Morality

[Scene: A quiet rooftop late in the day. The sun is somewhere behind a blanket of ash-colored clouds. The air carries the scent of rust and wet stone. Nettle dangles her legs off the edge, sipping something she claims is tea but definitely isn’t. Tarrow sits cross-legged nearby, flipping through a notebook filled with sketches that never seem finished.]

Nettle:

Would you take candy from a child?

Tarrow:

…You mean like stealing?

Nettle:

No no. Like, they offer you one, genuinely. But you know they only have five. And you don’t even like the flavor.

Tarrow:

Then I’d politely decline. Why would I take it?

Nettle:

Because politeness is a lie and now the kid thinks you’re too good for their grubby candy.

Tarrow:

So… I should accept out of guilt?

Nettle:

No, you should accept because guilt is the glue that holds civilization together. That and caffeine.

Tarrow: (sighs)

You always start your ethical inquiries with sugar or caffeine. One of these days, I want a discussion that begins with “So, I murdered a man.”

Nettle:

That’s dessert. I’m starting with appetizers.

(beat)

Tarrow:

Fine. Yes. I’d take the candy. Even if it tastes like sidewalk chalk. Because the kid needs to feel like they have something to give.

Nettle:

Oh, look at you. Drenched in virtue and chalk dust. So noble.

Tarrow:

No. Just… I remember what it felt like to give someone something small and have them really take it. Not like they were humoring you. Like it mattered.

Nettle:

So you’re saying fake gratitude is better than honest indifference.

Tarrow:

I’m saying kindness doesn’t always look like truth.

Nettle: (grins)

See, that right there? That’s the tattoo you should’ve gotten. “Kindness Doesn’t Always Look Like Truth.” Preferably in cursive, across your chest.

Tarrow:

And yours would say?

Nettle:

“Truth Doesn’t Care About Kindness.” Permanent. Across my ass cheeks.

(long pause as a bird flutters past—one wing missing, still managing flight)

Tarrow:

Do you ever wish you could turn it off?

Nettle:

What? The thinking?

Tarrow:

No. The… sharpness. That instinct to jab a hole in everything soft.

Nettle:

Only when you look at me like that.

Tarrow:

Like what?

Nettle:

Like I’ve said something worth keeping. It’s disorienting.

(beat)

Tarrow:

You don’t have to poke every balloon, Nettle.

Nettle:

Some are full of poison gas. Someone has to check.

Tarrow:

And some are just… birthday balloons.

Nettle:

Exactly. Capitalist helium grenades.

Tarrow:

You’re exhausting.

Nettle:

You’re welcome.

(they both sip their not-tea in silence for a few moments)

Tarrow:

So what’s this really about?

Nettle:

I saw someone leave a blanket for a stranger today. Folded. Dry. With a note.

Tarrow:

That’s… good, right?

Nettle:

It made me furious.

Tarrow:

Of course it did.

Nettle:

Because that stranger might take it. Might need it. Might feel saved. And then what? Next week it rains and no one’s there. The kindness was a fluke. A single heartbeat. And the rest of time just watches them freeze.

Tarrow:

So… better no kindness at all?

Nettle:

Better not to trust it. Kindness feels like an IOU written in disappearing ink.

Tarrow:

That sounds like fear, not logic.

Nettle: (quietly)

Fear is logic. If you survive with it.

Tarrow:

Then why are we still here, together? You, the human trapdoor, and me, the wet sandbag of doubt?

Nettle:

Because I don’t trust you. I believe you. There’s a difference.

Tarrow:

Explain.

Nettle:

Trust is expecting someone to act how you hope. Belief is knowing they’ll act how they are—even if that ruins you.

(long pause. Wind shakes a loose chime—an old fork tied to a spoon with wire)

Tarrow:

That’s… darkly beautiful. And also deeply unfair.

Nettle:

Unfairness is honest. It’s the only thing I don’t question anymore.

Tarrow:

Then let me ask you something.

Nettle:

Dangerous. Go on.

Tarrow:

If you saw someone about to fall—someone cruel, someone who deserved it, in your opinion—would you reach out?

Nettle: (without pause)

Yes.

Tarrow:

Why?

Nettle:

Because if I don’t, I’m worse than them. And if I do, I still get to push them later. But on my terms.

Tarrow:

That’s not virtue. That’s control.

Nettle:

What’s the difference?

Tarrow:

Virtue doesn’t need an audience. Or an exit plan.

Nettle:

Then it’s dead the moment it’s born. We are born calculating. What’s left is dressing.

Tarrow:

Even dressing can be beautiful.

Nettle:

Only if it’s olive oil and spite.

(Tarrow snorts unexpectedly, a short laugh breaking her usual calm)

Tarrow:

Gods, you’re an idiot.

Nettle: (bows dramatically)

Thank you. I try to keep it sharp.

(brief silence, warm despite the topic)

Tarrow:

I still think you believe in something.

Nettle:

I believe in coffee. I believe in not being eaten by rats. I believe in the sound your voice makes when you’re trying not to be right.

Tarrow:

I mean something bigger.

Nettle:

The only thing bigger than us out here is the sky. And it’s indifferent.

Tarrow:

Maybe. But we’re not.

Nettle: (softly)

Speak for yourself, Moss.

Tarrow:

Always do.

(They both sit quiet for a moment. The wind kicks up a plastic bag. It dances. Then gets caught on a rusted nail and dies a crinkly death.)

Nettle:

You ever wonder if the universe is just one long moral test we’re all failing because the instructions got wet?

Tarrow:

I assume they were written in disappearing ink. In a dialect only bats understand. Whispered while drunk.

Nettle:

Oh good, so we agree: failure is baked in. I find that comforting.

Tarrow:

Failure with intention. There’s a difference.

Nettle:

Is there though?

Tarrow:

Yes. One makes you a villain. The other makes you a participant in the cosmic improv show.

Nettle:

So morality is just bad theater.

Tarrow: (nods solemnly)

With really committed extras.

Nettle:

And the leads keep changing costumes mid-act.

Tarrow:

And nobody read the whole script. Except maybe the rats. And even they keep forgetting Act Three.

Nettle:

I’d settle for Act Two. Preferably one where nobody cries on the floor about beans again.

Tarrow: (squints)

You started that.

Nettle:

He lied about the expiration date. That’s moral grounds for war.

Tarrow:

It was a bean can, not a manifesto.

Nettle:

Same thing. Dense, suspicious, and someone always ends up bloated.

(They both snort. Tarrow cracks a rare full laugh—brief and shocked out of her like a hiccup. Nettle looks smugly triumphant.)

Tarrow:

Fine. I’ll say it. You’re not wrong.

Nettle:

Wait—what?

Tarrow:

Don’t make it weird.

Nettle:

You just said I’m not wrong. That’s like… a spiritual event.

Tarrow:

Don’t get used to it.

Nettle:

Too late. I’m carving it into time.

Tarrow:

Make it small. Use a toothpick.

Nettle: (pretending to etch into the air with invisible reverence)

“Nettle was right.” Date: Today. Location: Rooftop of Eternal Disappointment.

Tarrow: (deadpan)

Subtitle: Two idiots justify stealing candy from children.

Nettle:

For the greater philosophical good.

Tarrow:

Obviously.

Nettle: (grinning)

You know, if we keep this up, we might accidentally develop ethics.

Tarrow:

Then we’ll just argue them to death before they get comfortable.

(They clink their mystery mugs in mock ceremony. Somewhere below, something collapses—but it’s not them.)