[Nico is wary of...pretty much everyone on the barge, really. Still, Ardyn makes him uncomfortable. Maybe it's the awkwardness of their first meeting coloring his perception, an unease that isn't settled by having gone through his posts. But Nico knows his own tendency towards (perhaps not always entirely reasonable) paranoia and that his feelings about the man's apparent easy curiosity and confidence are shaped by his experiences with people from a completely different context.
In the end, it doesn't really matter. He has a job to do and he's used to pushing away...personal issues in order to do it.]
[It's been a week. She should have done this forever ago. And yet, she's still not even sure she should. But the Admiral had announced it, hadn't he? She was supposed to do this. Because if not...if not isn't something she wants to think about. Maybe that's why she sounds such equal parts uncertain and determined.]
We should--um. Hi. Can we talk? In person, I mean.
[ The voice when he speaks, is different to how he's treated her before. Not the smiling old storyteller nor the distant philosopher. No, this is something else, something darker, lower, holding barely contained malevolence. ]
[It's different. He sounds different. But of course he does. It
changes something in her answer as well, the hesitation dropping away to
something more careful, though no less determined.]
No. I won't, if you don't want me to. I just want to talk.
[ There's no answer across the comms. Instead, there's a faintly echoing 'do come in' when she knocks at the door, which opens to a high-vaulted hall that looks like something out of a gothic cathedral in light grey and gold. The hall leads to a large round room in a similar style that has been... heavily damaged, ripped and torn and battered, though some pieces have been hobbled back together in a fashion. The mattress lays on the ground on one side where he's clearly been sleeping, but he's sitting on a surviving chair and reclining as if in an elegant parlor instead of a destruction zone.]
I thought we might handle two chikatrice with one stone, if you don't mind. Given your position as caretaker.
[Hearing the voice, Shiro steps in through the door, shutting it behind her. The sound of her bare feet on stone and tile is hardly any sound at all, and when she finally makes her way into the round, open room, she stops for a moment, looking around. The destruction doesn't seem to bother her. After all, aside from the entryway, her own room isn't in much better shape. Even now.
It takes a moment, but her eyes finally find him on the chair, and she moves closer, finally pausing just out of arms reach.]
Not sure what chikatrice are, but I'm here. If you need things. That's--part of what wardens are supposed to do, I think.
[It's something to be filed away for later. She's always had a fondness for birds and the symbology behind them. But that's something else, something for not right now. Now is for figuring this out, whatever it is.
She doesn't flinch as he eyes her. Whatever he might be here for, whatever skills or powers or weapons he might have, he can't really hurt her. And doesn't he deserve a look at the person the Admiral's paired him with? There's nothing he can say or think that she hasn't already. She knows she looks young. She is young. If her math is right, her body is barely 18, covered in scars from neck to toes, and the oversized sweaters and leggings that make up the vast majority of her wardrobe don't do her any favors. She doesn't look professional or adult. That's why the words are important, too. Because appearances aren't everything. Her words are honest; she's got nothing to hide.]
I'm still new to this. You're my first time being a warden. If you want someone else instead, I can ask the Admiral. Tell him you want someone who's been doing this longer.
[No word on whether he would, but she wants to make the offer, if she can.]
[ Because he doesn't want anyone, let alone anyone older or more experienced. No, someone fresh to market is definitely more suited to his taste He meets her eye. ]
[She'd consider that fair. She hadn't wanted one, either. But as it stands she accepts what he says, and while his question is simple enough she doesn't think the answer is. There's a slight frown on her face as she looks for the right words, choosing them with care.]
I don't think nervous is the right answer. I just--don't want to do this wrong. I don't know how to do it right. I think--maybe we have to figure that out together. But if you don't want to--that's okay. I get it. I just...want to help. If I can.
[ He is not fair. He often pretends to be, but he certainly isn't. What he is is someone who enjoys a bit of a challenge. And if this is going to be one, he'd best start now. Or at least give her something of a head start. ]
I will tell you as I told the others: I have no desire for 'redemption', nor to return to life. I wish to die, and while diverting, I find this place can also be quite cruel. If there was some wish in your heart you thought the Admiral might grant you, then I would urge you to request reassignment.
