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From:

You're welcome.

[ With all the earnestness and smugness a human being is capable of having. Matter bending.

He points his cup at the kitchenette counter. ]

I brought SunnyD-an if you need a mixer.

[ There's... just... so much in his refrigerator. There's just so much. ]

From:

lifetothefullest

[Lance gives Nate a faint smile, especially at the offer of more alcohol he totally doesn't need but will accept, but hold on just a second--]

SunnyD-an?

[He's not sure if he's impressed or horrified by this pun.]

From:

nonscriptum

[ The clear distinction between Nathan Drake and Lance Sweets, as people, can be most evidently defined with their respective reactions to an otherwise terrible pun. Lance with something that could be construed as torn between amusement and disdain, Nate with a high, stretched laugh that has the same genuine air as those he emits when he's just survived something absurd. Sunny D-an, he repeats under his breath and wanders over, setting a bottle of clear liquid in front of Lance on the coffee table.

Rounding their little makeshift gathering he pulls another chair up and reaches for a glass, examining their drink choices and lifting the tequila up for inspection before shooting Ian a knowing look.

He then proceeds to pour himself a very generous helping. ]

I've been told I can hang out with the cool kids so long as I don't make anyone jog.

From:

wittingly

[ Ian seems equally delighted by both reactions — is it really a good pun if at least one person doesn't hate themselves and also you after you say it? Round that out with a laugh and you get one very pleased Fowler.

Pleased enough that he isn't even gonna defend himself over the Tequila Knowing. Just a little hands up surrender gesture — what can you do. He is what he is. ]

You got the wrong room, man. The cool kids are like three doors down wearing leather jackets and smoking.

[ Let's be honest with ourselves here, this is three dorks and a coffee table. ]

From:

lifetothefullest

[Lance rolls his eyes at both Nate and Ian's reactions, but the hint of a smile is back on his face. He watches Nate set the bottle down and then pour himself a lot of tequila, and he's not sure if he should take it as a good sign that Nate's feeling up to drinking now or a bad sign that he feels like it's worth it to drink. It could be either and Lance is not at his best in figuring out which it is.

But either way he'll just make sure to pay attention in case it's anything to worry about, or at least pay attention as much as he can with how drunk he plans to be.

In response to the conversation, very helpfully--]

I had a leather jacket once.

[And he looked very cool.]

From:

nonscriptum

[ Nate makes a there you go sort of gesture, as if to indicate that Lance is, in fact, a person who qualifies as cool. ]

And I'm sure you looked very handsome.

[ He situates himself in his chair, propping his feet up on the coffee table in an utterly impolite, if exhausted, motion. Nate takes a sip of his tequila, pulls a face, and subsequently leans over to top off his glass with a little of Ian's final batch SunnyD.

Like a tropical beverage one might find on the beach in Montego Bay, but bad. ]

So... [ Is he allowed to broach this? Fuck it, he's going to broach this. ] Is this a somber occasion, or...?

From:

wittingly

[ You know what, color him impressed. He shoots one of those mildly surprised, approving looks in Lance's direction. What can he say, once a grunge teen always a grunge teen.

It turns into an appraising flicker at the question, from Lance to Nate and then right on back again. Doing a little reading of the room, weighing, assessing... ]

I think it's one of those occasions where you pretend you're not somber by laughing about your problems with repressed bitterness.

[ Correct him if he's wrong. ]

From:

lifetothefullest

[He definitely does not choke on his drink when he tries to laugh at Nate's comment, rolling his eyes again, though he catches that look from Ian and he'll take it. Let him have all three times he was ever cool, okay.

He isn't at all bothered by Nate's feet on the coffee table, considering he's pulling one of his own up onto the chair he's sitting in, like an utter heathen. The question earns brief contemplation, but Ian answers in a way he can't really argue with and so he gives a small shrug and nods.]

Speaking of repressed bitterness, I told him I'm actually an angry spirit cursed to walk different dimensions and be ignored by the populace until the very last second.

[He adds it for Nate's benefit, so he's brought up to speed.]

