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A good little girl is gonna get spoiled rotten! With all the pets. She'd have to make Lullabe some toys.

"It's slow, but in part? It's to help us recover from the floods, breaches, sometimes ports. Least, from what I've found. So that's why I'm always researching and making things. Helps with the brain itch."

Her smile was a little crooked. "John can handle being yelled at. So can Sheehan. And I had a bit of a breaking point, and I didn't want Arthur to get into my business and stop me from getting my aggression out. Max...in the breach, he was my son. And I couldn't handle it. Normally, I'm far more tidy when fixing my messes."

She glanced him over. "As for Arthur...he isn't. He's professional. Have you spoken to him yet?"

Lullabee always needs more even if she already has a teaming basket full at the base of her cat tree.

"Joy. Simon would be giddy, knowing this is where I ended up." Both mouths are pulled down in displeased frowns as he screws the jar closed again and leaves it. If the test patch does well he wouldnt hesitate to put that into his usual rotation.

Walking over to his butchered and much smaller than real life wet bar, he pauses in the act of pouring himself a drink, looking back at her. "So thats why you were coddling him like a child. I had to wonder...he didnt seem simple to me, but that at least adds some context." Simon threatened to burn people's houses down for bullying his child, thr behavior suddenly makes so much sense.

"I haven't. I suppose I shouldn't complete the set then, hmm? John told me how you were all related, though I have to wonder...he said roommate but that has to be a euphemism for something else-" he finishes pouring himself a glass and nods to her, "whiskey?"

Only the most toys for Lullabee.

"It sounds like Simon hates your guts." She observed. And huh. Looked like the mouths synced up. She kind of wanted to poke at the top one, but she didn't feel like losing her finger tip, and having to explain to John how she lost said finger tip.

As one does.

"He isn't simple at all. He's actually- very good with machines and all but sometimes after a breach of reality, who you were, and who you are blur together. To me, he was someone I'd given birth to and all that fun jazz. And he's...been through a lot."

To put it lightly.

"Yes to the whiskey." She paused. "He respected my wishes to call us roommates. Though we did start off as more...neutral, after hiding me on board. I'm part of a small group that came from another ship before this."

Varker wouldn't be taking responsibility for any fingers straying near his forehead, and the subsequent loss of them after either though she's free to see what might happen.

"How astute of you. Honestly it's almost flattering, someone hating me enough to want it to last forever, or that's how im taking the unwanted immortality." He knocks back his own glass as he says it and pours another before getting to her own.

"Doesn't that sound familiar? You're lucky he seems content to just be or he might ask for more." He reaches out to hand her the glass, heavy crystal and shakes his head, "though we dont have to talk about how scary labels and commitment are, this is a civil conversation."

Leaning back against the counter he takes casual sips, perhaps a little curious as to what another ship might look like, "and was the figurehead just as much of an asshole? Or more? There's always the possibility of more."

"Oh you know. Got my degree in pointing out the obvious."

Her voice was light as she decided to not go for the poke. Maybe later. And maybe when she was stupidly drunk.

Maybe.

"Good. I'm glad we're trying to be civil and all that. I'd hate to get all gross and snotty and everything about labels and relationships and whatever." Her voice was light, and her fingers gentle as she took the glass. "Cap'n was all about freedom on his ship. So, we were pirates, and had to raid other ships for supplies."

She took a sip of her whiskey slowly. "At least here, I don't have to be an attack dog. It's far more relaxing."

He wouldn't mind getting stupidly drunk, though it's more difficult these days.

He takes his glass to his desk, setting himself down heavily in his chair and nods to the chaise that made up his bed, the blankets folded at the end of it to give ample space to sit or the heavy chair across from him. "He called himself Cap'n? He already sounds like an asshole." Though he isn't sure he can easily go from 'all about freedom' to 'we were pirates', but he's heard stupider things in life.

"Sounds like you weren't free at all, just a tool for someone else. Unfortunate, though I can't say I'm enjoying this place any better, but since I hadn't imagined any sort of afterlife, I'm not sure what I could have expected."

Maybe if Varker asked nice, she'd ask to borrow the Admiral shaker that could make him nice and sloshed.

She decided to sit in the heavy chair, letting her hands warm her drink.

"It was always one more raid, one more thing. And he was an asshole. Because you stayed- or you went back to being dead. So no, not free at all."

She shrugged.

"But I can't tell you what to expect, doctor. The deals are real enough, and I've seen people leave. So, you have options. You don't have to go back to your world, once you're done."

That second mouth above his eyes wrinkles, making a soft chittering sound, "So you're given a choice then? I suppose I would prefer it then. I was quite ready to die, but now here I am, opening my eyes again and again when I shouldn't have. After a while that gets rather old." And horrible for his mental stability. There were more reasons than just selfishness that he hadn't tried to move Audrey's formula into some kind of human trials. Now he's sure that people weren't made to be immortal given the amount of violence he'd survived and kept going.

His eyes glance to a frame on his desk, himself and Stew the night they'd gotten engaged. He'd been half tempted to scribble Simon out of the photo but had thought better of it, setting another of himself and Simon face down instead, "The option I want the Admiral won't provide me, so that's all a nonstarter."

"More or less, but we're all dead, and we're all...pretty for being alive. At least, for the moment. And then we form attachments, and realize how much the others will suffer if you don't stick around- for one reason or another."

She sighed, ignoring the chittering for now. "Maybe that's why you have to live. You've got shit you still have to do."

Sokie sipped her drink. "My guess is that you want to go back in time, and fix things?"

Varker stares at her, long and hard, eyes narrowing as his jaw sets.

