tushanshu | ( 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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[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.]

Five, sir. To the best of my knowledge.

Annie, Braun, you, and...?

[Could he collect the whole set? Five trained personnel was a respectable strike team. Miles is already plotting to himself. Someone else might think he was getting ahead of himself, but Miles is always ahead of himself.]

You know Annie and Reiner?

[That's enough to surprise Bertolt out of his proper military speech cadence. He didn't realize they'd met.]

Mm, yes, we've spoken. The other two? [he prompts. Miles is single minded like that.]

Armin and Eren. [pause] They're not going to work with Reiner, Annie, and I, though.

[Disappointing. He'd wanted the whole set.]

Why not? Opposite sides? Did someone steal someone's girl-- or boy? [He bites down on any more ridiculous suggestions.]

It's complicated.

[But opposite sides would probably a good way of putting it.]

[Clearly not going to indulge Miles's compulsive need for information. Unfortunate.]

Alright. I won't get my hopes up. Only-- ah, is this a shoot on sight sort of complicated, or an awkward dinner parties sort of complicated? [It's pretty important for him to know if his hastily commandeered troopers have preexisting mortal enemies.]

We have a truce, but they'd kill us if they had the chance.

That's only half of the equation. [Bluntly,] Would you kill them?

They're all going to die, in the end.

[He'd rather not, at least not personally, and part of the reason they're in this predicament is because Annie and Reiner didn't kill one of them when they had the chance… but if it came down to it, Bertolt would. To protect Annie and Reiner, he'd kill them all.]

As are the rest of us. Let's not hasten it along, eh? Thank you for the warning.

I'd rather not.

[Bertolt realizes that he's echoing a former comrade, and he flushes.]

I mean, no sir.

[Being called sir is a nice little bit of familiarity, he has to admit. Miles attempts not to let it go to his head.]

I'm glad we agree. My specialty is daring rescues, not Pyrrhic victories.

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wreckingbert - 2014-02-14 11:26 (UTC) - Expand

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