. (euphie) wrote in warrantlogs, @ 2016-01-24 08:33:00 |
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Entry tags: | !backlog, castor vance, euphemia corte-real, jude novak, npc: killian, npc: ren |
Who: Euphemia & Ren, Killian, Jude, Castor.
What: A series of non-linear vignettes.
Where: Various places: HQs, Sling, Pluto.
When: 2064 until now.
Warnings: Violence. Murder. Trauma. Discussions of death. Signs of PTSD.
Ren is frightening. Not because she looks dangerous, within the curves of her hips and smooth shoulders; no. Ren is frightening because of how she moves, precision governing every single gesture; Euphie knows that out of all the people who cross in and out of the RAC, Ren is one of the most dangerous. It has nothing to do with her rank or who she trains, it is all because of the person she is. Whenever Euphemia is faced with Ren there is only a vast chasm where some human sentiment ought to be. It is terrifying, how with minimal effort her wrist is about to break in Ren's hold, slender fingers wrapped tight in a vice. There are lips, unpainted of those crimson tones now, brushing against the shell of her ear from behind, disturbing the stray hairs there. "Yield, yet?" "No." Even trapped like this, with the racing of their hearts in sync, and it was hard to remember how to break the hold. Not when she felt that hollowness eating at her insides, Ren's. She jerked her elbow back, trying to plant some space(but she was a wild animal caught by a hunter, waiting for her to lift the muzzle of the gun and shoot). One sharp laugh, and she's pushed away by Ren's hands, unsoft but not entirely unkind. She stumbles forward, catches her breath. To take it easy would be an insult, for her. Unrelenting until the yield is given, all fangs and claw. "You will," she promises to her aloud, purposely and visually letting down her guard to adjust her ponytail. "Come on, little captain." The outcome had been determined before the first punch had been thrown; panting and bruised Euphemia stares up with the mat against her spine. She's not disappointed in losing, she hadn't come here to win but to learn. And the red marks were her own doing: refusing to yield until the pain had become blanked her senses. Pain was not pleasurable, she simply had a stubborn threshold for it. The slender fingers of earlier curl loosely around Euphie's throat, rolling over a hammering jugular. Like a wolf preparing for a meal, Ren grins. "Yield now?" She taps the mat with her hand twice. Yes. If only because her breath is skipping, coming in short shallow pants, and it could only get worse if she refused. The limit has been reached and she follows Ren's movements like a fawn would a wolf's: trapped, resigned, wary. Soon enough the predator begins to fade, and the Killjoy director repurposes her hand to smooth the damp strands off Euphie's forehead. An almost condescending move, if looked at through the wrong glasses. Not here, not between them. It's affection, acknowledgement, fleeting though it is. Seated still over the younger woman's lap where she's pinned her down, Ren withdraws back into the straddle, smoothing palms over her own thighs as her breath starts to return. She smiles, then, though the edges aren't so sharp. "You make it easy for someone to want to rip you open and eat your insides, little cap." Swallowing her surprise at those words, Euphie's hand comes to rest on Ren's knee, and it feels grounding as she opens her mouth to take more air before replying. "Assuming this hasn't happened already, dearest. Or if not, are you considering doing the honours?" Like a four-legged creature falling back onto its front paws, Ren easily drops back down with a palm flat next to the captain's head on the mat, her ponytail slipping over her shoulder from above. Euphemia feeling impossibly cornered again. "Are you offering?" "It's not nice to tease, Ren." A theatrical sigh, "After all, the wolf don't give the sheep a choice." Another lean down, taunting, teasing; Euphemia's eyes dark, and hungry. "I'm not like the other wolves," the Killjoy whispered. "I'm offering." Ren's long, spidery fingers tapped the mat. "Sweetling, if only you knew what you were signing up for." Euphemia lifts her head —— — The sound of fingers rapping against the desk practically echoes. Solid tap, tap, taps to frame her entrance into the lecture hall where he's asked to meet her, his usual impatience like a shield around him. He's quiet on her approach, waiting until she's at least ten feet away before speaking. "You're late." (By thirty seconds, but it's still something to say.)He has a reputation. Not just for his mannerisms but because of the Kamikaze; anyone who cared to listen would have known, and even those who didn't knew vague details. The reputation of the Incident had shadowed the important part: his piloting skills. That Euphemia has not missed. "Sorry," she meets his eyes, "sir." They're rimmed with exhaustion — too much responsibility, too few ways to organize priorities, too many reasons to hate lecturing and teaching pilots how not to fuck