Andreo thumbed through papers, his lashes low and his eyes mere thin bands of glowing green. The tip of his tongue rubbed at a rough spot on his lower lip, a couple small cuts crossing the inside of it left to heal naturally.
“Do you still prefer I call you Eidan, or shall we leave that to Shattrath now? I didn’t mention it this last time, but the fade looks lovely. I quite like it better than your matching my red. After all, there can only be one!”
The letter bore elegant script, written by a practiced hand, even if the subject matter was a tad bit silly.
“You know I hate doing the official stuff, these days. Got it out of the way for you before the weekend came up, however. Support to claims, a note on relations. Tell Jack that Green asked after him, too? We haven’t been able to get a hold of him, lately. Something about performance reviews. He’ll get it. On another personal note, Lorren’s apt in arithmetic. Really takes after his father, there. Somehow, I can’t help but think that will just tickle you pink. Believe Jack might like to know that one, too. That kind of stuff ran in his side of the family, right?”
Andreo leaned back in his chair and briefly balanced it on two legs, then sank forward again. Ambient lighting in the tower tuned down subtly as he hummed softly beneath his breath. Pulling his journal aside, he made quick notes in it.
Placing the letter from Astrell aside, he rubbed the side of his face.
The next in the stack was on very, very expensive paper, but only had a few words. “AD, I didn’t expect you’d truly walk out on me. It was funny! You know it was funny. I even punned it. You love that stuff.”
The priest didn’t bother reading the rest of it and chucked that one off the side of his desk. Whoops. It must have slipped.
He glanced over a short note from an old business partner, job offerings for Eidaneth, none of which particularly caught his eye. Especially now that keeping up appearances on that front proved near impossible. He just couldn’t pull off the voidmage act anymore. Wrong kind of magic for it. Probably time to retire that one altogether save for a few lines of trade with the Consortium, an easy thing to do. It was slightly too well known of a name for his comfort’s sake, anyway. Another note went into the journal.
The blonde reached through the bars of the brig, running those pretty nails of hers along his jaw. Even with lacquer chipped and peeling, lipstick and eye shadow smudged, she still made quite the lovely picture.
They looked good together, honestly. She was so pale compared to his tan skin, her voice chiming and light while his rumbled and rolled. Vivacious and wicked, Odell Bertret was, and he played up tall, dark and mysterious in every way he could.
"James," she murmured his name, so low he would not be sure of it had he not paid such keen attention to the way her lips moved. "I love you. If you just talk to them, tell them--"
The corner of his mouth quirked downwards and he lifted a hand to catch her fingers, bringing them briefly to his lips, and then released them back between the bars.
"No, miss Bertret. No, I am afraid not," he answered, voice scratching gravelly. "You made your choices, and I cannot - will not - save you from them." He stepped back fluidly as she threw herself into the bars with little warning, abruptly and desperately clawing for a hold on the dark scarf around his neck. Instead she only managed to rake her nails to his shoulder as he turned aside.
Her voice crashed and broke like a wave on a cliffside, spilling only part of his name from her lips.
And he, true to form, walked away without sparing a glance back in return. Attracting criminals and traitors seemed to be some divine talent, given the last three women and two particularly heartbreaking gentlemen. This talent, and with the connections from one job or the other...
Why not take advantage of another gift that put money in his pocket? He hardly had anything to lose. The things that mattered kept slipping away, and he benefited - even profited - when he stopped considering if such a thing as morality truly existed between it all.
Blunted fingertips wormed their way beneath one of the leather straps that crossed the front of his shirt at torso and shoulder. Soft chattering followed, wordless, the sounds rattling upwards and downwards with no particular rhythm. They would be imperceptible at a distance. He only heard as they were near his neck, just beneath an ear, and felt the faint vibration they caused in the aurin who made them.
The sounds rasped content, and so Jack contented himself with them. It was a lifeline he had not realized he needed. He never needed anything so keenly before in his life, save his ship.
A pointed, fur-tipped ear flicked in the corner of his vision, glacial blue tail rising and falling in a slow ripple.
[Under cut for length, bits of language, dudes being grumpy and sad.]
