Balmas

Fellowship: The Heart

"I've been bound to a train since I was born," he admits. "Not like an engineer is, not like I will be once we reach there, but train is in my blood as surer than those words're in yours."

He's quiet, contemplative, for more than a few minutes. "And if you want the whole answer, no. If I wind up as a face made up of engine dials, I'll be more'n a tad upset. Leastways, if it happens the second we reach Terminus. I'd like to have a long life with Sasha. She'll need someone to help clear the way out of Terminus, somebody to help guide her, be her friend. I want to help recruit a new crew to care for her, help find conductors, coalmen, mechanics, and so on. She'll be the hub of a new city, a new series of families, and I want to be part of that. Want to help commission and design her cars, maybe have a say in the stained glass, keep the nerds from getting too carried away with flamethrowers and claw arms.

"If I get that? That life full of family? If at the end of that, I become part of Sasha? I think I could be okay with that."

Breathless Dead

Where even did he get a tricorn hat? Did he bring it with him? Was he hiding it, somewhere in that mass of tentacles? Did he find a costume room somewhere in the ship?

Please let there be a costume room somewhere in the ship. She'll never admit this, but dressing up carries with it a secret thrill. The idea that with a change of hat, makeup, or clothes, you can be somebody other than yourself, just like that? Endlessly fascinating. It's like doing the voices in the library. You're not Alexa, you're Endymion crawling through the tunnels below Castle Elis, and what a relief it is to be knee-deep in sewage.

"Sir, as much as--Sir, please I--If you want ans--The mistress--" You know, it's probably not possible to throttle an octopus, but Alexa is tempted to try. Every time she tries to explain that, as much as she'd like to answer, she's physically incapable of discussing Redana, the words die in her throat. Not that it matters, since he won't stop asking new questions! She can't get a word in edgewise. Can't explain that she's not aware of Redana inventing anything, and that if he's looking forward to her lab he shouldn't be, and that she's pretty sure Redana takes more after her father than her mother, and oh goodness she could fill a book with what Redana shouldn't do, and actually that might be an interesting prospect if ever they survive this...

Eventually, she shrugs, and starts the cleanup process. Rat entrails litter the alter, and of course the surface needs to be pristine for the next augury or you'll get mixed results or, even worse, offend Poseidon. The little cage of white ship's rats--purebred, of Tellus stock--watches her as she works, and she can't resist giving one of them the customary little scratch on the head as she puts them back in their home. Go, little rats. Be free in your little commune, make baby rats, and maybe the next time you'll be the lucky ones to guide our ship.

She appreciates little rituals. It's simple, easy, comforting to know how to make somebody happy. Say the right words, repeat the right motions, be exact. That's simple.

It's a lot simpler than coming home.

Breathless Dead

There are benefits to having a skeleton crew aboard a ship the size of a city. It means that when the metaphorical sergeant comes asking where to find that rat fink bastard who peed in his metaphorical coffee, there's nobody to sell you out. Nobody saying, "oh, she went that way," nobody pointing out the massive crater footsteps, nobody to point to the white gleam of marble in the distance. In a ship this size with a crew this small, it's possible for her to disappear.

Which is good, because disappearing is on Alexa's mind.

What was she thinking? You never question the orders you're given. That's drilled into every footman's head in basic. You do it, even if it means that you or others die. You certainly never question them in public, in front of subordinates, or shout them down, or assist in their capture. You follow orders, to the letter, the instant they're given. You desert, you don't fight when you're told or--gods preserve you--you fight for the other side, and your death will be slow, agonizing, and public, so that nobody else gets it into their head that what you did was okay.

Start with the engine room, she decides. It's got to be a mess after having Ares run rampant through it, and whatever the Hermetician did to manage to fly the ship through a storm. Plenty of things to set right, which is just the thing. Plenty of heavy things to lift, ways to wear herself out, make her body so tired with the effort that her brain doesn't have enough time to think about it.

Alexa pauses halfway through taking her armor off. She shouldn't get it dirty, she knows. The creation of the Warsage must be perfect in every situation, in every presentation. Perfect means not covered in soot and grime and dust. Perfect means glorious, gleaming, possibly with a sheen of whichever fool dared oppose Molech. Perfect means she should lay it aside, neatly folded, perform her labors as needed, and then take them up again.

