we might not be alright
There's something about having an unsteady mind or unquiet heart that points one's feet directly to the bar. Tonight, Pound has both. Unamuno had escalated from sulking to direct sabotage, and Ponte's genuine concern about her wellbeing did nothing more than confuse her. Pound is painfully aware she just wasted her Harmonix grace period on a fake date, with a fake lover, under fake premises. It's a surprise to her that she didn't say any fake things, however. And a niggling thought behind her ear made her feel like Ponte didn't either.
She sits at the bar as a customer for once, which feels almost indecent. Tending the bar with Ensor, is Brecht. A BissoTwo who spends her considerable privilege the way some people spend a vote, on the things that actually matter to her. Under her management, the Speakeasy became something closer to civic infrastructure than a bar: the People's Parliament, Pound calls it, the one institution in the Bunker that never once asked anyone which block they belonged to before pouring their drink. Pound is grateful to be one of its tribunes.
"Heard you went on a date."
"Word travels. Can I have a shot of the rye, darling?"
"That bad?" Brecht slides a shot in front of her.
"Weirdly, no." Pound drinks. "Unexpected."
The bar's been fuller than usual this week. Underwood's here again - second time today, by her count, though she's not really counting. There's a particular hush that's spread through the tunnels with proximity to the Reboot, something between confession and last call. People sit closer to each other than the tables require. A couple in the corner speaks too quietly. Someone's laugh comes a bit too loud, a bit too long. How many secret dealings, secret liaisons?
Planck slides onto the stool next to her, sheepish before she's said a word.
"Don't laugh."
"I make no promises."
"Pasternak asked me out." She says it like she's still deciding whether to believe it herself. "We're... I don't know. He's cute. It's really good." A pause, then, in a rush: "If our date goes well, I think we're filing for a license tomorrow."
Pasternak is the bunker's only tattoo artist. Pound had him cover her arm - and many other stretches of her skin - with creatures pulled from biology books in the library. He'd also been notoriously bad at choosing his lovers. Until now.
Pound raises one eyebrow, then her glass. "To Pasternak finally having good taste!"
They share a drink, easy in a way Pound doesn't get to be very often lately. Planck leaves for the diner not long after, practically floating.
Four couples, then. Puskas and Puccini. Poliakoff and Poincaré. Herself and Pontecorvo. And now Planck and Pasternak. Pound turns the thought over slowly like swirling liquor over ice. Four couples. Plenty of chances for the family to get a license. Almost guaranteed a second one at this point. Perhaps the family won't need her sacrifice after all. There's still time -
A strong hand finds her shoulder, brushing briefly against the back of her neck. Gone before she can decide how she feels about it.
"Didn't expect to see you here after hours."
Pontecorvo towers over her, a soft smile she'd never seen flashed in her direction before. "I'm meeting Peck. Synergy business." He nods towards an empty table, already halfway there. He's pleasant. Almost easy. She can't tell if it's real or if he's just as aware as she is that they're likely being watched. The Censorship hounds are still patrolling the Speakeasy more fervently than usual.
Peck arrives a few minutes later, a Synergy member from the Donkey party, joining Pontecorvo at his table. She's a very sweet woman from PentaFive Omega, having always shown Pound a great amount of respect, unlike Pontecorvo himself. Pound doesn't pay it much attention, more interested in Brecht's running tally of the night's chaos.
"Evans has added to the ledger four times tonight."
"Four?"
"Four." Brecht counts the scraps of paper hanging from the corner of the ledger by a rusty paperclip. "I think he might be lonely."
"More likely he's looking for trouble." They toast to trouble with another shot of rye.
Ughi, the Elephant presidential candidate, walks past the Speakeasy. Pound had always admired (and envied) how effortlessly he carried himself. An incredibly handsome man with a huge amount of charisma, absolutely. But Pound's fascination lies in his eloquence. Ughi has always been a fantastic orator. Brecht motions to welcome him into the bar, but he points at his hip flask with a smile of exactly the right size and duration, and continues walking.
"You think Ughi's flask has better stuff than what's behind this bar?" Pound asks.
"Obviously." Brecht doesn't even pretend to consider it. "Man's been sipping that thing through an election campaign. He's not doing that on Speakeasy moonshine."
Pontecorvo returns before Peck finishes her drink, tapping Pound on the shoulder. "Would you like to sit with me?"
