The tram, mercifully, was reasonably empty. Which is to say not at all, but at least they were able to find one seat - which Jeanne insisted her uncle take.
Clutching one of the vertical bars in the train car, she leaned over to talk with him as they passed through town.
"If you'll be staying in Paragon for a while," Jeanne asked, "what about...work and stuff? I mean, I don't know what you've
been..."
John made a placating gesture. "Don't worry about it. I've been doing research and consultancy work for the past few years, anyway, Mostly
freelance. I can do that here just as well as anywhere."
"Even so," Jeanne murmured.
"Now, now," John said, archly, "I'm the one who should be concerned about your livelihood, not the other way around."
Jeanne hid her eyes, looking down. "Sorry."
He laughed. "Don't worry. Really, it's no problem. Besides, I've been in touch with some colleagues. We might be launching a new venture
soon...or restarting an old one, depending on how you look at it."
Jeanne tilted her head. "Some kind of business?"
"Mmn, well," John said, rubbing his chin. He didn't respond immediately. When he did, it seemed like he was choosing his words deliberately.
"You'll see, soon enough. You might even be interested, depending on how things turn out."
"Sounds shady," Jeanne remarked, lifting her eyebrows. She wrapped her hand tighter around the support pole, as the tram car rocked gently beneath
her feet.
That earned a snort of muffled laughter from her uncle. "No. More like...confidentialities, proprieties, and all that. I'm not sure what I can say,
at this point. It's a bit to early to tell. There's a certain individual I need to meet with before we can start operations."
"Some kind of investor thing? I mean, with the economy and all," Jeanne hazarded, "it's hard to get loans and stuff, right?"
"Ah...not quite, no," John answered, slowly, "more like...he's prominent in Paragon, so to speak. We didn't part on good terms the
last time we met. I owe the man an apology, honestly. I'm hoping he'll at least hear me out."
Jeanne blinked, once, as she processed the phrasing. "Are you sure," she said, archly, "this isn't the mafia?"
"If it were," replied John, mildly, deliberately looking round the tram car, and eying the other passengers, "I'd be using more creative
euphemisms."
"So," Jeanne challenged, "what do you do, anyway? I mean, I don't think dad ever said."
Her uncle looked surprised for an instant, before his facial features settled back into a contemplative expression. "He didn't? Hm, curious. Oh,
well. It's hardly a secret. Like I said, mostly research. A touch of anthropology and belief systems, comparative religion and study of scripture,
practical thaumaturgy..."
"Practical what?"
John laughed lightly. "Oh," he said, apologetically, "too technical?"
Jeanne kept her right arm curled round the support pole. Her left hand came up, thumb and forefinger barely apart. "Just a little, yeah."
"Sorry," he murmured, still chuckling, "I talk too much."
"Well," Jeanne said, "it's what you do...it's what you like, right? It's cool. I don't mind hearing about it, I
mean..."
"No, no," John disagreed, "I shouldn't talk your ear off. What about you? Any grand career plans?"
"Not yet, no," Jeanne replied, knowing as she said it that her answer was weak, "I'm still waiting to hear back from PCU..."
John considered the acronym, and made a guess. "Paragon City University?"
"Uh, yeah," Jeanne confirmed.
The monorail pulled into a station, interrupting their conversation. John waited patiently for the recorded voice to finish its announcement. Raising his
voice a little, he asked, "What major?"
"Um...I'm not sure, honestly? I know, that sounds awful. But it's more like...I know what I don't want to do," Jeanne hazarded,
"if that makes sense?"
John spared a moment to glance at the doors of the train car, eying a pair of passengers as he boarded. Snaking a hand out, he shifted his suitcase
slightly, tucking it closer to his legs - and keeping the aisle free. Then he turned back to Jeanne. "Oh, it does. And what would that be?"
"No math," she shuddered. "Or physics, anything like that. Economics might not be so bad, but even so..."
He snorted. "Not good with numbers?"
"Yeah, well, hard numbers anyway," Jeanne made a face, "graphs and such are alright. I did okay with statistics in high school, but stuff
like calculus...ugh."
Her uncle smiled at that. "You got your mother's brain, not your father's, hm?"
"Yeah, well," Jeanne said, sticking her tongue out, "if I were a structural engineer like dad, all my buildings would fall down."
John's lips pressed together, his features growing solemn. "That would be bad," he agreed, soberly.
"Very," Jeanne stated.
"So," John asked, "what do you like?"
