Log:More Questions Than Answers

2015/05/12 Indira 1

Cultural understanding and respect - that's how this all started. At least, that's what Indira keeps saying every time Ms. Wyndell asks about the odd hours meetings between the Ambassador and assorted members of the U.S. government. There must be something deep within the culture that bred him that cannot be articulated without learning more about the United States, about the early twenty-first century, about where and when Rick Mason originated.

Orlan Diaz sits in a remote corner of the parking structure, two floors and more than a quarter of a mile distant from where Indira now stands. The sun is only just beginning to brighten the horizon closest to Indira, a few brilliant streaks of midnight blues and pastel indigos starting to spread their radiance over Colonial Bay and this dark, dank corner of the Transport Nexus' parking structure.

After nearly forty minutes of waiting, the sound of a car rolling up the ramp toward her level can be heard. The engine strains to be silent, tires creaking as they strain to maintain upward momentum with the minimal level of speed the driver affords the ancient black sedan, its windows one-way tinted. It rolls toward Indira at a modest five miles per hour before gently gliding to a stop, broad-side to her. Quite abruptly the engine stops and Indira is left with the silence again, perhaps to ponder what has led her to this early morning meeting with a man her State Department contact simply referred to as "Johnson" - not even a Mister, Miss, or Missus to shine the faintest bit of recognition upon Johnson.

It's in the darkness that Indira's natural bioluminescence is most noticeable. In daylight, it's too bright to be noticeable. There are patterns visible beneath the skin that give off a soft light that moves in organic patterns, like light reflected under wavy water.

She takes the few moments she gets to turn towards the sun as it begins its slow ascent, drinking it in while she has the opportunity. Her bioluminescent glow begins to become more faint the higher the sun rises until it's not even noticeable.

The arrangements were a bit unusual from the standard meetings she's been used to. When the car starts to creep its way towards her, she turns to face it, waiting patiently with hands clasped before her. Her head patiently tracks the car until it stops and the engine cuts. She's quite uncertain how this pertains to Mr. Mason's cultural past, or why the unusual time and place from her standard schedule. But, chalking it up to her just not knowing how things work for humans, she waits patiently for this Johnson person to make themselves known.

It is a long wait - Indira can feel some vigor returning to her as the back of her body drinks in the rising sunlight - before, at long last, the driver's side door opens. A lone, humanoid figure emerges and moves around the car in the waning semi-darkness.

Standing approximately the same 5'8" tall that Rick himself stands, the figure that rounds the car is not nearly so impressive as this meeting would suggest. Long brown-black hair is neatly tied back in a particularly masculine (for a human) ponytail that doesn't quite mesh with the effeminate facial features showcased by the hair style. Dressed in a well-tailored, albeit androgynously cut suit, the human bears a passing resemblance to Jamie Gunn at the Bad Company office. It's only a passing resemblance though, even an alien should be able to discern the differences in facial and body morphologies.

"Ambassador," comes the raspy breeze that is Johnson's voice. It is a distinctly, unsettlingly, inhumanly androgynous voice. Johnson extends a black leather gloved hand to Indira, a tight, professional smile spread across its face. Rick, notably, smiles the same way when he's trying not to be as impolite as he would like to assorted dignitaries and "mucky-mucks" that have business with Indira's office.

Indira extends her hand and grasps Johnson's hand. "Greetings. Johnson, is it?" she asks for polite confirmation as she studies the figure before her. She finds the similarities interesting and ponders on what they could mean. A mentor? A relative? But she's still left uncertain about the gender. "Thank you for meeting with me."

Johnson notably does not confirm nor deny its name. Instead, the androgynous one gives Indira a firm, simple handshake before withdrawing its gloved hand. Standing with arms and legs akimbo, Johnson regards Indira seriously for a few moments longer before replying, "I understand you have... Questions... About a Mr. Mason?"

Indira nods once softly. "Yes. He is in my employ. There have been problems, and I wanted to understand more about your culture to...provide respect and understanding," her collar glows slightly to help with translating her thoughts. "But Mr. Mason's culture is from the past. That is what some have explained."