up — as they trace her face, falling away shortly after. (And there's no reproach for the 'sir', but he's still not used to it; it shows in how he nearly rolls his eyes.) He circles the desk, perches slightly against it. Taps the wood again. "You're graduating the program next year, aren't you?" "Yes," that semi-neurotic, nervous energy is there: writing morse code with the tip of her finger against her thigh. He is something that pushes, and she wants to automatically step back and give him wide berth. "They told me you wanted to," she looks down, "that you would speak with me, about my performance so far." Killian is quiet for a handful of moments, gauging that reaction first. "You don't have to look so glum, Corte-Real. This isn't an official performance review." That required taking a seat, pouring over papers, committing to cadets being upset with him when he told them they needed to try harder. He sighs. "And if it was, I'd tell you that you should be a little more proud of your high scores." The words have an instantaneous effect, the tension replaced with something akin to pride; Euphemia allows herself to look Kilian in the eye, seeks a certain kinship: pilot to pilot, not student to teacher. "That is very good to know." Words falling short, unable to contain the following excitement that makes her stand up straighter and offer a tentative smile. Though it wouldn't be returned, he meets her gaze evenly, that understanding unsaid. He'd been in her position once: called to meet with the director to discuss his top grades and scores, assured that the RAC would benefit from such a fine pilot who would no doubt become one of the best. Killian had met those expectations once, and now all that was left was to ensure the pilots that came out of the program now were the best they could be, and that included the girl in front of him. He crosses his arms, cants his head. "How many hours do you put into the flight simulators?" He'd seen the logs and knew the answer; it was how she approached that question, whether with humbleness or pride. A flash of embarrassment crosses her expression because she isn't actually sure. "I don't know the total." A lot. More than required but it was not because she was showing off to her fellow pilot trainees, she just liked it. The controls had become familiar but it was the screen(all the pieces of stars and planets and debris that formed a collage she navigated). "More than any of the other pilot trainees," he supplies for her, unmoved by that embarrassment. "And more than you need to, at your skill level. The simulator won't help you anymore at this point. You need real exposure, not pretend scenarios." She's on the tip of toes, barely keeping hold(she wants metal and wings and hums). "Are you going to teach me?" It seems a begrudging thing, Killian in a position of authority where that is even a possibility: instructing and guiding when he'd had no one real to guide him for so much of his life. His eyes bore into her for two, three more seconds, until: "As long as you don't call me 'Mr. Stracke' at any time in the near future." "I will not call you——" "—Mr.Novak." The fresh ink smeared by the heel of her hand, an unhappy side product of rushing through forms. "Is that more work that you're bringing me?" Curled in the comfortable cockpit seat, all weary smiles and dark circles. Pluto is unforgiving, despite her natural liking to it. So much like a deer caught in headlights, Jude pauses where he's crossing the room with the manila folder in hand, to which he looks at sheepishly. Forms and paperwork are a necessary evil of captaincy, he's come to learn, but they were just that — necessary. He grips the folder, steps in the rest of the way. "Perks of the job, isn't it?" His smile is guilty. "I could take some of it for you. It's not a problem." The dark smear on her hand catches his attention, but it isn't pointed out just yet. She gestures to the seat and shuffles to the left giving room for him to join. It is not a wide space but it could fit two decently. "No, it is fine, I can't sleep anyway, so might as well occupy my time." Unlike the captain of B52, her bouts of insomnia are unpredictable in their arrivals and departures. She could sleep fitfully for months and then spend a week with minimal hours until she caved in and went to her beloved medics. "Besides, while I do this you get to wrangle the crew and lift their spirits. Pluto is a little glum for most." An understatement, but Jude has no interest in arguing that, especially not by the time he's seated across from her, the folder flat on the tops of his thighs. The concern is immediate, clear in the slight furrow of his brow. "Are you sure? I honestly don't mind, Euphie." Stained fingers weave a pointless pattern in his direction, they are restless like this; she misses piloting. "I know, but you are better with reassuring them, seeing what they need and letting me know what that is." How to solve it was then her duty. "And don't be concerned, dear heart, I promise to get something from Winston darling soon." The worry