[ She gets worried that his silence stretches on so long, and she's not comforted by the friends who tell her that it doesn't matter and it's to her advantage if he never contacts her again, since she'll never have to repay her debt. When the reply finally comes, her own response is very quick. ]
I did. Thank you. I wouldn't have gotten out without you. It was just like you said, all of it. How are you? Can you talk on an audio channel, or is it a bad time?
[ Ari works twelve-hour shifts routinely, but eighteen sounds like a particularly harsh punishment to her. And his fingers! Even after all she's been through, that's still enough to horrify her. A terrible thought occurs to her then. ]
It does. I'm so sorry you went through that.
I didn't say a word about you. Not even the slightest hint. Word by contract, on the honor of the Tradelines, I wouldn't have.
[ The result of her stubborn silence is that she still has several healing ribs, one arm in a sling, and a couple of new teeth growing in, but she's hardly going to complain about any of that now. ]
This line will stay secure. Call me when you're able to.
[That’s not punishment. That’s just routine duty.]
Relax. I know you didn’t. That’s why I’m walking out of the med bay with a chit and not looking at twenty years in a Cursed Earth work camp.
[True to his word, it’s eighteen and a half hours later that he opens up the line again as he looks at his ransacked apartment with displeasure. It was pure luck that he passed the stomach check, and didn’t leave anything incriminating stashed away in here. Good thing he hadn’t made the move to the lux-apt in Old Town just yet. That’d be hard to justify under scrutiny as close as this.
Two weeks away had made some of his favorite people a little cocky, as well. Rico had to work extra hard to catch up, remind them who really owned the streets.]
Rico here. You might have kicked over an anthill with our little stunt. Took a while for the heat to die down.
[ Ari goes about her day as usual, but she has plenty of time to think it over. The ship's doctor is still insisting on light duties, half-shifts, even if Ari would much prefer everything to go back to normal as quickly as possible. There was something to be said for keeping yourself too busy to dwell on unpleasant matters.
She's waiting for the call when it comes, sitting in her little private cabin so that she doesn't have to worry about being overheard or interrupted. ]
Rico. It's good to hear from you. They don't have you out eighteen hours again tomorrow? We can make it brief if they do. You need to catch all the sleep you can. [ She sighs, very quietly. ] I really am sorry for dragging you into this. I don't regret it, because I'd be dead now if I hadn't, but I'm sorry it caused trouble for you. Was it the hotel? They traced that back?
Good to hear from you too, hotshot. I’m out on eighteen hours every day. But I’ve got time for a proper debrief.
[Rico sounds somewhat amused. Hoarser too, his already gravel-rough voice running somewhat ragged at the edges. But it’s composed. He got all his frustration out earlier, in between his visits.]
You bet it caused trouble for me. They managed to trace it back to a Judge in this sector before I cut it, and that really got the Special Judicial Squad panties in a twist. Ended up being targeted for a “random” random physical abuse test.
[ There's a brief pause where Ari is trying to make sense of what she's just heard. ]
A...random physical abuse test? That's what they call it? So they suspected you, and tortured you, but since they didn't get anything, they can excuse it by saying it was just random?
[He announces the last part proudly, and there’s plenty of reason to be. He sends an image of himself breezily displaying a torn slip of paper between his index and middle finger right next to his face, giving an impish grin with his helmet on:]
[ Ari looks at it, and the idea of his own people doing that to him still horrifies her, but she understands why he's smiling, too. ]
Congratulations. Seriously, that must have been tough. I hope you're recovering well. Do you remember when you told me you'd been in the iso-cubes in training, and I didn't understand how you managed it, and you said something like...because you had to? I understand it now.
[ Some people might say that wasn't necessarily a good thing. Ari carries on talking, cheerily enough, as if none of this is bothering her. ] They stress-tested me after I got back. Nothing awful, and they'd never admit to it outright, but I know that normal debriefings aren't conducted in cramped little rooms with four people across the table from you. They wanted to make sure I wouldn't flip out. Tradelines don't like damaged goods. [ And that's probably the closest to a criticism of the Tradelines that he'll hear from her, loyal as she is. ] I was fine.
the whole canon is v brilliantly dystopian. also, aww poor ari
[She understands it now, huh? There’s a vague feeling of second-hand pride in the back of his head at hearing that. She wouldn’t have made it through in one piece without his hand involved. Been dead now, actually, by her admittance. Big Rico saves the day and secures one hell of a favor. A decent payoff, even if the price of it was an ache in his hands that wasn't there before, and it well and truly pisses him off. "Made a full recovery" is a lie he's sick of hearing.]
See, what did I tell you? You’ve got this, and you did, [he says, just as cheerily. He’s very, very familiar with that method of coping. Works just fine, in his opinion. He's a stellar example of that exercise in mental health management.] Knew you could do it. [He did not.]
After coming out of a Mega-City fun ride intact without turning yourself into a good-looking stiff, calling that stress-testing feels pretty weak in comparison, huh? Damaged goods my drokking ass. You're more exceptional than any of them there.
Right? They even let me sleep first. Amateurs. Although I'm not so sure about good-looking. I did come back minus eleven pounds, and three teeth. Looked a real fright.
[ She's being flippant, because she doesn't think he'll mind, and because when she spoke to Hanifa and Lowell that way they looked at her with concern and asked if she needed trauma support, and they're supposed to be her friends. Rico understands. Rico has probably gained himself more than just one favor out of this, should he need it. To Ari's mind, he saved her, and it was his words she focused on in the dark moments, his belief in her capabilities. ]
I'm not exceptional, though. If I were, I'd have been convincing enough to get myself out of there that first day, and then neither of us would have had to suffer. I'd make a terrible spy. I was afraid and I couldn't focus, and I made too many mistakes. Stupid mistakes.
[Well... that's all true. He won't argue against facts. And he definitely wasn't pleased that his little trick got picked up as a result and that the SJS used it as an excuse to take a closer look at him. Doesn’t mean there’s anything he can do about it now, though. Could've been worse - easy come, easy go. He barks out a little laugh.]
Amateurs, right. The teeth you can get fixed. Least you can whistle while you talk as a quick party trick. The difference in pounds...? Eh. You can keep that or lose it.
[Nothing permanent. What did Rico say? Kicking back and sitting pretty on your ship, just as promised.]
Understanding that mentality makes you exceptional. Held it together enough to keep my name and details from falling out of your mouth. More than most could say. [He means it more like it makes her an exception, but that's valuable too.] I take back what I said about mediocrity. So faking out the patrol with the tourist act didn't go well. What went wrong with the playbook? Anything you didn't expect?
[A question he doesn't actually mean; he didn't screw up, Ari did.]
I've got a better trick. I'm regrowing the teeth. Credit goes to Cardalek Genetech for designing me that way.
[ It's true, nothing permanent. Her arm's giving her a bit more trouble, the way fractures do when they've gone too long without treatment, but the doctor on the Prosperity is very good, he's assured her it'll all be fine given a little more time.
She's very matter-of-fact about her own mistakes. Ari's not telling Rico so that he can tell her it's not her fault or it doesn't matter. She knows better. She's telling him because honesty is important to her. ]
No, all the information you gave me was good. Completely accurate. I said some stupid things, but when I look back it seems like the critical point of failure was that what I thought was a natural level of nervousness didn't line up with what the Judge thought. Part of that was me getting too into my tourist role when I should have been focusing more on your advice, but the other part is that I bet he hadn't dealt with many offworlders, didn't know what was normal for us. A real tourist would have been less calm with that line of questioning, even if they weren't hiding anything.
[ She's had plenty of time to think it over, do all the retrospective analysis, and she's already told it all twice already. She'd blamed herself more at first, but Leah Savitskaya put a stop to that. Ari's mentor knew her well enough to see the signs that she was close to getting emotional, and she'd put her hands on the younger woman's shoulders and told her it didn't matter if she'd declared that she was High Queen of Cardalek and that the Judge's burn scars made her look hideous - she still wouldn't have deserved what came after. Savitskaya wasn't a sentimental woman. Ari could trust her. ]
Not bad. All I got coming out of the growth tank was somebody else’s face.
[And the letter of the law stamped into his brain. And a brother. Not that Rico's complaining about the first, even if there's plenty to complain about the last - Eustace Fargo's is one hell of a face. Credit goes where credit's due. Seems like Cardalek Genetech's a bit better at this than they are. He files that information away as he listens to the rest of it. And as always, he’s being productive at the same time, kicking away the mess on the floor into a corner. Talking is a hands-free action, after all.]
Sounds about right. Judges on Cursed Earth patrol duty aren't going to interact much with off-worlders, unless they've done a rotation in customs. And we knew the nerves would be the tricky part.
[He throws open his closet doors and looks at its contents searchingly. Hmm - at least most of his clothes are fine.]
How do I put this? Too much, too stupid, too little... It was always going to be hard to thread that needle. It's not that he didn't know what'd be normal for you, you just don't know what's normal for us.
That's true enough, and that's what mattered. What the Judges expected to see. I knew that yelling at them that they had no contract and they'd better not touch my stuff would be a bad idea, even if it'd fit the Siduri tourist role very accurately. What I didn't know was exactly where the right spot to pitch it was. [ She sighs again. ] Hell, we didn't even know that zone of the Cursed Earth counted as your territory. It was...
[ She trailed off. It was a disaster, that much was obvious. Someone older than Ari, less inclined to trust in the Tradelines, might have started to wonder just what the hell her captain had been thinking, sending her down there alone when he knew the city was a hostile place, and not much beyond that. ]
I did alright when it counted, I guess. When all I had to do was keep my mouth shut and assume everything I heard was a lie. I completely lost track of time while I was in there, but you were right. Three days. And it's over now. It's not going to affect my career, no permanent harm done, so it's fine. [ Just as Rico had predicted, Ari's people had been told that her injuries came from resisting arrest. She hadn't contradicted it, because that meant she wouldn't have to deal with idiots who had no idea what any of it was like calling her a coward for not getting herself killed on that first day. ]
[It was...? Rico rolls his eyes. He might as well double back and finish that sentence for her, if she's not going to get around to it.]
It was a full bag of leaking piss that got handed to you, sure. Boots on the ground in a place like Mega-City One with no backup, no clue. Then you handed it off to me, and then I had to hold it too. Which by the way - is still leaking.
