2022-01-23: Do Something
- Log: Do Something
- Cast: Job John, Nanai Miguel
- Where: Sweetwater Colony, Lagrange Point 1
- Date: 2022-01-23
- Summary: Job John visits Sweetwater Colony to offer his engineering expertise -- and as a member of the Shuffle Alliance. Once again, he finds that an opportunity to lend help puts him in contact with unusual people. These days, Job has more in common with them than he realizes.
<Pose Tracker> Nanai Miguel has posed.
Sweetwater Colony is the kind of story that could only happen on the Frontier Side.
Following the One Year War, a damaged open-type colony was simultaneously repaired and expanded by attaching it to a closed-type colony. This made it a quick, easy place to collect numerous war refugees. Perhaps the idea was once to rebuild Side 4 and make Sweetwater's unique configuration no longer necessary, but that was quickly deferred. The colony has never stopped being a dumping point for people displaced by war, poverty, or random Federation edict.
There has always been a struggle with overpopulation. Some people manage to save money and leave Sweetwater. Other stay until they die. That is frequently too early. Every few years infographics make the rounds online showing the elevated rates of deaths due to maintenance malfunctions, untreated medical conditions, and -- frankly -- despair. Sweetwater has always remained Sweetwater.
No wonder it was here that Char Aznable headquartered his rebellion. The people readily embraced someone willing to fight the Federation in their name. No wonder it is here that, three years later, the Federation has left again to its own devices after satisfying their need for a military crackdown.
Those visiting Sweetwater may find it a mixture of expectations met and shattered. Compared to some of the more orderly colonies, the press of permit-free construction and maintenance projects is unthinkably chaotic. Yet, the enthusiasm with which the people of Sweetwater are meeting these struggles with what they have at hand challenges the commonly-accepted narrative of helplessness that all too often tinges external reports.
The primary docking facility is at the end of the open-type section of the colony. There's a rail terminal there that leads down to the main settlements on the colony walls. It's surprisingly pleasant, if obviously dated -- the open-type section was once as nice as any other colony, and retains its vegetation and lower-middle class buildings. The closed-type section, which lies beyond a junction wall miles on the other side of the open-type, is apparently much poorer and much less scenic.
The Shuffle Alliance's interest in Sweetwater is not entirely altruistic. Months ago, the Alliance made contact with remnants of Char's rebellion who had broken off from the other Zeonic groups some time ago. Their leader brokered a deal for mutual aid, offering military support and insight into Zeon extremist activities.
Their being based in Sweetwater is a grim brand of humor. It's exactly where they started, and it remains a place that no one cares to look for them.
<Pose Tracker> Job John has posed.
A thunderous crash. A plume of dust. And, much less frequently heard in the closed portion of Sweetwater, a smattering of applause.
"Make sure to deactivate the amplifier as soon as you're out," Job is saying as he's helped from a small and battered hull. The blond man's broad face is streaked with soot, but he shows little of the fatigue he feels. "These kind of engines can endure the strain for a while, but you'll want to minimize the wear and tear from the power diversion."
One woman in a mechanic's oil-stained garb is listening and nodding, somewhat wide-eyed, but most of the people surrounding Job are ignoring him, instead reaching into the gap he has created in the collapsed building, in the process of extracting some bloodied and wounded people. As a consequence of the rampant demolition and construction and the, let's say, disorganized permitting process, especially in the poorer sections of Sweetwater, not all recently fabricated buildings have been, let's say, up to code. Those inclined to lend a hand after this collapse an hour before had been trying to use a beat-up old junker bot to try to lift the fallen girders, but its power and mobility simply weren't enough.
At least, not until this nondescript fellow arrived.
"As good a field test as any," he murmurs to himself as he watches the rescue in progress, letting himself finally catch his breath. Job hadn't even realized how much he was pushing himself to complete this on-site upgrade of this random piece of crap, using little more than his knowledge of how to wring more power out of smaller machines from the Formula project and the tools and tech he brought with him, but he can tell he'd only get in the way now anyway. Twenty years ago, he wouldn't have felt so tired. But then, he likely wouldn't have been the one to solve the problem.