One dark eyebrow quirks upward - Indira may even swear she saw one of Johnson's eyes pulse with inner light - at the word "problems". Pursing lips for a moment, Johnson patiently inquires, "What sort of problems, Ambassador?"

"Misunderstandings." Indira still feels ashamed at the reaction she caused in Rick. "Because I am still new on this planet. Understanding what is acceptable has been difficult. And Mr. Mason is a unique case." She maintains eye contact as she speaks with Johnson, still trying to determine the gender...and whatever else it is that gives her a strange feeling about this person. "How do you know Mr. Mason?"

"Interesting," comments Johnson. Identity, gender or otherwise, seems to be the last thing Johnson is capable of betraying. Nothing about Johnson screams male or female, not physique or stature, neither hair cut nor body language, and even voice and word choice seem tailored to throw off one's ability to discern identifying characteristics.

"My job, since Mr. Mason's miraculous resurrection, has been to know Mr. Mason. And to educate individuals with the appropriate clearances. What specific questions do you have, Ambassador?"

"Your job is to know Mr. Mason? That sounds like a strange job. Are you a cultural liason?" Something in her translation software didn't quite find the right equivalent to something she thought in her own language. Cultural liason would be the closest general translation. A simple matter of questions eludes Indira. "I wish I knew the precise questions to ask. Were there any big differences in culture from humans in his time to the humans of today?"

"Mr. Mason, as you have said, "is a unique case" and, as such, requires specialized, equally unique attention," comes Johnson's dispassionate reply. That doesn't really answer the question posed, nor does Indira's wish to know precisely what to ask elicit a response from Johnson. Only when Indira inquires about cultural differences does Johnson seem to come to life again.

"Mr. Mason was born and raised, lived and died, around the turn of the current - twenty-first, by human reckoning - century in the United States of America. Many details that are taken for granted today on a United Earth were not so unquestionable during Mr. Mason's previous lifetime. Cultural indicators, particularly socio-economic and theo-political ones, were in a state of constant flux both in America and abroad. It was, in short, a turbulent time to live. Certain members of popular fiction at the time, however, might have characterized it as, "a good day to die," though that would have been a disservice to the origins of the fiction."

Indira's attention perks with concern at the explanation from Johnson. There's a few things mentioned that concern her. "What details would those be?" she asks the question as one may pose to a computer. "If your fiction of the time reflected the culture, it sounds like a primative and dangerous time. 'A good day to die' sounds like something the Krog'mar would say." It's actually a close equivalent to their morning salutation. They wake up, feed, and train before dawn, and what they say when the sun rises is a salute that translates as 'May a good death find me'.

"Global health care, stablized geo-politics, and a relatively peaceful, if vocal, theo-political minority," comments Johnson. Absently Johnson wiggles a few fingers, as if checking their continued existence. Considering Indira's observations thoughtfully, Johnson eventually replies, "All human fiction is a reflection of human culture at the time, but that does not necessitate that attributes and behaviors explored through fiction are, in fact, the same as those being glorified by the culture creating the fiction. Fiction is a method by which humanity explores its hopes and its fears, reproaches or glorifies behavior and belief by demonstrating its utility and its detriment to humanity at large."

Johnson pauses a moment, brows knitting together in concentrated thought.

"Violence is a part of the human condition. Though we have not truly glorified abject barbarism in many centuries, violence is something that biology dictates as both loathesome and... Acceptable when necessary."

"Violence is a part of many cultures across the span of space," Indira notes politely. "Some exalt it. Some loathe it. From some things Rick said, I take that he came from a turbulent time." She frowns slightly, as this doesn't help her understand much still. "He said he had no family or friends. Is that unusual? I thought humans formed packs."

"It is unusual. As we have established, Mr. Mason is unique. He was reported to have died in July of 2015, just under 50 years ago. Quite abruptly, Mr. Mason reappeared in Nebraska in February of 2064."

Johnson stares pointedly at Indira. This continues for several seconds before, as abruptly as it started, Johnson ends the silence by speaking again.

"His family and friends have largely died off in the intervening 49 years. What little remains of his prior social network does not believe him to be the genuine article."

Pause.

"What do you believe of Mr. Mason, Ambassador?"

((Rest of log lost.))