[He says it somewhat pointedly. Rico's not in the clear yet. He'd passed the RPAT somehow, which came as a surprise, even if he'd never admit it. Hadn't even remembered half of it. But he'd be an idiot to think that would be the last of it. The SJS hadn't caught their man after tearing through two dozen Judges, which, haha, embarrassing. Pissed off the street jocks at Sector House, and the Sector Chief who wasn't likely to let them repeat the process with no results. Koslowski hadn't been running a very happy squad room in the first shift's morning briefing. That particular egg on their face could only risk them taking more drastic measures.]
You're right. It's over now, so it's fine. But take a moment to think about how it would've turned out if I was in the middle of a shootout when you contacted me. You'd have been involved in one of your own, then you'd be dead. [He clicks his tongue.] No more Lieutenant Tayrey.
[ Ari winces at that vividly unpleasant metaphor, but she can't exactly deny the accuracy of it. It's all true. If she hadn't been able to contact him it would have gone down differently, sure. She'd have played to her strengths more, signalled to anyone approaching the shuttle to back off, and tried to fly on through. It would still have ended badly. Maybe she'd have taken out a few Judges herself first, with the transport shuttle's less than optimal weapons systems. Gone out Tradeline style, very impressive flying, terrible odds, blaze of glory - and what would that get her? A notice in the newsnet transmissions, up and down the lines? She'd still be dead. When she speaks again, it's with a certain measured seriousness. ]
I'd say I didn't mean for any of it to harm you, but you know that, and it doesn't help anything. I can't regret contacting you. Like you said, I'd be dead if I hadn't. You went well beyond your minimum contractual obligation, Rico. Don't think I don't realise.
[ There it is, genuine gratitude, and no small amount of admiration. He'd been there for her when she'd otherwise have been utterly alone. She hasn't forgotten, however, that it wasn't all just out of the goodness of his heart. ]
I thought passing that test put you in the clear - if there's anything I can do for you now, tell me. I owe you that much. We're in this sector a while longer, and then out along the Alyet line to the frontier - but this channel is going to stay open. I'll hold up my end of the contract, whenever you need it.
Good to hear. Hit me up on the channel whenever. Flying under the radar for a while's gonna be plenty boring for me.
[A smile twitches at the corner of Rico's mouth. As long as she knows that - he's not gonna hammer on that particular nail too much. Besides, there's something funny in how unrepentantly honest she is about not regretting his involvement.]
And oh no, no. Hahaha, I'm not in the clear. Nowhere near. They're not forgetting about it any time soon just because they didn't catch the bastard. The boys and girls in the SJS have long memories, and above all? They hate looking stupid. Hope your ship's learned a valuable lesson about prep the next time they send someone down, because if I wake up to my door being busted down to go for one more round, the nerve damage is gonna be more permanent.
[Nothing a stint in the Speed-Heal couldn't fix this time. The examining Judge was full of spit and vinegar, and plenty heavy-handed with cranking the handle - Cal... Judge Cal? Maybe. That man was clearly going places. Though obviously not too far if he couldn't get the truth out of Rico.]
You Tradeliners can do better good for me by clearing out for a while and not causing any problems.
Right. I'll tell the captain exactly that. [ A little laugh, because of course she wouldn't dare. She's nowhere close to having the seniority to get away with it. ] I don't think you have to worry. He came to see me in the infirmary the first day. I think that was proof enough of the need for more preparation if we ever fly in again. And none of them know about you on my side either. They know I have a contact planetside, but I said that a condition of our agreement was that I don't reveal any more than that. You can count on Tradeliners to respect contract.
[ Ari's also going to do her own reading up on Mega-City One, because it'll bother her if she doesn't, after all this. If the Tradelines do try to set down there again, it'll go one of two ways - keeping her out of it completely because of her past experience, or deciding that it makes her knowledgeable and insisting she goes along. The latter wouldn't exactly be something she'd look forward to, but it'd be proof that they didn't think she was fragile, so probably better for her, in the long run. ]
I'll keep in touch for sure. You do the same! They won't let me back to normal duty yet, so you can imagine how bored I am right now. Here, let me send you something. Since I know what you look like now.
[ Sort of. That helmet obscures a lot. Ari sends her own picture, in which she's sitting in her little cabin. She'd look very proper in her smart uniform, hair in a neat bun - if not for that gap-toothed grin, the faint, yellowed remnants of bruising at her jaw, and the crisp white fabric of the sling cradling her arm. She also doesn't realise that the friendly gesture will show him just how young she is. Her manner and the details she's given make it clear enough that she's not the most experienced of Tradeliners, but she likes to obscure the exact details, and long-range communications make that easier. She carries on talking as she sends it over. ]
Speaking of work, do you really work eighteen hours as standard, not because someone's given you extra duty to make your life miserable? Because that's...I mean, I'm impressed, but doesn't the lack of sleep get to you over time?
Hm. [It’s approving.] Now that’s the smile of a winner.
[Rico tilts his head - looks like she got off pretty easy with the treatment. With a rank like lieutenant, he would’ve pegged her for a little older. She’s basically a later-year cadet, huh? Didn’t realize that Tradelines had them running missions young as well, thought civvies and offies didn’t go for that sort of thing. Not that different, then.
Rico’s only twenty himself. But between his gravelly voice, attitude, demeanor, general swagger, stubble, and helmet - it adds a couple years to his appearance. From his point of view. There’s been more than one person staring down the end of his lawgiver whose last horrified thoughts were he’s just a kid.
He’s never just been one, anyway. Him and Joe both.]
Eighteen hours runs long for a day, but it’s standard for me. I like to take three six hour shifts, back to back - gotta keep up my arrest stats. I don’t really like to sit still.
[Something they have in common, looks like.]
As for fatigue, we’ve got sleep machines that help out with that. Ten minutes in one of those feels like a full eight hours, and then you’re back on the streets again.
[ His comment makes Ari smile again. It's true. The fact that they're talking to each other is proof of that. After close to two weeks of recovery she doesn't even look that bad, although how much of that is clever genetics and how much she owes to the ship's doctor she couldn't say.
She does take Rico for a couple of years older than he is, but it's not important to her. Tradeliner ships sign their trainees up young, if they plan to make a career of it, but after that, it's all down to them. Ari's a quick learner thanks to those modifications of hers; she only took a few years to pass the lieutenants' examination. There are candidates in their early twenties who still haven't - very unfortunate people who would be better off finding another career, in her view. It's a tough exam, lasts all day with half of that in simulation, and until quite recently she'd have said it was the most difficult thing she's ever done.
It does annoy her when she gets ignorant stationers calling her a kid, whether it's disparaging or with sympathy. The latter's probably worse. What they don't understand is that if she's dealing with a problem downstation, she's there as a representative of the Tradelines, a certified lieutenant, and needs to be treated accordingly. What they might think of her as an individual is irrelevant, and she's not shy about making that clear. ]
Sleep machines! That's amazing. I'd get so much more done if I had one of those. Our research hasn't gotten that far yet. [ One area in which it seems Mega-City One is far ahead of Cardalek and the other tech companies. ]
Our standard shifts are twelve hours. I run the astrogation department through second shift, usually. Right now I'm not cleared to work more than half a shift at a time, and it's frustrating as anything. If I had a sleep machine I'd probably want to be doing the same as you. [ She's fiercely ambitious and devoted to her work, and there's not all that much to do in your downtime out in deep space anyway. ]
[When him and Joe entered the Academy, they were smaller than the others. Younger than the other cadets by two years - didn't make for an easy introduction when they stuck out like tiny identical sore thumbs. Being called a kid annoyed him just as much back then, but most of the sting was taken out when they'd been able to prove themselves in the war. So he's not going to bring up anything about her age with concern - just her capabilities.]
Right? There's always work to be done. Wouldn't have enough hours in the day to get around to everything fun on my list if I slept properly more than once a week. Could do even more, but I'm pretty sure they're still ironing out the kinks. A guy from my graduating class already went full psycho and mowed down a bunch of cits - his partner was the one to take him out. Heard through the grapevine he'd went overboard on the sleep machine for months. Nothing concrete. But a bulletin notice got sent out the next day to take a real nap once in a while, so it's good as confirmed.
[He's basically relaying idle gossip at this point as he sorts through his clothes. No rest for the wicked and all. Not if he wanted to get everything fitted into his schedule by the end of the day and get this mess cleaned up.]
So - running the astrogation department. What kind of duties are involved with that?
[ As disturbing as this particular bit of gossip is, Ari appreciates it. It feels like a normal conversation, and she's had precious few of those lately. ]
I think you've drawn the right conclusion about the sleep. Sounds like the machines need a lot more testing. Could be a coincidence, something else went wrong in that guy's head, but I wouldn't risk it. Maybe I'm better off sticking to regular sleep. Six hours is enough for me, that's not so bad.
[ She's always happy to talk about her work, and none of it is information he couldn't get by reading about Tradeline procedures anyway. ] Astrogation. First thing I've got to say is that astrogation is Savitskaya's department really. She has first shift, she taught me everything I know and has been doing it a long time - but she's got to sleep, right? We split the responsibilities. What those are depends on where the ship is. Right now we're staying put, so that means monitoring local space, updating the star charts, collecting data, reporting on spatial phenomena. I do some of it myself, and I organise and supervise the rest. I've also got one of the first-year apprentices in on rotation. We do all our training shipside, and have to spend some time in each department learning the essentials. So I'm teaching her how to read our charts and chart courses in ordinary space, the basics of flying, that kind of thing. When we're on a longer flight, we calculate the most efficient way to deliver our cargo. If the ship's going faster than light, it's got to be me or Savitskaya flying it and making the course corrections in real time. The others in the department can fly through ordinary space if they're capable, but we handle the tricky parts.
[ They're the only ones who can cope with the perceptual distortions that L-space causes, but that's a complicated business that she won't venture to explain unless he asks. ]
That's ordinary duties, I guess. We also fly shuttles down planetside, or handle the fancy flying when there's a battle, but those are reasonably infrequent. It's less dangerous than your line of work, most of the time.
[Ari's ordinary duties just sounds like worse torture than the SJS thumbscrews. Varied enough for most, he figures, but it sounds intolerably boring to Rico. Not to mention hand-holding juves through lessons. He'd go stir crazy if he had to spend even more of his time than he does already sitting at a desk and filing reports.]
