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"For sure. We got vampires, though not as many as you'd think - most people who get infected go ghoul."

She's relieved enough to be off the subject of her upbringing that she has to take a beat to remember that might not make any sense to Beatrice.

"Human-Metahuman Vampiric Virus," she explains. "HMHVV. Though I mean, what you turn into depends on a lot of stuff including like, your metatype - human, orc, elf, whatever - and what strain you catch. Most common one's actually the Krieger strain, HMHVV-III, that turns people into ghouls, like I said - kinda like zombies, if you have those? Except they can keep their minds through it, which, let me tell you, fucking sucks. Bullshit contagious, too. Basically it fucks up your essence generation so you keep leaking it out and can't like, make more? So you have to get it from other living things. How you have to get it depends on strain and your metatype, like, vamps only happen if a sapiens gets infected? Their thing is blood, they gotta take in essence with blood or they get hugely sick all over the upholstery, ask how I know."

"..Hrm."

Beatrice folds her hands behind her back, expression reserved. "That is interesting. We have had some attempts to classify our nature as – akin to a virus, but they have been – questionable in methodology and attempted treatment."

"Our kind have several sub-classifications, but the differentiation is directly passed down, typically, from creator to childe, not based upon any aspect inherent to the person. You don't chose what clan you are embraced to, as the saying goes." There's nothing at all bitter about her half-smile. Why would there be? "Not to say there are no similarities at all. We do require some - vital aspect of life-essence that is found in the blood of the living, and possibly elsewhere. Much of my recent work has focused on the attempted isolation of that essence."

"Ghouls, however, mean something rather different for us. Those are the living who consume the blood of vampires and are, in turn, bound to them. Not at all zombies, which are entirely the domain of necromancers. How does the public perception in your world handle these...zombie-ghouls and vampires?"

"They hate 'em," Saturday responds with acid cheer. "Doesn't matter that it's not their fault or that they're still people. They still figure as soon as you catch the virus, you're better off dead."

She shrugs broadly. "Sucks all around. What d'you mean about drinking blood and being bound? Like a thrall or a pawn? Some of our vampires can do that - it's kinda shitty."

She doesn't exactly look shocked by what Saturday says, just resigned.

"That's unfortunate, but unsurprising. It's largely what many were people were afraid of in my home - to the extent of mandating that we hide our existence away. Those that disagreed adopted a strategy of inundating the world with more..positive media relating to us, but I suppose given the sudden nature of your world's Awakening there was no chance for such tactics."

Beatrice isn't lying, but it's not difficult to guess why that answer comes to her much easier than the other potential ones. She's above shifting awkwardly like some neonate, but Beatrice does shoot Saturday a sidelong glance as she notes, "Are you certain you wish to discuss this in the hallway? And surely thrall or pawn is a distinction without a difference. The answer is merely yes."

"There's a lounge 'round the corner. Or I can show you the mess, if you're hungry?" Saturday is, but Saturday is always hungry. Magic churns in her like a furnace, encouraging her to run hot and lean.

"Positive media - yeah, that'd be nice. Hard to put a pleasant spin on a lot of - I mean, it's hard. I get why people are scared. Some folks who get like, the nicer versions, where you don't get all rotted, can get - weird about it. But that's everyone, you know? They'd be shits no matter what weird powers they got. Powers just let 'em be better at it."

She starts wandering in the direct of the lounge, assuming Beatrice will follow.

"And most people who stuck with the virus wanna be cured more'n'anything. People can get real mean when they have to survive, is all. It's just one of those things."

It's not a subject that makes her comfortable - ghouls are easy, morally. They don't need to feed off the living, they don't even need that much dead flesh. They're just sick people. Vampires, though, vampires can be different, if they want to be. And a lot of them choose to be. Because the alternative is helplessness, and victimhood.

She understands that. She doesn't approve - but she understands. Maybe better then you'd think.

"The mess is fine with me, so long as you are volunteering yourself for its grotesque entry vaudeville," Beatrice says dryly. More blood doesn't hurt, and hey, this chance appearing before her saves Bea from having to figure out entry herself or cajole someone into it.

She falls in line next to Saturday, hands clasped behind her back and eyes fixed warily on the elf to the side. Beatrice doesn't quite understand why Saturday seems invested in any of this, and it's setting off an alarmed 'fakefakefake' ring in the back of her head.

