Here comes the cavalry

[bet_on_the_river]

[if it's a vaguely patriotic holiday, must be time for this guy. He's American, you know. OOM: The Years Between, full of variables that are guaranteed not to match yours. Contents include: big spoilers for Infinite; bad things happening to women and children; and four different unhappy alternate endings, all of which are really far-fetched. The whole thing is, really.]

It's a different patriotic holiday back in New York--Memorial Day, otherwise known as the only day in the year when Booker wears his old uniform, and only because his bosses have ordered him to. It's good for business, they say, adds respectability. Especially the medals.

He hates every minute of it. Especially the medals. He usually spends as much of the day as possible in the company of some old Union bastards, buying them drinks and talking about anything but combat. They talk about bad food, worse weather, long marches, pretty girls they'd caught sight of but never spoken to... no matter how much the young men listening in might want to hear about fighting and glory, they won't get a word today.

It's 1912. They'll have their chance soon enough.

So here he is in uniform; twenty years out of the Army and it still fits, which is impressive enough in itself. Sergeant, Seventh Cavalry; yes, that's the Medal of Honor, that one's for the Indian campaigns and that one there is for marksmanship.

Carefully neutral expression as he approaches the bar to order some bourbon. He hates wearing the uniform, but he was going to have to wear it today anyway, so how much does location matter? Bourbon. Bourbon matters.

Comments

[hecu_marine]

He's seen the face before. The uniform, not so much. But it's been a long time since last time regardless, and this is Milliways; people with the same face come in all the time and they're not the ones you knew.

Shephard's just gonna make for the Bar and order himself a Cold Trail and cast the other fellow a brief, inquiring look. Some people come to bars for distraction, and some just want to drink the hell alone.

[bet_on_the_river]

"Afternoon," he says with a nod, as he picks up his glass.

Then hesitates, glancing toward the door to the outside. Well... close enough to afternoon? It depends on the time of year, anyway, and who the hell knows.

"I think."

[hecu_marine]

"Ain't too sure the time matters here anyways," says Shephard. "Only thing it seems to affect 'round here is the fishin' out back."

Clocks are arbitrary things at best anyways.

"Just git in?"

[bet_on_the_river]

"It doesn't seem to matter all that much back home either," he says. "If the shops are closed, you just wait a few hours."

Time marches on, and he's not sure where it has all gone. Some days, he really feels it.

"Yeah, I had a... it's a holiday. Wish it would be over by the time I get back, but I'm not that lucky."

[hecu_marine]

"That's why the-" Shephard gestures vaguely at the uniform. "Shit. Yeah, sometimes the door'll fuck you over that way. Least you won't have to go back sober."

At least, he's guessing that's why the man's in uniform. He could be wrong. But it seems a reasonable option.

[bet_on_the_river]

"'The world will little note, nor long remember, what we say here,' so here's a well-meaning lady from a good family to read us all a poem she wrote about glory, valor and the flower of manhood," he says, contemplating his drink. "And now a band. And now a speech from every politician for thirty miles around."

Maybe other wars are different. Maybe some are full of glory and noble purpose. But his wasn't.

[hecu_marine]

Shephard makes a disgusted noise and mutters something uncomplimentary under his breath. "Reckon this is the part where I'm supposed to say they meant well," he says. "Meant don't mean much, though. Not when they don't know what the shit they're talkin' about."

[bet_on_the_river]

"We got men who are over eighty years old, and some of them got parts shot off back in their day, and now they have to stand around in the sun for all of that," he says. "I think we should only have to do it until the next war, then let the next group take their turn. And the older ones who want to go to the ceremonies and parades. Me, I'd rather not."

[hecu_marine]

"Ain't nothin' wrong with letting a man stay home from that shit if he wants," Shephard says. "Letters of commendation exist for a reason. The folks who want to do the honorin' git a permanent record of what they said, the folks on the receiving end git to display it or lock it in a safe as they see fit, and ain't nobody's so much as got to leave the house 'cept the master sergeant or the Western Union man with the envelope."

There's been ceremonies and honors and such given by the folks in Rowlesburg and White Sulfur Springs, but it's only been a few years since the Combine War ended. And that was driving out an occupying power, not... anything else. It's not the same. Besides, pretty damn near every single one of the people at those ceremonies was either involved in the fighting themselves or involved in the immediate support base for the fighters. That's something else altogether.

