ataraxionlogs | people say you'll die faster than without water

[She goes out farther than she's supposed to.

'Supposed to' being a loose term, with a forbidding tilt that Sirius could care less about. Anyone can do what they like. So long as important people don't get themselves into some inescapable trouble, they're well within their rights to take risks. Who is he to discourage that sort of thing.

But Cora goes out farther than she's meant to, which he knows, because he's been tracking her.

Friendly tracking. It started with Padfoot. Jogging around the jungle is easier on four legs than two. Careless easy joy, his own master, stopping to smell every damp tree stump and dirt patch until he caught Cora's scent, and then he was staring gimlet eyed and focused into the forest, on a hunt. Cora. He likes her, and he's not seen her, not since she was dying in his arms. And then she didn't die, and now he remembers her, and so Sirius transforms back and goes tromping off as himself. Which will be--more, or less welcome than a strange dog? Only time will tell, and it tells quickly, because the next tree he steps round--

There she is.]

Hi.

[Like they're meeting in the ship's corridor, like he's come across her at a crowded pub. Long time, no see. His t-shirt sticks to his chest, and his jeans are muddy at the bottom, and he's got a casual scattering of stubble across his jaw and upper lip and cheeks that he makes look debonair, like an explorer who's been out in the shit a bit too long. She, meanwhile, looks as if she's been running. Or working out, in some fashion, or maybe the glisten of her sweat is just because of the bloody humidity, but either way, Sirius smiles at her, as he scrubs his forearm across his forehead.]

You don't live out here, do you?

[If Cora was being totally honest, one of the best things about having her memories back is that the extent of her natural abilities aren't an occasionally totally terrifying mystery to her. When she hears someone coming through the trees towards her, she doesn't have to panic about how she can hear that alongside the panic she might have for being approached this far out from camp. Which is what she gets for going out further than she should, but being able to really run, free from the limits the ship had held her to, is worth the risk.

And the person approaching resolves themselves quickly enough into a collection of scents she's familiar with. Safe. And smiling.

Her hackles are almost rising in response to her own reaction before he's even spoken.]

No, I don't live out here.

[There's a look with it that's near rolling eyes, except it's stunted by how she seems to be trying to avoid looking at him at all. Her hands curl and uncurl at her sides. She'd only stopped for a breath, to get her bearings properly before she started running again.]

I was running. [Further than she should, but Sirius was the last person who was going to tell Derek about it.] What are you doing out here?

Only checking.

[A long-term obsession with 'where Cora Hale actually lives' is, after all, difficult to shake. Especially now that he, you know. Remembers that he had that obsession at all.

But of course she was running. Sirius folds his arms over his chest and leans, casually, against a tree-trunk, as if Cora's statement does not imply that she's about to start running again.]

S'ppose I can't blame you. There's so little to do back there. I've thought about taking it up myself.

[Yeah, right. Only as a dog. It's clearly a joke, and he gives her a forced grin to denote that. Funny, right? Come on, she's got to be a little more kindly disposed toward him. Or else she's careened off in the other direction. So far, their interaction is about par for the course, but that doesn't stop him from telling her:]

Got something for you.

[He's grinning and her mouth's already open on a breath, sharp words ready to tell him how he doesn't run unless there's something to run at. Danger, or something stupid - which also means he's probably terrible at it, when he does, from lack of practice.

But he catches her out, of course, like he always does. She frowns, wariness in her eyes, less for whatever it is and more how she might react. It's probably some kind of joke, especially when something could mean anything, but if it has any measure of thought behind it he's going to ruin her attempts to rebuild her walls against him before she's even really started.]

What?

[More demanding and impatient than curious, at least.]

[The very fact that she's asking to see what it is he's got for her counts as a success, in Sirius' book. Not a resounding success, but a success that he can, at least, work with.

His grin brightens that much more, and he shifts to dig in the pocket of his jeans, holding up a finger toward her. Hang on. Not that she's got long to hang, because he comes up with it quite quickly, and holds it out--

It: a shard of mirror, barely a finger's length long and nearly as narrow. One bit toward the end is slightly larger, providing ample view of a face, if someone wants to be reflecting their face. The edges have been buffed down, smoothing it out into something grippable.]

For you.

[Of all the objects she might have expected - if it was going to be an object at all - a mirror wasn't one of them. She looks at it, in his hand, for a long moment. Then raises her gaze to his face, utterly unimpressed and a touch incredulous.]

I don't need a mirror.

[She thinks he has to know her better than to be trying to make some comment on her appearance. Especially seeing as he never did before, and they were now stuck living in a jungle. But she can't see any other purpose for it - it's a mirror, after all.]