So you've got ordinary duties, sprinkled in with a little excitement sometimes. Running a department sounds fun, [he lies baldly. Even if she clearly seems to love her job, he doesn't much see the appeal. It interests him more what she says about the non-ordinary duties, though. That, and L-space.]
There aren't many lines of work more dangerous than mine. But that's the reward, too. Just my humble opinion. [A short pause as he examines a tank top that he's holding.] You said half the time you Tradeliners show up to a little dispute, no shots are fired. But for that other half... how does that feel?
[ Ari enjoys most of it. What she appreciates most is the responsibility, because a recently-qualified astrogator on a bigger ship would have to spend at least a few years as someone's assistant before they got to run things themselves. Ari has responsibility and power, a decent profit-share in recognition of it, and her eye on a captaincy before she's thirty.
People always ask about the conflict, that's nothing new. It's far more interesting than monitoring and paperwork. She doesn't think she's ever been asked how she felt, though, just for the dramatic details. ]
I think - well, feeling doesn't come into it. If we know there's a dispute, we're well-prepared. The negotiation fails, we're all ready for it, we just do our jobs. We protect the colony that's relying on us. Attacking a Tradeline-insured colony world is a really stupid idea. I'll tell you what's more risky. Dropping out of L-space. That's when you're alone and you can get chancers lurking in-system, thinking they can attack you and take the ship and the cargo. Imagine it, dark half of second-shift, and they're clever, so all I see is a blip on the sensors, something not right. Nobody wants to be the jumpy junior lieutenant who raised the alarm and got all the senior staff out of bed for nothing but space debris, but I've got good instincts, I haven't been wrong yet. Of course I don't sit around waiting for them to show up, I call up to whoever's on communications and weapons systems and then maybe I can fly us just right so that our enemy doesn't know we've spotted them until we want them to.
[ Ari might not be verbalising her feelings about it all, but the enthusiasm and pride in her voice is obvious. It really is dangerous - immediately after exiting L-space, close to four in five of the crew are still under sedation. Only half of the rest are on duty. The kind of people who'd attack under those circumstances want to immobilise the ship, board it, and kill everyone they find there. ]
What do you mean, about the danger being the reward? How good it feels when it all goes right?
[Rico knows all about dramatic details already. He’s not going to hear anything he hasn’t heard before if he asks about those. No, it's how she feels about it that's interesting. Gives him a better idea of her mindset. And it's pretty telling what she says. "I think - well, feeling doesn't come into it... We just do our jobs."
He picks up a coat hanger. A textbook answer, with a whole lot of youthful pride. Ha ha ha.]
And there they sit not realizing how how screwed they are, with a hotshot like you at the wheel.
[He smirks. It's funny to imagine Tayrey in the driver's seat, tires squealing and doing a drive-by while someone else in the backseat pops their head out the window with a stuttergun. Same thing, really. Just on a larger scale. And as for her question...?]
I mean “that’s the reward” in two ways. Sure, it feels good when it all goes right. But also the danger is the reward. Literally. [Rico takes on the cadence of a lecture, as if guiding her through an argument.] If you don't understand what I mean, let me put it this way. For most jobs, the longer you do it, the more perks you get, right? In your case, it'd be more profit, more power, more freedom, a shinier uniform in a different color... something like that.
[Rico shakes his head for dramatic effect, even if she can’t exactly appreciate it. Slips the coat hanger into place, picks up another one.]
Well we don't get any of that. We just get a pat on the head for doing our duty, then more danger, heaped on with more danger pretending that this city isn’t already rotting until some punk gets lucky and you die holding your guts in. But if you’re lucky enough to survive to the point where you’re squeezed for all you’re worth and tired of beating the drokking streets to death, you can hobble around the Academy as an old cripple raising the next generation of cadets to live just like you, or you get to go up to good ol’ Clarence Goodman and beg him to retire you so you can live the REST of your LIFE ON THE LONG WALK!
[There’s the sound of a sharp crack as the coat hanger splinters under Rico’s grip. Oops. There’s a brief fraught period of silence as he shakes it off. But then the tension melts, and his voice is remarkably more cheery when he says the next part, back to his usual tone.]
Plastic these days, huh? Geez, I’ll have to write up a complaint, get my ten creds back. Anyway, so you gotta find ways to enjoy it. Find your own fun on the way. See, me? I take a lot of pride in knowing that not everyone can do what I do.
[ Ari nods along with his description of the perks of seniority and advancement. It's not exact, but he's not far wrong, either. From the way he's framing this explanation, she can guess that it must be different for Judges, but not quite by how much. It dismays her when she hears it. It seems fundamentally unfair. Ari had traded the luxury of living on one of the uppermost floors of Cardalek Tower for an apprentice's cabin hardly big enough to hold a bed, knowing that she'd get more when she earned it. She'd given up plenty of her own freedoms in order to protect other people's, but in the knowledge that someday, if she was talented enough, she could be the captain, the one giving all the orders instead of obeying them. Most importantly, it had all been her own choice, and if she wanted out, she could leave at the end of her contractual term, no trouble.
Rico has no such assurances. She finds herself holding her breath as his little tirade reaches its crescendo, and he might hear a small, barely audible gasp at that snap of the plastic hanger. Her response isn't immediate, and it's just as well, because that significant shift in tone tells her that it'd be a bad idea to ask probing questions about this long walk. Datanet will tell her later, she reasons. ]
You're right about the Tradelines. It's tough at first, but the more seniority you gain, the greater the benefits. I didn't know that it was so different for you. You have to find enjoyment when you can, and of course you should take pride in your work. Nobody mediocre could do what you do and survive it, you were right about that. It takes strength to keep it up, day after day, knowing that there won't be an end to it.
[ She doesn't let herself linger too long on exactly what it is he does. Ari has ethical objections, but she can see very clearly that Rico never really had any choice in any of it. Her instinct is to keep encouraging him to value liberty, but she doesn't want to make him miserable. She's fond of him, in her own way. They're more alike than she first expected. Some people would see that as nothing more than a twisted, shared trauma bond - he saved her life, and then they both suffered behind locked doors in that sector house on account of it, and that's why she cares. That's too simplistic an explanation for Ari, though. There's more to it than that. ]
I'll tell you something. I can't make you any promises, because for all I know probability goes against me tomorrow and my ship gets blown to pieces, but in the unlikely event that the two of us both make it to an age where you want to retire? Call me. I'll come and get you, take you to whatever colony or station you want a nice relaxing retirement on. We'll make it look like you died, or...between the two of us we've got to be smart enough to figure something out. I'll be a wealthy senior captain if I last that long, there will be nobody on my side to say I can't do it. [ She laughs, just a hint of bitterness in it. ] Or maybe I'll send over some unfortunate lieutenant for the pick-up, just in case. On hazard pay.
[ As ambitious as she is, Ari can't imagine getting to an age where she wants to retire. There aren't many elderly spacers. Becoming captain of her own ship is about as far as her career plans go. ]
Haha. Christ, you’re a sweetheart. [He means it.] I'll be surprised if I'm still around by the time your ship swings back around from the frontier. Maybe you'll get lucky sooner, come out of this whole side trip in the black.
[It takes strength to keep it up. Or insanity. So when he looks at craggy old has-beens like Kenner, who's the insane one here? He does find enjoyment where he can, between playing his part in this drokked up horror show. Little luxuries to savor, like movies, relationships, that perfect moment where he's kicking his feet up on his lawmaster, sun shining in his visor as a plan all comes together... Rico know he can survive the streets. He owns them. It’s really just a matter of knowing if he feels like making the slog all the way to the end, because he feels like getting more reckless by the month. Getting away with too much, maybe. Inching slowly towards Resyk as he keeps toeing the line and asking, day after day, then why shouldn't I?
But he humors the thought. It's nice to pretend.]
Sure. You could drop me off someplace sunny. I’ll kick back, drink all day and night. Party with some other eldsters until my knees and kidneys blow out. Have a new squeeze each week, they can all fight each other over me and I’ll just stand there and laugh. You could even drop by sometime to party with, if you can spare the time from making piles of cash, hand over fist.
[Hell, he's finding that he actually hopes Tayrey makes it. It's a decent offer, flavored with enough self-awareness of both their situations that it's not insulting. So Rico's smile is a real one, this time. Equally wishful and resentful, well-aware it's just a pie in the sky fantasy.]
And give your fresh-faced lieutenant lackey triple pay and a fruit basket for the pickup when you’re calling the shots in the big chair. That future poor bastard will earn every bit of it, I'm sure.
Sure thing. Fruit and Cardalek coffee. Unless I turn into one of those terrible old people who insist that the younger generation have it easy. You know - back in my day flying down to Mega-City One was actually dangerous - while I ignore all the evidence that it still is.
[ It's all just a daydream for her too. Ari might be convinced she'll have a straight and shining career trajectory if she lives long enough, but space is nothing if not unpredictable. She does suspect that Rico might have better odds than he's giving himself, if only because it can't be sustainable to put judges through that many years of training and then lose so many of them young, but if that's how he perceives it, she's hardly going to contradict him. ]
It sounds like what you need is the old folks' version of Siduri Station. I'd visit. Show up as a mysterious figure from your past, drive everyone you've been having overnights with even more mad with jealousy because I won't tell them how I know you. Or I'll tell every one of them a completely different story. The cash can practically take care of itself by that point - maybe I'll have a little company of ships, each of them on independent operations, sending me a share of the profit for doing nothing but owning them. [ That's very ambitious, but she is the daughter of a finance director. She can dream. ]
I think I've got to keep flying until my time's up, though. With my genetics, if I gave it up and went somewhere quiet, I'd end up pushing a hundred and twenty, easily. A hundred and forty if I took telomerase. I can't imagine being that old. [ She'd end up like Miri Carrington, who has to be somewhere between those two estimates. Not the example she wants to follow. ]
[ No jobs tomorrow. No responsibilities, no quests, no assholes to beat up or folk to save. Len didn't realize how much he needed the breathing room until he had it, too swamped by the desire to pick up other people's pieces for them to notice he was dropping fragments of himself along the way. Put out the word with his little "family" that he was taking at least twenty-four hours of R&R, and got some snide but appreciated comment back from Raúl about how he looked like he needed it.
The bags under his eyes are starting to show and so he plans for a night in, an event to which Rico Dredd invites himself and Len doesn't have it in him to argue about it. He half-expects things to get as rowdy as they usually do, too, but the only ambient sounds over the Sinatra playing softly on the radio come from the suite's kitchenette, where Rico is busying himself with...something.