The bridge of the sleek ship lacked in lighting for the time being. Most of the ship operated on low power. She even cruised largely on momentum alone, with well spaced and distant rumbles like a cat's rolling purr marking the occasional engine's fire of course corrections.
Though a fair crew manned her, the seats of the bridge sat vacated save two. The captain's seat, and a man at comms, both adjusted to face one another. When mid-route, operating under autopilot, and running mostly dark, there was little concern of danger and little bridge maintenance to be done. An alert would see the room brimming with crew inside of ninety seconds, but for the time being, monitoring did not even make for a two-person job.
"Vieux... tête dure." The younger man sitting at the communication station, a redhead, spoke in an undertone that carried well enough in the short space between them. One hand pressed to the side his face, fingers crooked to knead in at his temple.
Old man. Hard head. The captain knew the language, even the backwater and accented dialect the man before him employed. Of course he knew the words, insulting and fond as they were.
Young, old - relative terms between them, in this instance. Ages and expressions of time became strange when one lost all track of years and the other saw them pass in the literal blink of an eye.
His expression would have been unreadable were it not for the faint downwards pull at the corner of his mouth. Golden hazel eyes lifted and caught his own violet gaze, holding him there. Staring ever proved a contest of wills with this one, and an unsettling feeling that the captain lost this before it ever started itched in the pit of his stomach.
"James," the other spoke first, without the accented, intentionally foreign speech. Still the man bore an accent, Cassian, clipped and refined, rather than words from a swamp so many stars away. "You just don't know how to hold on, do you?"
The faint purse of lips spilled into a grimace. James Dynaer momentarily felt as an animal defensive, not lacking for fangs or claws despite being human born and raised. Even if the man he spoke to possessed claws literal, and he honestly favored guns, himself. The question hinted attack and a passive-aggressive lashing for some hurt. "Restrain others, inconsiderate of their whim and choice? I could not possibly. Perhaps you need to learn to let go, instead, Andric. It may have been mere moments passing by your reckoning, but while you dreamed, the rest of us lived, and fought, and faced tempering by the challenges of time."
The stalker's eyes narrowed and his gaze skidded down and aside, across the clear acrylic of the nearby console and display screens.
"Right." Though oft given to rambling responses and spilling his thoughts, Andric's answer bore curt, dismissive acceptance. His shoulders stiffened and he rose from his chair, not so much as skimming a look over the captain in his bridge seat before turning to leave.
James inhaled. Andric made a bad habit of holding grudges for longer than most cared to remember events or words. This needed to be disarmed, because damned if he was going to regret anything about this whole ordeal or piss off an old friend over speaking sensibilities.
"If you ask me the wrong questions, of course you will receive unwanted - albeit necessary - answers."
Andric stopped, already nearly to the sliding door that lead to the rest of the ship. He whipped around with a throw of his arm that often came with a snap of claws locking into place. No weapons this time, but abrupt fury brought a crack to the ginger's voice. "You said you'd still be here! Every time, Jim!"
"And here I am." James lifted his hands in a gesture helpless. "Saving your ass, no less, and going out of my way to give opportunities no one else would so much as consider."
A frustrated growl of a sound rasped from the redhead. His voice grew increasingly heated when he spoke. "Wrong questions, then, the wrong one - what. What. Should I ask if you want to, what, go for a roll in the bloody hay? Maybe a wine and dine? Knock my socks off and sweep me away? Come run away to this alien forest with me?"
James' pointer finger lifted, then curled in, and he briefly touched his knuckles to his lips. "Direct of you." He spoke behind his hand, then lowered it. "No. Go cool down, Peña."
Andric's lip curled, his face wrinkling in distaste, and he turned back towards the door. "With all due respect, fuck you, Jim." The arched doors slid apart with a faint hiss and he slunk through. His head ducked subtly, shoulders rising, motions predatory.
"We will talk later," James spoke without raising his voice. Augmented hearing picked him up, no doubt about it, but the stalker slipped off the bridge without a word. He sank in his chair, head tipping back into the seat.