"No." He sets his glass on the desk as calmly as he can, though there is a growling that is starting to fill the room, "If I'm doing anything, It's dragging Birkov to hell with me, and killing him myself. That's it. That's the end, and there is nothing else. Now if you would please change the subject before I lose my temper and this fucking thing decides it needs to attempt to strangle you, that would be appreciated. It has far less patience than I do."

"All right. I apologize for crossing the line there. I've given thought of what I would do if I was given a deal, and it's very personal."

She glanced to the other mouth. "Id seems to be rather frisky. Anyway- what kind of food do you like to have? I'm currently assigned to the lunch duty in the kitchen, and the wardens there like all sorts of meal ideas. We're kind of limited, but you'd be surprised what people can come up with."

Very personal indeed. Varker might know what he did, how it got them to where they all ended up, but he isnt sure going back would change anything. What would he even do differently? Was he going to beg Birkov to give up? Send him to jail for embezzlement before the bodies stacked to high?

No...he doesn't think so.

"It is a feral fucking monster, frisky is too kind," he huffs, glancing away from her to glare at the wall. "And I'm not quite so picky, even if i enjoy the finer things. Not ever meal can be five courses. I am rather partial to Mexican, though we're rather spoiled in California for it. If someone doesnt know what they're doing its kind of a waste."

She glanced away too. She hadn't meant to step on his foot, so to speak. She was trying to behave, more or less.

Hearing about Simon might have been even been too much, with all of his bitterness.

"That's why I think Id- like as in id, ego, superego- is a good name for it." She told him. "And...hm. I do like Mexican, but my latest touch stone on Earth was New York but- they aren't known for good Mexican food."

She leaned back in her seat, thinking. "Corn tortillas, freshly made? I think I could at least manage a good breakfast burrito, and Tex Mex. At least everything here is pretty fresh."

"Im not going to name it, it shouldn't even exist." He hisses, though shuts his mouth immediately when it sounds just like the mouth above his eyes. He would pinch the bridge of his nose, but that part of his face no longer exists. His mood dips further, slumping in the chair and taking a long pull from his glass.

"Fresh corn tortillas sound delicious." He managed to grumble out after a stretch of silence.

Oh, hiss from the bottom mouth now. She sighs, and takes a small sip of her drink. Well, this was going down badly.

She wasn't going to say she named her boobs. Tempting to, but he didn't need that sass. Or mention tongue tacos, even if they were delicious.

"I think I could manage them. What do you like in your tacos?"

"Cant go wrong with a street taco. Pick a protein, cilantro, white onion and lime. Maybe some crema if the protein has a kick to it." He finished his second glass, setting it on the desk in front of him, considers another but hes burning through it quickly.

"Or birria tacos...god those are good."

"You know your tacos. That's not unexpected, but it's still lovely to know. I've met a few people who...don't even know birria tacos exist."

She glanced at the bottle, before glancing up at Varker, before offering a hand.

"If you don't mind me using magic, I can refill your bottle."

"I existed off the taco truck that sat on the edge of campus in college. I think everyone has their favorite spot in the bay. No wrong answers, usually." And now he really wants a birria taco. God dammit.

He follows her gaze to the bottle, back to her and raises an eyebrow, "will it taste the same?"

"I mean, sometimes? Sober or drunk? I'd just get a big variety of tacos. It's just really nice to have. But I'll look up some recipes, check my memory, see if John and I can come up with some decent birria tacos."

She liked a challenge, and she thought John would enjoy it too.

Though hearing that, she snorted.

"Yes? Otherwise there wouldn't be much point of making more. Same temperature as well. Can't screw up a good thing, especially when I want more."

He might be temperamental, and incredibly frustrated, but there is a smile that crosses his lips, leaning in and resting his chin on his folded hands, "of course its fucking good, that's $1200 whiskey."

He makes a waving gesture towards it, "so if you can make sure it never runs dry, I think maybe we can be friends."

"Oh shit, no wonder it hits so well."

She gave the bottle a look of respect. Well, now she wanted her own bottle of this back at the cabin. She loved a good whiskey.

"Well sure I can. I can do the refill right now." She squinted at the bottle and- well. At first, nothing seemed to happen, but then the liquid rose, in the same color as before, before she offered it back.

"Try it, so you know I'm not full of it." She advised. "If you want it to work without me, I'll have to do some inscription on the bottles. Or at least have some stuff over paper, sealed onto the bottle for it to work."

All she'd ask was a glass now and then.

"2019 George T. Stagg. I'm allowed to treat myself to a case when they release every year." With this being his office rather than his condo his stash was rather paired down, unfortunately.

He, perhaps a bit gleefully watches as the rich amber liquid rises back to the top, knocking the bottle back to take a taste test straight. "I think I love magic." Says the alcoholic as he sets the bottle down and stands, walking over to the wet bar to grab a different bottle.

The one he produces from inside the cabinet has a bit more of an understated look, less rich, but he sets it in front of her, half empty as it is, "you do that with this one and I'll give you the Stagg. Engrave away."

Because what she has in front of her is a 30 year Macallan scotch thats worth four times as much.

Edited 2025-06-06 05:58 (UTC)

"A case."

She said it to confirm, not to question. George T. Stagg didn't release that many bottles per year- no wonder it was so smooth. And so good.

Arthur might explode if he tasted it. Though- seeing the bottle she was offered, her eyes widened. A Macallan.

She just about whimpered. No wonder he was willing to part with the Stagg.

"Not...exactly. I mean- technically? Technically. It is teachable. I uh- sorry, I'm a little-" She cleared her throat, before touching the bottle.

Again, it was not in an instant, but she started to refill it.

"If you have some paper, I can write the formula for you right now." Because she did not want to accidentally crack the bottle in any way.

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