+mental link

[regalled]

PRINCE Teacher

( CODE BY WHAMBAM )

Comments

[polyphonos]

[Somewhere there's a dispassionate flicker - it's no bright hot spark of emotion of adrenaline, but Cathaway is keen on the girl. Finds her small and charming. So she notices-- something. Can't quite put her finger on it.

A moment's deliberation - a thoughtful hum crowding along to link between herself and the last of her brood by default rather than design. Then she turns her thoughts to him more directly:]

( See to Ilde. Something has happened. )

[regalled]

[Cathaway was always there, even with her relative respect for the distance he preferred, so he feels her interest go keen first at a distance, enough to serve as some kind f a warning for her address. His walk slows, head tipping slightly towards her, despite the distance.

He is quiet, his slight confusion muffled but not hidden. He hand't felt anything of note, despite being relatively open to the new Hosts (for him, at least), and Cathaway did not tend to speak vaguely at times of urgency. Still, he has no doubt there is something important in her direction, that she would send him.]

Very well. You anticipate trouble?

[polyphonos]

( Perhaps. We are... ) [A rolling, twisting gap - frustration and curiosity and interest like copper tang in the mouth, like a gauzy curtain drawn back by the curve of a wrist, something wet and warm pulsing out across stone.] ( Uncertain. )

DAY 162

[decommission]

[ Sometime after this conversation. Steve reaches across a thin connecting line to the Prince, gives a the mental equivalent of knocking on a door. ]

[regalled]

[There is a moment- the obvious sensation of being heard, or felt, or understood, not quite an acknowledgement and not quite the guarantee of an answer, but it is clear enough that Prince is aware of him.

It lasts long enough to border on refusal, but he does respond, eventually, with words so clear and concise not a single emotion or sensation colors them.]

Do you require aid?

If Mom don't answer, call Dad

[vocalis]

[ Cathaway isn't answering him. She's too far, and his voice is faint and strained too thin to reach her. He hasn't yet reached out to Prince, and now he's struggling to from the darkness of a small rented room in Minte.

It's the last day of the Avera 9 mission, and Aoba is out of the synthesized pain medication Cathaway sent with him. Swallowed it down without regard for what could happen in the final days spent planet-side, and now he's regretting it deeply. Curled up on a cheap inn pod, blanket tangled around him, head held tightly in his hands.

It feels like it will break apart if he doesn't keep holding it together.

With every throb the pain grows more difficult to keep from spreading over the connection, and flecks of it flow outwards like drops spilled from an overflowing cup, with no regard for where they land. He's clumsy as he reaches for Prince, brushing against others, fumbling blindly. Finally his thoughts brush against what feels like cool metal, and he presses into it. ]

( Help... )

[ Faint, pained, and far from where he is. ]

[regalled]

[The flickers of pain across the connection have been almost regular since they had left the new Hosts to their own devices on the planet. They had been- foolish, careless, irresponsible and arrogant in their power and their position.

And so the spattering hissing flickers of it don't draw his immediate attention. The prodding at his mental link does, and his attention opens the connection further, allows Aoba to find purchase.

The plea is enough to have him breach the barriers he usually put up, pressing down the line in turn, ghosting over the corners of Aoba's mind, pain and need and helplessness. Prince leaves little in return, the slightest brush of something- a concern tempered responsibility. It lasts only the shortest time before he pulls away, although he doesn't close the connection entirely.]

Stay, I will fetch you.

[It doesn't invite conversation. It is a statement of fact, with the certainty of intent. His word was as good as any other part of him.]

day 164 after Shit Happened

[mercenares]

[For all his attitude, this one's managed (somehow) not to start trouble-- kept to himself, kept his head down. Avoidance is something he's grown very good at in his lifetime, and after being severely weirded out by the connections a couple times... well, he figured he'd do better alone, here. For now. If his presence has been marked by anything, it was probably a faint sense of something almost lonely-- he feels the pull, wants to follow it, but he's still unsettled.

That's a large part of why, in the aftermath of Parker's death, he doesn't reach out earlier. The pain hits too close to wounds that are too easy to open and it hurts, it hurts in ways it shouldn't for someone he didn't know at all, it hurts and he hates it--

When Ares does reach out, it's in near desperation, lost as to what to do about this. His emotions are volatile, caught between anger and sadness and that sharp, keen sense of loss-- between wanting to do something about it and wanting everything to just stop.

