Nines was the one that suggested they step out for a conversation. Birdie still isn't sure exactly why, but she's not one to push about it. Maybe he could tell how annoyed she'd been, sitting there overhearing Smiling Jack ramble on. Or maybe he just wanted the air, which she certainly couldn't complain about.
"So," she risks venturing the ask only after they've settled, sitting up on a roof a few blocks away but still firmly in Anarch territory – her feet dangling over the edge, his back against the wall, "what was it you wanted to talk about?"
For all she's seen of how Los Angeles works (or doesn't, in many cases), Nines was someone to know within its scope. Birdie herself was no stranger to Anarch tendencies in Camarilla territory, but something about the dynamics here felt… Off. Like someone had gone and rewound her strings mid-song, each note jangling too tight or too loose. Even the Fugue sounded different here, never quite managing to resolve on a harmonic chord.
For a moment he seems unsure, then says, mock serious, "I was gonna ask if you had a joint, but that might be stereotyping. Not trying to offend."
Quite the opposite of offense, Birdie laughs, bright and clear, the discordant tune of Los Angeles fading somewhat in the background. "Here, hold on," and there, after digging around in her jacket pockets, is a baggie with a few already-rolled joints lined up neatly inside. Nines laughs himself, but it's more a vaguely surprised chuckle than anything like what came out of Birdie, as she pulls one out and lights it.
Once it's lit she leans over to pass it to Nines with a smile. "There, enjoy some stereotypical puff-puff-pass."
He does, and she wonders if this might have been it. Nines just wanting a moment out to get a little high with a new face in town rather than the known elements. Then he leans forward to pass it back to her, looking far more serious than one puff ought to grant him. "You're Camarilla, right?"
Birdie takes back the joint with a cheery, "Nope," letting her lips pop that final 'p' as she fishes out her lighter again so she can take her own puff without the little doobie going out in the wind. She's careful not to show any offense at the assumption, even though she's pretty sure it comes from her reputation from Denver, and that's a sore spot that may never really heal.
She takes some time to reorient herself on the ledge, turning away from the drop and the ground below to stretch her legs out in front of her toward Nines, ankles crossed, and takes another long pull to hold in as she passes the joint back. It isn't until he's taking his own drag that she lets the smoke out again, slow and unhurried, not needing to breathe in again for desperate lack of oxygen, only so she can speak. "I've been around, and been in more Camarilla territories than I think I can remember enough to count, but I'm not official or anything."
"A true wanderer, yeah?"
He doesn't sound mean with it, but it's not a nice tone either. Somewhere in the middle, aggressively neutral, closed off and wary, but Birdie smiles anyway. Like a reflex, like a defense. "You could say that, yeah."
Nines offers the joint back but she waves it off, opting to lean back on her hands and let him take the next few rounds for himself. It's a vulnerable position to lounge in, and it's a little calculated to be so. Point herself out as not being a threat, as not being here to attack. Just talk, just get high and philosophize much as it suits them both.
It surprises her a little when he follows up with, "So you've seen what they're like," and she considers that maybe her reputation from Denver isn't sore in the same way she thought it might be.
"I've seen a lot of ways they're like, Nines. Good and bad, it's always different. Every Prince is different, every domain, every problem and every way to solve a problem. It's like," and here, maybe, the weed is getting to her just a smidge, "Like a house frame. There's the same kind of wood, the same supports, but not every house gets built the same, or has the same things going on inside it."
It looks, at least a little, like he's considering that. It isn't until he's passing her the joint again that he hits her with, "Are you here to do what you did in Denver, then?" It lands on her like a slap, and she doesn't have to calculate the absolute mouth-open, wide-eyed confusion it leaves her in. Her reputation must be supremely fucked up, but she supposses, once she's got her bearings again enough to take a drag, at least he isn't angry and assuming she's a Camarilla spy or something.
"No," and the word comes out with a small plume of smoke. Where before she was smiling on reflex, now she's gone morose, curled in just slightly as she leans again to pass. "I'm never doing anything like Denver again if I can help it. And if you knew what happened, you wouldn't have asked that."
There's a stretch of time, where she looks down at the ground below them and can feel Nines looking at her, that she might otherwise count in heartbeats or breaths. Since she has neither, she counts it in measures of the Fugue, three-quarter time now, still not quite right but as persistently present as always. Her focus is so split she nearly misses what he says:
"Sorry about that, I guess. People talk."
