#with james farrow.

[satellitewar-archived]

continuing from here, with @tragicale

they've ensconced themselves within a stranger's bedroom in the large estate, and while it's an odd place to meet, to hide from dizzying confrontation, it does its job fairly well. james conceals buzzy's presence within the room with a few awkward remarks about waiting for a lover, and now they're balancing against them. thank you for not saying anything, buzzy wants to repeat over and over as he loosens his tie, suddenly too tight at his neck. "that's emil carlsson," buzzy spits, giving james's face a quick once-over before he begins wandering the room. it's spacious, standard, nothing too ornate or overly sentimental. buzzy looks out the window and attempts to determine their position within the house. what do they overlook? is that the garden, or the front yard? "he's... an avid antiques collector," the archaeologist goes on, eyes still catapulting around the grass below. "violent sort, actually, though you'd never get that from the way he holds himself. he shot at me once. shot twice at shawky, too; he'll do just about anything to get what he wants, every artifact, every scrap of old coin, every precious metal and bone fragment. his men do nasty work on our dig sites and pull on the laws of the land to get them to bend for him. wants every glass case in house filled with artifacts. if he knew i was here..." back to james, back to where his friend lingers by the door and peers out. "well. you did me a favor, and i thank you. you're a good actor," he adds, patting his friend's shoulder with a wide smile. "should do that for a living." a joke. more smiling. buzzy, too, checks the hall. "yes, let's leave before he comes back. he really... really doesn't like me. and if he finds out you just hid me, he really won't like you, either."

[satellitewar-archived]

from @tragicale: are you hurt? / for shawky. <3

shaken up and stumbling, the archaeologist scrambles to scoop his spectacles up off the floor and shove them back on his nose. if he leans a little into james's side, it's unintentional. he's unsteady on his feet, disoriented, and now fumbling against his friend as he tries to regain his bearings. "that was a pretty serious push," he chatters, and a hand dives to the base of his shirt in order to grab an edge of fabric and clean his smeared up lenses. "are you okay? you're the one who got the punch." as much as he loves spending time with james farrow (james, who pulls him from his comfort zone, who challenges his perspectives, who asks questions that makes shawky pause and think for days), there's a regular edge of mystery and danger ever-lurking in the periphery of their hangouts. sometimes they go places they're not supposed to. sometimes they end up like this, like now, sputtering and trying to get up after getting thrown out. "they didn't have to punch you," shawky goes on. his shirt's a mess, and his hair (always messy) is particularly out of place tonight. running a hasty hand through it, shawky grabs his friend's arm and, with great care, tries to walk down the sidewalk. "maybe we can find another way in, one with decidedly less security. maybe men that are more our size who we can take in a fight." shawky pauses. "... you... can take in a fight. not me. you saw my flailing. please don't convey that image to anyone you know."

[satellitewar-archived]

from @tragicale: i'm quite a fan of yours. / emily. <3

"well, i'm a fan of yours in return. i've seen you perform at the conservatory." emily cradles her flute of champagne to her chest, wrist curved inward in an awkward position as she leans against the marble column. when her head tilts a little to the left, her forehead and thick head of hair bumps the marble, too — this placement gives her a slightly new angle to view james farrow, his confident smile, and his tactics when greeting a new face. he's a curious figure full of passion and charisma, but the leather notebook he just stuffed into his jacket pocket gives the impression that, even in a crowded room of guests, there's an internal aspect to his thoughts that he must jot down. she won't pry into his journaling just yet (maybe he didn't intend anyone to see the flash of leather as he scribbled on the pages); instead, she studies his dark gray eyes and the weight within them, omnipresent. "you're quite the accomplished actor. it's a pleasure to meet you." the hand not cradling the champagne now dives into his space, manicured nails extended for a friendly shake. "what brings you to an event like this? do you visit to d.c. often?" then, a little more eager, "do you perform here in washington at all?"

[satellitewar-archived]

from @tragicale: something about him rubs me the wrong way. / for din hehe

so they're aligned in suspicion. good. din stares across the road at the hulking figure nearby, their hood heavy over their mysterious features, and watches as they try to blend in with the crowd. the shops are congested with visitors, with shouting salesmen, creatures of all sizes, and the sizzling sound of cooking food, but despite the stranger's efforts, they're not doing a very good job fading into the sea of locals. like james mentioned, they appear uncomfortable. something is wrong.

"we should move, then." din glances at james, helmet tilting in the hot sun, and gives the hooded figure another look before guiding the man away. for a minute, it almost seems like their suspicions were imagined — maybe they're looking for someone else, not the mandalorian and his companion. they're just visiting this planet, perhaps, here to sample local cuisines and explore the territory.

the hope is short-lived. james leads the way through the crowd, and din, tailing him, peers over his shoulder to find the very same cloaked figure following them. "james." his voice is short and filtered in the helmet. he reaches to touch his arm. "pick up the pace. we're being followed."

[satellitewar-archived]

from @tragicale: i'm coming with you. / for buzzy. <3

some part of him wants to be noble about this and refuse james's help for safety's sake, but buzzy knows he can't do such a thing. there's no way he can explore these mysterious stairs alone — it's all about the buddy system (or 'buzzy system' as shawky often likes to call it). pairs of explorers venturing down into the dark, keeping each other safe. if one falls, you need someone else to catch them. "all right." it takes a minute for the adventurer to concede, but when he does, he's smiling. he's grateful for james's apparent lack of self-preservation and eagerness to throw himself into danger. what a great guy. "we don't know what's down there, but... maybe together we'll find out. let's get some answers." buzzy whips a spare flashlight from his bag and presses it into james's hand. "gonna be dark down there. lots of cobwebs, i reckon. keep low, keep quiet, and if you step on something that feels like a pressure point, don't lift your foot. tell me, and we'll figure out a way to get you out."

buzzy descends a few steps into the dark unknown before stopping, turning back, and once again smiling at james. "you really should come with shawky and i sometime. you're really good at this adventuring thing. maybe we could get you in on our next dig in egypt. i dunno. something fun. you're a natural at it. let's see how you handle a totally pitch black room."