And yet, the thought of taking off even a shred of armor at this point is unthinkable. It's not selfish, she tells herself. She hasn't been repaired fully. She's created in the very image of Athena herself. Hiding any of that is itself shameful, but if it's going to be presented, it should be presented in the best way possible.

Yeah, that's definitely it.

Why isn't Redana doing it? It's not like Alexa can actually hide, she knows. This wandering the ship, desperately hoping not to run across anyone, is pointless. (Which doesn't mean that she didn't also choose the engine room in the probably vain hope that it'd be noisy enough to conceal the noises of stone on metal.) Between the Auspex and the command seal, it should be a simple affair to summon her, order her to pulverize herself, and have done.

And yet, she's able to spend at least an hour simply working herself into a fervor of pounding metal, balancing the massive flow regulators, setting the room right, listening for orders from the bridge until even the sweeping and dusting is done.

Is that it? Is that what she's doing, is letting her stew? Redana knows what she's done, Alexa knows what she's done, they both know what has to happen, and part of the punishment is making her wait for the judgement? Molech's done that in the past, but Alexa genuinely didn't think Redana had that kind of nasty cleverness to her.

(She bites back the thought that Redana doesn't have cleverness to her, nasty or not.)

Although... The thought stews in her mind as she makes her way to the small temple on the starboard side of the ship. The worst has already happened, hasn't it? She's already dead. The Gods alone can save her at this point. Does it really matter whether she's unkind to Redana in her own thoughts? Redana's been plenty unkind to her outside her head, after all.

Gently, Alexa brushes the dust off the statues to the gods. Each alter requires its dedication, its procedures, its prayers and blessings and sanctifications.

But she's also been... Well, let's not beat about the bush. Yes, she kidnapped her. And yes, she's got the command seal. But she at least acts like Alexa's a person, which is more than can be said for her mother. And even with the thoughts running through her head, it never once occurred to her that Redana might strike out against Dolce or Vasilia to get back at her.

(And that lovely thought is almost enough to get her to skip a line in the ode to Poseidon, and forces a gulp and a quick recentering.)

She--she wouldn't do that, surely. Their crew is small enough. Striking against one is to ruin the other. They're safe. Yes. That's. That's good. That's very good. Her two friends aren't in any danger from Redana.

Almost automatically, her hands right a fallen statuette of Hephaestus and perform the proper apologies.

Strange how much that's enough to calm her down, even in the face of certain demise.

Fellowship: The Heart

Coleman snorts. "Ye've done all these figure studies of her, and you ain't figured out she's alive?"

Gently, he grabs one of Ailee's paws and guides it to the freshly burnished patch. "She's only a baby right now. Still comin' into her own. Still weak, still needs protecting. She's the reason the Flood came at us so hard, is because I wouldn't give her Sasha. Feel her cooin'? She knows it's you.

"This li'l bunsen burner's the whole reason I'm headin' to the Heart. Rather, to Terminus Station. Here, lookie at Gramps' wrench, it's got some pictograms of the history. See that li'l figure there? That's the First Engineer, and the bigger figure next to them's the First Train. There're whole crews of philosophers on other trains doing the mindwork of figuring out what happened, but when the two met, s'was like a spark. The two connected, an' each became something more than they were before.

"And ever since, trains've only been able to hatch at Terminus. We're not sure whether it's the heat or the memory or such, but for Sasha here to fully come into her own, we need to reach Terminus. There, she'll finally become an engine in her own right, and I'll probably be subsumed in the transformation."

He says it frankly, like it's just a fact of life, but there's just that little edge of doubt crinkling in the corners of his eyes. "At least, I think so. Maybe subsumed's the wrong word. Assimilated? Jackdaw's the one to know the fancy vocab about it. Point is, I'll take on some aspect of Sasha, and she'll take on some of me. We'll merge a bit more. It's a privilege and a heavy burden, because what I'm doin' now is going to influence Sasha for the rest of her life, and that's gonna be centuries past when I'm long gone."

Fellowship: The Heart

"A flippant non-answer is still a non-answer, Ailee."

Coleman ignores the hand and the boop. It's not important right now.

"And the proper comparison is child. A child who I must help, a child that needs educating, and raising. A child that will grow into something more than I am, and for whom I care deeply.

