Log Title: When an ONI Meet an ONI
Summary: Two people who aren't where they should be have a spontaneous conversation while indulging in questionable food choices.
IC Date: Mon Mar 04 22:01, 2381
OOC Date: Mon Mar 04 22:01, 2019
Related Logs: None
marywinter

 

 

I just started having this particularly specialized conversation with a near to stranger on the Ground, where we could be robbed at any moment.

* OOC Time: Mon Mar 04 20:01:27 2019 *

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Soyboys. Soyboys? Soyboys! Soyboys! Soyboys!

That's how the grating broadwave jingle goes for the chain of soy-based, highly processed, chemically questionable fast food that is probably uncomfortably more than 1/4 of the total Grounder diet. So what is Mary, of all people doing down here on the Ground with a greasy bag of Soyboys in one hand like she's a courier with their first day on the job and their way to a very nervous drug deal?

The redheaded House member is a long way from the clouds, but at least she's dressed the part of someone who looks more likely to be found down here than up. Thread-y plaid skirt, ripped fishnets, bracers, and a ripped up, green canvas military-jacket that looks like it's been through a war. She stops finally, leaning up against a street light to fish her hand into the bag and come up with what can only guess is a soyburger? Maybe? The wrapper at least confirms that its round and greasy.

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Soy is the new beef! Now that it's a hell of a lot harder to find the old beef which was… beef. Why eat meat when you can eat something that mostly tastes like it which can be produced at a fraction of the price (and then still sold at normal fast food prices)? These are probably not questions grounders ask before stopping at Soyboys, but somewhere along the chain is boardroom of persons that control but probably never eat the food, congratulating themselves on shrinking their bottom line. Which is part of the reason why the city is so heavily stratified in the first place.

Winter doesn't frequent the Houses, but they do have the sort of eye that allows them to spot a fish in the wrong pond. They're also dressed for the ground in a black shirt, army green cargo pants and a pair of old sneakers. They're wearing a leather jacket (well, leather like soyboy burgers are meat) over top and their short hair has been worked back into a small, sloppy bun with the help of myriad of clear side clips. They're walking from the opposite direction of Soyboys (perhaps heading towards that establishment?) which means they pass Mary along the way. The woman leaning against a streetlight and reaching into a bag of greasy goodness catches their gaze and their pace slows, head canting just a little.

* * *

Mary looks up, Winter's moving into the periphery of her vision pinging her awareness and like anyone who spends time on the Ground, ignoring things just entering your field of vision - be it stray cat, ranting individual in the middle of a high, low income construction worker just trying to get home, and anything else in between- is how you get ants. She was in mid-burger unwrap, intent on a fix probably worse than drugs when her ONI goes off. The periwinkle scroll against her hazel-brown iris as it attempts to handshake with Winter's, it set to reflexively hit on anyone else who has their ONI on.

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Ping!

Winter's ONI flickers in reply, their dark brown eye blinking purply-blue as the handshake connects. The information sent to Mary is Wisteria Tau, Psychosurgeon and the address to their office in the Neon District as well as a link to said office's netpage and another link to Dr. Tau's license and credentials. There's also whatever other information comes standard in an ONI handshake.

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Awwfuck.

Mary needs not say it. Her expression wears it and just before she was about to bite into her burger. She forgot to send her ONI dark and well, now here we are.

Mary Sacher. House member. The House in question being one that's known where it's known as being high end and status conscious, for those people who want to performatively make it clear that they can afford to 'date' there to everyone else. Her educational credentials flashing a country day school, a medical education. And a medical license currently out of 'active' status. Mary's mouth moves into a sheepish grin at Winter, self-conscious it would seem at the unforeseen complications of letting soy get in the way of turning your ONI off. "Psychosurgery?," Mary asks with a slight edge of interest, head canting slightly in consideration of Winter.

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Winter redirects their walking, so instead of heading past Mary, they instead walk towards Mary, coming to a stop at a distance handy for conversing (and for getting tantalizing whiffs of fast food burgers). They tip their head in a slight nod. "What was your area of interest?" The question is easy, curious, as if the two of them might have met and been a bit of a ways through chatting over drinks, rather than on a questionable street corner because of automatic ONI contact.

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"Emergency medicine." Her response is automatic, unchecked by the circumstances that now make professional no where near these concepts. "Or that was where it was heading-," she qualifies to a person she's just met who probably didn't need the qualification.

Mary hesitates, her gaze shifting right and left as though Winter as the professional that they are also shouldn't really be just hanging around here. "Are you- do you practice nearby?" The question tepid, probably putting a toe into the water before presumption becomes automatic offense.

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"Huh," Winter muses for Mary's answer. Thoughtful interest in the single syllable, as if they hadn't happened to notice the rest or simply don't care. "And here it turns out you've become the other sort of psychosurgeon." They quirk a faint smile for Mary's question, or maybe for their own incongruity in this place. "My office is a few levels up, but… occasionally I take on clients who can't meet me there."

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"…I guess catering to people's interests and hobbies is a certain kind of psychosurgery." Her agreement careful on getting too unvarnished even if there's a glib quality to the wry comment that a few stories up would probably not get made at all or at least within earshot of anything else.

