milliways_bar | Happy Hour: Accidental Coffeeshop AU

"Coffee!" Gavroche says happily. "Can't go wrong with coffee. How are you, Feuilly?"

"Coffee," he agrees cheerfully. That's one thing he's made sure to get the hang of, here. "Sugar? Cream? --I'm all right, I think. I see what people mean about losing time in the Library."

"Both, please." He gives him a wryly amused look at that. "How long were you up there?"

Coffee with cream and sugar, he can do that. "Um. Well--as far as I know just a few hours a day. But the calendar says it's been more days than I thought. There are so many people to meet here--I'm not trying to be a hermit--"

"Time getting away from you has a whole new meaning here", Gavroche agrees. "Doing a bar shift is a good way to meet new people, though, maybe the best there is here."

"Yes--I did it once before as a volunteer--" Yes, there we go, there's the coffee. And cream. And sugar. "I didn't think it was that long ago. But how have you been?"

"Pretty well." He grins. "Normal, as far as you can call it that when you spend half your time in a magic bar and the other half in an invisible city."

"Yes." Feuilly smiles a little. "Not invisible to you when you're there, though, right?"

"No", Gavroche confirms. "Not to the people who live in it, or anybody who visits from here, only to the people from that world who aren't part of it."

"Do people often visit from here?"

"Whenever I take them to", he says with an impish grin. "And my friends are always welcome in the House, so if you want to, just say the word."

"I--no, thank you, not yet. But tell me about the House?"

"It's... not all where it looks like it is. The hallway is the main part, and people know where to look for that, but the other rooms could be miles away. They're connected by pictures."

That is a remarkably simple board.

Then again, in Tavi's mood, he could entirely do with a pick-me-up, so he slides into a seat across from the Bar. Green eyes regard the board with no little amusement.

"It's direct," he observes. "Are there different kinds of coffee?"

Well, it is very handsomely lettered?

"Probably. Yes, actually!" Feuilly brightens. "Anyway, these bags all say--French Roast, Colombian--Sumatran--Ethiopian--Mars Two Colony? I haven't tried that yet--"

Good handwriting goes a long way! It is particularly useful at times in Tavi's occupation.

Tavi has had just enough exposure to Earth--or rather, done enough reading on it--for his eyebrows to arch. For one, he recognizes several if not all of the names, but one catches his particular interest. Mars: Roman god of war. Mars: planet orbiting the same sun as Earth.

Colonies? Now that he hadn't heard of before. "I suppose I'm inclined to a little adventure, then," he says with a quick, almost mischievous grin. "The latter, please."

"All right! In fact--do you mind if I make myself a cup too?" He's really not good at the whole aubergiste-drinking-convivially-with-the-customers thing, but he does have to wonder about Mars Two Coffee. The bag is next to one that has various warnings about consumption by Non-Augmented Humans, but...Mars Two doesn't come with any fine prints!

He works the coffeemaker, and in a few minutes there's a steaming cup for Tavi, and another in Feuilly's hands. "Milk and sugar? And--you said adventure, so I'm guessing this isn't from your home, right?"

"Go ahead," Tavi waves it off. "On me--working Bar is tiring, if enjoyable." He's tended enough times to know that. It's always been one of his favorite pastimes--and a relief from the kind of thing he has to deal with at home--but coffee is definitely a plus.

Then again, there's always the danger he'll try to survive on nothing but caffeine and work.

"No, thanks. I generally take it black." Or rather, he takes his tea black and strong enough to meddle with headaches. Coffee is similar enough. "No, it isn't. Maybe somewhere in my universe there is one, but if there is, it would be under a far-away sun. It's new to you too?"

"Thanks." He'd been going to put it on his own tab, but--yes, thanks. "New to me too, yes. France has colonies,"--a little frown here, as he passes over the black coffee-- "but not on other planets. I wonder--" Hm. "--I wonder what kind of colony is is."

Ah. France. He can't be sure, of course, but given what Gavroche has told him, it's a reasonably logical conclusion to guess that this is another of his revolutionary friends. Tavi hadn't particularly planned on mentioning who he was, but he definitely decides to edit a little. Or lie. Lying works.

Besides, he rather likes their principles, and shares them. As such, he raises an eyebrow. "There's a problem with France's colonies?"

He may be taking mental notes. "I expect there's literature somewhere around here on it," he muses. "It's just a matter of knowing where to look."

Oh gosh, nineteenth century French liberalism, nationalism, and colonialism. Tavi may regret asking.

"There is every problem. Why, when you say colony you say conquest--I know many men will argue that it is better for the people in savage lands, it is their way to education. But everywhere I see colonies I see men and women in slavery to the interest only of the richest few. And I've read now more about how it will go, the strongest handful of nations looking at a map and seeing only a piece of paper for them to cut up and mark as they like--"

Feuilly frowns at his coffee. "But of course that's my world."

Tavi is a history geek, a political theory geek, a governmental model geek, and by Aleran standards a radical progressive. He's constitutionally incapable of regretting that question.

