I did some merging. What comes to mind is just putting a write-in that specified how bad things were for the Rose into the general "try to tell him what kind of voyage you've had" category. I don't think anything that really tips the scales, and nothing's been merged into Call the Lord Secretary Racist. Merging anything into that one would ruin the blunt simplicity of it.
God, I had absolutely no expectation people would actually go for that one!
Adhoc vote count started by Gazetteer on Sep 13, 2018 at 5:49 PM, finished with 1684 posts and 67 votes.
[X] Attempt to explain to them both what kind of long range patrol mission you have just survived
[X] Try to get the attention of some of the other crew members from the Rose who might be in the room
[x] Call the Lord Secretary racist
[X] She had a brother. He came with the exodus, lost everything, no family, no nothing. Her family took him in. He was just a boy. He died fighting the false Emperor on our last assignment. We are grieving, sir.
I did some merging. What comes to mind is just putting a write-in that specified how bad things were for the Rose into the general "try to tell him what kind of voyage you've had" category. I don't think anything that really tips the scales, and nothing's been merged into Call the Lord Secretary Racist. Merging anything into that one would ruin the blunt simplicity of it.
God, I had absolutely no expectation people would actually go for that one!
It perfectly encapsulates our feeling, when reading the update.
Plus, our character is drunk. Perfect excuse to unleash it!
(Well what I actually wanted is North loudly call out to other patron that the admiral want them to be silent so they totally should be and everyone started at him and he slunk off in shame and he stab us later because of course he does but I feel it's too involved)
What bear storm said. The Secretary's a massive racist and everyone in the bar needs to know about it right now and we're too drunk to second-guess this impulse. Diplomacy is for people who aren't inebriated.
Try to call attention from your crewmates, 22 votes.
Apologise for Anja, 14 votes
Attempt to explain what kind of patrol you've had, 6 votes
"My lord," you begin, your voice firm, and your gaze steady. Through a combination of hard liquor and cold fury, you feel strangely distant from your body, from this room, from the pleasant Martian guitar music strumming in the background. You're not entirely certain what you meant to say at the start of this sentence but looking into this man's sour, disapproving face the careful filter that is normally maintained between your brain and your mouth politely steps aside. "You are singling out Ensign Li in a room full of drunken officers. There are three other tables near yours who you could hear just as much as ours."
"Just what are you trying to imply, Ensign?" His eyes bore into yours, but you look back with cool unconcern. He doesn't look away, but his face reddens with anger. "I don't like your tone, and you will explain yourself."
You catch Anja's wide eyed face out of the corner of your eye, head shaking out a frantic no! in micromovements. At another time, you would have considered this advice before blindly plunging on ahead. "You are singling out Ensign Li because she has a Saturnian accent, my lord," you respond. "Because her grandparents and great grandparents helped to build something in this system at great risk to themselves, so that we all actually had a place to seek refuge instead of a series of dead rocks." You don't stumble over your words, like many drunks. Rather, you feel as though your speech is walking along a tightrope with incoherence on either side but clear coherence as long as you maintain absolute focus. The Lord secretary's face slowly begins to darken from red to purple, but there's no point in stopping now. "You are a dishonourable bigot, my lord, and you should be ashamed."
This last comes out rather louder than you intended, and coincides with both the end of a song, and a natural lull in the ambient background noise. Your accusation echoes out impossibly loud throughout the bar, and around you, people turn to stare with large, horrified eyes. Anja appears to be hunching in on herself, perhaps in the hope of being able to shrink down between the false floorboards. There's a loaded, dreadful silence for a long moment, broken only by the incongruously cheerful song that cuts in across the bar's sound system.
Oh, Luna-lover!
My heart beats for you!
Behind the Lord Secretary, the Captain is giving you a look of deepest disapproval, as if you've just seized upon the cage of some unpleasantly dangerous animal and thrown it at his feet. Which is not, perhaps, unfair. The Lord Secretary's face has gone from purple to a livid, trembling pale with seemingly impossible swiftness: "Ensign," he says, the first word incongruously soft. He looms over you. Despite his age and generally unimpressive stature, the near physical force of his anger is enough to make you take a step back. His eyes snap down to your uniform jacket, finding the words Ensign A. North. "... North." He's silent for a further moment, scrutinising you as though deciding exactly what size coffin would suit you best. "You're related to Dame North? You have her look about you." You give a faint, barely perceptible nod.