"Realistically speaking, there's not a lot I can do to you. When you're in yer ooga-booga eyes mode, you're scary. But I looked at the way you treated your friend, how you didn't force her to do what you wanted, and said, here is a person I can trust. I can rely on her to, if not do the right thing, at least be consistent enough and respectful enough to leave well enough alone.

"So in the spirit of that, I'm askin' you once more. Can I trust you alone with my child?"

Fellowship: The Heart

It's a bit like coming home to find that things have been subtly moved. Your first worry is that something has been stolen but, as you open drawers and check the safe and go down the list of things you own, nothing is missing. But that lamp was up on the shelf, and that book's been flipped through, and wasn't that couch a few inches to the left of where it is now? Nothing's been taken. Rather, nothing's been taken but a sense of security, a feelign of privacy. Someone has come into your home and gotten their filthy little rat paws all over your things.

When did she get the chance? Has she--no, Sasha isn't acting like she's been invaded. Isn't fussing or pacing or making litle hissing noises. Focus. Yes, some of these pictures show details that can almost only be seen from inside the cockpit. Keep it down, keep it in. That's what Gramps always said. Take in the facts, figure out what's going on, before you jump in or blow up on somebody that doesn't deserve it. Or worse, on somebody that does deserve it.

"Ailee, have you been messing with Sasha without permission?"

Breathless Dead

Alexa will never admit to this, but there's a part of her that even now--even after the gods have spoken, have rendered judgement, have censured and destroyed--even now, still agrees with Molech. Battles, in a perfect world, should be orderly things. Consider how much simpler things would be if formations moved as directed, if every contingency could be planned for and counteracted, if everything could be paid attention to and noticed and figured out and wasn't being blasted at her from all directions.

It never gets easier. There's never enough time to pay attention to everything, to figure out why or how the ship is here or what's going on and why the Armada's hellbent on turning them to powder because right now, Bella's claws are still tracing an arc of blood through the air and Alexa has to figure out exactly everything she remembers about the cat. Did their paths cross? Did she ever happen to be present when Bella was training? What does she know, how does she move, how does she keep this from turning further into a bloodbath?

The claws are the key, she realizes, halfway through the first step. It's the same principle that was drilled into her over and over again. It doesn't matter what weapon you're using, what matters is keeping out of their weapon's range and keeping them in yours. If she can just get close enough--dodge enough swipes, keep Bella from thinking of her as a threat, don't get any closer to Redana if she values her life, she's not here, Vasilia forgive her but keep attacking her, that's right, she's the one you need to worry abo--Now!

She is painfully aware that, were this not a fight, this might look sweet. Just gals being pals, one big spoon with her arms squeezed as tight as possible around the small spoon. She's even known some people where the white-hot grip around the wrists, the heaving breaths, and the frothing, rabid flecks might not be unusual.

(She misses those days, sometimes.)

Alexa swallows. This is important. Ignore the squirming, ignore the lashing tail, tune out the bombardment of SP on shell. Right now, there's nothing but her and Bella. And so is this conversation. Soft. Quiet. Among... Friends is probably strong. Acquaintances? Closer than complete strangers, anyway.

"I am," she hesitates, "not good at speaking. Not when it's just me, on my own. With my own thoughts. Forgive me."

And don't eviscerate me. That's important too.

"Bella. We are not close. Not close enough for me to give you straight advice, as a friend. I know you have your own reasons for choosing as you did. And I wish I had that.

"I do not have that choice. When"--and the word "Redana" again sticks in her throat, chokes her until she revises--"I am given an order by someone carrying my seal, I cannot disobey. Cannot tell them that forcing me to join them in a suicidal charge against the greatest seat of power in recent memory would be most unkind.

"I cannot even fault you, on being asked to be the second in command of this death march, for refusing. I certainly cannot fault you for being angry that, on refusal to join, you were robbed of that choice. You were betrayed even more thoroughly than I, for while I have never been able to refuse an order, your choice was ignored in favor of abandonment.

"At the same time, there is one of us"--oh thank goodness, that works--"who cannot stop talking of you. Who misses you dearly. Who tells story after story of her best friend. And although you will never hear the words out of her mouth, she misses you. Wishes that you were there with us. She is hurt that you are not there."