That was not, by any stretch of the imagination, how he had imagined that conversation would go. He expected something - maybe - years earlier, honestly, as there had been several spans of the engineer's being awake where they briefly met. He did not entirely understand why this kind of anger, and why now, when he was seeing his old companion off to explorations and scientific discoveries that should have had him bouncing off the walls in excitement.
The accusations sounded like... admittedly, they had been a thing, once upon a time. Probably twenty years back or so. The mechanic dallied with others in times since, and James dared not even try to quantify his own experiences too much. Granted, always with communiques, always with Andric seeming to search for some kind of approval or permission - or dissuasion, as the case might have been. Introductions in those rare chances they could briefly meet again. Making friends. Had the stalker really held on to some kind of hope that...
Was that why he always proved so particular about keeping in touch, asking for every detail missed in the cryo spans? Andric doggedly refused to pick up on the nickname 'Jack,' as well, and always went out of his way to be sweet to the captain regardless of poor, violent behavior otherwise.
Other little details fell into place. Nearly twenty years; James had been in his early twenties at the point in time Andric referenced, and now was in his mid-forties. That was a long time to make assumptions of prior relationships. James saw business come and go, mercenary jobs, plus all the blood, sweat, smut and holos work, privateering, stars even knew what else, and a river's worth of tears that earned him his ship and reputations.
Time was relative.
Only a fraction of that passed, for Andric. Probably not even that. James abruptly reconsidered his own perspective, and the context of the immediate conversation against idealistic hopes shared what felt like a lifetime ago, with mild unease.
He let go, a long time back, but that stubborn, selfish ginger held on. That made for a serious misunderstanding. And by his own nature, he asked few questions, and tended to accept people and situations as they were. More than a misunderstanding, it made for a spectacular blunder and difference of perspectives that absolutely had to be rectified.
A thump of impact resonated through the bulkhead, causing him to turn his head with a crease of his brow.
They were definitely going to talk, later. Nobody but nobody hit his baby girl of a ship that hard, regardless of emotional turmoil.
Jack has never void walked. He wants to learn, as in a pinch it would be a vital skill, but is at the same time convinced that if he goes in he’s not coming back out. He can employ other void-based abilities with relative ease, though he’s much more pistolier than caster, and is really rather fond of fire.
It’s a well known fact that ol’ Buckshot has a reputation in the seedier sides of the holoreel entertainment industry. What doesn’t come up much is that he was incredibly adamant about ethical treatment of those involved, and punched the everliving shit out of at least two producers for directing people to continue when actors were injured, started to cry, or otherwise were not really up for performing. In one case, a punch made it into the recording and onto the net anyway. “Pornstar punchout! (censored)” was, for a time, a surprisingly viral video with extremely polarizing commentary always associated.
There are also several recorded incidents of Jackie boy elbowing, kneeing, and at one point turning the tables on another actor over issues of respect in recordings. Derogatory language and behavior did not fly with him, even for sake of ‘but viewers love that stuff.’ This is probably why he, Julie Diamond, and Atlas Steele eventually started their own business for a while there.
Jack has a biological daughter. He is, unfortunately, completely and utterly unaware of this. This might be both a pity and ultimately for the better, as he would have never been present, yet would have tried to do just the most spoiling things possible for a child.
For many years, Jack’s love has been space and what he actually considered his baby girl - his ship. He’s given up blood, sweat, smaller dreams, and tears for the Daughter of the Dawn. Possessing her is his dream, though he’s largely content to keep her parked in the Halon Ring now.
As the attitude over the ship might imply, he adores flying. Atmospheric, space flight, anything. It doesn’t matter where, or how. Him and the sky or the stars. He’s a different man in a pilot’s seat, free and without reservation.
Jack is basically night blind. He has an unfortunate history of walking into or off of things in the dark, or managing to trip and stumble. He can be a bit persnickety about lighting because of this, but also tends to not mention anything about it aloud until after someone else notices.
Jack has a slight limp with his right leg. The knee gives him trouble sometimes, particularly when the weather is rainy and cold.
Hats are important. His hats are precious and he generally takes very good care of them. Woe be to those who do harm unto the hat, for vengeance is swift and merciless. Praised be those who are given the hat, for they are friends eternal.Consistent downplays of his own understanding and ability are habit; Jack generally prefers to be underestimated, and to gauge how others react to being asked for explanation. The exception to this comes in his FCON dealings, where he occasionally throws his weight and experience to attempt keep others from making bad calls.