remains burned into Jude's expression, but still he nods, slipping the folder back into hand to pass it over. Some of them are only to sign, some to skim. Being in such a place, on such a dwarf planet, brought more work than either of them had anticipated. He sees it in her weariness, worn light so no prying eyes can take note of it, but six years is a long time to know someone. He sees her. And she him. "Do you…" Not an awkward pause, only one to reformat the words. "Should I come by later, if it'll help?" Her answer a chaste kiss against his brow (and he smiles soft, understanding) before she turns to the files. The ink feels fresh, fingertip along each name as mental notes are made. There are lists, and annotations. "This is a complete record of all the enforcers on Pluto?" Jude's handwriting is meticulous, careful and precise. Things meant to draw attention, different colors for different priorities. It could easily be cluttered, but it's anything but. "Yeah, but it wasn't easy to get." A lean forward. "I had to make a little fuss." And another smile, wan this time. An eyebrow lifts, a smile follows, and there is concern beneath; he is saying little fuss but it sends alarm bells. There shouldn't have been any. "Hm." Silence falls, "Have you considered, darling, what you might do one day? When this is finished." Jude's eyes flicker with something indistinguishable. "Pluto, or the RAC?" It's a big question. "You don't know. Do you?" Euphie makes a guess, ignoring his question and prompting his frown as a result. Question for question for question. It circles. "It doesn't matter, you have time." But do they? With so many uncertainties, can anyone know? He doesn't, and it shows in how the frown doesn't fade, deepening if possible. In how he leans back, just slightly, back into the curve of the pilot's seat. "I don't know what I'll do, when it's finished," he admits, sounding as if the answer is news to him, too. "I don't know if I want to know. It's too final that way." "I suppose, you and I are not here for the same reasons, after all, sweetheart." The endearment is filled with such palpable affection, the one that causes a deep ache. That she loves him is no question, even when she goes away. All the pieces of this ship — they are important. She is distant again, fingertip tapping twice on a name she ought to not forget(but would). "I am here for one thing, and after that it will be over." Screams echoing inside her chest, always trying to get out. His eyes seek her out, one hand settled warmly on the curve of her knee. His thumb tracing circles. "What happens then, Euphie?" The screaming would stop. The dead stay dead. The living go on missing them. "Mm," Her hand over his, "Who knows." It would be an end, of what she wasn't sure yet, but she looked forward to seeing it unfold. "Would you be so kind as to go check on Mathias?" And Jude would be, after remaining in place for some moments longer, savouring the solidity of her hand even when the words disconcerted him. Knowing the paperwork will distract, he slowly draws to stand, but not without goodbye: hand to the back of her skull, fingers gliding over hair, his lips to the top of her head. "When it's time for sleep," he murmurs against the dark strands, "you know where to find me." But she only half listens —— — as the scene outside the window is far more interesting than the direction she is walking in. A collision is almost a certainty. Euphemia has accepted, for her own reasons, the offer. It's enough to keep anyone distracted, much like paperwork is so quick to draw one into the endless type and handwriting. And Castor, promoted to captain only a week earlier, is all distraction as he rounds the corner, forms (handwriting clear, but the pen hesitant) heavy in his hands; that moment where impact slows time, papers trapped between two colliding bodies as hands scramble to find purchase. She is by no means small, despite her birdlike frame but Castor is solid enough for three of her out together: stumble, grasp, omph. Like feathers, the papers slip away, gliding back and forth to settle at their feet. Rather than offering sharp words, he's serpent quick: one arm wrapping around for support before she can tumble backward. Euphie isn't a stranger, but it's been a while, and his gaze flickers to dark hair below. "Mind not stepping on those," he suggests, though without any bite as she heeds his words. Castor is familiar, though she is sure last time she saw him there were less tattoos(spider-like trail along his arm before she withdraws). "Captain Vance." From everyone else, the new title was bizarre and ill-fitting, but from her — kinder, somehow. A little less absurd. He hadn't purposely gunned (pun never intended) for the position of captain, though Killian had been more than convincing about the promotion and now, what was done was done. He can't help the quick once-over to ensure she's alright before he's dropping into a crouch, one stapled form scraping floor as he picks it up. "For now," he offers, like the name has a time limit on it. "I like