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| - Dead Fish Tavern - New Luna - A large, wood-floored establishment with dim lights, and faded leather-and-wood booths lining the gray brick walls, it features real candle-lit chandeliers made from old ship's tills, and new-looking square tables lining the edge of the room. In the center, a large, lit dance floor takes up about a quarter of the floor space, and is well-worn from use. A holographic kareoke machine, a raised band platform, and a small DJ's booth make sure that the building is filled with music at all hours of the day. A polished wooden bar sits at the far end, with a thirty foot long stuffed Washingtonfish mounted on the bar's back mirror. It has been named Herbert, and is dressed in a new hat daily by the barstaff. A sturdy wooden door leads outside to Birthright Parkway. Malcolm Seale sits in the tavern, a book in front of him propped open on the table. One dark hand anchors it open, while his head sags back at an alarming angle over the back of his chair, and the other hangs straight from shoulder to ground. His eyes are closed, his feet outstretched. He is snoring quietly. Seale walks quietly into the tavern, walking towards the bar for several steps before noticing the slumbering young man. He comes around at the side, leaning down to peer at the words on the page before shaking his head. "I'd sleep too," he whispers, touching his finger against the top of Malcolm's head inquisitively. Some words, more equations-- all lie obscured under the heavy hand that drapes atop them almost posessively. The touch does not awaken Seale's son, though his snoring interrupts itself, pauses, and continues on more irregularly. Seale shakes his head, moving towards the bar. A few smooth gestures and a flash of ivories, and two clear beverages in small glasses, each with a lime wedge, are procured. Ridge turns back towards the table. Malcolm continues to sleep with the slack-faced enthusiasm of the exhausted, his snoring slowing into regularity again. Seale places the drinks down on the table and sits next to Malcolm. A thick index finger presses against the end of Malcolm's chin, pressing gently. "Waaaake uuuup..." Ridge whispers softly. Flutter, flutter-- Malcolm's eyes suddenly open wide with alarm, and his hand comes up to bat at whatever it is in front of his face. Recognition dawns slowly in his sticky gaze, his laugh short and late. "Oh! Dad, hi." "Enjoying yourself, I see," the elder Seale states, leaning back in his chair and taking up his glass. It is raised to his lips. "What is that?" He asks over the rim, eyes pointing towards the book. "I'm sorry, I-" Malcolm starts automatically, blinking to clear his eyes. He shakes his head and straightens in his seat, wiping at his eyes, and then glances at the book. "Oh! Life systems, father. Specifically, this is a work by Bernard Johns, he was attempting to track the movement of biomass through the oceanic ecosystems." Seale's forehead crinkles, the lines between his eyes intensifying, thoughtful. "Cyclical, I'm sure," Seale says after a moment, breaking out the smile with only the tiniest hint of awkwardness. "Is...is he well-regarded in his field?" Malcolm opens his mouth to say one thing, and after a tiny pause says another. "He's very well-regarded, father. Deep-ocean science is still not very well-developed, but we're beginning to think that it's not only the top meter or two of water that holds the majority of the organic matter. There seems to be a layer at the bottom, as well..." Seale nods knowingly, taking a sip of the liquid and setting the glass down. "Like crabs and sea cucumbers," he contributes, interlacing his fingers. "In the shallows," Malcolm says carefully, nodding. "There's also a kind of organic semi-suspended sludge in the deeper-water regions composed mainly... well, we're not sure. It's very hard to sample accurately from that pressure. Everything explodes when you take it into a normal laboratory," he says with a smile. Seale continues to nod. "Exploding sludge. Mm-hmm," he says, his forehead beginning to crinkle once more. He looks down at the book again. "So the book's about exploding sludge, then?" "A little bit, dad. Mostly about the concentration of organic molecules taken from various locations, and Johns' theories as to why the concentrations are what they are, where they are." Malcolm closes the book gently. Seale takes another sip of his drink, pushing the other towards Malcolm. "So how long until it's back to class for you?" he asks. "Midterms begin tomorrow at fifteen hundred Sivad Standard," the student replies promptly. He stifles another yawn, barely, with the back of his hand. "I'm sorry, father, I haven't been sleeping much this visit." Seale frowns slightly, hand moving up to rub the top of his head. "What have you been doing instead of sleeping?" he asks, as if expecting a certain answer but asking anyways. Malcolm taps the book meaningfully. "I've been trying to write my pilot's pre-exam, too," he says offhandedly. "Pilot's exam?" Ridge asks. "Why on earth would you want to be a pilot?" he asks with concern, rich muddy eyes flashing with sudden emotion. "Right," Malcolm sighs wearily. "Well, father, I think it's important for our family to be self-sufficient in that regard." Seale's eyebrows lower, his eyes dulling. "W-well..." he sputters, lips drawing into something almost akin to a pout. "I-I suppose that's fair." The son nods once, mutely, and casts his eyes down on the book and his fingers splayed over it. "Have you told your mother about this...development?" Seale asks quickly, his hand moving to catch his head as he seems to sort through some thoughts. "Yes," Malcolm says simply. He is outwardly calm, watching his hand on the book, his voice steady as he continues, "I had wanted to ask you earlier, but you've been so preoccupied." "Self-sufficiency is a noble goal," Seale states, as if a mantra. "But yes, I've been busy. There are just too many things, all pulling me in different directions." "I know, dad," Malcolm says, standing with the infinite ease of the young. "We should talk about it sometime. I'm sorry, though, I do need to study..." Seale looks up at Malcolm with fond eyes, nodding quickly. "Yes, yes. I understand. No time for your old man. Study hard." "I'll be home for Christmas. My finals are early, so it's a six-week break," the son proffers with a hopeful smile. "At least that's something to look forward to. See you soon, son," Seale says, folding his hands on the table. "Yeah. Take care, dad," Malcolm says. He gathers up the book and heads towards the door, awkwardness vanishing quickly enough.
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