So he simply watches, content to fade into the background, as more survivors are extracted from the collapse. And his expression does not appreciably change as the figures removed from the rubble appear increasingly wounded -- some, entirely still.
He did what he could. Job won't ask what-if. If he'd been a little faster. If he'd brought another tool. If he'd worked through an unexpected problem in advance.
Once you start, where do you stop?
<Pose Tracker> Nanai Miguel has posed.
The tight clusters of buildings in the closed-type section are mixed used in several senses of the phrase. They're a mishmash of commercial and residential and industrial, to be sure, but there's also the sturdy older construction from when the colony was built, and...
...well, the people seem well-versed in pulling others out of rubble, at least. Another day in the life.
Fading into the background from the crowd gains some distance from the noise, but it exposes one to other onlookers who, for one reason or another, aren't rushing to join in. The kitchen does look pretty full.
One of these onlookers is a tawny-haired woman in her mid twenties, dressed demurely in a wool coat and a long skirt. Her detached expression, combined with the thin-rimmed glasses on her face and her hair put up in a bun, gives her a scholarly sense. Some people have a look.
"You know your way around mobile suits," she says, turning her head to the side just enough to make it clear that she's addressing the man she's standing aside.
"Is this your first time on Sweetwater? How do you like it so far?"
<Pose Tracker> Job John has posed.
Job has taken a small towel from his duffle and begun wiping the soot off of his face. Though the cloth has been washed recently, it retains the indefatigable stains of labors past.
"Thanks."
He nods to the woman addressing him, the one eye visible mid-wipe shifting its gaze to her, before he lowers the towel and reveals a slight but amiable smile on the middle-aged man's still unlined face. His thick hair still glistens slightly with machine oil, its flaxen color marred, but little can be done about that.
"It is," he continues. "I like it." Quite a thing to say amidst the wounded. "Reminds me of home a bit." Job instinctively answers honestly, but he pauses a bit before elaborating. He's not usually given to talking about himself, but the follow-up question is too obvious. "I grew up on Side 7. The first time I saw a colony fully built out, I felt confused. 'Under construction' suits me better." Perhaps it was being surrounded by construction projects that awakened his interest in engineering in the first place. He can't remember. In any case, it might be unusual to meet someone from Side 7, if only because they would likely have to be around Job's age at the youngest, and they would have had to survive quite a bit. But Job doesn't go out of his way to hide it. He doesn't have to.
People usually don't ask him too many questions.
"Are you from here?" Good conversationalists follow up questions with questions. Job read that in a book about fifteen years ago and took it to heart. "I'd like to do more to help retrofit the machines around here, like this, but I'm not sure whom to talk to about it. I'm testing out some ideas for a new search-and-rescue type suit." He pauses. "But... I don't want to make a show of it."
He doesn't want anyone demanding he add guns to anything.
<Pose Tracker> Nanai Miguel has posed.
The tawny-haired woman turns her gaze back to the ongoing rescue operation. It's a natural thing to watch even in the middle of a conversation. It may be morbid, but recent decades have instilled tolerances for such things in many people.
"No. I'm from another colony."
Not an uncommon story, given Sweetwater's reputation.
The woman doesn't immediately elaborate, and Job will see the reason sooner or later depending on where his attention has gone. A burly man wearing a rumpled newsie cap trundles up, raising a hand to get her attention.
"Mesta! Good timing--"
The woman -- Mesta -- shoots Job a look that seems to ask him to spare her a moment. She and the newsie-cap man share a quick, familiar conversation during which she tells him where to bring the wounded and who to ask for help. In short order, the newsie-cap man is heading back off with his hairy arms raised to bark out some orders.
Mesta exhales without much emotion. Again Job's attentiveness is called upon: Mesta Mesua is the name of the Shuffle Alliance's contact here on Sweetwater. It's also not her real name. Her real name lives in greater infamy, though not as great as some.
