I am junking up this beautiful community with this junk

[jacksonian]

All the other starters are so beautiful but instead I'm coming in and ruining everything with this useless post with this sad sack
Comment to this post and I will write you something

Comments

[vorbarra]

Yes this is beautiful? ?

[jacksonian]

Capture. Don't kill.

You can do this, Miles, had been Ser Galen's last words to him before he'd gone silent. He'd looked so excited. You didn't often see Ser Galen looking happy, and even when he was happy it was often very hard to tell. He didn't smile, really. He went wider around the eyes, and his face got more energetic. Focused, really. And during those last words, he'd looked focused, energetic. The sort of face the clone saw on good days. Hopefully, if all of this worked, he would make a long series of good days for Ser Galen.

Or maybe he'd fail so spectacularly that the whole thing came crashing down and Galen burned with it. Hah.

The clone learned how to ride. Of course he did. Part of the training. The old playmate gets access, too, unusual access. There were some adventures that happened between these two, the Emperor and Lord Vorkosigan. Nothing spoken of, but there were oblique references. A level of trust. Maybe. Something of the sort. And so when the clone pushes for a ride out in the country, get away from the court, just spend some time talking perhaps about something that might interest the Emperor (and the Emperor seems to think that it's perhaps something involving a love life which twists in the clone's guts in a way he can't identify), there is assent. Arrangements are made. Guards are sent out with them, of course, but guards will be taken care of.

Ten miles outside the city, a rendezvous will happen. The clone leads them in that direction. And he looks over at the Emperor and says, with just the right blend of respect and familiarity, "It's good to come back to this. I've started missing it when I'm away."

He'd thrown up his breakfast this morning in terror. He's already hungry again.

[vorbarra]

Truthfully, Gregor was relieved to have a moment to just go on a brief retreat with Miles. He's waved off the guards to follow behind them at a far enough distance to keep them in sight, but not overhear their conversation. It's always relaxing to him to spend apolitical time with one of his very few unconditionally trusted confidantes, and Miles is the only one of those even somewhat close in age. Gregor has other agemates as friends, but none he can say what he's really thinking to 100% of the time without consequence.

As a result, he's quite relaxed. He's used to letting Miles lead him places and it's always a relief to be the one not in charge for once. Of course, sometimes he does assume that role even with Miles, but it's a bare minimum of the time, and he never has to apply more than a deft hand to make himself understood. Miles is not someone who responds well to heavy-handedness and Gregor has always liked that about him, admired it even. So he sits astride his horse, night-black and sable as it is with silver stitching on all the tack, with the complete unconcern for his body language that only comes from spending time with Miles.

"Really?" he muses, a subtle note of dry teasing in his voice. "Here I'm never sure you're going to come back. It's much more exciting than riding through the countryside with me. You get to really do something."

[jacksonian]

"You certainly do things too, don't you," he answers, glancing over at the Emperor. He has...a presence. The clone wasn't really expecting that presence. Even now, when he's just talking like he would to a friend - no, when he is talking to a friend, because he's talking to Miles, not knowing that it's the death of his whole corrupt system and planet sitting uneasily astride his own horse, that it's Komarran vengeance...Even just talking to a friend, he still has an unconscious air of command and dignity. It...makes the clone just a bit envious, truth be told. How can you get so powerful that power actually hangs about you like a cloak?

You need to learn. Ser Galen wants you as Emperor. He doesn't expect you to stand at the top of the Imperium for long, but you will. You'll surprise them all. When you take Gregor's place, you'll be far more than he anticipated - more than any of them anticipated...

"Are you happy with how things have been going? Since I've been here last. It's been a long time since we've talked." Tell me, emperor, what needs to be done...

[vorbarra]

It's not strange to be asked that from Miles, and Gregor doesn't mind it from this avenue; being asked as a friend has a very different character than being asked as even a political ally. And Miles spends so much time off-planet, he doesn't blame him for wanting a quick and dirty update on the political situation, too. He's less involved but Gregor knows he still cares.

"Happy is a strong word, but, mm, pleased maybe. I'm continuing the progress on the Caravanserai that your father started," by which he means restoring it from a pit of iniquity to its current state as a shopping district, "and I've been making headway on pushing through your brilliant idea of having district peasants get a teacher's education and then return to their towns to educate the rest.

"So yes, I'm doing things as you put it, but it's all behind a desk. I'm sure you've seen more action this month than I did my whole year in service."

That's a leading statement, Gregor inviting him to tell some tale from his last excursion. Gregor is one of the vanishingly few people he can tell the whole unabridged story to, above security clearances as he is.