When the shouting finally comes, it's like a dam breaking, with the explosion of noise making you flinch involuntarily. "Who," he demands, "do you think you are to speak to me in such a manner? Do you have any idea who I am, Ensign? Do you?" His fist slams down on the table beside him, making Anja's empty glass topple to the floor, bounce solidly and roll away. "And in public! I will be speaking to your superiors, and do not be in the least surprised if you find yourself on the front lines manning an unarmed dingy! And if you're determined to reflect so poorly on Dame Nalah as this, don't be surprised if she's right there beside you!"
The first icicle of real, palpable dread penetrates your drunken haze at the intimation that your mother might be forced to pay for your recklessness. You open your mouth to respond, but it goes dry. Meanwhile, he continues:
"You will find that there are consequences to accosting a man of quality!" He snarls. You wince as a fleck of spit strikes you in the face -- he doesn't seem to notice. "I have many highly placed friends!"
"... my lord," cuts in one of these friends, the stroic captain placing a hand on the Lord Secretary's trembling shoulder. The aristocrat briefly looks as if he intends to pull away from the other man's touch, but the distraction is enough time for him to glance around the room, to take in the violent spectacle he's become.
And when you're not near me,
I'm always thinking of you!
In the frozen silence that follows, you feel a sharp tug on your arm. You look over to see Anja, exasperated and frightened, tugging you away, even as the captain attempts to maneuver the Lord Secretary back to his seat. "Sincerest apologies, my lord," Anja says, rendered momentarily stone sober by fear. "We've both had too much to drink. I'm ashamed to have made such a disturbance. I hope you can forgive Ensign North."
The Lord secretary snorts forcefully at this suggestion, but he's allowing himself to be steered back to his seat by the Captain. As you're pulled away, the older officer shoots you a further look of dislike over the Lord Secretary's shoulder… while surprisingly, giving Anja an approving nod.
"Okay," Anja mutters, as you near the door. Her tone is part nerves, part flabbergasted, and perhaps a slight bit amused, the nuanced emotions strong enough to shine through her continued drunken slur: "I take it back, North. You are definitely drunker than I am."
"I tried to tell you," you say, quietly. She pulls you out into the cool night air, and the short remainder of your night is a perfect blur.
--
You wake up in your own bed, feeling only mildly wretched. It would be medically inaccurate to say that you don't get hangovers, but between retaining the presence of mind to keep well hydrated while drinking and some inborn grace of genetics, it's almost never a serious problem for you. The room spins a little as you sit up, and you have a minor headache. Nothing some more water, a painkiller tab and a strong coffee won't cure.
You've only just thought of checking in on Anja, seeing how she's feeling and if she needs anything, when your memories from the night before return in a mortified rush. With a groan, you let yourself fall back onto the mattress, roll onto your side, and cover your face in distress. Images of what you've done and the various unpleasant possibilities that might arise because of it parade through your head.
You're still piecing yourself together -- you haven't showered, you haven't properly dressed, you haven't had so much as that painkiller -- when your tablet, left half charged on the nightstand, begins to make an awful noise. It takes half a second to fully register the the quick series of beeps that tells you that whatever it is, the call is both urgent and work related. With a groan, you roll over, grope for the tablet, and check the ID:
S.Lieut R. Mazlo. With a sinking heart, you force yourself to press the "audio only" button.
"Ensign," your superior's voice says, distinctly unhappy with you. "Do you have any idea the kind of message I received early this morning?"
You have a hunch. "No, sir," you say, trying to sand the fuzziness off of your voice. "Was it something concerning me?"
The chewing out that unfolds is neither as blistering nor as loud as the Lord Secretary screaming at you, but this one promises to have far more direct consequences to your life. "Is this the conduct we should expect from an officer of the Empire, North?" It's not simple annoyance, or even anger. Beneath his tone of disapproval there's a faint note of smug triumph. That you've slipped up, that you've done something wrong, and that he's the one who gets to make you pay for it. "If it were entirely up to me, you'd be spending the rest of your leave in your housing -- be grateful that the captain is more lenient than I am." The only things you say throughout this entire conversation -- the only things you really can say -- are 'no sir' and 'yes sir.' Inarguably, you are quite grateful that Captain Andre is not very much like Mazlo.
You come out of the experience frazzled and in a bad mood, although miraculously your headache has slipped into bad memory sometime during the phone call. When you knock on Anja's door -- caffeine in hand -- you're struggling not to let your trepidation show on your face. Particularly when it takes her an unusually long time to open up.