it." She joins him on the floor sweeping forms left and right, but not knowing the right order(just stacked together in some semblance of order. Just enough of a start. Her hands brushing against his, butterfly-like touch before withdrawing, and Castor's pause at that is fleeting. Touching comes easy for her, but it has become mandatory as of late(to know someone, you had to make sure they were there first). He certainly is that, tall and solid and readying to swallow his sigh at the idea of reshuffling the pile. To drop it onto Killian's desk like that is only one rising temptation, but he shoves it away to rise to stand, the papers unevenly aligned against his palm. The sight begs a question that falls past his lips before he can reel it back in. "You up on this floor to see Singh?" Kajal, her reporting officer. A woman whose soft exterior held secrets, they peeked behind her eyes and waves to her in greeting; Euphie thought she was seeing things(tiny little hands against window panes —knock knock knock). "Just came from seeing her." Threatens to spill out the secret, it wouldn't be one for long anyway(but that is not what she seeks when staring at Castor's stern armour, she doesn't even reach to poke the chinks). "Do you think we will make a difference? As captains." And she has laid out her hand innocently, "That we can fix what went wrong before?" The offered look gives no indication of surprise, present though it is. He might have heard earlier of a promotion, but there's something he recognizes in her eyes with aching familiarity — a recent promotion to captain, the news still fresh, and the quiet wonder that accompanied it. What had it meant to him? What would it mean for the crew? Would they accept him as a captain? Had there not been more capable crew to promote, in Killian's eyes, or was it his efficiency with a gun, his handful of kills, that had convinced him? He feels the headache of that thought spiral throb at his temple. "As captains," he starts, slowly, "we can try." Her hand touches his cheek, brief —so tentative in its presence; that quiet agreement with his words, the mirrored look. If Castor has doubts as to why, so does she. Exceptional as a pilot she is, but a captain is not a pilot but a pillar. The ship is held together by the center and when you are frozen, when you are trapped —— —When you stumble into a tragedy and it brands you, how do you move on? The spaces that were once filled are now empty(and that is the best scenario, because the alternative is a sharp sting). She doesn't really know why she's here, standing in front of K. STRACKE(the nameplate taking more of her attention than it should). It's empty. She turns on her heels and right into the bulk of a disgruntled ex-pilot, his hands coming up to catch her around the biceps. They unhook themselves almost immediately, though they hover uncertainly between them. But no further contact happens and Euphie is relieved, it isn't Killian - it is her, something is wrong. Verbal support is one thing and physical another, and Killian, who has never been good at comfort, stops short in his tracks of how to proceed. He tries, still. "You want to come in?" "I didn't know if you were busy." Her predisposition has always been slanted in the favour of restlessness, but now the nervous energy is mixed with terror. And Killian was her mentor, and even though he is not the reporting officer for the Sling, she would sooner talk to him than Kajal. Who already had enough to process with the whole incident, this ship now sporting a sordid history not entirely dissimilar to the Kamikaze's. The state of being busy is relative, really, as Killian tips the door the rest of the way open with a finger. There's a pile of short paperwork sitting unattended on his desk, not a pen to work on them in sight. A half-empty mug of coffee, forgotten. "Come on." Nodded, to direct her inside the office, if she decides. "You need a pen." For lack of anything better to say, her feet drag, and even in company outside of the Sling the heavy cloud of oppression lingers. He's no stranger to that cloud, the feel of it like reliving it all over again. Killian doesn't point it out. He won't. Instead, he stays with the topic at hand. "I need a lot of pens. Someone short and chirpy keeps taking them." Kajal, he means. "I wanted to quit." She is abrupt, all broken pieces have been put together but the glue isn't dry. "But I can't." Euphie wants to run, but something in the violence has now settled in the frail bones, the brittle insides. Violence had come to stay. Perched against the lip of the desk, he's quiet. He recognizes this, like an out of body experience, as if watching himself instead of her. But she isn't him. This is pain turned inside out, the trauma tattooed into her skin, her eyes; his is imprinted on the soft tissue beneath, she could run the tip of her finger and feel the pattern. The exhale he pushes out is strained, but he says nothing, giving the floor to her, because quit can mean so many things. "I still want to quit, but then." The sentence stops, where