"--can't keep telling you this, Simon! You aren't listening! It's not my fault that you're--"
The loud, distressed voice halts abruptly, cut off and replaced with uncertainty and suppressed panic. "... Simon? Are you there? I can't see anything."
A thousand years can pass and Catherine wouldn't know any different, not with her cortex chip hooked up to a broken terminal and unpowered. In the interim, any number of things could happen, and it makes sense that it would take a very long time for a complex at the bottom of the mid-Atlantic to be discovered and unearthed. With an independent power supply and a speaker, she can talk, but she can't do much else: her access isn't restricted, it's just not there.
Catherine is a person floating in fog, bodiless, and with no senses but an audio pick up and her voice.
He's barely touched the device when he hears a woman's voice and his brows furrow. A recording? Except the inflection changes abruptly afterward, as if the device realizes its somewhere else. His brows furrow as he stares for a long moment, considering his options.
Well. If he looks like a damn fool talking to himself in his office, there's at least no one around to witness it.
"I'm afraid you won't find Simon here," he hazards.
It is with intense reluctance that Gregor finally concedes to the idea that he needs to leave some sort of historical record behind of a more personal nature than just a plain transcription of events. The reopening of Barrayar to the rest of the Nexus in truth, and him leading it through the longest period of peace known in the past five centuries already, with him not more than thirty-five, would be significant enough. The technological and social advances are the clincher.
It takes continual wily, blandly-voiced suggestions that Simon is so good at over several months for Gregor to come around to it. He is so private, even the idea that no one will see the records until after his death is not enough to overcome his resistance at first. His children, whenever he eventually has them-- for he must, ugh-- will be forced to confront all that he has to say, eventually. Not even the truth of his father, Serg, will be all that classified by his grandchildren's generation. It will have been too long ago. It will be history, he will be history.
Apart from his withdrawn nature, Gregor's dislike of acknowledging just how significant a figure he is was the more major stumbling block.
But-- he sees the need. Yes, alright. Fine. He'll do his duty in this, too, and no one can complain about what he says or does not say in the record, because no one else is allowed to view the damn things for decades.
There is, after all, only one historian in his entire service with the preexisting security clearance necessary to handle this. And his Armsmen-- not that they're about to say anything. Vorbarra Armsmen are more like silent sentinels than extended family, though they are that, too, in their own way. When Gregor receives the unfortunate Dr. Galeni, there is no one but a pair of Armsmen to keep him guard, the lack of secretaries and aides and more overt guards loud and ostentatious in his study room.
He genuinely has no idea what Galeni himself thinks of this assignment, wonders if he's begrudgingly doing his duty the same as Gregor is. He won't do him the indignity of inquiring about it. They're both stuck in it.
"Have a seat," he says, maintaining his composure. "We may as well start as comfortably as we can. I'm sure this will be the first of many meetings." And if he has to maintain formality while speaking on the personal details of his life, Gregor really will lose his mind.
Gregor as an elf is immediately, shockingly different: his height has become willowy rather than mere thinness, his ears are of course pointed, and his attire is an unremitting white marred only by the ink-spill of his black hair. He's saved from looking rather deathly by the insisted-upon austerity of his clothes-- a single over-robe, a minimum of jewelry, all in darker pewter and silver to lend gravity. From delicate earrings to the styling of his coiled, long hair, if it weren't for his face and voice he would be unrecognizable.
Certainly, the altered speech pattern doesn't help.
"Miles? What hast happened to thee?" His ears are flicked back in surprise and overt concern, the jewelry clinking faintly. "I swear I saw thee but this morning, and thou were the same as thou ever are."
Miles, meanwhile, wonders if he might finally have snapped.
He had come to the door of his office expecting any number of things. Complaints about the recent butterfly debacle? Insistence on a town hall meeting (which he still doesn't understand the point of, no matter how many times Kitty explains the concept)? A new imPort looking for help? Apparently that last one, but he wasn't expecting ... God, what is he even looking at ...
"This is just cruelty," he mumbles, not entirely directed at Gregor. Bad enough to lose Gregor in the first place. Worse with each person who'd left after, with Miles' safety net - and telepathic network - shrinking with each departure. Until it's only him from home now, alone in his own head, clinging desperately to Kitty and his work as an Ambassador like he fears he might fall into an abyss otherwise. Hell, he might. One of numb stubbornness against doing anything at all more than true danger, but not the slightest bit healthy either.
