dear forgiveness / we have had our differences

     His brow lifts, infinitesimally.   “A view of empty horizon,”   he says, not quite disagreeing and not quite asking. One can come to hate any view. Any place, no matter how beautiful.

     Her words are unfamiliar and manner off-putting, and he is used — or was used — to a certain amount of respect, but it’s hard to be offended when his life now mostly consists of gods making strange speeches to him. So he turns off his bitter desire to laugh and bows with surprising grace, instead.   “I cannot deny it, my lady. You catch me at a disadvantage.”

❛ YIKES. More of a glass-half-empty sort then. ❜

She appreciates his commitment to realism in the face of such abject splendour, and is enormously pleased by the bow. Finally, some bloody MANNERS. He may look like a wet paper bag but at least he's polite. Which, speaking of... 

❛ You’re right, of course, how rude of me. HELEN. —

Koschei curtsies with a grin and a wink, as if she’s letting him in on a secret. 

to do. ??? who's to say starters. open!! mutuals like this post for one or find yourself an ask meme. dm’s open to plotting still as well update. what's up!! started my new job and it's been a crazy steep learning curve so i've sort of just been sleeping and turning my brain off in the evenings? but things have settled so. back again. gonna try get drafts out tonight or tomorrow

     The crash of waves is a constant on his life, a sound that makes it difficult to hear footsteps on the sand even though he’s attuned to it, but this time he heard, and he did not react at the approach. Kalypso is the last person he wants to speak to.

     But then it isn’t Kalypso who speaks.

     He turns slowly toward the unfamiliar voice, his expression guarded. One of the other nymphs? Their faces blur together to him, but they speak to him sometimes. They’re hardly strangers. Some other god?

     Gods, in his experience, don’t like pointed questions about whether they’re gods.

     “Indeed, stranger.”   He’s wary, but there’s a spark of interest underneath. He hasn’t felt that in… far too long.   “You’ve come far out of your way.”   It’s not a far reach. Ogygia is far out of everyone’s way.

❝ Who wouldn’t for a view like this, eh?  

She sidles in closer, taking care to keep her toes clear of the surf. The sandals aren’t really her usual style, but WHEN IN ROME — or, when in Greece? Whatever. A pale, fist-sized crab scuttles its way past and she watches curiously. 

THE KETTLE IS BUGGERED.

She glares at it sullenly. Old, stained at the spout and cracked along the side where the measurements should be, it's DISGUSTING. Jiggling the power cable around doesn't seem to be helping much but short of pulling the thing apart, it's the best idea she's got.

Even worse, there's definitely someone watching from across the break room. A COLLEAGUE. Maybe she knows the knack.

to do. one starter, some theme meddling starters. open!! mutuals like this post for one or find yourself an ask meme. dm’s open to plotting still as well greetings to. @anywherexwhen!! update. got my booster yesterday so i am hopped up on paracetamol and ready to get sillllyyyyyy (by which i mean my rules page needs updating and so does the about probably). i need to do a little work first but i’ll have the tab open 

We have all the time in the world. She’s not so inebriated as to ignore the universe telling her that this is some kind of clue. She squints, all focused up, until — 

Well, she keeps squinting for awhile, head pivoting from the bouncer to the bar to the handle of liquor placed next to the complimentary peanuts. She tries to remain skeptical, unimpressed. Maybe it’ll lend credibility to the idea that she knows what the fuck is going on. 

Think about it like this. Spirit, unassuming and unimportant as she is, in the grand scheme of it all, has a damn near infinite pool of unpaid interns who can research and plot and do all sorts of tasks without Spirit having to lift a finger. However, interns are just interns. They’re only capable of so much, at the end of the day, and there’s not a soul, living or dead, who has the lived experiences or view from above to explain why the pompous alien-dressed-like-a-person at one of her favorite dive bars knows what she suspects to be mind control. 

“I know you didn’t set that up before all this, to fuck with me. I know you don’t  have something on this bar that would compel all the staff to be nice to you. I know you’re kind of just being a dick, with then bottle, and you could’ve been getting free drinks for me this whole time instead of me having a tab.” She’s scrambling, clearly, and that last little bit is more a personal feeling than some sort of psychic premonition or gossip. 

“That’s — all I’ve got.”

