use_everything | Voice Testing Post

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.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[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. ]

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 ... ]

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.

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 ... ]

[Aral's brows drew together, expression faltering to blatant confusion. Pieces slid into place, finding purchase and clearing the contradictions and edges that didn't make sense. Why mention Bothari as a guardian? If he'd merely needed the credibility of the house, there were 19 other names that were not so heavily influenced by the man's reputation. Why attribute a clone to the phobic Barrayarans?

And the dagger...

Each took their turn and got rejected by the simple last memory he had of Miles Vorkosigan... a baby so tiny, so fragile, being carried away for the first of what was going to be a lifetime of terrible odds and endless medical procedures for.....

He didn't answer, searching that face. Those eyes, they were Cordelia's... clouded by hysteria and pain, or was it just his guilty imagination. His eyes fell on Miles' shoulders, lingering on each, a moment of raw uncertainty clear.]

Edited 2016-01-16 21:33 (UTC)

[ That uncertainty ... His own father doesn't believe him. His own father is looking him at him, at the dark bruises already purpling up the side of his neck, and finding him wanting. That is a nerve disruptor directly to the heart, worse than the guard clutching his shoulders and the implied threat of the knife in his table. He'd be better off gutted with that knife than he would be facing down even a second more of it.

His gaze falls after a moment as he fishes for something, anything that might possibly convince him. He has no golden sacrifice to lay at his father's clay feet. Nothing that could prove his worth. He still doesn't know if this Aral even has a son at all, if he's even met Cordelia. Hell. What can he even say? ]

My room is in the east wing back home. The one with the smallest windows. You replaced them all with force screens, after Vorhalas.

[ Soltoxin poisoning - and the antidote. He lifts his gaze back up again, begging his father to recognize the reference. ]

Edited 2016-01-16 21:41 (UTC)

[His heart lurched as surely as if it alone had dropped into zero-g without the rest of him. Cotton mouthed, he struggled to swallow, the last piece settling in a way that couldn't be denied or argued with. There's no way an outworlder could know. Some information couldn't be bought, wouldn't be sold even by some of his most dire enemies and the correlation was clear, pointed.

He stood, color draining from his face, and made a sharp, dismissive gesture. The iron guard holding Miles prisoner is gone as immediately as the blocks hampering his power.]

Miles...

[His voice is rough, hoarse enough that the single syllable breaks.

The emotions, unwittingly loosed as a flood were even starker. Blazing for their intensity, mercurial. There's confusion... but the sort of aching relief that comes from a muscle too long tense. A flicker of joy, pure and white, a crackle of wonder in its wake...

And suddenly realization burned a clear path for guilt and that maddening, controlled panic Miles himself might find familiar from those situations where everything suddenly seemed wrong and he sat in the center of it.]

God. Your shoulder, let me see it.

[He stepped forward, hurriedly. Everything else, ALL of the concerns were a pale distant ghost to the pressing disaster of his own making.]

[ It likely doesn't help that the first rush coming back from Miles is sheer agony. Mental and physical mixed, the pain of his father looking at him like that first and foremost (against a steady abyss of self-worth) and the searing pain in his shoulders (bright against the background radiation of his bone aches).

The mental, at least, crumbles in the wake of Miles' getting Aral's emotions - not disappointment, as he had assumed, but this strange complexity. Joy? Joy for him, twisted and fragile as he is? How is he not disappointing without the Dendarii to validate his life? He doesn't understand it. The panic is almost a relief when it comes; that, at least, is familiar. He goes through mental motions that are likely familiar to Aral, compartmentalizing it and setting it aside so that he can function. Much easier when they're not his to begin with.

A terrible thought strikes him. Miles has been seated this whole time, his tiny frame not nearly as obvious as it would be if he'd been standing. Will his father be disappointed now that he finally gets to see it? Still trembling from the effort, Miles rises to his feet half out of obedience, half out of a morbid need to see his father's reaction. Let him see the full extent of how twisted his son turned out.

(But he's on his feet under his own power - his bones do not snap underneath the weight of his body --)

He gingerly pulls back the collar of his t-shirt to let his father see - or at least, as much as his shoulders will let him move. His right shoulder is dislocated, painful but whole; the left has at least one badly cracked bone somewhere down in there. Any movement has him hissing with pain as it sends hot sparks down his arm and neck. The skin here is badly purpled, a telltale sign as well.

