile. It is vaguely reminiscent of the experience of Tuesday morning. OK, maybe lots more than vaguely, but the dejavu experience lasts only until she turns to face you. Even from here you can see that it is Tanya Marisart.
The bar momentarily forgotten, you walk closer to make sure; after all, you are peering at her in the rain. But, sure enough, it is Tanya. She is wearing some worn-looking jeans and a grey sweatshirt marked with the logo of the local Blood Bowl team. There is a wide-brimmed hat on her head that does little to conceal the red hair under it.
· Monkey “Damn! How does she make wearing jeans and a sweatshirt look so fragging sexy?”
· Coleman “It has to be a trap. I am caught in the open without good cover.”
· Monkey “Does this mean we have a second chance at her?”
· Eliza: “Shut up, Monkey. It was thinking like that that got us in trouble in the first place.”

Eliza? But no time to think about that right now.

She has a large strap-sack over one arm, the sort young people use to carry their worldly possessions in, and a largish purse hangs from the arm holding the umbrella up. As you approach her, Tanya reaches into the strap-sack with her free hand and pulls out a package that looks quite a lot like the one you had put the cookies in. As you reach the bottom step leading to the stoop, she gives a tentative smile. It is not exactly like the one that you have seen light up a room, but it is close. She holds the package close to her and says, “I was wondering if you might invite me up so we could share these? I will understand if you just tell me to leave.”

[Beta]

When Preston is sure of who it is he dashes forward, about to grab Tanya in a hug and swing her around. His adrenaline kicks in, and for a moment the world is moving in slow motion.

* Oleg: Now that isn't exactly proper, is it.

He pulls up short at the last minute, dithering, as Tanya pulls out a familiar box and says her piece.

* Eliza: Honest emotion is good.

Then he made up his mind. He slides his cyberarm around Tanya's waist and twirls the two of them around, trusting Tanya's own impressive coordination to manage her various items. Preston laughs as the rain beats down on him, and he pitches his voice modulator to a low pitch whisper that should carry to Tanya but not much farther and he says "Thank you so much."

He notices that the spin is getting the rain onto her and he reflexively adds "Sorry." then "for getting you wet, and for this morning, and for ... " a phrase Sonya had used months back comes to him " ... being drek at negotiating boundries."

He stands there in the rain for a moment, looking goofy, then gives himself a shake and finally remembers to say "Yes, please come in, cookies, I was about to try and cook something edible, or can make some caff ..." He unlocks the entrance to the lobby and gestures her in. "Or, well, whatever. But you are so welcome."

* Gamma: There is a pile of clean laundry on the table, gun cleaning kit on the side table, dishes in the drying rack, and the disguise kit is spread all over the third room.

As they wait for the elevator, Preston looks around at the rather worn carpet in the lobby, the lights that could use fresh bulbs, the dusty fake plant in the corner. The elevator arrives with a slight groan, Preston stifles a groan of his own and as they get in he assures her "Obviously it isn't the Gates Undersound. But it is safe -- I mean 'the elevators get inspected annually' safe, and 'junkies aren't going to accost us in the halls' safe."

Tanya gives him a look that he can't quite read, and quips "Good to know I won't have to fight to protect these cookies."

Preston is amazed to find himself naturally volleying back "Never fear, I have powdered milk substitute, that should scare off even the hardiest of attackers."

When Tanya hits him with the full strength of accent and "Now I feel entirely safe." he is momentarily flummoxed, not sure if he should respond to the words or the tone, but he rallies to dryly comment "Of course; no danger of drowning here."

He's awarded with a touch of a smile as the arrive at the fourth floor, and he's happy to call that a draw as they exit and walk the few paces to his apartment door. As he puts his finger tips to the scanner he warns her "I wasn't exactly expecting company, sorry."

As they step inside, he reflects that despite the lack of preparation, he'd have been fairly proud to bring almost anyone else here. The door opens into a large room, informally divided into four portions.

They are in the entrance, next to storage cupboards and shelves. Along the wall to their right is clearly the entertainment area, with a love seat and a well padded chair facing an old-fashioned wall screen and a decent entertainment unit, with a trid projector sitting on the floor and plenty of room to move around during AR games.

Straight ahead there is a gap where a corridor runs off to their left, then there is a side table against the wall. Next to the side table there is a good sized proper table that could comfortably seat four but could manage six in close quarters., although it only has three chairs around it presently. From the table one could look out a large windows over the street they just left.