D'you really think it's just a mirror?

[Come on. He flicks his wrist, quickly, so the mirror flashes in what light has managed to penetrate the dense canopy above them. It might look careless, but good aim keeps that reflection off of her face. Years of blinding Slytherins at feasts and quidditch matches have given him keen precision with mirrors.

But this is not just any mirror. And yet she's not likely to take it if he's cagey and secretive and flirty about it, and he really does want her to take it, so:]

It communicates with other mirrors. Like the thigners from the Tranquility, but loads better.

[That does sound more interesting - useful - than just a mirror, even if she wouldn't have put that past him. As much as most things might seem to end up being magical around him, that didn't mean he wouldn't go for just a mirror, just to be unexpected. Still, her expression turns slightly more considering as she looks at the mirror, at him.]

Who has the other ones? You?

[As if this might be a plan for him to be able to directly bother her whenever he wanted with no other uses.]

Right now? Me. Remus. Harry. Hermione. Kate. And now you. But eventually?

[He shrugs, casually. He's quite pleased with himself, and that's obvious--but beneath that, there's more than a touch of the genuine. This is something worth being proud over. Better yet, she's not thrown the mirror on the ground and shattered it, or done something else caustic and demonstrative. She's letting him feel proud. Perhaps that means she likes it.

(Probably not. Or probably yes, but he'll probably not know either way.)]

Everyone will have 'em. We've got more than enough pieces.

[The surface of the mirror is only showing the canopy above them, but Cora's never doubted Sirius' magic. Maybe it's something to do with being one foot in a similar world herself. Something about talking through mirrors makes a bizarre sort of sense.

Their fingers brush when she takes the mirror. She doesn't snatch her hand back, but her gaze drops from his face and doesn't lift again. Acutely aware of the sensation, like the knowledge of a mistake that can't be fixed.]

I need another one. For Derek.

[The sliver of glass fits easily in her palm. She remembers the shattered mirror pieces that had fallen out of her locker, one jump, how she'd cut her hands open over and over clearing the mess up. Things always seem to come around in cycles.]

[A similar tingle of awareness passes up his fingertips and hand and arm, but Sirius interprets it far more pleasantly. Like the sort of chill you get from eating an ice cream in the cold, one that you look forward to.

Less pleasant: Derek.

But Sirius only rolls his eyes and he's already shifting his stance even as he does that, because he's digging another shard of mirror out of his pocket. Slightly smaller. Maybe this is a coincidence. Maybe it's to inconvenience Derek. Who can say.]

Must we?

[He hands it over anyways.]

Only joking. Don't tell him it's from me, or he'll chuck it without a second thought. Might chuck yours as well, while he's at it. And we can't have that.

[Taking another piece of mirror from him involves another brush of contact, but at least this time she has a strong thread of irritation to distract herself from it.]

I'll tell him I found the magic mirrors in the jungle. And that other people just happen to have found some too.

[That sounds more like a scenario that would have Derek treating something suspiciously, if not insisting on getting rid of it. Sirius was a topic Derek liked to talk derisively or dismissively about, but that didn't mean he'd be spiteful about anything associated with him.]

He won't throw them away just because they're from you. [She settles the second piece of mirror in her hand, clinking against the first.] They're useful.

[He hoods his eyes at her, wrinkles up his mouth and nose, like, yeah right. Derek, and trusting. Two words that don't fit together. He could read that sarcasm from four quidditch pitches away.]

Oh, is that the key to giving him gifts? Useful gifts. I'll make a note of it, thanks. Although I did try to give him a razor once, for shaving, and he turned me down cold. That was useful.

[She raises her eyebrows, more than unimpressed.]

Does he look like he shaves?

By Amaat's grace, the sky has rained down blessings this day, a most auspicious casting. It has also brought a new batch of stragglers, some of whom may even now be milling about in dazed confusion. The camp will be full of questions in the days to come, questions that have already been asked scores of times since planetfall- some of them many hundreds since the Tranquility began to indulge its strange impulse to draw others to itself from across a kaleidoscopic array of worlds. Though maybe not so strange as all that- even ships get lonely sometimes.

Not everyone has chosen to mingle with the newcomers, however. Atop the Shouting Rock sits the uniformed figure of One Etrepa Seven, legs crossed, posture perfect. Before her is a woven mat, upon which rest a pair of rose-colored porcelain bowls and a matching flask, tall and gracefully wrought. Though there are no outwards signs, it would not take a terribly gifted empath to sense the deep satisfaction she gets from viewing this careful arrangement. Despite her insistent separation from the uncivilized persons below, today she joins them in the pleasure of the things - many of them simple - that have so miraculously landed amongst them.