[ A slight huff of breath before he gestures to the room. ]
Though if you might request a restoration of my rooms to start, I would be much obliged.
[The expression on her face clears at his words, something like understanding (perhaps unexpectedly) blossoming in place of that frown.]
That's what I wanted, when I came here. Instead of coming here, I was just supposed to die. My warden--he promised me that if I graduated, if I still wanted that--he'd help me find a way to die. You don't have to--I mean, I won't tell you that you have to do that, or anything. Just--the Admiral won't let you die forever, here. Even if I ask. But I--understand, at least a little.
[Another pause, again for the right words, as her weight shifts from one foot to the other, one hand lifting unconsciously to her hair, pushing loose strands behind her ear.]
I can get him to fix it. Or give you different rooms, if you want. Just, I'm not--here for a deal, or a wish, or anything. I'm here because--I've got a lot of stuff to make up for. Did a lot of things to hurt people. I don't want to hurt people anymore. Not on purpose. So.
[ And that does intrigue him, her penance. That she would choose this as her manner or making up for her past actions. There was a man who'd been here for a few days who could certainly understand that.
He was quite gone at this point. Some more than 2000 years ago, by his reckoning.
But he listens intently, nodding along at the right moments, waiting until she's done before speaking: ]
These rooms are sufficient. Though functional furniture might be nice, if that could be arranged.
[There's no fixing things, where she's from. No amount of hoping would undo what she'd done, bring Tokyo back. She could wish it all undone, wish she'd never been born, but then what would happen to Ganta? Would he have been the Wretched Egg in her place, or would he just have suffered and died? How many more? She doesn't know. It might be selfish, but it's better to stay here. If she's here, she's dead back home, and they can all heal. Move on.
But none of that is relevant right now. Instead, she just nods, looks around again.]
Yeah. Whatever you need. Give me a list? I don't...my room isn't like most people's. I don't have a lot of stuff.
[ This is when he stands up, walks as close to her as he has ever been when he was not that other person, and looks her in the eyes. And for one small moment, he hides absolutely nothing. None of it. Not the pain nor the anger... nor the hate. All of it, over two thousand years of it. There's no artifice to the act; even he isn't sure what exactly is in his eyes. He simply drops the curtain. ]
Are you so certain... that you wish to know about me?
[She doesn't retreat when he approaches, not even when he gets close enough for her to feel his presence, the slight stir of air caused by the movement of all his layers of clothing. She doesn't flinch, even when he drops the act, when everything in his expression shifts in a way she recognizes immediately. There's so much of it--so much suffering, so much anger, rage, and yet--she doesn't blink. Red eyes meet amber and there's nothing in them but a sudden clarity of understanding, a sense of compassion. This is what she could have been. If everyone had given up on her. If she'd stayed. There's a spark in her eyes, a flare of recognition, something so much older than a girl her age should be. Here is someone who knows pain and anger at the world and how consuming it can be.
Her voice is quiet when she answers, but no less firm in her answer.]
[ The urge to pull sword from cane and ram it through her is strong. Very very strong. Her pale skin, her pale hair... the similarities to the Princess of Tenebrae are strong enough, but those eyes, that look, the audacity to offer him compassion...
But that would be a stab, easily traceable to him, a temporary relief for a rather large loss. It doesn't remove the urge, but it does transform it as he considers the avenues through which he can channel such intent. And, ultimately, what will be the most satisfying.
This child... he has no doubt she has seen pain, more than her years might account for. The echoes of the Lucian King ring through him, clanging painfully inside his chest before he tears them down with the same ruthlessness as had destroyed his room with. That she thinks her pain sufficient to understand him, that she thinks her present state is some sort of enlightenment, 'graduation', as if he had not faltered on occasion towards his ultimate goal-
He needs a smaller weapon. Or any proper weapon.
He needs to close his eyes and never open them again.
He needs to make her hurt worse than she thought she could hurt. Yes.
That is why he very slowly, very carefully, leans over to press a kiss to the top of her head. ]
Go. [ And his voice is very very soft. ] Read the file if you wish.
[ Which is when he steps back, steps to the side, and starts to walk towards the exit to the room, out. He doesn't care about leaving her in the room. There is nothing there that can harm his efforts. And, despite all, he will be courteous.
