Balmas

Fellowship: The Heart

Well, small point of order, if he may, ma'am? You see, and he hates to bring it up but, well, he's not an Engineer. His mind hasn't been touched by a train, raw and uncensored and intolerably full of that barrage of input. He may wear the gloves and swing the wrench, but if he were to go into a roundhouse and call himself an Engineer, at best he'd be laughed out of the building.

And more's the pity, really. Mister Conagher hadn't had the words to fully explain what it's like to fully connect to an engine, though the word "overwhelming" had been involved. And at the first connection, it's almost painful? It's... Look, your brain is trying to interpret senses you didn't have thirty seconds ago, and the train is getting used to what it's like to be able to see. You have two foreign minds that are temporarily fused together and every nerve is firing at the same time and you're not sure whether you're dying or if you've ever been alive before this or whether you're seeing the moment the universe began.

It's not sight, you see. To feel the tracks under you, to shriek down the tunnel and hear the earth moan in response? You're experiencing echolocation, feeling the future of the track through your wheels, and your primitive lizard brain isn't ready for it. And that's before the train decides to reach out, to touch at the other minds in the area, incorporate their senses?

Really, donating his sight almost feels like it must be superfluous.

Sasha isn't fully formed. It's clumsy, pushy, the way the tendril of will nudges at his brain, a child's first clumsy grasps at an object. She can't just reach out and direct his eyes, show him what to look at, and she's not subtle enough to skim across the surface of a mind without it noticing--already he can see some booth barkers turning to stare at the train.

This is gonna be trouble.

Breathless Dead

"Of course, Captain."

Alexa doesn't dare look. There's the chance, yes, that Epistia is forgiving. That she'll be excited, happy even, with this assignment. It's a day out, a chance to spend time with one another! And if there's anybody who could be counted on to guard her from the predations of curious priests, it's Epistia!

She wants to hope. But the thought of what she might see--disappointment, or anger, or even simple resignation!--better to seal it away deep in a vault, where reality will not tarnish it.

Breathless Dead

Smiling isn't natural during a war council. It's especially unnatural to smile at your ward. It calls on muscles that, long-disused, have wasted away. It ignores instincts, baked in since carving and hammered in afterwards, that say that concealing your emotions is the only way to avoid being hurt.

But Alexa chooses to do so anyway. It's small, and tentative, and nervous enough that the slightest sign of disapproval will banish it like a scent on the wind, but it's there. She sees, and she hears, and she appreciates.

The smile hesitates, and then wafts away at Iskarot's words.

It's not that she hasn't thought about boarding an entire ship of Hermeticians. Indeed, she's done her level best to avoid its presence as much as possible, and the thought of spending time in an entire ship just like it has hung over her head, a constant looming disaster-in-waiting. And a master who loves nothing more than to decided, on a whim, to take the most interesting piece of a collection? It's not flattery to worry about that, surely?

"I volunteer to accompany her," she says quietly. Redana does not need her, evidently. But she bears the good graces of the Hermetician. Surely his impulses can be tempered by her presence?

Fellowship: The Heart

Really, he should be a nervous wreck.

It's not that clowns don't ride the Vermissian. Any who see the Ringmaster's wrath don't need to be taught twice. (Indeed, most don't get the chance.) Clowns are, reluctantly, welcome. Which means that, of necessity, some trains must run here, though the names of the poor unfortunates slip his mind at the moment.

Which means that Sasha needs to learn to deal with these kinds of things.

He's been a bad parent, do you know that? A bad example. They found the flood, and he ran. They found the angel, and he ran. They found King Dragon, and he ran. And these are all sensible decisions! But Sasha might get the wrong idea, might learn the wrong lesson.

And so, he ambles down the row of tents, holding Sasha's hand. This is a dangerous place, Sasha, but that's alright! Just stay close to Coleman, and we'll be fine. See, we might even do something fun--oh, you hear that? Can you hear the words the Jetcoaster is screaming? It sounds like it's enjoying itself, don't you think? Oooh, and fried pickles? Those sound amazing, wouldn't you like to try some?

Breathless Dead

"Reconnaissance does seem to be in order," Alexa murmurs, and does her best not to flinch.

This isn't her first war council. Or. Council, maybe? Yes, that has a nicer ring to it. Just here on this random planet at the same time as the Hermetics, totally harmless, no war involved.

But she can't help but flinch when people actually look at her.