But before that, well... there were always guys who refused to show up come Fourth of July parades, or Memorial Day, or any of the other days. You didn't give them a hard time about it. They had their reasons.

[bet_on_the_river]

"I didn't used to go," he says. "If I could get out of it, if I could go to work instead or, hell, do anything else, I would. I don't mind picnics--Fourth of July, we get to play baseball. I like that part. I like fireworks, and I like seeing how proud the folks in my neighborhood are to be American now. But that's different. It's a celebration, not..."

He takes a sip, as he tries to think of the right words.

"Making pretty stories out of ugly things."

[hecu_marine]

"Yeah," says Shephard quietly. "Yeah, that's a different animal altogether."

History Division by default means you get the job of writing down a whole lot of things you'd really rather not ever have known in the first place.

"You got my sympathies. I'll shut my yap about it."

[bet_on_the_river]

"At least it's only once a year. And who knows, eventually I might get a new boss who doesn't care if I stay home."

Maybe they'll shake off the reputation for corruption, and won't need to keep trotting out anyone they can pass off as a war hero--yeah, no. He'll be doing it every year for the rest of his life.

"And I like the old-timers. We usually go out afterward, our reward for all the speeches, and they can get... colorful."

[hecu_marine]

"Oh, I'll bet," Shephard says. "Anyone who's been around long enough not to give a shit's a fun kind to be around, after shit like all that. They cut loose."

[bet_on_the_river]

"There's one, he's one of the older ones, and to look at him you might think he's not that sharp anymore. But he can remember enough of the speeches that he can repeat them later, with extra commentary that ladies shouldn't be present for. They've had fifty years of it now, fifty years of being Our Brave Heroes who Saved the Union. They're men, not monuments."

The difference between their wars probably makes things easier for him. People back east don't care much about the Indian wars anymore--maybe they read western stories, but they may as well be reading about Robin Hood and his men, for all that it has any relation to their lives

Maybe if he'd been one of Custer's men. People like grand romantic tragedy, and clearing out the last desperate remnants of an already-defeated enemy just doesn't qualify.

[hecu_marine]

"Wouldn't mind hearin' some of that," Shephard admits. "Then again there's a chance he's somebody my hometown owes a thank-you to; back in sixty-three there was a hell of a battle when the Confederates tried to blow the B&O railroad bridge in Rowlesburg. That was a damn long time back for us, though."

Cannon Hill still overlooks the original town to this day, although people haven't gotten to the point of reclaiming the buildings from the creatures that live there just yet. Soon. This year, maybe, once it's warm again and the spring flooding's done.

[bet_on_the_river]

"It's well before my time too," he says. "It was my father's war--never had a chance to hear any of his stories, though. None of the men I know now ever heard of him, so they can't tell me either."

Not that he's entirely sure he'd want to know.

"But it's good when they're still around. You can ask what it was really like, and if they're in a good enough mood, they just might tell you."

[hecu_marine]

"I hear that," says Shephard, and raises his glass a moment. "Git it from the horse's mouth if you can. Historians and such ain't worth shit half the time, bless 'em for tryin'."

It's not quite bless their hearts, the euphemism for they're all morons. In his experience historians do generally seem to try. They're just... compared to some of the stories he's had from Marines long since buried, they're just not always worth the paper they're written on.

"I'll tell you what, though. Cannon Hill and the whole fuckin' battle of Rowlesburg was a good hunnert'n sixty years before my time, so the only way I'm likely to ever meet an old timer like that's if he turns up here. Seen that sort of thing happen a time or two."

[bet_on_the_river]

"They got a story to tell," he says. "These commanders led these units to face this particular enemy at this spot here, and these were their tactics, and these are the numbers of casualties. Add in whatever detail sets this battle apart from others--the weather, the terrain, someone famous being there, the violence involved--and then the history books follow the men to the next battle, like you're watching them from a balloon. That doesn't tell you much about what it was like on the ground, and that's where the fighting is done."

He's biased, of course. Back home, if someone asks about his service--except on this day, of all days, when it feels disrespectful--he makes sure they have no illusions about valor, glory and the flower of manhood.

"Rowlesburg, huh? I can ask around when I go back, see if any of them were there."

