The Black Pot

"As a doctor, I don't think there's ever a good reason for war. Too much death, too much destruction, and to be honest, I don't even want to think about what it's like to patch up that many wounded. I get enough work just explorin' the galaxy. I've seen my share of battles and small skirmishes, and those were bad enough for me."

He's quiet for a moment as he thinks about the question. "Realistically though, there are reasons for war, even some I don't agree with. Preservation of the species, freedom, things like that. I don't like the idea of war, even if it is for a good cause. But there will always be those people that would rather be at war than at peace."

The doctor scoffs and makes a face. "I saw the most asinine war I'd ever seen, and probably ever will see. Two planets had been at war for over 500 years, and they'd 'progressed' so that the whole thing was played out by their computers. Simulated bombings, simulated attacks, but it left real people dead. Each side's computers generated 'casualty' lists during each attack, and all of those people, whether they wanted to or not, had to report to a suicide booth to kill themselves in the name of war."

He laughs, but not out of humor. "And they actually claimed this was the more civilized way to do it! Instead of workin' out a damn truce, they just became complacent with their war, lettin' computers fight it for them, then walkin' into a little booth to be put to death if the computer told them to! Instead of tryin' to work out their differences, they just accepted the fact that they'd always been at war and always would be. Hell, I doubt any of them could even give the reason they were at war in the first place!"

He shakes his head. "No, war is never the answer. I think we've all seen enough of that."

War. Ianto gives a half-deprecating little laugh. What the hell kind of thing is that to talk about, in a place full of soldiers and mercenaries and refugees? Who wants to even think about that, let alone talk about it?

He looks around, sees people like Cesare, or that strange new man with the dark glasses on even inside, and wonders how many people would believe that he, Ianto Jones, had been to war. With his face that makes him look even younger than his years, innocent look honed to the point of perfection, smooth hands, calm demeanour, nice clothes, who would believe that he had fought and almost died, seen almost everyone he knew, everyone he loved and cared about, destroyed, and he was powerless to stop it.

"What other reason is there for fighting, other than to save the world? Maybe a whole galaxy, maybe a planet or country or a city, maybe even the world inside your own head. I fought to save the world once. More than once." He gives a bitter, forced smile. "Save it from us and our stupid, unthinking arrogance. No matter what happens, we're always our own worst enemies."

Jack has been thinking over it for awhile as he listens, not really saying anything to anyone about it, just taking it in. He speaks slower than usual, trying to be careful about what he says.

"I get the impression that I've been involved in more wars than any of you, from what you've said. Not sure. And that probably depends on what you count as involvement, too-- your home being targeted for a military action? Passing through a war zone and getting caught up in it for awhile? Actually enlisting and serving in a declared war? Because I've been involved in all those ways, myself. Doesn't make me better than you or anything, just saying, I've got the experience to comment on it. I wasn't originally 'captain,' but I did end up earning the rank."

He takes the harmonica out of his coat pocket to fiddle with it— a little gift from the Luggage, reminding him of the days passing time in the army trains, playing cards and singing songs.

"You've got to believe when you're at war. What you believe in, that's up to you. Maybe it's the cause you're supposedly fighting for, maybe it's a need for vengeance. Maybe it's some higher power, if you're into that. Or just the people you're fighting alongside, believing in them and wanting to get them out alive. It's a motivator. Keeps you fighting. You need belief to sustain you through it. You have to believe whatever it is, it's gonna happen eventually. You're going to beat the enemy, or save that person's life, or get the answers you need, whatever it is. Sometimes you don't have a choice about it because the war comes to you or you end up in it, and you just have to fight if you're going to live, but sometimes you choose to be in there. And you have to believe in something in either case. I've made that choice several times now. I've seen people stop believing, and when they give up like that, it gets them killed or gets the people around them killed, because they don't try any more to hang on to life. Their own or anyone else's. And especially when you're in command, you've got to keep the people around you motivated to keep believing, too. Sometimes you know you're probably sending them to their deaths, but you have to find some way of getting through it."

Chips.

They're a good reason to start a war - at least, they're certainly the reason for one of my most bloody and long-lived wars. Who would dare fight me over chips, you might ask. Are they bored, reckless, or just plain stupid? Don't they recognise the stubborness of a Black and the determination of a youngest son?

Well. Let me tell you.

Seagulls.

Yes. Vermin of the seafront. Pestilence of the promenade. Stealers of my chips. It's almost as if they don't know who I am. Or that I could transfigure every single one of them into a slug if I wanted to. If only there weren't so many damn people milling about the place, looking at me funny just because I like to threaten the nasty things with terrible pain and mushiness. Is it so wrong to want to eat one's chips in peace without any squawking or violent wing-flapping?

So yes. It's war.

The lines have been drawn. Any one of those filthy creatures comes anywhere near the café and they are slime. Unfortunately the sea front is currently their territory, but it's only a matter of time, you'll see. In these sad circumstances of being unable to blast them into sticky nothingness, I have come up with another strategy. Muggles would refer to my cunning plan as a "brolly". I'd prefer to call it a "self-contained sanctuary for the enjoyment of deep-fried tubers". Although I admit that's a bit of a mouthful. Maybe I'll work on that.

Still.

There is no penetrating its defences. There is no escaping a very sharp poke from the tip if you get within striking distance. Watch out, seagulls. Regulus Black has chips, and he's not afraid to eat them on your turf.