From his leggy sprawl on the sofa Len lolls his head to one side, watching the man's back as the soft clatter of dishes, the muted thuds on the cutting board, and the sizzling of something that smells fucking incredible drag his attention from the book he's only partly reading. Rico looks good like that, all domestic, a towel thrown over one shoulder while he works. Concentrating on something that isn't tearing somebody open or building a bomb from scratch.
He looks good like that too, mind, but the novelty here is what makes it interesting. ]
[In Rico’s opinion, cooking isn't all that different from making explosives when you really get down to it. You need to mix up exact quantities of just the right ingredients, follow a specific order of operations, add a little heat... and if you do it right, somebody eats it.
Mm. No. That joke is definitely staying in the mental workshop for a while longer.
It's a more relaxed atmosphere in the room tonight. Len's been looking particularly ragged around his edges for... a variety of reasons. For one thing, he hasn't seemed to notice that his curls are looking increasingly more on the 'bedraggled' side than what you could call 'naturally-tousled' by the day. And with the more obvious addition of the dark circles, it's no surprise that Len decides he's taking a day off. So yeah, Rico elbows his way into Len's plans with one of his own in mind.
If he happens to look particularly domesticated standing around in his boxers, it’s far from his mind. He barely registers Len's question, he’s so intensely focused on dicing the absolute shit out of some potatoes he'd gotten from Westside - and a smattering of some other not-too-irradiated produce, as thanks for helping out with repelling some Fiends with a friendly shotgun while he happened to be there. Truth be told he'd spent more caps by using the ammo he did than he would have if he'd bought it all straight, but you just can't put a price on goodwill. That's how he got a lead on getting the (pretty fucking expensive) half-used, secret string of dried chiles laying out on the counter, after all. Efficiently eviscerated, then hand-ground into a blood-red, wet paste.
Kind of like what happens when we work together, Rico thinks. Heh. The corners of his mouth turn up in a tiny smile as he looks down at the counter.
...Wasn't Len saying something? Right.]
You'll see. [To cover up his lapse in attention, he tosses the potato he's holding lightly in his hand before catching it.] You're gonna love it. It's to die for, and well... technically, somebody already has.
[He pauses.]
I'm not cooking people, just to be clear. The farmboys over at Westside handed me an extra bag of potatoes for using some of my new fletchette rounds on very short notice. They work great, by the way.
[Chit-chatting about how the day went. It's kind of nice?]
[ It is nice, a sensation Len is still getting accustomed to on the rare occasion it raises its head. He's never been a remotely domestic person in spite of enjoy a number of domestic things, but he likes the smell of home-cooking and it's oddly charming to see Rico wandering around a hot stove shirtless. Might as well start the internal timer now to see how long it takes before some hot oil spatters on his chest.
Len lowers the book in his hand to his stomach, turning his head to get a proper glance at him. A little sweaty but clearly competent with a knife in his hand, even when he's not outright cutting somebody open. He's infuriatingly good-looking, even like this. Especially like this. Len's gaze tracks down the line of his neck where it meets his shoulder, over a bicep tightening and releasing as he moves, sliding askance to his collarbone. A good sign, perhaps, that his libido is returning home from the war after the last few days of being too exhausted to even consider sex. ]
I'm lookin' forward to it.
[ It's sincere, anyway. There's a familiar peppery scent he can't quite put his finger on, but he'll cotton to it soon enough. He reaches up and rubs at his eyes, still achy and tired in spite of the sleep he got last night. Can't possibly be helped any by the latent radiation sickness after some recent exposure, and he knows if he stretches himself beyond capacity again Arcade is going to put him under house arrest, and nobody wants to see where that ends up. ]
Hey. [ His voice cracks, scratchy, and he says again: ] Hey. I'm gonna make a drink, you want anything?
Sure thing, sweetheart. [Rico's low rasp of a voice sounds pleased. The stove radiates heat just this side of uncomfortable, a small pot bubbling away with the lid closed, and he puts down the knife to check on the spitting skillet. He doesn't usually make a habit of cooking in his underwear, even if he's not particularly fazed by errant sparks for obvious reasons.] Give me a - fuck, ugh. Yeah, just uh, mix me up a cocktail or whatever. Surprise me.
[He scowls and rubs the sting from a tiny spit of oil that's landed alarmingly close to his nipple with the corner of his towel. Glances sidelong at Len to see if he'd caught that, hoping he's too busy staring at something else instead. Like his book. Or more hopefully, glued to Rico's ass. Come on, it's right there.
No such luck. Oh well. Hope springs eternal.
While Len might venture off to fulfill that particular mission, Rico barely notices when one song quavers to a close and another fades in.
...and when I looked, the moon had turned to gold...
He scrapes the potatoes straight into the skillet, adding a fresh sound to the existing sizzle of nightstalker tail. The rattle sliced off, pinkish meat stripped clean of scales and searing nicely in tender chunks. Expensive and relatively rare to find on offer anywhere, on account of absolutely no sane person wanting to venture into a nightstalker den on purpose. Nobody except for Rico, that is. Culinary novelty’s in short supply around an irradiated desert, and rangy Freeside rat meat wasn't going to cut it for a special occasion to these standards. Good thing all he actually had to do was talk to Red Lucy and kill it himself. Crazy girl.
Time for the crowning touch. The second the sauce hits the pan, Rico's eyes water. Gives it a good stir, then slams a lid on it. That'll be a few minutes. No better way to deliver the coup de grâce to a bout of radiation sickness than putting this into your system and sweating the rest out.]
[ Len glances briefly over at Rico at the swear, but his attention is pulled back to his liquor cabinet before he can witness any evidence of cooking-inflicted burns. Sweetheart comes without strings, this time. Normally there's a sarcastic edge to it, taunting or mocking, teasing him for his softness. Times like these, Len doesn't know whether to take it at face value.
He probably should. He knows Rico Dredd well enough at this point to be able to tell when he's angling for something, and while there's probably an ulterior motivation threaded in there somewhere, the gesture feels genuine enough. Almost like they're actually dating.
At present he isn't of the constitution to be able to withstand tequila, so Len opts for an older bottle of gin that he's held onto - both because of its immense age, and because the vaguely chilling taste of it, in moderation, helps to soothe a queasy stomach. Having been told not to self-medicate his way out of this particular mess, Len is at least doing his best to adhere to professional advice from the only doctor in a fifty mile radius who gives him a dressing-down every time he asks for a bandage.
He tops the gin off with a little splash of some prickly pear juice, tart and sweet. Meandering back to the kitchenette with two glasses in hand, Len blows an errant curl out of his eyes as he sidles up to Rico and presses a tumbler into his waiting palm. That familiar peppery smell is stronger now, like some long-lost scent from his childhood, and he frowns a little as he attempts to identify it in earnest. A bright-red paste smears across the bottom of a nearby bowl and Len indelicately dips his pinky into it, sniffing lightly before touching it to his tongue.
Recognition hits him like a deathclaw in a full sprint. His eyes widen, looking from Rico to his finger to the pot on the stove. Len forgets himself just long enough to ask, incredulous: ]
[Len sidles over with two glasses in hand, obviously curious even as he's purportedly bringing tonight's chef a decent drink. Rico watches him from the corner of his eye, and it takes a mighty effort to suppress his enormously smug attitude lest he ruin the surprise. Guess he finally gets a clue and figures it out, even if he needs to stick his finger right into the mystery in question to do it. Rico savors the moment, taking a long second to bask in the blatant surprise as he slugs back part of his drink and sets it down. Not bad, but Len's incredulous, wide-eyed outburst is a meal that could satisfy him enough on its own.]
Huh? [Rico scratches his ear with his pinky.] I don’t speak Mexican, buddy. You know this.
[Kind of cute that he startled him enough to break out the Spanish, though. Take your pleasures where you can. He reaches out and cracks the lid on the skillet, sending out a fresh waft of heat that would definitely make Len’s eyes briefly sting from where he’s standing. Purely for show, judging by the half-smug, plenty-pleased look on his face as he inspects the results.]
Yeah. [he says, airily. ] I think it's done soon. Anyway, is that some kind of..... question, perhaps?
[ Mexican, good god. Len doesn't even bother to roll his eyes over that one; it's not worth it to argue any difference, and besides, it isn't as though he could say the language is what it once was, anyway. Dialects have evolved, just like the rest of them. Rico tips the lid up and roiling steam billows out, pricking wetly at his eyes, and the sense memory attached to the smell and the burn is vivid, bright. ]
Yeah, it's a question.
[ He doesn't wait to translate, because it doesn't really matter. Rico looks mighty pleased with himself for having done something borderline altruistic, content with Len's recognition and clearly looking for brownie points. He lets the dish cook. He doesn't let Rico get away without answering a different question. ]
Oh, this thing? The stars aligned. [Rico lies. He approached the borderline-impossible idea like a man on a mission - with disproportionate intensity, underhanded methods, and an unshakable belief in his success. That, and a lot of caps. He does feel significantly, unfortunately lighter.] The boys at Westside tipped me off about a trader with some rare chiles that swapped hands all the way up from Baja, if you can believe it. Turns out she already had a buyer, but I just did the ol' -
[He leans an elbow against the counter, the lid dangling carelessly from his hand. Two hundred and ten pounds of solid muscle, a jaw cut with the rakish shadow of stubble and a hint of danger, and in a voice just as hot and smoky as the scent in the air;]
- c’mon, beautiful. It came all this way. I'm really gonna have to go without a taste of this hot stuff?
[A smile cracks against the straight face as his eyes glitter. Laughing, he bends down to grab a mismatched, motley set of chipped plates and bowls. It was a hilariously bad line, but it didn’t need to be good.]
Can you believe it? The men must be ugly in Junktown, because it worked. Haha. Easier than stomping on a mantis.
[ Yeah, it's admittedly very difficult not to take in the eyeful of muscle that Rico conveys in his casual, easy, deliberate posing. Len has never made any particular secret about how attractive he finds this man - Rico knows it, too, unfortunately - but it's especially apparent when he stretches like this, evoking the crowded market and the approach he took to convince some trader into giving him what he wanted. Len isn't a fool; he's done the same, albeit with less bulk at his disposal.
But he also sees the act for what it is: an oddly kind gesture and a meaningful gift that Rico is dancing around to save face. He did this specifically to appease Len, and Len would begrudgingly admit that it's working. Nostalgia is a hard button to find in this world, but Rico is pressing it. ]
That is...so cute.