"Fuck." It becomes clear, at least, as she opens the door, still in the shirt from the uniform she wore last night and looking like she was hit by a very slow moving truck, that the delay has nothing to do with her being unhappy with you. She recoils sluggishly from the light the open door lets in as she curses, half turning away to shield her eyes and usher you into her quarters with an air of deep unwellness. You follow her into the dimly lit interior, where she collapses into a chair and lets out a tremendous groan.
"How are you?" you ask, gently, wary of aggravating the pounding headache you assume she has.
She grimaces, every line of her face screaming misery. "Is that a painkiller tab in your hand?" she croaks. "Sol, hand me that." You watch her take it, washing the foul taste out of her mouth with the coffee you brought her. "Thanks," she says. "That--" Anja stops, staring at you with eyes narrowed from suspicion rather than just from pain.
"... yes?" you ask, shifting a little uncomfortable. Her quarters are identical to yours, so you've easily found a seat in the gloom.
"Why do you look so good?" she demands. "You're all dressed! And you're… you were drinking whiskey, and you were drunk enough to actually call a rich racist a racist. How are you fine while I'm here hiding in the dark with my head split open?"
It's a little reassuring, at least, that she's angrier at you for something normal rather than specifically for last night. "Hangovers don't hit me very hard," you admit, trying not to smile at her scowl. Her general discomfort renders the expression into an indescribable grimace. "I've also been up for a while. I had a call this morning."
Her expression immediately dials back and takes on an apprehensive quality. "Shit, that was fast. Grayson?"
"Mazlo," you say, bleakley. Which, in a sense, is a good sign -- a call from the First Officer would have been an indication of a much more serious matter than simply your immediate superior. On the other hand, you like Grayson, and you feel that the sentiment is mutual. Anja seems to understand your thought process-- she winces in sympathy.
"What's the damage?" she asks, hesitant.
You sigh. "I'm getting a minor infraction recorded on my record. And I need to write the Lord Secretary a formal letter of apology. What?"
She stops staring at you long enough to look up at the ceiling, letting out an explosive breath of relief. "Sol. The way you looked, I thought it was bad. That's a slap on the wrist, North. That's nothing."
You blink. "Having to apologise to him doesn't feel like nothing,"
"I already had to apologise to him," she counters. "While half sick to my stomach from drinking and worry. It's not nothing maybe, but it's not half as bad as if I were the one he was after."
You frown. "He threatened to go after my mother."
Anja dismisses that almost irritably. "That scene wasn't bad enough for him to go through the trouble of destroying a knight, North. It was just bluster. You're from a barely good enough family that you can get away with this shit, the few times you actually do something stupid."
She's probably right. You try to relax but an earlier worry resurfaces. "Was I wrong, Anja?" you ask. "Doing that, I mean."
She scrutinises you for a moment, before sighing again, massaging her temples. "You weren't wrong, North. Just not very smart about it -- I didn't expect that from you, you know? Even so, you're… well, you're a good friend. You took the heat for me, anyway. It looks like our Lord Pain in the Ass has forgotten all about me."
You try to smile. "Well, there's that." You're not entirely sure how you feel about this, but you suppose if Anja can live with it, so can you.
--
The letter of apology takes longer than you expect. Even taking into account that your writing talents lie more in the direction of dry factual reports than extended prostrations of remorse, you find it impossible to work at anything near your usual pace. The entire business sits uncomfortably in the pit of your stomach, and you get angry and frustrated and humiliated just in the writing. Eventually, you do get it out before an unacceptable amount of time has lapsed. In the meantime, though, you haven't had that much of a chance to work on your assignment for Lieutenant-Commander Owusu, which is doubly frustrating because you're certain that there's something there you could find if you had just a little bit more of a chance. After more than a day of this, it's just as well you have something planned that demands you get out and do anything other than sit and stare at a workstation.
The House of Gravity is melodramatically named, perhaps. Another prefab structure, this time painted black with an animated E-neon sign showing blue water pouring through a green filter, coming out an appealing mahogany. Lady Perbeck has already sent you a message that, once again, you've arrived second. The doors slide open automatically at your approach.
Citrus was trying its hardest to evoke old earth charm, between the false wood and the old fashioned atmosphere. This teahouse, by contrast, appears to have given up trying to convince patrons that it is not built on the inside of an artificial sphere hurtling through space around an alien moon. The interior is sleekly, if plushly, modern. Dark synthetic surfaces, soft floor lighting and comfortable, red seat cushions.
