barrayar

She wish she could say this wasn't part of her contract, but it sadly fell well within the lines. Being stationed with the Rangers hadn't been a terrible assignment. It was better than being stuck on Jackson's Whole, at least here she was on a ship and there was the occasional bought of action despite it being blockade work.

And then Cavilo took over.

The woman had annoyed Allison even before Cavilo artfully staged Randall's death and claimed command. The annoyance only built the longer she was under the other's command. The woman was smart, but her presence caused a knot in Allison's stomach that refused to undo itself for hours after Cavilo left. Something was going to go horribly wrong, the woman was too ambitious to be happy with a simple blockade contract. Not if she was willing to off their commander.

As much of a commander as Randal was to her anyway given her lack of choice in the decision. The man had needed to bolster his ranks when he first arrived at the Hub and made for Jackson's Whole for disposable, cheap troops in the form of clones. She was one of the lucky rejects chosen, an unwanted experiment of a Vor couple attempting to take part in new, exciting galactic technology. It wasn't far into her life she learned how quickly she been cast aside because the infertile couple hoping to usher in a secret heir had failed to specify the gender they wanted their tube child to be.

Which left her in a pile of easily bought extras, now outsourced to the Rangers. Cavilo's takeover had actually made her miss being in Jackson's Whole. At least there Allison knew where she stood and didn't have the feeling she was about to be left out to dry at a moment's notice.

The arrival of two prisoners certainly had Cavilo's undivided attention. One even being placed right beside the woman's cabin. Cavilo wasn't broadcasting who she had on board, but shortly after the one in the brig had been shipped out to hell knows where, she heard who was receiving such special treatment by their commander. What the hell was the Emperor of Barrayar doing this far away from home? And why did she feel like she needed to see him?

Her knowledge of Barrayaran history was limited to what she could get a hold of on Jackson's Whole with her restricted access and status. The nature of her progenitor's had given her enough curiosity about the strange planet and system. Meltzoff's employment here was the closest she had come to interacting with a real Barrayaran and his demeanor made it clear he wasn't the most open to probing questions. She doubted the Emperor would be either, but maybe... Maybe he could be her ticket out of this hellhole. Barrayar couldn't be any worse than the life she was living now. Or maybe she could get enough leeway once she was out of here to make her own way.

That thought is what carries her towards Gregor's quarters at a time when Cavilo was off ship. It'd be stupid to try to visit the man with the woman on board, watching like a hawk. She has a tray of food in hand, a task normally she'd avoid but had gladly volunteered for if it meant an excuse to travel up here. She's not sure what's going to come of this or what an Emperor even looks like, but there's only one way to find out. She takes a deep breath, straightens herself out, and knocks curtly on his door.

vorbarra

They bring her to him in one of the formal receiving rooms at the Residence, the walls covered in rose damask silk and the floor elaborate parquet wood tiles. Whatever else she is, she is a visiting dignitary as well, and the representative here of an entire planet no matter their relationship to it. She's accorded all the respect she's due from that.

Gregor is wearing a plain black military-cut suit, a concession to try to make things less stiflingly formal, though he doesn't expect her to understand the distinction that he's not in uniform. She is also to be his wife; presumably he's going to have to sleep with her at some point, or what is the purpose of this whole affair...

God. The whole concept makes him feel slightly ill just thinking about it. She's not hugely younger than him, but she's enough younger that Gregor is highly conscientious of it. If not for him, she'd be in the peak of her romantic explorations, most likely, free to make all of her own choices. Now he's tying her down as surely as he is, a sacrifice they're both making for the Imperium and for New London.

None of this shows on his impassive face. He's seated in an ivory tufted wingback armchair, a matching one set at an angle to face his. One long leg is crossed over the other, his hands neatly settled on top of them. One of his Armsmen shows the lady in, then fades back into a corner to nominally attend them, but really to stand guard. It's as private as Gregor could afford to make it, given his intended's known political dissonance and history of violent action, however well-justified.

"Thank you, Arkady," he says to his Armsman, voice quiet, eyes resting on Kitty. "Please take a seat. We have much to discuss."

He at least manages to sound smooth, all stiltedness polished out of him by this point in his reign. There is a small table between the chairs, with a sleek decanter of water, two glasses, and a flimsy with their marriage contract on it. A highly political document labored over for months upon months to the final details, and yet he still finds himself unwilling to sign it without discussing it with her personally. One last gasp of independence, he supposes glumly. The flimsy is a stark anachronism in such an archaic room.

naismith

Miles would never admit to nervousness. Certainly not. But he'd been with Agent Texas in every capacity for several months now, and she appeared to be making no sign of either spacing him out the airlock or simply breaking him in half in bed, so he was increasingly being filled with the desire for her to know him honestly. To know the other half of his personality, as it were. To see if she could handle Vorkosigan as well as she handled Naismith-- namely, that she wouldn't run in the other direction.