And now - now, after everyone else has gone, the Porter decides to spit out sheer insanity. He keeps staring up at Gregor, not sure whether it's better or worse to have this kind of hope seeping into his heart like poison. He can't take this. Not when it's clearly not his Gregor, given the clothing and the hair and the ears and the cold, empty side of their link that fails to spark to life even now -
He needs a drink. Five drinks, minimum.
That whirlwind of thoughts causes a matching whirlwind of emotions to flicker in his expression, each shade slightly more despairing than the last. In the end he's just exhausted. Moreso the more details his eyes take in. "Just come in, please," he says, lifting a hand to his temples. "I daresay I'm not your Miles." And you are not my Gregor, comes the mental response, stabbing sharply into him.
This whole gamut of emotions is quite alarming, but he at least seems unharmed. Gregor, however, is still Gregor, and shoots him a dour look as he sweeps in, a bit more unconsciously imperial than the standard him ever manages without effort. He's had a different life, for certain.
"That remains to be seen, does it not?" His rain-pale eyes, shades lighter than normal, take in everything. Good thing he's had a chance to adjust to all this nonsense here, though he hasn't managed to convince himself fully to divest himself of the clothes of his station. He just keeps picturing how scandalized all of his attendants would be, nohecharei least of it. His edocharei don't bear thinking about.
Though it will have to happen eventually. Too bad Miles is being completely inexplicable.
"Dost thou consider thyself my Miles?" He's not about to be offended at any answer, but there's a calm, implacable expectation to his tone that Gregor of Miles's knowing had not managed to master yet.
Very different, though at least he doesn't view Miles as a total stranger. That's a small mercy. If Miles had had to deal with any version of Gregor that didn't recognize him, he might just hurl himself over a bridge and be done with it. This is marginally better, even if it's much, much stranger.
He doesn't answer at first, instead openly staring up at the elf (man?) in front of him. Light eyes, imperial manner, quiet expectation ... A different life indeed. He's not sure he's ever seen Gregor look at him with that kind of implacability. Always some sort of request even in imperial orders, a dedication to letting Miles step all over Gregor's toes if he so chooses. He's torn between being a bit mad with curiosity and too damn depressed to even deal with all this. The curiosity wins by the slightest of margins.
"I don't see how I possibly could be." There's pain in his voice as he speaks. Gesturing for Gregor to sit on the small couch in the waiting room. "Is your name even Gregor?"
"Of course. What else would it be? I hardly ask thee to call me by my assumed name."
He seats himself with a gingerness that belies how unused to this furniture he is. Everything is just completely strange, but Gregor is hungry for new experiences, for escape, enough so that he is eager rather than upset by the differences. But Miles being so overtly sad to see him, rather than relieved...
Something is very wrong.
"Miles..." His brow furrows. "I repeat, what hast happened to thee?"
So it is Gregor? One who recognizes him, in fact, but plainly comes from some alternate lifetime. Miles sits heavily in the chair across from the couch - purposely designed to be a bit lower than average, so that he can sit comfortably in it without his feet dangling off the floor.
How does he begin to explain? He's not sure he can. Not sure he wants to, even. The prospect is painfully huge to even consider, and that's before he knows a damn thing about how this Gregor thinks of his Miles. Better to find that out first.
"Nothing has happened to me. I'm the same as I always am." His new normal, for certain definitions thereof. "Am I different? Shorter, perhaps?" Surely that's the most obvious difference. Or maybe he's some kind of goblin or dwarf to Gregor's elf, who knows.
"About the same in that," he muses, "but certainly not elf-pale." Half-goblin, for sure, not that Gregor has ever cared about that in the least. Cordelia has made her way in the Untheileneise court sufficiently that few others dare comment on it these days, either.
He doesn't miss the essential dodging of the question, but he doesn't press on what appears to be a sore topic, either.
"I can see much else is different here apart from the manner of dress and the engines. I confess I was much relieved to see thou art here, but I willst not make demands if thou consider us strangers." Much as that would hurt, he is collected enough to keep such hurt to himself-- though he might not be able to resist switching to the formal plural, if that were the case...
That ... hurts more somehow. As bad as it is to have a Gregor that clearly isn't his, the thought of outright rejecting him is so completely incompatible with Miles' entire existence that his eyes widen in panic. Especially if this Gregor is relieved to see him even in this incarnation. He can't make Gregor's life worse. Any Gregor's.
It cuts neatly through the wall of self-absorbtion he's put up around himself. (In addition to his usual denseness about anything not right in front of his nose.) Makes him duck his head in shame a moment, gaze fixed on his lap. Gregor is Gregor is Gregor. Hadn't he loved Miles' Betan alternate too?
