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Voice Testing Post

Canon

A.

[You may find yourself facing large, heavy gates. Behind the bars, you can easily see the enormous, austere residence spread both tall and wide against a backdrop of a lake, stables and a small, private cemetery. The unbridled horse grazing, unhitched beside a carriage, by a liveried servant is in direct opposition to an obviously futuristic lightflier not far from it.

Even the guard that narrows to nervous attention holds both a sword and a strange, small device.]

And you are?

[The voice comes from behind.

Aral, for his part, neither looks, nor feels the part of the lord. Having taken the long way, treacherous and unmonitored paths and foothills back to the residence, he smells of sap, a chemical tinge of smoke and the exertion it took to get back. His green dress uniform had survived in all but the pressed edges, looking as if he'd intended the slight look of disarray and set jaw.

He lifts a hand, stilling the guard from comment on him, and focuses all of his attention on this newcomer.]

B.

[The Counts and Minsters poured out of the building first. The debates of the evening being traded in words so sharp that they might as well have been blows. Aral followed much more sedately, having taken a bit of time to brief his intelligence officer and leave orders for the evening.

It's by chance he stumbled across a stranger, enough out of place to inspire both caution and curiosity in equal measures.]

You seem lost.

Mask or Menace

C.

[It helped to liken the city to a space station. It had the bustle of a large hub.. the rowdy clash and wild fusion of fashions and cultures that defied any easy identification of a trend or perhaps some anthropological hint as to the people - and species... intelligent and alien, the very thought sent his mind into fits of fantasy and planning at once. It was like water, as far as he could tell. Formless, impossible to grip, but could fill the air around you and sweep one far away should he let it. There were colors and layers fitting the ghem Cetagandan... lack of modesty known to the Betans... the maliable gathering of anything adorned by a Jacksonian mindset...

And yet, nothing that fit anything else.

There was only one way to begin. Diplomatically.]

Might I ask a question?

OTHER

[Pick your poison, or let me know and I'll cater a starter to you.]

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[ It's a rather dreary morning here at De Chima #7. Rainy and wet, just warm enough not to be snow but hardly conducive to going outside. Miles, certainly, has no intentions of moving from his spot on the couch. He and Gregor had gone through quite a wide range of power testing last night, with the result this morning being something Miles can only think of as a nanite hangover. A pounding headache, surpassed only by the dull lead burn in his bones. He's not sure if adjusting his size exacerbates the strain or if the relief of being smaller makes him feel it all the worse. Some combination of the two.

Gregor had insisted on taking on Miles' pain; Miles had insisted on shuttering Gregor out until the painkillers can kick in. They had reached the compromise of Miles being permitted to close the link the most of the way, but Gregor going out to buy groceries and other necessaries in the abysmal weather. Miles can only hope, fervently, that his Emperor doesn't come back with a cold as a result.

(There is something else in the back of his head too. A strange pulse - a new strand. He chalks it up to the powers experimentation doing something to his telepathy with Gregor, much the same way his excursion to the bottom of Gregor's soul added a new twist to their link. If it frets him too much he'll have Charles look at it. For now, he carefully shutters his exposure to that as well, much like the rest of his link.)

Now that he's taken the first set of painkillers, the only thing to do is wait until they start making a dent in his headache. He sifts through a pile of 2-D holovid disks - no, movies - the most urgent thing on his mind being whether he should watch Blade Runner or Alien first. ]

[ She looks over the same things that he's seeing, one hand raised to shield her eyes from the bright sun beating down on them—too much time on Barrayar already? she asks herself, have you gotten used to those dreary, dim days that never happened on Beta Colony? But she's seeing the different flavors and clashes of culture around her, some seemingly familiar and others excitingly foreign. Even covered by shade as they are, it's easy to discern her excitement from the look in her eyes. The smile she's wearing also helps.

Unfortunately, Aral can't see either of those until she leans in from behind his left shoulder to mock-whisper in his ear: ]

Only one question?

