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[use_everything]

"Messages will be returned in order of priority."

[Text] [Audio] [Video]

Comments

[action] instead :')

[rathercommon]

[ The dilemma is that Aral Vorkosigan has already seen her, and would probably be able to identify her - and she's not scared of him, definitely not, but she doesn't want anything to come back to Miles or Gregor. And she's a known associate. So she takes a day to prepare her disguise. She buys a short-cropped blond wig from a store. She gets a chest-binder to give her a masculine silhouette. (And it both makes her life easier and also sort of irritates her, just how easy it is for her to have a masculine silhouette.) She uses make-up to reshape some of her features - gives herself thinner lips, paler skin, a lighter brow. It's a disguise which, under cursory scrutiny, will make her look like a humorless blond man in his late twenties - and she doesn't intend for there to be any more than cursory scrutiny.

Because she comes in the middle of the night, shimmying up the outside of the man's house, using her long-neglected burglar's skills to slip inside unnoticed. The man lives in government housing - she'd followed him and seen that - and so there are certainly other imPorts in this same house, and she'd sooner not have them intervene. So up through the window, silent, while the man is certain to be asleep. And - yes. A burly shape, breathing heavily.

She positions herself just far enough away that she's not in easy reach. And then she pulls out her gun (unloaded, God, absolutely unloaded - the last thing she needs is this man wanting revenge when he comes back from the dead) and cocks it. And then she speaks: her voice low, American-accented, as masculine as she can possibly make it. Hopefully loud enough to wake him up. ]

Good evening, Aral Vorkosigan.

[use_everything]

[He had been resting poorly to begin with. It was not so much the strange room. Military life inured one to, if not the concept of not owning the room one slept in, the idea that most outside of home were simply stopping points in one's day. It was the empty side of the bed that made rest elusive and fitful.

It was when he heard the first gentle, near inaudible sound at the window, he was abruptly grateful for the absence of company. Eyes closed, he kept his breathing slow and regular, mind pacing through possibilities. A long range weapon would have already been deployed. A nerve disruptor or a stunner would be too dangerous to simply charge at and strike blindly. He'd fall before he even had himself untangled from the sheets. No, this was a time for measure.

He listened, over his own rising adrenaline, to the soft whisper of steps. A petty thief, he decided, he'd simply let leave. He had no pittance here he couldn't stand to be parted with.

A simple, deep calm took him when he heard the click of the antiquated weapon being primed to fire. Ah. Here we are.

Aral Vorkosigan. ... The lack of formal address was so amazingly incongruent with what SHOULD be there ...

He lets his eyes open wide, as if startled from sleep. He had a plan forming, but the opportunity to measure the intent of an intruder who would wake him first...]

action

[rathercommon]

[ On the morning of Sunday the 28th, Aral will come downstairs to find a small gray cat curled into the corner of the couch, sleeping soundly, tail tucked around herself. Where did this cat come from? Who knows! But by God, she has clearly made herself comfortable. ]

[use_everything]

[There is a moment, bleary eyed and shuffling towards the kitchen he gives a bit of a double check, having mistaken it for a new pillow before some hind part of the brain corrects the illusion.

Some intruder that phased their way in, as cats can do, with the colder weather deeply set into De Chima or have one of the boys gotten a pet? (Is Miles allergic to the thing?)

Having had more than a little experience with barn cats, he doesn't attempt to pet the unfamiliar predator, but the rummaging in the kitchen might wake the visitor.]

text

[overemotionally]

I know we haven't talked since the occupation, but I wanted to ask you a few things about where you're from.

[use_everything]

[What comes back over text isn't exactly a direct answer.

But a painstakingly typed out address, all lower case, no punctuation.

And that's it.]

text

[failureisntachoice]

If you feel a new link, it's me. Your son swore me in as an armswoman when we ran into each other without me realizing his oaths created links too.

I spoke with Gregor about it already and we decided it's best to keep it for now so I can help keep an eye on Miles.

text

[use_everything]

[There's a delay. A long one that might mean anything from shellshock, to anger, to uncertainty.


Or perhaps, dealing with a really, really tiny keyboard.]

at your earliest convenience

[Audio]

[fullmetalbrat]

Who the fuck—

[The voice, a little uncertain beneath the layers of annoyance coating it, grows muffled for a moment, speaking to someone further from the phone's microphone. When it returns there's a distinct air of arrogant confidence and even more exasperated annoyance to it.]

Aral? I heard you had a talk with Mustang, but I want to hear what you've got to say for myself. What's your aim? Just how many of you Vor-guys are there? And why the hell are you all interested in us?

[Audio]

[use_everything]

[The bemusement, honestly, starts at the name 'Aral' and only increases as the young man continues. The man's voice on the other end of the line is deep, raspy and lightly accented with something approximating Russian. It's also very dry.]

Mr. Elric, I assume. Would you care to meet to continue your interrogation or do you prefer remote communication?