Diagonally across the room was a compact but fully equipped kitchen, complete with the full sized traditional oven that had convinced him to rent this particular apartment. Much of the counter space is taken up with a high end soycaff machine, which begins to rumble faintly as Preston orders it to start warming back up.

The walls were an unremarkable beige, but at least the paint was recent and still almost unmarked. The fake-hardwood floor was likewise still in good condition. The room was tidy; lived in certainly, but things were generally in a place, if there was dust around it was being unobtrusive, and aside from one used soycaff mug there wasn't anything dirty lying around. A ceiling fan gently circulated the air, and at Preston's mental 'link order his entertainment system started to quietly play a drum piece by 21-Trogs that was almost cliche, but added some life to the room.

"You can put your umbrella here by the door, leave it open to dry, this floor has stood up to worse. Grab a seat, well wherever you prefer, table or entertainment area. Just let me put these away" He scoops up the pile of clean laundry and dashed down the corridor, taking the door at the end to his bedroom and deposits the clothes on his bed, then after a moment's thought on his dresser -- just in case.

As he leaves the bedroom he shuts the door behind him, and pulls shut the door across the hall, then pops back into the main room adding "Sorry, should have said, bathroom is at the end of the hall, if you need it. I've barely been home the last couple of days so the hot water should be fine. Just let me put these groceries away quickly, and I can start up any hot beverage you'd like to help counter having stood out in the rain."

Grabbing the groceries he heads to the kitchen area, adding as he goes "I'm glad the cookies were blown up, I was a bit worried they'd be considered a threat or something. Not that I seem threatening, I hope, but security can be paranoid."

* Gamma: I am babbling
* Eliza: And avoiding any real interaction

Preston puts down the cabbage he found himself holding, and forced himself to walk back in to the middle of the room, look Tanya in the eye, and say "Thank you for coming here -- let's talk."

[Mercy]

Thursday 7 June 2075 1715 Preston’s Apartment


Tanya has been watching you as you move about the apartment in a whirl. She has placed the umbrella near the door as you have suggested and placed her large hat, purse, and strap-bag on the couch, but is holding the box of cookies in her hands. She does not seem to have moved from the area near the couch when you come out from the kitchen. She holds the box out to you. "Any sort of soycaf will do, thank you, Peter. Black is fine. Thank you for asking me up and, yes, we should talk."

[Mercy]

Preston vibrates back and forth for a moment between the 'caff machine and Tanya, but finally decides "OK, let me make up some caff, then we can have caff, cookies, and talk."

In the kitchen he briefly wishes he had a real commercial machine, to do this up properly, but aside from the cost he just doesn't have the space.

* Monkey: Tanya would have both the space and money. I need to win her back!

* Oleg: Sacrifice my independence for some toys? I think not!

* Gamma: If I did take work at a soycaff shop, as I'd suggested to Amanda I might, I'd get to work with such equipment.

* I don't want to make good drinks for others, I want to make them for ME! And maybe Tanya.
* Coleman: Given how Tanya treats Monique, it would be foolish to ignore her.

* Monkey: Oh, I definitely don't want to ignore Monique, she's sizzling!

* Oleg: sometimes I disgust myself

* Gamma: I am also drifting out of the moment.

With an effort, Preston focused back on the here and now. Something fairly quick, interesting enough to be worth sipping, but not too quirky. Sunday morning specials it was. Standard fine grain soycaff granules with a pinch of ground chicory to add in some of the bitterness that soycaff always lacked. Pack that into the espresso pods. Scoop up milk substitute powder and load it into the hopper and let the machine add water and froth the mixture up -- the substitute never did taste quite like milk, but it balance the bitterness from the chicory, creating a nice balance on the taste buds.

When he just needed cups to put it in. Not a big enough drink for his large mugs, of his small mugs the green one was dirty, he'd broken the red and yellow ones, leaving just the blue one. And Sonya's cup. He hesitated for a moment with his hand reaching toward the cupboard.

* Oleg: I've never given that cup to anyone but Sonya

* Eliza: But I never told her it was just hers, and it is appropriate

* Gamma: Washing the dirty cup would add additional delay

Swallowing a slight lump in his throat, Preston pulled Sony -- no, call it 'the rose cup' from the back of the cupboard. He quickly wiped it out with bottled water then set it and the blue cup out for the trickle of dark caff nirvana. He added the 'milk' and foam by hand, putting a basic leaf pattern in Tanya's foam; he was too out of practice to be confident in doing anything fancier at the moment.

Bringing out the steaming cups, he suggested "Let's sit at the table, it gives us somewhere to put things down."