You're greeted at the door by a lovely, young individual of indeterminate gender, dressed in a sleekly flattering uniform in a similar colour scheme to the rest of the tea house. "Hello, miss," they say, smiling. "Do you have a booth reserved?"
"I'm here to meet someone," you confirm. "She should have a booth under 'Perbeck'."
The employee flashes another of their demure smiles. "Booth three, miss," they say.
You make your way across the room. Gentle instrumental music fills the air, and in spite of all your various anxieties, you find yourself relaxing. Booth three is private, with a sliding door left open. Lady Perbeck is inside, frowning at her tablet in a manner that lets you know she's still working up to the last minute. She's alerted to your presence by some slight rustle of clothing, or the faint sound of your shoes on the sound-absorbing floor tile and looks up at you with a pleased, appraising quality to her gaze.
"I approve of the dress," she says, shutting off her tablet and tossing it aside. This is the same smile you saw before through video call -- languidly catlike, making her work-smile seem stolid and restrained in comparison.
"Thank you," you say, feeling oddly exposed for an instant. Her eyes follow you as you slide the door to the booth shut behind you. You're wearing a simple, black dress -- your wardrobe of non-uniform clothing is by necessity limited, and between the bar and this trip, you're hardly in a position to go on a shopping spree at the nearest print-on-demand boutique. The back pay from your modest salary fortunately piles up very nicely while you're in space and have no way to spend it, but you do have your limits. You are forced to admit to yourself that you suggested this place more to impress than because it was within your means. This look fits the environment well enough, though, with your hair undone and the deep brown of your arms and shoulders on full display. It's a strange feeling, not simply being able to slot into the prescribed status and appearance of the Navy. It tells you you've been far too long without leave.
Lady Perbeck, by contrast, has slotted into a different sort of uniform. It's unmistakable, now, that you're associating with a titled noblewoman. Fashion in aristocratic circles has run in a broad parody of military styles for the past several years. The sleek pants and blouse she's wearing are similar to the pilot's uniform you're used to from her, albeit darker and in clingier fabric. The bolero jacket, with a similar collar to a service jacket but half the length, is proudly displaying her house colours, the same ones that adorn her mecha in combat. You've seen some nobles look utterly absurd in similar outfits, but she makes it seem both sophisticated and dashing.
"You said out of uniform," you remind her, sliding down into a seat across from her.
"I did," she agrees, leaning back against the padded seat-back behind her. The booth is spacious and cool, with space for at least six people. Three of the four walls are fitted with false windows, adjustable from a standard tablet. Perbeck has evidently set them to show the exterior of the spaceport, which includes a breathtaking view of Iapetus. The screen is of a similar quality to those found on a spaceship bridge. All of this only makes you grow more nervous about the cost of it all. When you suggested this place, you hadn't quite anticipated having to go all out. As if reading your mind, she tells you, "order whatever you want. I'm buying."
"I invited you," you point out, relief tinged with guilt flooding your stomach.
"You did," she agrees. "But what is the point of being a countess if I still make you pay for me?"
Given that Lady Perbeck is completely cut off from her family's holdings and revenues, you wonder just how true that is. Certainly, as a commander and a pilot engaging in active combat, she's taking home more money than you are, but it seems likely to you that she's probably not half as rich as she might once have been used to. "If you insist, Countess," you say. Challenging her on her finances does not seem like a way to get off on the right foot.
She makes a face at you. "Sol, don't call me Countess." she says. "This is hardly a public event. We've been through battles together -- I'm not going to call you Ensign or Ms. North."
You mull this over for a moment, even as you scroll through the menu that's momentarily appeared on the tabletop. You pick a pleasant sounding green tea. "If you're calling me Amani, and I'm not allowed to call you Countess, and I assume 'my lady' and 'ma'am' are also out."
She snorts a little dismissively, although amused. "You don't work for me," she points out, "and there's not a lot of point in seeing you outside of work if you're going to keep calling my 'ma'am, Amani."
Hearing her say your name induces an oddly pleasant sort of flutter in your chest. "Gloriana, then?" you offer.
Her reaction is to make even more of a face. "Never, please."
You raise an eyebrow. "Is there something wrong with your name?"
"What's wrong with it is that it's Gloriana."