She's not... Look. She understands tactics. Grand sweeping movements of armadas. Molech made sure that she understood all of it, and even if he hadn't, she's had centuries to perfect her understanding of his doctrines of war.

But she was just the background, before. Molech gave the orders, the instruction, and she was to sit behind him and make sure none of his counsellors got so ambitious they became a problem. Having someone listen to her is new.

So, to avoid the stares, she joins Dolce in his pensive contemplation of the Yakanov. At this distance, it's hard to make out the details, but she can see the plovers crawling over the massive crystal like ants across a log.

Yes, reconnaissance. Not getting shot with that would be nice.

Breathless Dead

Alexa kneels before the alter of Hera, face cool against the tiles, and tells herself, again, that this isn't a snub. She...

Well, she doesn't have that much to give. The only things that she truly, unequivocally owns are her spears, her shield, and a precious piece of parchment occupying a place of pride on Alexa's shelf.

(It took some doing to convince herself it was safe there. That it wouldn't be found, opened, abused or taken. But, well... Well. She'll open it. Soon. And maybe, just maybe, she'll be allowed to make it some friends? Some other memories to put on the shelf.)

To her left, Redana's offering sits there, as if taunting her with how much better it is than her own--simple, heartfelt, symbolically meaningful--even in hardship, the offering of someone bargaining for empire.

She does her best not to look at the plate in front of her. To Dolce's credit, this version survived the oven mostly intact, which is more than can be said of the other attempts currently smoldering in the sink. She makes a note to scrub the charcoal out of the pans after this. It's not fair that the delightful chef should clean her mess.

There are no illusions that this is an acceptable offering for the queen of the gods, of she who walks vested in wealth. But it's all she has to offer, and she just hopes it's enough to buy a small bit of protection for those she cares for. A breeze at the right moment, an eccentric that fails to charge fast enough. Just enough to make sure that everybody who leaves the ship also comes back.

Breathless Dead

"Do not--!"

Alexa bites the words in half, and forces a tight smile.

"Alexa. Alexa will do nicely. Please."

She bats a crab away, more to give her hands something to do than because it's a threat.

"I am awkward because..."

What even to say?

"Mistress, I have displayed extremely poor judgement before in choosing masters. I carried out the will of a tyrant, was his enforcer, his weapon, and did terrible things in his name."

There were no codes. She helped, sacrificed, hurt, so that she would not be sacrificed and hurt.

"And then I helped your mother, and she turned Tellus into a prison."

And again, she helped so that she would not be hurt.

"And here you are, bright, shiny, helpful, kind, caring."

Abandoned her own to pursue this. Pits herself against the might and wealth of empire in a suicidal bid for change.

"And I am waiting for the shoe to drop."

And helping isn't going to keep her from being hurt.

Breathless Dead

You can't freeze, she tells herself. Breathe normally. Keep those muscles loose. Don't twitch or stare. You're relaxed, calm. Voice steady, eyes loose. You have nothing to hide. Ignore that churning that says to tense every muscle, says to run, fawn, anything to avoid what you know is coming. Remember, if you freeze, give off the slightest hint of being nervous, it doesn't matter what you say, she'll know.

But... she already knows, doesn't she. Or at the very least, suspects. People don't ask pointed questions like that if they don't, in the back of their minds, already know the answer.

It was a nice run, wasn't it? Being able to pretend she was someone else for a change. Imagining she could escape who she was, what she was.

And the worst thing is, maybe Redana's not lying, even to herself! Maybe she really did just need someone to fly the ship for her, to help get the shuttle off the ground, to man the engines. Maybe she doesn't want or need a weapon--

But who could resist the Pallas Rex at your beck and call?

The letter burns in her pocket. This isn't right! Aphrodite himself presented her with the mandate to worship! She-- Isn't that important? Alexa might be able to do that, but the Pallas Rex cannot!

If she's going to lie, she has to do it now, and do it well. Invent some minor bureaucrat. Give them a position in Molech's court, something easy to remember, something she knows. War? No, impossible. Molech would never delegate that job to someone else. Finance? Royal architect, perhaps? Something that would let her into the inner circle of the court, let her be privy to the dirty dealings, give her motive to hate him--

In the end, it's making the mistake of looking at Redana that does her in--of meeting those wide, mismatched, caring eyes, and instantly freezing. Look away, damn you, and she's not sure which of them she's talking about. Be cruel. Be capricious. Give her a reason not to trust you!