He's not at all sure she won't. Most do. Miles tries not to blame them. He knows he's a lot to take, but surely some woman somewhere can take all of him, damn it, can't they?

That's how he's left pacing his admiral's quarters on the flagship Triumph impatiently, fingers rapping against his thigh. He's dressed casually today, not in uniform, just plain clothes that nonetheless had to be personally tailored due to his size. When the door swooshes open, he rounds on it immediately, eyes alight with the same sort of nervous energy he gets before he pulls off a very large scam. She'll likely recognize it.

"Tex, good. Thank you for joining me. Come in, come in. I have, er, something to tell you."

dormition

Minato steps off another train in another town with the same headphones on his ears. The music is turned up louder than normal; he's trying to drown out not just the thoughts of those around him, intrusive buzzing white noise that it always is, but his own thoughts.

He's... regretful to have left Iwatodai. Isn't that strange? By the end, he hadn't even minded hearing what they were thinking, just those few people who'd broken his shell. They were complicated, kind, hurting people, all of them, and Minato had had to leave them behind. He hadn't even bothered asking his aunt if he could stay.

He was shuffled along to another school. At least this would be the last one before he was free to run his own life. Trouble was, he wasn't sure what he'd run it to if not the ground. Even if he went back to Iwatodai, they wouldn't be there. Yukari, Junpei, Mitsuru and Akihiko, all of them, they had no reason to wait for him. They had their own lives. He'd know; he'd heard their every hope and fear.

There's no real place for Minato in that, is there? They don't need him.

As he's walking down the road to his new dorm, he realizes belatedly, and very fuzzily, that there is something else he's hearing. He thumbs off his music, but it persists, like someone frantically knocking on a door, or... a rising pressure in his ears, an airplane taking off and gaining altitude.

What is that?

He stares blankly into the distance across the street at a shop display, people walking by him on either side like flowing water around a stone, and for the first time in his life intentionally tries to stretch his mind out rather than retreat it in. Minato instantly winces, an uncharacteristic twitch of his facial features, as everyone grows loud and overwhelming. The headache that's building is already piercing. He slowly tunes them out nonetheless, like adjusting the focus on a camera and searching for that pinpoint speck that'd caught his attention, a seething hot coal against his sensitive mental fingers.

Who is this? Tentative, uncertain, as he never is.

cockitup

It's a normal dreary day in London when Bond arrives home, latest investigation finished. The satisfaction of a job completed is distant and vague; it's the rush of the job, not its completion, that he does this for. That it serves and protects at the same time is all that lets him sleep at night in the end.

The misty coastal fog drifts over the bleak gray sameness of streets and buildings, and when he lets himself into his flat, there's not much remission. It's bare, looking half-moved in with odds and ends and an incomplete set of furniture, a sheet draped along the back of the couch, artwork propped up on the floor against the walls. Nonetheless, Bond knows right away that it's been broken into, because they hadn't been subtle-- they'd left the door unlocked, an invitation or a taunt.

Inwardly, he snaps to attention like a spring recoiling, and eases out his handgun from beneath his boxy suit jacket. He silently clears each room but doesn't yet holster it. They could be trying to get the drop on him. Then commences the thorough, methodical searching to determine what they were after. To his frustration, he doesn't immediately find anything-- he keeps nothing important here, barely even comes here if he can help it, much preferring to spend the night in a woman's warm bed.

It's not until he's starting to grate his teeth with the tension that he wrenches the icebox open with frustration and finds the severed hand laying there, perfectly preserved, on the ice. It's a woman's hand, slender and manicured, but impossible to recognize from hand alone. There's no jewelry, nothing else, not even a note. The blood has coagulated on the gory end of the stump, jarringly clean and neat at the cut.

So it was a taunt, he decides, long exhale rushing out of him.

He slips his gun back into the holster and goes to retrieve one of his discarded boxes. Time to pack it in ice and cloth and bring it into the office and see what Q can get from it.

No rest for the wicked.

cockitup

Trinidad.

A place Bond rather liked, actually. Beautiful beaches, beautiful women, and he spoke Spanish well enough to take advantage of both. As a plus, there was also a very small likelihood of having to navigate a frozen wasteland; his memories of Russia were never good ones outside of the bedroom. His memories of Trinidad, however, were quickly getting colored by the annoyance of this mission.