"I'm glad the Alliance is committed to helping, Mr. John," she says, her voice quieter. "But I came here wondering if you could help me with something more philosophical than physical. I promise you it's just as practical."
Mesta Mesua, a woman some people would recognize as Nanai Miguel, turns to fully face Job. She may be younger, but there's experience in her green eyes, and with experience comes exhaustion. This, too, is a common tale in these years and these places.
"What do you think the Shuffle Alliance wants?"
<Pose Tracker> Job John has posed.
Job does indeed recognize the name, as evidenced by a telltale arch of one eyebrow. As Mesta is distracted, he contemplates the fact that he was casually chatting with a contact, to the point of divulging personal information, without picking up on it.
He concludes that spy games are very much not for him.
"Philosophy is less my strong suit," he replies, with the same calm and steady assuredness of tone as before despite the self-deprecating words, "but I'll take a crack at it."
He's read some practical philosophy, at least, if by that she means self-help books. That's where he learned to ask people more questions, after all.
"Uh..."
Unfortunately, he's quickly flummoxed. Job's gaze flickers as he endeavors to hide his confusion and, more successfully, his mild annoyance. Is this some sort of test? Are there factions within this organization who distrust Sayla's endorsement of him? He dislikes internal politics, and endeavors to avoid them by solving problems until everyone relies on him enough that they don't force him to pick sides.
"Well..."
He suppresses, too, the uneasy sense that he has opened himself up to these sorts of questions by joining a side, for the first time, of his own volition.
"I don't know what the Shuffle Alliance wants," he finally says. "But I believe that what Say-- Dr. Mass wants is to help as many people as she can with the resources at her disposal. If becoming one of those resources means I can help a friend and comrade, I'm glad to do it. So long as she stands with this organization, so do I."
He pauses a moment.
"Sorry if I've disappointed you," he adds, again with exactly the same tone, of someone who almost certainly means it and is also not at all torn up about it. "I'm a simple guy." He pauses briefly before clarifying. "A loyal one."
Just in case *that's* the worry. Though the implication, of course, is that he is much more loyal to individuals than to organizations, per se.
<Pose Tracker> Nanai Miguel has posed.
As Job experiences a flummoxing ambush, Mesta is found to be a woman of patience. She keeps her attention leveled on him while he reaches for an answer both in silence and in speaking. The most change that creeps into her face during this is a visible curiosity -- an intent kind of curiosity that seems to be analyzing his struggle to answer.
After his final clarification, Mesta looks back to the rubble and rescue.
"I can't be disappointed with an honest answer. I had wondered if the Alliance is composed of people like you. People who want to help, who let their help be guided by trust. It's idealistic."
And it's unclear from tone alone whether Mesta considers idealism a sin or a virtue.
Mesta reaches up to brush an errant lock of hair behind her ear, and then turns as if to walk off down one of the crowded streets. Most of the streets here in the closed-type section aren't wide enough to fit elecars, which are relegated to main thoroughfares or treacherous one-ways.
"You served on the White Base during the One Year War. How do you feel about working with people who fought for Zeon?" She continues talking without offering a chance to speak. "I'm walking this way. Do you want to join me for a moment? They have this under control here, thanks to you."
<Pose Tracker> Job John has posed.
"I see what you mean."
Job doesn't think of himself as idealistic, but he simply affirms her assessment. From her perspective, he imagines, that must be how he seems. Doing what he can to help his friends is, to him, the most obvious goal in the world, one requiring no justification, philosophical or otherwise. But he's old enough now, and has met enough people who do not share his valuing of loyalty (looking/arching an eyebrow at you, Kai Shiden), to know that what is a simple way of life to him can seem like an ascetic pursuit of virtue to others.
"Zeon...?"
The man hesitates again, only to find that his contact is already walking away, the engineer hastening to reshoulder his duffel and follow her down the narrow debris-ridden street. He allows his following her to answer her second question for him while he thinks over her first question.
