En prise

Their smile melts away like sugar on a pan. Jax expected mutual recognition and at least a degree of delight at their reunion, not this. They panic for several seconds, agonizing over the possibility that this might be her way of subtly telling them to fuck off because who do they think they are, acting all friendly despite having barely kept in contact, really, friendships take effort, it's all their fault―

No. The Milka they know is not so callous as to intentionally hurt them like this. Of this they are certain. They remember her as whip-smart and strong-willed with a sharp, intimidating gaze, coaxing them into a game of chess, eyes swimming in muted mirth. Never cruel. There has to be another reason for her odd reaction, behaving like ― like she's speaking to a complete stranger.

Apprehension from her is alien; directed toward them, it feels upsetting.

"I just.... I wanted to say hi," they respond, growing more flustered, floundering along the knee-jerk tendency to apologize in some way. (They don't think they've changed that much from their high school days. Is that it, though? Is that the reason?) "I-I know we haven't actually talked in ages, but I ― I've missed you, and I definitely should've.... tried harder to stay in touch, and―"

She's always been told that there is something about her, shrap and jagged, (how could you be this cruel – a letter she had ripped to pieces, from a friend lost to the mercy of her mind. Horrid child – her mother, attempting to reconcile with her daughter's callous words), and the stranger only seems to prove that point:

They recoil like one does from a blade.

In any other circumstance, Mileva might feel a sick sense of satisfaction. A survival instinct – harm, push, frighten before anyone can do the same to you. Alternatively – harm, push, frighten, so no one may know you, so they can stay away, far from your heart where you would forget them, eventually.

That's where the stranger aims with their fluster, at the center of the organ, constricting it so it pushes a familiar sense of dread to her limbs. (Don't panic, she tells herself. This doesn't mean anything. Just saying they know you doesn't make it true. Everything is fine.)

Stepping forward, her gaze, scrutinizing, follows the lines of their face. She is searching, reaching for any sort of familiarity. In the tone of their voice, in the way they recede into themself and yet continue talking, and talking and – nothing.

"Jax. Right."

Vaguely, she thinks she might have uttered their name before, but it's nothing concrete.

"Girlbossed," she repeats, each syllable coloured with amusement. The world, she imagines, is spinning faster under JJ's feet than it is under hers and god, does she envy him. The night had been a drag, a burning sensation in her lungs, nicotine eating away at her – she was sick of it. So she tilts her head to them, her coworker, a mind alike in interest. An ally amongst conspirators. "Well, their loss if they do. We're delightful." There, at the precipice of a debate, Mileva could counter their statement – go on a tangent of how the ais did replace people, how the line between person and machine had become blurred (and she would know, from the example of her mother, that those who refuse to step over it are doomed, left forgotten and rotting) and how concerning it is. She could, but then again, her gaze flits to the champagne – their world is spinning faster. "You know, there's this poet, Bauder… something, that said we must always be drunk," on wine, poetry, or virtue, whatever.

there’s two things one should know about zayid. 

one—he doesn’t like gatherings like tonight’s, mostly on account of his own upbringing. two—he often runs out of luck in moments when he needs it most, as evidenced by the champagne spilled on his jacket and the narrow-shouldered woman he nearly knocked over in an attempt to rush to the bathroom to avoid smelling of alcohol for the rest of the evening. the horrified expression on his face lasts only briefly and is quickly replaced by a more apologetic frown when he stops dead in his tracks. his first instinct is wanting to help but the awkwardness of the entire situation has him pausing in his movements. 

what do you even say in a situation like this? sorry, i didn’t see you there, i promise i didn’t intend to run you over? zayid inwardly grimaces at how these all sound like excuses made by a schoolboy before he finally decides to do more than gawk like he didn’t just nearly knock the stranger off her feet—and not in a good way. 

lord help him, he should stop finding ways to crack jokes in moments like these. 

“i’m so sorry—are you alright?”

― Virginia Woolf, A Writer's Diary

Jax squares their shoulders as they step outside, preparing to be assaulted by freezing gusts of January wind; instead, the air is unnaturally toasty and pleasant against their cheeks. They tentatively probe around with their powers, mostly to give themself something to do, idly wondering if there's some sort of device installed nearby for temperature adjustment―and sure enough, there it is, a tiny rectangular piece of equipment attached to the very bottom of the sliding doors. The system lies pliant under their control, blinking, ready to be overridden. They let it go.

With the kind of technology to distill power into a few drops of liquid, warming up a pocket of air would be child's play. A flick of the wrist. Mulling over Buchanan's announcement from earlier, their gaze turns to the guests dancing inside, half-heartedly zoning out. The rattle of the balcony door opening startles them out of reverie, and the newcomer is ―

They do a double take; her face is unmistakable, hasn't changed a bit.

"Hi," they exhale after a long beat of stunned silence, dumbfounded at the coincidence. The two of them haven't actually talked to or, well, seen each other in a while, just a name on a screen and a handful of messages exchanged. Jax cannot help but belatedly regret having said anything at all. But the moment is brief, because Milka is ― an old friend, one of their dearest, and the idea of not uttering a word to her pains them even more than potential awkwardness. "I-I mean―I didn't know you'd be here. I would've said something." Obviously. (How exactly did they fall out of touch, again?)

thanks to our brilliant minds at kronos. it echoes in her mind as she catches sight of mileva in a hallway, the walls lined with sculptures from centuries past. she wonders what those makers would think of them now, if they would receive applause for playing god or scorn for flying too close to the sun. 

“milka,” odessa calls, quick strides taking her to her friend. sometimes, she can’t tell what mileva’s thinking, the whirring gears in her brain hidden behind a shuttered expression. ( it makes for a horribly difficult chess game—not that odessa’s ever actually won against her. came close, though. ) “you worked on this, right? tell me it’s not gonna blow up in our faces.”