Edited Date: 2020-11-20 05:33 am (UTC)

From:

nonscriptum

[ Bitterness, maybe. Exhaustion for the most part, a bone-deep sort of weariness that clings to him when he gets up in the morning, follows him around like a shadow all day, and crawls into bed with him only to hog the blankets. ]

Oh, so, Hadriel all over again, huh? [ Nate says, light and conversational over his cup. ] This must be Purgatory. Or like- the myth of Prometheus. Cursed to have your liver eaten every day for the rest of your li- you know.

From:

wittingly

[ Damn, Nate, save some angst for the rest of us.

He's just gonna take a second to squint between the pair of them — angry spirit cursed to walk different dimensions — for the rest of your lives. ]

Oh my fucking god.

[ Drawled out with slow disbelief. Just a little splash of are you serious slipped into the humor. ]

This is gonna be a thing, isn't it?

[ You know what he means. ]

From:

lifetothefullest

People here better hope it's not Hadriel all over again.

[There's more of the bitterness, and he downs more of his horrible drink as he watches Ian's reaction. He doesn't know for sure if Nate's told Ian his own story, and so he isn't going to give it away, but--]

There's like, literally no benefit to being dead except making morbid jokes no one notices. I don't think anyone ever picked up on it in Hadriel if they didn't already know what I was doing.

From:

nonscriptum

[ Lance hedges gently without bringing Nate's own status up out of courtesy, and it's something that Nate appreciates deeply despite the lack of its necessity in this express scenario. He tips his head toward his friend in agreement, nodding along, because it took him a while to truly grasp how often Lance clutched at those opportunities to be morbidly ironic.

Over his drink and wistfully, with a put-upon expression that is so unabashedly feigned Nate can't even pretend he's not screwing around: ]

Sometimes I ride the elevators up the big department store buildings just to lift my spirits.

From:

wittingly

[ So, you know what, he'd been bringing his drink up to his lips to try and tequila away Lance's foreshadowing — mentally lamenting over the upcoming being dead jokes he's sure to see in his future, as it so happens. He's got about half a mouth full of TequilaD when that atrocity comes out of Nate's mouth.

He chokes. Sloshes a little drink down his front, sprays a little more from his mouth. The silver lining is it means he can cough instead of laughing, because nobody should encourage him.

Hoarsely, incredulously: ]

Jesus Christ.

From:

lifetothefullest

[Lance fixes Nate with a look at that horrible, horrible remark, glances toward Ian to make sure he's not dying, and then looks back at Nate again.]

Six months or so, and that's what you've come up with?

[At least it's very clear from that comment that Nate isn't trying to hide anything, so Lance knows he doesn't need to be so cautious, but still. Still. What even was that?]

From:

nonscriptum

[ Nate, who is snickering to himself into his drink, does a poor job of making it look like his shoulders aren't shaking with laughter. This is in part due to Lance's deep, abiding disappointment in him, and Ian's spit-take, which has made a hysterical mess of his shirt.

Nothing quite like getting somebody to choke on their liquor. ]

Tough crowd. Well, I think I'm humerus.

From:

wittingly

[ Oh Lance, they suffereth together. Ian sits up slowly from his slouch, ambles over to the kitchen to find a dish towel or something. When he finds one, he points it at Nate to kindly inform him: ]

You're the worst.

[ And then Lance, much more companionably: ]

We don't need an empathy bond to share this deep, deep pain. This is the trenches. You deserve better. I think we'll come out of this stronger having endured.

[ And now he's just gonna clean up the sea world show. ]

From:

lifetothefullest

[Lance rolls his eyes at Nate's reaction and additional comment, but he's having to hide a small smile behind his drink as he sinks lower into the chair. At Ian's show of solidarity, he raises his glass in a salute.]

We're in this together, bond forged in fire, etc.

[Though that said--]

Though you may want to take that back when you hear I got in trouble with Gaby again, and she sent Stephen to tell Nate to tell me to stop causing trouble.

[Does that sound ridiculous? It sounds ridiculous to him.]

From:

nonscriptum

Apparently I'm Lance's keeper.

[ Nate declares conversationally, smoothly transitioning from his role as jester of japes and japery to grizzled handler of the local problem child. Still ironic, he thinks, given their respective personalities. What goes around comes around.