❛ Right. So you only know what I didn’t do. Forgive me for saying so, but that’s not terribly insightful. ❜

WINNER WINNER, CHICKEN DINNER. It’s not his fault she didn’t set stricter parameters. Gracious in his victory, he lifts the bottle and gestures it towards her with a hum. 

❛ Do you expect every random stranger you accost to supply you with drinks, regardless of their means? Nevertheless, here. GO AHEAD. You may have to live with the mystery, but at least you’ll do it with a nice malt. ❜

                ON THE BRIDGE, SPOCK FINDS things are as they should be. The bridge is sleek and clean, monitors steadily humming away as they work. An occasional beep punctuates the rhythms of the crew. His science console is smooth beneath his hands; beyond the great viewing pane streak the stars as they leap into warp. There is no reason, then, for Spock to experience a sense of burgeoning curiosity, as though something is out of place, his mind and spirit galloping ahead of his body which must remain still, still on the bridge. When the doors of the turbolift hiss open, he finds himself shifting his glance minutely, checking to see who has come. —red. Engineering. A simple communique would have sufficed.

“Has Commander Scott completed his upgrades?”

❛ Of course. All, ah — SHIP-SHAPE, as they say. ❜

Do they still say that? The smattering of human phrases that have wormed their way into her vocabulary are frustratingly without context. Not to worry though: the fact that she could pick her teeth with this guy’s ears suggest she could get away with saying something much weirder. While she can’t put her finger on an exact race, he doesn’t seem to be from one of the ones with a presence in any of the major colonies. Limited terrestrial contact, at a guess. She should be so lucky. 

“It’s a group of guys. They own a bunch of shit bars on this side of town — a nicer one, too, a few blocks downtown. I’ve never been, but one of the shit ones got named after a dead dad, in memoriam, whatever, which is such a fucking insult. Come on, ask me something hard. All these fucking — fucking —”

If she reveals how tedious it is to hear old ghosts talk about old bones and what this place used to be and every sequence of drunken nonsense that gets observers here every night, she’d be letting this game-not-game play her. 

“Whatever. Ask me something hard. Ask me something I wouldn’t know if I was some gutsy gumshoe reporter talking to — to clerks with old records at city hall.” 

Spirit is leaning forward again, precarious but impossibly eager. This is something she could actually win. And she’ll learn the name of a planet.

❛ Patience, my dear, PATIENCE. What are you in such a rush for? We have all the time in the world. ❜

He lets the smoke waft slowly from the end of his cigar into her face, watches it warp her features and oh good, the barman has finally decided to do something about it, stomping over with a scowl. “Hey pal, you can’t do that shit in here”. Why not have some fun? 

Twisting, he looks deep into the man’s eyes and in a steady cadence says, ❛ Of course I can. And you can fetch me another drink — the entire bottle, in fact — and then you will leave us alone until I call you back. ❜

With a glazed expression he does exactly that, and Koschei smiles and SMILES. 

      He has no idea who this person is,  and why they knocked before entering,  but Ianto assumed it was your typical tourist looking for information,  or someone that probably needs a bit of help.  So with his polite customer smile plastered on his lips,  Ianto started with a:  “morning.” and kept to himself until he eyed at the pamphlets the stranger flickered through.       “you know,  that pamphlet,  right that,  you should take as i definitely recommend visiting the heart of the capital;  cardiff castle.  two-thousand years old,  it is now.  beautiful scenery when it’s not pouring it down.”  He adds,  pointing to the pamphlet on the desk.  “all facts in there too,  but the romans,  nobles families.  it’s all up to date.” 

❛ Oh wow, two-thousand? Hard to imagine anything being that old, isn’t it? ❜

His SHOELACES have probably been around for longer. Funny, the things these humans are impressed by... If they only knew. That being said, if the mutterings he’s been picking up on are true, this one SHOULD know. Old habits die hard, he supposes —  or maybe the poor sod’s just a cheap guard dog, ignorant of the bounty he’s been entrusted with. Koschei picks up the brochure. 

to do. three drafts, one starter  starters. open!! mutuals like this post for one or find yourself an ask meme. dm’s open to plotting still as well greetings to. @notimminent, @reporther, @bluntache && @claraosiwald!! update. i’m done with work early! messing about with setting up a carrd but i’ll start working on drafts in a bit.