He's offering her the joint again, but she waves it off with more finality than before. Pretty sure he isn't actually sorry, either. "Keep it."
People talk. That's certainly accurate. And from everything she's heard about how Los Angeles turns around itself, Anarch and Camarilla and everything outbetween, it seems they never tell a full story.
"Well, you're right about people talking. Not all of them listen, but they talk plenty. Always have. And for the record, Denver is still Camarilla. Just… Lasombra flavored, now, instead of McCarthyist Wannabe."
She forces herself back into the performance of ease, pulling her attention to Nines and the conversation at hand, her hands back behind her on the ledge to hold herself up. "What do you think the Camarilla is for, anyway?"
Birdie watches his face go from normally expressive to closed off, hard. Just shy of angry, like he's had this conversation before and didn't like it much at all.
"Controlling other Kindred, and keeping power to themselves."
Birdie is very conscious, then, of not laughing at that. Instead she nods, amicable to begin her disagreement.
"Remember when they started saying that about unions? I know you're old enough to know."
And she doesn't laugh, but she does take some satisfaction in watching his confusion cloud his eyes for a moment, that non-verbal what the fuck in the corners that lets her know she's touched on something he never considered.
"Are you saying the Camarilla is a union?"
Birdie shrugs as best she can in her position, tilts her head to one side as she watches him. "When it's working like it oughta, yeah. We all pay our dues and let the reps duke it out with the bosses. They've got power, but it's power they gotta use for something, right? Like keeping up the Masquerade? In all the places I've been, there can be corruption for sure. But when there's a Prince, there's someone that's got the job to solve the problems for the rest of us. It can break if the Prince fucks up, but it can break a lot faster, and a lot worse, if we all stop paying our dues and sending out our reps."
The words hang there in the air between them long enough that Birdie wonders if maybe he's a little too high to get this deep into things, but he takes another drag and says, "Yeah, they said you were a hippie. Sure as shit sound like one," before flicking the remnants off the edge of the roof toward the ground below them.
His tone, at least, isn't completely accusatory. Instead, she's got the distinct feeling she's being dismissed.
"What, you have a better idea of how the Camarilla works with your wealth of experience in their courts?"
That catches him up. Not just the words, the subtle jab at how he hasn't left the city to see how things work elsewhere, but her own tone – light, easy. No fight, just making a point.
"Maybe I'm just not as trusting as you are." And that stings, enough that Birdie lets it show with a wince, looks away at the light-polluted sky above them.
"I might be a hippie, but I was the protesting kind. Anti-war, anti-government. FBI listening in at the bar because I sang songs that made communism look too appealing kinda hippie."
Nines, at least, has the temerity to appear like he's reconsidering his assessment of her. "You trust LaCroix, though, don't you?"
She considers that a moment. Birdie has only really had the chance to talk to her a handful of times, but she comes with Ouija Roman's high regards. If there is anyone she trusts these nights, it's the Setite Primogen of Las Vegas that helped get her out of Denver.
"I do, yeah. I've seen Princes with less reason do… Terrible things to Anarchs. To anyone they don't like or don't trust. Torture, blood hunts… You might not trust LaCroix, but she's trying to help as best she can, even if you don't understand why or how she's doing it."
None of this seems to be what Nines wants to hear, but she appreciates that he keeps it to himself for the most part. A change in his expression – sour, cold – and grunt to acknowledge he's heard her rather than some animated, angry rebuttal.
They sit like that long enough that Birdie opts to enjoy the silence, the touch of high she's riding, the breeze in her hair. Much more enjoyable than still being stuck inside.
It lasts a few minutes before Nines breaks it with a careful, "Is there anyone you don't?"
And isn't that a question of the night? She considers the question, and the kindred she's met in Los Angeles so far. Her answer might be a bit much, all things considered, but everything she knows about Nines and Anarchs besides tell her he'd rather her honesty than mincing words for his ego, or anyone else's.
So she answers honestly, without reservation or hedging.
"I don't trust Jack." Birdie watches his expression, the way his eyes widen a little, eyebrows go up, and takes the lack of immediate argument as a sign to continue. "My brother died in Vietnam. Trip wire out on some patrol after he got drafted. He died alone and afraid and with wet socks. If I told that to Jack, he'd probably laugh, and I don't think you can argue different. He's the kind that likes seeing people hurt, that laughs at war movies and the sound of gunshots and riots. He'd throw a brick and not care who it hits so long as they bleed for it. Someone like that doesn't help anyone else but themself."
a conversation - for ~terrifies
"So," she risks venturing the ask only after they've settled, sitting up on a roof a few blocks away but still firmly in Anarch territory – her feet dangling over the edge, his back against the wall, "what was it you wanted to talk about?"
