Nov 20 14:57:49 106 PA - The slow story of a love that dare not quack its name

From Chronicles

The Kingsdale Plaza Park stretches out to the west approximately sixteen-hundred feet until it meets with a residential area. The ground is covered with sporadic grass and wild flowers. Deep craters from some long-ago weapons fire cover this area of the park making the ground uneven and in some places difficult to walk. Nonetheless, this area has seen extensive use by the people of Kingsdale. Bike trails criss-cross the area and one of the craters has been filled with water where duck and other water birds come. These waterfoul seem to have quite a good living too, with people almost always present to feed them. Here and there are stands of conifer trees that people often sit beneath to read and otherwise forget the trials and tribulations of city life. The exception to this is during the night though, and nobody comes to the park after dark unless they are either foolhardy in the extreme or looking for trouble. The wind blows through the area unhampered and on good days it carries with it the laughter of children feeding ducks and the sweet scent of pine and wild flowers. Benches and places to sit are also scattered through the park area, and to the south is a Pavillion of five statues -- all previous dictators and people of note to Kingsdale's past.

Mikjel is sitting on the edge of one of the craters, looking out over the mud puddle at the bottom and tossing crumbs from a heel of stale bread to the solitary duck paddling around it.

Nearby a girl with ponytails is standing. She has been walking around the park, her hands clasped behind her, her face thoughtful. She stops, and her gaze moves to a tree near the mud puddle, giving it some serious consideration. Then, she lifts her hands, stepping back one step and then gives herself a couple of running steps, before she puts her hands to the floor and twists her body into a handstand, resting her booted feet against the trunk. Upside down, her skirt flops down to her thighs, revealing black shorts, and she rests there.

Mikjel hears a thump behind him and turns, looking over his shoulder. Seeing the girl there, he says, politely, "Might want to mind the geese." He turns back toward the pond, breaking off another piece of bread and flicking it into the muddy water. The duck swims a little closer and tilts nose-down in the water to capture the bread.

The girl opens her eyes, peering up at him, remaining upside down. "Why? Do they want their turn?" The question is directed at him, her mouth curving into an upside down grin. "I bet they think better upside down too." She watches him feed the duck, silence for a moment, her thoughtfulness chasing the grin away as the hard thinking returns.

watching the duck paddle around the puddle, about four metres away, he says, evenly, "Likely not. Neck's too thin to do that. They'd just flop over. But they come fast and they come in groups." He scans the park, just to make sure that no geese have managed to get too close.

The corners of her mouth twitch at his comment and the hazel eyes dance with mischief. "They do, huh?" The tone of her voice makes the willful misunderstanding obvious, even if her expression doesn't. Just in case, she adds, "I've had boyfriends like that." She grins, squinting up at him, her eyes narrowing a little.

Mikjel shrugs, staring out over the crater. "Yup. No self-control, geese." Another crumb tossed to the duck, who still keeps its distance. "And city geese ain't got the decency to bathe themselves, nor the politeness to finish you off after they're done." His tone, on the other hand, fails to indicate whether he is misunderstanding or simply continuing the innuendo.

She assumes the latter, or is just tickled. Who knows? Either way, her mouth curves back into that broad grin, and she laughs! An inelegant move, and she is upright, catching her balance. "Woooh, headrush." She moves over to him, dropping on the floor next to him, settling with her legs crossed. "Maya." She introduces herself.

Mikjel extends a hand, the one not holding a piece of bread. "Mikjel. I ain't a goose." He continues to watch the duck, as it drifts around the puddle. "She's a duck, though."

Maya takes his hand, her own firm, her grip strong in the same way that pianist's hands are. "I'm not a goose either." She comments, her gaze moving to the duck, "Why are you watching it?" She asks, casually, flopping back to rest on her elbows and tilting her head back to look skywards.

Mikjel's hand is hard and calloused. He squeezes hers and smiles in greeting. Another piece of bread is tossed then. This one lands a little closer and the duck swims in another metre before it dives to rescue the sinking crumb. "Figure, I ain't got no bunnies no more, maybe a duck would do me fine."

