Kummer/Wishful Thinking pt2
From Unofficial Handbook of the Virtue Universe
Sutra-Dhara, once she finished her performance, noticed Kummer was missing. When he didn't return after a few minutes so she could discuss the story with him, it struck a chord in her. So, she started to "casually" wander the facility to see if she could stumble across the Alpha.
She had almost given up, when Sergeant Watanabe stopped her briefly in a hallway to explain: "it ... he ... that wolf Alpha ... whatever ... is on the roof again."
So, she "wandered" that way. Sure enough, there he was. While Sutra-Dhara emerged from the roof access, she noted the presence of the security officer patrolling on the roof, steeped in boredom. It almost dripped off him like rainwater. She also noted Kummer was holding a book, trying to read. What kind of book, she had no idea. Though the fact Kummer was sitting so close to security while in possession of a book was a little curious, almost as much as why he left during the performance.
"There you are poppet," the Delta said brightly. "What are you doing up here?"
Kummer jumped in surprise, lowered the book protectively into his lap, and half turned toward the speaker.
"Hello, ma'm," he said quietly. "I do nothing. Just pass day." Kummer spared a faint smile, then turned to look out across the landscape. His body language was thoughtful, yet moody; it was almost downright dark for a moment.
Sutra-Dhara thought back to Killing Dance's classes on 'How to incorporate an Alpha into your Art'.
Find the source of the moodiness and remedy it. How? He did not cover this, the Delta concluded silently. I could guess, I suppose.
She sat down a couple of feet away on the roof, ankles dangling, looking out over the limited cityscape. From the length of chain looped about her torso like a sash, she drew a thin, bitter-looking clove cigarette, which she lit carefully in the shelter of a cupped palm.
The lighter had to be illusionary, as she had no pockets. So the cigarette, scentless, perhaps was as well. Its smoke trail behaved perfectly, though, in complete congruence with the variances of breeze he could see or hear as the night air impacted against the relative warmth of the roof. A slow, controlled wisp of smoke curled from her nostrils on her next exhalation. Sutra leaned back on her empty hand, looking briefly consoled.
"They say it is a web with a cracked heart," the Stage-Mistress said, gesturing toward the atmosphere-piercing peak at the center of the city. "That good vision can spot the repair crew work at all hours. Young spiders grow, but fully formed ones do not mend injuries so good."
Kummer glanced at the illusionary cigarette, shook his head slightly, then looked away towards the peak at the center of the city. “Good cig’rette not real. Is bad, could kill you. No good.” He stared at the peak considering what she said, turning the book in his hands idly. “Broken heart is prob’ly trap. Lord Recluse prob’ly use to lure unwary in. I no get about young spiders. I stay ‘way from Arachnoids. Less you mean the ‘Destined One’ what’vers. Kummer no pay much mind them. Easier just work, get to sleep later.”
Sutra snorted faintly. "Spiders, poppet. A spider climbs up its thread to gain freedom. A yogi climbs up the sacred sound to true knowledge. Most spiders spend rather a lot of that knowledge on crawling into places where they are not welcome, but that only matters if they are spotted by someone with a good hard boot sole."
Kummer kept staring out at the cityscape. “I no find knowledge in climb. No find real freedom. Jus’ temp’rary. I be poor spider if get made to one.” He sighed a little. “No be stomp by boot sole, yet. We see tomorrow, might find.”
"Spiders have no whiskers, anyway, poppet, and they mostly do not sparkle. Be glad you are not a spider. I would be tempted to stuff you in the poem's hatbox." Sutra chuckled faintly at the image that spawned. "Vanity Or The Crawly Thing: a short play in two acts, claiming to be a morality tale, in fact a comedy of self-demolition. I could sell it twice but after that it would descend into the same old puppet that beats herself to pieces."
“Enough be done to Verse and her tiger-Alpha,” Kummer said softly. “Both not learn. Even if you make play. One too vain. Other dumb. They trade role. Even when tiger lose fur. Both deserve each other.” The young wolf half-shrugged, then flipped open his novel. He looked at the words on the page and sighed. “Maybe next time, Verse lose hair while tiger watch.”
Kummer paused then gave Sutra-Dhara a long measuring look. He finally looked away. “Ma’m, you no talk Kummer … no talk most … you want talk now. If you need Kummer for lease, I be ready. Sutra just need say,” he replied with a deeply fatigued tone. He glanced at his book a moment. “Can be at door in moment. Just say what Kummer do.”
"Not work time tonight, poppet. Lockdown in an hour. Sales works late if there is a juicy butterfly, but not on dry bones." She leaned over and plucked the book from his lap, careful not to lose his place. Curiously she looked it over. Kummer had the sense that Sutra-Dhara did not gather terribly much comprehension from the back cover blurbs, at least not to look at her facial expression and the set of her shoulder muscles ... but she also did not flip through the book very interestedly before returning it to his lap. "There's a lovely little toy. Delicate. Not big enough for a really visible prop on a stage, but those are too often many pieces glued together and then given a different cover. Inside the actor may have hidden his cues, or his motive, or his prompts for the way he plays his lines. One used to write in his prop all the names of the patron men he had petted. Another had only his vitae, so he could see his glory as he did his part."
She blew out another lungful of smoke, gesturing languidly. "I will find you some with more pictures. Ones that match the tale. Ozma was always honey-blonde but all the pictures said black hair, so I used the poem instead."