Alexa sighs. "I cannot be the one to tell you what is right. I do not know it, and cannot be trusted to tell it. But..." And for once, she smiles. It's a good look. "I have made more friends in that ship in a few months than in all my years with Nero. Who can tell but what you may find there?

"I am going to let go. Please do not hurt us. I would not have you as an enemy."

[Bookkeeping:
7 on Keep Them Busy. Bella will retaliate once time is up.
9 on Speak Softly.
-What can they tell us about how they feel about Redana's betrayal?
-What do they want, and how could we help them get it?
-What were they doing, and what are they going to do next?]

Fellowship: The Heart

"And you sound like somebody who'd rather die of septic shock than ask for help," he retorts mildly. "There's always someone knows better'n you at something. Why wouldn't you go to someone as knows more'n you? You wouldn't tell me how to run my train, and I'm not gonna tell you you're doing your hoodoo wrong. I can understand if you're out in the middle of nowhere and need to do what you can with what you have, but if you got the chance, seein' an expert's just common sense."

He stares at her eating for a few seconds before adding, "Common sense also says sieves don't make the best cups. What, they don't teach you how to use spoons at your fancy college?"

Fellowship: The Heart

Coleman tucks away the canteen with ill humor. Oh, sure, splash it around, Ailee. It's not like we're in a desert. Don't come begging to him later on, asking to open Sasha's little boiler to rob the water sloshing inside.

But, his humor is significantly improved by the addition of food. And the promise of desert! He's not sure where the man's going to pull it from, but then again he'd kind of chuckled when Lucien had initially promised dinner at all.

"Gramps always said you don't fuck with three people in your life," he said, sipping from the bowl. "Your doctor, your lawyer, and anybody preparing your food."

Breathless Dead

"Redana..."

Stop talking about me!

Her voice cuts off like it's been guillotined, and she's left mouthing like a fish. She tries! Oh, believe her, she tries. But the words that are so stridently clear in her head refuse to come out. Redana can make her own decisions, yes! Of course she can! But only when they're decisions that are only Redana's! When she's acting as princess and heir, her decisions affect more than just herself! It's not as simple as 'let Redana decide how she wants to dress' when she's dragging people behind her! Let Redana decide, but let her decide as well! Redana knows what's best for Redana, but shouldn't everybody else get a say if what's best for Redana is not what's best for them?

All of this, she does not say. And she does not say it while leveling a hurt look at her princess. Of course Redana wouldn't allow her to speak, not after Alexa criticized her in front of subordinates. That's normal. That's what she was taught by Molech. Seen and not heard, the perfect idol, the perfect background and unspoken threat for any who dare approach the Warsage.

So why does it sting so more right now?

"Fine, yeah. Alexa, do as Bella says and shut this idiot up and maybe I'll arrange for you to come back with us. I'll be right back, make sure this is resolved by the time I'm back."

Naturally, it's Mynx who breaks the spell and leaves Alexa gaping between the two cats. Can. Can she do that? For a panicked second she imagines it.

It'd be painfully easy, wouldn't it? Vasilia is unorthodox, certainly, and Alexa wouldn't care to bet on just how many tricks she has up her sleeve, but Vasilia isn't expecting it from her. One stone fist to the back of the head. Bam! Instant nap attack. She'd be fine, and they'd be gone before anybody ever came for them.

Galnius would probably even back her play. Could you imagine the glory to be had? One of six to recruit the Ceronians and rescue the Princess? How many legends could that spawn, how many songs and sagas? The Empress would probably grant a hyperpalace for each of them!

Yes, it'd be eminently possible, even easy!

So why does the thought fill her with revulsion? Of thoughts of an empty canteen, with no cat captain gleefully tossing back Sherman's old paint stripper formula? Of calm nights bereft of the old, precious china set and small cabinet of dried leaves? Of calm, peaceful walks around the dockyard with nobody beside her? Of...

She's not going to say "of being a thing," because what else would she be? She's a creation. A designed product. It's her destiny to be what somebody else tells her to be.

And so, when the order comes to step up, to fight on command, she shrinks. She flinches. She takes a step back.

It's not much. But it's clear immediately that if it's fight or flight, she's not fighting.