[ Len muses, a wry smile winnowing onto his face as he closes the distance between them. A couple of fingers worm into the ties of the apron, an old fire stoked to greater warmth as Len considers Rico's face in the close proximity for a long moment. Then he very abruptly smacks Rico's ass. ]
[Cute? What's so cute about- oh, never mind. His train of thought is immediately shunted towards a different track when Len moves closer in that all-too-deliberate way of his, his pulse eagerly spiking when his fingers brush against his waist. It's a strangely comfortable, quiet moment as Len just stands there close, doing nothing but look at him, and Rico basks in his attention like a gecko in the warm sun. He's also blatantly calculating exactly where on this kitchenette's counters he might be able to hoist the other man onto, hosting an entire internal debate on whether the food could stand to wait while they find another way to work off his radiation sickness and whether it'd be worth it. The answer, obviously, is fucking yes.
That is, until an entire-handed slap against his right asscheek drags a startled laugh out of him, one of the more undignified ones that sounds more like a backfiring engine being dragged over rocks than anything. Message received, loud and clear: Get your ass going.]
I thought you were supposed to kiss the cook, not smack his ass. [Far too amused despite himself as he disentangles from him - ] Just for that, you're getting the ugly plate tonight.
[He spins the plate in question on a finger, lets it leap in the air before catching it easily. Because of course he does.]
Go sit down. Your waiter will be with you shortly.
[ As wildly satisfying as it is to see this man still, to see that familiar hunger flaring hotly in his eyes, Len doesn't want to test his own stamina until he's eaten, and that might be the most responsible sentiment he's entertained in the last five years of his life. It comes as a reassurance to know his own internal stores have yet to dim completely, but the siren call of a good meal on an empty stomach is too great a pull. ]
I'll kiss him later.
[ Len smirks lazily, pulling away and sidling over to the only dining table in the room. It's half-cluttered with dismantled firearms, one of his modified scopes broken down for cleaning before he abandoned it to sleep off some of this sickness. Projects he'll complete when he has the motivation to do anything other than sprawl around on two-hundred year old furniture.
He still watches Rico work from this post, eyes lidded, quietly warmed by the gesture. Contemplating whether he might pass out if they try to get into anything really physical later. ]
Is the cook gonna share his recipe if I like his meal?
[Between Len's impressive collection of guns and Rico's habit of detail stripping his already-immaculate weapons when he's relentlessly bored, any reasonably flat surface in here has a half-decent chance of being crowded with parts. Rico throws on an actual shirt - a rarity enough, apparently wanting to be presentable for dinner - and comes to the table with loaded plates in hand, cradling full bowls too. He sets it all down with a thunk, and slides that long-awaited food in front of Len.]
Sure. I'll teach you if we ever get the time. After everything's over, and we put a fork in it.
[If. They never seem to have too much of it in the looming shadow of Caesar's Legion. True to his word, he did give Len the ugly plate. But it's loaded with a thick stew of nightstalker and potato chunks, simmered and slathered in red-hot arbol chile sauce with a side of cornmeal flatbread, so all can probably be forgiven.]
Nightstalker tail, potatoes, and some other stuff that traveled maybe a couple hundred miles, [he explains as he pokes a disobedient potato back into aesthetic place with a fork.] Plus a little magic from yours truly. And this...?
[A half-shrug as he gestures at the bowls. He doesn't seem to have as much to say about the soup. It's a lot more humble compared to the other dish. Beans, dried cactus fruit, wild onion, hominy, a splash of tequila. Half-opaque in a yellowish broth, little lumps poking out from the surface.] It's just an old recipe. But I think you'll like it.
[It's just a scattering of whatever’s on hand. Dried ingredients that are lightweight to pack and carry, with things you could harvest from the desert as you traveled, if you got lucky. Simple enough to toss into a single pot and cook in a campfire at the end of the day, and then dole out. He hasn't shared this particular meal with others in a long time, so in a voice slightly rougher than usual;]
[Len comes back late, last night. Late enough for the red sun to crown the distance, warm light crawling through the windowsill and illuminating the empty half of the bed. Off-schedule by more than eight hours, after being gone on some adventure with the doc he’d been far too cagey about.
Might not have had the smoothest parting. But he knows it has to be related to his plans for the Mojave, the violent upheaval on the horizon. So he lets him go. And he’s here now. Half-asleep, Rico hears the elevator doors opening with a creak from the bedroom, the thump of his pack hitting the floor. Watches Len walk into the room with exhaustion in every line of his body. He crawls into bed without a word smelling like road dust and sweat, and a faint metallic tang that makes Rico know he had reason to use his hunting knife at some point in the last few days. And he knows what he needs from him, even before he settles in.
Then he’s finally in his hands, where he belongs. On his back, naked and pressed into the bed under Rico's weight, stripped down to his suntanned skin and scars on display, old bruises pressed into the bones of his wrists where Rico’s hands settle so habitually. He feels the sweat-damp heat of his body under his palm, Len looking up at him with those half-lidded eyes and lips bitten to hell. A thing of the desert like him doesn't really belong in the ghost of the old world, laying on top of these sheets. Rico drags a blunted fingernail up Len's thigh, playful with vicious possessiveness as his breathing runs ragged with excitement. It’s a knife that doesn’t split his skin apart, but a kind of knife all the same as he harrows that red welt into him. Clear as a line drawn on a map, territory taken and marked - what's his and whose it isn't, for all it matters in the end. Len should know by now it’s affectionate. In his own way.
Neither of them would've been what they are now, two hundred years ago. Funny to be glad for the bombs, but there’s one reason he wouldn’t have it any other way. His trailing hand settles under his knee, hitches his leg higher so he can lean in closer.]
If you want me to fuck you, why don't you ask for it?
[So maybe he’s still feeling jilted, who knew? Still playing, his other hand flexes harder around his throat, cutting off anything he could say while he teases him by sliding his cock against him, already slick with spit and lube both.]
[ Len comes back late and can feel the ache in his bones. Spread thin, still unsure about whether the connections they made out in the desert were worth the message they'll be sending to the NCR, whose trigger-happy strategy in the Mojave largely consists of "shoot anyone who doesn't look exactly like a friend." All told he feels more like the outreach in itself was a means of helping Arcade get some kind of closure - Hell, he doesn't know how useful the remnants will be when it comes time to sally forth. Maybe it doesn't matter, so long as they have some say in the last vestiges of their own reputation. Either way, he hadn't left things too comfortable with Rico upon taking his leave to Jacobstown - not telling a partner exactly where one is going has a way of doing that - and so his slinking back to bed is a combination of exhaustion peppered with something akin to guilt.
He isn't left alone long to ruminate on it all. Sometimes the only way back to normalcy is a language they both speak, a prologue opened by the the sensation of Rico's palm sliding over his hip beneath the sheets, unfastening his belt.
Sex like this always feels like a fever dream, the air between them hot and damp, the kisses sharp and dragging. The unadulterated want with which Rico approaches him is always a little overwhelming, a ragged sort of fury in it that reeks of desperation and a desire to scrawl his name onto something just to prevent others from having it. He's settled comfortably between Len's thighs and Len feels another wave of heat roll over him as a thumbnail scrapes up his skin, his own fingers squeezing the wrist just above his throat. He's hard. They're both hard. Opening his mouth just to say something petty, brattish, the words are bluntly torn from him as the hand pinning him to the mattress tightens and Len gives him a dirty look. The implication is clear: motherfucker.
Without a whole lot of leverage to his name Len's heels hook around the backs of Rico's thighs, determinedly tugging him closer in a bid to tempt him to forego patience, forego the game. The head of his cock slips artlessly against him and Len manages a small groan of frustration, one hand fumbling up Rico's chest to wrap around the back of his neck, curling thick and tight into his dark hair. The man knows what he wants, he just delights in being an insufferable prick about it and without the ability to speak the best Len can do is pull, hard. ]
[Rico just laughs like the jackass that he is, just as slow and languid as the roll of his hips as he ruts up against Len. He clearly loves Len’s hands on him and all over him, drawing him closer, tempting - and it really almost works. But giving him a kick isn’t gonna get you riding any faster, cowboy.
He presses his thumb against the divot of his jaw under his ear, forcing the other man’s head to the side so he can admire the secret proof of his claim, the long-healed cut ripped open to get to the core of him. His grip tightens in warning with a little spark in his eye - playful, always dragging that line of playful, and pulls Len into a temptation of his own, placing both tongue and teeth, nestled where he’s vulnerable. He can feel his pulse ticking underneath his calloused palm and mouth, thumping erratically, ratcheting up as he keeps him pinned to the bed and breathless, teasing him with shallow thrusts that frustrate both of them. Choking off the ability to make even that small, frustrated sound, the barely-there gasp, pressing in to fill the space of everything he takes from him until the entire world narrows down to Rico’s presence and the places they touch. It’s that same sound when Rico fucks him open with his fingers. Had fucked him, actually.
He isn’t sure how long he does this. The seconds he can count, until Len’s eyes roll back, but not the minutes like this, falling into each other. He could do this forever, and also not. His self-control is always a tenuous thing that just as always snaps violently.]
Didn’t sound like please to me. [he says eventually, in a voice as raspy as his stubble against his skin.] Should we try again?
[ Len's patience is rarely tried with such effort, such unmitigated frustration. Fingers tighten around his jaw and throat, pressing into the soft skin under his ear, the sensitive space where Rico once cut a jagged little scar. It's long-since healed now and the tissue is stiff, an old reminder that only strikes at him when he has the wherewithal to rub at his own neck. Just another place on his body where Rico's left a permanent love note, of sorts.
The tension and teeth pry him open as his supply of oxygen runs short, a pleasant sort of haziness swimming around him while his eyes lid. That disquiet is only punctuated by the clicking of Rico's canines, the intermittent pain dulled by toying with asphyxiation. There's a head high there, where the edges of his vision grow dark and his blood thunders in his skull. Every attempt at an inhale feels like being buried in sand and his fingers loosen from Rico's hair just as he's given the space to breathe, sucking in air while his chest inflates.
The exhale is just as raspy coming out again, half-registering Rico's commentary. Another shallow thrust makes him shiver and Len's eyes crack open. He tongues at his lower lip and takes a beat, feeling the damp heat of Rico's breath on his skin, the edges of his mouth pulling in a wry smile.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Are you there? It's Tayrey.