So he listens with acute interest, but with none of the excitement he normally would. Colonies by conquest: he nearly tastes bile at the thought. Having been the target of two such attempts contributes to it a great deal--despite stopping both invasions in their tracks, quite personally.

As Feuilly explains, one black eyebrow arches silently. Whatever conclusions he draws he keeps to himself. All of them except, that is--

"Literal slavery? Bought and sold like property, compelled to obey whims? Or slavery unacknowledged by those who profit, and the people obey only under duress?"

"Both, sir." He frowns even harder at his coffee. "Cotton and tobacco in America, sugar--and coffee--in the Antilles, they are the work of men and women in chains. The Republic abolished it in 1794, but Bonaparte restored it only six years later. From my reading I've seen that slavery by that name will be abolished again, but that other kind you speak of, that remains."

Feuilly sounds considerably more confident, if unhappy, once you get him started on history and politics. "May I ask, sir, about your world?"

Edited 2015-02-06 13:33 (UTC)

"Exploitation seems universal," Tavi notes, "and many people willfully ignore being better than that."

While he is visibly displeased with this, for the most part he doesn't show just how well and truly angry this makes him--especially with a ruler re-instating slavery, which is simply wrong and an abuse of power. Angry at himself too, to some degree: however much he was raised to oppose slavery and try to make little changes, even he sometimes fell victim to the perception that 'this is the way it is, until it is abolished outright.'

The displeasure carries into his answer. "There have rarely been attempts at colonizing as you describe it, at least on our continent." For a moment a hand clenches around his coffee. Carna's inter-race wars are a more genocidal, on the whole.

"There are people taken advantage of by those with more power, of course, and there are probably cases where no one outside even knows. Even when it's known, Crown or local law is not always enforced by anyone with authority--assuming they're not complicit. But is it the prevailing condition? No, I don't think so. Even without enfranchisement, freemen have rights under the law, and they know it." He sighs. "Can they always get them when they speak up for them? No. But we do try. It's an uphill battle, but change happens."

Pausing to take a sip of coffee, Tavi chews his lip briefly as he mulls over something. He shakes the thought off. "There is slavery--of our own, not other races." He'd like to see anyone try to enslave a Cane. "The last two generations have seen a strong abolition movement."

Feuilly listens intently, nodding, his eyebrows drawn together. "It's good that change happens. And an abolition movement," he says slowly. "Where is your home, sir? Is there any form of representative government at all? --I should introduce myself. My name is Feuilly. From France--1832." That seems to be the standard of introduction here.

He's not at all sure how to place this man.

At least Tavi's guess about when and where this man is from and generally who he is proved correct.

"Tavi," he returns the introduction. "Of Alera. I doubt the name--or year count--would mean anything to you."

His scarlet-and-blue uniform frankly looks like someone threw medieval and Roman styles into a blender, though it did come out more Roman. After years here, Tavi is not unaware of this as glances down at it and its insignia, a black crow in flight, and then back up with wryness. "What do you know about Imperial Roman social strata? Not its government." Not quite, anyway.

"Pleased to meet you, sir. No, I can't say that Alera is a familiar name." Likely the man comes from another world--not just another time or another version of the same world Feuilly knows, with its familiar nations. It's still a wonderful thought. "--Um. Imperial? Not very much. A little. There were slaves, and freedmen--and then classes based on property, I think, more than birth."

From Tavi's expression, the costume and its black crow mean something at home, as much as anyone would read the cut of a man's clothing in Paris and see a dandy or a soldier or a worker or a priest or a beggar. But it's unreadable to Feuilly. He smiles crookedly. "Do you have a Rome in--Alera?"

Edited 2015-02-09 19:28 (UTC)

In truth, Tavi is well aware he is arguably from a universe alternate to Earth--but Earth is somewhere far away in the cosmos. And, despite what he has said, he has also narrowed the corresponding year down to as limited a window as he can. That he seems to be quite oddly contemporary with most of the Bar's patrons privately amuses him.

A lot of people have, at least, guessed he's a soldier--then again, quite possibly it is more recognizable as a uniform when he's carrying a blade. But his is on the other side of the Door at the moment, so he just nods. "Precisely--Citizens above the freemen, given a vote based on ownership of property. Although," he adds thoughtfully, "given that property usually gets passed on to children, a fair argument could be made that Citizenship was based more on birth than they wanted to admit. Ours is a little more complex, but closely related enough."

Do they have a Rome in Alera? "It never existed on Carna--our planet." Technically true, and Alera's equivalent city is lost.

Well--Feuilly had tentatively guessed soldier, yes. But it was just a guess; other worlds might be very different!

Or...very much the same. "Carna," he says carefully. "But you've ended up with something similar? With ranks of citizen, inheriting property? What--what proportion of the men would you say have the vote?"

Tavi has very much absorbed the bearing of a military commander over the last three years. That said, he's off-duty while in Milliways! (Except how he's not.)

"More or less similar. Certainly not enough of the men do," by which he actually means 'not all' before adding, "nor any of the women." Because that is just as much an injustice.

"We haven't done a careful census on the subject." Not since the entire Realm was nearly exterminated, anyway.

