barrayar | (no subject)

"Sir-- stop."

It's terse, bitten off. They're not in a good situation. Cut off from the drop-ship and all the support that might come with it, comms jammed, hostiles trawling the corridors looking for them. Anderson isn't afraid, just professional, alert. Her weapon is in-hand and angled at the floor, but she isn't looking around the corner when she tells the Admiral to stop: her gaze is unfocused, straight ahead.

Damn it. There's no way around revealing this now. Sergeant Anderson has become a mask she's put on, somehow cleaving truer to her real self than Judge Anderson ever did, but a mask all the same, composed of irritatingly necessary deceptions and secrets. Nothing harmful, but things Anderson doesn't want to have to explain, doesn't want to be used for. She's had enough of being someone else's weapon in that particular way. She'll shoot anyone who deserves it and not lose any sleep over the fact, but imposing law and order on citizens who deserve better, using her mental powers to discriminate and persecute at someone else's say-so, removed from the streets she policed-- she left that far, far behind.

Using a gun is straightforward, easy. Anyone can do it. Maybe not well, but they can. Anderson's special, unique talents... These days, she uses them just for herself and her own curiosity. And apparently to save the skin of her admiral, who, despite herself, she's reluctantly come to like. It was instinctual to warn him of the minds she feels coming this way, out of her mouth before she quite realizes what it'll inevitably imply that she can detect people approaching without audio or visual cues.

As soon as she announces the warning, not a moment later, armed security forces troop by, and they hold their breath in the shadow of the alcove until they pass.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Oh yes, Miles is terribly noisy. An unusually sharp brain even before you take into account the fact that he got there due to his own body being kind of frail and terrible, which just dialed it up to eleven. He's clamoring even now, trying to guess at what it is she's going to tell him. Cetagandan spy gone rogue? Secret Jackson's Whole experiment? Love confession?

... All right, probably not that last one. But a man can dream.

"My apologies," he says with a wry little bow in turn. "I am insatiable, I suppose."

But he shoulders his stunner, heading out to give her a bit of space. Twenty minutes, eh. He can do that.

With Anderson intending to explain afterward, there's not much point in keeping a lid on what she can do. She falls into the mindset of a Judge without thinking. Used to making lightning-fast judgments while applying a complex set of laws and facing off against overwhelming odds, to Anderson, getting one man out undetected is a walk in the park compared to something like Peach Trees, the case that had been her final graduation exam.

Most Judges become closed-off, impassable as a rock wall as they perform their duty. Anderson has never allowed that for herself, and she's merely focused, looking inward as much as she's looking outward. She guides them around detection as much as possible, making abrupt changes in direction or ducking around a corner or into a room without warning. When she can't duck someone, she assesses whether they're an innocent victim caught up in a bad situation or a perp - categories she can't seem to leave behind - in less than a second, having to wait only for them to register her presence to feel their resulting intent. Sometimes, unwillingly, she gets part of their life that way, too, often with an overwhelming fear that she'll kill them. It always leaves a sour taste in her mouth.

Anderson takes out the perpetrators with brutal efficiency, leaving their corpses where they drop, but spares a moment to quietly instruct those who meet her invisible criteria of 'victim' to pretend they never saw her or the Admiral.

Twenty minutes ends up not being an overestimation for how long it takes for her to get them to the extraction point. Anderson doesn't relax until they're boarded on the shuttle, and even then it takes time for each muscle to untense. She's too used to fight-or-flight, not used to it's-safe-now. Nerves start to return to her, and she goes through her automatic weapons check to have something to do with her hands.

They can't really talk yet until they get back to the flagship and to a private room, and in the meantime, Anderson feels thoroughly sick of stretching out to listen to everyone, perpetually on edge. It reminds her of being a Judge too much, where she's always being watched and she's always watching everyone else. She shuts off her mental perception, relieved at being able to settle back into visual and auditory input only.