returnjourneylogs | an introduction

Entry tags:

an introduction

Passengers: Malekith + Viktor
Location: Observatory
Date: soon after pairings
Summary: Mr The Accursed receives his temporary warden
Warnings: none yet

It's always in the last place you look, they say—necessarily, because yes, that is how the progression of events works—and in this case it also happens to be the first. Viktor has glimpsed this person in the Observatory more than once; when he thinks of where he ought to look, the image of that tall broad body standing in front of the stars is what immediately comes to mind. So that's where he goes.

The ride to the third arm isn't long enough, so he takes the elevator back to the axis, and then out again. He's only catastrophizing, he tells himself, while his body gently lifts. All kinds of people gather all kinds of names, and not all of them are indicative. Besides, it isn't like there's an audience waiting. This will be fine.

In through the nose, out through the mouth, steady.
OK: go.

The door to the Observatory whispers before and again behind him. The first tap of his crutch is quiet, metallic on the polished floor. Ceiling sweeps overhead like the ribs of some great machine. The window arcs wide like the universe has opened its eye to stare into him directly. Declining this assertive invitation to feel tiny, Viktor instead breathes, imagines his presence radiating to all the edges of the room, like the rings around the stone, and walks forward.

"Hello?"

—is not the strongest opener, but he's aiming for neutral, and you can't get much more neutral than hi.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

For someone with such a title he surely hasn't caused many issues as of yet, but then again-- maybe that was more concerning. Only time would tell. Nevertheless, Malekith doesn't make much small talk with either inmate or warden, barring a few run-ins. Instead, the elf spent most of his time observing, watching, listening-- learning. It was a safe guess, as safe as any, that he'd be here.

Typically, as one often finds him, he's sunken deep within the information requested from the AI system within. More than just planets, systems, galaxies. Its broken down with intricate detail from what the planets are made of to what inhabits them and all the way down to subatomical information. The sound of footfalls did not escape him, however. A curious pattern that made more sense when the figure came into view.

Imagine for a moment what it might feel like to remember the times before all this began. Desperately, he clung to those memories. When things were small and dark. Slowly they slipped with age and sickness and even in death he could still feel it burning through him. As the universe expands the density of dark matter continues to decrease and so too does their health, their prosperity, their anything. And lo, someone graced him with an opportunity to redeem himself as if he had anything to be sorry about. What a simple way of thinking about things.

"Hello," it holds a natural echo, eerie eyes that almost looked like the universe itself lifting to the figure entering. Ah, well weren't they a pair. Though not immeiately apparant, every once in awhile slivers of his own ailments rear their own visible head.

The voice is unexpected. Immediately it pings as nostalgic, almost, in a way Viktor can't quite identify—perhaps once he's heard more than two syllables.

"You are Malekith, I take it." This being a polite reframing of the obvious: he knows exactly who it is he's approaching. And, while his accent does pluck at the unfamiliar name, he takes care to say it correctly. "You might have heard the Navarch's address this morning—the assignment rotations. For these next thirty days, I will be your warden."

He keeps coming, steady, distinctly asymmetrical but moving around it as fluidly as his body allows. He is gaunt and pale. He wears a simple black glove on his right hand.

"This is a loaded word, I realize, so it might serve us better if you think of me as... more of a guide."

At last, he stops. A certain distance between them is respectfully preserved.

"My name is Viktor."

Courtesy introductions. He's a quiet one, opting to observe and analyze before speaking all too much. He notes the delicate care of pronunciation; how Viktor chooses his words carefully and thoughtfully. The way he moves--less focused on the limping and more interested in how those movements read. With purpose, they seem. Like everything else thus far. Well considered. Not careless.

It becomes clearer, upon closer inspection, just how detailed the information Malekith had been seeking had been. He takes a moment of silence before informing the AI that they were done for now--leaving the two in the darkness of space, the natural movement of space dancing outside that window to provide sparse illumination. And he wonders, for the briefest moment, just what this other man may be thinking. A frail thing.

But he can use whichever word he wished, it changes little. And his ego isn't so fragile it could be stirred by a single word; not when his path had been so resolute. He sacrificed everything, in the end. He can sacrifice a little more. Bide his time until opportunity revealed itself.

Still, hands lose at his side, chin tipped up just a hair. They'd always been nobel, their kind, even when dragged to the bottom of the trenches. A 'hm' bubbled up from his chest, "do you consider yourself a philosophical sort, Viktor?"

Edited (sorry edited a bit of grammar) 2022-02-22 14:46 (UTC)

The display goes quiet. Viktor's eyes flick there and back again, precise.

How quickly an impression can form, fed by so many details, and not all of them conscious observations. He senses immediately that this man is proud; that he is aware of his own strength; that he likely believes he is tolerating this situation rather than accepting it. This could be a question to unbalance, or maybe he's simply following his own train of thought. Invitation, assessment—maybe both.

