milliways_bar | (no subject)

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[OOM: One commission, two gifts and an unexpected visitor. Small warning for a bit of blood and gore.]

Weyland returns to the bar sometime later, when he has recovered enough to appear calm again, and he carries the gifts he has made up to the bar. It looks like it's going to be another Atlantean night.

He takes a seat at the bar, and waits. There's one person in particular he's waiting for and several others he'd be very happy to see, but really any distraction would be welcome.

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"I've done that before, it's true. Reached inside the mind, told them all about themselves..."

She shrugs. "But it gets old, you know. Most things do."

"I like to give them nothing," he says, "no leading clues, nothing at all to work with, and see what they tell me about myself. Or sometimes I will be much more open and see whether they believe. They rarely do."

She smiles.

"For that matter, I can hardly believe you, sometimes."

"Why's that?" he asks, eyebrow raised. "You at least believe that I exist, and that I am who I say I am, I hope. That my work is unparalleled."

"Certainly."

She pauses, adds: "It's just strange, having a peer, I suppose. And of course, the trip to New York blurred both of our identities, in some way."

"We've always been who we've always been," he says. "It's just that sometimes we hide it more than others. In some ways I like not having to hide it, and in some ways it's terrifying."

The swan boat, having reached the center of the lake, begins swimming in slow, lazy circles.

"Hard to say," she says, looking out on the quiet lake.

"It makes me tired," he says. "Makes me feel old. Being forgotten--I think I should stop hiding."

"And how do you propose to show yourself, then?"

"I could start in here," he says. "Though I doubt it would do any good--there are other, far more impressive gods here, who have won the loyalty of mortals. What could I have to offer? What could I have to threaten?"

"More than I do, at least," she says. "You still have your powers."

"Yes," he admits. "But they need someone who can appreciate craftsmanship, and most people nowadays... they like the mass-produced, because it is cheap."

"Well..." She shrugs.

"Some of the things you make can't be mass-produced. Like... the mask."

He chuckles quietly.

"None of the things I make can be mass-produced--the beauty of them is in the way they are made. You know, I would like to see someone try--I'd like to have some competition. I work best when I have competition, or at least a goal to reach..."

She tilts her head at him, dark eyes considering.

"Competition... can be dangerous. At least, I've seen it end badly. As with the Pierides.

"Goals can be good, though. To keep us going."

"I lost a competition, once," he says. "Only once. People tend to think I'm not as good as I am, and so I like to prove myself."

He shrugs lightly. "I tend to set goals for myself, but with no external pressures or deadlines, they seem a bit hollow."

"Yes. That happens."

She reaches for her pocket, pulls out a cigarette, lights it. "I'd offer you one of these, but they're just from the drugstore."

She smiles, wryly. "Guess I don't have that sense of quality that you do."

"Or the same sort of supplier I have," he says. "I don't fault you for it. But if you ever do want some of mine, I'm more than happy to provide."

"Thanks," she says.

"I'm okay, for now, until I have a sudden strike of disgust at my own inability to choose good cigarettes."

"I don't mind sharing, really," he says. "It's only ever a problem when I'm stuck away from home for long periods of time, but I can get them here. Or reasonable equivalents."

"No doubt. This place is magical."

"Magical... in a very strange way. Not the sort of magical I am accustomed to at home."

"Is that a good thing or a bad one?" she asks, inscrutable.

"A little of both, I think," he says. "I like the familiar--we all do--but it is only from difference that there is change."

"Though some don't like change."

She smiles. "I think you're all right on that front."