tushanshu | ( video )

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[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.

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[He makes a vague throaty noise that could be agreement or disagreement. Privately he agrees with her, but it seems unwise to advertise his dissent too vocally before he's grounded himself.]

It's at least short sighted, or they must be direly strained for resources. But if they are they're hiding it well. Overall I find this whole thing very odd. I've seen my share of action-- including forced recruitment-- but this doesn't fit any of the patterns I'm conversant with.

I take it you've served before?

Three years. [ She tucks her hair back. ] Recently, Military Police Brigade.

[ The way she says it without any particular inflection one way or another is as if this is just a fact to lay out there and nothing else, though she's very clearly no more than maybe fifteen or sixteen. ]

[Now this, this he knows how to handle. Miles doesn't think he's imagining that this must be a point of pride.]

Who watches the watchers? I'm familiar with that conundrum. You must be proud, to achieve that so young.

[Fishing, and fairly blatantly, but he sees no reason not to. It's nicely comforting to be dealing with military matters instead of absurd transdimensional magic or what not.]

That's what they like to say.

[ It is an esteemed position to be in, one plenty of people risked life and limb to accomplish and often died for. And it's one that she's gathered is unusual in other cultures. It was interesting how not all groups of humans were the same, but still had similarities.

Her gaze is steady on the image of him on the screen, probably too much so. ]

But that kind of sentiment is completely useless.

[That response surprises him. Barrayar doesn't allow entry to the military until seventeen, which she certainly isn't, but Miles is familiar with the kind of fervor characteristic of anyone who enters that young or younger. He'd once had it himself. Three years before whatever age she is now was entirely too young, even for his archaic militaristic mindset, but he isn't here to pass judgement. He's curious instead, despite himself.]

Is that so? Then what was the point of the achievement? It is an achievement, isn't it-- I'm not wrong?

You're not wrong. The brigade consists of the military elite.

[ She doesn't know context makes it only slightly more reasonable, if one could consider a minimum enlistment age of twelve reasonable. There's a weird pause, not quite long enough to allow interruption before she finally answers the first question without clarification: ]

The food is better.

[ It's bullshit. True bullshit, the sort that actually had motivated some people to try, but certainly not her reason. ]

[He barks one note of a startled laugh. Miles recognizes it as a common soldier's complaint, but he doesn't buy it for a minute. It might seem like there'd be a million reasons to join up, but in Miles's experience, there's only two: love and fear. Often both.]

Funny. I was ready to give up the finest food on the planet in order to serve, but they didn't want me. They never put you where you want to go, eh? But we find a way to serve all the same.

They never do.

[ Though her voice doesn't indicate her surprise, her eyes widen fractionally and then soften for just a moment. That's not a common sentiment, not in a world as bitter and fragile as the one she comes from. She doubts it would be even in a better land. ]

You have to be ready to do anything for your homeland, is that it? Not something nobility considers often.

[ It's an assumption, but one she's comfortable making. Only one kind of person was allowed the finest anything by her understanding, though they were generally soft and fat and cruel. This odd looking man seems nothing like that. ]

[Ah, she got him. Miles should be put out-- he's not altogether sure he's ready to come clean with who he really is, just yet; it seems premature if he needs a different cover identity later-- but really, he's delighted. He's always been weak to the sharp ones, and here she is, a loyal, reserved, sharp soldier. His favorite kind.

If this were home and five years ago, he'd have offered her a job in his mercenary fleet on the spot. Alas.]

Yes, [he breathes, in heartfelt understanding.] Well, not anything. There must be some limits, or what are you serving? An ideal that doesn't serve you? [Miles shakes his head briefly. It's a question he's obviously put considerable thought into before.]

But you must have the wrong kind of nobility. [Indeed, there's a fierce edge to his tone, slight but intentional. It's Vor tradition to sacrifice everything for Barrayar, and Miles is, despite subterfuge otherwise, intensely Vor.]

[ But not anything, huh? That's not the kind of talk of someone just repeating what they think they're supposed to believe. That question has kept her up at night more than once, and she nods her head faintly in acknowledgement.