Viktor came in here expecting to be evaluated. It's what he would do.

"In what sense?"

A correct assessment for the most part. Though one could say that Malekith often overestimated his strength, Since death he's been forced into some form of acceptance toward the reality of their and of his own situation. And there are ways to make up for this. The image one provides to the onlooker ever important. As for this situation--being here, well. Tolerating was more accurate, yes.

The elf does not move, no pacing, no stalking, none of the usual suspects of body language when one is considered to be scheming (really, you'd think people would know these by now). Still, eyes never leaving their gaze of the other man. "The largest sense of all; in matters of moral. And who decides."

Without hesitation,

"Yes. This is something I've contemplated often—lately, more so. What is fair. What is right." What to keep secret; what to sacrifice. "This circumstance we now share presents an especial, eh... convolution of ethics," seems a diplomatic way to phrase that, "worth exploring."

He shifts his weight, reseats the foot of his crutch: a soft tap, some micro-interaction between metal parts.

What to sacrifice.

"Doesn't it," it holds no upward tick in tone as a question might--an agreement. Eyes consider that shift in weight. This body was sick and weak. He wonders, what does Viktor gain from his agreement here. What did he ask? What was so important he wished to, potentially, blur the lines of moral. He could suggest they sit but he won't; he wonders instead how long this man will hold out.

"And in this, we might take a critical look at the definition of that word: ethics. From where our ethos was built. Is it a hard fast law, do you think?"

"I think," carefully, "that equating laws with ethics is an easy mistake to make."

He has yet to consider sitting, himself, though his body is already asking for it. It always asks; as long as that ask remains a whisper, he can tune it out.

"And I think it is difficult to acknowledge a judgement that comes without warning. Laws, at least, offer the courtesy of information—what consequences to expect, who is likely to deliver them, and so on. Whereas this... this is more like a bad surprise party. Actually," he adds, "every surprise party is bad. But you take my meaning."

Oh--that causes a slight curl of his lips upward. A 'hm'. Feet take to walk in a calm pace. It turns his attention away from Viktor; tight braids cascading over armor-like leathers and metal plating; a fur cloak. Eyes find their way to the grand window.

"I speak of a law not manmade," he'll clarify, though still ticked by the reply his words earned. "Consider this," a hand waved to the view, "Laws known and unknown, concrete and undeniable truths surround us constantly. Is ethics one of them?" A beat. He turns over a shoulder. "Judgement never comes with warning, but I understand many had choice. Did you?" In being here, that was.

Aha. Attempt to redirect the conversation: not so successful... but he saw that, sir.

When Malekith turns, sweeps his attention outside, there's a sense of vacancy left in the space no longer commanded by his field of view, and the plane of his back has a cooling effect on the air behind him. Far from only dismissive, the back can be a very favourable shape.

"I did," Viktor says, and enters this space.

The window is vast; there's plenty of room for the both of them. Some years ago he'd have stood here with his cane tucked under his hands, shoulders squared, and lifted his chin to the view; today he's slouching and slanted, but his eyes reflect stars all the same. The universe must now bear his scrutiny for a while.

"Navarch Minerva approached me with a proposal, and I accepted. Admittedly, I'm still adapting to some of the details, but, compared to your position, much of it is trivial." Much; not all. "And, to answer your first question... this is an ancient debate, and will doubtless continue as long as sapient creatures exist to perpetuate it."

It says many things, his turning. He intends to make it imply many things. Though how it would be interpreted was something of interest. Not for him to divulge, but rather for him to observe: the reaction. He, Viktor, joined the Svartalfer once more. And Malekith notes a weight. It's been there for a while. It's more notable now.

"Soothing my ego?" He muses, those darkened eyes meeting the other now.

Of course there was a proposal, and he was awfully curious what would bring a person to take up such a position. Without needing to speak it, surely its been established the thoughts on this place and its moral dilemma. That it takes people unwillingly and chooses for them what it deems must be corrected. One of many things potentially in conflict of one's ethos; of a greater ethos should one exist. Something which, for the record, Malekith believed did not. Each culture worked on its own set of laws and morals, but this all aside.

"I've lived my decisions," he says as if he's come anywhere near close to accepting the truths of his own reality. Spoiler: he hasn't. Though the Svartalfer is awfully convinced his life of defiance and his choices earned him some sort of elevated sense of self. Perhaps he'll expand on this: "In far more hostile environments."

Body turning: "I think, you have too."

