station72 | we were lost before she started

Entry tags:

we were lost before she started

CHARACTERS: Ilde & Open
WHERE: Station 72 / Waypoint Shril
WHEN: Day 28 - 32
SUMMARY: It lives.
WARNINGS: N/A, will update as necessary.

Days 28 - 31 On the Station: Wildcard, Pick a Spot, Do a Thing
[ The Station is, at last, peaceful enough for her -- with the others elsewhere. Like being hunted, she had skulked around the edges of their attention, and yet they always had a nose out for the blood trail she left behind her... She moves around in the open now. Free to frown irritably over the piles of books in the recreation wing, digging with determination for something that would read in the language she knew. She longed for the touch of her own decimated culture, as if it would vindicate her ways, her memories.

Free to lie on her back in the pool and stare up at the ceiling. Free to climb up the highest of the spiraling tiers in the Circle Garden and weave her odd little totems of wire and twine in silence. Free to sit vigil with the unmoved remains of her brood in the nesting deck, and think on how much she wished she could free them for their empty suffering. In the caverns beneath the palace, she had not spent so much time contemplating upon others. She had stepped over mangled bodies, ignored starving hands reaching from behind iron bars.

Maybe she could keep on like this, a priestess to their solemn sleep, watching until they awoke, or didn't. Maybe. Maybe. ]

Days 28 - 31 On the Station: Range Shooting
[ Just the way Angel showed her, days and days and days ago, when she had never before seen a firearm, Ilde maintenances a practice gun. She has her head cocked, listening to the murmurs of the Hive, feeling out for the threads that sound like her friend. The ones with clever hands and an admiration for all that the right arrangement of mechanical parts could achieve. Those she breathes in. In the void where the others are not distracting her, she opens up and breathes in the lessons.

There is a different look on her face when she leaves her workstation and takes the practice gun to the range. She hears the suggestions: this drill, this stance, this caliber. She begins to enact. ]

Day 32 Waypoint Shril: Wildcard, Pick a Spot, Do a Thing
[ She comes down what they call 'an avenue' slipping seamlessly through the press of the crowd. She has no one with her, and no luggage, and so her movements within the crowd are unencumbered. No one notices her, not so much as a glance. There is so much other noise in the alleyways, with her presence carefully dialed down to nothing, one might have to know to look for her.

She explores, peering into vendor stalls and restaurants, contemplating over gaudy ABA souvenirs, but she also watches. Posted up beneath the awning of a restaurant, eyes following from the shade, or from overhead, or from the crossroads.

Noisy, she dislikes it as she had disliked Concordia, but she likes that she does not have to pretend to be much of anyone here -- not even herself. ]

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[He laughs, the kind of laugh that's really not for anyone else but the instigator. Then he's wiping a hand over his mouth as he does a pointed panorama look around their current location. Yeah. There is a whole lot to see out in the universe. Shocking. None of it quite so fantastical that he couldn't dream up a better version if he was so inclined, but there's a reason K would never be found holing himself up in the station.

The hand moves from his mouth to push back through his hair, slightly greasy from a couple days without taking more than a couple seconds of a shower. So much to see, so much to do.]

I'll show you around.

[Like he's some kind of native resident or old hand at this.]

[ There's a flicker, where she might have declined him. She knows his ways. She knows they are not hers, and that she dislikes their touch upon her, but... She feels better in control now, than she did in the trailing days of Concordia. That mission had taken its toll on her, in dead broodmates and lost loved ones, pushed into a spotlight she found uncomfortable. Here, she is no one and nothing, this mission belongs to the others and they'll do what they like with it. She can watch from behind the careful chill she cultivated on the Station in their absence. The familiar and favored palace of ice from which she has not truly descended. ]

If you like.

[ Show her what you've been up to. She rises from her seat, brushing some dust off her white dress.]

[Is it after labor day out here? Either way, that's a lot of white on someone who wants to go on a Kavinsky led tour.

He thinks to offer her an arm, then figures she wouldn't take it so why try the bit? Instead, he'll begin to lead her down the street, scratching at the base of his neck before reaching into his back pocket. For once, it's not a ziploc or sandwich bag with powder and easy-to-swallow-ables inside. Just a box of future cigarettes which taste an awful lot like the same old in more colorful wrappers. He sticks one between his lips and holds the box out in case Ilde's in need.]

They taste like crème brûlée fucked a box of Lucky Charms and had a sugar baby. Want one?

[ She eyes them curiously. She has, at this point, seen people smoke, but it wasn't a common practice in the burned world. There was no such plant life to imbibe. She also doesn't understand what he's talking about with either of those sweets. Her eyes lift instead, calmly stating, ]

What?

[ She doesn't precisely smile, but really, she didn't understand any part of what he said. ]

[He's already fishing out a lighter, one that he dreamed after he borrowed someone else's of the same ilk the night before. At first glance, it appears to be a block of polished obsidian, but all it takes is a swipe of his thumb over a surface made to read its owner's fingerprints and a blue flame shoots out about half an inch from the top.