"I guess, my view of it's pretty narrow in what I know about it? My brother needed it, not fragged but - y'know, the trauma around resleeving," she qualifies with a light shrug that goes with the facts of the long over past. Her reply sort of peters out, the observed details of Winter's presence here hedging into some sort of comment that wants to make itself but for the comment owner, who is doing their best not to make it.

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"I think at times it can be," Winter agrees. They offer another small nod for Mary's brother and his need for one of their ilk. But, as the next question doesn't get asked, Winter's gaze comes to rest on the paper bag with grease staining the bottom. "So, are those as good as they smell?"

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"No." Mary's head shaking slightly, even as her hand is dipping into the greasy bag. "Better?" she proposes, and fishes out one of the wrapped ones which may set alot of questions off about just how many of these Mary intended to eat in one sitting. She holds it out to Winter, squinting slightly but offering it all the same. "You're sure you want to eat this?" The skeptical climate of her tone probably not factoring in the bit where she was probably about to eat four at one time, on purposes.

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"No, but what is life without a little adventure?" Winter returns, accepting the burger and peeling the wrapper open to reveal the prize within. They… never really look like the menu pictures, do they. Winter considers, then brings the burger up to their mouth for a generous bite.

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Mary is busy watching, assessing if Winter will stay the course or politely tap out of this Grounder delicacy. Largely because they do, in fact, never look like the menu pictures - which is to say the implication of actual meat and less of one half of the effort to fake it in reality. The magic is in the suspiciously equivalent texture and taste, which has probably given whole generations of lab rats horrifying versions of cancer based on the chemicals required to fake it.

"So-" Mary begins, haltingly in a way that might imply she's about to ask Winter's opinion of the burger before it veers into something more professionally oriented. "-is it true that a third resleeve generally always guarantees defragmentive pathologies?"

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Winter's eyes widen a touch in surprise as the thing they put into their mouth is good. There's a hum of approval as they chew and are just about to swallow when Mary drops a question that has nothing to do with burgers at all. Winter makes a sound somewhere between cough and laugh before managing to swallow and clearing their throat. Okay then! "You probably know as well as I do that in medicine, one can never say always. It depends on the neuroelasticity of the DHF, the reason for three resleeves, the degree of difference between sleeves. But, the average DHF is certainly at very high risk of fragmentation by their fourth sleeve."

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Mary shrugs sheepishly, called on the use of that 'never word as her mouth finds an equally sheepish but brief smile. "Yeah, fair. I've tried to read some of the literature but- not my area of training. I generally was around for the bad outcome part, not the anxious attempt to find a new sleeve for the person's stack and hoping it isn't a complete shitshow at spin up," she concedes. The part that necessitates Winter's occupation more than not. "Unless you're a meth," she clarifies with a slightly sarcastic grin for the people who get to jump the line on the strain.

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"Well, sure," Winter allows with a nod. They pause for another bite, but tuck the burger into one cheek so they can keep talking. When on the ground, do as the grounders do. "But meths change sleeves only in the most technical sense. The whole point of moving from clone to clone is to convince your DHF you haven't changed anything at all. It's an effective cheat of a strange system. Do you want to talk about this person who resleeved three times, or was it purely academic curiosity?"

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"Well." Mary hedges, hand dipping back into her bag and pulling back out the burger she had previously intended for herself. "Seems like that's kind of a rude use of your free time-" She states, the emphasis on free as she sets the bag down on the ground in order to two-handedly unwrap her own burger. "It's just been something generally on my mind. Clients who usually do that kind of work don't want to talk about their work when I'm with them - unless they want heroic recognition for their work."

Her eyes rolling upwards for moment, not quite an eye roll but definitely in something of a rare form today. "And I don't know, I just started having this particularly specialized conversation with a near to stranger on the Ground, where we could be robbed at any moment." She pauses. "Though I guess you're less of a stranger and now more of a victim since I gave you that burger."

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"Eh, it's not entirely free, I did filch a burger," Winter points out, wiggling said half-eaten burger from side to side to further illustrate the point. "Anyhow, now you've piqued my curiosity. We could go elsewhere to talk. There's …" what would be a polite word for 'wretched dives', "…establishments here. Or further up."

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Mary debates, it probably buys time for a shot at her own burger. "Bit further up, but not that far up," Mary proposes, mercifully having chewed and swallowed before responding. The polite turn of phrase for 'family style establishment involving flare'. Her head levering back slightly to look up, past the low slung ceiling of haze that obscures aspects of the higher up. Pretty little toxic clouds. "But I can rain check it, if you're here to go see a patient. I've got… well, I've got a lot time on my hands in general."

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"I was," Winter replies for their client, "but I have. I was just leaving from there." They take a moment to pop the last bite into their mouth and then consider their kinda gross fingers. Hmm. They might say more but their ONI flickers and after a moment of staring off into nowhere, suggesting they're reading whatever came across the device, they say, "Actually, I may have to make it a rain check after all. Dinner day after tomorrow? Bit further up, but not that far. I'll see you there." Winter lifts a hand in a wave and then heads off, getting lost in the smog before giving Mary a chance to reply.