And matching actions to words he places Tanya's cup on the table near one of the chairs. He takes a brief moment to look at the pattern of rose stems and flowers entwined around the cup. He doesn't need to read the words running around the rim, he knows them well "Roses without thorns would not be as sweet." He really hopes Tanya doesn't take it the wrong way.

He holds out the chair for Tanya then takes his own seat. Gesturing at the cookies he says "I trust my note made it to you, along with the cookies themselves?" While thinking "What do I do once we are through with the niceties? Niceties I can do, real talk needs to happen, but that is when I screw things up."

[Beta]

Preston vibrates back and forth for a moment between the 'caff machine and Tanya, but finally decides "OK, let me make up some caff, then we can have caff, cookies, and talk."

In the kitchen he briefly wishes he had a real commercial machine, to do this up properly, but aside from the cost he just doesn't have the space.

* Monkey: Tanya would have both the space and money. I need to win her back!
* Oleg: Sacrifice my independence for some toys? I think not!
* Gamma: If I did take work at a soycaff shop, as I'd suggested to Amanda I might, I'd get to work with such equipment.
* I don't want to make good drinks for others, I want to make them for ME! And maybe Tanya.
* Coleman: Given how Tanya treats Monique, it would be foolish to ignore her.
* Monkey: Oh, I definitely don't want to ignore Monique, she's sizzling!
* Oleg: sometimes I disgust myself
* Gamma: I am also drifting out of the moment.

With an effort, Preston focused back on the here and now. Something fairly quick, interesting enough to be worth sipping, but not too quirky. Sunday morning specials it was. Standard fine grain soycaff granules with a pinch of ground chicory to add in some of the bitterness that soycaff always lacked. Pack that into the espresso pods. Scoop up milk substitute powder and load it into the hopper and let the machine add water and froth the mixture up -- the substitute never did taste quite like milk, but it balance the bitterness from the chicory, creating a nice balance on the taste buds.

Then he just needed cups to put it in. Not a big enough drink for his large mugs, of his small mugs the green one was dirty, he'd broken the red and yellow ones, leaving just the blue one. And Sonya's cup. He hesitated for a moment with his hand reaching toward the cupboard.

* Oleg: I've never given that cup to anyone but Sonya
* Eliza: But I never told her it was just hers, and it is appropriate
* Gamma: Washing the dirty cup would add additional delay

Swallowing a slight lump in his throat, Preston pulled Sony -- no, call it 'the rose cup' from the back of the cupboard. He quickly wiped it out with bottled water then set it and the blue cup out for the trickle of dark caff nirvana. He added the 'milk' and foam by hand, putting a basic leaf pattern in Tanya's foam; he was too out of practice to be confident in doing anything fancier at the moment.

Bringing out the steaming cups, he suggested "Let's sit at the table, it gives us somewhere to put things down."

And matching actions to words he places Tanya's cup on the table near one of the chairs. He takes a brief moment to look at the pattern of rose stems and flowers entwined around the cup. He doesn't need to read the words running around the rim, he knows them well "Roses without thorns would not be as sweet." He really hopes Tanya doesn't take it the wrong way.

He holds out the chair for Tanya then takes his own seat. Gesturing at the cookies he says "I trust my note made it to you, along with the cookies themselves?" While thinking "What do I do once we are through with the niceties? Niceties I can do, real talk needs to happen, but that is when I screw things up."

[Mercy]

Thursday 7 June 2075 1725 Preston’s Apartment


Tanya takes the seat you indicate, smiling in thanks as you pull it out for her. She stares at the mug for a minute, watching the leaf pattern swirl in the cup. "Thank you, Peter. You really have a talent for this, don't you? It is almost too pretty to drink, but it smells very good." She lifts the cup and sips from it. "And it tastes quite good as well. It certainly makes one forget the slight chill of the rain, doesn't it?

She puts the cup down and folds her hands together on the table as she looks at you. "I did get the note, yes. And thank you for sending it. I do understand that they almost sent the package to security to have it detonated as a potential bomb. I was called and convinced them that it was alright to send it down." Another sip and again she folds her hands on the table. "I owe you a great apology. I had assumed that you would want to stay and just let my mouth run rampant. I should have been more considerate of your feelings and needs."

Another sip and she opens the package of cookies, taking one and eating it. "Quite good, these. Bloody good, indeed. Thank you." She pauses for a minute, looking at you. "I think that we have some talking to do about barriers and other concepts."

[Mercy]

"First of all, I really don't think you are the one who needs to apologize ... but before I start feeling like I'm back where I grew up, I'll say I accept, and let's move on from apologizing over the past to talking about now and the future."