It's hard for him to wring words out of it all, and the ones that manage to form as he fumbles to reach the person he's looking for are-]

Why is it like this? [Not quite what he wanted. There's more right on the heels of that thought, frustrated.] --I want to talk for real. Not this way.

[regalled]

[There would be words about what occurred on Avera. About the utter failure the play-mission had been, enough to surprise even him with his carefully tempered expectations.

But for all that it is both his responsibility and something he firmly believed was required in order to prevent further loss, he was not without compassion. Or perhaps merely practicality. He knew what it was to lose a member of your brood. He knew very well. He does not expect his words to reach them so soon afterward. So he intends to give it time, something they had less of than he would like, and perhaps they would come to understand among each other what he would spell out for them soon.

He did not expect to be called on by any of them before then. Cathaway was a far more common source of comfort, as ironic as that may seem to him at times. Nevertheless the boy's grab for his attention is easy to notice, for all it does not come naturally to him. He doesn't bristle from it, although there is no attempt on his part to strengthen the connection, to invite him further, to answer Ares emotions with any of his own.]

I will meet you in the training hall.

[It is an attempt at understanding, on his part, even if the words are seemingly unaffected. He seemed like he would be most comfortable there.]

post-spanking;

[polyphonos]

[Where does the Prince go when he wishes to be silent, to be still, to be alone with his guilt and the gutless feeling of loss? He'll find her there instead, arranged in a place that is most comfortable to lay. She regards him across the curve of her wrist when he arrives, her chin settled comfortably against the bony back of her hand.]

Have you finished?

[regalled]

[It would be a lie to say he was surprised to find her there. He always knew where she was, the line between them clear and unmistakable, never blending into the rest. So he had every opportunity to avoid her, even if she had settled herself into the only space be kept for himself- three simple dark rooms- an office with a low couch, a room in the back to sleep, a washroom- all located low enough in the Station to hum. He doesn't, of course. To do so would be even more weak than if he had sought her out.

She looks ridiculous somehow on the low richly colored cushions of the sturdy furniture, like a black and white picture cut and pasted into life. She brought the Nest with her, where his space had as little in common with it as he had managed to cultivate in his cycles.]

Have you begun? [It's too quick, and he doesn't mean to say it. He knows she has, as focused as a scalpel. But while she had turned herself to the two who had caused the most mayhem he found himself thinking even without their influence this venture would have gone poorly. Not as poorly, certainly, but this wave of Hosts- he has not seen an entire group fail in many cycles but he finds himself thinking on the last that had, now. Inescapabably.]

Forgive me, I am preoccupied.

day 165, later in the day

[frakkincylons]

( I hear you're the guy to talk to about the starfighters. )

[ what's he's really interested in are the Nest grown ones, but Sam doubts he'll be allowed access to them any time soon. but getting back into the swing of piloting, especially since it seems he'll be staying here a while longer than he was thinking, would be nice. ]

[regalled]

[He knew the new Host was awake- finally. Had felt his consciousness bubble up, the torrent of his mind washing across the station, louder than most of the rest now, after they had learned at least something about muffling their volume. They probably still seemed quite loud to him, with a mind unaccustomed to the press of others- or unaccustomed to this press, at least.

It is a surprise, then, that he finds Prince's quiet among them. Not exactly a pleasant one.]

On occasion. If you wish to speak to me about them I would prefer to do it in person.

[Even like this- without sound, his voice is low and level, without a hint of emotion, unaccompanied by an answering flash of feeling, by curiosity or irritation. Controlled.

He has had more than enough of this for today, more than enough of his voice in other's heads, more than enough of them in his.]

backdated, but

[polyphonos]

bro i just got the weirdest boner

[regalled]

[His fingers are set on his pad, the line of his hip steady against the edge of his desk when he feels her like a low distant hum. His eyes flick up, seeing nothing, not even the walls of the room, the corner of his lips turning sharply down before he clamps the connection down to the narrowest it can be, turning his attention back to the reports.]

day 171

[apoptotic]

[ you've got mail. ]

( A moment of your time. When you're able. )

[regalled]

[There is the slightest pause, like someone setting down a pencil and looking up from their work, although there is no image, no feeling to accompany the silence.]