[dendarii]

[ This has been a wild month. First showing up here, then Russia, then ... adjusting back from Russia, and everything else --

For now, though, things are quiet. He's even managed to overcome his reluctance to be anywhere away from Gregor to do a little grocery shopping for the two of them and the house in general. Still the two of them - though, had there been a message about someone else being dropped into their lodgings? He's not sure. If Gregor hasn't sent him an alarmed message about another Barrayaran turning up, then he's fine with not worrying just yet.

The key turns in the lock as he awkwardly pushes the door back open. Juggling the paper bag and trying not to drop the eggs ... ]

[jacksonian]

[ Things the clone has discovered in the house they brought him to:

He has a bedroom of his own, and the door locks from the inside. He stands there, and tries it, fiddling with it until he's sure that yes it really doesn't open from the outside if you don't want it to. The bed is comfortable and big enough for two. More. If necessary. The bathroom also locks.

The view to the outside is cold and bleak. He sort of likes it.

There are mirrors everywhere. He might need a shave soon.

There are no locks on the cabinets in the kitchen. And there's food in there.

The last discovery is the one that occupies his time the most. He has an entire block of cheese in his hand - yellowish, waxy, supposedly cheddar, who knows, and he's devouring it in great bites. Not even cutting it, not bothering with crackers, nothing, just breaking off chunks of it with his front teeth and mashing it desperately with his molars. He swallows gratefully - and then the door rattles. He freezes in mingled terror and uncertainty, then lays down the cheese and adopts a casual, thoughtful pose that half-hides his right arm - which he rests on the stunner on his belt. And he rehearses in his head, Barrayaran accent: Yes, I'm Lord Miles Vorkosigan. I'll be living with you. Yes, strange situation, isn't it... ]

[dendarii]

[ Miles, meanwhile, has his thoughts entirely full of eggs and stir fry and not at all on possible interlopers. He mutters a bit under his breath as he drags the fragile bag to the kitchen -

And then drops it, all his careful effort gone to waste as the eggs crunch horribly against the floor. It's like looking into a mirror. Different, even from meeting Hermann - because they're the same height, with the same twisted spine, and nearly the same mannerisms, if Miles were in his Vorkosigan mode. Which he is not, in particular, having defaulted to Naismith for so long in the wake of Russia -

What the hell is going on? Alarm out to Gregor first as he stares at his - his clone, surely, except weren't his defects teratogenic? Then how - why - ]

My god. [ He breathes out the words, flat Betan accent snapping precisely into place. ] Who the hell are you?

[jacksonian]

[ This...isn't...

Of course it's possible. Why didn't you expect it? How stupid of you. Of course he's going to be everywhere, even here. This isn't an escape from him. It's not an escape from Galen. Of course he's here. But the question becomes: what does he do? What does he do now? Vorkosigan is face-to-face with him now, and everything is gone to shit, secrecy is gone to shit, what does he do -

He yanks the stunner from his pocket, and he aims and squeezes off a shot as fast as he can. Even as he's pulling the trigger, he thinks: Maybe this isn't a good choice. Maybe he could have spun some story. Too late. ]

[use_everything]

[It's in the late evening that Aral Vorkosigan returns home to De Chima 007. Only part of it had been taken up by what Aral had begun to wryly consider "reporting in to my assignment." The busywork laid out by the government. His supervisor had been an easily flustered man, and Aral had taken some full, if precise advantage of it.

The half day had been useful, as he lent himself to gathering maps of the city, information about the bases, the military, the Soviets. Hanging up his coat at the door, his attention was mostly focused on finding a writing desk and organizing this mess.]

[jacksonian]

[ And the clone's attention is focused on him.

He has a box in one hand. His other is half full of cereal dug out of that box. His mouth is crammed with half-chewed oats and grains, mashed desperately and hungrily into a paste, half-swallowed already; that mouth is now hanging a little bit open.

This is not the state in which he'd wanted to meet the Butcher of Komarr. He'd wanted to meet him...like he was supposed to. Inside the Vorkosigan manor. In the man's study. Smile on his face, patch attached to his fingertip, ready to press to the back of his hand when they exchanged a handshake or a hug (Galen had never been certain which the Butcher would go for, so he'd prepared him for both). Standing over him, watching as he died, smiling down at him. The period of grief would cover up for any inconsistencies in "Miles'" behavior, and he'd adjust to life on Barrayar as he got closer and closer to the Emperor...

Instead, he's in sweatpants and unarmed. Except for some cereal. A betrayed little inner voice wails: Why didn't Naismith say anything about him?

Right. He could step in right now. Break the man's neck while he's not looking up. Knife from the kitchen and slit his throat. He'll never have a better opportunity than the one here to take Galen's revenge. And then -

And then what? You're a world away from that bastard. Slit the Butcher's throat, and then get tried for murder. End up in prison. Or hanged yourself. What's the point of risking yourself? You don't even care about this world, so why would you care about eliminating someone like this? This is your best chance to kill him...but what do you get if you do?