"I didn't fight out of hate," is his eventual simple, but careful, reply. "I can work with anyone who doesn't hate me."
Quietly, he reflects, with some measure of discomfort, that he has already been put in a situation where he will have to be circumspect. Well, he doesn't like it, but it's not the first conflict of interest he's had to handle as an authority figure at a military contractor.
"But I won't take any action that would put the Formula project at risk," he then adds. "If I think my involvement may lead to... casting any kind of doubt on my colleagues at the SNRI, I'll have to, with regret, withdraw from assisting you here."
Another brief pause.
"It's nothing personal."
At least, not towards her.
<Pose Tracker> Nanai Miguel has posed.
Mesta walks at a measured pace. She's modestly tall for a woman and wearing sneakers underneath her skirt, so there's nothing in particular holding her back from striding off. The relaxed pace both seems to suit her and allows Job to handle his duffle-related problems.
As she listens, she leads them down one side street and then the next. There's a few steps down at one point, and people sitting outside in the alley on plastic chairs, gossiping about this and that. It's an eclectic street. A front stoop for some, a warehouse door, what seems to be a restaurant closed for that after-lunchtime, before-dinner lull.
The only time Mesta slows to glance over is when Job mentioned the Formula project. It's an obvious interest, but one she doesn't interrupt to pursue. A few beats of silence pass after he finishes.
"Casting doubt," she echoes.
Mesta -- Nanai -- was elevated from obscurity to infamy by the rebellion not merely by her association with a famous madman. A no-name, underfunded civilian psycommu researcher suddenly revealing a machine that defies logical explanation tends to draw attention. The working behind the psycho-frame is a secret tightly guarded by Anaheim Electronics and the Federation government, and presumably the Zeon remnants, but...
...here is a Zeon remnant, right here before him. The one from whom this miracle machine sprang. Her interest in Job's guarded response is easy to imagine. As is the motive behind her next question:
"The Formula project is making war machines. How do you feel about that, then? Is it an acceptable compromise to secure funding? Or is that why you're now trying to independently build rescue machines?"
<Pose Tracker> Job John has posed.
Job's original flash of annoyance has long since passed. He tends not to trust his own social intuition, and frankly, he is wise not to do so. But he has coached himself to watch people's eyes, and he thinks that he sees unfeigned personal interest there. It's in his nature to give people the benefit of the doubt, in any case, so he chooses to believe this conversation is not some sort of test or trick, but one to which he can respond straightforwardly.
Again, not good at spy games.
"That is a reason."
This time, when Job pauses, his brow furrows. He would respond straightforwardly, that is, if he were capable. But after meeting Sayla again, he's realized he's here in part because, for the first time, he's not quite sure what to do with himself. This person isn't a friend or comrade, but maybe this exchange remains an opportunity to talk through an answer he hasn't yet successfully thought through himself.
"To my knowledge," he says, his tone shifting maybe for the first time to become more speculative, "the mobile suits produced by the Formula project have been used in accord with the protocols of just war." He speaks the phrase without blinking, taking for granted its possibility. "None have been stolen or misappropriated. None have been used to commit atrocities against civilians."
He shifts the weight of his bag.
"I'm lucky, in that regard."
His words quiet somewhat, so that they do not carry quite so well in the alley through which they pass. This isn't intentional, but it might as well be.
"I was lucky to survive the initial attack on Side 7. I was lucky to end up fighting alongside heroes." A scene of Amuro Ray's piloting, mobile suit flashing across what he could see from the cockpit of the Guntank, plays before his inner eye. "Lucky to survive the war, and to follow those worthy of my trust. I could've been led astray..."
But he wasn't. Thankfully, he wasn't.
"Uh..."
...He wasn't.
"What I'm trying to say," he picks up, a little awkwardly, not accustomed to expressing himself in this fashion, "is that I won't repudiate what I've helped to create, just as I won't blame the creators of weapons used against me. Even so..."
