multiversallogs | if one day is good, is a day sufficient?

Who: Benji Ryans and You!
What: The city is rebuilding itself, and as does everyone else. Benji about town.
Where: Various places!
When: Many times!
Notes: An open log! Refer to the post content for starter ideas. Hit me up if you'd like me to set up anything! Otherwise, go for gold. Suggestions: daylit Mafaton, Aspic, Badside, Brock Marsh, but you know, wherever is clever, Trevor, ask if you're unsure. (Also dream things are welcome, if you are keen, but let me know first in plurk or PM.)
Warnings: Dead eye stares, and teal deers below. Will add as they occur.

There is a morning where she brings her violin with her. The case gets laid out on the street, and her first attempt at playing levels off into obscurity; that no one wants to listen to mediocre musicianship for long at least saves her from the agony of completing the piece. She never necessarily performs; she sits on the stone steps of some building that's being advertised for lease, lanky legs together and aside, ankles crossed, a demure shape in black and grey and an aura of unkemptness that speaks more of habit than it does being windswept and interesting. She thinks of Victorian literature with unusually talented orphans busking for bread, and remembers her cousin playing the piano with her to an audience of three to five, cigarette smoke in the air and then slightly condescending applause, and quietly attempts to play again.

She won't earn much even then, but at least this time, the music winds complete over the cobble stones, mewling out its stilted melody.

Her errands take her to different reaches of the city. She has an allowance for cab fare and train rides, but likes to walk; it's a good way to get to know the city, even if it means setting aside a couple of hours for slower travel. Since signing up with the Personification Initiative, she's been able to earn wages for the first time in her life. Frivolous forays into playing music on the street corners have been exactly that: frivolous. She teaches literacy to adults, those who arrive in Baedal without the necessary skills to survive. She hears about the Spatters, as well, and the House that offers similar services, and occasionally winds up walking those streets, attempting to avoid the ones where it seems like the Fog is thicker than usual.

Food is bought in outdoor markets in early mornings, contributing a little to what she takes from Njoki's pantry. Sometimes she will even sit down somewhere and buy some tea and a muffin and feel incredibly indulgent for it. Clothing is primarily bought from second hand places, judged by its practicality and comfort and whatever aesthetics she's feeling that day. Books are usually borrowed from the Library, dependent on their availability, and usually not for herself, but those she tries to teach. She is not an expert, but knows that people will only do things if they want to do things, and she selects nonfictions of vivid interest, slim short story compilations, things she thinks those she tutors would find interesting.

At night, she sleeps. Sometimes she dreams.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Mm, commuting can be a pain. Especially to Mafaton. I heard there's still a lot of rebuilding there?" It's a question because he only ever sets foot in there under extreme desperation -- they pay better for donations than the hospital does. Wolfgang was around for the riots; cruorvores freak him out.

He notes her attention being caught by books, because -- well, he's the same way. For him it's an indulgence he can't afford right now, but that apparently isn't stopping him because he pauses to look them over. The collection he had amassed blew up with the inn he was staying in before the invasion and he's still a little bitter about it. "You're a teacher?"

Well if we're stopping--

Despite these recent cues, she probably wouldn't describe herself to be particularly bookish or academic, not on the same scale as actual nerds. But they're valuable things, all the same, and easily lost. "I suppose I am, now," Benji says, a sort of apologetic humour in her tone. "Not in a-- I haven't gone to school. But I learned reading and writing one on one, and the social services here, they sometimes need tutors for people who come from worlds where that isn't a necessary or available thing.

"So." The 'so' is sort of an I needed the money shrug addition. "Hopefully it isn't too much the blind leading the blind. And I think--" Because she forgot to answer, before. "--that Mafaton's seen better days. It's very quiet." Also she never walks through it at night, no matter what Njoki's said of its governance.

"That's --" Cool he doesn't say because it sounds really juvenile and flippant, and everything else he can think of doesn't sound right either. He pauses, clearly wracking his brain, then flaps a hand and makes a face of augh, this language. "English... Admirable, I guess? Something less patronizing." What he means is that he's impressed, basically. "How do you like it?"

She shrugs, eyes trained on book spines, more shy than dismissive; but pleased at the approval in contrast to feeling like an imposter of some kind. Where there are schools and universities, people who have done more than just scrape by. But she's not going to argue. "Oh, I like it. I mean, it's a bit--" A hand gesture, fingers splaying, curling. "It's sad. A lot of people have seen social workers already and they just sort of cycle through the system they have set up here, in Baedal.

"It feels sort of unkind to say I enjoy it, but I like helping." Her mouth presses into a line. It's a far cry from what she used to do, but Baedal is a far cry from where she used to live. "I don't remember if you told me what you did, actually."

"The system here is a little screwed. I hear it's better if you've got money, which..." He gestures, indicating both of them but meaning their cohort in general. "Obviously none of us do." And people who need that kind of tutoring definitely won't. Upward mobility in Baedal is about as much a myth as the American dream.

His eye contact leaves a lot to be desired; he tends to look in someone's general direction but not quite meet their gaze, usually focusing on the nose or mouth instead. He huffs out a laugh. "Clean toilets, mostly." That's a nice answer that doesn't use any alarming phrases like court-ordered community service or frankly bizarre ones like model. His life is really weird right now. "I sort of drift."

A see-saw shrug, because of course it's better if you have money, and otherwise nodding, listening, and then a pull at the corner of her mouth in sympathy that Wolfgang's drifty existence might not be as settled as she'd imagined. It does explain, she thinks, why Wolfgang has the look about him that he's tired a lot.

"What about before?" she asks, instead, head tipping to sweep lank brunette locks out of her eyes. "In Tel Aviv."

"Um --"

He hesitates, not sure how to answer. He doesn't want to outright lie, although it's tempting to reinvent his history that way, here where most people will never know the difference. But it's a lie he can get caught in too easily because he never thought to get his story straight to begin with, and he doesn't want to be a liar, not to people whose opinion matters to him.

"Um, we have -- had -- a draft, so..." He looks a little uncomfortable, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "After that, more of the same. Crap jobs for crap pay."

Her eyes hood a little, automatic sympathy that runs a little deeper than 'oh, you're sometimes a janitor?', mostly due to an inherit lack of trust in anything to do with organised military. It lacks the context of Israel or, indeed, any Earth that goes without ludicrous and unnuanced oppression against superhumans, but is no less sincere for it. Still, she also comes from a background where obtaining an amazing career was never the mark of a fulfilled existence--

"Well, if you need any help with where to drift next, I've made friends a little with-- some people. The Employment Office people. I don't mind gaming the system."

Wolfgang smiles, discomfort mostly gone since she breezed right past a topic he clearly doesn't want to talk about. "I wouldn't want to ruin your reputation with my unreliable self."

How many jobs has he gone through in the six-plus months he's been here? Whatever the number is is embarrassingly high. He can't even really justify it as not being his fault because most of the time, it kind of is.

"Thankfully there's never a shortage."

if one day is good, is a day sufficient?

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