[hecu_marine]

"I'd be mighty grateful if you did, but don't go to too much trouble on my account," Shephard says. "Rowlesburg ain't exactly what you'd call big or famous or nothin'. 'Preciate the effort, though, and I'll buy you a round for tryin' if you do, that's for sure."

[bet_on_the_river]

"I'm not making any guarantees, and I doubt I could bring any of them in to talk to you even if they were there--you ever notice, there don't seem to be many old-timers here? Lot of young people, even kids, but..."

He shrugs and sips his drink. "Maybe it's just harder to adjust, the older people get. So they're not brought in."

[hecu_marine]

"Huh. Might be," says Shephard. "You see folks here who ain't even human more'n you do old folks, now that you mention it. Didn't give it much mind before."

[buh_bye]

There is a man at the bar wearing a very nice suite drinking beer and eating nachos.

"Hello, Mr. Dewitt," said Death.

[bet_on_the_river]

"Hello there," he says with a polite nod, as he picks up his glass.

"Uh... have we met?"

Not that he has any problems talking to strangers, but it is a bit unusual when people know his name and he can't quite place theirs.

[buh_bye]

"No, we haven't," said Death quietly, "How are you doing today?"

He popped a nacho in his mouth.

[bet_on_the_river]

"I can't complain," he says. "Good health, decent weather... and now I'm here."

There are things that bother him, of course, but either they're not worth complaining about, or they're beyond being helped so there's no sense complaining.

"And you?"

[buh_bye]

"Doing my job," said Death, "And taking a break here."

He took a drink of his beer.

"Would you like some nachos?"

[bet_on_the_river]

"It's a good place to take a break," he nods. "You get all the time you could want."

Well, aside from normal aging--no one has ever explained to him whether people age here, which could get complicated for the ones who all but live here, only going home sometimes. But he hasn't been here long enough for that.

"Nachos--is that food? I can't say I've ever had any, but I wouldn't say no to something to eat."

[buh_bye]

"A break is always nice," said Death, "Yes, nachos are very good."

He ordered a plate for Booker.

[bet_on_the_river]

He'll eat just about anything, long as it doesn't seem to have spoiled--and, to be honest, sometimes it's been a judgment call about the level of spoilage involved. But that's never been a problem here. Everything's been perfectly fresh.

Unfamiliar foods don't bother him, so he tries it.

"That's pretty good."

[buh_bye]

"At least the nachos here are made with real ingredients," said Death, "Not the strange cheese like stuff that they use in gas stations of my time. I like most fast and crap food, and I don't even like that stuff."

These ones have real cheese, sour cream, fresh jalapenos, ground beef, tomatoes, and onions.

"So, what part of your story, are you in Mr. Dewitt?" asked Death, "I can tell it is after your stint in the military, but funny enough, I am not getting all of my usual information."

Sometimes the faucet gets turned down to a trickle.

[bet_on_the_river]

"That anything like questionable street-cart food?" he asks. "I've eaten things that... well, you can never be quite sure what's in them, but they taste all right."

Where he lives now is on the edge of Little Italy, so this isn't the array of flavors he's used to. But he doesn't mind spicy, not at all.

"...you're not a Pinkerton, are you?"

[buh_bye]

"No," said Death, "When the Pinkertons were running around in my world, I was buried in a box about 30 feet from the surface," Death smiled, maybe that smile was a little too big for his face, "No, sir, it is part of my being to know things."

The smell of dust might be detected, and if the guy has a really good nose, like Hannibal like nose, he might catch the smell of decay.

[bet_on_the_river]

"...huh."

This is Booker's vaguely confused expression. He makes that a lot.

It could be an outright lie, it could be some kind of delusion, or it could be true. As a younger man, he would've leaned toward one of the first two, but the older he gets, the less sure he is of some things.

"Well, as long as you're not one of them. They, uh... they probably hold a grudge."

[buh_bye]

"That is very interesting," said Death, "I don't see why? As far as my knowledge goes, you didn't kill your boss."

The man sipped his beer, "You are an interesting man, Mr. Dewitt."

The free hand tapping on the surface of the bar suddenly had black talons, but only for second. Sometimes, the avatar wasn't perfect.

"Have you ever considered forgiving yourself?"