[There any number of factors that might slow a man's reflexes down. Being in the safety of one's own home, under the influence of a headache and sequentially, its panacea. A key in the lock is a familiar sound.. but the timing is too early.

The steps too heavy to be Gregor's.

The hands that clamp firmly, like iron - are definitely not of a friend. Or even human.]

[He whirls, at first, from the hapless native he'd stopped. Taken off balance by a presence so familiar, so accepted by him that she slid into his guard without it even lifting the hairs on the back of his neck.

Alarm and surprise, clear on his face as the cool, cloudless winter sky, both step aside, making way for the procession of relief and joy in their equal measure. No thought of selfishness, nor in sparing her. This whole foreign, confusing and slightly menacing world seemed trivial or, at the least, less indomitable than it had a moment before.]

My dear Captain, [He resists the urge to simply sweep her up, off of her feet, and settles for taking her hand, a deep bow over it.] You, alone, are a necessary answer.

[ There is also the fact that Miles just hasn't made any enemies here - that any truly dangerous and also unknown parties would surely make themselves known to Gregor first. He's let himself grow so lax in just a month ...

He wasn't expecting Gregor back so soon, though. Turning back on the couch, he opens his mouth in puzzlement. ]

Did you forget something? The umbrella should be --

[ All the breath goes out of him. That's not Gregor. That's - not even human. Hands close around his shoulders like a vise before he even has a chance to get up from the couch. Shit. He considers his surroundings wildly - finds the belt with his dagger sheath on it within reach, and immediately snatches it up. ]

-- Who the hell are you?

[ Her grin widens as he bows in front of her, gripping his hand probably with more force than is strictly necessary. It'd been a risk sneaking up on him like that, knowing full-well how badly he could have reacted, but getting this reaction was well worth it.

When he straightens up, it's all she can do not to step in close and kiss him in full view of everyone there, the cautious excitement of being in this new, strange place already making her a bit giddy. She makes herself settle with merely reaching out with her free hand, curling it around the side and back of his neck, her small and ring finger sliding down past his collar. Her eyes and hand are hungry for him, deeply familiar in this unfamiliar place. ]

Though I alone can't answer any other questions we both might have here.

[From behind Miles, view obscured by the faceless, too-smooth facsimile of a man, the door closes, and a loud bang can be heard from it. It was as simple of an act as driving a wedge under the door with the hard slam of a booted foot.

Aral regards struggling form. The name he'd caught on chance, browsing through the newly offered network: "Miles Naismith." A laughable title of Admiral appended to a man long since deceased but in his wife's memories and quieter moments.

That would not have been enough if he hadn't seen the conversations, following with increasing ire the claims of the barbaric practice from Jackson's Whole attributed to him.. and enough resemblance to honestly make him wonder. The slander and honest, rolling hatred that came from that odd, not quite familiar face.

He'd simply intended to drag him, bodily, to the local law, lay his charges and see him stripped of power, deception and authority.

But then he saw that flash of gems and steel... Even in the brief moment, he could call its identity. A predatory confusion stretched itself out into a boiling, terrible rage. He stalked forward, using this new ability this world had bestowed to seal a knot on this impersonator's skills, binding them down to nothing as he caught the armed hand and divested it, summarily of the family heirloom.

He made no comment, circling the couch, merely slammed the blade to bury itself almost to the hilt in the coffee table in front of Miles.

With deceptive, sedate speed, he moved a chair to the other side of the table, the dagger - fine, masterfully forged steel still quivering from the forces exerted on it - between them. He found his own seat across from the other man, and waited.]

Miles Naismith, is it?

[ His connection to Gregor dies with barely a gasp. (And the roiling rage too - did he imagine it? Maybe. There are other, more important things to be alarmed by). If he had used his powers at the first split second of danger, he might have managed to teleport out of the construct's hands. But it's too late now. Flinging himself against that particular facet of his mind results only in a winding bruise instead. He's stuck, held captive by ...

Da?