Maya nods, as if it makes perfect sense. "Where did the bunnies go?" The question is casual, idly asked, as she moves her hands behind her head, laying flat out on the floor and staring into the sky. "I guess if you get hungry you could eat it." The humour in the comment makes it obvious she is joking, as does the curve of her lips.

Mikjel nods in agreement with her last statement, not getting the joke or choosing to go along with it. "Yup. That I can. Bit late, but a duck's a duck." The duck is a duck and like a duck, it lets out a quack. "As to the bunnies, I had to let them go. Needed room in my truck, so I drove them all out to a clearing in the woods and opened up the cages. Shame, really."

"Won't they die? If they were pet rabbits..." She peers up at him, squinting at the light in her eyes, "Why do you want pets?" She goes back to eyeing the sky, her forehead wrinkled with thought, as she considers something. "I don't think we have met. Have we?" The pair are sitting, in Mikjel's case, and lying on her back, in Maya's case, by the mud pool, watching a duck circle.

Mikjel is sitting at the edge of a crater, feeding a duck.

Mikjel shakes his head, a lock of hair falling in front of his eye. He tucks it behind his ear again as he says, "Nah. They were only pets for two weeks, three at the outside. Be fine back in the wild. Or they get eaten. But they're rabbits. Getting eaten is a third of their life anyway." He stops to consider, then says, "Don't reckon as we've met, no. And it ain't so much that I want pets as other folk might want them. Then I can sell them and make myself a few credits."

It is time for a run - and that's just what Alistair is doing; he runs around the park, breathing measured all those good things that people do when exercising. He ackowledges people on his way politely as usual, going around them as his shoes splash in some of the puddles of mud, and he's now aprpaching the creater.

Maya gives this some consideration, before nodding and moving on with her life, leaving the rabbits to their fate. "Credit is a credit." She comments dryly, before sitting up and staring hard at the duck. "Will it make a good pet?" The first rain drop begins to splash into the mud puddle and she looks up. "I knew it would do that."

Mikjel shrugs. "If I catch it, and if it don't make no trouble, then maybe I'll be able to take it for walks around town on a leash." He watches droplets of rain send ripples across the puddle. The happy news is that this makes the duck less likely to fly unless it's startled. "You mean you saw the line of grey coming in off the mountains? Just water. Besides, it's a hell of a lot cleaner than the mud we're sitting in."

"Hello" says Alistair, the rest of the greeting eaten by his panting; he slows down near the two familiar people - at least, mostly Maya; he blinks his eyes as water falls from the sky onto them! "OUt for - a stroll?" he asks, breathing out little clouds of vapor.

Maya looks up, blinking the rain out of her eyes and her grin widens at the sight of Alistair. "Mister Alistair." Her tone is mocking, her face mock solemn. "We're thinking. Him about ducks and rabbits and me about other things. You burning off some steam?" The grin widens, teasing now.

The duck shakes itself, staiding up in the water and beating its wings, water droplets flying everywhere. He tilts his head back, looking up at Alistair, upside down. "Hey, salut! Get home all right? Your head OK?" He grins broadly, then says, "She ain't told me what she's thinking about yet. Except that geese should stand on their heads."

Alistair blinks at Maya, watching her for moment, then he smiles faintly, "Oh - oh ... just ... running - I mean walking things off" he says, and looks to Mikjel, "Oh ... salut. I'okay, thank you" he replies politely - though he's not quite his usual self. Maybe it's the run. "Geese ... on their heads?" he looks from one person to the other, looking confused.

"Your head?" Maya is all concern, frowning at Alistair, her eyes narrowing as she gives him a look of assessment. "They might think more clearly if they did, and then they might not chase people." Obvious logic and she nods as emphasis. "And anyhow, it doesn't matter what I'm thinking about." Definitely a line in the sand, where no man should go.

Mikjel nods, sitting back upright as he does. "Yup. Fellow and I pitched in to get the man a drink last night. Hoping it did its job proper." He glances, sidelong, at Maya. "And I reckon that if it didn't matter what you were thinking, you wouldn't have brought it up." Line. Smudged. With a toe.