A nod of his head, like he gets it, but no further verbal response. He lights the end of the stick, takes in a deep draw, and lets the smoke spill out from the corners of his mouth. He waves his free hand so that some of it will drift Ilde's way and she can take a whiff.]

[ She closes her eyes for a moment and let her sense of smell, sense of taste, take the forefront. The smell of sweetness is strange, because it is unlike to fruit, which is the main source of sugar that she knows; fresh and overripe. This is more manufactured, slightly chemical to her nose, but that doesn't entirely surprise her. There's a great deal about the modern world that has that unnatural tinge to her. She can taste the mixture of sweetness and smoke on her tongue. Strange but a little alluring. ]

That is a strange scent. We did not practice this, in the burned world. There was... smoke enough.

[ A world choked with it, a world burning, waiting for the final incineration. The little flecks of ash he dabs away are so paltry compared to what had rained from their skies, that she had walked through for her childhood, leaving smudged bare footprints behind her. ]

[If she were more open, if he were gentler, maybe he could take a somber waltz through her memories and see the truth of this burned world. As it is, knowing the worlds and only barest sensation, it seems like the sort of planet from an indie band's concept album. He's always preferred harder beats that rock his skeleton until it's jutting awkward against his skin.]

Okay. But that isn't here.

[The fire of Waypoint Shril is contained in smoked meats and fortified kitchens. Their demolition teams are so efficient that the debris isn't flaming when it scatters.

He doesn't wait on her consent. A second space cigarette joins the first, and he lights it up the same way he had the first, briefly puffing on both at once. Then he's pulling it out from between his lips and turning it in his fingers, indicating the woman should take it.]

[ She takes the thing that he gives her, following someone else's memories in lifting it to her mouth. Steven's, she thinks, idly. Remembering when he had once wandered through her mind, dragging the edges of his Brooklyn with him, brick and rusted fire escapes.

The sweet taste of it is still foreign, and quite honestly unpleasant to her, but there is a point where you do things just to shut Joseph Kavinsky up. The stimulant hits her, a pinching sensation as her arteries constrict; also unpleasant, but mild. ]

And where are we going?

[He was ready for her to fight him and to find a way to make her feel small for it, then smoke both at once continually if he had to. The sticks are good, but hard to re-light, and he's not about to waste any because the princess won't be bothered to try something new.]

I've been looking at bikes. Do they have those in fire world?

[He'll send over imagines of motorcycles, then of the more advanced craft he's been scoping out at Waypoint. Any familiarity?]

[ She shakes her head, idly feeling out the shape of the smoke in her mouth. ]

But I saw such things, in Concordia. It seems like an agile vehicle, it may be of use in the future.

[ She may or may not have been put on the back of one by her Subspace admirers. She had spent much of that trip letting them cart her around, show her things. Kavinsky is not distinctly different from them, although he is certainly much ruder to her. The boys and girls who had taken her up as their prize had given her pop idol princess story carry more weight, and understood if they wanted some of the benefits of her celebrity they should probably be nice to her. She feels as if she hasn't thought about them, in a long time. So much has happened since then, and she had only been using them, as vehicles themselves, to get into the Underground, hear and see the true measure of the city and its outcast citizens.

She tilts her head and looks at Kavinsky out of the corner of her eye. ]

My world lost its name, its cities, its people, and most else when it was razed. No trappings of a living world are native to me.

[ But she's learning, and growing. She is clean and well-fed these days, fleshed out like a living woman that has lived in the sun. ]

[What does she want? Flustered sympathy? I'm so sorry and promises that she won't feel such sorrow again? Condescending garbage that would have made Kavinsky laugh if anyone said it to him. No, no, princess doesn't want that, either. He's sure of it.

Ilde already knows what Kavinsky fears--his razed world--and having seen it, a part of him will always despise her for it. There's no avoiding that. They'll never be friends, but they don't have to be enemies, either. He doesn't bark out his humor at hearing her homeworld is a broken mess, but his lips twitch and his gaze darkens unpleasantly.

Since kindness isn't an option and they have five more minutes to walk, he'll ask the first thing that comes to his mind and anticipate her scowl:]

So, how did toilets work out for you?

[ Is that how he's going to be? A sigh. She was trying to free him from any confusion and just clearly state she was a backworlds barbarian of a girl. Why does he make everything difficult. ]

Modern civilization has many luxuries.

[ And that's really all she's going to say about it. She thinks hot showers in clean water are really awesome though. ]

[This time he laughs, and it's a sharp, clear sound that cuts through the air. He's still snickering around the cigarette as he suckles in more burning, more smoke. By Kavinsky standards, the giggling is pure as two kittens licking each other.

Many luxuries. He's laughing all over again and this time hacking out half a lung. At least his spit smells like sugar cookies and a hint of mint.]

Shit. Okay. Okay, I'm cool. I'm good. So you don't know how to drive?

[A hard swerve on the conversation before she can decide she wants nothing to do with him.]

Shiro has shown me, a little.

[ Overall, she finds most vehicles more overwhelming than anything else. She'd spent her life confined to what could be reached on foot. She'd hardly seen any of her own world, let alone realized there was anything beyond it, unless the plane of magic counted, and that was something she had no access to. She had never had any power. Now she can travel between stars, let alone galavanting around in cars, on motorcycles.