"The flower of propriety is beauty in thought and action," she intones to herself. If she were inclined to make expressions, her smile would be a serene thing.

One of the bowls is placed before her. The other rests on the other end of the mat, forming a careful symmetry with its twin and with the flask. Both are empty, awaiting fullness just as Etrepa awaits company.

Atop the Shouting Rock is a weird woman talking to herself.

This is none other than Sirius' date. He recognises her at a glance, even if she's perched on top of the rock and he's rather more beside the rock. And anyways, even if he didn't recognise her, this is where they're meeting. So he scales up the side easily, unfairly graceful even in the scramble to get to the actual top.

"Hullo," he says, genially, and then catches sight of her weird picnic. Right, then. Eyebrows raised, he still manages to keep his smile. "I'm here for the surveys. Brilliant set up."

Of... whatever it is.

Perhaps scaling the rock is simply a test arranged to gauge Sirius' capabilities; perhaps picnicing is the next, vital step in determining her combat readiness. She handles the first bit with aplomb in any case. Etrepa Seven rises to her feet and assesses her companion as she makes her ascent . The once-over she gives her is nearly instantaneous, thanks to her visual implants. She perceives nothing out of the ordinary, though that does not necessarily count for much, as Etrepa has already discovered. She resembles almost every other one of the uncivilized people on this planet - pale-skinned, bare-handed, lacking any obvious implants of her own. But difficult as it may be for Etrepa to distinguish these people from one another at times, Sirius cuts a sufficiently distinctive figure, one that matches what she saw in the mirror. And this is, indeed, where they agreed to meet.

"Honored Sirius Black," Etrepa says, inclining her segment in a very slight bow that - along with the courtesy title - is rather more politeness than is strictly necessary. What follows is simply extravagant, but Etrepa is doing her best to not be such an 'asshole', to borrow a term that has already been hurled her way. And courtesy is, after all, always proper and always beneficial.

"Would you care for some tea?"

Edited (out, OUT damn masculine pronoun!) 2015-10-09 17:23 (UTC)

"Where the hell did you manage to find tea," says Honoured Sirius Black, who is not thinking of Etrepa as an asshole so much as he is thinking of her as a bit of a weirdo.

Important caveat: a weirdo who has tea. Sirius very much misses tea, third only to alcohol and decent sandwiches. His boots crunch on the top of the Shouting Rock as he crosses the short distance to her. Now that he's stood a bit closer, he can see, indeed, that her picnic is tea, and he sits himself down before he's been invited, without bowing back to her or anything. She's no hippogriff, and neither is he. Nor has he bowed to anyone seriously in ages and ages, and he's certainly not about to start when there's tea around.

"Merlin, but I've missed tea. You have no idea. Sort of appropriate, as we used to have it in SEC from time to time, before, you know." He waves a hand to incorporate the jungle et al. "Before this change of scenery."

"It fell from the sky," Etrepa Seven says, providing an answer as conclusive as anyone else is likely to offer in the wake of the rain of blessings.

Etrepa feels instantly more at ease, hearing of Sirius' fondness for tea. It is a very Radchaai attitude to have and, while it is clear that Sirius is not Radchaai, she will take what approximations she can get. With a precision honed over centuries, in movements that have remained essentially unchanged throughout the course of hundreds of cultural integrations, Etrepa pours each of them a bowl of tea, the amber liquid brewed according to the most exacting of standards. A cousin of Mianaai would be satisfied with such treatment, under the circumstances.

Pearls before swine, perhaps, but just the motions give Etrepa comfort. The strangest thing about it is that she, herself, is being served. Tea would never have been wasted on her before. But she is playing at human now, and if she is to play at human, she will play at civilized humanity. She balances her bowl between her gloved fingers, but does not yet sip. It's steaming, still very hot, and she is trying to be mindful of the one body she has left.

"Merlin is one of your gods?" she inquires/presumes, interest immediately piqued when Sirius makes an oath of that name. But this is not a path she should stray down, not now. Her personal fascinations are no more than a hobby, and they have business to discuss.

"We should take the survey soon. I would like to do so today." Etrepa says. "We must, however settle some organizational matters first. Military defense and civilian security are not usually one and the same, but I see the need for both, and I do not think we will have the necessary numbers if the groups are distinct.

"The former members of SEC- can they be trusted with a dual role? To protect and to police?"

Edited (civilizing details) 2015-10-13 18:26 (UTC)

"Wizard," Sirius corrects, genially, as he watches her pour out, "greatest ever, but not a god."

