things with wings
Pound walks back to the Speakeasy feeling like freshly ironed cotton. Unamuno had marched on with purpose on her face, determined to use her UnaOne influence to gather information about the upcoming Reboot, but much more importantly - to Uni, at least - to convince Ughi to ask Pound on a date. She is not easily dissuaded from her projects.
A big commotion in the Synergy makes her stop in her tracks as she's walking by. She scans the crowd for Penhaligon, hoping to ask her friend to give her all the details, but he is surrounded by other Mastiff members. She doesn't notice Pontecorvo standing by her side until he speaks.
"He did good today."
Mildly startled, she looks up at him, notebook pressed against his chest, his gaze focused on Penhaligon.
"What happened in there?"
"This is a historical day in the Bunker. Come and see." He pulls her to the board where the Synergy motions get posted if new amendments are made to the Codex after a session.
Two pink slips printed in the mainframe's distinctive dot-matrix style, one for each motion voted on that day. One states that Unions are now permissible among any combination of blocks, removing the century-old restriction that made inter-block relationships illegal. Pontecorvo points at that slip.
"The Elephant party is desperately trying to stay relevant by aligning with us. This went on to a second vote, but it eventually passed."
He points at the other one. It states that Marilyn shall oversee every Schneider commission assessment, making the final decision on who is RED or GREEN, finally removing human bias from the process.
"This is one of ours. I made sure Penhaligon was the speaker for it. It's a critical Mastiff policy and the fact this motion passed before the election is a massive win for us, whether Popper gets elected tonight, or not. It will be part of our legacy of equality and fairness."
His voice sounds gratified. Weathered, but proud. "I think this deserves a celebration. And we have a lot to talk about, before we go to our Union Commission interview." He extends his hand to her, gesturing towards the Speakeasy. "We're supposed to know stuff about each other, remember? And we don't have much time."
At the Speakeasy, a lone Tamino is swallowed by the post-Synergy rush. It seems like everyone else was too busy with their own problems to work that shift, including Brecht and Ensor, nowhere to be seen. Pound springs to action, mixing cocktails, updating the ledger and getting scraps of paper from a variety of patrons, eager to share secrets to gain favour. One of those, from C:\TEMPLE, reads: "The house that isn't still wanders the corridors. Look for the purple." Pound files it away in the section of the ledger dedicated to conspiracy theories.
Pontecorvo waits on the last stool by the counter, constantly interrupted by other Synergy members, many Mastiff representatives with triumphant looks on their faces. Finally, after everyone has been served and settled into their own conversations, Pound and Ponte have a moment to talk.
"Planck has told me her friend, Pasteur, works in the Union Commission, and told her some of the questions couples are asked in the interview." He looks through his notebook, a mess of scraps of paper, Synergy notes, names. "Yeah there you go, favourite colour, favourite musician, what one admires about the other-"
"Bet you can't guess what my favourite colour is."
Pontecorvo seems surprised but not peeved. "I'll bite." He takes a beat to consider the question before smugly announcing: "White. It's the colour of UnaOne." Reaching across the counter, he flicks the lapel on Pound's slightly off-white crepe shirt. His fingers avoid the scarred neckerchief. "You're wearing a UnaOne shirt right now."
She can't help her own smug smirk, as her hands grab a shot glass and the rum bottle.
"Eh - wrong! Now you have to drink up."
He prickles so quickly, she can practically hear the lecture he's composing - the one about decorum, about dignity, about how a PentaFive doesn't gamble away rum like it's Speakeasy currency - a lecture he's given her, in some form, at least a dozen times before. Except this time, he can't. Not with other patrons around, especially the likes of Elgar from the censorship commission, currently haunting the Speakeasy with dirty looks and inquisitions. They are supposedly a happy couple. Pontecorvo has no choice but to play along. So he throws Pound a half-arsed attempt at a smile before downing the shot with a bitter stare.
"Alright, then. Tell me what's your favourite colour."
She leans against the bar, softly placing her hand on his forearm. His jaw clenches. As much as she's trying to hide it, anyone with a keen eye could see she's actually enjoying having the upper hand on him for once. Clearly, she'd always known how to push his buttons. He recoils ever so slightly, but he has to stand still. Elgar is walking by.
"It's actually yellow," she quips. "That's the colour of bees."
She points to the top of her right hand, calling attention to an old tattoo of a solitary bumblebee, lines faded from years of vault work.
"I asked Pasternak to copy it from a biology book in the library," she says, caressing her own hand. "I've never seen one not in a book. But I really like them. I only ever see flies, cockroaches and the odd moth. As you can see, I like things with wings."
"I asked Pasternak to copy it from a biology book in the library," she says, caressing her own hand. "I've never seen one not in a book. But I really like them. I only ever see flies, cockroaches and the odd moth. I like things with wings." She pulls out her notebook, tucked at her waist, and opens to a page where a small, dry shape rests, pressed flat and perfectly weightless. A moth C:\WING. She carefully closes the notebook again, putting it back where it belongs. Pontecorvo has no response.
"What? It's not like it's a huge secret." She points at her hand again, and starts moving her finger up her arm. It's like Pontecorvo had never actually looked at her before. And he looks - really looks - at every tattoo. A bumblebee. A moth. A feather. A woman with bird wings. An azure jay. A hummingbird. A swallow.
His eyes follow her finger until she reaches her sleeve, lifting it to show her shoulder, where a pigeon flies over mountains neither of them would ever be able to see with their own eyes, just underneath the hollow of her clavicle. He lingers there for a second too long, before finally focusing on her face.
That's when he smiles. The tiniest, but most earnest smile she'd ever seen Pontecorvo smile. And somewhat unceremoniously, he takes off his watch, placing it carefully on the bar counter. Exposing his wrist, a web of green veins under skin toughened by labour, he reveals a small tattoo.
A worker bee. Black and yellow. In full colour.
Pound had never expected him to care enough for anything beautiful to permanently carry it on his skin. Let alone such a humble creature from the past. Not quite the same species of bee, not quite as overtly, and on the opposite hand. But a bee nonetheless. They laugh together. Probably for the first time. The moment doesn't last too long, as Ponte puts on his watch and moves on with the conversation.
"I bet you can't guess mine. Favourite colour, I mean."
Pound mirrors his gesture and flicks the lapel on his blue jacket. "Blue, of course. You're a PentaFive through and through."
"I'm sorry to inform you, you're wrong!" He mirrors hers, taking the rum bottle and filling the same shot glass he drank from, handing it back to her.
As she takes the shot without flinching, a skill most bartenders develop whether they want to or not, he answers the question. "It's actually white." He doesn't let her react. "White is... honest. It doesn't hide dirt or dust. It doesn't pretend to be anything it isn't."
"It stains like all hell, though, and it's a bitch to clean." She uses her thumb to smudge some of her red lipstick and rubs it on the collar of his white undershirt. "So much for honesty."