He swirls his tequila and makeshift orange beverage around speculatively, puffing his cheeks out with an exhausted exhale. ]

Guess I gotta put one of those child leashes on him, like the ones you see at Disney World.

From:

wittingly

[ He falters, pausing with the towel pressed against his chest, flicking eyes between Lance and Nate again. His brow furrows slowly, uncomprehending — not in that he doesn't understand what he's hearing, but rather— what?

Let him repeat for the sake of reinforcing the absurdity. ]

So Gaby... told Stephen... to tell Nate-

[ Pause right there to let that one sink in; of all the people. ]

To tell you to behave.

[ Another beat, and then a long stupid snort that never fully blooms into a laugh. Game of telephone aside; ]

Boy did they peg that one wrong.

[ It's on the tip of his tongue to say I guess they don't know you work for the mob, right except he's not positive Lance knows that yet. Odds are extremely likely, but Ian's not much of a gambler. ]

From:

lifetothefullest

Hey, I already told you that I had a leather jacket once.

[Obviously Lance is a rebel. Too cool for school and all that.

He won't quite mention just yet that he does actually occasionally do things to earn that title, because no need for that just yet, and overall Ian's right; the whole situation is pretty funny when it comes down to it.

As for what Nate said, Lance fixes him with another look, commenting--]

Probably not a bad idea, since it'd be harder for you to go climb the nearest building if you'd have to drag me with you.

From:

nonscriptum

You're hilarious. I'm gonna sign you up for the open mic night at Red Wings.

[ A threat that ought not be taken lightly. Nate flashes Lance a thin smile of egregiously feigned amusement, because his daredevil tendencies are well-known to all parties here and his fatal fall was through no real fault of his own.

He reaches for the tequila, topping his drink off with proportions that should call his talents as a bartender into question.

Ruminating on the circumstances that brought them here, cognizant of the fact that neither of them probably want to go into detail about their circumstances and reasons for imbibing - or why Kyna is sleeping over at Casa de Drake - Nate chews his lip for a long moment before leaning on the one thing that's really started to nag at him lately.

To those who are familiar with him, present company accounted for, it's suddenly very apparent that Nate is wrestling with whether or not he should dive headfirst into a subject that has a more effective hold on his attention than talk of formal reprimands from Morningstar agents. It's getting harder to keep from popping like an overextended balloon, which is a habit he's had for decades. ]

So...I've been thinking-

From:

wittingly

[ Another short breath of laughter at Lance -- yeah, that leather jacket's really starting to prove itself, isn't it?

The towel gets tossed to the small kitchenette sink, and he resumes his throne on the couch. Pauses topping off his drink to shoot Nate a wary look. ]

Oh, no.

[ He's imagining nothing good can follow it. ]

From:

lifetothefullest

[The semi-serious threat almost earns one of its own--does anyone really want to be subjected to that, especially when it would be giving Lance an opportunity to torment Stephen with plausible deniability--but the change in tone catches his attention. He furrows his eyebrows a little, trying to figure out what might've caused it, but then Nate makes that comment and hm, this is doubtlessly going to be interesting.

He glances at Ian, then back to Nate, and goes ahead and asks--]

What about?

From:

nonscriptum

I've been thinking about Henries.

[ Nate's lips press together tightly, gaze flicking from table, to bottle, to the space on the wall behind Lance's shoulder, to the window. It's determining where to start that stymies him, because there's so much he can say and after spending the previous evening online for way longer than he should have, it feels as though certain things have finally settled into a respectable place.

Or a place that makes some significant amount of sense to him. ]

Okay...okay, so- hear me out. New Displaced get dropped off by mercenaries. We don't know which organization they affiliate with or why. We go on a handful of expeditions to find the old gates, we get a mercenary escort. We find out this escort is called Global Spiral. Now, all mercs are subcontractors for corporations, they don't work independently anymore, or for the mob. Easy conclusion is that a corporation hired them to do the job, Occam's Razor says the same source that contracted the expedition goons is the one contracting them to deliver us to Morningstar every couple weeks. So, first critical point: someone very high up in a corporation is invested in us. That's been confirmed by Morningstar.