Alistair's cheeks redden at the question, but, Mikjel gets to it first. A few moments later he manages a reply, "I don't mean to be rude and I appreciate the thought but it was actually pretty aweful, uh ... this isn't like ... I mean, sometimes Cali and I fight, it just ... " he trails off and his eyes move, possibly to look for an escape route.

Maya is definitely full of sympathy, but the glance she gives Mikjel is less friendly and caring. "True. It matters but I'm not sharing." After that declaration she concentrates on Alistair. "You fought with your Cali? But that happens sometimes... and you two make up. Right?" She nods firmly, encouraging Alistair, as if he was a slow child doing maths for the first time.

Mikjel tosses another piece of bread out to the duck. With this many people around, he's not going to lure it any closer right now, but he can at least reassure it that he still loves it. "Well, depends. What's the last bit of last night you remember? I think that, instead of how you're feeling right now, will tell me whether we all succeeded or failed in step one." To Maya, he shrugs. "Fair enough. Ain't about to pour my heart out to you, neither."

Alistair looks from one person to another - yep, it is like pulling teeth. Alistair is shy and there's no two ways about it. He breathes out, "Yeah but - she's mad and I think it's my fault, but I don't think she's any more right or wrong than I was; and I don't really want to fight her" he murmurs, frowning faintly, and looking over to Mikjel as well. "I ... don't understand. I remember all of it. No, actually, I think there were some little bits that I don't rembember, like, getting back to the bar, and ... ummm ... some parts here and there on my way home."

Maya pays attention to Alistair, giving him a sympathetic look. "What was the fight over?" She asks, "How are you not sure it is your fault? Generally is..." The cynical comment is softened by the quick grin, and the woman shakes her head. "Shouldn't drink, Alistair." With that, she flops back onto the muddy floor, stretching her hands above her head.

Mikjel shakes his head sadly. "See, I figure I know what your mistake is. If you'd just have sipped the bleach, rather than treating it like water, you mighta had a lovely night that you didn't remember. You mighta danced with either of the girls who were asking you. You mighta not been stumbling when one of them were asking you if you wanted a lay. But you drank a bit too fast and ended up needing help getting home." He sighs dramatically, still watching the duck paddle about. "You'll learn, but I ain't wasting no more hundred-credit vodka on helping you with memory problems."

Alistair frowns a little at the accusation, but it passes quickly; "It - uh yeah, I don't think I'll do it again, I could've ... done something really bad" he nods, and blinks his eyes to Mikjel, "I wanted to dance with Cali - I'm not interested in the others." Perhaps missing the point a bit, but hey.

Maya looks between the pair, shakes her head and scrambles to her feet. "I think this might be a manly man conversation." The grin isn't vanquished, and she turns to Alistair, offering him a huge, enthusiastic hug. Arms around his neck, and a whole body hug later, Maya is ready to leave the park. "I'll see you later." A wave and she turns towards the path, leaving them behind.

Mikjel gazes off over the crater, another piece of bread sailing through the air and splashing next to the duck. The duck bobs under the water, tail sticking straight up in the air as it gets the treat. "Reckon I'll call her Woody," he says, watching the duck with a smile. "And yep, you coulda done something bad. You didn't. Except that you downed eight shots of vodka in one go. And because of that, you failed to have any fun." He nods, solemnly. "There's a lesson to be learned in all of this, I reckon."

Alistair stiffens a moment when Maya hugs him, but not for too long - it was just a bit sudden ... though it should really have been expected; he relaxes a bit and waves to her, then to Mikjel he says, "Yes. Don't get drunk" a moment later he adds, looking lower, "Um ... nice duck."

Mikjel continues watching it, still facing away from Alistair. "Yup. Plump. Good plumage. Figure she's a twenty-credit duck. Twenty-five if I don't say where she's from." He runs a hand through his damp hair, smoothing curls away from his face. "And nope. Last night looked like a great night to get drunk. Leastwise, if strangers in a bar are buying you drinks, there's some real subtle hinting going on. Trick is not to do the getting drunk all at once. Drink too fast, you'll just fall over. Pace yourself a touch, you might forget hours and hours."