"There's no cure. At least not where I'm from. Those who can't deal meet the sun and no amount of positive media fixed that," she notes too bluntly to really match the idle tone Beatrice's going for, still watching Saturday carefully as she prods. "There's an instinctive terror when people realize that we are all part of the same food chain and there's no opting out – why wouldn't they be scared? Why shouldn't they? It scarcely effects you, anyhow." You have no reason to care.

"Day shift's a bunch of jerks, but night shift is cool. They'll let you cook for yourself and take stuff back to the rooms and such. And yeah, I can get us in." Saturday grins easily, in demonstration.

Beatrice had gone stiff what Saturday started in about HMHVV, eyeing her from the side like a cat with a toddler. Saturday is all the more elaborately chill for it, sauntering along with her hands in her pockets. It makes perfect sense to her - it'd be weirder if the woman wasn't on guard, with all the shit Jorg puts newbies through.

"I got some friends with the virus," she explains. "K3 - kriger three, the zombie strain. This human rights shit like affects them personally, you know? They don't got exactly the same problems as the other strains, but they've all got that essence drain and stigma thing an' people newly infected in the Seattle Metroplex usually end up in Ghoultown sooner or later. Even if they end up somewhere else later. It's the place your parents drop you off after they make you sit through your own funeral, dig?"

It's lightly said, but not a joke. That kid had almost gone over the edge, afterwards; the memory puts an edge in her voice.

"You don't have to be okay with how some assholes go about things to think something like that's fucked up."

"I don't know about that, being able to see my own funeral was an interesting experience. The gravestone was delightfully tasteful." Her voice is just bland enough that it leaves it ambiguous if she's serious or not.

"It's good to know that about the mess for future reference, I suppose, but it's hardly as if I'm greatly concerned with dayshift or the ability to cook. Perhaps Leanne will at least be delighted–" Ah. Right. But Leanne isn't here. It's funny how easy it can be to forget. "–Nevermind. A - chef I knew. Despite also one of the Kindred. It's not important." Not important, not relevant, not here. Put it neatly into the compartmentalization box with the same neat efficiency that Beatrice tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, and move on by finding a different avenue to prod.

"Frankly, being herded and forgotten is still a milder response than one would expect. It may be upsetting, but it's still survival – and being left alone is more than most can hope for no matter the circumstances. Although you were generous enough not steer clear. Those with magic must have a great deal of essence to consume. Not concerned with that or infection?" Hrm. She glances at Saturday's easy grace, the gleam of the mystic prosthetic, the hint of lean muscles and refusal to say what she had been learning. Beatrice thinks now she knows what the angle of a zombie's usefulness could be to her. "Or do you really need to dispose of that many bodies?"

"Forgotten...? That's one way to put it. People hate them, and they're easy targets because legally, they're not people. A lotta folks view wiping out ghoul squats as a public service. Some places put a special line in the budget, even."

Saturday rubs her metal arm, looking briefly at the ceiling.

"There was a thing a while back. Place in Illinois - they passed a law, okay? They said, okay, come here, we'll house you here and help you get by and no one will be able to fuck with you. So people came. Not even a month later the self-fucking-appointed defenders of humanity sweep in, kill over a hundred people. Come back two weeks later, kill a hundred more. They call on the government for help. Government says 'actually, it's too much fuckin' trouble.' And a lot of people died. Which is bullshit."

Her voice rings too loudly in the hall, sharp with anger.

"You make a promise to protect people, you don't get to take it back because it was too hard." Then she glares at Beatrice, not wanting to be worked up, but very clearly just that. Big brujah energy. "An' if I need a body got rid of I sell it a chopshop. Where it goes from there ain't my concern - Alice an' I aren't buddies cause she does me favors."

Beatrice doesn't so much as bat an eye, just watches Saturday back with that infuriatingly imperturbably blank expression. A mortal's raised voice doesn't exactly rate next to a Kindred in frenzy lunging towards her throat.

She nods, like seeing something she wanted. "Alright." That's all Beatrice says for a moment as she turns and starts heading towards the mess once more.

"That sounds distinctly more realistic. Do me the courtesy of skipping trying to sell the act next time." She means it, too. The previous descriptions were too mild, the relaxed friendliness too suspicious, the motives too inscrutable. This however - this sits on Beatrice easier, easier to slot into her experiences, into what she expects. She knows more what do with this than the open expectation. "It hasn't been the first time or last time a government – the American government, even, has merrily stood by and allowed the slaughter of inconvenient communities, legally people or not. Promises are worth only the breath they're said with, nothing more – particularly ones that I doubt were ever intended to be upheld. Although, of course, that applies to most promises as well."

