( video )
[A man appears on the network of indeterminate age, extremely short-- under five feet tall, easily-- with a slight hunch to his posture and Germanic features. His eyes are sharply alive, bright with challenge. There's no hesitation as he speaks, in a gravelly kind of accent that sounds almost Russian, the words flowing quickly as he makes them up on the spot.
Right now, he desperately needs intel of all kinds, and eventually a spotter to watch him while he uses his seizure inducer. That fact he's assiduously ignoring. He'd checked his neurotransmitter levels this morning, and he has at least three days, even with all the stress of arrival. No, four days, probably. Five. Really, he can go a lot longer without one than the ImpSec medical staff had given him credit for. --Focus, Vorkosigan.]
So. I see you all have quite a neat set up here. Let's not waste time. Who can bring me up to speed, ex tempore? Surely we have more intelligence than "don't say its name" on our bogey man. Since confirmed facts are likely to be scarce, personal accounts would be acceptable.
I'm also taking proposals for getting miserably drunk at the bar, as is traditional in times of drawn out peril. I need someone to drag me home, y'see; alcohol has quite a soporific effect on my constitution. [And Ivan is unfortunately not here to do the dragging. Miles ignores the resulting pang that inspires in him.
Then he hesitates imperceptibly, the memory of his previous catastrophic failure to report his seizures clanging loudly through his brain. No. He can't ignore this, much as he'd like to. The only thing that scares Miles more than never going home is turning into a vegetable, mindless and drooling. He can at least do the preliminary investigation about options.]
Information about local medical facilities would be appreciated as well. They're not all-- er, at this level of technology, are they? [He looks dubious about anyone surviving on that level of medical care, but immediately recovers with a wide, convincing smile.] I'd just like to know preemptively for when I wake up with a skull splitting headache.
Right now, he desperately needs intel of all kinds, and eventually a spotter to watch him while he uses his seizure inducer. That fact he's assiduously ignoring. He'd checked his neurotransmitter levels this morning, and he has at least three days, even with all the stress of arrival. No, four days, probably. Five. Really, he can go a lot longer without one than the ImpSec medical staff had given him credit for. --Focus, Vorkosigan.]
So. I see you all have quite a neat set up here. Let's not waste time. Who can bring me up to speed, ex tempore? Surely we have more intelligence than "don't say its name" on our bogey man. Since confirmed facts are likely to be scarce, personal accounts would be acceptable.
I'm also taking proposals for getting miserably drunk at the bar, as is traditional in times of drawn out peril. I need someone to drag me home, y'see; alcohol has quite a soporific effect on my constitution. [And Ivan is unfortunately not here to do the dragging. Miles ignores the resulting pang that inspires in him.
Then he hesitates imperceptibly, the memory of his previous catastrophic failure to report his seizures clanging loudly through his brain. No. He can't ignore this, much as he'd like to. The only thing that scares Miles more than never going home is turning into a vegetable, mindless and drooling. He can at least do the preliminary investigation about options.]
Information about local medical facilities would be appreciated as well. They're not all-- er, at this level of technology, are they? [He looks dubious about anyone surviving on that level of medical care, but immediately recovers with a wide, convincing smile.] I'd just like to know preemptively for when I wake up with a skull splitting headache.
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Entirely all right-- that's really the wiser course. I've had several recommendations already, both for the drinking and the recovery. I should eventually settle into my abject wallowing without issue. [Despite the words, Miles seems almost chipper at this precise moment. He has a goal and he's learning useful things; he's sure it'll be a while before he runs out of that to distract himself with, and he'll have to face suitably depressing reality.]
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[She then snorts softly in amusement and appreciation at his bluntness.] Glad being in the land between life,dreaming, and death hasn't caused you to go off your proper wallowing schedule.
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Oh no, this isn't proper wallowing, but it will have to do. If there's another way to cope with being abruptly forcibly removed from my duties and-- and my entire planet, no, nexus, I'm unaware of it. [There's a hint of brittleness to him at last, revealing that Miles is taking this much harder than he's projecting, but he has it concealed to not more than that hint.]
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[Clara's grin slips from her face at that. She knows the feeling of bitterness at being torn from life and trapped her. It's been longer than six months for her and some days it takes it's toll. She tries not to wallow, she tends to ignore her darker feelings for better or worse, but sometimes it does sound nice.] Haven't found any either. Other than just picking up jobs and trying to keep busy.
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[Yes, he already has appointments-- he's not kidding about not wasting time.
Immediately he regrets making her lose her smile. Sassy, cautious women shouldn't be brought down by him being a sad sack, and he reorients the conversation on her cue.] And what is the job market like here? I've been told I must be employed, which certainly I have no objection to, but my skill set is... ah... not ideal for civilian life.
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[She sighs softly and leans back as she thinks about his questions.] As you heard, plenty of jobs are needed but they're never the ones you want or the ones you've spent your entire life training for. Most of them lean towards the extremely mundane, I'm afraid.
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[Including this one, actually.] I'm wasted in mundane positions, [he protests with the tone of a long-suffering complaint.] I thought I'd finally been promoted past that. [He sighs.] As long as it's not weatherman, I suppose.
[There's definitely a story there.]
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[She agrees quietly before nodding at his move to end the conversation.]
No weathermen in Keeliai as far as I know. Keeps us guessing.
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