to go when there are only questions, endlessly coiled in her head and if you unravelled them she might come apart. "If someone dies quickly, does it hurt? Is that better?" "It just hurts who they leave behind," Killian corrects before he has the chance to stop his mouth from working. He thinks about his parents: instantaneous. His brother: instantaneous. The hurt surges from those hollow depths, freshly unearthed and just as piercing, and suddenly his jaw feels as though it might unhinge to devour the room and everything in it. Her eyes follow him, fascinated at whatever she is seeing across the skin(his mask) and she wants to reach. He continues, the pain a blemish on his tone. "It's not better. It's not easier." Fingers find the smooth surface of the desk, resting there. "You could quit. You could rip everything into pieces like it ripped you apart first. You could burn the whole Sol into the ground, and it won't help the way you wish it could. And you might never be whole again," a pause, "but you'll find that certain people have a way of tucking some of the pieces back in if you let them." "Do they?" Her head cocks to one side, more bird(animals have certain looks to them: they see but something else happens behind the glass; her look is not her own it is something that spirals out keeps going and going and going). She reigns it in and clears her throat. His pain is an acute throbbing alongside her own. There is an instance of clarity in the whole mess: "The person to blame needs to be found." Then and only then could she maybe quit(but that was not true, not anymore because the ship has already sunk it's teeth in). The lack of concern in Killian's eyes isn't out of malice, but understanding. He'd needed someone to pay, too; he'd found someone to take that blame so that it wouldn't turn inward. "They will," he supplies, meaning it. "Come hell or high fucking water, they will." The line of her mouth is thin, "And then I will kill them." Whatever the consequences. Her breath catching in her throat as thoughts came as to what exactly she is going to do. And her cheeks feel hot and wet —— —red; the knife moves tentatively over the esophagus, with the careful twirl of his fingers. She feels her pulse race. He artfully commands it like a paintbrush, his masterpiece twitching beneath. He could cut, but doesn't. Precision is key. Every cut, every stroke, means something. (You mean to cut there, it would be quicker). She doesn't know why it would be quicker, maybe it is the pulsating vein of the unconscious body on the table. Speed was not the point, not with him. (How much longer?). And how many before and how many now and how many after. They filled the room, chairs and chairs and chairs with slumped cadavers: hollow eyes accusingly fixed on the conductor of this orchestra. The smile he offers has no warmth where it stretches across his face too far, too wide, as if looking to split his face open and unhinge his jaw, snake-like. He is going to swallow her whole; head to toe, suffocated on the way down. (If one dares to look, those empty, dead eyes around the room echo with screams.) He says nothing, and only moves — a testing slash to the artery, hot red splattering (Quicker but messier, say the movements) and staining and dripping, and then— it rewinds, as if nothing had happened, not a drop spilt. She is still red, hot arterial blood running down her cheeks(maybe she is crying, maybe she is laughing). Re Wind He is sitting across now, a spectator on the chair while she holds the knife; (and how would you have me do it then?). But Euphie knows; slide here, a trickle as they slowly lose consciousness. They will feel everything. (They felt everything). Jaws hang open and closed, chattering as teeth fall. (Do you want to collect these?) piles and piles (Or these?) . I Am (What?) He knows, he sees — the knowing shows in the tilt of his head, and his split smile returns in full. As if she's made of glass, he sees. He sees her heart pulsing, arteries pumping, nerves crackling. She's sinew and bone and fluttering heartbeats. But he'll steady her hand. His own, one impossibly long finger (too long, how?) moving over his throat (Slit), fingers curling to form a tugging motion. Her own, one skeletal long finger(devoid of muscle and skin, how?) moving over the throat. There is no need for a knife as she cuts, her nails serving as scalpel. There is so much red, mouth gaping like a fish. A tongue flickers. You. And then he's gone — half a presence behind her, a ghost in the rafters, whispers in her ear saying Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. The tongue makes a sound as she tugs it through the gap, fist pushing the jaw open, wider and wider— — She's alone, struggling to get out of the tangled sheets of her bed, the engine humming — the vast expanse of space outside her window. Pluto a ghost left behind. The heels of her hands pressed hard against her eyes. A dream. Nothing but. She doesn't feel like herself. And she is not asleep. But he is still whispering against the nape of her neck. (You are me). |