He fumbles for the words.
"I... do want to see what happens when I leave less to luck."
Job is actually flushing slightly, unsure if that made sense.
<Pose Tracker> Nanai Miguel has posed.
Down the alley, past the plastic chairs and the garage and the restaurant, down to the end of the row where they meet a slightly wider street. Mesta waits at the threshold, leaning out to watch a small two-seater elecar creep its way down with a load in the truck bed. She raises a hand to suggest to Job that they wait for it to pass.
"Hm," is the noise she makes at the phrase 'just war.' It has all the hallmarks of amusement but none of the actual enthusiasm.
Mesta leans up against the cement wall of the building behind her, watching Job with her hands in her coat pockets. Her amusement, no matter how humorless it was, is gone when he speaks of atrocities and luck. She has a flat look to her eyes, sometimes. It's that wall of calm that some people develop through trauma. In some people it's worth concern over their emotional regulation. In others, it's simply a side-effect of healthy coping.
Remains to be seen with her.
Another time. Job's hands on the Guntank controls. Constant fighting. Nanai shouldn't be here. She was ten, living in Zum City. Still, she watches him struggle with the controls, hidden in the cramped space behind the old-model cockpit.
Amuro's mobile suit. The Gundam from whom a thousand children would spring, creations like Athena from Zeus' brow, each clutching weapons and ready to speak war with thunderous voices.
Nanai's gaze travels down from the screen to the pilot. A man younger than she will be -- than she is. The tension is always the same, she thinks. It's what comes after that is different for each person.
A moment passes. Job has just watched Mesta stare at him with a far-away look for long, silent moments with no indication for the reason. Finally, she glances aside.
"Don't pity me," she says. "I made my choices."
The elecar passes. Mesta pushes off the wall to look down the street again, and then steps out to cross. Just a few feet down is an abruptly classy building front: a painted wooden facade with handsome bay windows and a decorative French doors. A sign with engraved cursive font advertises a hotel with a faux-francophone name.
"You're going to stay here for at least the night, aren't you? I recommend you stay here. It will be easier for us to meet when you visit if you stay in the area."
A pause. Mesta looks to the ground again, and then raises her gaze to fix it upon Job once more. She studies his face.
"It was supposed to help people communicate."
It could only be the looming and unspoken reason for this line of inquiry: the psycho-frame, the machine upon which Char's rebellion balanced.
"I wanted to prove that we could all do that more than we thought. Now it's a premium accessory for the finest weapons. Anything can be used to kill if we put our minds to it, can't it?"
<Pose Tracker> Job John has posed.
If Job had read a little more philosophy, and a little less self-help -- not that there's anything wrong with that -- he might have been made familiar with the theory of moral luck.
A properly theorized morality, the notion goes, properly apportions credit and blame for one's actions. This is a challenge to evaluating responsibility based on the consequences of people's actions, since the same acts can have different consequences depending on circumstances beyond a person's control. Consequentialist moralities may end up effectively blaming people for even what was impossible for them to foresee, let alone prevent.
The rub is that, even if you eliminate this error -- if it is indeed an error -- by evaluating actions by, say, the intentions behind them instead, there remain circumstances beyond one's control: that is, one's formative experiences. Even one's intentions are shaped by environments and affiliations one never chose. Is it even entirely fair, then, to judge a person based on what they choose, if their very will is shaped by another kind of luck?
Job's eyes would be glazing over at this point. But, if he applied himself earnestly, as is typically his wont, he would conclude that he thinks moral luck is real, a feature rather than a bug. To his mind, it simply is the case that people are fairly held responsible for what they can't control. Accepting that is a part of growing up, of being both resolute in the face of adversary and generous toward one's adversaries. And if that means that one's morality is imperfect and inconsistent--
"Wouldn't dream of it."
Well, maybe, for now, that's the best we can do.