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So you got out? Congratulations.
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I did. Thank you. I wouldn't have gotten out without you. It was just like you said, all of it. How are you? Can you talk on an audio channel, or is it a bad time?
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I’ve been recovering from having my fingers broken, if that answers your question.
I'm about to get back on the streets and make the rounds. Not a good time to chat right now. My shift's over in eighteen hours, we'll talk then.
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It does. I'm so sorry you went through that.
I didn't say a word about you. Not even the slightest hint. Word by contract, on the honor of the Tradelines, I wouldn't have.
[ The result of her stubborn silence is that she still has several healing ribs, one arm in a sling, and a couple of new teeth growing in, but she's hardly going to complain about any of that now. ]
This line will stay secure. Call me when you're able to.
no subject
Relax. I know you didn’t. That’s why I’m walking out of the med bay with a chit and not looking at twenty years in a Cursed Earth work camp.
[True to his word, it’s eighteen and a half hours later that he opens up the line again as he looks at his ransacked apartment with displeasure. It was pure luck that he passed the stomach check, and didn’t leave anything incriminating stashed away in here. Good thing he hadn’t made the move to the lux-apt in Old Town just yet. That’d be hard to justify under scrutiny as close as this.
Two weeks away had made some of his favorite people a little cocky, as well. Rico had to work extra hard to catch up, remind them who really owned the streets.]
Rico here. You might have kicked over an anthill with our little stunt. Took a while for the heat to die down.
no subject
She's waiting for the call when it comes, sitting in her little private cabin so that she doesn't have to worry about being overheard or interrupted. ]
Rico. It's good to hear from you. They don't have you out eighteen hours again tomorrow? We can make it brief if they do. You need to catch all the sleep you can. [ She sighs, very quietly. ] I really am sorry for dragging you into this. I don't regret it, because I'd be dead now if I hadn't, but I'm sorry it caused trouble for you. Was it the hotel? They traced that back?
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[Rico sounds somewhat amused. Hoarser too, his already gravel-rough voice running somewhat ragged at the edges. But it’s composed. He got all his frustration out earlier, in between his visits.]
You bet it caused trouble for me. They managed to trace it back to a Judge in this sector before I cut it, and that really got the Special Judicial Squad panties in a twist. Ended up being targeted for a “random” random physical abuse test.
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A...random physical abuse test? That's what they call it? So they suspected you, and tortured you, but since they didn't get anything, they can excuse it by saying it was just random?
it’s canon <3
[He announces the last part proudly, and there’s plenty of reason to be. He sends an image of himself breezily displaying a torn slip of paper between his index and middle finger right next to his face, giving an impish grin with his helmet on:]
RPAT_PROOF. SENT
oh wow that is just brilliantly dystopian, poor guy
Congratulations. Seriously, that must have been tough. I hope you're recovering well. Do you remember when you told me you'd been in the iso-cubes in training, and I didn't understand how you managed it, and you said something like...because you had to? I understand it now.
[ Some people might say that wasn't necessarily a good thing. Ari carries on talking, cheerily enough, as if none of this is bothering her. ] They stress-tested me after I got back. Nothing awful, and they'd never admit to it outright, but I know that normal debriefings aren't conducted in cramped little rooms with four people across the table from you. They wanted to make sure I wouldn't flip out. Tradelines don't like damaged goods. [ And that's probably the closest to a criticism of the Tradelines that he'll hear from her, loyal as she is. ] I was fine.
the whole canon is v brilliantly dystopian. also, aww poor ari
See, what did I tell you? You’ve got this, and you did, [he says, just as cheerily. He’s very, very familiar with that method of coping. Works just fine, in his opinion. He's a stellar example of that exercise in mental health management.] Knew you could do it. [He did not.]
After coming out of a Mega-City fun ride intact without turning yourself into a good-looking stiff, calling that stress-testing feels pretty weak in comparison, huh? Damaged goods my drokking ass. You're more exceptional than any of them there.
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[ She's being flippant, because she doesn't think he'll mind, and because when she spoke to Hanifa and Lowell that way they looked at her with concern and asked if she needed trauma support, and they're supposed to be her friends. Rico understands. Rico has probably gained himself more than just one favor out of this, should he need it. To Ari's mind, he saved her, and it was his words she focused on in the dark moments, his belief in her capabilities. ]
I'm not exceptional, though. If I were, I'd have been convincing enough to get myself out of there that first day, and then neither of us would have had to suffer. I'd make a terrible spy. I was afraid and I couldn't focus, and I made too many mistakes. Stupid mistakes.
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Amateurs, right. The teeth you can get fixed. Least you can whistle while you talk as a quick party trick. The difference in pounds...? Eh. You can keep that or lose it.
[Nothing permanent. What did Rico say? Kicking back and sitting pretty on your ship, just as promised.]
Understanding that mentality makes you exceptional. Held it together enough to keep my name and details from falling out of your mouth. More than most could say. [He means it more like it makes her an exception, but that's valuable too.] I take back what I said about mediocrity. So faking out the patrol with the tourist act didn't go well. What went wrong with the playbook? Anything you didn't expect?
[A question he doesn't actually mean; he didn't screw up, Ari did.]
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[ It's true, nothing permanent. Her arm's giving her a bit more trouble, the way fractures do when they've gone too long without treatment, but the doctor on the Prosperity is very good, he's assured her it'll all be fine given a little more time.
She's very matter-of-fact about her own mistakes. Ari's not telling Rico so that he can tell her it's not her fault or it doesn't matter. She knows better. She's telling him because honesty is important to her. ]
No, all the information you gave me was good. Completely accurate. I said some stupid things, but when I look back it seems like the critical point of failure was that what I thought was a natural level of nervousness didn't line up with what the Judge thought. Part of that was me getting too into my tourist role when I should have been focusing more on your advice, but the other part is that I bet he hadn't dealt with many offworlders, didn't know what was normal for us. A real tourist would have been less calm with that line of questioning, even if they weren't hiding anything.
[ She's had plenty of time to think it over, do all the retrospective analysis, and she's already told it all twice already. She'd blamed herself more at first, but Leah Savitskaya put a stop to that. Ari's mentor knew her well enough to see the signs that she was close to getting emotional, and she'd put her hands on the younger woman's shoulders and told her it didn't matter if she'd declared that she was High Queen of Cardalek and that the Judge's burn scars made her look hideous - she still wouldn't have deserved what came after. Savitskaya wasn't a sentimental woman. Ari could trust her. ]
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[And the letter of the law stamped into his brain. And a brother. Not that Rico's complaining about the first, even if there's plenty to complain about the last - Eustace Fargo's is one hell of a face. Credit goes where credit's due. Seems like Cardalek Genetech's a bit better at this than they are. He files that information away as he listens to the rest of it. And as always, he’s being productive at the same time, kicking away the mess on the floor into a corner. Talking is a hands-free action, after all.]
Sounds about right. Judges on Cursed Earth patrol duty aren't going to interact much with off-worlders, unless they've done a rotation in customs. And we knew the nerves would be the tricky part.
[He throws open his closet doors and looks at its contents searchingly. Hmm - at least most of his clothes are fine.]
How do I put this? Too much, too stupid, too little... It was always going to be hard to thread that needle. It's not that he didn't know what'd be normal for you, you just don't know what's normal for us.
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[ She trailed off. It was a disaster, that much was obvious. Someone older than Ari, less inclined to trust in the Tradelines, might have started to wonder just what the hell her captain had been thinking, sending her down there alone when he knew the city was a hostile place, and not much beyond that. ]
I did alright when it counted, I guess. When all I had to do was keep my mouth shut and assume everything I heard was a lie. I completely lost track of time while I was in there, but you were right. Three days. And it's over now. It's not going to affect my career, no permanent harm done, so it's fine. [ Just as Rico had predicted, Ari's people had been told that her injuries came from resisting arrest. She hadn't contradicted it, because that meant she wouldn't have to deal with idiots who had no idea what any of it was like calling her a coward for not getting herself killed on that first day. ]
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It was a full bag of leaking piss that got handed to you, sure. Boots on the ground in a place like Mega-City One with no backup, no clue. Then you handed it off to me, and then I had to hold it too. Which by the way - is still leaking.
[He says it somewhat pointedly. Rico's not in the clear yet. He'd passed the RPAT somehow, which came as a surprise, even if he'd never admit it. Hadn't even remembered half of it. But he'd be an idiot to think that would be the last of it. The SJS hadn't caught their man after tearing through two dozen Judges, which, haha, embarrassing. Pissed off the street jocks at Sector House, and the Sector Chief who wasn't likely to let them repeat the process with no results. Koslowski hadn't been running a very happy squad room in the first shift's morning briefing. That particular egg on their face could only risk them taking more drastic measures.]
You're right. It's over now, so it's fine. But take a moment to think about how it would've turned out if I was in the middle of a shootout when you contacted me. You'd have been involved in one of your own, then you'd be dead. [He clicks his tongue.] No more Lieutenant Tayrey.
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I'd say I didn't mean for any of it to harm you, but you know that, and it doesn't help anything. I can't regret contacting you. Like you said, I'd be dead if I hadn't. You went well beyond your minimum contractual obligation, Rico. Don't think I don't realise.
[ There it is, genuine gratitude, and no small amount of admiration. He'd been there for her when she'd otherwise have been utterly alone. She hasn't forgotten, however, that it wasn't all just out of the goodness of his heart. ]
I thought passing that test put you in the clear - if there's anything I can do for you now, tell me. I owe you that much. We're in this sector a while longer, and then out along the Alyet line to the frontier - but this channel is going to stay open. I'll hold up my end of the contract, whenever you need it.
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[A smile twitches at the corner of Rico's mouth. As long as she knows that - he's not gonna hammer on that particular nail too much. Besides, there's something funny in how unrepentantly honest she is about not regretting his involvement.]
And oh no, no. Hahaha, I'm not in the clear. Nowhere near. They're not forgetting about it any time soon just because they didn't catch the bastard. The boys and girls in the SJS have long memories, and above all? They hate looking stupid. Hope your ship's learned a valuable lesson about prep the next time they send someone down, because if I wake up to my door being busted down to go for one more round, the nerve damage is gonna be more permanent.