In relative private, with those whom he feels comfortable with, Jack conversely will allow interest and intelligence to show. He’ll ask questions, bounce ideas, and try to actively take part in conversations even if they lie outside his expertise.
She had been his baby girl for fifteen, twenty years, and he loved her dearly, but he found himself unhappy with her.
Fraz wiggled their way into the aft hold and caused fluctuations throughout the ship. Using some little high-energy Eldan bauble to lure them outside to the small asteroid's surface only took the better part of a couple hours, and sealing the idle power conduit they breeched even less time than that.
Quiet without the soft static chirping and bubbling of the creatures, the cargo runner rest silent. Her commander walked through the aft hold one more time to make certain he had not missed even the tiniest frizlet that would nibble away at the power. All clear.
Jack Dynaer's boots carried him past cramped cryohold to hangar bay. He ran a gloved hand along the undercarriage of a sleek, small gunship made for acceleration and hard turns. This little lady still needed to be taken on a proper joyride with proper company, at some point...
He cocked his head back, a finger pushing the brim of his cap up. The other vehicles resting on their landings all waited in similarly silent anticipation. Perhaps their imagined impatience proved more real than his anthropomorphizing. The bay ships were, after all, subtly linked and arguably both self-aware and sentient.
Despite Peña's insistence over practicality, he previously declined the offer to give that AI the run of the entire Dawn. His baby girl always felt restless to him, and he would have hated to have that idea confirmed or disproven based on simple lines of code.
Jack turned back towards the hallways.
Three transmat station jumps and a couple short walks later, and he moved through another very different hallway. Low power cycle, everything was off save a handful of guide lights and markers that remained online so long as the generators ran. Thin red lines marked out the walls.
He briefly wondered if that had been built to his benefit more than the complex designer's, night blindness held in consideration. A selfish, needlessly hopeful thought, he banished it.
The codes for the doors still worked, though briefly he wondered what he even did trodding the halls of another's space, knowing they were just as quiet and empty as his ship. Another voice, two other voices echoing through the building, the low, distant rumble of some holo-screen being on, anything...
Luach's place had a good shower, and felt more like home than his ship did at the moment, and Jack's coffee pot, mug, and half of his things were here, and that chair in the bedroom still had both golden and glacial aurin's scents clinging to it, though human noses were supposedly insensitive to such things and he had not had chance to speak with either in some time.
Jack curled up in the bedroom's chair with coffee, clean out of the shower, and turned the holoscreen on, although his attention remained off the screen. Sound above the faint shift and creak of metal beneath sandstorm, the scents, and the warm spot indeed made the burrow feel like home.
"Pardon, come again?" The young lord Dalendal stared blankly at the older Quel'dorei, who gave him a toothy grin. The raven haired man, instead of repeating himself, knocked back the last of his heavy mug.
"Ann'da, no. No. Don't you dare." Belodora's attention shifted away from her father and to the priest instead. "You truly do not want the translation," she muttered, wholly offended. Her long ears pinned back. He decided to take her on her word. From what little the priest picked up, it sounded like a drunken flirt.
Andreo really hoped he misunderstood the Dwarven. Something about blondes in red...?
Therion snorted in amusement and raised his arm for another round, turning away from his daughter and her husband. The heavily built dwarf on the soldier's other side muffled laughter in the crook of his arm, red in the face from drink and humor.
They had taken a trip to Aerie Peak for sake of research. Wildhammer animism was absolutely fascinating, well in line with how the priest viewed the world, and their runemasters were without compare. Their culture, on the other hand, left something to be desired.
And it turned out that Therion Dynaer could drink that old, foul-mouthed, dwarven wingman friend of his under the table. Andreo was almost impressed, except for when the flirting again resumed after Belodora took her leave, this time with goading from the airman. It no longer seemed in jest, and he was forced to retreat from the 'cheery' atmosphere of the bar.
Too creepy.
He already knew far too much of their family far too well, anyway.
