New Columbia Station, Early January 5018
"You know everyone thinks you're some kind of criminal, right?"
Commander Sharpe pauses to look for the source of the comment, noodles hanging out of his mouth as the words catch him off guard.
His eyes land on the wiry kid behind the counter, with their shaved head and leery expression. He's been served by them the past three days he's come here without so much as a word in passing from either of them beyond the customary "thank you," and eaten at this same counter each time without much disturbance.
He watches their eyes go wide with surprise, lips instantly closed tight as they try and avert their gaze.
"You didn't intend to voice that, I presume?"
There's a touch of laughter at the edge of his voice, a slight smile on his face, the young cook clears their throat and raises a hand that gestures to Trevor. More or less in his entirety.
Trev's eyes drift downward to his smart three piece suit, confusion twisting his mild expression slightly as he tries to make sense of the comment.
"The only people who dress like that are Golden Compact, you look like you're about to go cut off someone's finger for the cartel."
"I was under the impression the Compact didn't have a presence here."
"The Compact has a presence everywhere."
Their expression grows a little more tangibly frustrated as Trevor takes another bite of his lunch, letting the cryptic expression hang in the air as he enjoys the greasy noodles and krait so covered in sauce its original flavor exists only in the lowest base notes of taste.
"What would you have me wear then, if I intend to look my best?"
"You're with the Nazareth, right?"
"Then why not just wear the uniform, if you wanna look so serious."
"At the moment? I'm not on duty. It would be poor form to walk around in uniform now."
This earns a snort from the kid.
"…off duty Union guys are posers, usually."
"Uh… they dress like me, without really getting why I look the way I do. Like girlie from the legion who posts all the time."
Trevor spares the cook a bit more serious appraisal, their torn white undershirt and many piercings, and a little hum escapes him.
"Trunk and the legionnaires, you mean? To my knowledge ours is the only Union ship in the rim proper."
"…I don't know man, you're all Union to me."
"I imagine the difference is inconsequential here. Regardless, I see your point. Commander Hokori has a certain way about her, as do the legionnaires. I wouldn't compare them to you but there is certainly an irreverence to it all. One that tries a too hard for my liking."
"And so what, you dress like a fuckin gokudō because you're a more serious man than everybody else?"
A smile lingers at the corners of their expression now, in the slow hours of the late afternoon, with nothing better to do but lean on the counter and make conversation with the strange man who's come in the past few days
The smile fades as they watch him take another annoyingly drawn out go at his meal, before gesturing their way with his chopsticks.
"So you're saying that's true?"
"I'm saying I follow a certain code. I believe a man has certain responsibilities and should aspire to a certain standard. I dress in such a way that I myself take seriously, and for that reason those around me do the same."
"People take you seriously because you look like you're here to collect."
"One takes what he can get."
This, finally, earns him a proper laugh.
"I dunno where you get off talking like this dude, you don't look much older than me."
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Tziya sets the slate down and leans forward at the table, the Legionnaire in front of her bracing for what he knows is coming and trying her best to look a little more aloof.
"Your little friend on Prospero-"
"You don't have to specify, thank you."
The two sit across from each other at a cafe on the station's upper level, panels above simulating the orange sky of a Cradle sunset. Across the street an elderly couple sits on a bench overlooking a pond, a gaggle of teenagers laughs as they make their way down the road, a perfect approximation of evening sunlight passes through the leaves of the trees and colors the ground with its dappled light.
One could be mistaken for forgetting this half of the station had been cordoned off from the half beneath it with seals and barricades.
"This is hardly a professional line of questioning, Lady Espiru-"
"We're basically sisters dude, even if you left me behind to work for like... the fucking avatar of evil."
"That's such an ignorant-"
"And call me 'Soror' alright? I wanna maintain at least a little anonymity here."
"Really? I didn't get that impression from the former Chassis Errant Kuriasser who decided it would be wise to insult high profile representatives of House of Glass and Dust both yesterday."'
"Yeah? Well I wouldn't expect you to understand where I'm coming from. You're a coreworlder anyway right?"
"I believe my birth certificate says Io."
"Exactly. Now answer my question. Singed."
"Well, it seems like all you do on the net is talk to her. What's with that?"
"Nothing? I have a little common ground with a rescue pilot, do you really think I'm such a monster I couldn't relate to a person like that?"
"Don't answer that I know you can't be serious."
"You're literally so mean to me, all the time."
The two stare at each other a moment, Tziya lifting a beignet to her mouth and taking a bite without breaking eye contact. Alpha eventually caves with a frustrated sigh and a shake of her head.