Preston pauses for a moment, taking a sip of his cappuccino, and when Tanya doesn't interject anything, he carries on. "I don't know if you ever spent much time in a kitchen, growing up as you did maybe not. Cooks and bakers are different. I mean, some people are pretty good at both, but temperamentally they tend to be different. Cooks experiment, they get inspired, they make stuff happen right now a lot of the time, they adjust stuff on the fly. A good cook in action is pretty amazing to watch. Bakers are different, they follow recipes and only tweak them with care, or stuff just doesn't work. They fuss over the exact conditions and ingredients. They plan stuff out in advance, because that is how baking has to happen, at least for the more complicated stuff. Bakers are pretty boring to watch, but be assured that they are usually planning four steps ahead -- bread dough will take so much time to rise, then so much time in the oven at a certain temperature, what else can you be cooking while the dough is rising and can you have the oven perfect for the bread when it is ready, and so on."

Another fortifying sip, and he admits "I'm a baker. My former partner, he was a cook. We made a good team that way, once we got used to each other. But when I was on my own, trying to do things more his way, that's when I started spinning out of control. Since then I've been learning more of my limits, but it is hard, I'd love to just go-go-go, work it all out on the fly -- but when I do, somewhere along the line I seem to lose track of being a decent person."

He works a kink out of one shoulder and finishes "Sorry if that was an odd metaphor, but at least I didn't inflict the 'the soul is like sourdough starter' version on you. I'm not saying that you are a cook, or that this metaphor even has space for you, because you seem pretty hard to put into a box. But maybe it gives you a better idea of who I am, where my strengths and weaknesses lie."

[Mercy]

Tanya nods as she nibbles on a second cookie. "I guess I must be sort of a combination. I am almost entirely a baker when it comes to my profession. I like to plan for the mission and every contingency I can think of. I hire good people to cover things I am weak on and we all think of the things that could go wrong. But there is still a bit of the cook there as I like to think I can react to the inevitable problem that pops up. But my personal like is a lot like the cook. I like taking risks and chances and love dealing with the things that pop up that are unexpected. You say that you were able to work with your old partner so do you think you could continue to work with me? Or is this whole cook and baker thing going to be too hard to get around?"

[Beta]

"I really want to work with you, and I'm confident we can make it work. Perhaps I try one we both just thought it was going to be too easy? I went into things yesterday worried that you were looking for someone to pin blame on, or to set up for embarrasement, or something .... I didn't know you and couldn't imagine you were looking for a partner. So I was ready for all of that, not for the issues that come from being treated well ...."

He runs his fingers through his hair as he trails off, and apologizes "Sorry for showing up yesterday in light disguise -- if it was a set up, I didn't want to be quite so recognizable. I always record what I use for disguised and how it looks, so I should be able to reproduce it. But I'm sorry I didn't come more plain-faced, although in all honesty my general face is pretty plain, yesterday was probably a more interesting look. I assure you I wasn't trying to be suave or seductive by doing that, just hoping that people would remember the hair, glasses, and birthmark, but not really what I look like."

He takes a moment to scoop up some foam with a cookie, then finishes off "I think we are both intelligent grown-ups, and if we both have our issues, well, who doesn't? We should be able to make this work. As long as I tell you when I need a bit of time or space, and you usually let me, I think I can manage. I'm sure I'll have adjustments to make too -- for starters I need to keep better control of my temper when I'm tired. I'm sure someone famous has said that it is easy to be your best you when you are feeling your best, the real test is being your best you when you are feeling your worst."

[Mercy]

Thursday 7 June 2075 1730 Preston’s Apartment


Tanya nods and says, "Hey, I thought we were done with apologies and are now moving forward. I would like to make it work as I have spent quite a lot of time sifting through potential candidates before settling on you, and still believe that you are the best one. But searching through documents and getting opinions from other people is no substitute for getting a first hand look. I did not explain my purpose or intent for having you drop everything and come see me at short notice. I thought you did quite well, actually, which is why I told you about me looking for a partner. I did not really expect the response I got. I would like to discuss my offer in greater detail, but perhaps not tonight. For tonight I would just like to get to know you better. Is that possible, do you think?

[Beta]

"Sure.". He waves around the apartment. "This is home, besides a garage I rent down the block. Hopefully it tells you something about me. It isn't too fancy, sorr -- errr, but it does ok by me. I'm willing to talk, but. I may not be the best at explaining myself."