For all she's seen of how Los Angeles works (or doesn't, in many cases), Nines was someone to know within its scope. Birdie herself was no stranger to Anarch tendencies in Camarilla territory, but something about the dynamics here felt… Off. Like someone had gone and rewound her strings mid-song, each note jangling too tight or too loose. Even the Fugue sounded different here, never quite managing to resolve on a harmonic chord.
For a moment he seems unsure, then says, mock serious, "I was gonna ask if you had a joint, but that might be stereotyping. Not trying to offend."
Quite the opposite of offense, Birdie laughs, bright and clear, the discordant tune of Los Angeles fading somewhat in the background. "Here, hold on," and there, after digging around in her jacket pockets, is a baggie with a few already-rolled joints lined up neatly inside. Nines laughs himself, but it's more a vaguely surprised chuckle than anything like what came out of Birdie, as she pulls one out and lights it.
Once it's lit she leans over to pass it to Nines with a smile. "There, enjoy some stereotypical puff-puff-pass."
He does, and she wonders if this might have been it. Nines just wanting a moment out to get a little high with a new face in town rather than the known elements. Then he leans forward to pass it back to her, looking far more serious than one puff ought to grant him. "You're Camarilla, right?"
Birdie takes back the joint with a cheery, "Nope," letting her lips pop that final 'p' as she fishes out her lighter again so she can take her own puff without the little doobie going out in the wind. She's careful not to show any offense at the assumption, even though she's pretty sure it comes from her reputation from Denver, and that's a sore spot that may never really heal.
She takes some time to reorient herself on the ledge, turning away from the drop and the ground below to stretch her legs out in front of her toward Nines, ankles crossed, and takes another long pull to hold in as she passes the joint back. It isn't until he's taking his own drag that she lets the smoke out again, slow and unhurried, not needing to breathe in again for desperate lack of oxygen, only so she can speak. "I've been around, and been in more Camarilla territories than I think I can remember enough to count, but I'm not official or anything."
"A true wanderer, yeah?"
He doesn't sound mean with it, but it's not a nice tone either. Somewhere in the middle, aggressively neutral, closed off and wary, but Birdie smiles anyway. Like a reflex, like a defense. "You could say that, yeah."
Nines offers the joint back but she waves it off, opting to lean back on her hands and let him take the next few rounds for himself. It's a vulnerable position to lounge in, and it's a little calculated to be so. Point herself out as not being a threat, as not being here to attack. Just talk, just get high and philosophize much as it suits them both.
It surprises her a little when he follows up with, "So you've seen what they're like," and she considers that maybe her reputation from Denver isn't sore in the same way she thought it might be.
"I've seen a lot of ways they're like, Nines. Good and bad, it's always different. Every Prince is different, every domain, every problem and every way to solve a problem. It's like," and here, maybe, the weed is getting to her just a smidge, "Like a house frame. There's the same kind of wood, the same supports, but not every house gets built the same, or has the same things going on inside it."
It looks, at least a little, like he's considering that. It isn't until he's passing her the joint again that he hits her with, "Are you here to do what you did in Denver, then?" It lands on her like a slap, and she doesn't have to calculate the absolute mouth-open, wide-eyed confusion it leaves her in. Her reputation must be supremely fucked up, but she supposses, once she's got her bearings again enough to take a drag, at least he isn't angry and assuming she's a Camarilla spy or something.
"No," and the word comes out with a small plume of smoke. Where before she was smiling on reflex, now she's gone morose, curled in just slightly as she leans again to pass. "I'm never doing anything like Denver again if I can help it. And if you knew what happened, you wouldn't have asked that."
There's a stretch of time, where she looks down at the ground below them and can feel Nines looking at her, that she might otherwise count in heartbeats or breaths. Since she has neither, she counts it in measures of the Fugue, three-quarter time now, still not quite right but as persistently present as always. Her focus is so split she nearly misses what he says:
"Sorry about that, I guess. People talk."
He's offering her the joint again, but she waves it off with more finality than before. Pretty sure he isn't actually sorry, either. "Keep it."