She makes several unsuccessful attempts, breath hitching at each one, before managing to choke out, "If you ever find yourself falling from orbit... Find a way to avoid situations where you fall from orbit. I do not recommend the experience."

Fellowship: The Heart

The instant King Dragon turns away, Coleman's in action.

"Wolf! Stoke the boiler!"

"No, you can't cartwheel on top or you'll be flattened when we hit that wall!"

"Fine, Caranadir then! Doesn't matter! Grab Ailee, we're leaving!"

This crew is a mess. No wonder Mister Conagher always insisted on people doing what they're told the instant they're told, because if this is the result...

Still, it feels good to know what he's doing again. He may not know how to handle angels or kings, but charting a course is in his blood. And so long as he's giving orders and clearing the path, he can avoid thinking about it.

And the coal shall crumble, and the boilers burst, and the Primeval Engine shall wake to reclaim her gifts...

The Last Call. The one last heroic ride to take people where they needed, one last time once things had gotten too bad to do it safely. Without this station, sucking up the mishaps, it's only a matter of time. Piloting a train through the Heart is already dancing on a knife's edge, and doing so while contending with mechanical defects and unpredictable misfortions?

There's a part of him that desperately wishes to rebel against the very notion. He and Sasha have gotten so far, and now they won't even get to enjoy the full life of service they deserve? Impossible.

So it's anger that pushes him into the cabin, slams the door shut, and points Sasha-- somewhere. He doesn't even have a plan, but with King Dragon distracted and beams crumbling around them, this is the only chance they'll have to escape.

See, this station has absorbed bad luck for years, but it's never destroyed it. Any second now, centuries' worth of bad luck is going to explode from this point like water through a crumbling dam, and their only hope is to run before it, somehow dance on top of the wave, if they're to survive.

[14 on Clear a Path.]

Breathless Dead

"Redana! I do not! Hate you!"

Her voice shouldn't be this firm. She should be trembling at contradicting her, fearful of the consequences. She should be worried about the crabs, worried about keeping Redana safe. She should be angry at her for blinding her in a dangerous situation!

And as three arms lash out, sending crabs spinning, she realizes that yes, she's afraid. And angry, and worried! But the fourth arm reaches up to brace the princess tight because, well, she's also not lying.

It's an odd feeling, she decides, but also a nice one. Gently, she holds the princess tighter and experiments with a light squeeze.

"I do not," she repeats, "do not hate you. I am not waiting for you to take the command seal out to kill you. I do not want to kill you."

That's important to say. No uncertain terms, no vacillating, no weasel words. Clearcut, no room to misunderstand.

But Redana isn't talking to her, is she? Oh, she's doing all the right motions in all the right directions, but the real target is far away, on a different ship.

And now, Alexa takes the time to hold the princess securely, safely as she assembles her thoughts.

"I killed Molech, yes. But it was nothing to do with you, nothing to do with the seal or him giving me orders. He had to die because he didn't care about the people he hurt. And you, mistress, could not be less like him if you tried. You are, in many ways, the best master I have ever known. You care too much."

She's built the sentences in her mind, examined them for flaws, and pronounced them serviceable. But it's still hard to get them out. Because, yes, she's doing all the right motions in the right direction, but in reverse? Like she's trying to aim the words at that same faraway ship and bounce the echoes back in the right shapes.

"I resented you. Maybe resent you still, a little, for stealing me. I had my retirement, my peace, my life away from war and being a weapon. A quiet niche, something not too stressful to guard, plenty of time where I could not think for long periods of time.

"And you took that from me. Did not listen, simply did what you believed was right, and in so doing, tore me from my comfort. You loved people you did not know, and in so doing, doomed those closest to you. I cannot hate you for it, Mistress, because in addition to chaos, I have found wonder and friendship."

She's really pushing her luck here. She'd have been silenced before this conversation even began with a more conscientious monarch, and here she is practically telling her mistress off for her poor home life.

Might as well push it a bit further, right? She'd hate to get destroyed for only pushing it a little bit.

"But, hypothetically, if I had found chaos and nothing else? No friendship, no love, nothing but abandonment and the wrath of an empress at my failure? None of the trust I expected from somebody I thought cared for me more than some random peasants?"

She uncomfortably gives another comforting hug.

"Well, I hypothetically might be very hurt."