Edited (wow sorry what is spelling) 2022-02-26 04:51 (UTC)

The head, then the body—all that focus, turning on him. He barely turns his face toward it, so that his eyelids must telegraph the course of his gaze: dipping low, blinking, not yet settling anywhere in particular, calmly active in thought. Conclusion reached, he once again faces the glass evenly, offering only the cut of his profile, sharp jaw and hollow cheeks, thin mouth pressing momentary thinner.

"That's an easy guess," comes out less blunt than it could purely by virtue of his naturally gentle voice. "It's unlikely anyone aboard was driven to accept this contract by dissatisfaction with their perfectly comfortable life."

He is not intimidated, giant elf. Neither is he becoming unfriendly, mind—this is simply another leg of the conversation.

"Such a warden would be completely insufferable. Destined for the airlock."

He's probably kidding.

Well, he looks forward to that rare breed who comes from average comforts for promises of even greater ones just to see Viktor push them through an airlock or at least revel in the imagery of it. Surely there would be some. Greed being what it was. But he had guessed and--seemingly correctly guessed--that the common thread would be this: those who wish for something they otherwise cannot obtain in exchange for aiding in this service. Some, he suspects, have greater weight upon that promise than others.

Nevertheless, it all rewards something almost a laugh--and a reward that truly was as it pushed through his lips in one single low and humored breath. He's no stranger to blunt, Viktor. Let them talk plainly (as plainly as someone who talks like he does can get). Dare he even admit there's some enjoyment in all this chatter. For what reasons he won't yet sort.

Instead, the elf will propose: "One could take upon this calling from a desire to help others--this trait is not always accompanied by histories of grief." A beat, watching the lines of that mouth thinning. "yet I think this is the modus operandi of one Navarch Minerva," to give a proposal impossible to refuse, "do you?"

And here they return to this topic of ethics, but they'll get back there in a few.

"It sounds like you're suggesting the Navarch only makes predatory offers to wounded people."

Now Viktor does turn his head. That he must necessarily raise his chin to meet Malekith's gaze in no way lessens the qualities of his own: acute, analytical, undaunted. Go ahead, it says. His yellow eyes capture the low light, and keep it, to seem almost lit from within.

Speaking into a pipe or an empty can to hear his own voice magnified back at him.

That's what the echo reminds him of.

Edited 2022-02-28 00:06 (UTC)

Malekith appreciates a sharp mind; a man who has made sacrifices. Possibly the only modicum of respect he might have for Odin--which didn't mean much but there was something about the Asgardian's explicit absence until it was too late that struck him. Ensuring the safety of the Aether over the safety over his wife, no doubt. A satisfying sacrifice, but these things are for another time.

Back to the matter at hand, though. He's truly intrigued now and takes a moment or two as Viktor turned to face him. Seems to have struck a chord but he wonders what notes that chord plays. Perhaps it's his nihilism but this proposal wasn't even bait, it was honest.

So, he'll repeat. "Do you?"

The moment hangs. If there is any trace of tension, it's gone before long, released by some inner valve of thought.

"Do I believe such people are being targeted intentionally?" His mouth turns down; he shakes his head. "No. I think wardens and inmates alike are selected for their potential compatibility with the program, and any seeming correlation with suffering is incidental. At some point, everyone grieves. Everyone struggles. It would be challenging to find someone who never has."

An amused huff left his nostrils once more, "compatibility indeed."

Which was to say if these were the people targeted it made sense to justify it under the banner of appropriate candidates. Not that he's bothered. In fact, its smart, it's how most people get things done its just another notch in the matter of morals.

"Have you taken to your position?"

He doesn't breathe any laugh in return, though the urge is there, just too faint to surface. Perhaps it shows nonetheless.

"Too early to say. Technically, you've been aboard longer than I have... if not by much. A day or so, if I recall correctly."

He does. Outside permanent pairings, wardens aren't given much information about inmates—but he's studied the trifling amount they do have, over and over, all the time wishing there were more. The lack is immensely frustrating. How is he meant to do this job well if all its most crucial details are kept a mystery?

"Is this new for you? All this," lifting his chin to indicate the stars outside, "space. The ship. You seem to be taking it in stride."

You investigate, Viktor. That is how. Eyes wandered out to the space beyond them. "It is for you," he observed, but the man was right in thinking perhaps it's not new for Malekith.

A few steps forward still until there was hardly any space between himself and the glass, "I remember a time before all this. It was called Ginnungagap. Space was small, quiet, and dark. Peaceful."

The observation is answered with a single shallow nod. Space is new, the ship is new. Constantly being among people is new. Being looked at. Holding conversations that branch out beyond what's been accomplished and what's next and how that isn't enough.

The incredible responsibility of tending to the well-being of another person.
(Always thinking of that time he didn't.)

As for all this, he assumes it to mean the present situation; it doesn't occur to him to look further back. Certainly not back to before basically everything.

"Space was? You mean your space?"

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

an introduction

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject