tushanshu | ( video )

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( 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.

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[A short pause.

Miles sounds doubtful, but is trying to keep his judging to himself.] You're satisfied with that?

[Bertolt has to think on that before he responds.]

Not anymore.

[He would have been, once. But that was before he realized how much humans are like him, how likeable they are, and if he'd known then what he knows now, things might have been very, very different.]

[If anything, that's a relief. Miles was starting to think this was some sort of directionless aberration to humanity. No, just someone confused.]

Ah. Started thinking for yourself, did you? Good on you.

I guess. [Bertolt's voice is gloomy.] Not that it matters. What's done is already done, and I couldn't take it back even if I wanted to.

You're all so determined to angst, you lot. [He means people in Keeliai in general; he has no way of knowing Bertolt is from the same place as Annie and Reiner.]

What about the things that aren't done yet, eh?

[It's not that Miles never angsts-- hardly-- but it doesn't usually last more than a few days at most before he's all forward momentum again. He's on or off, manic or depressive, and he resents the depressive side entirely.]

I'm not angsting; I'm being realistic. [No, Bertolt, you are totally angsting, let's not even pretend otherwise.]

[The invitation to think about what he hasn't done yet gives him pause, though.]

I suppose… it still doesn't matter. What I've done in the past affects my future too strongly.

[Even if they stopped, if they gave it up and tried to live as humans… Wall Maria still fell, and all those people still died. There's no way to fix that.]

[That makes him snort outright in skepticism.] Convenient, that. No, we have to beat the game with the hand we're dealt. It doesn't do to fold early.

[Or fold at all. If Miles has ever given up on a thing in his life, he certainly would be hard pressed to think of it. He has to be beaten into a wall to get the message, and even then... it's not a surety. He's fundamentally incapable of understanding a mindset that operates otherwise.]

I'm not folding or giving up. The mission needs to be completed, no matter what.

[No matter how hard it is. No matter how much he loses finishing it. He needs to see it through to the end, and he will, even if it destroys him and everything and everyone he loves from the inside out.]

And after the mission? That's the part no one ever thinks of. Including me.

[He shakes his head, the sympathy not insincere.]

Turns out there is life after missions. Who'da thought?

[What time is it? It's Filter O'Clock!]

I'm not coming back from my mission.

[That braces him for a second. Then Miles casually ups the filter while thinking of a response.]

Is it worth it? [he asks finally.]

[There's another pause before Bertolt answers.]

It doesn't matter if it is or not. The mission needs to be completed, no matter what.

[His own wants and needs pale before the importance of the mission.]

But you, what about you? You'll still complete the mission; that's your duty. Is your duty worth it to you? You don't need to answer me, but you need to answer yourself.

I've led men to their deaths for the sake of the mission more times than I can keep track of anymore, and I've always wondered that question. And hoped the answer was yes.

[Bertolt doesn't answer… which, really, is an answer in and of itself.]

[His voice gentles, feeling a pang of regret that he'd pushed him too far. Damn, he never knew when to quit.]

The mission isn't here, is it? You have a chance here. You should use it.

That's a nice thought.

[Almost as if what he'd done back home hadn't followed him here.]

I know a woman-- incredible, unbelievable soldier-- that keeps being told she has one year left to live. Sometimes all you have are chances.

[His admiration and intense affection for Taura is impossible to hide, though he hides better his rasping guilt and grief over her impending fate.]

Chances still don't change the past.

[He rolls his eyes, impatient.]

And what's going to change the future? How is that duty less important than our duty to the past? [Not that there isn't a duty to the past, but in Miles's mind they should be held equal.]

We're going to change the future.

[And not exactly in a good way, either, if his tone is any indication.]

Not if you're dead, you're not, [he counters cynically.] Buck up, soldier. You're breathing right now. What more do you want?

… never mind.

[There's no point in arguing about this, only Reiner and Annie understand what he means. The harsh, military tone in Mile's voice gets to him, though, and he takes a deep breath. When he responds, his voice is more measured and firm than it had been before.]

Yes, sir.

[Ha, got him to jump, didn't he? Miles isn't under any illusions that he can really change one stranger's opinion on his life (though that's never stopped him from trying). Sometimes getting someone to move forward is all you can do.

You just go on, echoes in his head.]

What's your name? [Miles, meanwhile, isn't protesting the sir.] Miles Naismith.

Bertolt Hoover, 104th Trainee Squad, recently Survey Corps.

[Even more recently, disgraced exile fleeing for his life with his best friend and two hostages of fortune, but he sees no reason to tell Miles that.]

Another one of you? Just how many of you are there around here?

[Miles looks a little disproportionately interested in the answer.]

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