"No," he breathes out, lifting his head again. A bit of his usual fire in his eyes again, bright against their hollowness. "Never strangers, Gregor. You're still some version of a man who's very dear to me." More than anything or anyone in the world, even now. He bites his lip a moment, and decides to ameliorate his earlier dodge just a little. "It's not your fault he isn't here."
He smiles very slightly, a sadness tinging it, lingering in his eyes, that is very familiar. His ears lift back to neutral. How Gregor must interact with the world is different and has made him different, but at his core he is much the same.
"I am yet more relieved to hear it," he admits. "There are very few close to me at court, and I cherish them all, thou especially. I cannot imagine thou art not entrusted with similar position in whatever unearthly realm thou hast come from."
There has been one other side effect: Ethuverid emperors are expected to be direct, and most of all, confident. As a consequence, Gregor has gotten somewhat more straightforward about admitting his feelings in all respects. He hasn't truly been allowed to hide them, not with his life invaded from all corners at all times. Those places and people he can eke out space with are incredibly precious to him.
If he needed any more proof, that would be it right there. That sadness makes Miles want to throw his arms around the man - or better yet, reach out over the link. He does the latter quite instinctively, only to come up against that smooth, cold wall again. Right. No oaths sworn between them, so no telepathy to speak of.
Instead, he settles for dragging his chair a bit closer. And wonders how close this Gregor is with his Miles. Shockingly close if he's going to admit it outright to a relative stranger like that. How many times has he seen Gregor do the same? Not many, that's for sure, and usually with a very specific purpose in mind.
"May I ask what position he has, then?" He can't help but lift a hand to the back of his neck, fiddling at the chain there. He still wears Gregor's ring at all times, even now. "Something close, clearly," he continues, not quite able to ask the question head on.
[ Catherine's voice is irrepressibly cheery on his voicemail, especially for the subject matter. ]
Hi there! I've heard you were the person to talk to about transitioning to having a body. [ Heard, hacked, same thing. ] My name's Catherine. I've been disembodied for my entire existence, but I'm getting a little sick of needing someone to carry me around if I want to transfer systems.
Give me a call back if you wouldn't mind helping me!
[ And... that's it. She's to the point, that's for sure. ]
[The answer comes at a delay of a few days- he's been out in the mountains, and there's no reception there. But when he can connect to a cellular reception again, he gives her a proper response.]
Hello Catherine. Of course I would not mind assisting you. Although I should warn you, I have not done this before. The "transitions" I usually assist with are more... metaphysical, rather than literal. But I know the process, regardless.
Usually that would destroy the entity inside of it.
[Which is... huh.]
Are you currently hosted anywhere? I believe I can assist you on finding a proper frame, but I will need to know where to find you physically, or if you are present elsewhere.
I'm housed in a cortex chip, something of my own design. You'd have to physically destroy the chip itself to get rid of me. I designed it to be easy to transfer into new physical constraints, or between terminals.
[ and then idk something about where she is physically because I HAVE NO CLUE WHAT TO SAY HERE, JEAN ]
[ OH WOW WHAT A SUPREME COINCIDENCE HOW CONVENIENT THIS IS SO LUCKYYYY ]
Sure! That would be great, thanks. Just let me know when you're coming.
[ She's not a little impatient, but she'll restrain herself. She doesn't want to alienate someone who's just going to supply her with a 'frame' free of charge or persuasion. Catherine's dying to see what it is, what it's like, eager to move under her own power. She's started to get... lonely, with Simon gone. ]
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DUV
The loud, distressed voice halts abruptly, cut off and replaced with uncertainty and suppressed panic. "... Simon? Are you there? I can't see anything."
A thousand years can pass and Catherine wouldn't know any different, not with her cortex chip hooked up to a broken terminal and unpowered. In the interim, any number of things could happen, and it makes sense that it would take a very long time for a complex at the bottom of the mid-Atlantic to be discovered and unearthed. With an independent power supply and a speaker, she can talk, but she can't do much else: her access isn't restricted, it's just not there.
Catherine is a person floating in fog, bodiless, and with no senses but an audio pick up and her voice.
no subject
He's barely touched the device when he hears a woman's voice and his brows furrow. A recording? Except the inflection changes abruptly afterward, as if the device realizes its somewhere else. His brows furrow as he stares for a long moment, considering his options.
Well. If he looks like a damn fool talking to himself in his office, there's at least no one around to witness it.