"The act? What act?" Saturday stops full in her tracks, facing Beatrice, caught between outrage - an easy, almost friendly thing to feel - and sheer bafflement. "I was trynna express that I got some vague idea where you're comin' from, maybe. Didn't wanna get into the rough stuff because it's fucking rude, maybe you don't wanna talk about it, an' maybe it ain't your business anyhow!"

She crosses her arms, glaring; the degree to which that made sense or didn't is Beatrice's problem. "An' sell what? Basic fucking courtesy? You used to people flipping their shit and going ooo, a spooky vampire or some crap? 'Cause I've seen worse 'n your kind."

Edited 2020-11-17 01:35 (UTC)

"No doubt you have. I'm far from the worst of my kind, after all. I've yet to even eat the Eastern Seaboard. Slacking, I know."

There's still that dispassionate assessment from Beatrice as she looks at Saturday. A Kindred would be able to catch that she's frowning, but a mortal might struggle to recognize the minutiae. Her own walk is the polar opposite of Saturday's easy grace when she was leading the way to the mess – Bea is so stiff you could probably iron something on her back.

"I am referring to whatever it is you want from me. You needn't butter me up or coax me into playing along. Be honest and simply ask, and I will extend you the same courtesy." She aims for cool, professional, but mostly lands on weary. Beatrice is so very tired of feeling maneuvered, but damned if she won't give breaking the games people like to play with a blunt hammer her best go anyhow.

Saturday just stares. A look of profound and weary exhaustion crosses her face. She lets her arms falls to her side, thumb hooking back into belt loop, silver hand sliding into pocket.

"What I want is to be friends. Like if we can get along and shit. Allies, failing that, in a sincere way, like we're all on the same side here. Jorg doesn't think we're people," she says flatly. "If they could get those shock collars to zap us every time we think bad thoughts about 'em, they would. This world is literally falling apart at the seams, and it's gonna take us with it if we don't find a way out or save it. Which means we gotta be for each other first and foremost, you know? Even if we disagree internally sometimes."

She half-grins, a little embarrassed by saying it outright.

"Some kinda power of friendship deal, you know? Or maybe a union," she adds thoughtfully.

Oh. Oh Heavens no. Not this again. Beatrice stares right back, her steps faltering. She feels torn somewhere between dismay and the desire to burst into hysterical laughter, which does rather effectively cut through her current armor.

"Another one? Where do you all come from? Is there a handbook that has been written – some sort of stamped procedure for would-be rabblerousers that say power of friendship with a straight face?"

She rubs a hand down her temple, an oddly human gesture that jars against her what was her carefully-maintained air of stillness previously.

"Very well, Miss Saturday. I appreciate your candor. You're shoring up the defenses, yes? Rest assured, I will not be the weak link. This isn't my first time bound into orders...although I can't say much for the power of friendship's effectiveness in the workplace. To see you present the demands of a union to Jormungand and the "hires", however, would be an enjoyable sight. Worth the price of admission. Perhaps a pamphlet? People do like pamphlets."

Saturday's grin is vast, satisfied, and entirely sincere. She'd been worried there, for a moment.

"Rabblerouser, that's new. I like it. An' d'you think you could rig a pamphlet to shoot poison gas when you open it? Like this super old twodee trid I saw once." Saturday makes a gesture that is apparently meant to illustrate the concept: she mimes opening a book and gagging dramatically at its contents.

"I'm not calling you weak," she continues, a little more serious now. "But y'are new, which means you don't know shit about what's goin' on 'cause you ain't seen most of it yet. And more importantly t'me it means that no one really knows you yet, like what way you'll jump or what might make you break or trip or anything - things people gotta know, like not deep secrets or anything. Just stuff like, for example, so and so is touchy about their time in prison, don't mention it. Or this guy's religion says he can't eat beets, not a big deal, just don't serve it. The usual little shit that helps people not be at each other's throats when it's all going to hell."

The woman did say she wanted candor, which Saturday is pretty sure is an old timey word meaning "honest."

Saturday gets a flat look for her efforts in innovation. "No, I could not. Whatever you may expect of a mage, I am certainly not that brand. Also," she adds more practically, "by carrying something with such a loose trigger you would run the risk of setting it off yourself. While I may not have to breathe, you certainly do."