Miles eyes widen. Relief, at first, only to be drowned out by much more permanent terror. There's something wrong with this picture. He's never seen his father without a touch of gray at his temples, for starters. But that's a mere physical detail in the face of the rage he sees in his father's eyes. He's rarely ever seen that emotion at all, even directed at others (in his presence); to have himself on the other end of it is a level of hell he'd never considered.

He understands, instantly, certain aspects of his father's reputation that had never quite crystallized before. It seems to knock all the air from his lungs, all the thought from his head. What the hell does he do? Does his father not recognize him? Does he try to keep their cover now?

Retreat, goddammit, retreat. I need Gregor - I can't win on this battlefield -

He shifts instantly from open-mouthed staring to desperate struggling. Throwing all his strength against those damn iron hands, until he can feel something in his shoulders give way. A cry of pain escapes him; it doesn't slow him down in the slightest. ]

A storm of those, isn't there? No, though I imagine we can see to the basics. How? Why? Something of my favorites.

[There is a temptation to close his eyes and lean into in such a touch, and in private, he surely would have. He lifted his hand, covering hers, and catching it there for a moment, as if she could vanish as quickly as she'd reappeared at his side.]

You've been well treated.

[The lift of his voice at the end just barely makes it a question.]

Where is another practical one, though I doubt we'd understand that particular answer without more context.

[ She continues to smile at him, though it dims slightly now, catching his tone and the bigger meaning behind it. ]

As well treated as I could claim to be with being dumped to a unknown place with only a paper brochure—real paper!—to give me any clues as to why. At least finding you made up for that.

[ The hand in his gently withdraws in order to reach for the said brochure, stuffed in her pocket after being carefully folded. ]

[His gaze only dropped to the shoulder at that, but his face remained impassive, nothing betrayed by it.

The hysteria itself was damning in Aral's eyes. There was no mark of a fight, no bitter words, or confusion that might have given him a pause. Instead this worked into his measure and added it's own grains of mystery to the boy's identity. The Betan accent was legitimate to his ears, but the dagger... a lesser blade, a simple, cheap forgery wouldn't have held to this abuse. Some part of him despaired over the reality of it.

Was he given it? His mind simply stuttered over the idea that his father would be complicit in any scenario this man claimed, or any of the others his mind could conceive of. In the aftermath of his first relationship that twenty years ago - by the looks of the boy, the same age - did it seem so unlikely he'd father an heir?

Impossible. His father was driven by passion, not madness. Even at his very worst.]

Be still.

[It was sharp, carrying the force of a commanding officer who demanded obedience. Before his prisoner killed himself on his own restraints.]

[ Military instincts struggled with Miles' natural inclination to do just the opposite of whatever he was being told to do. A command from his father ... It won out in the end, but only after something cracked painfully in his other shoulder. The construct's grip never wavered for a moment. This wasn't Bothari, to be defeated by Miles breaking all his bones until his bodyguard let go. Clearly this - this vision of his father had no compunction against Miles breaking every bone in his body.

He considered, briefly, breaking his own neck. The nanites would revive him, but he could just as easily wake up in this man's hands again, with the added bonus of terrifying Gregor - or worse, spurring him on to something stupid. No. Bad strategy.

Slowly, his struggles slowed to a halt. Any escape had to be mental. Convincing his father of ... of something he hasn't even figured out yet. ]

How'd you find me?

[ The words came out as a croak. Dig fast, dig hard, at least figure out what the fuck his goalposts were supposed to be. ]

Oh - sure.

[ Kitty's eyebrows draw down just a bit. Usually, when she hears that question, she answers it with a ready cheerful smile - but there's something about this man's accent that sounds...Well. Familiar. It's not Russian, to be sure. It's just a little off from that. So why does it seem so familiar?

Still, after that first frown, she does compose her face into a smile. ]

Ask away. I should be able to help you.

I don't think they find trees a scarcity here, either.

[Aral murmurs, amusement light in his eyes. The ocean hadn't been far from here, visible in the ride out to the city from the base. It had been a mere observation before, but now, certainly, it was a plan to take her there.

He lets his own hand rest back at his side, tracing where he'd placed his own, brochure and file.]

There's some interesting claims of ... magic, I suppose. [It's bemused.]