[Nothing a stint in the Speed-Heal couldn't fix this time. The examining Judge was full of spit and vinegar, and plenty heavy-handed with cranking the handle - Cal... Judge Cal? Maybe. That man was clearly going places. Though obviously not too far if he couldn't get the truth out of Rico.]
You Tradeliners can do better good for me by clearing out for a while and not causing any problems.
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[ Ari's also going to do her own reading up on Mega-City One, because it'll bother her if she doesn't, after all this. If the Tradelines do try to set down there again, it'll go one of two ways - keeping her out of it completely because of her past experience, or deciding that it makes her knowledgeable and insisting she goes along. The latter wouldn't exactly be something she'd look forward to, but it'd be proof that they didn't think she was fragile, so probably better for her, in the long run. ]
I'll keep in touch for sure. You do the same! They won't let me back to normal duty yet, so you can imagine how bored I am right now. Here, let me send you something. Since I know what you look like now.
[ Sort of. That helmet obscures a lot. Ari sends her own picture, in which she's sitting in her little cabin. She'd look very proper in her smart uniform, hair in a neat bun - if not for that gap-toothed grin, the faint, yellowed remnants of bruising at her jaw, and the crisp white fabric of the sling cradling her arm. She also doesn't realise that the friendly gesture will show him just how young she is. Her manner and the details she's given make it clear enough that she's not the most experienced of Tradeliners, but she likes to obscure the exact details, and long-range communications make that easier. She carries on talking as she sends it over. ]
Speaking of work, do you really work eighteen hours as standard, not because someone's given you extra duty to make your life miserable? Because that's...I mean, I'm impressed, but doesn't the lack of sleep get to you over time?
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[Rico tilts his head - looks like she got off pretty easy with the treatment. With a rank like lieutenant, he would’ve pegged her for a little older. She’s basically a later-year cadet, huh? Didn’t realize that Tradelines had them running missions young as well, thought civvies and offies didn’t go for that sort of thing. Not that different, then.
Rico’s only twenty himself. But between his gravelly voice, attitude, demeanor, general swagger, stubble, and helmet - it adds a couple years to his appearance. From his point of view. There’s been more than one person staring down the end of his lawgiver whose last horrified thoughts were he’s just a kid.
He’s never just been one, anyway. Him and Joe both.]
Eighteen hours runs long for a day, but it’s standard for me. I like to take three six hour shifts, back to back - gotta keep up my arrest stats. I don’t really like to sit still.
[Something they have in common, looks like.]
As for fatigue, we’ve got sleep machines that help out with that. Ten minutes in one of those feels like a full eight hours, and then you’re back on the streets again.
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[ His comment makes Ari smile again. It's true. The fact that they're talking to each other is proof of that. After close to two weeks of recovery she doesn't even look that bad, although how much of that is clever genetics and how much she owes to the ship's doctor she couldn't say.
She does take Rico for a couple of years older than he is, but it's not important to her. Tradeliner ships sign their trainees up young, if they plan to make a career of it, but after that, it's all down to them. Ari's a quick learner thanks to those modifications of hers; she only took a few years to pass the lieutenants' examination. There are candidates in their early twenties who still haven't - very unfortunate people who would be better off finding another career, in her view. It's a tough exam, lasts all day with half of that in simulation, and until quite recently she'd have said it was the most difficult thing she's ever done.
It does annoy her when she gets ignorant stationers calling her a kid, whether it's disparaging or with sympathy. The latter's probably worse. What they don't understand is that if she's dealing with a problem downstation, she's there as a representative of the Tradelines, a certified lieutenant, and needs to be treated accordingly. What they might think of her as an individual is irrelevant, and she's not shy about making that clear. ]
Sleep machines! That's amazing. I'd get so much more done if I had one of those. Our research hasn't gotten that far yet. [ One area in which it seems Mega-City One is far ahead of Cardalek and the other tech companies. ]
Our standard shifts are twelve hours. I run the astrogation department through second shift, usually. Right now I'm not cleared to work more than half a shift at a time, and it's frustrating as anything. If I had a sleep machine I'd probably want to be doing the same as you. [ She's fiercely ambitious and devoted to her work, and there's not all that much to do in your downtime out in deep space anyway. ]
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Right? There's always work to be done. Wouldn't have enough hours in the day to get around to everything fun on my list if I slept properly more than once a week. Could do even more, but I'm pretty sure they're still ironing out the kinks. A guy from my graduating class already went full psycho and mowed down a bunch of cits - his partner was the one to take him out. Heard through the grapevine he'd went overboard on the sleep machine for months. Nothing concrete. But a bulletin notice got sent out the next day to take a real nap once in a while, so it's good as confirmed.
[He's basically relaying idle gossip at this point as he sorts through his clothes. No rest for the wicked and all. Not if he wanted to get everything fitted into his schedule by the end of the day and get this mess cleaned up.]
So - running the astrogation department. What kind of duties are involved with that?
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I think you've drawn the right conclusion about the sleep. Sounds like the machines need a lot more testing. Could be a coincidence, something else went wrong in that guy's head, but I wouldn't risk it. Maybe I'm better off sticking to regular sleep. Six hours is enough for me, that's not so bad.
[ She's always happy to talk about her work, and none of it is information he couldn't get by reading about Tradeline procedures anyway. ] Astrogation. First thing I've got to say is that astrogation is Savitskaya's department really. She has first shift, she taught me everything I know and has been doing it a long time - but she's got to sleep, right? We split the responsibilities. What those are depends on where the ship is. Right now we're staying put, so that means monitoring local space, updating the star charts, collecting data, reporting on spatial phenomena. I do some of it myself, and I organise and supervise the rest. I've also got one of the first-year apprentices in on rotation. We do all our training shipside, and have to spend some time in each department learning the essentials. So I'm teaching her how to read our charts and chart courses in ordinary space, the basics of flying, that kind of thing. When we're on a longer flight, we calculate the most efficient way to deliver our cargo. If the ship's going faster than light, it's got to be me or Savitskaya flying it and making the course corrections in real time. The others in the department can fly through ordinary space if they're capable, but we handle the tricky parts.
[ They're the only ones who can cope with the perceptual distortions that L-space causes, but that's a complicated business that she won't venture to explain unless he asks. ]
That's ordinary duties, I guess. We also fly shuttles down planetside, or handle the fancy flying when there's a battle, but those are reasonably infrequent. It's less dangerous than your line of work, most of the time.
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So you've got ordinary duties, sprinkled in with a little excitement sometimes. Running a department sounds fun, [he lies baldly. Even if she clearly seems to love her job, he doesn't much see the appeal. It interests him more what she says about the non-ordinary duties, though. That, and L-space.]
There aren't many lines of work more dangerous than mine. But that's the reward, too. Just my humble opinion. [A short pause as he examines a tank top that he's holding.] You said half the time you Tradeliners show up to a little dispute, no shots are fired. But for that other half... how does that feel?
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People always ask about the conflict, that's nothing new. It's far more interesting than monitoring and paperwork. She doesn't think she's ever been asked how she felt, though, just for the dramatic details. ]
I think - well, feeling doesn't come into it. If we know there's a dispute, we're well-prepared. The negotiation fails, we're all ready for it, we just do our jobs. We protect the colony that's relying on us. Attacking a Tradeline-insured colony world is a really stupid idea. I'll tell you what's more risky. Dropping out of L-space. That's when you're alone and you can get chancers lurking in-system, thinking they can attack you and take the ship and the cargo. Imagine it, dark half of second-shift, and they're clever, so all I see is a blip on the sensors, something not right. Nobody wants to be the jumpy junior lieutenant who raised the alarm and got all the senior staff out of bed for nothing but space debris, but I've got good instincts, I haven't been wrong yet. Of course I don't sit around waiting for them to show up, I call up to whoever's on communications and weapons systems and then maybe I can fly us just right so that our enemy doesn't know we've spotted them until we want them to.
[ Ari might not be verbalising her feelings about it all, but the enthusiasm and pride in her voice is obvious. It really is dangerous - immediately after exiting L-space, close to four in five of the crew are still under sedation. Only half of the rest are on duty. The kind of people who'd attack under those circumstances want to immobilise the ship, board it, and kill everyone they find there. ]
What do you mean, about the danger being the reward? How good it feels when it all goes right?
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He picks up a coat hanger. A textbook answer, with a whole lot of youthful pride. Ha ha ha.]
And there they sit not realizing how how screwed they are, with a hotshot like you at the wheel.
[He smirks. It's funny to imagine Tayrey in the driver's seat, tires squealing and doing a drive-by while someone else in the backseat pops their head out the window with a stuttergun. Same thing, really. Just on a larger scale. And as for her question...?]
I mean “that’s the reward” in two ways. Sure, it feels good when it all goes right. But also the danger is the reward. Literally. [Rico takes on the cadence of a lecture, as if guiding her through an argument.] If you don't understand what I mean, let me put it this way. For most jobs, the longer you do it, the more perks you get, right? In your case, it'd be more profit, more power, more freedom, a shinier uniform in a different color... something like that.
[Rico shakes his head for dramatic effect, even if she can’t exactly appreciate it. Slips the coat hanger into place, picks up another one.]
Well we don't get any of that. We just get a pat on the head for doing our duty, then more danger, heaped on with more danger pretending that this city isn’t already rotting until some punk gets lucky and you die holding your guts in. But if you’re lucky enough to survive to the point where you’re squeezed for all you’re worth and tired of beating the drokking streets to death, you can hobble around the Academy as an old cripple raising the next generation of cadets to live just like you, or you get to go up to good ol’ Clarence Goodman and beg him to retire you so you can live the REST of your LIFE ON THE LONG WALK!
[There’s the sound of a sharp crack as the coat hanger splinters under Rico’s grip. Oops. There’s a brief fraught period of silence as he shakes it off. But then the tension melts, and his voice is remarkably more cheery when he says the next part, back to his usual tone.]
Plastic these days, huh? Geez, I’ll have to write up a complaint, get my ten creds back. Anyway, so you gotta find ways to enjoy it. Find your own fun on the way. See, me? I take a lot of pride in knowing that not everyone can do what I do.
I love the drive-by image :D
Rico has no such assurances. She finds herself holding her breath as his little tirade reaches its crescendo, and he might hear a small, barely audible gasp at that snap of the plastic hanger. Her response isn't immediate, and it's just as well, because that significant shift in tone tells her that it'd be a bad idea to ask probing questions about this long walk. Datanet will tell her later, she reasons. ]
You're right about the Tradelines. It's tough at first, but the more seniority you gain, the greater the benefits. I didn't know that it was so different for you. You have to find enjoyment when you can, and of course you should take pride in your work. Nobody mediocre could do what you do and survive it, you were right about that. It takes strength to keep it up, day after day, knowing that there won't be an end to it.