Still, she's suddenly, intensely curious. ]

I didn't know there's a useful kind of nobility.

[ It's easily one of the more common complaints of the enlisted behind the baffling apparent cluelessness of officers and the food. ]

Could use more of it, maybe.

[He sees the nod. This is a very quiet girl, but not, he thinks, a witless one. There must be hidden depths, which tend to require all sorts of patience to plumb out that Miles doesn't have.

He restrains himself, sufficiently appeased with the entertainment of conversing on two levels.] They're not all useful, [he concedes instantly, without reservation.] Some of them are... are parasites on the system, leeching off of it and not giving anything in return. Not a true symbiosis, as it should be.

I've been fortunate to have some incredible examples, to hold up as ideal. [Not him, obviously, but his father.] And some don't need an accident of birth to be noble. [That is his mother to a tee.]

Mm, people that aren't parasites in some way are rare. Living off of something bigger than yourself is easy, but contributing... I doubt most do their fair share. [ There's nothing condemning about how she says it, or any indication that she thinks she's somehow exempt or above it. She's not, and is entirely aware of that fact. ] It must be more tempting for the upper classes, I think, just for the fact that they have more opportunity to let everyone under them bleed. It's strange not to.

[ That... just sort of happened. Annie doesn't speak a great deal, but once in a while, she might get a whole four sentences out.

She tucks her bangs back again. ]

And I've heard some noblemen just need an accident of death to get those opportunities, but that might just be the local custom around here.

[ Make that five. ]

The bleeding is a gruesome metaphor, unfortunately apt. And murderous ambition is not just local custom but instead, I think, universal.

[He ruminates for a moment, frowning in thought as he considers her words. Miles clearly isn't someone who dismisses anything said, no matter the source.]

Yet I have to disagree about the scarcity of... non-parasites. I'm not ready to give up on humanity so wholesale. Haven't you ever been surprised by someone? It must be a bleak existence, to expect so little from others, and moreso to feel you are held to such low standards yourself. Wouldn't you rather some did expect great things of you, instead of nothing at all? More motivating, I should think. At least if you fail you can keep trying, rather than feel it was expected.

[Miles had always put across an attitude of absolute faith in his followers and those around him, even in those rare cases where he was doubtful. He'd pushed his belief in their capabilities onto them, and to his utter lack of surprise, they'd almost uniformly lived up to-- and exceeded-- those expectations. But it's no mystery where this belief comes from, in him. His parents had, for all of his numerous defects, never expressed a shred of doubt in him. It was immense pressure and overwhelming burden, but to imagine a loss of that expectation would crush him even worse, surely. Miles needed to have something to live up to, to drive himself through those times when he thought himself capable of nothing at all.

So as he'd said, he'd learned from his parents by example, and passed that on to others, almost always to good effect.]

That sounds like... the kind of thing that fathers tell their children so they'll get back up when they buckle under.

[ Her father in particular, if never about humanity. No stranger to immense pressure, the weight of the world on her shoulders, she gets it. She gets entirely what he's saying, and it's the kind of ideal that's steeped in blood.

But no one ever told her what would happen if she couldn't to keep trying. ]

I know some people live their lives that way, but I don't have anything like that.

[ There is an implied 'anymore,' but she'd never willingly expose herself by admitting anything like that. ]

Ha. Not mine. [Miles snorts.] Whenever I fell as a child, I broke several bones, courtesy of my unique physiology. He'd have preferred if I stayed down. No, it's what I tell myself. [He is always, if nothing else, frightfully self-determined.

But he's not so self-centered as all that. He catches a note of sorrow to her, maybe fabricated in his mind, but he responds to it anyway.] Why not? [he asks reasonably.] You seem an intelligent, capable girl. Why shouldn't you expect things of yourself-- expect greatness?

[ She can't imagine a world where 'stay down' could ever be an option for someone that thinks that way, but maybe that's the point. Quirking an eyebrow at it is a fairly large gesture for her.

Still, she has an answer to the question that follows it up. ]

People like me aren't meant to be great. No, that's something only true warriors can achieve.

