1. Round Two

[dog_eat_dog]

Passengers: Tess and ~*~you~*~
Location: Various locations
Date: Tues, June 21st
Summary: Tess arrives.
Warnings:



1. Arrival

Tess steps off the transport ship and into the loading bay empty-handed. She is out of time: a woman from the 2030s, dressed like the early 1900s, on an undateable but no doubt futuristic ship. Her bio-locked pistol fits decent into the leather holster on her hip. She's alert, curious, and maybe even the slightest bit on-edge. One tends to be, coming into a place like this.

There's something about being in a cavernous loading bay that feels dream-like, especially after the last six months. She pauses mid-step, looking around her like there might be someone watching. Just to be sure.

"Hello?" she calls.

2. A Change in Wardrobe

She takes inventory of her cabin with well-practiced efficiency, every detail and every object in it committed to either memory or a jot note in her CommLink. Funny: she'd been bracing herself to be sleeping in a replica of her shitty Boston apartment again, or perhaps an eerily empty version of her and Arthur's little cabin in the mountains, but this uniform and sterile cabin is a welcome surprise. It's as impersonal as a hotel room, but neutrality has as certain appeal. It's something she can make her own.

She discovers the only real problem when she opens the closet doors wide and sees the clothes hanging inside.

For six months, she's dressed to the period: high-waisted jeans with a button fly and extra room in the thighs for riding, shirtwaists (stupid sounding name, if you ask her) with nipped in waists and full shoulders, wild rags in pretty knots, wide-brimmed hats to keep herself from getting sunburned in a time before sunscreen. Corsets, too: nothing too fancy, plain cotton coutil and whalebone, much more comfortable than she expected, certainly better than her old threadbare bras. It's been doable.

But one does occasionally miss the simplicity of a fucking zipper, or a basic t-shirt that stretches when tugged over one's head.

So out she ventures, meandering the halls, venturing to ask anyone passing by: "Hey–– we have a wardrobe here?"

3. The Mess Hall

Tess had some thought of taking her food back to her room to eat in private –– less concern, more self-consciousness about the childishness of filling up her tray with a bizarre combination of macaroni and cheese, chicken nuggets, goldfish crackers, a bowl of sugary cereal, and a few Potato Frowns™ for good measure. But the idea of eating alone feels more mortifying, and lonely at that.

Instead, she slides into an open seat across from someone. If she is not social, she will drop dead from isolation.

"What's the best thing you've eaten here?"


4. For Old Time's Sake - Closed to William

Even with his back to her, she knows him by the slope of his shoulders, but she pauses mid-step to be sure; there's something different there, something beyond his ever-thinning hair, something beyond the modernity of his dress. Isn't it funny, to be the one dressed like she's just spent a weekend in fucking Westworld? Oh well. She'll figure out the details later. He could turn at any moment.

Her leather soles are quiet on the smooth floors as she approaches, speeding up as she gets close, just in case he turns. He's smart, he'll know, he'll notice –– she'd be disappointed in him if he didn't. She winds a hand into the back of his collar at the same time as she presses the cool end of her pistol into the base of his spine. She has to lean up onto the balls of her feet to whisper in his ear:

"Stick 'em up, cowboy."

She puts a little Southern flair into her voice for show. A too-pleased satisfaction, too. Why not?

Comments

[omniavincit]

He'd exited the room—the doors sliding seamlessly closed—scratching at the back of his head, leaving a fine sprinkling of sand with his first few steps. His eyes adjusting to the hall's flat bright light. Time warps around violence—accelerates, expands. He fails to notice until the gun's at his back and her breath's in his ear, the moment surging past him.

William's back straightens of its own accord. Without moving his head he glances to the side—conscious anew of the hallway's width, the door's proximity, performing all sorts of stupid split-second calculations until her voice hits home.

Cowboy.

He laughs silently, raises his hands. Relief tumbling through him. “How'd you find me?” he says, pitching his voice low but refusing to dredge up the accent.

[dog_eat_dog]

She settles back down on her heels and grins against the back of his shoulder. He sounds different, but without a doubt, he's still William.

"Professional experience," she replies, cheekily, and she gives him a little dig with the pistol's muzzle before pulling it back. The accent goes too. Her hand stays where it is; let him imagine for an instant that she's still the same person she was when she left. "Figured there wasn't a point in waiting around in the Warden Command for you to show up, so I've been out hunting."

What's to say there aren't a thousand William Temples in a thousand worlds in a thousand timelines, and that this one couldn't have been a total stranger in a warden's clothes? But come on –– what would the odds be, him and a Misty Day in one place?

2.

[n0ught]

Jack stops on her way to whatever nook she's planning on cramming herself into to get some respite from being around other people, looking at this woman with a blank expression. Who does this bitch think she's asking about fashion?

"You looking for more sweet little dresses, princess? Try your closet, newbie."

2

[dog_eat_dog]

"Princess?" she repeats, and fuck, she almost laughs. Been a long time since she heard that one. "It was a simple question, don't be a bitch about it."

Maybe there isn't one, given what this chick is walking around in.

[n0ught]

"Yeah. Real simple." Where simple is strongly euphemistic.