He takes the cup as soon as she's finished pouring, and blows across the surface of it to cool it a bit. No milk, but perhaps it's better that way. You never knew what sort of tea you were ending up with when you were drinking tea dropped from the sky by parties unknown. Gods, maybe, but to Sirius--seasoned from ages and ages on the Tranquility, accustomed to strange materialisations of stuff--that seems less than likely.

The tea is still hot when he takes his first sip, but even the scalding is a little welcome. It's amazing the sort of thing you grow sentimental over. Burnt tongues and misshapen tea cozies. Bloody domesticity. Sirius takes another few sips as he listens to her proactive little declaration. What a firecracker, for all her flatness.

"S'ppose we did a bit of 'em both, back on the ship. But for police, you've got to have laws, yeah? And we never did get around to getting proper laws together." He does a little gesture with his bowl of tea, something like a half-toast. Miles Edgeworth, long-gone, long-suffering over the lack of law. "Mostly we tried to stop people from dying, and helped to beat back the beasts out of the ship and things, when they were around. Can I ask what the rush is? Did you see something? Besides tea falling from the sky. There's beasts out there, but I dunno how inspired they are to attack us."

A culture hero, then, and not one that had achieved apotheosis. This interests Etrepa rather less than an avowed divinity with metaphysical burdens to bear. For the best, really; as pleasant as taking tea may be, that pleasantness mustn't distract from what Etrepa considers urgent- even if that very urgency is being questioned.

"As I have said, I think it beneficial to be prepared for eventualities," she says, "rather than attempting to react."

A sip of tea punctuates the simple statement, a point she felt she had already conveyed by way of mirror. Clearly not. Some things need to be spelled out, apparently. But what can she really expect of people like this?

Of course the real answer, the emotional answer, is not one that she is ready to divulge. That she has an urgent need to do something, to occupy herself, single body and single mind, with a task that directs and fulfills, that her reasons for urgency are individual and existential- this would be too much to thrust upon an uncivilized stranger. Too much to admit openly, even to herself.

"What are the chances that we will be able to perceive a threat ahead of time? And even if we do, what are the chances that the forewarning will give us sufficient time to prepare? The omens will fall where they may-" this statement is accompanied by a hand gesture, a tossing of invisible tokens "-they always do - but that is no excuse for helplessness or lack of forethought."

Another sip of tea. It is almost the perfect temperature, now, thanks to a rising wind that sets the lacy white of steam to maddened fluttering. Strange to think, she has served tea innumerable times, but only now does she know what it tastes like. It might even be unlike any tea she brewed for her officers, beyond the simple fact that it descended from the heavens instead of being picked by transportee labor- though the aroma is close enough to what she remembers.

"How long have you been here? Longer than I have, I know that much. Yet I perceive no effort to address what may well become life and death problems for the entire camp. So if not now, then when? Taking the first steps at this point is not 'rushing'."

"Considering that our arrival here was actually an escape from a possibly psychotic government-y bloke and a whole load of other little threats that were, generally, rather life-or-death themselves at any given time--and considering being off of that piece of shit--" The Tranquility, that is, which he indicates by nodding back in its general direction. "--and out here in the open, facing down far more normal problems like acidic water and beasts and rainfall which all, by the way, only make this place seem more like a bloody holiday when compared to what we've left behind--"

He shrugs, loosely, as he takes another sip of tea.

"You'll forgive the lot of us for not acting as if we're under some great threat. And for taking a bit of extra time to enjoy this comparative holiday."

But she has, sort of, got a point. Being over-prepared has never been Sirius' standard. He's never needed it to be, having gone through life mostly over-prepared by way of magic, ready for nearly eventuality. What magic has been unable to do he's made up for with his own cleverness and quick wits. But that's not everyone's specialty or way, and this is actually a big step for him to acknowledge that much--not that she would know that, or care.

(Also: he's doing it for the surveys.)

He takes another sip of tea regardless, and waves a hand at her. Go on.

"What's your idea, then. Law and order and army, all in one?"

"So your people may be suspicious of law and order, because they are not used to their rulers providing justice and benefit to citizens?" Of course this is just a natural consequence of that government not being civilized. Lucky camp-folk, to have an influence such as she here to spread that light to this dark corner of the universe.

"I would assemble an organized force capable of insuring security, while observing propriety, dispensing justice, and accruing benefit for all the citizens of our provisional society." And just in case this statement alone isn't enough to inspire absolute confidence in her ability to do all of that, she adds: "I have some experience in these matters."

This is both truer than Sirius can know, and less true than Etrepa is keen to let on. Because while she was indeed tasked with helping to oversee early stages of annexations, had done so for over a thousand years, her role was less that of military police and more of Damoclesean sword, a looming threat of total annihilation. She would be more qualified, she would admit only grudgingly, had she been a Justice.