You can't help but laugh slightly at her vehemence. She doesn't appear to mind. "Glory, then?" you offer.
"No, that's nearly as bad," she says, making even more of a face. After a moment, she admits: "People I like tend to just call me Lori."
"Lori," you say, slowly, sounding it out in your mouth. Calling her by such a casual name is difficult, but you're not precisely complaining. "I'm sorry, I heard Lieutenant-Commander Owusu call you Glory, so I thought…"
She lets out a slight bark of laughter, half stifled. "I told you, my friends call me Lori," she says. "Milo calls me whatever he wants to. No matter how many times I ask him to stop."
"... ah," you say, wondering about what kind of relationship, exactly, puts the two pilots on a first name basis while still having her say things like that.
"He was asking about you," she adds, giving you a suddenly scrutinising look. "Is he trying to drag you into anything absurd while you're on shore leave?"
"I'm not at liberty to say," you admit, smiling a little sheepishly. In response, she lets out a mildly exasperated exhalation.
"We went through officer training together," she explains. "He's an intolerable man. He's good at what he does, though -- watch yourself around him." At this point, your tea arrives, giving you a chance to mull over her words. Two synth-porcelain teapots are carefully laid down, with a cream pitcher and sugar dish for Lori. As soon as the server has left, she leans over the table unasked, and pours for you. "You seem to be attracting intolerable men, lately," she says, as the gold-green tea pours steaming into your cup, releasing a wonderful earthy aroma. "Although I wouldn't do Milo the insult of quite categorising him as being on the same level of Lord Secretary Song."
You wince, unable to hide your response. "How closely related was he to Ensign Song?" you ask, tentatively. You had hoped news of your runin hadn't travelled quite this fast.
"A great uncle, I believe," she says. "He's from a lesser branch. He still sent me quite the disapproving note when we arrived for wasting the blood of his lineage. I didn't shout at him in public, of course." You wince again, and to your mingled relief and annoyance, she laughs again. "You're always so put together," she explains, "whether you're running on no sleep or calling me on shore leave. Seeing you fret is a little adorable."
You feel your face heat as you wrap your hands around the warm teacup, while she sets about drowning her own cup of black tea in cream and sugar. Such talk is, of course, more than a little condescending. But the way her lips curve into that same, enticing smile...
"I won't apologise for saying it," you say. Then, eyes widening at her curious expression, you hasten to clarify: "Well.. I did. Formally. I don't regret it. He was being awful to poor Anja, when I was just trying to take her mind off of… things."
"Ensign Li can be a little lax in observing social decorum," Lori says, cautiously.
"Yes, she can," you reply, "but that's not what it was. It was a bar -- everyone was drinking. She wasn't being that loud. She deserves to be able to have a drink in peace." Lori has never displayed anything but annoyance and disapproval for Anja and her more lax social graces. It's more than a little awkward now, but you're not prepared to let Anja be mischaracterised.
"She does," Perbeck agrees, to your mild surprise. She raises her milky cup to her lips and takes a long, delicate sip, closing her eyes in obvious delight. "I can't tell you how badly I needed this," she adds, in a softer tone. "Thank you for inviting me. Ensign Li, though -- she's competent, and a dedicated officer, in spite of her… quirks. I've never had reason to complain of her in combat."
"You're welcome," you say, still a little thrown. Fortunately, she continues on her own:
"Ito tried to explain her to me a few times," Lori explains. "The main thing I took away from it was that they were like family. When he was…" she pauses, setting her cup back down with a faint clink. "... when his unit was disabled, she kept up her job. She didn't fall apart. She stayed on the line for me. I've worked with a lot of mecha control officerss who couldn't have handle that, when they'd just seen their brother die. She did deserve a drink. What you said to the Lord Secretary wasn't wrong, Amani. Just not very politic." You get the impression that she still doesn't exactly approve, mostly on the weight of the last. But it hasn't damaged her good mood, and she's still looking at you with no trace of coldness. Just that faint air of exasperation still.
You sigh, blowing on your green tea. "That's more or less what Anja said."
Perbeck nods. "She is smarter than she makes herself seem."
You're not usually a tea drinker. The contents of your cup tastes like faintly nutty grass, but it's pleasant enough, you suppose, even if it lacks the full flavoured boldness of what you usually prefer. You're aware you chose this place mostly on the observed preferences of your companion, who is plainly taking a deep appreciation away from the experience. You have to wonder how much tea she can actually taste, of course, with everything she's adding to it "Are you still locked up in meetings?" you ask, after a momentary silence.
