do you recall when the war was just a game?

"Me, seeing as I'm where I want me and not where anyone else does."

"...huh. Who's going to be mad if I whisk you away? Anyone specific or just, like, the government?"

"Wanna whisk me away and find out?"

"I mean, I'm tempted, but I can't actually teleport, myself, I get picked up at the end of my shift. I don't wanna fuck over a hundred slaves who just didn't happen to come in."

"They mostly deserve it. Mostly everyone deserves it, or maybe that's just Sesat."

"Do you?"

"You gonna believe me if I say no? Because my answer's no but even I don't believe me about it."

"Well, what'd you do?"

She kind of goggles at him. "So how many goodies do I get if I draw all the slave marks for you and tell you what they mean?"

"One per," he says evenly.

"Gimme a thing to draw on?"

Yeah, he can find a pen and paper.

Unfamiliar and weird but she can figure it out. "So this one just means slave," she says of one of the ones she has, "so if you see it by itself it means born to it or taken in war. This one is, what's it called, uhhhhhh... perfidy. I think I drew it right but I don't see it a lot. This one's patricide," and it's her other one, "and this one's for the rest of your family, so, matricide, or anyone else if it was really bad." And a couple more, which she remembers and can explain.

"Quite a rap sheet," he remarks when she's gone through them all, piling more goodies on her pile. The salmon's done; the lid of the cooker can double as a plate and he digs up a fork for her.

Food! She has nothing to say that's so urgent she'd interrupt dinner for it. She can resume conversation afterward if he wants.

Poor lady. At least he can feed her.

"So have you got more high-minded philosophy about it than 'Sesat is full of awful people so probably they're all awful at telling who's even worse than the rest'?" she asks after she's eaten.

"That's a remarkably Sesati way of putting it, honestly," he remarks. "Look, what's your name? I'm Artorian."

"Do you not know slaves don't have names or do you just not give a fuck what Sesat has to say about what I get to call myself? Anyway, I'm Fere."

"It's the second one," he says, smiling a little. "Nice to meet you, Fere."

"Thanks. You too."

Another free person walks into the shop. He looks straight at Fere. "Come here," he says sharply, advancing on her.

Artorian glares at the newcomer but doesn't say anything.

Fere throws the cooker at him; he ducks.

The shop is filled, suddenly, with frenetically beautiful music, and everything is gluey dreamlike with slowness and the cooker drifts through the air like a Mylar balloon. Artorian collects it and sets it down; he doesn't seem impeded, though both his guests are. "Either of you want to rethink that interaction?" he asks.