"I have no intention of being unfaithful" says Alistair, "It doesn't matter if I'm drunk or I forget it or not ... just not something I want to do" he replies, brows hiking up, "And I went there for a specific reason; there's no point without her. I'm sorry, I don't think we'll see eye to eye on this. And I uh, I don't know anything about the duck."

Mikjel sighs dramatically. "Well, what do you want to know. I mean, she's a wood duck. Aix sponsa. Found anywhere east of the plains, up through Canada. We didn't even get to the encouraging you to be unfaithful part of the night. Round here, you can find them year round. Up north, they fly down here for the winter. Normally, you'd hunt them with a shotgun and some shot." He tosses another piece of bread in the water, a little nearer, before continuing. "But I ain't got a shotgun and we're in the city. A little fun, were just dancing standing up, some drinks and wiping the frown off your face for a few hours. Likewise, I ain't got decoys nor dogs, so I can't go hunting Woody there in the woods. Besides, here, I might be able to get her close enough to catch her alive."

"Oh ... you want to sell it?" Alistair asks, brows hiking up a little, recalling some parts of the conversation earlier. "It doesn't look like it would be hard since you are feeding it" he muses, "I mean catching the duck" another nod, then, "Were you able to sell some of your things?"

There is a long pause while Mikjel tries to figure out what Alistai means. "Oh! The salvage? Nah. Couldn't find a sale." Another piece of bread. He's rapidly running down the loaf in this attempt to lure the duck close. The duck, though, is complicit in this, three metres away now, closer than it's been so far. "Then I were told that folks felt it were stolen. I told them, 'Ain't stolen. Law of salvage says it's mine.' But, well, they offered, nice-like, to haul it off my lot for free. And since hauling it into my truck and pitching it in the dump looked like it were about to turn into effort, told 'em that they could do what they wanted, so long as they didn't touch my oil drum."

"Oh ... that's a bit of a shame. There was some rumour going around about some person being tossed off his hovercycle or hovercar or something, too - is that the same one?" Alistair inquires, his features returning to some semblance of normalcy; he watches the duck. Who'll win now?

Mikjel gestures vaguely, shaking his head. "Don't know jack shit about that. Car were down when I found it." He stares at the duck. The duck stares back. A battle of wills, wiles and wits is underway. "Weren't nobody around, weren't any claim blazes. So I stripped it. Just like I'd do to any pile of scrap in the bush."

"I understand ... finders keepers" says Alistair, nodding his head as he watches the battle of wills that's about to happen - or perhaps happening, but there's no betting happening obviously. "Is ... that fun?" he asks, brows hiking up a little.

Mikjel shrugs. "We all gotta have a hobby, right? Mine's trying to convince myself that I'm smarter than thing whose brain fits into an acorn. I think it's fun. A practical man would buy a shotgun." Another piece of bread, another metre. Two now. Mikjel tilts his head back, pressing a finger to his lips as he looks up at Alistair.

Alistair smiles faintly, "Hehe" a quiet chuckle, and then he blinks and stays quiet at the indication to do so, and mostly motionless as well, watching the show such as it is. About the only movement is his blinking eyes, evil rain getting into them and all that.

There is a sudden flurry of movement. The last of the bread soars toward the duck. The duck lunges toward the bread. Mikjel lunges toward the duck. As the three of them act, the circle of life continues. Duck eats bread, human eats duck. Human dies and returns to the earth. Wheat grows and is made into bread and around once more. Of course, none of that happens right now. Instead, there is a blur of green as Mikjel lunges and a flapping brown blur as the duck grabs the bread, taking a few steps further. Mikjel lands, face-down, at the edge of the puddle. TYhe duck flaps to the other edge. It quacks twice. Mocking and triumphant.

Alistair perks a little when the action starts to happen, and he watches; the circle of life is far from mind right now, and when Mikjel falls Alistair aproaches to lift him up by the back of his clothing, assuming Mikjel doesn't get up first. Managing to keep a straight face, Alistair asks, "Are you alright?"