But a Justice would be used to relying upon hundreds and hundreds of ancillaries, whereas Etrepa has always made do with far fewer- and does not that make her better suited to utilizing limited number of personnel available to them?

"Laws will require a legitimate political authority-" impossible to insure outside the Radch, she knows "-but some customs should be easy to agree upon. Thievery should be punished. Assault and murder more harshly. We should prevent the stockpiling of weapons by any given individual or faction. We should keep a census to insure that we do not lose people in the wilderness. We should also be able to track everyone in camp, so we can keep appraised as to their movements, and so they can alert us as to potential problems as they arise."

This last is said as if it were as reasonable, as necessary, as making sure that murder does not go unpunished. To Etrepa, apparently, a surveillance state is in no way at odds with her ideas of 'justice' and 'propriety'.

"Your mirror network can help with that, perhaps?"

Edited 2015-10-14 20:08 (UTC)

"Suspicion, yeah. That and no one can agree on anything. We used to have this fellow whose idea of 'fair justice' was lopping the heads off of anyone who looked twice at his sister."

Or something. That might be slightly exaggerated--Robb Stark never actually threatened to cut off Sirius' head, he just set a direwolf chaperon on him--but the point stands.

There are grains of truth to what she's saying. They ought to be prepared. Relative calm won't last forever, probably. But enthusiasm is difficult to genuinely inspire in Sirius. He's seen just about every effort, suggestion, attempt, and idea at putting together some sort of unified system of law. Good mates with one of the law's biggest fans. And all of them had ended in nothing, for better or for worse. Crime punishable by brig time, or occasional mob justice. If thieving went on, it might be reported, but mostly everyone worked it out on their own.

Dispensing justice. Whose justice? Who's going to agree to mandatory tracking? She's got no idea of what she's getting herself into, he thinks, as he listens to her speech. He almost feels bad.

Almost.

On his face: he listens, politely. There are people who would be very surprised to see just how well-mannered he can act.

"Yeah, probably," he agrees, at her question. "You can get people to shout out on it if anything's going wrong. Taking a census, that can definitely be done via mirrors. Tell us who you are, where you're living, what supplies you've got--so there's no, you know. Stockpiling. What else should we ask 'em?"

Edited (this, these, whatever!!) 2015-10-16 17:22 (UTC)

Surely reality will set in at some point. Eventually Etrepa will learn that dealing with a motley assortment of trans-universal abductees is not at all the same as overseeing an annexation, where people are split neatly into perfectly disciplined soldiers and civilians that can be killed on sight for even breathing in a manner that seems rebellious. Hopefully no one will end up badly harmed when Etrepa's ambitions collide with the cold hard facts . No one, that is, save maybe Etrepa herself, who might at that point have it coming.

Ah- but she means well. Really, she does.

"I am sure you have had experience with uncivilized autarchs and petty tyrants," she says, as if to suggest that her idea of justice - one which absolutely involves summary execution when necessary - is obviously and qualitatively different than the Old Law of the First Men or whatever other imperfect forms so-called Justice may have taken up previous to her fortuitous arrival.

"We must begin with the census, though-" she says, quite possibly to Sirius' relief. No more pie in the sky aspirations. Immediate tasks, in need of execution. "A registry of names and of weapons seems like the first order of business; an effective security force must monopolize the means of organized, legitimate violence. Where people live, too, yes- that will be very important. There is a noticeable number of people who have chosen to live outside of camp. We should discover if they consider themselves affiliated with or independent of the community. And a separate survey to see who would be interested in the role of camp security, to what degree and in what capacity."

Another sip of tea punctuates her words, marking also a change in tack. Etrepa has proposed a great deal, but Sirius is neither a sounding board nor a subordinate. If she wanted no more than to broadcast her intentions, propriety would hardly demand tea and face-to-face talk.

"I think you ought to handle the initial survey efforts. You are better known, and have the benefit of previous association with SEC. We may want to more directly approach previous members of SEC- something I also leave to your discretion."

She makes a motion with her free hand, an open gesture that - while not necessarily universal - should serve to communicate as a prompt for Sirius to throw in her two pence or more. For all that she views herself as the only being competent to the higher-minded goals of her proposed reorganization, even a Sword knows when to rely on local help.

Time to shine, dogstar.

Wizards don't bandy about the term 'magic words' the way that muggles do, but in this instance: survey and census do serve as magic words, for Sirius, in that his interest sharpens. If he were a dog at the moment, his ears would prick. He's unaware of his lean forward, inadvertent and small as it is. Survey. Music to the ears.