"Art, humanities," Jeanne scowled. She tightened her grip on her handhold as the train started moving again. "I guess? Literature? But
that's not really a practical career path, is it?"
"I don't know," her uncle shot back, "is it?"
"What do you do," Jeanne singsonged, "with a BA in English?"
John looked peturbed. "Plenty of things."
"Er," Jeanne said, slowly, "it's a song...?"
"...ah," said John, not at all enlighted.
"From a musical," Jeanne continued, flailing. She could feel the reference sinking deep into the abyss. "It's...you have no idea what
I'm talking about, do you?"
"Afraid not," he admitted.
"Er, sorry," she mumbled, wincing. Her head went down, her shoulders slumping. Whatever her future career prospects, Jeanne reflected, stand-up
comedy probably wasn't in the cards.
John rolled his eyes. "An old man's ignorance of popular culture isn't your fault," he insisted.
"Still feels like a faux pas," Jeanne muttered, darkly.
"Trust me, it isn't," John reassured her, "but honestly, you should do something that interests you. Any interest in arcane
studies?"
The question caught Jeanne off-guard. She looked up. "What?"
"Well, I know some people at the Salamanca campus," explained John, "the department is pretty good..."
"Uhhh," Jeanne said, blinking, "never thought about it, really..."
"Mm, pity," John mused, "still, you've got time to decide. I understand freshmen at American universities are allowed to change their
minds all the time."
Jeanne coughed. "It's not that easy."
"But easy enough," he shot back, "I'm sure you'll find something."
"I hope so," Jeanne said, "I mean, Dad always liked what he did, but me..."
John shook his head in response. "Your father was...uncommonly sure about his calling. He knew what he wanted. But there's no crime in not
knowing."
"I dunno," Jeanne sighed, "it feels like I'm guilty of poor planning or something."
"Hardly," her uncle corrected, clearing his throat, "look, Jeanne, you're young. And even if you weren't, life is unpredictable.
Don't worry too much about where you'll end up."
Jeanne smiled wistfully. "That's what dad said when we moved to Paragon."
Something about that statement bothered John. It showed on his face. It was brief, but Jeanne caught the shift in his expression. When he spoke, his voice
was quiet and studiously neutral. "Did he? Ah..."
"Sorry," Jeanne blurted, vaguely alarmed, "did I...say something..."
John closed his eyes. "No, no. It's not your fault. Your father and I...we argued when he decided to come here. And, well, I never got a chance to
apologize."
Jeanne wasn't quite sure what to make of that. "You...he...but dad said..."
Her uncle breathed a deep sigh. He was silent for a moment, leaning back against the train car's seat, resting the back of his head against the window.
Eventually, he took another breath and explained. "He didn't tell you, hm? I suppose that's a blessing. But yes, we had words."
"...about...what?"
"Well," John began, "Jonathan - your father - wanted to move to Paragon and help rebuild. After the Rikti. You know that."
"Yeah," said Jeanne, dumbly.
John shook his head. "He said his talents were needed. I said it was too dangerous, that there were other people who could help. And I especially
didn't like how he brought you along."
Jeanne opened her mouth, but couldn't quite find the words. It took her a few seconds to regain her mental balance. "If you were concerned about
me...well, us, why did dad get mad? I mean..."
"I never said he got mad," her uncle answered, "I got angry first. And I said some things I really shouldn't have."
Shaking her head, Jeanne brought a hand to her face, and tried to keep calm. This was a bit of family history she hadn't heard. "Like
what?"
Her uncle looked ashamed. "I said your mother would have been disappointed in him."
"Oh, ouch," Jeanne hissed, "that was low, Uncle John."
"Yes," he admitted, "yes it was. Foolish of me. Insensitive. And wrong. Your mother always loved your father's sense of sacrifice. Marie
would have supported him."
"Paragon's not the safest place in the world," Jeanne offered, a concilatory tone creeping into her voice, "I can understand why you
were worried."
"No," John muttered, his eyes distant, "that's not...no, it is, but that's not the reason. Wasn't the reason."
Jeanne watched him carefully. "Then what?"
"It's...not important," John evaded, refusing to meet her gaze, "history, really."
Jeanne held her stare.
The next few minutes passed in awkward silence. Oh, the monorail rattled, and other passengers were talking. But neither Jeanne nor her uncle spoke.
(real-world schedule's kicking my ass, but I'm gonna try and crank this out faster. Like I said, it's largely finished, it just needs heavy edits.)