Hush you, I still find it extravagant.

[ But she gives a soft snort, looking over the paper(!!) as she does. ]

Magic, they say. I'd like to know how they can claim all this though ...

[ Her eyes pause on the part where it lists out her powers though, somehow missing it before. Her other hand withdraws from his neck to hold the paper with both hands as she now looks it over in more detail, her eyebrows drawing together to frown at the items she mistakenly skipped. ]

Edited 2016-01-16 20:37 (UTC)

You weren't subtle.

[The grin Aral gives this impersonator is more of a baring of teeth than any sign of mirth. There clearly wasn't enough force for that shoulder to have gone. His eyes narrowed, slightly. The defective clone story held weight - but the boy's eyes bothered him, somehow.

There were too many questions. He'd kill for a hypospray full of fastpenta, this weird magic be damned.]

If you are telling the truth about your origins and identity, [There's no question in his face, no dimming of that terrible anger. His voice remained low, difficult to hear even in the silence of the empty townhouse. He didn't have to express the doubt he felt about the honesty of this cover story.] I'd let you pick the weapon of the revenge you crave yourself.

But by my word as a Vor, whatever stories you've heard of me, I've allowed no such atrocity upon my honor.

[ Clearly the thought of revenge was abhorrent. Miles' face twisted in horror - perhaps cowardice, to an outside perspective. Why the hell was his father blabbering about revenge? When had Miles ever dragged his father into this? He'd been so careful to keep the tarring to his own name only, the twisted Lord Vorkosigan -

Oh. Oh. It all hit him at once. A lead weight nearly crushing him in an instant. The next set of words came out in a hushed whisper. ]

You're Lord Vorkosigan.

[ His father was younger than Miles had ever seen him. And Miles himself had only been lord for a few short years. Of course that would be his father's title. He'd never even dreamed of this possibility ... ]

Sure thing.

[Yuri gives him a quick, assessing look and waits, head lightly tilted.

Even in such a diverse crowd, Yuri probably stands out a little despite having swapped to native clothing: On the tall side, long-haired which was obviously not much in fashion with the men on this planet, and, of course, carrying a sheathed sword in his gloved hand.]

[It could be how very different this man in dress greens is from the solemn soul she'd been hearing that not quite Russian from. Sharp, grey eyes regarded her keenly, a spark of curiosity at the change of expression.]

I had not meant to trouble you, so I will make it brief. Should you know of any place one might begin some unbiased research?

[The propaganda was not something subtle, posters, 2-D holovid newscasts in the stores he'd passed - even if he hadn't been looking for it. The mere thought of a planet composed of vulnerable, factioned countries was odd enough. It seemed a reasonable place to get his bearings.]

[The man before him is stocky, wearing pressed military greens as if they were born to them. He stood at parade rest, finding it a comfortable default in this truly foreign world.

His own evaluation produced a satisfactory result. The younger man held the balance of a warrior, not merely a noble carrying a sword. Another imPort was likely to be as close to a mutual perspective as one could find in such a diverse crowd.]

You seem one to ask of the military state of this world if I am not mistaken.

By no technology I know. Though I'm sure there's some rumor about the Beta Colony - there always is.

[He frowned, an echo to the change of her expression.]

An issue?

None other.

[He lets his eyes drift back to his father's dagger, then back up to Miles, pointedly.]

Which leaves one person in the room without a proper introduction.

[ She says nothing in response, just holds the paper closer for him to see the powers listed there, letting it give an answer for her: Nerve Disruption and Power Reflection Field. ]

I'm your son. My - my grandfather gave me that.

[ He blurts the words out, half hysterical. How does he even begin to explain what must be going on here? Does his father even know he has a son at all? He's so young ... ]

[Military type, huh... Yuri was never a fan of guys in uniform, for good reason, but he could give the guy the benefit of the doubt. Most soldiers weren't all that bad, just a little too attached to following orders. He wondered if this guy fell into that category.]

That depends. I've been asking around, but I'm not exactly from here. What do you want to know?

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