ROY REACTION CORNER

[burningbothends]

[... Ah. He had been mistaken earlier. Fullmetal hand't matured at all. Blunt as ever.]

voice

[vorbarra]

I felt I should inform you that Lucifer has sent both Miles and myself threatening messages in the wake of the surgery.

voice

[use_everything]

Indeed. The contents of his threat?

action

[failureisntachoice]

[ She hasn't been living in the house for long, but her time there has brought a welcoming batch of distractions. One of which she is setting up at the coffee table in the living room with a couple of bottles of dark beer for her and her opponent. Nothing like a strategy game to keep her mind busy, though she wonders if Aral really knows what he's getting into. ]

You sure you want to play this? With me?

[use_everything]

I assure you, I lose with grace.

[He sets out the board, a far, far simpler creature than the monstrosity in the study. The map is some replica of the borders of ancient earth, and the rules limit the armaments significantly.]

In fact, I would say it's not my wins I've ever learned from.

AUDIO

[burningbothends]

[RING RING ADMIRAL]

AUDIO

[use_everything]

Vorkosigan, speak.

text

[failureisntachoice]

Cordelia seems to be under the impression that I'm your type and I should ask you out on a date.

So. Yes or no?

text FOR ONCE

[use_everything]

[The pause before the reply really isn't atypical. Texting being Tex's favored means of communication and Aral's absolute least favorite. Though usually by now, there's a knock on their shared link or a call to reject.

Today, having choked on a sip of coffee he'd accidentally inhaled while reading the text there is that lovely distraction to deal with first.

He studied it like a general would study a map. First order, he knows damn well it wasn't Cordelia. It was complete devoid of those symbols she was favoring in each communication. So compromised communication is completely out.

Next, obviously, was analyzing the opponent's intent. It could easily be read either way... and knowing his armswoman and her guarded nature about personal statements, it was likely meant to be. If it was simply whether Cordelia was right - well that was a silly question. Or if ... she should be asking him...

Was it a bet, a curiosity or an honest inquiry?

Not enough data.

Which left his move...

He stares at the text far, far too long. There are a few attempts at a guarded, eloquent answer, but between fighting autocorrect and the absolute mess of typing in general, most of that came to utter frustration.

What ends up sending after this ridiculously long period is no paragraph, no careful inquiry as to her own feelings under the guard of Cordeli'a assumptions. No. It's just:]

yes

text, 5/15; late

[dendarii]

[ There's really no call for a text when Miles is just in his room, but ... eh. He's lazy and mildly achier than usual today, so he doesn't much feel like getting out of bed at this hour. ]

Can you draw something for me?

[use_everything]

[It takes a little while. There's the fumbling for the nightstand, a few sleepy attempts at the unlock code and finally... he rubs his face, glances at the woman still sleeping beside him and ... resigns himself to texting back.]

yes what subject

text

[dendarii]

are mother and tex dating

[Action]

[use_everything]

[The hike had taken most of the morning. While Earth's gravity was a noticeable share lighter than Barrayar's, altitude and a few months without as rigorous a workout as he got back home...

The small crystal lake they'd found in the mountain valley, halfway to the peak was an inconspicuous stopping place for one who had to contend with such needs as actually able to get exhausted.

As such, he'd watched the changing expressions on Tex's face from incredulousness to outright laughter - just before his own phone went off.

He stared at the message there for quite some time before...

Simply.

Putting it down.

Slowly. As if it might bite. Or somehow pluck his thoughts and send them without him meaning to.]

Is that what you've been laughing about?

TEXT

[heart_wrenching]

Dear Mr. Naismith. We have disobeyed you, but are not very sorry because we have Mark in the car now. I did check and he is not concussed or drugged or hurt, and wants you to know that it was Mr. I'll Lawn. Also Miles is here with us by the way. His legs aren't broken and he's not kidnapped, in case you were worried. We will be home soon. Love, Winry.

Re: TEXT

[heart_wrenching]

I'm sorry I meant to say Mr. I'll yam.

voice

[protects_the_small]

Lord Vorkosigan, I did want to inform you that I intended to keep my word as far as speaking on your behalf to my housemate, Six, but unfortunately he has-

-Gone. For quite some time. His mount and armor has vanished as well, and as best we can tell, he has returned home.

I wish you luck in your search otherwise.

text; Sept 13, afternoon

[resoundingpledge]

[ It takes her a moment to figure out how to address this. He's never really introduced himself as 'Lord Vorkosigan', and it sounded like 'Admiral' was more a slightly past thing rather than a current one. And he doesn't know that she knows he's Mark's dad, probably, so that would just be weird . . . unless Mark talked to him? But Mark didn't really want anyone to know they were talking, at first . . .

Finally, she settles simply on: ]

Mr Barista
Is it all right if people order flavoured drinks just with steamed milk instead of with coffee?

text

[use_everything]

[He's had a wide variety of names here. From the initial confusion over who he was, to titles he hadn't earned yet. To the pleasing "Mr. Naismith."

Mr. Barista was so new and so out of his associations with himself that for a long moment he would have been sure it was missent, even though such a thing was not only not possible, but unlikely, given that... well. It WAS his profession now. (What a thought.)



... The reply comes at length. Absurdly at length, as he works through the damned tiny keyboard.]

yes

During the Chilton fiasco

[unclassifiable]

[And then, several hours after Simon left the Vorkosigan residence to meet with Chilton, there's something over the mental link: a powerful, staticky burst of panicked terror coming from Simon's half of the link. ]