"Names, weapons, living spaces." He touches his index finger to his temple, as if pressing some button that will commit this to memory. "Excellent. And a question to gauge interest in helping out. I can do all that, miss. No trouble at all. Not only was I SEC before, but I was SEC Responsible For Surveying."

As if it was a title, and a title that was more than self-appointed at that. But easy confidence lends him a credible air, especially because she doesn't know him well enough to be wary. Sirius indulges in another thoughtful sip of tea, considering the project before him.

"S'ppose we'll have to add a few more questions as well. I'd usually go off of what information we'd collected before, but it's all been tragically destroyed what with the crashing of the ship and all, so. Not exactly an option. Be best to collect more recent information anyways. Yeah, you just leave this to me. I'll take care of the whole thing."

"Then you are uniquely suited for the task." Etrepa has no reason to think this title is anything but official. "I suspected as much." Not strictly true before this meeting, though even a cursory examination of Sirius' thoughts - something Etrepa has no compunctions about performing without warning or permission - indicate that she is, at the very least, an enthusiastic surveyor. And presumably a skilled one as well.

Speaking of which... "A self-assessment of skills and proficiencies would be useful, at least provisionally," Etrepa adds. It is a far less reliable method than proper aptitude testing, but lacking the necessary drugs and a trained interrogator, that option is off the table. "It will make it easier for us to assign roles."

Etrepa waits for an opportune moment, when Sirius sets down her tea bowl, to quickly refill it from the flask. The universe, and Etrepa's place in it, has not felt this proper in some time. To serve tea while discussing logistics- it feels like home.

"Bodies are one thing. Equipment is another. Would there still be weapons and armor in SEC's ship-board facilities?" This is a question for Sirius herself, not the survey. Etrepa may not be qualified to help with its implementation, but she wants to make herself useful in the meantime. "I have contemplated a salvage operation, but I am not familiar with the ship's layout."

Edited 2015-10-21 23:37 (UTC)

More tea will definitely keep him here for a bit longer. Appreciatively, he blows across the top of his cup, more out of absent habit than any real need. Now that they've dodged away from deeper questions of management and camp morality (more or less), he's more settled and prepared for a chat.

"Are we assessing skills and proficiencies for every person, or just for SEC? Or are we hoping to do a little recruiting as well? For question-writing purposes," he explains, helpfully, as he takes another sip of tea. "Weapons were kept in gunnery, mostly, unless you were the sort to keep 'em personally stashed in your locker. I was."

Sort of. A wizard's wand is many things, and one of those things is absolutely a weapon, a necessary component for more complicated spells and hexes. This makes Sirius think, briefly, of Remus, currently wandless. His mouth turns down a little, and he takes another sip of tea.

"We didn't really do armor. There were elves doing armor in a forge--I know, bloody mental, you don't have to say--but I dunno whatever became of it. I'll add it as a question, if you like. Anything else?"

"I meant that we should assess the skills of potential recruits, yes. And that we should look outside SEC's original membership for those recruits." Her own inclusion, which goes without saying as far as she's concerned, would necessitate such an attitude. She's not insisting on being a lone exception; even she accepts that someone else might have the necessary skills. Even Etrepa can admit that some cultures outside the Radch have admirable military capacities. Not capable enough, not to stop an annexation- not without the dirtiest of tricks. But still, enough to patrol the border of Crashtown.

She nods at mention of the locker. Her uniform and sidearm are definitely not Tranquility issue, so one assumes they were found in Etrepa's locker, not that she had much time to think of it in possessive terms. "I will see what I can do to retrieve material from gunnery, then, while you perform the initial survey."

There is no reaction to the mention of elven armor, neither because she knows elves as fictional nor as real but decidedly un-bellicose beings, but rather because 'elf' doesn't translate into anything that has an actual referent for Etrepa (though her assumption would be that 'elf' is some sort of ethnic group). This is nothing new, of course. A great deal of what is said in this place doesn't have any equivalent referents in Radchaai. Etrepa has learned to let such things pass- and the more bloody mental the thing, the more quickly she permits it to go by.

"Nothing springs to mind. Again, I shall trust in your expertise. Do what you feel is proper."

"Proficiency, previous memberships, weapons, where they're living, armor." He ticks them off on his fingers one by one, before he does a quick drum of his fingertips against the side of his tea cup. The sound that's produced is light and a little musical. "Got it. I can handle that, no worries."

Some worries, probably. And he should, probably, feel a little bad for the sort of survey that he's going to put together. But there will be genuine data involved, between all the irrelevance--so perhaps she'll thank him yet.

Not bloody likely. Still, he raises his cup.

"Cheers."