Mikjel raises his head from the muddy water. Dripping and covered in yellow-grey clay, he glares across the lake. "Next time, Woody. We'll dance again, and someday, you'll be mine." With Alistair's help, he climbs to his feet, boots squishing in the clay beside the puddle. The front of his body is covered with mud. His face is merely wet and dirty, his hair hanging in a frame dripping rings. "I'm fine. Ain't like it's the first time it's happened. You might say that Woody there is my Dick. My white whale. But I'm a patient man. Someday, I'll have her"

Alistair takes a breath, nodding his head a few times; but he does manage to keep a straight face still - at least the other man seems alright. "Yes, youre arch-nemesis. Would you like some help with it?" he asks, brows hiking up a little as he looks back to the duck as well. "Though perhaps I shouldn't offer, it is your arch-nemesis after all."

Mikjel shakes his head, shrugging helplessly, his dripping face radiating serene innocence. "Nope. I figure that this is my quest. Been chasing my Woody for three days now and I ain't giving up till I've my hands on her. Besides, once you put the birds in the ring, ain't allowed to touch the cocks no more. Ain't like the Mano the Manger needed a panda's help to get it up and start thrusting his lance at giants, neither." He sighs, dramatically, and sits down on the bank, saying, "I hope that came out right. I'm shit for book references."

Alistair stares at Mikjel, and a moment later he asks, "Pardon me?" looking a little confused. "So - what was that quote from or, did you make it up?" he inquires, frowning just a touch - perhaps he isn't that well read, at least in some subjects. His head turns a little to look at the duck again, and then at Mikjel.

Mikjel shrugs. "Were just some opera Jean-Jacques told me about. The Man o' the Manger. He were a knight who rode around Mexico on a talking panda... kinda spotted bear. Anyway, at the end of the show, he finds the giants that killed his teacher. Instead of fighting them sensible, he shows that he's a man by stripping off his armour, telling his panda to stand back, then charging the giants starkers. He dies, singing the whole time, but the panda survives to write the opera."

"That's ... " Alistair pauses, then nods, "Silly. Real silly" he murmurs, brows hiking up a touch. "And that is one clever panda, too" he last said in a bit of humour. "My parents used to take me to operas when I was little but I don't really remember much about them. Anyway - um ..." another pause, "Shouldn't you go somewhere warmer You might get sick."

Mikjel nods agreeably. "But that's high culture for you. All dramatic and sung in Euro, but when you get right down to it, it's just a show about a magic panda. Did I mention that the panda could dance, too? And it weren't like a bear shuffling around. Jiji said that, middle of the show, when The Man and the panda get a job as sherrifs, there's a whole big dance number. Hundred people on stage and the panda dancing with the best of them." He glares across the puddle at the duck a while longer, then says, "You're probably right. I'm wet, cold and covered in muck that's my own fault. I suppose that my Woody there can wait another day before we all get it on again."

"Yes, but ... " Alistair frowns faintly, "It really couldn't have been a real panda then, could it?" he murmurs, and hms softly. "Oh, won't she fly away? I'm not really familiar with migration patterns and things like that" he replies, looking curious. "Good luck the next time though - perhaps you might bring a net."

Mikjel shakes his head. "Nah. Aix sponsa, they live round here. Woody's got a nice wet hole to paddle around in, so I don't reckon she's going anywhere. Not till the hole dries up, leastwise. She might slip over to another hole, but I'm figuring that brown one over there's just too tight a fit for her. He shrugs. Might see what I can do to loosen it up. Maybe I can rent some equipment and give it a good plowing. That is, if I don't get my hands on her and take her home with me." He raises his hands and eyebrows in an expression that says, "Who can tell?" before turning toward the path. As an afterthought, he adds, "After I've cleaned my body -- ain't like I can fit a washcloth up my nose or in my ear to give my mind a scrub -- was thinking about grabbing myself a..." he glances at the sky, "...something around mid-afternoon-ish drink over at my local bar. If you pop by, I'll grab you something that'll test out in three types of spectrography as certified non-alcoholic, all recognised in a court of law."

Alistair looks to the duck and then to Mikjel, listening to the explanation with some interest, though at the same time his expression takes on a 'huh?' look. "Right ... " he looks around a moment as Mikjel starts to leave and Alistair similarily readies himself to resume his run. "Alcohol doesn't bother me; thanks though - have a good day" he starts running again, his expression plain.