"Yes, mostly," she admits, with a light sigh. "Or, something like that. That's where I heard about your… incident. I was there when Mazlo sent the message to Captain Andre." She looks slightly apprehensive as she adds, "although it's not all meetings. Which is a mixed blessing."
"A mixed blessing?" you tilt your head quizzically.
"I'm not at liberty to say," she replies, voice thick with irony as she echoes your earlier words. After a moment, she relents slightly, and explains: "I'm doing some testing. On new equipment. And there are noises being made about my adopting it permanently. I'm resisting for the time being."
You consider this. Lori is a pilot, and a skilled one at that -- one of the few pilots capable of handling a Huntress. Particularly with her unit so heavily damaged, it seems a fine time to set her to work putting an experimental unit through its paces. Her extreme reluctance would seem out of place with this, except for a slight suspicion you decide to put a pin in for the time being. "Is the new equipment deficient compared to what you're currently using?" you ask, instead.
"Not… precisely," she admits. "It performs admirably. But it feels less… flexible." This, on its face, seems absurd -- extreme mobility aside, there are few space mecha in the history of modern warfare that are less flexible than the ISM16 Huntress. She seems to perceive this. "Some aspects a piece of a equipment that seem to be flaws are things a skilled user can still turn to their advantage."
"And a skilled pil-- user couldn't do things with the new equipment as well?"
"... perhaps," she admits, glancing away with an air of adopted nonchalance. She pours herself a fresh cup, looking cool and disaffected.
"And does it fulfill the same role, generally?"
"It does."
You hesitate momentarily, the suspicion you initially had hardening into something close to certainty. "You like it," you say.
She looks up at you, one eyebrow raised. "I like many things," she says, airly. "What specifically are you referring to?"
You steel yourself. "You like being the one who can use a unit no one else can and get results. You like the mystique of it. Otherwise you wouldn't have stuck with something so temperamental for so long -- you're worried about losing that with a newer one."
She looks more taken aback than immediately offended. "You think I prefer what I have now over a newer model because I think the current one makes me look cool?"
"So it would seem to me," you say, deciding not to back down at this point. Behind her, through the false window, you can see an orbital transport lifting off from Iapetus's surface, carrying unknown passengers from the moon to Anchiale station. There's a lengthy enough silence that you've just decided to apologise for being presumptuous, when she lets out a long, almost defeated sigh.
"There might be some truth to that," she says, smiling ruefully. "I'll give it more of a chance. You do know how to cut to the heart of things, don't you?"
"It's my job, a little," you say, shrugging lightly.
She smiles at you consideringly for a long moment, staring for just long enough to make your face heat again. "We have time after this, don't we? There's one of the larger parks nearby. Walk with me."
--
"People here don't realise how dangerous things are right now," Lori says, looking around at the serene plant life of your surroundings. You're walking along a garden path, neatly trimmed trees and flowerbeds all around you. It's an odd hour for this neighbourhood, it would seem, and you have a safe buffer to yourselves. "They think it's just a few raiding fleets they have to worry about, that we'll be able to repel it with a simple show of force. They feel too safe and fortified here. It's easy to see why."
The interior of this habitat does feel extremely solid, extremely natural. Not like something that can be destroyed. You look at Lori -- she's staring straight ahead, her golden hair long and unbound, catching the artificial sunlight like strands of spun gold. You have to give yourself a mental jolt to avoid becoming too distracted. "Didn't high command send the fleet data we intercepted here?" you ask, frowning. "Lieutenant Commander Owusu seemed to believe it."
Lori nods. "They did, and not everyone's got their head in the proverbial sand -- Milo is many things I won't say in polite company, but he's not a fool. Still, a great many of the residents of Iapetus's orbital habitats, Anchiale in particular, don't feel as exposed as we all really are. They have their defence array, which they don't seem to realise they've compromised."
"Compromised how?" This is the first you're hearing of it. You glance upward at the habitat's ceiling through the blue haze of atmosphere, as if you could somehow see through the metal to space above.
"They clustered a mess of civilian habitats at nearly the same orbital distance, when things started to get overcrowded," Lori explains, darkly. "Some of them, it's worse than that -- they've actually converted several of the defence platforms into 'mixed use' platforms."
"They've put residential modules on them?" you ask, shocked.