Doubtless Etrepa is in for a rude awakening when she finds out just what Sirius considers 'proper' to a survey; and she'll have only herself to blame for trusting in someone like her. Still living in relatively blissful and tea-blessed ignorance, however, the ancillary lifts her cup in turn, mirroring her interlocutor's motion in what may be the first cultural gesture which clearly belongs to uncivilized and civilized alike.

"To the camp's security and benefit."

[After the jump--after the ship has gone and come back again--after it's rained supplies--after Johanna has collected more than her fair share, an armload and then another armload, plus whatever she can load onto her sweatshirt and lug back to her treehouse, a sledge that drags and catches on damp underbrush and rocks--but all well worth the effort, and not just because she's a District kid.

--After all of this, Johanna has picked her way through the jungle, back toward the ship.

Or what's left of it. This is the second jump since the crash, and damage has been done. Johanna stands at a distance, her tank top sticking to the small of her back. The place under the strap of her axe is just as sweaty. No one else is here. Time has passed, time enough for newcomers to extract themselves and climb out into the green world beyond.

One straggler. Someone else is here, either going into the ship or coming out, or walking the perimeter. She doesn't know which. Staring at the ship, she'd missed his entrance--but just as she's sunk back into the shadows does she recognize him.

Something like a smile crooks over Johanna's face. A moment of observation, watching the lean leonine lines of his distant face, and frame.]

Hey.

[Now she steps out, still at a distance. Sinks her weight into her left hip, plants one hand there.]

Wow. You did make it.

Edited (fixes my own crap) 2015-10-09 05:56 (UTC)

[ Erik bristles as if caught, heels sunk in and shoulders squared around along familiar contours, momentum anchored from the hip.

He's been here, stalking around the ruin of the ship: his pant legs are chalky with the dust of pulverized plant life, shirt and seat crossed with five fingered tracks of more of the same. At a distance, he's more or less as she remembers him. Dirtier.

His recognition is immediate upon picking her out of the of the foliage – his guard lowers by a tangible fraction before it holds fast.

These are all things an evil doppelganger would say. ]

[But would an evil doppelganger leave her cautious forest's edge position and saunter out into the open, like Johanna does now?

Probably. But so would Johanna herself, and she does, shedding most of her own wariness. This is about as close as she gets as being glad to see someone, like a cat without ears laid back against skull.

Slightly closer proximity allows her to observe:]

Wow-- [wow again] --and you need a shower.

[Dirtier than she last remembers indeed. But also, not dead. She likes it when people she's marked as 'maybe dead' turn out to be not dead after all. His lack of responsiveness is not exactly surprising, but Johanna still affects a pout as she draws closer.]

Aren't you going to say hi?

[ He watches her with a cro-magnon hood to his brow and his mouth open, jaw slung loose. Processing. Following the initial shock, his eyes are suspiciously squinted. Blinking has become difficult. He looks severely constipated.

The last time he looked this way was over eggs.

Or -- sex. But contextually the eggs are probably more relevant. ]

Where’ve you been?

[ He squares the rest of the way around to face her, interrogation on the gentler side of deadly serious. ]

Me? I've been working.

[She jerks her head back toward the trees, as she comes to a stop in front of him. Her weight sinks into one hip, pops it out. It's hot, so she isn't wearing much. But what else is new.]

Building.

[A short version of events that purposefully edits out the parts where she forgot mostly everything for nearly two months. This experience seems to have been the norm, if the conversations she's bothered to listen to are to believed. Maybe it was even the norm for him. It's not like he's going to say, and neither is she.

Instead, she quirks up the corner of her mouth in a sinewy little smirk. Same as always. She's close enough that she could reach out and touch him, probably, if she wanted. God, but he looks dumb.]

What about you?

[ Well Erik is a genius, as promotional materials will attest, if his accomplishments as a liberator of mutantkind are not evidence enough.

He remembers to close his mouth after she’s answered, chops bristling around a harder clamp and swallow. His brow furrows harder still, marking his struggle to rationalize ‘building’ as an answer, even as he is some time in answering the question in return. ]

Same, [ he says.

The dust he’s wreathed in has a greenish tint, thickest around his boots. Tracks of sweat bead through a swath of the stuff across his face where he’d wiped it on his sleeve. He’s quiet for another beat -- just long enough for him looking at her to seem a little less like he’s looking at the sun. ]

I have a doppelganger now.

[ This is a professional update. ]

[When he closes his mouth, it lessens the temptation to push her fingers against his chin and close it for him. Probably for the best. She's considering instead standing on her toes and pushing her finger against his forehead, to unknit his brow, when he makes his announcement.

One swift second for her to realize what he means--and then she laughs.]

