Balmas

Breathless Dead

Alexa fiddles with the paper in her hands before answering. "It is difficult to answer that question, as I have not yet been dead and thus lack the proper comparison."

She immediately regrets the attempt at the joke. Sure, remind the girl that her entire life's been a life. Somebody smite her and get her out of this!

"That is to say," she continues hurriedly, "I am not sure that I am alive, either? I recognize that there was a time when I did not exist, there will be a time when I no longer exist, and that I am conscious right now. But I was not born and the end of my existence will be less a death than a deconstruction. Does a tool, scrapped for parts, die?"

It's cold and logical. It's what she was told her whole life--she was created for a purpose, and when that purpose is fulfilled, then what use in her continued existence? And yet, it feels like a lie, staining her lips with its passage.

"I do not..." She falters, eyes on the floor again. "I do not know, Isty." She's scared to know. "But if this is the afterlife, there is much that we must revise in the rituals of Hades."

Breathless Dead

Alexa nods, completely serious and also to keep the dismay off her face. Poor girl just lost her mother. She remembers how lost she was when Molech died. Of course Isty doesn't want to be reminded of her post.

"Isty, then."

And she relaxes. It's an order, so she does it.

And as somebody relaxing with a friend, Lords above, Isty's cute. There's a part of her that wants to trace those scars and ask for the stories behind them. Did they happen before, after, or during the battle against the Eater of Worlds? How does she feel about them--are they marks of pride, honor, regret? Are they warnings of too-close encounters with Hades, or simply the nicks picked up in sparring?

Maybe Vasilia could help her curate a few drinks which are neither too toxic nor too intoxicating for a night of stories.

Carefully--but not so carefully that she's no longer relaxing--she picks up the paper and unfolds it. "If I may be so bold as to ask a question of you, to what purpose the distraction? Do you often need to... redirect the brainsquids?"

Breathless Dead

A thousand synapses fire, and every one of them is screaming in panic.

A princess is! Is kneeling! Kneeling in front of her, oh Hera and Aphrodite this isn't how it's supposed to go, this isn't how it happened in the books! Quick! What does she remember about the Ceronians, she had to have served with some, what did they do, unless oh fuck they've been on their own for so long would that have changed the forms aaaaaaaaagh--Kneel! Kneel back! That's gotta be the right answer!

And it's only the strictly enforced discipline of Molech that keeps the descent from being more gangly than it is. She must be perfect. Must be graceful.

"A thousand pardons," she intones, eyes carefully fixed on the floor. "I did not hear you approach. and lack the knowledge of your customs. May I have the honor of knowing in which manner to address you?"

Fellowship: The Heart

"Mmmm." Coleman sighs and looks out over the horizon of endless sand. "Yeah, me too. Me too."

It is not the companionable silence of two friends enjoying company, but a quietness brought on by too much internal movement to bother with talking. Paper ruffles as Coleman flips through the drawings, considering and looking back and forth between Sasha and Ailee.

How long has it been before he breaks the silence? Is anyone wearing a watch?

Either way, he finally reaches a decision and nods to himself. "How would you like to learn more about Sasha?"

The question is, like most things about Coleman, fairly blunt, but Coleman lets it hang in the air before going further. "I'm not sayin' that what you did's okay, right? Lotta trust to rebuild there. But you didn't know, and Sasha isn't fussin' like she would if someone she didn't trust got in there. And to be frank, some of these drawing's are fantastic.

"So, the way I see it--and I'll die before I ever say this again, so listen close--is that there are worse role models for godhood than you. And it'd be useful to have someone else understands Sasha, in case something happens. So I figure, so long as I'm around to supervise, maybe you'd like to learn some more?"

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?"