He bows as he opens the door for her. ]
I'll be early to dinner. With a list.
If you bring your file, I will read it.
[ She doesn't have to bring her file. The choice is hers.
[She isn't sure what to expect next, and that shows. He might try to kill her. It's what she might have done. Of course, there's no point to that here on the barge (no point to it anywhere, really, with the way her body heals), and he's not dumb. He knows it won't help. So, what then?
She isn't sure, but she knows she isn't expecting what he actually does, the brief press of lips to her head, almost--she never had parents, she doesn't know, but it feels almost parental, even if it also feels like a substitute for a blow, for a knife to the heart. She doesn't flinch, but her eyes widen in surprise, pulse jumping in her throat. When he turns to leave, she follows behind him, as silent as her footsteps on the tile.
There's only one moment she pauses, passing him as she exits through the door, and her eyes search his again for the briefest second. She isn't sure what she's looking for--a trace of the pain that had filled them just moments ago, or any sign of the bruised and broken man she'd met just a few weeks ago. Whatever it is, all she finds is a series of choices. So she nods, her own choice made. She won't give up. No matter what.]
I'll be there.
[She'll bring her file. It's the least she can do. And so she continues on, heading for her own rooms to think.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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In the end, it doesn't really matter. He has a job to do and he's used to pushing away...personal issues in order to do it.]
Hi. Would you like to meet to talk?
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[He doesn't know what to do but he has to do something so he'll be at the library at the time he said, hunched over his communicator.]
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Mirrors are very poor conversationalists, my dear boy.
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And the answer is no, I do not.
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What do you want?
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[It sounds like as good a topic as any, better than a lot of them.]
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Voice, backdated to 10/8
We should--um. Hi. Can we talk? In person, I mean.
voice
Have you read it?
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[It's different. He sounds different. But of course he does. It changes something in her answer as well, the hesitation dropping away to something more careful, though no less determined.]
No. I won't, if you don't want me to. I just want to talk.
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You can come to my rooms. I assume you know where they are?
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I can find them. Probably easier if you tell me.
[It seems more fair that way.]
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The door will be slightly ajar.
voice > spam
[And if he says okay, or gives her another time, she'll be there, knocking on the door despite the invitation of a door hanging slightly open.]
spam
I thought we might handle two chikatrice with one stone, if you don't mind. Given your position as caretaker.
spam
It takes a moment, but her eyes finally find him on the chair, and she moves closer, finally pausing just out of arms reach.]
Not sure what chikatrice are, but I'm here. If you need things. That's--part of what wardens are supposed to do, I think.
spam
A bird roughly the size of a small child, often killed for the particularly tender legmeat they might provide.
[ His head slowly changes tilt, from one side to the other. ]
You might want to figure that out, my dear girl. [ Only a short pause, but then he answers the obvious question. ] What wardens are supposed to do.
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She doesn't flinch as he eyes her. Whatever he might be here for, whatever skills or powers or weapons he might have, he can't really hurt her. And doesn't he deserve a look at the person the Admiral's paired him with? There's nothing he can say or think that she hasn't already. She knows she looks young. She is young. If her math is right, her body is barely 18, covered in scars from neck to toes, and the oversized sweaters and leggings that make up the vast majority of her wardrobe don't do her any favors. She doesn't look professional or adult. That's why the words are important, too. Because appearances aren't everything. Her words are honest; she's got nothing to hide.]
I'm still new to this. You're my first time being a warden. If you want someone else instead, I can ask the Admiral. Tell him you want someone who's been doing this longer.
[No word on whether he would, but she wants to make the offer, if she can.]
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[ Because he doesn't want anyone, let alone anyone older or more experienced. No, someone fresh to market is definitely more suited to his taste He meets her eye. ]
Are you nervous, my dear?
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I don't think nervous is the right answer. I just--don't want to do this wrong. I don't know how to do it right. I think--maybe we have to figure that out together. But if you don't want to--that's okay. I get it. I just...want to help. If I can.
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I will tell you as I told the others: I have no desire for 'redemption', nor to return to life. I wish to die, and while diverting, I find this place can also be quite cruel. If there was some wish in your heart you thought the Admiral might grant you, then I would urge you to request reassignment.