[ She states it like an absolute fact, like something carved deep inside her. Great doesn't mean good, either, not to her. ]

I just tried to follow my orders, but there's nothing like that in this place.

Sounds like someone's been feeding you a lot of bullshit, [he says bluntly. Miles is never shy about his opinions.] Why couldn't you be a true warrior? What's stopping you? On my planet, the prevailing traditionalist opinion was that I should've had my throat cut straight out of the uterine replicator. Muties like me aren't meant to do anything but die and stop polluting the gene pool. Yet somehow I've accomplished quite a bit more.

[Level and even as his tone is, as much fact as her own statement, Miles doesn't conceal entirely the dark satisfaction he feels at proving them wrong. It's a very personal mission, for him.

He veers the conversation back.] I could give you orders-- but, dear girl, I don't think you need them. I suspect you do just fine without. Initiative is much better than obedience. [It was one of his favorite orders to give, in fact: use your initiative.]

[ Annie stops entirely as he starts his tirade, fixing on him wholly once again. It's not the kind of focus people generally want. There's always something missing there, too flat and impassive to be quite normal. Back home, they always wrote it off as a sign that she'd seen too much in combat.

And then the almost perpetual downward curve of her lips straightens somewhat, and her focus drops slightly. ]

You talk a lot.

[There's a nearly heart-stopping moment in which she reminds him unexpectedly of Sergeant Bothari. Something in that stare... a past regret that Miles couldn't touch, couldn't comprehend, and was never revealed to him. Bothari was Miles's first real pain. He'd had a thousand surgeries at that point, to correct his bones or fix his breathing, all physically excruciating, but nothing had rivaled seeing the man who had protected him from birth, a shadow at his feet, die willingly at the hands of his former victim. Miles's fault.

Why should this girl look like that? It was unsettling, no, unnerving. For Miles, it solidified to granite his previously idle whim to take her under his wing.]

A common complaint, [he agrees breezily, accepting the topic as dropped.] Let's meet and introduce ourselves, and I'll shut up for a while, eh? If it's off console, I'll give you my full name.

[There. That should be sufficiently mysterious as to entice her into agreeing. Miles has no real reason to conceal it, anyway, except compulsive paranoid habit.]

Alright. Where?

[ She sounds distinctly unimpressed once again, but that's more a default than anything. Annie's not opposed to meeting this small, odd man. He's not a normal person, and she's always been drawn to that sort.

Whether he can appreciate the nature of her response is also up in the air, but she imagines anyone with any sense would assume carelessness in how she doesn't immediately try to assume an advantage in choosing where to meet a stranger. She hopes so.

It never hurts to disappoint. ]

[Miles has substantially more than the normal amount of paranoia, so he picks up on that immediately. She's certainly cautious and sharp enough not to do such a thing mistakenly. It seems foolish to take it as a trusting gesture, but in the absence of that, he's left wondering what kind of gesture it is. She's hard to read. He'll have to reserve judgement for now.

He'll be careful for her even if she won't be. Somewhere public, easily found. Miles already has a firm mental map of the area, but there's no sense revealing that.]

I'd say a cafe, but I'm conserving funds presently. [His crusade to get drunk was sincere, but as it takes about two drinks to get him plastered, it's not all that expensive.] The public park, southwest quadrant of Earth sector, thirty minutes?

[ It turns out to be an informative gambit. Public, not isolated, and open. This would be a clumsy trap for a girl, and disastrous if it were designed to ensnare a titan shifter. It'd be designing one's own slaughter if it were an opponent that had any inclination that she had two allies as dangerous as herself at her back if she needed them. She doesn't think it's bait, not that she'll be incautious otherwise.

In short, she appreciates his choice.

There's a faint incline of her head in a blink and you'll miss it sort of gesture, and she disconnects. Annie isn't the kind of girl that uses two words when she thinks none will do. She won't be the first person to make her presence known so easily when she gets there, however. She watches, she gets a feel for her surroundings, and she'll only approach if she feels it all looks clear. ]

[Miles is anything but clumsy when setting his traps, at least when not under duress. This isn't a trap. He feels instead a bit like he's luring out a rare bird-- a bird of prey, he amends, which makes it more exciting.