It's only natural, she thinks, that the topic eventually crops up. The long dog days of summer are in full swing, tempers shorten as the blood thickens in the veins, and wisdom seems to slumber in the muggy nights. War and the dog days of summer were nearly as predictable as the flooding of the Nile. Just as predictable, she thinks whilst tapping freshly lacquered nails on the table top, will be the answers that the kine give.

"The best reason for staring a war? Clearly not boredom, although that has fuelled ample conflicts through the ages. I would have say, then, to get what you wish with the least amount of personal effort and expenditure." Her thoughts turn to the conflicts raging across the world and Isabel wonders how shocked the gathered kine would be to learn how easily manipulated world governments are, especially to those who've had centuries to perfect their methods of persuasion. "Fortunately, or not depending on your point of view, there are always those who can be counted on to take up the mantle of a cause with the right motivation. Money, ideology, boredom... take your pick, or mix and match, it is really all the same."

Taking a long draught of her bottled vitae, so thoughtfully provided by one of the summer transients... no, tourist, she corrects herself... Isabel weighs her preferred methods of engaging in warfare. While it is amusing and satisfying on some levels to be out in the midst of the fighting, it was better by far to let others do the fighting for you. "Back when I rode with Garibaldi and the red shirts, I preferred to harry and hound the Austrian forces, riding them into exhaustion and then draining them. But times have changed and war is too mechanised," she shrugs, "so I leave it to chosen mercenaries. Supply them with arms, funding, and food, and your war is as good as won."

Q raises his hand, as if he were back in school. "OOH! I know this one!" He stands up and raises his wand like a baton.
Feel free to sing along. Everybody knows ( war )

His mind has been drifting a lot, lately. Sometimes the boundaries blur. He'll find himself talking to Miquel as if he were by his side, finds himself looking for familiar things. Sometimes it takes a while to pull himself together and practice what they call common courtesy, and like a garment that is coarse and much too small, it sends him chafing. Makes him angry: this kicking of heels, eating humble pie, saying yes and please and thank you. Sometimes his manners slip, especially when his mind is elsewhere.

He's been sitting in his favourite spot, if a sticky chair near the windows can be called that (his favourite spot... what has happened to the loggia of San Clemente in the Borgo, breeze-swept, sun-dried? there's the patter of naked feet rushing towards him-) and stirs something that pretends to be caffè. He won't drink it anyway.

"War," he muses idly. "War is a way of getting you what you want."

Kyra has another cup of tea. Her slim hands are folded around it, as though she's trying to use its heat to drive a bone-deep chill out of her hands. And maybe she is. She's new to this place, and wasn't expecting to have all these Deep Thoughts thrust at her like this. Some of them have been pretty surprising.

"Everybody has something they're willing to fight for. Something... maybe someone... they're willing to die for. I was reading this book -- been reading a lot of books lately -- and there's this guy who said the only way evil succeeds is if good people don't do anything to stop it. You know, if they just sit around, get complacent, figure it's someone else's job to stand up and draw a line in the sand and all that. So I'm kind of wondering... I found out where my line in the sand is, but... how about everybody else? What's the thing that'd make you take up arms? Go to war? Kill? Die? What would you protect, with your life, and with your soul? Or maybe who? 'Cause there's gotta be something, right? I dunno if everybody has a price, but I figure everybody has a line in the sand."

She takes a sip of tea and looks around at the other people in the cafe, mild curiosity in her expression.

"Mine's right in front of my friends. Where's yours?"

The luggage marched solemnly up to the stage. He turned and 'looked' at the people seated around the cafe. He opened his lid, tipped up, and a sheet of paper fluttered to the floor.




The luggage nodded to the assembled and exited, stage left.

A deep baritone voice rumbles out of the darkest corner of the café. How long the speaker has been there is impossible to tell. “There's no reason for war. War is bullshit. I’ve got no problem with someone getting’ pissed that he’s not gettin’ a big enough piece of the pie. That’s normal. So he goes and changes it. Either he steals what he needs or he gets rid of the people in charge and takes over. End of problem. It’s when he gets other people involved that it gets ugly. When he becomes an idealist who wants to change things for the good of the people. Like they know what’s best for everyone. Fuck that. Never trust anyone who says he’s doin’ something for your own good. Especially if it involves you dyin’ for it. Let him bleed on his own time.”

“But sometimes things get outta hand. Then they need people around to help with the dyin’. And it’s never them. It’s some poor bastard who’s never even heard of what’s goin’ on who’s got to spill his guts all over the battlefield. Hardly seems fair.” There’s a creak as weight shifts on a chair. “Ask me, mercenaries are the way to go. I’d rather have someone fightin’ for money watchin’ my back than some fucker who’s fightin’ ‘cause God told him to.”

Regulus and me are spending the day by the sea tomorrow so I'm sticking up the new topic for discussion now.

Let's talk about war, particularly two areas for consideration. One, what is the best reason for starting a war? See, I was almost in a war because I have awesome sperm that was going to spawn the best baby ever who was going to save the world. So clearly, awesome sperm is a reason for starting a war.

And two, your preferred strategy for wars. Normally, I'd say the best defence is an offence, except I was aware that the war was going to go badly for me, in which case: best strategy equalled grabbing Reg and heading for sunnier climes.

You can answer one or both of these questions, whichever takes your fancy. You have until September to post and don't forget that from tomorrow, you can claim the month for your character here.

Tag for this one is war.