She falls back into her stiff gait, tracing the path that she is reasonably sure leads to the mess. It's a reasonable enough self-preservation motivation that the elf woman presented. That she is still keeping up the patter of this open friendliness is more unsettling – what exactly is Beatrice supposed to do with that?

"Nor do I require beets, so your hypothetical is at least safe from my menace.. Or require to be known." In fact, she desires rather the opposite. "I will not falter in the tasks set before us, you need not concern yourself. So long as everyone is focused, the rest is only – so much chaff that can be used against us."

Beatrice feels obligated to explain the last part merely because the girl seems so young. One of those budding idealists, doomed against an unfeeling machine. It would be a pity to lose one of her new coworkers to heartbreak so quickly – heartbreak and idealists and pits go hand in hand.

"What if I held my breath?" Saturday ponders aloud, unwilling to give up entirely on the notion. But she catches up with Beatrice.

"Okay? But there are things people in a group can do for each other to make shitty situations suck less," Saturday explains, as simply as she can. "Being like, friendly and getting to know each other helps you figure out what those things are. This helps with like, cohesion and morale and shit. It's not a bad thing?"

At least, Saturday doesn't think so.

Beatrice considers it. It's not like there's no reason not to. "I'm not entirely sure how long a timespan – or short, really – mortals can hold their breath for, but probably not? And I'm no chemist, but it seems to me that a toxin that can act in those minutes would be.. dangerous enough to be not worth casual risk."

She comes to a halt several feet away from the dreaded smile machine checker, glowering at the beast. Beckett's demonstration was enough for her, she's determined to not let it win for as long as she can.

"Unless you're intending to offer up fresh blood, there's little others can do for me," Beatrice notes sourly, still giving the stink-eye to the dreaded entry. Blood, she has found, is a fantastic way to get mortals to back off from her space. "I'm not practice for your preaching – have it your way if this is how you're attempting to play the situation, but prepared for the corollary. That while cohesion is all nice and well, but more – attachments created, equally the more openings are created to be used as leverage."

Saturday takes a moment to consider Beatrice point re: poison powder and reluctantly concludes that she has one. She does not, however, concede the other point.

"Keeping to yourself makes problems, too. For example, who's gonna smile you into the mess hall if you don't have a friend handy?" She crosses her arms again, pointedly not stepping up automatically to do the dirty deed. "You don't gotta tell me shit's risky. But there's no way of livin' in the world that ain't, especially under the situation we're in right now. Better to have someone you can trust then not, even if you're no one's confidant an' shit."

Beatrice stays stoney-faced, hands clasped stiffly before her. It's typical, really – there's no one who gives fine speeches that doesn't leap at the chance to make power plays.

"If the much vaunted power of friendship were of any value, not a one of us would be here in the first place. But here we are." It does, in the end, always fold before concrete powers. She made her oaths, and received them in turn, but what did it amount to? It's like having an echo of Tom – or more Tommy, really, speak, but in the end he's not here either, and she was the one who left.

She half-turns, ready to leave. "If you wish to see me beg, you will be disappointed. I'll manage."

Saturday raises both eyebrows. "What were you, raised in a Tir? The only thing I'm trynna do is illustrate how no one's totally self-reliant. Which like, you seem to know, but you're also standing here telling me I'm naive for saying that, without actually like disagreeing or countering anything I'm saying, so I'm kinda confused about your point overall. Or are we having different conversations? I ain't from your world, is jokes about the power of friendship like something people don't do?"

She bends over the sensor and turns on her smile, bright as a sunbeam, totally earnest and sincere. Then flicks it off as soon as the door opens, easily as removing a mask.

It reminds her of Kell, actually, a little - snap judgements with total certainty, the better to avoid having to face how many bones the world's broken, how much torn flesh and bruised muscle it inflicts. Like if you can just be rigid enough, somehow, it'll keep you standing instead of snapping you in two. Saturday does understand that, for all she's coped in different ways.

When she straightens again, some of that realization shows in her face. It might look a bit like sympathy.

"I'm not sure if I'm reminding you of someone else or what," she adds thoughtfully "but you're not the first person to think they know what I'm about. But like, whoever you think I am, you've only actually known me for about ten minutes, an' what have I actually done or said in that time that's like. Bad, or dumb, other'n make a joke that didn't land? Or maybe I wasn't as sensitive as I coulda been about the vampire stuff?"

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