Bond's done his share of escort missions, but they've almost exclusively been with women he's run across that he's helping in some way. It's not difficult to be patient with them. More than that, he elected to take them along. Q's presence here... is a different story. Mandated from on high (on high being Mallory, a designation Bond hasn't quite shifted over to just M yet-- he hasn't proven himself enough) and passed down through Q himself, who to his credit seems none happier than Bond about circumstances.

He's had to ditch his aviator sunglasses with some regret in order to return fire cleanly. His light linen shirt, very casual, is getting dirty from all the sand both from ricochet bullets and from having to hit the ground a time or two. Their current sand dune is high and covered with reeds, which makes it great cover for shooting at men on a boat anchored near the stunning Caribbean shoreline.

They're trying to take off, but won't get far. Bond's made sure to hit the engine a time or two, deliberately not where it would explode but thoroughly ruining the gears.

Q, of course, is being a nuisance of a dead weight on this whole thing. A noncombatant he has to protect with no reward at the end to sweeten the deal. Bond shifts a sardonic glance to where he's huddled with his bag of tech beside the dune with him.

"If I'd known you'd attract this much attention, Q, I'd have taken you out ages ago," he drawls.

He needs Q to retrieve the information they need, something they were too smart to set up with any access to the internet. Intranet servers only. That doesn't mean Bond has to be nice about it.

angermanaging

[From here.]

Well. Not needing to be rescued was apparently right on the mark.

Bruce eyes him warily, sidelong. Truthfully he hates violence and tries to avoid hurting (killing) even the soldiers after him, goons that they are, because they didn't ask to chase after an enormous green monster. He doesn't want to kill Ross, either-- that's Betty's father, and he has no reason to believe them even estranged. Sometimes they don't get along, he's aware, but she's lost her mother already and that had devastated her for years. She shouldn't have to lose her father, too.

So by and large, Bruce restrains himself from any baser urges. He's a smart-- very, very smart-- human being. He's not a monster. But apparently this man feels no such need for restraint. Is that meant to balance him, maybe?

But again, it's not the time to think about it, which is unexpectedly frustrating. Usually it takes no effort at all for him to remain focused, if not hyper-fixated on the threats around him. Instead, it seems a more remote concern to the warm pressure on his shoulders, which he's uncharacteristically made no move to duck. Caught up in it, Bruce snorts at the comment about his popularity, correctly reading the sarcasm. “Popular, yeah. More like runaway property.” There's a dark undercurrent that belies how much he actively resents and disagrees with that.

He wouldn't be restraining himself if he didn't have something to restrain himself from. And there's a lot he needs to keep packed way down.

“I, uh. I hope downtown is pretty close.” That park looks like an ambush site for sure. He's been jumped in multiple locations like that, with plenty of cover and a lack of innocent bystanders.

anomia

It turned out to be not too difficult to find Uzumaki, fortunately.

Raimei only mistook someone in orange for him twice before stumbling on the right one. (Who thought that many people in a ninja village would wear such a loud color? Sheesh! Her directions were clear!) Randomly skulking throughout Konoha and questioning anyone in orange she came across was maybe not a great search method, but it did work eventually.

She knew that because when she dropped down from the roof in front of him, pointed dramatically, and said, "Aha, it's you! You're Uzumaki, right?!" he verified it for her.

At least she kept Kurogamon, the long traditional katana she carried with her, sheathed in her off hand.

burningexample

( more duran duran under the cut )

guiltapalooza

Willow isn't nervous exactly. So what if she's going to go liaise with the established government of a secret, historical, well-educated society of magic users, and she was some homegrown American upstart who'd gotten excited over her librarian's magic books? She's powerful; she'd still needed that coven in Devon to get her head screwed on right. Willow is much better and more confident about using her magic, but part of her is also waiting for the other shoe to drop and her to mess everything up again.

It would shame Tara's memory if she did that again. Willow knows better than anyone what Tara would want her to do, and she's determined to live up to that.

"Buck up, Rosenberg," she tells herself, shaking out her ankle-length olive green circle skirt and double checking she has everything she needs in her messenger bag. She can do this. She's one damn strong Wicca, and anyway, have any of these witches saved the world? She doesn't think so.

Of course, it doesn't matter how nervous she is: the Portkey is set to teleport her in twenty seconds, and she's going with it. Willow takes one final deep breath and reorients herself. Council. She's on the Council, and if she's playing second fiddle to Giles on the magic front that's only because she trusts him a heck of a lot more than she trusts herself. But he's too busy to do this and he hates politics and she's fresh-faced and idealistic enough to work for this instead, so he's sending her.

Willow owes so much to Giles, there's no way she wants to let him down, either.