He stands there in indecision too long. Stares at his progenitor's father too long. The chance to take him by surprise and kill him is lost: he remains gawping stupidly until the man looks up. ]

[use_everything]

[Barrayar rarely tolerated the media circuses, the dazzling shows and immortalized moments that the rest of the civilized universe seemed to invite. Images of the Butcher were official photos, or those moments where the lion stormed out of his den. There were so few speeches to watch, but there were declarations, eloquent but hard, like folded steel.

There was nothing to show him at rest, or relaxed.

Never the less, the man in front of him had only a few sprinkles of grey in his hair, rather than most of it turned with time. The lines on his face were a fresher stress, held rigid...

But there was no mistaking him, his profile, or the sharp, unnerving eyes that focused on the clone... softening as he sees his son.]

Miles.

[The distraction had mercifully given the clone respite from the one thing that would have broken the whole charade: that moment of deadly intent was missed. Instead, Aral looked up and saw his son, a fist full of cereal at the kitchen table, looking very much caught.

With some private amusement, he simply raises an eyebrow in question. His boots echo clearly on the linoleum as he unhurriedly paced around the table to the counter behind. Reaching above the knife block to the cabinet, he simply fetches one bowl.

And sets it in front of 'Miles.']

[jacksonian]

[ The clone swallows. The bite is dry and scratches his throat on the way down. He'd thought...No. He'd hoped the man was going for that knife block. Reaching for a weapon to fight him with, so that it could be a match between the two of them. Not because...Not because he has a deep desire to kill the man, just because...Because then he'd know what to do. He wouldn't have to take his own initiative. He'd just get to do what's clearly necessary to deal with the Vorkosigans. Follow their lead. As usual.

But a bowl. He thinks I'm his son. Of course he thinks I'm his son. What else would he think?

He looks too young...He looks wrong.

He got a bowl for me. The Butcher of Komarr. Doing something like that. Why? That was...nice. Well, it's obvious why, because I'm his son, but...

The clone swallows again. It somehow hurts just as much. ]

Uhm - thanks.

[ Hesitantly, he comes over and pours the cereal into the bowl. And he tries not to stare up into the face of his progenitor's father like it's some bizarre mystery. Small talk, small talk... ]

Did you have a good day?

(Miles)

[vorbarra]

[Gregor follows after a few minutes later, with rather less hurry. He ends up in the kitchen with his newest mental link closed firmly and the one to Miles slowly easing its way back open again, to its more normal state, if a bit wider for its time narrowed.

He settles himself heavily in a dining chair and looks over at him.] Well. What do you say, want to be my heir?

[All that's coming from him mentally is a wash of tiredness, like he'd just finished sprinting, Gregor's outmaneuvering of Miles's brother much like Miles's own lying as fast as he can talk. Beneath the weariness is sadness, and curiosity, and admittedly a little wonder.]

[dendarii]

[ Miles, meanwhile, has skipped straight past the tea and gone on to getting out a bottle of wine. God, he needs something after all that. Admittedly half the mess was of his own devising, but ... now that it's over, he's not sure what to do. He's deflated. Cut in half. He can't figure out what metaphor suits him best.

So he returns that tiredness, gently, but also gratitude. And a bit of awe. Miles can lie up and down and sideways, but Gregor is a master of maneuvering people. Even Miles. Especially Miles. He snorts a bit, not quite ready to sit yet; he needs to pace a bit before resting, like a dog turning around three times.

He takes great comfort in that link though. Practically flopping halfway across it, lounging in it, soaking up Gregor's presence like a plant takes in water. ]

Dear god, no. I never did. This just makes it even worse.

[vorbarra]

[He reaches out and pours himself a glass of wine. There's an internal sense of... stroking across Miles's presence in his head, letting him know he's welcome, and at least a little sorry for having to shut him out for that time, no knowledge of what he's doing. It hadn't been that easy for Gregor either, he'd just been distracted.

And he admits he shyly revels in that bit of awe and gratitude. Gregor would've done it all anyway, obviously, but he's not immune to Miles's appreciation.]

I think the worst part is how... detached he is from all of it. He's studied the whole thing but felt none of it. [A sudden, short laugh, rough around the edges.] I had to actually approach it as a proper Jacksonian Deal, can you imagine? Liege-swearing.

[dendarii]

[ Mental hair caressing. That's what this feels like. He warms to it instantly, deciding he quite likes it, and that Gregor ought to keep doing it forever.

Miles takes the bottle back after Gregor' poured, and takes a swig directly from it. ]

Is that how you did it then? Offered him terms, payment and the like? [ And then a quick spike of worry. ] You didn't offer him anything dangerous, right--?