Job isn't sure what she means. Is he supposed to know who this woman is? But it doesn't matter. He's kind of used to working with people who get that far-off look, at this point. And if she's responding to what he's said, and not just rambling of her own accord, then logically, she can only mean one thing.
Bad luck.
He's silent as she speaks. Job didn't have any expectations that his opening up would be reciprocated. He just wanted to do his best to answer her questions. But now that he's here, he listens, intently indeed.
"Yeah, it can," he replies, gently. "Even communication, I suppose."
Especially communication. It notoriously goes on the fritz in combat situations due to the physics involved. At this point, it seems like a better radio might be a more formidable invention than a better gun. So Job figures she's talking about something like that.
"Even that suit I just fixed up," he then adds, after a moment. "I don't know what they'll do with it, but whatever they do, it'll be with my help, even after I'm long gone from here. It can still go wrong. But..."
He averts his eyes for a moment, before looking back, standing at the threshold of the hotel with her, making no move to enter before she moves to depart.
"It's a bit less likely to go wrong."
Amuro. He's dead now. But Job watched him. Years went by. Memories, ground up in a mill of dreams, became inspiration. The Formula series was born, coaxed into being. And now it stands, testament to Job's quietly heroic, oh so lucky life: yet another weapon.
"And... we've got to do *something*, right?"
<Pose Tracker> Nanai Miguel has posed.
Mesta steps back to give Job and his duffel bag more space to do what they will. Not enough to end the conversation. Not just yet.
There they are, in a moment of quiet between thoughts, both brought by their choices and fates. What gets divided into which category is often the basis for concordance and warfare itself. As a boon for new allies, it appears they've reached the former rather than the latter.
"A friend once told me that humans can't help but go on making connections, no matter what happens. Perhaps that's true."
Mesta looks to one of the bay windows flanking the hotel doors. The green curtains are pulled to the sides, revealing the homey parlor within. There is that -- and a hint of her reflection. Only a hint.
"When your friend disappeared from this world, he did so because of hope. That was the Axis Shock. Hope for a different answer; hope for a better future in a better world. The problem with hope is that action is something entirely different."
Mesta's gaze finds Job's reflection in the window. She looks back to him and then, shifting her weight in that subtle way people do when they're preparing to leave, she offers him her hand. Mercifully, it's on the side of his body that isn't occupied with shouldering his bag.
"If you need anything from us, the front desk knows how to contact me or my people. Thank you for your help, Mr. John."
<Pose Tracker> Job John has posed.
Job blinks. Of course, anyone who knows who he is would know that he served alongside Amuro. But, with his thoughts dwelling on Amuro, it feels almost as though he summoned that specter himself.
The engineer lowers his gaze a moment. Despite his sincere proclamations of loyalty, in his new unease, he had come to doubt his own motives. Though he only has the fringes of awareness of it, Job is ashamed. He is ashamed of what he has created from his most precious memories. Even though he has been lucky as he says, he still feels that he has betrayed those memories, that Amuro might reject what Job has created effectively in his honor. Yet he also feels that his glimmers of shame are themselves a betrayal, that there should be no shame in fighting, or aiding in the fight, for a veteran. Thus, for the first time, in a way he never even felt in the most dire moments on White Base, he feels trapped. He understands loyalty to the living, but not to the dead.
So he has turned to the still living for guidance.
Not aware of their joined reflections behind him, Job lifts his gaze to Mesta's own once more.
"...Thank you."
He takes her hand, gentler than usual, without so intending.
"I... hope I do help."
<Pose Tracker> Nanai Miguel has posed.
Mesta's hand is warm. Colonies sometimes run too cold. Sometimes too hot. This one is cold, but perhaps this is the privilege of her hiding them in coat pockets.
"I hope we both do," she says.
Then, slipping her hand free, Mesta inclines her head in a slight nod and turns to continue on her way. It's only a few steps before she pauses and turns back enough to speak to him.
"Maybe trust is what people like us need to accomplish anything."
Then, without waiting for an answer, she moves on.