Something hooks into her navel and jerks her forward, and she stumbles when it deposits her in a massive atrium that looks like something out of a previous century. Willow straightens herself up and tucks the enchanted pen into her bag. (She's dying to examine it later and see if she can find residue of the Portkey magic.)

"Talk about rickety," she mutters to herself, suppressing the thought that her teleportation is much smoother. That way leads to badness. Willow looks around for her welcome party instead.

angermanaging

(Start your own below!)

naismith

Miles's proclamation the next day that he was taking a lightflyer and showing River the district was met with an amused quirk of his mother's lips and sedate agreement. His father didn't say anything against it either, which he wasn't surprised by. Neither of his parents had any intention on pressuring him to follow through with this mad scheme-- and in fact they would be best pleased if he abandoned it entirely, steadfast as they both were in their progressive views. They'd both ultimately married for love and found their happiness in that, and wished the same for him. But Miles's protective streak, that urge that makes him want to save everyone in distress he comes across (damsel or not) is too strong to quash that easily.

Plus, Miles is finding himself warming up to the whole idea. River is smart. Smarter than him, and tenacious, and certainly better looking than him, and... He can't quite put off the conviction that she'd be entirely out of his league if her parents hadn't pushed for this kind of arrangement. It leaves Miles nearly vibrating with the need to impress her.

So he leaves his parents behind to entertain hers (and he'll have to make that up to them later, he thinks wryly, aware of the favor they're doing him) and then goes to find his -- well, his intended. It's an odd thought, something he's still fitting to the shape of in his mind.

He finds her out in the garden and tries to resist the urge to bound up to her. He manages to keep it to a fast walk, though there's a bounce in his step, his eyes alight. "Lady River," he begins, half teasing and half respectful with the title, "would you care to join me for a morning excursion? I thought you might like to tour Vorkosigan district. From the air."

And if he has plans to spend a good portion of that time showing off his piloting skills (not substantial, but daring as hell), it'll be a damn sight more entertaining than puttering around Vorkosigan House with four parental chaperones and the bland supervision of the armsmen in residence.

naismith

The whole job was a mess.

Miles finds himself stuck in the basement of a Jacksonian corporate building, the lift he'd used to arrive collapsed behind him and groaning shrilly with the sound of steel sliding against concrete as it settles. Dust clouds the air. Someone had cut the cable, someone prepared, because cutting industrial grade, ten centimeter lift cable took malice aforethought. You didn't have those kinds of bolt cutters just lying around.

He eyes the jammed lift doors grimly. No sense waiting here to be cornered. Turning immediately to leave, Miles searches through the surrounding rooms with all the urgency of trapped prey. They'd succeeded in separating him from his escort, and however frantic Taura was upstairs and outside, even her formidable strength would be no use. Miles has his combat armor and a plasma arc and a stunner-- the stunner he has out at the ready-- and his now useless command helmet, the meters of concrete and dirt between him and the surface cutting him off more effectively than any communications jammer. They'd planned this, oh yes. They'd planned this very well.

When he finds what he presumes is a laundry dumb waiter in the laundry room, he stares at it and sighs. Once again, his tiny frame is going to get him out of a situation with a method that he wouldn't be able to use if he were a normal person. Obviously if they've cut the elevator they'll be attempting to herd him toward the stairs, or at least trying to enclose him somewhere he'd be backed into making a desperate, futile last stand. With this dumb waiter, he doesn't have to do either.

Grumbling to himself about the unfairness of being stuck in vents or vent-like spaces again, Miles slaps the button for the uppermost floor available-- best to get as far away as possible; he can get an emergency pick up from the roof if necessary, and they certainly won't be anticipating that-- and clambers in. He just barely fits, yanking a last foot out of the way before the hatch closes and the box starts to crawl upward. Miles hurriedly checks that the safeties are engaged on both his weapons and settles in for what is sure to be several minutes of claustrophobic tedium.

He has no idea where he'll be coming out. It sends a little thrill of excitement through him, actually.

rathercommon

This isn't a world that really matters to anyone. It's not on any important trade routes; it's not wealthy, doesn't have any real technology of value. The terraforming took hold well, so it's prosperous enough, but not so much to make it outright wealthy. There haven't been any real great thinkers from the world. There's not much culture of note there. If there were something that distinguished New London, anything at all, anything of real worth, then maybe people would care about what happened there. But there's nothing to take note of, and so no one interferes.