(Mark)

[vorbarra]

[The next morning, Gregor is up early, unable to sleep for pensiveness, and figures he might as well put himself to use. He'd noticed Miles's brother escaping upstairs with the block of cheese and so bestirs himself to make omelets, the newest thing he's learned how to make. He's not off breakfast yet.

There's cheese, onions, and mushrooms in them and that's about it, but they're only very slightly burned. He's just sliding the third one off the pan and onto the serving plate when he realizes he has company.

It's funny, but Gregor really doesn't think he will ever mistake Miles for his brother, or vice-versa.]

Breakfast? [he asks neutrally, not pushing at the closed mind link, though he's left his side creaked open enough to allow a low murmur of bleedover if it's allowed through.]

[jacksonian]

[ Yes, growls his stomach, ravenously. He'd kept the door firmly locked until he absolutely had to take a piss, and then finally he'd ventured out. Then, when he found that there weren't any assassins lying in wait for him in the hallway, or bathroom, or on the stairs, he'd finally eased out and found the Emperor. By the clock on the wall, it's been a full fourteen hours since he locked himself in. And he's ravenous.

Even so, before he speaks, his mental link eases open just for a moment so that he can venture out a curious tendril, like a clam putting out a foot. Poisoned? A quick search of Gregor's emotions and intentions, and he concludes: Not poisoned. And then the link clenches shut again, tight as a bivalve. ]

Yeah. That'd be good. [ He supposes he ought to do some mark of courtesy. But should he use the proper form of address of a common subject speaking to the Barrayaran Emperor? Or the form of a Count's younger son? He stays silent instead. ]

[vorbarra]

[Hmmm. Well, the trust issues aren't surprising, though perhaps the extent of them is. Still, Gregor makes no comment on it or the lack of address (he doesn't even notice the latter, really) and makes a mental note to keep his intentions surface level, presented helpfully and quietly for him to peruse when he reaches out.

Obviously the link is going to be an open-and-closed sort of affair. With Miles asleep, thankfully that's not hard to balance, but Gregor is going to have to get a handle on keeping them all separate. He is, at least, properly motivated.

Gregor seats himself at the dining table with all the assorted food and eating utensils and nods to the place across from him.] Please sit. How'd you sleep? [This is half a test to see how he takes direct requests, whether he likes or dislikes them, and half a test to see how he takes being treated normally. Gregor likes multli-tasking.]

[jacksonian]

Very lightly.

[ Truthfully? Like a rock, for about ten hours. And then he'd just lay in bed staring at the ceiling for another two. He's never had that sort of luxury before, not since he left Jackson's Whole. And even then it was rare. But he's not going to admit to that. Let Gregor think that he wakes at the slightest sound. Normally he does, too...

It's probably just that there were no sounds to wake him up.

He sits down - a little uneasily, glancing at Gregor. And then, trying out politeness like it's a new thing, he returns: ]

What...about you?

(MILES + ARAL)

[vorbarra]

[They're standing in front of the door to Aral's bedroom, looking at each other not unlike formerly recalcitrant teenagers come to apologize about shouting at their parents the night before. Gregor is definitely not eager for this conversation, and yet-- he's cautiously optimistic, too, that Aral will approve of what he'd done. He's long past needing his approval, but being in a position where he's free to like getting it without it altering his decisions has not yet become stale to him.

But this is definitely going to be fraught, and complicated, so as Gregor eyes the door he murmurs to Miles,] He's your clone. I think you should explain.

[dendarii]

[ And Miles, in a near-conspiratorial hiss: ]

You were the one he swore himself to. That makes him yours.

[ He objects mostly for the image of it though; Gregor can likely already beginning to build his argument. Hello, Da, remember how you and Mother desperately wanted more children but couldn't manage it? Don't look now, but someone followed me home... ]

[vorbarra]

You're the reason I had to step in, [he points out, but stops the argument there, because he actually isn't fourteen anymore. The suspense is cut short as Gregor reaches up and knocks on the door.

Then he ruins it by adding: If that's your idea of an opening argument, then let me suggest just recounting events as they occurred.]

[use_everything]

[Aral had often heard the Vor ladies talk among themselves as to what raising children was like. It was more of a peripheral conversation, dialog drifting in and out that he never took much thought into cataloging. Who was marrying who, who was related to who, who killed who three generations ago.

It wasn't until just a few hours ago that he was suddenly and astutely reminded of the knowing tone as one declared "And there's nothing more ominous than a quiet household and more than one child."

He hadn't felt a damn thing over the link, something that had become a subtle background white noise, politely ignored for the most part... Even if they were adults now (somehow...) it still created a small, exquisite pressure behind his eyes preemptively.

When the knock came, he didn't even question who.]

Enter.