"Christ-Buddha you really are my little sister aren't you?"
"Not like you acknowledge it. I'd love if I could see you like this more."
Alpha makes no attempt to hide the roll of his eyes.
"You're so fucking dramatic, we have the mutual understanding-"
"Yeah, but you don't even call. Like, I think I can be forgiven for wondering where we actually stand, Hokori."
Tziya doesn't feel particularly proud about the amount of satisfaction she gains from watching Alpha wince at her invoking the old name, but it comes all the same.
"...I imagined you wouldn't want to hear from me."
The two sit in silence a moment, neither making proper eye contact with one another, both nursing their drinks. When Tziya speaks up, her words are carried on a much smaller voice.
"Well that isn't true. I still think of you often."
With a deep breath in, Commander Espiru forces herself to focus on the task at hand.
"So the forward team. We're still waiting to hear back, right?"
"And what, we're like a week into radio silence?"
"The uh, mercenaries you told me about. These guys are like, butchers Alpha. They make Mirrorsmoke look respectable."
"They're local, and the best I can do on short notice. We need the bodies, if we're going to do anything about this."
"That seems... counter intuitive. I mean, whatever this thing we're dealing with it, it replicated the entire Nazareth. A couple more guys doesn't exactly alter the odds, does it?"
"You saw the power flicker, when the two ships fought. We've traced a massive draw at the time of that fight to sublevel E. It has limits Tz-... Soror."
"You're just gambling on what those limits are."
"And bringing in the resources to fully evacuate the station, assuming the worst comes to pass."
"You want Dynamic fucking Solutions to handle a civilian evacuation?"
"You have my full attention babe."
"It's worse than it seems. I have no idea right now... who's real, who isn't. One of my pilots stopped responding to nicknames and callsigns a couple days ago, you need to use their full given name to get their attention now. Their numbers in the sim are all over the place compared to a few days ago- and I'm getting reports of similar occurrences from my sergeants regarding their marines."
"I get what you're trying to say, but you sound a little-"
"Paranoid? I'm sure. I haven't acted on any of this yet, partly out of concern I might actually be seeing things, partly because I'm afraid of what happens when I do make a move, but I am telling you, Soror, we are already compromised. I know that. There's nothing we can do to make things here worse than they are."
Tziya stares at Alpha, expression contorted in with a sort of concern that masks the lingering unease settling over the both of them. With a deep breath, she raises her hands in surrender.
"Whatever. Sure. It's not like Revy's around to bitch about it anyway."
The silence that settles now would make itself at home, both parties of the conversation letting it in, only to break it with a slate and simple diagrams. Plans for the days to come.
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Trevor walks the tight halls of New Columbia's central levels - nowhere else a station like this would keep an establishment as reputable as a Dr. Krait, he figures. He wonders privately how he's allowed himself to develop a taste for it as he gazes at the greasy box in his hand. There's a very real temptation to blame Revy, but a part of him refuses such thinking. Naturally she'd lend her taste to him at some point.
It isn't like it matters anyway. As long as he's eating, as long as he remembers to.
He should be thankful, really. Fond as he is of the gentleman act, it'd never been more than that. More than an act. Not in his first life, and not now in the second, would he force himself to be so "cultured" that he would cast aside simple pleasure. The gratitude would be good for him, healthy-
Rounding the corner, his eyes go wide.
A breathless Revy stands before him, still in a medical gown, crown of the neural link still fitted to the base of her head, the device bloody from prolonged use. His captain throws a hand out, gripping his shoulder and staring into his eyes.
"Something's wrong, something's wrong you need to get back to the Nazareth. Trevor, you need to..."
As the shock of the situation leaves him, Trevor finds himself staring at the woman in front of him. Something about her expression, about her cadence. There's a desperation to it that he struggles to swallow, something...
The stranger pauses, their expression shifts. A hand tightens on Trevor's shoulder, as he realizes just how deliberate the concern on his face has become. He briefly wonders what this forced expression actually reads as, before catching movement in a doorway down the hall. For a brief moment, Trevor locks eyes with himself.
As his eyes settle, it stares back with a perfectly placid expression, briefly breaking it to mimic concern. To mimic, what Trevor imagines, was his face staring down at his "captain." As the model of Revy begins to lunge, only one thing is on Trevor's mind.
The thought comes, not from his ego, nor willed into the world, but almost placed into his mind by something greater than himself.
"That isn't convincing at all."