[ Nate downs half his drink with increasingly intent purpose and leans forward, feet on the floor, elbows braced on his knees, talking with his hands. It's half-conversational, half-rhetorical, all thrumming with restrained things he can't say all at once. ]

What do the corporations do? Pulsar does space exploration, Vyonation does data security, it and Riverside and Giles-Bell all have a hand in implant manufacturing. What's the first thing we get shoved in our heads when we show up here? Be really easy to track people you've got a vested interest in, especially if you're the one producing the tracker.

Over here, we've got James Henries. John Henries. Whoever. Henries was the CEO of Giles-Bell. In 2266 he shifts all his time and money into studying quantum physics, birds, and cloning using Giles-Bell resources. We've already talked about the cloning theories, the body-hopping, brain-switching theories, so for the purposes of this say he faked his own death and he's actually still alive in some way, shape or form. What else could drive someone to re-invest everything but an obsession they couldn't possibly achieve in their own lifetime?

[ At this point, Nate has already gotten to his feet, alcohol long-abandoned. The energetic fervor of working himself up forces him to begin pacing, attention span completely distracted from the fact that there are other people still existing in the same room. Talking to himself more than talking to them. ]

Maybe...maybe he anticipated a huge project he couldn't complete in decades. Maybe not even centuries. So he stretches his own lifespan long enough to 2510 to get pinged in the Mariana Trench with Project Spinetail. We know from records that JPG and JH were there, and that they were trying to "awaken a life form," but the project was a catastrophic failure and either scared away the life form, or destroyed it, or...something. That part's a little vague, but whatever it was, Henries clearly believed it could help him with the goal of his obsession. Displaced who experienced Zerzura have said that not only was Henries a leader there, but a Project Spinetail was there, too. They saw-

[ He does a brief little hop-skip to his bag, pulling out his journal from home and flipping to some of the new pages he's filled on the subject to clarify the excerpts he took down. ]

...They saw visions of ghosts that talked about "playing God" and being promised "a better life," and...and if that's the case, Zerzura could have been a real place. Like here. Like Hadriel, or El Nysa. Not a shared dream, like the time I was married to Doctor Brennan- [ Very briefly, he turns to Lance with a small nod to confirm and snaps the little book shut. ] -but a memory? His memory? Because we can already do that with each other. And if Henries was there, and then he was here, maybe he's like us. Being in our own worlds and then being in another- I don't know, look, I spent like six hours reading about the MWI last night because I thought I should do some research on quantum mechanics to see if I could parse out this guy's motive- [ Hands up, washing himself of the subject for the time being: ] Anyway. That's another thing, we can get to that later.

I'm getting ahead of myself, so- okay. There were no Project Spinetail survivors, that we know of, but if our esteemed colleagues JPG and JH have the ability to live this long, they either used different bodies or survived the cataclysm somehow, or...both. Now, back to the main thing.

[ It's at this point that Nate spins back to face them both, alight with that familiar spike of adrenaline and a look that anticipates an answer as he begins to list off points on one hand with his fingers. ]

If you were an absurdly wealthy person who still had some kind of silent partner ties to the corporation you were the CEO of two-hundred and forty-six years ago, and other corporations were potentially complicit in keeping your secret because they're incentivized for financial reasons or power or whatever, and the company you ran developed and manufactured implants that could keep track of persons of interest that you brought here, and you potentially have some secret archive full of information on the people you brought here or the cult that worships them, and you didn't want the public to know where you were because you were supposed to have died two and a half centuries ago, where would you hide?

From:

wittingly

[ If this were an early 2000's movie, music would start playing in the background around the time Occam's Razor comes up. There would be a whole taking off the glasses and undoing the ponytail moment, except... you know, the reverse of that. It's a testament to just how unflappable his permanent chill is that his expression stays at vaguely amused but mainly interested throughout most of the monologue.

Things to bring up later: wait, you were married?

Things that distract him again immediately: the many-worlds interpretation of quantum mechanics.

Focus, Fowler.

Really quick mental replay of it all, and while he has several Thoughts and Opinions, none of them are an answer to that leading question at the end. ]

Where would you hide, Professor Drake?

[ Dutifully, as though scripted. ]