People talk. That's certainly accurate. And from everything she's heard about how Los Angeles turns around itself, Anarch and Camarilla and everything outbetween, it seems they never tell a full story.
"Well, you're right about people talking. Not all of them listen, but they talk plenty. Always have. And for the record, Denver is still Camarilla. Just… Lasombra flavored, now, instead of McCarthyist Wannabe."
She forces herself back into the performance of ease, pulling her attention to Nines and the conversation at hand, her hands back behind her on the ledge to hold herself up. "What do you think the Camarilla is for, anyway?"
Birdie watches his face go from normally expressive to closed off, hard. Just shy of angry, like he's had this conversation before and didn't like it much at all.
"Controlling other Kindred, and keeping power to themselves."
Birdie is very conscious, then, of not laughing at that. Instead she nods, amicable to begin her disagreement.
"Remember when they started saying that about unions? I know you're old enough to know."
And she doesn't laugh, but she does take some satisfaction in watching his confusion cloud his eyes for a moment, that non-verbal what the fuck in the corners that lets her know she's touched on something he never considered.
"Are you saying the Camarilla is a union?"
Birdie shrugs as best she can in her position, tilts her head to one side as she watches him. "When it's working like it oughta, yeah. We all pay our dues and let the reps duke it out with the bosses. They've got power, but it's power they gotta use for something, right? Like keeping up the Masquerade? In all the places I've been, there can be corruption for sure. But when there's a Prince, there's someone that's got the job to solve the problems for the rest of us. It can break if the Prince fucks up, but it can break a lot faster, and a lot worse, if we all stop paying our dues and sending out our reps."
The words hang there in the air between them long enough that Birdie wonders if maybe he's a little too high to get this deep into things, but he takes another drag and says, "Yeah, they said you were a hippie. Sure as shit sound like one," before flicking the remnants off the edge of the roof toward the ground below them.
His tone, at least, isn't completely accusatory. Instead, she's got the distinct feeling she's being dismissed.
"What, you have a better idea of how the Camarilla works with your wealth of experience in their courts?"
That catches him up. Not just the words, the subtle jab at how he hasn't left the city to see how things work elsewhere, but her own tone – light, easy. No fight, just making a point.
"Maybe I'm just not as trusting as you are." And that stings, enough that Birdie lets it show with a wince, looks away at the light-polluted sky above them.
"I might be a hippie, but I was the protesting kind. Anti-war, anti-government. FBI listening in at the bar because I sang songs that made communism look too appealing kinda hippie."
Nines, at least, has the temerity to appear like he's reconsidering his assessment of her. "You trust LaCroix, though, don't you?"
She considers that a moment. Birdie has only really had the chance to talk to her a handful of times, but she comes with Ouija Roman's high regards. If there is anyone she trusts these nights, it's the Setite Primogen of Las Vegas that helped get her out of Denver.
"I do, yeah. I've seen Princes with less reason do… Terrible things to Anarchs. To anyone they don't like or don't trust. Torture, blood hunts… You might not trust LaCroix, but she's trying to help as best she can, even if you don't understand why or how she's doing it."
None of this seems to be what Nines wants to hear, but she appreciates that he keeps it to himself for the most part. A change in his expression – sour, cold – and grunt to acknowledge he's heard her rather than some animated, angry rebuttal.
They sit like that long enough that Birdie opts to enjoy the silence, the touch of high she's riding, the breeze in her hair. Much more enjoyable than still being stuck inside.
It lasts a few minutes before Nines breaks it with a careful, "Is there anyone you don't?"
And isn't that a question of the night? She considers the question, and the kindred she's met in Los Angeles so far. Her answer might be a bit much, all things considered, but everything she knows about Nines and Anarchs besides tell her he'd rather her honesty than mincing words for his ego, or anyone else's.
So she answers honestly, without reservation or hedging.
"I don't trust Jack." Birdie watches his expression, the way his eyes widen a little, eyebrows go up, and takes the lack of immediate argument as a sign to continue. "My brother died in Vietnam. Trip wire out on some patrol after he got drafted. He died alone and afraid and with wet socks. If I told that to Jack, he'd probably laugh, and I don't think you can argue different. He's the kind that likes seeing people hurt, that laughs at war movies and the sound of gunshots and riots. He'd throw a brick and not care who it hits so long as they bleed for it. Someone like that doesn't help anyone else but themself."