He practically holds his breath. Still unsure of what his father is thinking, truly. He doesn't even dare to speak. ]

[The pain, as sudden as it was acute, wrenches a breath, hissed between clenched teeth. Aral's grey eyes dull with the pain until, as Miles himself was doing, it was neatly set aside. Some cooler part of his mind remembered his own file, a link between liege-lord sworn, remembered the faint buzz earlier in the day... It was impossible.. but what madness did this world actually SHY from?

The expected revulsion never came, a mere satisfied expression and echoing emotion of relief (two toned- a clinical immediate one, and another followed by that surge of guilty joy. The doctors hadn't been able to promise his hips would ever heal properly. He'd been such a small baby...) The injury hadn't progressed to shock, or if it had, it hadn't decompensated. There was no insidious disappointment anywhere under the edges of regret and self recrimination that Aral was allowing himself. All of it was focus.

He has no tractor or medical stunner, no hypospray to offer any relief. On the field, he'd have given the mercy of a stunner blast without hesitation, but in this instant could not even bring the thought about.]

The right worries me. Stay there. I'm going to immobilize it.

[There's a hesitation, deep enough to be a stutter of the thoughts entirely. This boy, his child... introducing himself without the Vorkosigan name, passing himself as a clone rather than a son, that convincing vehemence about Lord Vorkosigan...

And now this, which he might as well have done with his own two hands. He looked at Miles, his own emotions stilling. The shattered self image, the challenge in the actions..

His tone is mild, almost supplicant.]

If you'll let me.

[ He keeps bracing himself for that revulsion to fall. Seems to waver, somewhat, when it never does. Should he be surprised? No - not by the father he knew back home, who had never done anything of the sort. (His grandfather, in few and unpleasant moments, maybe, but there was a whole 'nother world of complication he had no mental space to get into.) It's becoming clearer that the only confusion he had seen before was one of mistaken identity.

(The image is still burned indelibly into his brain.)

It's the nigh-supplicating tone that gets him to relax, finally, or at least to let go the worst of his tensions for now. In that, the blaze of pain along his shoulders is a help; it distracts him from the more complex emotional wounds being dealt with here and allows him to focus on the merely physical. Giving his father a short nod, he very gingerly lowers himself onto the couch. This, at least, is a familiar motion. He has broken his bones so many times in so many permutations that this hardly seems unusual in the slightest. ]

Please. [ Another pause. ] Normally I might have done it myself, but I seem to have hurt both at once this time.

[ He does not catch Aral's thought process about the Vorkosigan name; he's hesitant enough to explain, given the obvious implication about Aral's father. ]

There should be some medical supplies in the bathroom as well. Under the sink.

[ Steady he can manage, as long as he's on this familiar topic and doesn't look his father in the face. ]

[There is a certain walk of a man who does not run in an emergency unless he's damn well being chased. It causes those around him to panic, regardless of his own mind.

Supplies found, the care is quick, competent, each move spoken clearly before it is done, so there's no surprises. Perhaps for himself as much as Miles, as each jolt reverberates across the connection. Oddly enough, there's less pain with each wave, and then almost none as Aral's expression pinches, complexion ashen, if uncomplaining. It's not conscious, it's not deliberate, but the abhorrence of suffering to a parent takes what it can.

In the end, Miles' arm is bound to his side. Not the best position, but the most immobile that field work can offer.]

Tell me there is some level of healing .. skill on in this world.

[ That doesn't feel half bad. It ... starts to feel downright good, partway through, and he's faintly dizzy with it. Were there painkillers inside that kit? Did Aral give him a shot of morphine or something without him realizing? No, he feels clearheaded otherwise. ]

Yes, in abundance. [ He's glad to have good news on that point. ] Queen Lucy usually tends to me, although I have a list in my comm --

[ He gestures, with the arm that was merely somewhat dislocated (and now worked back into his socket), to the phone sitting on the coffee table. A few inches to the right and Aral might have stabbed it too. There's not even a twinge of discomfort on his end of the link. What the hell. ]

-- Magic is the only way to go here. The medical tech is woefully incapable of much.

Don't. [The word is clipped, expression almost sick at the sudden rush of pain at that. It's the sort that dissolves the vision in whites and reds, leaving him still unaware of Miles' uncanny relief. He continues after a steadying breath.] If you wont mind your injury I'll bind that arm as well.

[There's a fine tremor in his hand when he reaches for the communicator.]

[ He stills instantly - and then his eyes widen. He recognizes that flash of pain. It should have been his just now, but he hadn't felt anything at all, just sheer blessed relief.