She nods, arms crossing. "Collateral damage in a heavily cluttered orbital zone is bad enough even without that. If there's ever a serious attack on this system, it's going to be bloodbath even if they never make it as far inward as this station."
The two of you continue onward in silence, a shadow having fallen over the conversation.
Your aimless wandering has led you to an even more secluded area -- you can't even glimpse people through the thicker trees here. A small bridge spans a stream, which babbles pleasantly.
"It's too quiet here," Lori says, looking around at the trees. "There aren't any animals."
"There's quite a bit more than I'm used to," you admit. "With the bees alone. This is honestly the closest I've been to a natural biome, I'm afraid."
She pauses then halfway across the bridge, looking at you with soft, sad, blue eyes. "Under different circumstances," she says, "I'd offer to show you Mars. It's not as verdant as earth, but my family's holdings are lovely this time of year."
The two of you, both on the bridge, seem suddenly a little too close. You take a step backward, to maintain a conversational distance, but your back comes up against the decoratively high railing. Something about the way she's looking at you, your quiet surroundings, your relative entrapment, makes your heart pound. She reaches out a hand, elegant fingers cupping your chin to tilt your face upward.
"Maybe someday?" you ask, voice tight and breathy. You don't do anything to pull away as she closes the distance between you.
"I'll hold you to that," she says, smiling in a way that makes electricity go all down your spine. Then there's no distance at all between the two of you -- her lips are on yours, and she's kissing you with a forceful intensity that's both surprising and entirely welcome. Your hands grip the fabric of her jacket, and you let yourself give in to it entirely.
Unbidden, Anja's voice comes floating into your head until you can wave it away: You must really like being bossed around, huh?
It's over a little sooner than you would have prefered, but it still leaves you breathless even as you release her jacket and let her pull back. To your dismay, a conflicted expression is going across her face. You're briefly worried she didn't like it.
"Is this a mistake?" she whispers, still half bent over you, one long-fingered hand still on your face.
As the rush of the kiss leaves you, you consider this question. She's not exactly your direct superior, but you work together on the same ship. You're well aware of how accusations of favouritism fly when word leaks out about such relationships. Whatever sort of relationship it is she has in mind. What do you tell her?
[ ] Yes
It's a mistake, and bad for the ship. You should try to forget this happened, even if you were the one who invited her out here.
[ ] No
It's not a mistake. See where things go, but take them slow.
[ ] Sol, no!
No it's not a fucking mistake. You could both be dead within the month for all you know. Take things fast, enjoy it while you still can.
I really don't care to protect these people anymore.
by all indications, these people deserve to lose. That their enemy is worse doesn't seem to mitigate the existence of such a profoundly shitty culture, to the point that the few decent people no longer make me want to expend effort following their apparently futile attempts to survive.
I really don't care to protect these people anymore.
by all indications, these people deserve to lose. That their enemy is worse doesn't seem to mitigate the existence of such a profoundly shitty culture, to the point that the few decent people no longer make me want to expend effort following their apparently futile attempts to survive.
I can't disagree with you for the most part. That's part of why I voted for rebel alliance at the start. Grey on grey wars are only interesting if both sides are well-intentioned but flawed. Here it's that both are just varying degrees of awful.
I really don't care to protect these people anymore.
by all indications, these people deserve to lose. That their enemy is worse doesn't seem to mitigate the existence of such a profoundly shitty culture, to the point that the few decent people no longer make me want to expend effort following their apparently futile attempts to survive.
I mean, them losing means the same culture but fanatically religious, with moderating voices thrown into space gulags. Monarchy fucking sucks. Aristocracy sucks just as hard. I'm trying to be honest to that while still portraying a place where life's still worth living for most people.
I mean, them losing means the same culture but fanatically religious, with moderating voices thrown into space gulags. Monarchy fucking sucks. Aristocracy sucks just as hard. I'm trying to be honest to that while still portraying a place where life's still worth living for most people.
Obviously, if we were real people in this setting we'd want to be on the side that sucked less. As someone playing a game though, the other side being worse doesn't make being on our side any more enjoyable. If it was feasible and IC, I'd be voting to see how habitable Pluto is.
If Amani just wanted a quick fling, she could have found one already. This seems worth doing right.
Also I don't actually expect our side to win the war given the insane degree to which the other side outweighs us. At best we might be able to flee farther into the outer system and hope we can eventually hide well enough that they can't find us before they collapse on their own. Or that we do enough damage before our defeat and conquest to precipitate that collapse.