"I'm afraid you won't find Simon here," he hazards.
the unfortunate dr. galeni
It takes continual wily, blandly-voiced suggestions that Simon is so good at over several months for Gregor to come around to it. He is so private, even the idea that no one will see the records until after his death is not enough to overcome his resistance at first. His children, whenever he eventually has them-- for he must, ugh-- will be forced to confront all that he has to say, eventually. Not even the truth of his father, Serg, will be all that classified by his grandchildren's generation. It will have been too long ago. It will be history, he will be history.
Apart from his withdrawn nature, Gregor's dislike of acknowledging just how significant a figure he is was the more major stumbling block.
But-- he sees the need. Yes, alright. Fine. He'll do his duty in this, too, and no one can complain about what he says or does not say in the record, because no one else is allowed to view the damn things for decades.
There is, after all, only one historian in his entire service with the preexisting security clearance necessary to handle this. And his Armsmen-- not that they're about to say anything. Vorbarra Armsmen are more like silent sentinels than extended family, though they are that, too, in their own way. When Gregor receives the unfortunate Dr. Galeni, there is no one but a pair of Armsmen to keep him guard, the lack of secretaries and aides and more overt guards loud and ostentatious in his study room.
He genuinely has no idea what Galeni himself thinks of this assignment, wonders if he's begrudgingly doing his duty the same as Gregor is. He won't do him the indignity of inquiring about it. They're both stuck in it.
"Have a seat," he says, maintaining his composure. "We may as well start as comfortably as we can. I'm sure this will be the first of many meetings." And if he has to maintain formality while speaking on the personal details of his life, Gregor really will lose his mind.
mmmmMiles
Certainly, the altered speech pattern doesn't help.
"Miles? What hast happened to thee?" His ears are flicked back in surprise and overt concern, the jewelry clinking faintly. "I swear I saw thee but this morning, and thou were the same as thou ever are."
no subject
He had come to the door of his office expecting any number of things. Complaints about the recent butterfly debacle? Insistence on a town hall meeting (which he still doesn't understand the point of, no matter how many times Kitty explains the concept)? A new imPort looking for help? Apparently that last one, but he wasn't expecting ... God, what is he even looking at ...
"This is just cruelty," he mumbles, not entirely directed at Gregor. Bad enough to lose Gregor in the first place. Worse with each person who'd left after, with Miles' safety net - and telepathic network - shrinking with each departure. Until it's only him from home now, alone in his own head, clinging desperately to Kitty and his work as an Ambassador like he fears he might fall into an abyss otherwise. Hell, he might. One of numb stubbornness against doing anything at all more than true danger, but not the slightest bit healthy either.
And now - now, after everyone else has gone, the Porter decides to spit out sheer insanity. He keeps staring up at Gregor, not sure whether it's better or worse to have this kind of hope seeping into his heart like poison. He can't take this. Not when it's clearly not his Gregor, given the clothing and the hair and the ears and the cold, empty side of their link that fails to spark to life even now -
He needs a drink. Five drinks, minimum.
That whirlwind of thoughts causes a matching whirlwind of emotions to flicker in his expression, each shade slightly more despairing than the last. In the end he's just exhausted. Moreso the more details his eyes take in. "Just come in, please," he says, lifting a hand to his temples. "I daresay I'm not your Miles." And you are not my Gregor, comes the mental response, stabbing sharply into him.
no subject
"That remains to be seen, does it not?" His rain-pale eyes, shades lighter than normal, take in everything. Good thing he's had a chance to adjust to all this nonsense here, though he hasn't managed to convince himself fully to divest himself of the clothes of his station. He just keeps picturing how scandalized all of his attendants would be, nohecharei least of it. His edocharei don't bear thinking about.
Though it will have to happen eventually. Too bad Miles is being completely inexplicable.
"Dost thou consider thyself my Miles?" He's not about to be offended at any answer, but there's a calm, implacable expectation to his tone that Gregor of Miles's knowing had not managed to master yet.
no subject
He doesn't answer at first, instead openly staring up at the elf (man?) in front of him. Light eyes, imperial manner, quiet expectation ... A different life indeed. He's not sure he's ever seen Gregor look at him with that kind of implacability. Always some sort of request even in imperial orders, a dedication to letting Miles step all over Gregor's toes if he so chooses. He's torn between being a bit mad with curiosity and too damn depressed to even deal with all this. The curiosity wins by the slightest of margins.