-- Acyl
Clutching one of the vertical bars in the train car, she leaned over to talk with him as they passed through town.
"If you'll be staying in Paragon for a while," Jeanne asked, "what about...work and stuff? I mean, I don't know what you've
been..."
John made a placating gesture. "Don't worry about it. I've been doing research and consultancy work for the past few years, anyway, Mostly
freelance. I can do that here just as well as anywhere."
"Even so," Jeanne murmured.
"Now, now," John said, archly, "I'm the one who should be concerned about your livelihood, not the other way around."
Jeanne hid her eyes, looking down. "Sorry."
He laughed. "Don't worry. Really, it's no problem. Besides, I've been in touch with some colleagues. We might be launching a new venture
soon...or restarting an old one, depending on how you look at it."
Jeanne tilted her head. "Some kind of business?"
"Mmn, well," John said, rubbing his chin. He didn't respond immediately. When he did, it seemed like he was choosing his words deliberately.
"You'll see, soon enough. You might even be interested, depending on how things turn out."
"Sounds shady," Jeanne remarked, lifting her eyebrows. She wrapped her hand tighter around the support pole, as the tram car rocked gently beneath
her feet.
That earned a snort of muffled laughter from her uncle. "No. More like...confidentialities, proprieties, and all that. I'm not sure what I can say,
at this point. It's a bit to early to tell. There's a certain individual I need to meet with before we can start operations."
"Some kind of investor thing? I mean, with the economy and all," Jeanne hazarded, "it's hard to get loans and stuff, right?"
"Ah...not quite, no," John answered, slowly, "more like...he's prominent in Paragon, so to speak. We didn't part on good terms the
last time we met. I owe the man an apology, honestly. I'm hoping he'll at least hear me out."
Jeanne blinked, once, as she processed the phrasing. "Are you sure," she said, archly, "this isn't the mafia?"
"If it were," replied John, mildly, deliberately looking round the tram car, and eying the other passengers, "I'd be using more creative
euphemisms."
"So," Jeanne challenged, "what do you do, anyway? I mean, I don't think dad ever said."
Her uncle looked surprised for an instant, before his facial features settled back into a contemplative expression. "He didn't? Hm, curious. Oh,
well. It's hardly a secret. Like I said, mostly research. A touch of anthropology and belief systems, comparative religion and study of scripture,
practical thaumaturgy..."
"Practical what?"
John laughed lightly. "Oh," he said, apologetically, "too technical?"
Jeanne kept her right arm curled round the support pole. Her left hand came up, thumb and forefinger barely apart. "Just a little, yeah."
"Sorry," he murmured, still chuckling, "I talk too much."
"Well," Jeanne said, "it's what you do...it's what you like, right? It's cool. I don't mind hearing about it, I
mean..."
"No, no," John disagreed, "I shouldn't talk your ear off. What about you? Any grand career plans?"
"Not yet, no," Jeanne replied, knowing as she said it that her answer was weak, "I'm still waiting to hear back from PCU..."
John considered the acronym, and made a guess. "Paragon City University?"
"Uh, yeah," Jeanne confirmed.
The monorail pulled into a station, interrupting their conversation. John waited patiently for the recorded voice to finish its announcement. Raising his
voice a little, he asked, "What major?"
"Um...I'm not sure, honestly? I know, that sounds awful. But it's more like...I know what I don't want to do," Jeanne hazarded,
"if that makes sense?"
John spared a moment to glance at the doors of the train car, eying a pair of passengers as he boarded. Snaking a hand out, he shifted his suitcase
slightly, tucking it closer to his legs - and keeping the aisle free. Then he turned back to Jeanne. "Oh, it does. And what would that be?"
"No math," she shuddered. "Or physics, anything like that. Economics might not be so bad, but even so..."
He snorted. "Not good with numbers?"
"Yeah, well, hard numbers anyway," Jeanne made a face, "graphs and such are alright. I did okay with statistics in high school, but stuff
like calculus...ugh."
Her uncle smiled at that. "You got your mother's brain, not your father's, hm?"
"Yeah, well," Jeanne said, sticking her tongue out, "if I were a structural engineer like dad, all my buildings would fall down."
John's lips pressed together, his features growing solemn. "That would be bad," he agreed, soberly.
"Very," Jeanne stated.
"So," John asked, "what do you like?"