Which is a bad thing indeed. Because affairs on New London are...awful, honestly. Not so awful as to really arouse the fury of some of the more enlightened planets, because again, there's nothing really sufficient to distinguish this planet, but...The planet is ruled by a circle of quasi-religious oligarchs, a group of a few hundred wealthy men and women who use technology to make themselves appear to be magicians. They're able to conjure flames, make predictions about the weather and natural disasters, communicate over long distances, heal injuries that regular folk medicine can't; they use these remarkable deeds, and strictly control travel on- and off-world, and strictly control education, to make the people believe that they're nearly gods. It's almost laughable - indeed, on other planets, New London is sort of a joke, that planet where the people in charge have managed to convince people that they're magical. But the lines of control are cruel and efficient: the people are too afraid to rise up against people with such remarkable abilities, and so they work to prop up the horrid regime. They live lives of terror and squalor, while the so-called magicians live in luxury off their labor.

But those are secrets that can't stay secrets forever. The magicians are good at concealing the source of their power, to be certain. But there are people who are resisting magician rule, and they're making some small amount of headway. One rebel group, calling itself the Resistance, in one raid on a magician office, managed to acquire some communications equipment. One of the few survivors of the raid, Kitty Jones, actually managed to make contact with someone offworld - someone who knew what was happening on New London, how the so-called magicians held onto their power. And once she heard it all, Kitty - furious - began planning how to turn this opportunity into an outright coup.

An outside force is what's needed. She figured that out early on. And so, she rooted and researched and planned, and talked with offworlders more and more to try to determine who was best to contact. In the end, she hunted down a name: the Dendarii Free Mercenary Fleet, a group of mercenaries with reasonable rates led by a man named Admiral Naismith who, someone had said, seemed to have some fondness for just causes. And finally, after some time, she contacted them, and she asked to meet.

dormition

It's highly likely that the other two involved here are feeling deeply awkward about it. Good thing the person who counts in this-- Minato-- doesn't.

Still, they'd each had a vodka cranberry (the alcohol a favor from a friend of Minato's, and vodka cranberry being the kind of drink Minato makes when left to his own devices) to help smooth over the bumps, and then they'd retreated upstairs to Shinji's room, because he wants to do this somewhere they're more likely to feel comfortable. His own barren room, devoid of personality, isn't somewhere they've ever had sex before. He's only had sex there once, with Elizabeth.

Minato is last into the room, his two seniors preceding him, and once he closes the door he tilts his head at the both of them and composes his thoughts.

"You're both going to do what I say, right?"

They'd agreed on that, but now, in the direct moment, he'd like some confirmation. One last chance for someone to bolt. (It's not going to be Minato. Maybe he should feel weird about this, or nervy, or worried that he's not capable, but it's none of those things. It's really, really not.

He's just deeply pleased to get to do this for them-- that they'd trust him with it.)

dormition

LEIA ORGANA ANTITHETIC	LUKE SKYWALKER PHOTOKINETIC	CATHERINE CHUN ARKPROJECT	GREGOR VORBARRA VORBARRA	CASSANDRA ANDERSON WRONGANSWER
CIRCE pharmaka	HAROLD FINCH ORNITHOLOGIST	SPENCER REID DOCTORAL	TAURA UNTHREATENING	CORDELIA NAISMITH KEEPNONE
MINATO ARISATO DORMITION	WILLOW ROSENBERG GUILTAPALOOZA	RUPERT GILES PATERNALLY	BRUCE BANNER ANGERMANAGING	ZUKO FLAMMATORY
PEPPER POTTS NOTSUBTLE	TONY STARK VINCIBLE	BETTY ROSS CELLSUNITE	SAM TYLER POLICEOFFICER	CADEL GREENIAUS SYSTEMIZE
NATASHA ROMANOFF MISBELIEVE	MILES VORKOSIGAN NAISMITH	BIGBY WOLF HUFFANDPUFFS	AZIRAPHALE STORESBOOKS	CROWLEY BESTOFQUEEN
RAIMEI SHIMIZU ANOMIA	LINK FAIRYBOY	AURORA STARLIGHTER	KENSHIN HIMURA SATSUJINKEN	TOPH BEIFONG FIELDTRIP
BRIAN MOSER ACROTOMOPHILE	VIVI ORNITIER ALRIGHTY	JAMES BOND COCKITUP	OLIVIA SANDERSON OFFCAMERA

Code by

pagans.

Profile

Barrayar | a musebox

a musebox

Recent Entries

Armswoman

} abdicators

} identity crises for all

} it can burn us both

} frozen hearts growing colder with time

} where you go I go

do not disguise yourself in armor (you are the hugest monster)

just who are you swinging that blade for?

aaaand i'm hungry like the wooooolf

{ we could leave, I'll dim the stars }

time won't let me go

arrangements

mountain climbing

vorkosigan au :')

there are times I choose to close my eyes

Muse List

Profile

Tags