You're kidding.

[He's not. She can tell. The uncanny twin syndrome has never concerned Johanna, because it's never happened to her. If it ever were to happen, she's always thought, idly, that she would probably kill her double. She might eventually make that offer here, out of (?) loyalty, affection, whatever, but that doesn't mean she's not going to get a laugh first.]

Poor you. Did he just show up? [With an arch look at his dusty face--] Did you already bury him?

Charles found him first.

[ So no.

No burial.

The knit in his brow fortifies rather than dissipate at her laughter, shades of self-deprecation in his reflection upon the order of events. Tolerance for laughter at his expense can be seen clearly through the gossamer princess veil of his rugged/grim/noble remove. ]

I thought I’d warn you. You might have difficulty telling the difference.

[ With her small human brain, he means. As burns go this one moves in slow motion, deadpan, too lazy to take on much more than lukewarm heat. She’ll understand when she sees him. ]

It’s good to see you.

Edited (improtant edits) 2015-10-20 03:50 (UTC)

[Difficult. Bitch, please.]

I doubt it.

[Underestimation isn't welcome, but he doesn't pronounce that allusion to (human) stupidity with much force, so she can only be suspicious. And confident that the opposite will prove true anyways. Whatever you say, mutant genius.]

I bet I could figure it out. [--Which she pronounces in a drawl--and a tilt of her head as she begins a languid once-over. The fact that they're standing pretty closely doesn't do anything to impede the crawl of her gaze, which is slow and lingering. Especially when she drags down below his waist, where it very much lingers.

Guess how she'll ID you, Erik. Easy guess. She flicks her gaze back up to his face, with a grin.]

And it's good to see you too, stud.

[Genuine, in addition to all that objectification.]

[ Erik follows her eyes down with his one. The leap from scoping his Situation to hers is an easy one for him to make, but the jump in his neck that signals an uptick in his pulse is subtle, even in close proximity. ]

214782, [ he agrees, long-suffering in support of her cognitive capacity to make the distinction. Reciting it aloud to should save her the trouble of meat gazing for much longer at waist level.

The ink inside of his wrist is overlaid by the Tranquility’s zalgo jumble, clearly visible enough to distinguish him from his blonde, two-eyed android cousin. They’re both dicks, so she has that against her.

He spends too much time looking at her to be half as irritated as he’d like. ‘Stud.’ ]

What are you doing here?

[The other numbers. Her eyes jump there, first, and then to his face. Quick and calculating. She's seen the other numbers before, often enough to know the first digit and the last, with the rest a string in between. Never asked about them. Because it doesn't matter, maybe. Because tattoos are boring, because there's a lot of shit that's happened to people, and some of that shit they ink on themselves, commemoration, punishment, whatever. The point is, she doesn't want to hear other people's shit.

Or maybe she does. Sometimes. Part of the reason she's always liked Erik is because he talks like a guy who knows. And now that he's listed off that string of numbers, she wants to ask what they mean and where they came from and why they're there, and she's rude enough that demanding answers to all of that wouldn't be beneath her--but she doesn't. Maybe their reunion has softened her a little.

Yeah, right.

Regardless, she looks at him, taking stock. Sharp, hawkish. Then she huffs out a breath, and flicks her hair over her shoulder. Later.]

I came to see if there's anything useful left in this piece of shit. [The Tranquility, obviously.] What do you think. Worth it, going in? Hey, it rained food back there. Cans and supplies, all kinds of stuff. Did you miss out?

[ He’s dull in return, broad and flat as the side of an old barge against scrutiny, all corroded edges and peeling paint. His initial visceral reaction to seeing her has had time to ease off into more professional consideration, but she has his attention, and holds it.

To date, their mutual aversion to personal questions has formed the foundation for a successful partnership. ]

Canned goods cast down from on high. [ He’s seen them. ]

I’ll pass.

Medbay is accessible through the breach. The sooner we strip her for all she’s worth, the better.

[ AND YET. His enthusiasm levels are low, flat affect undermining the proposed practical necessity. ]

A crappy torn-up ship with its ass hanging over the edge of a cliff. [She's seen it.] I'll pass.

[Just kidding. It's an echo of him, only a little snotty, and she tempers it with a sigh. He has a point. Absently, she reaches back to touch the handle of her axe where it rises up over her shoulder, a little like someone else might finger a talisman.

Okay. Brisk, she drops her arm and turns away.]

Come on. [The breach. She grins at him over her shoulder, full of hard enthusiasm.] Let's strip.

people say you'll die faster than without water

cora & mirrors

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Atop the Shouting Rock - within a day of the last jump

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erik & ship stuff

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