"Not trying to hold anything back, just not experienced much at that sort of thing. But we can talk, although if we are going to, I should get supper started. Nothing fancy, remember I'm more of a Baker, but it will be food. Besides, if we can share my little kitchen without stabbing each other, that could be a good start."

And he thinks " and that would save me from sitting here and trying not to blatantly leer. How does she make those clothes look that good?"

[Mercy]

Tanya looks around, nodding. "A place can tell a lot about a person. What I see is that it is neat and tidy, which is nice to see in a bachelor. Would you like some help in the kitchen? I am not a cook on the scale Monique is, but I can whip something together that could be called food and is edible. And I promise not to stab you." She rises and waits for you to lead the way. Your reasoning that this might prevent you from leering at her only works so far. She tries to concentrate on helping you prepare the meal and her hips move in time to the beat of the drum music on your sound system. On one occasion, she bends over to check on something in the oven and it is impossible to not notice how the already snug jeans emphasize the curve of her hips and butt. And twice she reaches above her head for something in a cupboard and the sweatshirt rides up her back, exposing her trim waist and part of her lower torso. She seems completely oblivious to what her movements are doing to her clothing or the effect this has on you. Too, the size of the kitchen provides ample opportunity for you to bump into each other on occasion and your hands touch a couple of times as you both reach for the same item. Her smile is infectious and she seems to be genuinely having a good time.

[Beta]

As they put together supper, Preston begins to relax.

* Gamma: I'm enjoying myself
* Eliza: So I should tell her that.
* Coleman: Information is power, and should at most be traded, not given away.
* Eliza: Call it a trade of information for goodwill

A little awkwardly, Preston pauses in stirring up a sauce to say "I'm enjoying this. Thank you for coming over, giving me a chance to be on my home ground, get my feet back under me."

* Oleg: That was a display of weakness!
* Eliza: Best not to get all maudlin here.

Preston adds "But I'm not so thankful that I'm not going to totally whup your butt at Trid games later!" He hopes that he delivered that correctly, light in tone but with some challenge, and not for the first time or surely not the last he wishes he was better at telling how he sounded to others.

Wanting to move to more neutral territory, he asks "So, what are your guilty pleasure foods, you know, the stuff you loved as a kid that you still secretly enjoy, even if you know that they aren't that good -- or can you not get the foods of your childhood over here so easily?"

[Mercy]

Tanya smiles. “Yes, it is nice to relax. My own world is pretty much up and go, especially when I am working. Even most of my evenings and weekends are taken up with social engagements, which I make good use of to see who has what sort of bauble or who is talking about the latest artwork they picked up for a song at some charity auction or estate sale where no one really knew its value. I use my mornings to exercise to keep in shape and to work off things like special cookies and the various treats I had last night. I run, play racquetball and squash, climb walls, swim, and work out on the machines at the gym. And exercise is bloody hard, and getting harder the older I get.”

“Guilty pleasure food? Fish and chips. And not that fragging bloody drek most places serve as “authentic”. I mean the stuff you can get at almost any time of day on almost any lower class street in London from someone with a pushcart. And it has to be wrapped in newsprint and ladled with vinegar. I swear that Uncle only keeps his print news in operation to provide these vendors with the real thing to wrap their food in. There was an effort some years ago to make the carts illegal, but there was a tremendous outcry from the public. Uncle gave free press space and advertising for every street vendor for months and the wankers in Parliament gave the plan up as a bad lot, and too bloody right by half, in my opinion. Some things are just so embedded in a culture that removing them is just wrong, and this is one of them. So yes, that is probably the one food I really miss from home.”

Tanya stops what she is doing and takes a drink of water. “So, any other questions for me? If you have read any of the rags about me, you have most of the information already, and some of it is even true.”

[Beta]

"That is kind of fascinating. Not the fish and chips part so much, although the newspaper bit is interesting, but how disciplined you are about your day, your life. That .... isn't the impression ones gets, you know?"

He pours a splash of water from a bottle of the good stuff in with the vegetables, then smacks a lid down on the wok to briefly steam them, the adds "I'm really impressed, actually. That sort of long term misdirection is hard! I didn't see a whisper of that when I was reading about you. That is real discipline."

"Maybe I should have picked up on all of that on my own, but I didn't, sorry. I though you were more, well, like your image. I guess of all people I shouldn't have assumed anyone was like the impression they like to give. All of this, now that I'm processing some of it more properly, It is .... tantalizing. More so than your dress last night, even."

"I don' think I have such hidden depths. But if there is anything your research wasn't clear on, fire away with questions."