He strides into the small park at a steady clip. Miles thinks quickly, talks quickly, and walks just as fast, enough to keep up with a motivated person two feet taller than him, though he has no one accompanying him. His shortness is mitigated by a sheer aura of presence, an indomitable willpower that seems to dare anyone to dismiss him. Spine straight and confident, he suits his uniform well, an old-fashioned thing in brown and silver cut exactly to his proportions. Notably, he carries a stunner under his left arm beneath his jacket, a futuristic weapon that he's comfortable enough with not to alter his gait or posture any.

Miles breezes over to the first bench he finds in a small clearing. Perhaps he should've given more precise directions. Oh well. She'll find him eventually. He hops onto the bench and settles himself with casual unconcern, keeping occupied during the wait by dismantling the communications band at his wrist, an extremely high tech, expensive device that is utterly refusing to work. Miles is no tech, but he knows enough to give this a good poke, and he can't stand being idle. There's a restless quality to his fiddling even now.

Despite appearances, he's somewhat difficult to sneak up on, alert as he is for the approach and deeply ingrained to be perpetually on the lookout for assassins. But he's certainly playing innocent civilian well. Harmless. I'm harmless. Come here, birdie. I could really use an ally.]

[ The inexact directions make it easier on her. Though she'd likely not bother with subterfuge if asked, it's a reason to get a feel for the area. When she's satisfied and without being late, she'll approach the fidgety man openly.

When she walks, her steps are short and measured but confident. Arms at her sides, loose, posture easy and straight that projects a sense of being entirely aware of herself physically. She's not bothering to hide that she sweeps her surroundings steadily as she moves, there isn't any reason to pretend otherwise. The kind of subterfuge that she engages in isn't to seem to be harmless.

Annie Leonhart barely tops out at five feet tall, her build the kind of slender that suggests she's been poorly fed in the past and only very recently begun to eat well, and she's all lean muscle. She's dressed unremarkably in a white hooded sweatshirt, pants of the same color, and simple, serviceable leather boots. There's no bother for emblem or insignia of whatever organization she was a part of in any of this. There's a knife tucked in one boot that she's apparently not fussed to conceal with how the hilt juts out enough to make it easy to grab, but that's the apparent extent of her weaponry. Of course, there are only a handful of people here that have any idea whatsoever that the plain iron ring she wears is an indicator of just how dangerous a weapon she has available to her.

She stops just shy of two meters away from his bench, does another visual sweep that looks surprisingly casual when she's at rest, and says nothing. ]

[Disappointingly short, is his first thought. The poor girl's not got fifteen centimeters on him. Ah well, can't have everything, he supposes. The knife in its boot sheath reads as completely normal to him (by Barrayaran standards, frightfully barbaric to the rest of the galaxy) and he hops to his feet immediately upon seeing her, expression brightening. He tucks the component pieces of his wrist com into his jacket pocket without thought. There's nothing artificial in how Miles is purely happy to see her; on him, it's a nearly overwhelming amount of energy, focused in her direction.]

There you are. You'd make a fantastic bodyguard, did you know? No one would guess it, either. [That unconscious visual sweep, the flat expression... Miles has had a whole line of bodyguards and he knows their ideal characteristics. On a young girl, it's liable to be passed over as a threat, too.]

But I promised you an introduction. My full name. [Miles sweeps a dramatic, aristocratic bow, which despite his height he makes look entirely natural.] Lord Auditor Miles Naismith Vorkosigan, at your service. Just Miles will do fine. You weren't quite right that I'm nobility, but you can't be blamed, it's very close. The Vor are a military caste.

[He levels a smile on her, waiting for her exchange.]

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btw this is all retroactively encrypted. um. I forgot that part. MILES WOULDN'T BUT I DID

YES, EVERYTHING IS WHATEVER /handwaves

YES WHATEVER

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-> action;

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