After her spat with Kavinsky on the balcony, she had gone on to steal a great deal of food from the gala. They'd needed a car to move it all for distribution in the Subspace... She sees the value, and could possibly make one go, if slowly, nervously. ]

Do you want to know more than a little?

[Kavinsky isn't the best at offering to tutor others in practical skills. He has more practice in being the devil gripping tight onto their shoulders, whispering promises of the best fucking night of their short lives. A lifetime ago, he'd see if he couldn't break Ilde's shell with a cocktail of his own devising, but he's already learned enough from their brief encounters to know that isn't a good way to burrow under her skin.

His gaze slants over her way, and then off to the street. They don't attract the attention of the other foot traffic which means he can be the one to do all the staring.]

[ Does she trust him at all in any way, is really the question. ]

If that is how you wish to use your time.

[ A stance she's begun to take more often, as Petre demands more of her time. She is really not a very amusing companion for a teenage boy, but sometimes needs must. The need in this instance was to have some sway with said boys, and the best way to get to that, it seemed, was to let them think they were getting closer to her... ]

It would be a valuable skill.

[Kavinsky acts a fool when he's comfortable and his batteries have been fully charged, but he isn't stupid. They don't like each other. They won't like each other. That variable will remain unchanged, a control against every experiment.

Could be he's simply bored of Misato and Sam's commitment to pestering him with good intentions. He wants to open his back up to a good stab.]

Fuck, don't sound too into it. I might faint.

[hey're almost at the shop he's been scoping out. One or two more visits and he'll feel confident he can replicate their best bike down to the wire. The gear. Then he can begin making improvements.]

[ Petre tells her that she hates fun and that she's dead inside. So. Yanno. Kavinsky's protestations seem both mild and on point. She makes it most of the way down the cigarette before smudging it out on a trash heap already decorated with other butts. She finds this place crowded and disgusting. ]

You don't expect me to effuse.

[ She answers, simple. ]

[Kavinsky didn't notice his cigarette was just a filter smoldering between his fingers until Ilde discarded hers. He flicks his butt away without taking any measure to snuff it out. Someone else is already walking over it, unaware that they're doing the job for him.]

Isn't it refuse?

[Before Ilde can define her SAT word, he's ducking into the shop. A small pop-up garage with a number of models of 'bikes,' all boasting dramatically curved windshields and motors that glow blue when charged.]

[ She wonders if he's being flip or really doesn't know, and decides it probably isn't important. She just follows him into the show. She looks out of place there, normally she would attract much more attention... But hardly anyone looks at her. If nothing else, her visit to the Waypoint has been a chance to practice this skill, turning her presence down to something so insignificant. She can do it with the hosts as well... shield off her thoughts from them so that she is just a whisper, but why give away such a clever trick.

She wanders in the opposite direction from K, meeting him somewhere in the middle where their paths cross. ]

What is it you're looking for?

[He lets her stray as he crouches by each of the 'bikes' he's mentally marked as worthy of his attention. Under the guise of potentially making a purchase, he's already had a chance to inspect the engines up close. This visit is about detail and aesthetic. What angles promise speed, where do the best designers add their personal flair? He strokes his hands over glossy panels and cushioned seats. On the premium models, the latter mold to the shape of his hands. He bets they'd do the same to a driver's ass.]

Inspiration. I want to make an Evo.

[He sends her memories of white sportscars with slick hoods and spoilers. His dream car, in every sense.]

[ She doesn't see what the bikes have to do with a car, but then she is not at all drawn the contraptions, so she's willing to concede to his expertise. Although, ]

That would seem more difficult to transport easily.

[ And they do tend to worldhop. ]

Too literal, Vilmaine.

[Kavinsky pauses; has he ever said any part of her name aloud before? He likes how the surname sounds. Vintage.]

I'm going to splice that with this.

[He sets his hand on a racing vehicle's handlebars.]

[ No one has ever addressed her by her family name before. It was... a relic. She had been told it was her name to have, but she has never met any other member of the Vilmaine clan. She doesn't even remember her parents to know if it was their clan at all. It was a modifier that lacked all meaning in this world... ]

Ilde.

[ She corrects him, although she hardly expects him to listen to her. ]

I do not see how one would 'splice' two vehicles together.

You know what I can do.

[A statement, though he's not sure he's shared the details with her before. The problem inherent in sharing one's mind and emotions with a crowd; people blend together when he forgets to stay vigilant. Ilde hasn't been a particular blip on his radar beyond the time she invoked the memory of his father. The subsequent apology is an afterimage, enough to keep his vitriol down, but nowhere near as strong a recollection.

So he 'tells' her now, in darts of imagery and meaning.

Sinking darkness. Forest underbrush, in the past, and chrome walls inked in space since his arrival in the Nest. Anything he wants can be found in the dream. Things that exist, things that shouldn't have. Inanimate.

Living.]

It's all looks, anyway. One of these in white would be pretty sweet.

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we were lost before she started

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*They're, sob, I always notice my typos after someone responds

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