"I don't see how I possibly could be." There's pain in his voice as he speaks. Gesturing for Gregor to sit on the small couch in the waiting room. "Is your name even Gregor?"
no subject
He seats himself with a gingerness that belies how unused to this furniture he is. Everything is just completely strange, but Gregor is hungry for new experiences, for escape, enough so that he is eager rather than upset by the differences. But Miles being so overtly sad to see him, rather than relieved...
Something is very wrong.
"Miles..." His brow furrows. "I repeat, what hast happened to thee?"
no subject
How does he begin to explain? He's not sure he can. Not sure he wants to, even. The prospect is painfully huge to even consider, and that's before he knows a damn thing about how this Gregor thinks of his Miles. Better to find that out first.
"Nothing has happened to me. I'm the same as I always am." His new normal, for certain definitions thereof. "Am I different? Shorter, perhaps?" Surely that's the most obvious difference. Or maybe he's some kind of goblin or dwarf to Gregor's elf, who knows.
no subject
He doesn't miss the essential dodging of the question, but he doesn't press on what appears to be a sore topic, either.
"I can see much else is different here apart from the manner of dress and the engines. I confess I was much relieved to see thou art here, but I willst not make demands if thou consider us strangers." Much as that would hurt, he is collected enough to keep such hurt to himself-- though he might not be able to resist switching to the formal plural, if that were the case...
no subject
It cuts neatly through the wall of self-absorbtion he's put up around himself. (In addition to his usual denseness about anything not right in front of his nose.) Makes him duck his head in shame a moment, gaze fixed on his lap. Gregor is Gregor is Gregor. Hadn't he loved Miles' Betan alternate too?
"No," he breathes out, lifting his head again. A bit of his usual fire in his eyes again, bright against their hollowness. "Never strangers, Gregor. You're still some version of a man who's very dear to me." More than anything or anyone in the world, even now. He bites his lip a moment, and decides to ameliorate his earlier dodge just a little. "It's not your fault he isn't here."
no subject
"I am yet more relieved to hear it," he admits. "There are very few close to me at court, and I cherish them all, thou especially. I cannot imagine thou art not entrusted with similar position in whatever unearthly realm thou hast come from."
There has been one other side effect: Ethuverid emperors are expected to be direct, and most of all, confident. As a consequence, Gregor has gotten somewhat more straightforward about admitting his feelings in all respects. He hasn't truly been allowed to hide them, not with his life invaded from all corners at all times. Those places and people he can eke out space with are incredibly precious to him.
no subject
Instead, he settles for dragging his chair a bit closer. And wonders how close this Gregor is with his Miles. Shockingly close if he's going to admit it outright to a relative stranger like that. How many times has he seen Gregor do the same? Not many, that's for sure, and usually with a very specific purpose in mind.
"May I ask what position he has, then?" He can't help but lift a hand to the back of his neck, fiddling at the chain there. He still wears Gregor's ring at all times, even now. "Something close, clearly," he continues, not quite able to ask the question head on.
ZENYATTA
Hi there! I've heard you were the person to talk to about transitioning to having a body. [ Heard, hacked, same thing. ] My name's Catherine. I've been disembodied for my entire existence, but I'm getting a little sick of needing someone to carry me around if I want to transfer systems.
Give me a call back if you wouldn't mind helping me!
[ And... that's it. She's to the point, that's for sure. ]
no subject
Hello Catherine. Of course I would not mind assisting you. Although I should warn you, I have not done this before. The "transitions" I usually assist with are more... metaphysical, rather than literal. But I know the process, regardless.
no subject
The last time I was put in something it got destroyed almost immediately after. It was extremely annoying.
no subject
[Which is... huh.]
Are you currently hosted anywhere? I believe I can assist you on finding a proper frame, but I will need to know where to find you physically, or if you are present elsewhere.
[Like over the internet?? somehow??]
no subject
I'm housed in a cortex chip, something of my own design. You'd have to physically destroy the chip itself to get rid of me. I designed it to be easy to transfer into new physical constraints, or between terminals.
[ and then idk something about where she is physically because I HAVE NO CLUE WHAT TO SAY HERE, JEAN ]
no subject
I suppose what you will need then is a empty frame. I may need a day, but I believe I can arrange for something. Will that work?
no subject
Sure! That would be great, thanks. Just let me know when you're coming.
[ She's not a little impatient, but she'll restrain herself. She doesn't want to alienate someone who's just going to supply her with a 'frame' free of charge or persuasion. Catherine's dying to see what it is, what it's like, eager to move under her own power. She's started to get... lonely, with Simon gone. ]
no subject
I am outside. Could you allow me in?