Kummer watched the smoke for a moment, and raised his eyebrows at it. He shook his head, looking at the cover with the dark image of the gunfighter walking down the dust-covered street. “Is no prop. Is story. Holds freedom … jus’ temp’rary freedom. Story I get. Picture on cover match story. Is gunfighter … kinda like assassin … lost memory … then do good deed and help town in trouble. Get memory back, atone for bad thing in past, town accept.” He paused a moment then let out a slow breath, “Make feel alive when I go through, even if take long time cause … hard to read. You no have get book with pictures. No need.” He said quietly, then watched the skyline.
Sutra turned her head just enough to study Kummer with one eye, then looked back at the cityscape again. Out of the corner of the other eye, she checked on that bored Security goon. This is not working. He hears but does not listen. The puzzle is not one I can solve if the Alpha will not manipulate his portion of it in tune with me. For a moment she reflected on the very reasonable possibility that the Alpha in question did not want to be solved ... or at least, not by her.
"I am a Delta," she said dryly. Her voice was not like Grigaere's when he said it, though the sentiment was the same: Grigaere took pride in his responsibility, refuge for his sense of self in his dedicated fulfillment of it. Sutra-Dhara was more matter-of-fact. The Stage-Mistress was responsible for the functional security of her entire crew, for the production itself, for the production house if a dedicated venue even existed. "I do for Alpha what Alpha cannot do for self. Sometimes that is a matter of translate. Sometimes that is a matter of organize. Occasionally," and she puffed on the cigarette again for a second, "that is a matter of make a comfort. Stories for forgetting sorrows. Hints of chaos that bring hope, a new path upward to grasp."
She stopped to examine the cigarette critically, judging the length that had not yet burned to ash. "Sometimes what we do for Alpha is to see the spiked wall before the Alpha crashes into it."
The cigarette turned in her hands a few times, rolling carefully between her fingers. Its bright ember grew and faded like a heartbeat a few times, until she had just the right amount of ash tapped away. "I will find you a book, poppet. A proper one. With pictures. Just right for an Alpha's toy. We may have to assemble it, some -- this island place has all these makers, with all their parts, and not half the islands have a real Prop-maker. Good title, good story, all as it should be. No spiky lāla walls that move and sneak."
Kummer looked at her with a deadpan glance, then shook his head. He saw the pattern. It was getting clearer. Always the same with the Deltas. He looked away a moment. “I no question you Delta. No question what you feel you need do,” he said quietly, softly. “I been speak with lion, bat … though bat is mistake, they no shut up. I watch. I listen. Grigaere speak about Alpha care, yes? Killing Dance speak about Alpha care? How you know they right?” He looked at Sutra-Dhara as he asked the question. His tone wasn’t accusatory, or at all hostile. Just mildly curious. “Ma’m, I curious, anyone ask Alpha what really want? Maybe Alpha want crash into spike wall … is stupid, but might. Maybe Alpha see spike wall but is try climb it, not crash? Only few Alpha as dumb as brick, most ver’ smart.”
The young wolf took a deep breath before he continued. “Also, has Delta ask ‘why have Alpha’?” Kummer paused a moment to let the question float on the air. “Why you want Alpha? Sutra need? Sutra told? Sutra feel suddenly compelled? Or Sutra really … genuine … want Alpha? Delta no seem need Alpha. If did, Ceylon Spinel, Kinba Kushi, Koan Mandala … they no be alone. But all are. Kummer find odd if Delta need see to Alpha. Ma’m, Kummer watch you. You sure you need Alpha? You Art is flawless. You powers self-suf’icient an’ amazing. You make ally all own if need.”
Kummer looked back out at the skyline with the slowly fading sunlight. “Alpha have lots senses. You say that before. Said in Council base. Kummer notice strange thing.” He looked at Sutra carefully. “Sutra know that Delta touch feel different on Kummer than non-Delta? I es’periment. I find this. I no find if just a ‘Kummer thing’ cause Kummer broken, or if same for all Alpha. So I curious. What feeling is real? It feel good be touch by Delta … too good. Far too good. I no trust feeling, Company make fake feeling. How you know what you feel real? How you know even seek ally real? Is Company plan?” He gestured to the book. “I know is wrong read. I hear lesson you give. But … sensation when read is real. Feeling when read is real. My feeling. No feel far too good.” He sighed again. “It all feel Alpha meant to be bright animal. Repeat training, same ev’ry day. No change, lots pain. Make insane do long enough. I curious there also. Why? Cheaper get animal, then train. Basic business sense.” He shook his head as if casting aside the thought. “Last is useless question. No matter. Is Kummer be base animal? Might be better if told so. I can fake if needed.”
Sutra-Dhara Anima laughed, a short bark of a thing with entirely too much nose to it. She looked around to estimate the time, apparently decided she had enough, and started her cigarette's smoke trail curling into her cupped hands. Once she had a big enough ball of dark smog, she held it low, the burning cigarette at its center, almost touching the rooftop between herself and the silver-furred wolf-man.
"I have this story from the Bell-Chime," she began softly, in an archetypal storyteller voice she had only once used to begin a tale before, "who had it from the Canny, who had it from her sister the Furtive, who had it from the Knife-Thrower, who had it from the Inquisitive, who gathered it in pieces over time from the old one. I am the Stage-Mistress, sometimes the Shadow-Puppeteer. I give the story to you. It is a long line for us, and only three live, and you must see that the story is safely passed some day." She looked up to meet Kummer's eyes, to impress the seriousness of this charge on him. The ball of smoke in her cupped hands continued to be a rolling, formless ball of dark wisps with only the faintest hint of a red light at its center.