A young woman comes in from outdoors, approaches the bar in a direct line (pausing as needed to let others by, but never changing course to go around them), and halts to stare impassively at the sign.

Then at Feuilly.

She's slim, of average height (though tall for a woman of Feuilly's day), and she has a young and pretty heart-shaped face. All of this is probably the last thing most people notice, though, because what she also has is eyes of an inhuman metallic silver and a huge claymore slung across her back. Everything about her is bleached pale: her colorless skin, her white-blond hair, her clothing of white cloth and silver armor. (Her outfit is also extremely form-fitting, apparently designed more for dramatic appearance and ease of movement than for actual protection. Or, to someone of 1830s Europe, for modesty.)

She doesn't really appear as if she's ever learned to make facial expressions back at people. Or possibly at all.

[I know this is late, but uh it seemed fun to send a creepy staring lady at you for a change!]

Yes, the metallic eyes and enormous claymore do sort of catch a person's attention. With the pale skin and the armor, it all gives Feuilly a sudden wild notion of Joan of Arc.

"Mademoiselle? Some--coffee--?"

((ahaha serves me right! and yeah, the thread is still plenty open, DW just keeps running really slow for me in the evenings for some reason))

"I don't know what that is."

She doesn't sound disapproving. Maybe, if you squint, just a little curious -- but on the whole, neither her voice or her face contain any more emotion than they did.

"It's a hot drink. Um." He hasn't met anyone before who didn't know what coffee was. "It's--let me get you a cup? I'll put it on my tab if you don't like it. It's hot and--and bitter, but you can put cream and sugar in it. It's good to keep you awake if you need to keep awake."

She's almost certainly not Joan of Arc, but still. There you are.

"I don't need very much sleep in any case."

She takes a small step closer, though, to watch whatever this coffee-fetching process is.

"Don't worry about the tab," she thinks to add, after a moment. "Whether I like it or not, I have plenty of funds." At least for her needs, which are minimal.

It may eventually occur to her to say thank you. It hasn't yet. Sorry, Feuilly!

Yes, she looks like someone who doesn't need very much sleep.

The coffee-fetching process involves a machine that makes burbling noise--which Feuilly watches with careful attention--and also a strong, distinctive smell that she might recognize from other visits to the bar.

He brings the little steaming up over and sets it down, still carefully. "Milk and sugar, Mademoiselle?"

She does recognize the smell. All right. Coffee, she labels it carefully. That's the smell of coffee, which is a drink humans can use to stay awake.

"I don't know," she says, a little blankly.

"Should I?"

She doesn't mind bitterness, but maybe it's the expected thing.

(Perhaps the blank uncertainty is a humanizing touch. Perhaps not.)

Humanizing or not, the uncertainty prompts an earnestly reassuring smile from Feuilly. "It's to your taste. I think--probably a little milk and sugar." He's trying to remember the first time he tasted coffee, and he's pretty sure it was a shock.

He measures and stirs for her. "Tell me what you think?"

Clare watches this process, standing quite still.

It's that, at least as much as her appearance, that probably makes her strange to humans. (Especially humans of Milliways, who haven't grown up with stories of the monstrous silver-eyed slayers.) Being one of the warriors called Claymores means learning to mistrust every impulse of your body; it means learning to set aside all unnecessary motion, until your body only acts by conscious direction. There are a few who've worked to retain emotional mannerisms and minor gestures, but not most, and not Clare.

"Thank you," she does remember to say now, as she picks up the cup.

A tiny, careful sip. It's rich with milk and sugar to her tongue, even if Feuilly only added a little: it's nearly a meal of a beverage. Her surprise is faint, but visible.

(Every so often an unconscious gesture does slip through.)

"It's -- good."

Usually she only asks Bar for water, if that.

There! It's good! He'd been generous with the milk and sugar, in fact.

She's certainly--uncanny. Feuilly is relieved as much as he is happy that she approves. He smiles. "What about something to eat, Mademoiselle? I don't cook much, but there are things already made--"

Miss is what she hears, cementing the impression she already had: he's treating her like a human.

"This is plenty," she says. "I don't need anything else."

"My kind don't need much to nourish us."

She's probably not going to be able to finish the cup, frankly, even to be polite. But she does have another sip.

It's still good.

"Oh." The same part of his mind that had suggested Joan of Arc now pushes thoughts of angels at him. Inhuman travelers. It's not something he can really ask her.

"--Do you ever drink tea, Mademoiselle? It's a bit lighter than coffee--"

"I have," she says, a little doubtfully.

It's not as good as this. Taste rarely matters to her -- the process of becoming an organization warrior does some things to your tastebuds anyway -- but she doesn't seek out fancier things for their own sake, especially if they don't taste great.

"A sip of water and a bite or two of food will sustain us for several days. That's simply all we can eat."

Claymore metabolisms are weird, yo.

"What is this made of?"

If it were guts, humans wouldn't be eating it, and she'd notice. But it tastes good, and she can't recognize it; she wants to check.

Happy Hour: Accidental Coffeeshop AU

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