"You work here?" She seems like she works here. Certainly knowledgable about and comfortable in the space in the way he'd expect someone who controls it to be.
"I was assigned the art gazebo, yes," she says cheerfully as she bundles up everything she's mentioned into a little basket. "The name's Saga Anderson. I answer to Saga or Anderson. Pick your poison."
Saga Anderson. He looked back through the records to find when Arthur was paired and with who. Figured it was a matter of time until he bumped into the name's owner, one way or another.
"David Andersen Collins," he says, with a lilt like a joke. His smile goes more neutral and he offers her the paint brush to add to the little basket. "Though I think you probably knew at least my first name by now."
"Arthur mentioned you to me. He wanted me to know that you were on board, given the resemblance. Though I'll be honest and say I never would have mistaken one for the other."
He flounders a moment, sees himself being pulled inexorably deeper into a project he has no idea how to tackle, and goes for honesty instead. It's not like the people here aren't already aware of certain tendencies.
"Actually, I was going to see about carving up the brush into something more practical."
"Soldiers are only soldiers when there's a war to fight," is her counter to that. "And given there's no war here, you've got a lot more to do with a paintbrush than a weapon."
She considers pulling out her weapon to show it to him, but she's got it in a very specific location right now and she'd rather not.
"It's a gun. It shoots bullets. Sorry I wasn't clear."
"It is true." She watches him for a long moment. "Because soldiers are also fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters, lovers, children. They're people, which means they have different facets, that they can be soldiers when war demands it... or a good friend. A great soccer player. A creative artist."
She gestures to him with her left hand.
"'Soldier' is only part of who you are, and it's not the part that's needed now. So you can explore the other parts."
She's still watching him and she's not acknowledging the tension. Her eyes are calm and steady.
"I think that it's easy to lose sight of pieces of yourself, when you get pulled into a facet as... violently as a soldier might be. But I don't think that's all there is left for them.
"For some, I think they might be able to find those pieces, with some help." She glances at the box of paint and paper. "For others, if they can't find the old, maybe they can grow something new."
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"David Andersen Collins," he says, with a lilt like a joke. His smile goes more neutral and he offers her the paint brush to add to the little basket. "Though I think you probably knew at least my first name by now."
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"Arthur mentioned you to me. He wanted me to know that you were on board, given the resemblance. Though I'll be honest and say I never would have mistaken one for the other."
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"Truthfully, I didn't get much of a look."
Even when he was dead-eyed staring at Arthur, there was something that just-- kept it from making sense, what he was looking at. Who.
"How's he recovering? Did his friend fix him up?"
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"John fixed him up, yeah. He's usually pretty good about looking after Arthur when he can." A smile. "He's all recovered, as a matter of fact."
She tilts her head at David, gentle.
"What about you? Were you all right? I didn't get a lot of detail."
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"I'm fine, ma'am, thank you." Then, because it only seems polite to acknowledge it, he adds, "It's kind of you to ask."
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"I think I have a book here on beginner watercolor. Were you interested in trying landscapes or portraits?"
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"Actually, I was going to see about carving up the brush into something more practical."
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"Why?"
Then she looks up.
"Why are you looking to make a weapon out of it?"
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"In case of what?"
Then-
"And what makes a weapon more practical than a paintbrush?"
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"In case I need a weapon."
Another quiet shrug. "It's more practical for me."
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She said what she said.
"What makes a weapon more practical for you? Because you haven't tried painting yet?"
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"And what's your weapon do, specifically?"
As for practicality-- "I'm a soldier, ma'am, not an artist."
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She considers pulling out her weapon to show it to him, but she's got it in a very specific location right now and she'd rather not.
"It's a gun. It shoots bullets. Sorry I wasn't clear."
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"I'm sure it would be nice if that was true."
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There's a tense neutrality in the words.
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She gestures to him with her left hand.
"'Soldier' is only part of who you are, and it's not the part that's needed now. So you can explore the other parts."
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"Yes, ma'am."
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"I'm willing to hear a counter argument. But I can only state what I believe. What is it you believe?"
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His tone is still even, in spite of the aura of tension around him.
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"I think that it's easy to lose sight of pieces of yourself, when you get pulled into a facet as... violently as a soldier might be. But I don't think that's all there is left for them.
"For some, I think they might be able to find those pieces, with some help." She glances at the box of paint and paper. "For others, if they can't find the old, maybe they can grow something new."
She meets his eyes again.
"We could try the painting together?"
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