I have no pressing business. Where do you wish to speak?

[polyphonos]

( Would you help us with something? )

[A thousand pieces coalesce alongside the question: the sharp edge of a knife, tissue separating into two parts. Something brutal, something bitter, something mean and necessary. Aoba Seragaki's brilliant blue hair wrenched in a fist - the shape of Sly Blue's attention fixing on her where she stands at the top of the shuttle personnel ramp: he wants to be hurt, but not by her. Won't the Prince hurt him for her?

She wants to see what happens - what good could come out of turning that screw. Would he do it for her?]

[regalled]

[He isn't expecting her to call on him, but there is some kind of warning to it, the feeling of her mind brushing the edges of his before her words reach him. Before her thoughts, not idle at all. Pointed.

He goes stock still at the first touch, quiet and focused. What lies in front of his eyes goes without being seen. What he sees is what she needs him to. His emotions are not quite bare, reserved, but even so his reluctance cannot be hidden.]

I would not be hurting him. [Not Sly Blue. He is almost sure of that.]

day whatever, hour whenever shakira shakira

[unfavoured]

[ However grating her stubbornness might be, it is at least commendable that she is committed to it. Which is why when she looks for someone, she relies on purely looking for them. You know, with her eyes and feet.

It takes her time of walking around the station until she finally manages to find Prince. When she does, the only thing she barks out is: ]

I need pen and paper.

[ Someone teach this woman how to say hello every once in a while. ]

LONGSUFFERING SIGH

[regalled]

[The convenience of Prince is that he is largely reliable. He has a routine, with very little variation in it, so on most days you could find him if you were patient and observant. Parker may have been neither, but apparently she was determined enough.

Prince has a helmet resting on his knees as he sits on a barely padded bench, a small set of tools to his left as he tightens- something, along the jaw. His brow was furrowed slightly even before he had heard her coming.]

Will the datapad not suffice?

[He doesn't look up from his work. It is delicate.]

D36ish

[erbier]

[ She and the Prince have never seen eye to eye, but after the clarity of her almost-solitude aboard the Station... she sees something there. Knows that her own point of view has changed. Perhaps it's Cathaway that inspires her -- no, it is assuredly Cathaway -- but it seems time, while they have it. She has learned to hear the Station, to follow its blood vessels as they direct flow; she goes looking. ]

[regalled]

[It does not take much looking. The station, earlier, had been directed to make the way to his spaces open- particularly for Cathaway, but it has made no effort in the interim to shut them down again, something which he has not realized but would not mind if he were to. So if she follows the natural flow to the end she seeks, she will find herself at a door- which is once again closed- simple and white and perfectly blended with the station's design, beyond which, obviously, lies what she seeks.

If she tarries, he will realize she is there, but for a time he is otherwise occupied.]

day: 036 - cw: filth

[polyphonos]

(continued from here.)

[She follows him from the table and her hand is gentle in his, every calloused edge to her worn fingers softened by the easiness of her wrist and how she allows herself to be drawn along by him. Isn't she often like a stone around his neck? See, she can be light when he allows her to be. It's the simplest thing to draw her along deeper into the rooms the Station has been for him.

Cathaway doesn't think about the fact that it's a shame he hasn't always done so - though it is. She's patient. Or she can be. Why bother with a thought like that when it's irrelevant now?]

*LONGSUFFERING SIGH*

[regalled]

[Yes, she can be light. She can be easy and tractable and pleasant and smooth as some necessary soothing medicine. But he has never really wanted her to be- easy, even when he thought he did, when he thought, young and very foolish, that he wished she was less sharp in some way or another. More manageable, more like the women he was accustomed to. Even now, leading her past the narrowing doorway out of the room that has, until so recently, been boarded away, he knows that this will never quite be easy, and he can be glad for that too. For how she has always had some keen sense for the weakest parts of a person. For where to slide the knife.

The main entrance of his rooms are more familiar territory- which is close enough to comfort for him to forego the somewhat- formal nature of her hand in his hand, the first steps to a waltz- to tug her closer as he turns to face her again, stepping backwards to the low settee, hand turning in hers to set palm to palm.]

I find myself absolutely certain that for all that you did not have preference for tea, there are other things you had more of an opinion about, but you may have to remind me. It has been some cycles.