He's standing a bit too straight, hands a bit too stiff. Bemused by his odd demeanour, and two drinks lighter, Pound follows him to the table, her curiosity sparked by the uncanny fact that he looks uncharacteristically embarrassed. She can't help but chuckle softly at his awkwardness.
"What happened?"
"Nothing."
"Ponte." She punctuates the nickname with a punch to his arm. She usually reserves this kind of teasing to her friends. It must be the alcohol making her extend her grace.
Then she sees it again, that flicker of something. This time in his eyes, for a millisecond. He exhales through his nose and nervously fidgets with his pen. "Peck misunderstood the invitation." He actually blushes.
"Misunderstood how?" She can't help but find this excruciatingly funny, made funnier by trying not to laugh at Pontecorvo when he's finally behaving like a normal human with flaws and insecurities. She bites the inside of her lip to stop herself from smiling.
"I had simply invited her to the Speakeasy to discuss Synergy business after hours." He says it like it physically pains him. "She thought I was asking her on a date."
Barely able to contain her laughter, but still managing to tame it, Pound lightly chortles into her drink. "Oh, dear, I'm sorry. How did you clarify the situation?"
"Oh, you know, I told her it was a misunderstanding, and that I was already... you know." He ends the sentence prematurely, like he felt he'd already made his case. "She took it well, and in any case, we had to discuss strategy for tomorrow, and..."
Pound turns her glass slowly, watching the light catch the rim. Pontecorvo continues talking about his work, but her mind drifts. What a strange sensation, wondering whether a fake relationship might be getting in the way of a real one. Stranger still to wonder if he's wondering the same thing. Did he really turn Peck down out of duty? Because he's too stubborn to leave something unfinished, even something as absurd as this? Peck is a smart, kind woman who shares his passion for politics. Why not Peck?
"... it's tough, it was an intense session." After losing track of the conversation for a while, she's pulled back into it by something in his voice, an edge of earnestness she was not familiar with. "Ughi and the rest of the Elephant party proposed a permanent Sentinel presence. Not for emergencies. Permanently. A police state." His hand flattens against the table, like he's holding something down. "It didn't pass, thankfully, not for their lack of trying. But it came too close."
"Besides, the Censorship Commission already has the authority to investigate anything, criminal or otherwise. And the Sentinels have only been deployed twice in a hundred years. Twice!" He's not performing this. This is not Pontecorvo manufacturing rhetoric he doesn't believe in to further his party's ideology. This is all him. "The people down here deserve a system that works for all of them. Everyone. No exception."
The radio cuts through before either of them can say more - a flat, official voice asking every citizen to report to the entrance of 1K, for the first Rebirth ritual of the Renewal Days. She's thankful for the interruption, because she's not sure what to do with how much she agreed with him.
They join the growing crowd of citizens as everyone makes their way to the entrance to the vaults, unsure what to expect. Shift supervisors ask everyone to line both sides of the tunnel leading to the vaults. President Bernstein addresses the whole Bunker, then. He speaks about the reboot, the RED citizens who will carry it out, how this sacrifice is needed for the survival of humankind. "Be strong," he says. "Be stoic for your RED brothers and sisters. This is not a sentence, it's an honour."
The Chairman of the Synergy starts a chant. "From sacrifice." The Bunker answers, one voice made up of many. "Rebirth."
A line of people begins walking the length of the tunnel towards him, between the two walls of citizens chanting at them. All the RED citizens of the Bunker. Penhaligon is in that line. He looks strangely small. Chin up, spine straight, every inch the man he's spent years training to build. Except his eyes. His eyes are those of a terrified boy. Walking right behind him is Poe.
Something in Pound breaks, watching them walk. She doesn't cry. The president asked her not to, and some habits outlive their reasons. But her breath shakes, and her posture trembles with it, however hard she tries to hold still.
Pontecorvo's hand finds hers.
She glances sideways and sees he's already offered his other hand to the citizen to his left. So she offers hers to Planck to her right. The gesture ripples down the line, hand after hand after hand, until the whole tunnel is holding on to itself. At the epicentre of it, Pontecorvo with his eyes closed, a pained expression on his face. He has every reason to resent Poe, the illegal brawler. He's spent years on Penhaligon's back. And still, watching them walk towards that door, he hurts anyway.
Pound, still glancing at him, squeezes his hand. He doesn't open his eyes, but his shoulders relax, even if just one millimetre. He squeezes back.