A few more things snap into place. Liege relationships, was how the power had been described; Miles had been on the lookout for his own liegesworn without even considering who he himself had been sworn to. His father, of course. He's been feeling his father the whole time, and now he's --

He's gone completely white with horror. Taking care to not to move at all, he hisses: ]

Give it back.

[There's a moment where it become clear that his father honestly HAD no idea, nor intent in what he was doing. The startled note is clear across the connection, now unfogged by Miles' own pain.

As well as a racing mind, making connection after connection. There's a serenity that fills in the gap despite the phantom fire radiating from his shoulders through his whole skeletal system, and the heavy slam of iron resolve is almost in tandem.

There a message, and an answer, both apparently to Lord Vorkosigan's satisfaction.]

Aid should be here relatively quickly.

[Completely ignoring the demand as ridiculous, he gets up to knock the wedge out of the door.]

Edited 2016-01-17 01:01 (UTC)

[ No. No no no, that horror spikes instantly, to the point where he's tempted to jolt straight to his feet. Only a quick realization of how much that would hurt his father keeps him trapped in exactly the same position. (That, in and of itself, is a testament to their actual relationship, not what Aral might think it is right now - he doesn't so much as flinch out of fear that he might cause his father more pain. And not even a hint of threatening Aral to stop, either. ]

It's not yours to bear, Father. [ Chin up sharply, defiance in his eyes. ] Give it back. I can handle it.

[Father. It stills him more than any wave of pain ever could. The contented note rang pure, untouched by the muddy cacophony of internal conflict. His son.

It was not that he couldn't feel the horror. It wasn't that he couldn't make his own guess to where the defiance came from and why. He'd seen the same on Koudelka's face and knew every last bitter root of it.

His eyes fell pointedly on Miles' collar, and he drew himself up, hands clasps behind his own back as if he was above the agony of it.]

I have no doubt you bear it well. I've seen how much you tolerate without a sign.

[Now that he's looking, now that that damning, enfeebling rage had left, there's lines around Miles' eyes, around his mouth.]

Thirty minutes. [Enough time for this magical med tech to arrive and see the injury through. The injury he gave to his own son, regardless of how Miles thinks of him.] Allow me an apology, please.

[ Miles hesitates. More than anything, that Allow me an apology, please rings true. Between that and the note of contentment his defenses are utterly shot. God. He nods, weakly, after a moment. ]

Give it back afterwards. All of it. [ And then, more softly: ] Please.

[There's a hesitation. His own stubbornness could be as difficult as his temper, especially when let away from himself.

The please is what ends it.]

My word on it.

[With a THWOCK of a strong hit, the wedge is dislodged and the oldest of locks broken. He moves to sit again, tiredly. Every joint, ones even a round with Bothari had overlooked complained as if he'd sprained them.]

[ Miles does jolt at that - with the accompanying flash of pain, sorry Aral - and looks at him with new eyes. That ... is a surprisingly human side of him, one he only rarely sees even now. Feet of clay, he reminds himself. This is still the same man who begged for Miles' life at Vorhalas' feet not so long ago.

He just nods again, to start. Thirty minutes is fine; thirty minutes is a relief, knowing what he'll be going back to soon enough. Beyond that ... he ought to say something. What? How? Where does he begin with a gulf of twenty years between them?

There is one thing he ought to clarify to begin with, he supposes. Being careful not to jostle his shoulders, he bows his head. ]

I never meant to drag your name into it. The only one I thought I was smearing was myself.

[There was a look, that traditionally heralded a sardonic comment in Miles' direction that even this young version of his father summoned. Who else would Lord Vorkosigan be?

Even without the connection, the surprise seemed to empty the animation from Aral, leaving only something smaller, a bit lost. He looks at the dagger, some distant part of his mind commenting that he'd best free it before Cordelia found them. It was easier to focus on than the complicated knot of surprised grief, lingering anger, hurt, old and new.]

I suppose.. by then, I would be a Count.

[ It's so weird. He instinctively works himself up to respond to a sardonic quip when he sees the cue coming - and then the bottom falls out all at once. It's so bizarre to be out of step with his father like this. Their relationship has always been complicated, but not ... like this.

Should he comfort his father? Is that what he should be doing right now? ]

Only recently, if that's any comfort. I ... killed him.

[ There's a little sardonic twist of his own, one that would normally signal that there's more to the story on his end. ]

[The cue is lost to the twenty years between them. Here merely considered them against the devastating lack of self esteem, and the grief faded entirely out of the equation.]

I had hoped with time... meeting you, he'd have come around.

[There's no judgement, merely that level understanding that one offers self-defense.]

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