"Art, humanities," Jeanne scowled. She tightened her grip on her handhold as the train started moving again. "I guess? Literature? But
that's not really a practical career path, is it?"
"I don't know," her uncle shot back, "is it?"
"What do you do," Jeanne singsonged, "with a BA in English?"
John looked peturbed. "Plenty of things."
"Er," Jeanne said, slowly, "it's a song...?"
"...ah," said John, not at all enlighted.
"From a musical," Jeanne continued, flailing. She could feel the reference sinking deep into the abyss. "It's...you have no idea what
I'm talking about, do you?"
"Afraid not," he admitted.
"Er, sorry," she mumbled, wincing. Her head went down, her shoulders slumping. Whatever her future career prospects, Jeanne reflected, stand-up
comedy probably wasn't in the cards.
John rolled his eyes. "An old man's ignorance of popular culture isn't your fault," he insisted.
"Still feels like a faux pas," Jeanne muttered, darkly.
"Trust me, it isn't," John reassured her, "but honestly, you should do something that interests you. Any interest in arcane
studies?"
The question caught Jeanne off-guard. She looked up. "What?"
"Well, I know some people at the Salamanca campus," explained John, "the department is pretty good..."
"Uhhh," Jeanne said, blinking, "never thought about it, really..."
"Mm, pity," John mused, "still, you've got time to decide. I understand freshmen at American universities are allowed to change their
minds all the time."
Jeanne coughed. "It's not that easy."
"But easy enough," he shot back, "I'm sure you'll find something."
"I hope so," Jeanne said, "I mean, Dad always liked what he did, but me..."
John shook his head in response. "Your father was...uncommonly sure about his calling. He knew what he wanted. But there's no crime in not
knowing."
"I dunno," Jeanne sighed, "it feels like I'm guilty of poor planning or something."
"Hardly," her uncle corrected, clearing his throat, "look, Jeanne, you're young. And even if you weren't, life is unpredictable.
Don't worry too much about where you'll end up."
Jeanne smiled wistfully. "That's what dad said when we moved to Paragon."
Something about that statement bothered John. It showed on his face. It was brief, but Jeanne caught the shift in his expression. When he spoke, his voice
was quiet and studiously neutral. "Did he? Ah..."
"Sorry," Jeanne blurted, vaguely alarmed, "did I...say something..."
John closed his eyes. "No, no. It's not your fault. Your father and I...we argued when he decided to come here. And, well, I never got a chance to
apologize."
Jeanne wasn't quite sure what to make of that. "You...he...but dad said..."
Her uncle breathed a deep sigh. He was silent for a moment, leaning back against the train car's seat, resting the back of his head against the window.
Eventually, he took another breath and explained. "He didn't tell you, hm? I suppose that's a blessing. But yes, we had words."
"...about...what?"
"Well," John began, "Jonathan - your father - wanted to move to Paragon and help rebuild. After the Rikti. You know that."
"Yeah," said Jeanne, dumbly.
John shook his head. "He said his talents were needed. I said it was too dangerous, that there were other people who could help. And I especially
didn't like how he brought you along."
Jeanne opened her mouth, but couldn't quite find the words. It took her a few seconds to regain her mental balance. "If you were concerned about
me...well, us, why did dad get mad? I mean..."
"I never said he got mad," her uncle answered, "I got angry first. And I said some things I really shouldn't have."
Shaking her head, Jeanne brought a hand to her face, and tried to keep calm. This was a bit of family history she hadn't heard. "Like
what?"
Her uncle looked ashamed. "I said your mother would have been disappointed in him."
"Oh, ouch," Jeanne hissed, "that was low, Uncle John."
"Yes," he admitted, "yes it was. Foolish of me. Insensitive. And wrong. Your mother always loved your father's sense of sacrifice. Marie
would have supported him."
"Paragon's not the safest place in the world," Jeanne offered, a concilatory tone creeping into her voice, "I can understand why you
were worried."
"No," John muttered, his eyes distant, "that's not...no, it is, but that's not the reason. Wasn't the reason."
Jeanne watched him carefully. "Then what?"
"It's...not important," John evaded, refusing to meet her gaze, "history, really."
Jeanne held her stare.
The next few minutes passed in awkward silence. Oh, the monorail rattled, and other passengers were talking. But neither Jeanne nor her uncle spoke.
(real-world schedule's kicking my ass, but I'm gonna try and crank this out faster. Like I said, it's largely finished, it just needs heavy edits.)
-- Acyl