[ A slight huff of breath before he gestures to the room. ]
Though if you might request a restoration of my rooms to start, I would be much obliged.
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That's what I wanted, when I came here. Instead of coming here, I was just supposed to die. My warden--he promised me that if I graduated, if I still wanted that--he'd help me find a way to die. You don't have to--I mean, I won't tell you that you have to do that, or anything. Just--the Admiral won't let you die forever, here. Even if I ask. But I--understand, at least a little.
[Another pause, again for the right words, as her weight shifts from one foot to the other, one hand lifting unconsciously to her hair, pushing loose strands behind her ear.]
I can get him to fix it. Or give you different rooms, if you want. Just, I'm not--here for a deal, or a wish, or anything. I'm here because--I've got a lot of stuff to make up for. Did a lot of things to hurt people. I don't want to hurt people anymore. Not on purpose. So.
[The smallest of shrugs.]
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He was quite gone at this point. Some more than 2000 years ago, by his reckoning.
But he listens intently, nodding along at the right moments, waiting until she's done before speaking: ]
These rooms are sufficient. Though functional furniture might be nice, if that could be arranged.
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But none of that is relevant right now. Instead, she just nods, looks around again.]
Yeah. Whatever you need. Give me a list? I don't...my room isn't like most people's. I don't have a lot of stuff.
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[ And then, because he can't help but press at buttons he sees, considering- ]
Tell me, if the knowledge isn't too terribly dear...
Did your warden read your file?
Do you want to read mine?
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[There's a pause as a thought occurs to her. Maybe it's dumb, but maybe it'll help. Knowing who she is.]
You can read mine, if you want. He probably still has it somewhere.
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[ This is when he stands up, walks as close to her as he has ever been when he was not that other person, and looks her in the eyes. And for one small moment, he hides absolutely nothing. None of it. Not the pain nor the anger... nor the hate. All of it, over two thousand years of it. There's no artifice to the act; even he isn't sure what exactly is in his eyes. He simply drops the curtain. ]
Are you so certain... that you wish to know about me?
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Her voice is quiet when she answers, but no less firm in her answer.]
Yes. I'm sure.
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But that would be a stab, easily traceable to him, a temporary relief for a rather large loss. It doesn't remove the urge, but it does transform it as he considers the avenues through which he can channel such intent. And, ultimately, what will be the most satisfying.
This child... he has no doubt she has seen pain, more than her years might account for. The echoes of the Lucian King ring through him, clanging painfully inside his chest before he tears them down with the same ruthlessness as had destroyed his room with. That she thinks her pain sufficient to understand him, that she thinks her present state is some sort of enlightenment, 'graduation', as if he had not faltered on occasion towards his ultimate goal-
He needs a smaller weapon. Or any proper weapon.
He needs to close his eyes and never open them again.
He needs to make her hurt worse than she thought she could hurt. Yes.
That is why he very slowly, very carefully, leans over to press a kiss to the top of her head. ]
Go. [ And his voice is very very soft. ] Read the file if you wish.
[ Which is when he steps back, steps to the side, and starts to walk towards the exit to the room, out. He doesn't care about leaving her in the room. There is nothing there that can harm his efforts. And, despite all, he will be courteous.
He bows as he opens the door for her. ]
I'll be early to dinner. With a list.
If you bring your file, I will read it.
[ She doesn't have to bring her file. The choice is hers.
The game is on. ]
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She isn't sure, but she knows she isn't expecting what he actually does, the brief press of lips to her head, almost--she never had parents, she doesn't know, but it feels almost parental, even if it also feels like a substitute for a blow, for a knife to the heart. She doesn't flinch, but her eyes widen in surprise, pulse jumping in her throat. When he turns to leave, she follows behind him, as silent as her footsteps on the tile.
There's only one moment she pauses, passing him as she exits through the door, and her eyes search his again for the briefest second. She isn't sure what she's looking for--a trace of the pain that had filled them just moments ago, or any sign of the bruised and broken man she'd met just a few weeks ago. Whatever it is, all she finds is a series of choices. So she nods, her own choice made. She won't give up. No matter what.]
I'll be there.
[She'll bring her file. It's the least she can do. And so she continues on, heading for her own rooms to think.]
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