driftfleet | (no subject)

Who: Eugene Woods and all would-be and actual cooks of the fleet
Broadcast: Fleetwide
Action: Vanquish galley
When: November 30th

Hey again, everybody. Eugene, back with you from my galley sweet galley above the Vanquish.

[He has a little look around, which honestly doesn't take much more than some pointed glancing.]

You know, for a walk-in closet with a few appliances and a protein paste dispenser, it really does grow on you. And, speaking of growing-

[Right on cue, he lifts a large jar that had been resting in his lap, setting it down on the galley table. It's mostly full of something that looks like paste. Off-white, faintly bubbly paste.]

I'm proud to announce that this little guy is surviving the perils of space travel just fine, and has produced a nice batch of rolls that I'm just praying the oven doesn't try to burn while I'm recording this and distracted. In anyone wants their own sourdough starter, I'll be happy to share the secrets of fresh, homemade bread with anyone who has a clean jar and a kitchen capable of giving them at least some flour, salt, and oil. I'll be in the Vanquish . . . more or less for the forseeable future. So come by if you've been missing your leavened, carby delights, and I'll get you set up.

[The oven does seem to be cooperating today, and within minutes of the broadcast, crewmates aboard the Vanquish should start noticing the aroma of fresh bread baking.]

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[He doesn't see the face at first, but that voice--]

Eugene?

[Surprising. He doesn't expect this to be a problem as such, but is this another person he knows?]

[The voice is obliquely familiar, and Eugene flips modes to return the reply in kind, pulse picking up in anticipation. Is this someone who knows him? Someone from home, even?]

Yeah, Eugene Woods, from- well. Formerly from Abel Township. I lived in Vancouver before that. Who's this?

[Well, that doesn't sound like recognition at all, for all that the details are definitely right. He knew Eugene well enough that he would have known the sound of his voice.]

Wrong number, it would seem.

. . . oh.

[Damn.]

Different Eugene?

Different time and place, at the least.

I'm . . . afraid I don't follow.

TImelines are very mutable when one's dealing with a multiverse. Perhaps I do know you, but you haven't yet me.

. . . huh.

[Eugene's met plenty of the people in the fleet, from different worlds, so different points in the timeline . . . makes sense, he guesses. Weird as that kind of dynamic is to think of.]

Well, uh. I'm sorry I don't know your name yet. For what it's worth.

Hah. [How odd this feels. He's tempted to just hang up, but it isn't as if he can avoid this forever. Might as well be in control of the introduction.]

Loki. Son of Frigga.

[From how quiet the line goes, it might be tempting to think that it cut out. Except the communication lines don't, ever, and besides. Eugene's breath does something funny - hitches, stops for a few beats too long, then comes back a little deeper.

He's well-read. He is well-read and a huge nerd, no matter how cosmopolitan he can look in the interest of landing a date or delivering a polished piece for the lifestyle pages, and those names aren't so obscure that a kid who grew up on cartoons and fantasy literature wouldn't recognize them.]

. . . the Loki.

[Only the fact that this place is so insane that he hedges his bets, and that one doesn't say no way, no fucking way to an actual divinity, keeps it at that.]

[If this devolves into another you can't possibly be a god, blah blah blah, he's hanging up. He's tired of humans try to negotiate him into a smaller box with their words.]

Yes.

Huh.

[It's not exactly a laugh. Or bewilderment. or awe. It's somewhere floating between those and a few other reactions besides, and he finds himself grinning without meaning to, glancing around the kitchen.]

Well, uh- I'm gonna guess the appropriate mere mortal response here is offerings, but . . . the best I have at the moment is bread and moonshine. That I've already offered to all the other mortals already.

[For once a mortal that doesn't argue with him. He's almost not certain how to deal with it.]

Acceptable for now, but I trust you shall be more creative in the future.

[This is one of two things. It is either an actual god, who somehow knows him through some inexplicable circumstance - or it's someone who's saying he's a god to fuck with him.

Given that Occam's Razor goes right out the window around here, and he's just fine with possibly jollying along some random weirdo who's pranking him if it eliminates the risk of getting on the wrong side of an actual god-? Yeah. He can suspend disbelief.]

I'll do my best. Do you have any preferences?

Come now, Eugene. I like clever fellows best of all.

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