She folds her arms, cocking her hip, and looks her up and down. That's a Warden's weapon at her side, which is not bad: all the male Wardens so far (with the exception of Waver, Navarch rest his soul) have been difficult to manipulate. Women seem to give her a little more leeway.

"I don't know what amenities Wardens have. You can try the Commissary."

[dog_eat_dog]

Tess knows the once-over when she sees it, and for an instant, she has a visceral thought of being in this woman's shoes. Wasn't it a good time, making wardens out to be idiots? Is she as well-meaning as they were, as geared towards kindnesses, even to people who chafe at the slightest flash of authority?

I was not this much of an asshole about it, Tess decides. She is wrong, but only marginally.

"That's different," Tess remarks. "What can inmates get at commissary?"

[n0ught]

"I don't know. Stupid shit."

This is not very helpful, she realizes, and she is trying to ingratiate herself to this new lady Warden, so she rolls her eyes and adds:

"I've seen a fucking... foam blow-up doll, or something, and a lot of people with food. Some clothes, but they're all shitty. I think it fucks with the Inmates."

[dog_eat_dog]

Food sounds like it tracks, given that she's seen of the Automat. No matter where you are in the universe, people hate feeling like they're eating rations.

She raises an eyebrow.

"What makes you think they're fucking with you?"

[n0ught]

"Because the Wardens get all the good shit, duh. It glitches out for the Inmates."

This is confirmation bias to the nth degree, but don't tell her that.

"Treating prisoners like garbage isn't anything new. At least it's just playful psychological damage instead of homicidal negligence, I guess."

3

[solmate]

Alina isn't much for being social. To be honest, fading into the background is a familiar experience that she's comfortable in. At least now she can eat whatever she wants instead of getting kicked to the back of the line to get whatever gruel is left over.

And she's got sweets. Lots of 'em. Girl should probably eat a vegetable once in awhile but not today. In fact, her fork hovers midair while she glances behind her quickly to make sure Tess is actually talking to her. She tips her head in a sort of who, me? gesture before takes the big bite of cake from her fork. Chewing, she ponders.

"Probably this," she says, very politely with her mouth full. At least she isn't spewing crumbs everywhere. "But honestly I'm happy any day I don't have to eat pickled herring."

[dog_eat_dog]

Cake and candy. A smile flits around the corners of Tess's mouth, but it doesn't linger. She gets it.

"If I could go the rest of my life without eating anything pickled, it'd be too soon," she replies. Handy for survival, depressing if you want to thrive. "Where you coming from?"

The contents of her plate say compensation as much as Tess's own do.

[solmate]

Alina hesitates for just a second at the question, stalling with another mouthful of cake before she tries her best at humming agreeably. No one so far has recognized the name Ravka or her (thank the Saints), but she'd like to keep it that way. Life is hard when your name is known across the world, but not nearly as many know your face.

"Nowhere special," is what she decides on. Vague but not enough that it leads to too many more obvious questions. She can feel the caginess being a little clunky so she's quick to move on.

"It wasn't anything like..." she waves her fork around to gesture to the marvel of technology that surrounds them, "This. You?"

2

[dealwiththe]

She has chosen a very good person to ask about clothes, at least based on how he's dressed - in a clearly very expensive three piece suit, probably bespoke.

"Should be one in your cabin, assuming you're a warden. If you need more clothes, you can get them from the commissary. I only arrived with about five days' worth, not nearly enough."

He's even got a posh British accent.

[dog_eat_dog]

She may not be able to tell the difference between bespoke and off the rack at a glance, but she does know fancy, and it puts a smile on her face.

"I'm a warden, yeah, but wardrobe's just got more of this," she says, with a vague gesture at herself –– cowgirl chic, dust and grass stains and all. "I was hoping to not stick out like a sore thumb."

[dealwiththe]

"I'm not really one for blending in, as a general rule," Lucifer says with a faint, almost self-deprecating smile. "But I take your point. You're pretty much stuck with what's in your cabin until the commissary opens again in a couple of weeks. Though -"

He glances her up and down, a sweep of his eyes that has no heat to it, is simply an assessment of her measurements from someone who's seen a lot of human bodies over the years, so he's a pretty good guesser.

"You might want to find Doctor Claire. If anyone is likely to have spare clothes you could wear in the meantime, it might be her. Oh - sorry, where are my manners? I'm Lucifer - Morningstar."

And he holds out a hand for her to shake.

[dog_eat_dog]

Tess wonders, for an instant, what kind of man memorizes the sizes of his female fellow passengers, but she does not feel the need to put the question to words. She knows.

"I'll keep an eye out for her, then," Tess replies, and she takes his hand to shake, firm despite how foreign the gesture feels. His name feels like a distant joke, but after Dracula, anything could be true. She smiles. "Nice to meet you, Morningstar. I'm Tess. You're a warden?"

[dealwiththe]

She seems remarkably normal (by his definition of normal), and also surprisingly laid-back about meeting the Prince of Darkness.

He just smiles a little wider.

"It's a pleasure, Tess. And I am indeed a warden, shocking as that may sound. I've never been one to turn down a challenge."