[ She doesn't let herself linger too long on exactly what it is he does. Ari has ethical objections, but she can see very clearly that Rico never really had any choice in any of it. Her instinct is to keep encouraging him to value liberty, but she doesn't want to make him miserable. She's fond of him, in her own way. They're more alike than she first expected. Some people would see that as nothing more than a twisted, shared trauma bond - he saved her life, and then they both suffered behind locked doors in that sector house on account of it, and that's why she cares. That's too simplistic an explanation for Ari, though. There's more to it than that. ]
I'll tell you something. I can't make you any promises, because for all I know probability goes against me tomorrow and my ship gets blown to pieces, but in the unlikely event that the two of us both make it to an age where you want to retire? Call me. I'll come and get you, take you to whatever colony or station you want a nice relaxing retirement on. We'll make it look like you died, or...between the two of us we've got to be smart enough to figure something out. I'll be a wealthy senior captain if I last that long, there will be nobody on my side to say I can't do it. [ She laughs, just a hint of bitterness in it. ] Or maybe I'll send over some unfortunate lieutenant for the pick-up, just in case. On hazard pay.
[ As ambitious as she is, Ari can't imagine getting to an age where she wants to retire. There aren't many elderly spacers. Becoming captain of her own ship is about as far as her career plans go. ]
lol ikr
[It takes strength to keep it up. Or insanity. So when he looks at craggy old has-beens like Kenner, who's the insane one here? He does find enjoyment where he can, between playing his part in this drokked up horror show. Little luxuries to savor, like movies, relationships, that perfect moment where he's kicking his feet up on his lawmaster, sun shining in his visor as a plan all comes together... Rico know he can survive the streets. He owns them. It’s really just a matter of knowing if he feels like making the slog all the way to the end, because he feels like getting more reckless by the month. Getting away with too much, maybe. Inching slowly towards Resyk as he keeps toeing the line and asking, day after day, then why shouldn't I?
But he humors the thought. It's nice to pretend.]
Sure. You could drop me off someplace sunny. I’ll kick back, drink all day and night. Party with some other eldsters until my knees and kidneys blow out. Have a new squeeze each week, they can all fight each other over me and I’ll just stand there and laugh. You could even drop by sometime to party with, if you can spare the time from making piles of cash, hand over fist.
[Hell, he's finding that he actually hopes Tayrey makes it. It's a decent offer, flavored with enough self-awareness of both their situations that it's not insulting. So Rico's smile is a real one, this time. Equally wishful and resentful, well-aware it's just a pie in the sky fantasy.]
And give your fresh-faced lieutenant lackey triple pay and a fruit basket for the pickup when you’re calling the shots in the big chair. That future poor bastard will earn every bit of it, I'm sure.
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[ It's all just a daydream for her too. Ari might be convinced she'll have a straight and shining career trajectory if she lives long enough, but space is nothing if not unpredictable. She does suspect that Rico might have better odds than he's giving himself, if only because it can't be sustainable to put judges through that many years of training and then lose so many of them young, but if that's how he perceives it, she's hardly going to contradict him. ]
It sounds like what you need is the old folks' version of Siduri Station. I'd visit. Show up as a mysterious figure from your past, drive everyone you've been having overnights with even more mad with jealousy because I won't tell them how I know you. Or I'll tell every one of them a completely different story. The cash can practically take care of itself by that point - maybe I'll have a little company of ships, each of them on independent operations, sending me a share of the profit for doing nothing but owning them. [ That's very ambitious, but she is the daughter of a finance director. She can dream. ]
I think I've got to keep flying until my time's up, though. With my genetics, if I gave it up and went somewhere quiet, I'd end up pushing a hundred and twenty, easily. A hundred and forty if I took telomerase. I can't imagine being that old. [ She'd end up like Miri Carrington, who has to be somewhere between those two estimates. Not the example she wants to follow. ]
kiss kiss
The bags under his eyes are starting to show and so he plans for a night in, an event to which Rico Dredd invites himself and Len doesn't have it in him to argue about it. He half-expects things to get as rowdy as they usually do, too, but the only ambient sounds over the Sinatra playing softly on the radio come from the suite's kitchenette, where Rico is busying himself with...something.
From his leggy sprawl on the sofa Len lolls his head to one side, watching the man's back as the soft clatter of dishes, the muted thuds on the cutting board, and the sizzling of something that smells fucking incredible drag his attention from the book he's only partly reading. Rico looks good like that, all domestic, a towel thrown over one shoulder while he works. Concentrating on something that isn't tearing somebody open or building a bomb from scratch.
He looks good like that too, mind, but the novelty here is what makes it interesting. ]
Whatcha makin'?
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Mm. No. That joke is definitely staying in the mental workshop for a while longer.
It's a more relaxed atmosphere in the room tonight. Len's been looking particularly ragged around his edges for... a variety of reasons. For one thing, he hasn't seemed to notice that his curls are looking increasingly more on the 'bedraggled' side than what you could call 'naturally-tousled' by the day. And with the more obvious addition of the dark circles, it's no surprise that Len decides he's taking a day off. So yeah, Rico elbows his way into Len's plans with one of his own in mind.
If he happens to look particularly domesticated standing around in his boxers, it’s far from his mind. He barely registers Len's question, he’s so intensely focused on dicing the absolute shit out of some potatoes he'd gotten from Westside - and a smattering of some other not-too-irradiated produce, as thanks for helping out with repelling some Fiends with a friendly shotgun while he happened to be there. Truth be told he'd spent more caps by using the ammo he did than he would have if he'd bought it all straight, but you just can't put a price on goodwill. That's how he got a lead on getting the (pretty fucking expensive) half-used, secret string of dried chiles laying out on the counter, after all. Efficiently eviscerated, then hand-ground into a blood-red, wet paste.
Kind of like what happens when we work together, Rico thinks. Heh. The corners of his mouth turn up in a tiny smile as he looks down at the counter.
...Wasn't Len saying something? Right.]
You'll see. [To cover up his lapse in attention, he tosses the potato he's holding lightly in his hand before catching it.] You're gonna love it. It's to die for, and well... technically, somebody already has.
[He pauses.]
I'm not cooking people, just to be clear. The farmboys over at Westside handed me an extra bag of potatoes for using some of my new fletchette rounds on very short notice. They work great, by the way.
[Chit-chatting about how the day went. It's kind of nice?]
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Len lowers the book in his hand to his stomach, turning his head to get a proper glance at him. A little sweaty but clearly competent with a knife in his hand, even when he's not outright cutting somebody open. He's infuriatingly good-looking, even like this. Especially like this. Len's gaze tracks down the line of his neck where it meets his shoulder, over a bicep tightening and releasing as he moves, sliding askance to his collarbone. A good sign, perhaps, that his libido is returning home from the war after the last few days of being too exhausted to even consider sex. ]
I'm lookin' forward to it.
[ It's sincere, anyway. There's a familiar peppery scent he can't quite put his finger on, but he'll cotton to it soon enough. He reaches up and rubs at his eyes, still achy and tired in spite of the sleep he got last night. Can't possibly be helped any by the latent radiation sickness after some recent exposure, and he knows if he stretches himself beyond capacity again Arcade is going to put him under house arrest, and nobody wants to see where that ends up. ]
Hey. [ His voice cracks, scratchy, and he says again: ] Hey. I'm gonna make a drink, you want anything?
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[He scowls and rubs the sting from a tiny spit of oil that's landed alarmingly close to his nipple with the corner of his towel. Glances sidelong at Len to see if he'd caught that, hoping he's too busy staring at something else instead. Like his book. Or more hopefully, glued to Rico's ass. Come on, it's right there.
No such luck. Oh well. Hope springs eternal.
While Len might venture off to fulfill that particular mission, Rico barely notices when one song quavers to a close and another fades in.
He scrapes the potatoes straight into the skillet, adding a fresh sound to the existing sizzle of nightstalker tail. The rattle sliced off, pinkish meat stripped clean of scales and searing nicely in tender chunks. Expensive and relatively rare to find on offer anywhere, on account of absolutely no sane person wanting to venture into a nightstalker den on purpose. Nobody except for Rico, that is. Culinary novelty’s in short supply around an irradiated desert, and rangy Freeside rat meat wasn't going to cut it for a special occasion to these standards. Good thing all he actually had to do was talk to Red Lucy and kill it himself. Crazy girl.
Time for the crowning touch. The second the sauce hits the pan, Rico's eyes water. Gives it a good stir, then slams a lid on it. That'll be a few minutes. No better way to deliver the coup de grâce to a bout of radiation sickness than putting this into your system and sweating the rest out.]
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He probably should. He knows Rico Dredd well enough at this point to be able to tell when he's angling for something, and while there's probably an ulterior motivation threaded in there somewhere, the gesture feels genuine enough. Almost like they're actually dating.
At present he isn't of the constitution to be able to withstand tequila, so Len opts for an older bottle of gin that he's held onto - both because of its immense age, and because the vaguely chilling taste of it, in moderation, helps to soothe a queasy stomach. Having been told not to self-medicate his way out of this particular mess, Len is at least doing his best to adhere to professional advice from the only doctor in a fifty mile radius who gives him a dressing-down every time he asks for a bandage.
He tops the gin off with a little splash of some prickly pear juice, tart and sweet. Meandering back to the kitchenette with two glasses in hand, Len blows an errant curl out of his eyes as he sidles up to Rico and presses a tumbler into his waiting palm. That familiar peppery smell is stronger now, like some long-lost scent from his childhood, and he frowns a little as he attempts to identify it in earnest. A bright-red paste smears across the bottom of a nearby bowl and Len indelicately dips his pinky into it, sniffing lightly before touching it to his tongue.
Recognition hits him like a deathclaw in a full sprint. His eyes widen, looking from Rico to his finger to the pot on the stove. Len forgets himself just long enough to ask, incredulous: ]
¿Qué es esto?
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Huh? [Rico scratches his ear with his pinky.] I don’t speak Mexican, buddy. You know this.
[Kind of cute that he startled him enough to break out the Spanish, though. Take your pleasures where you can. He reaches out and cracks the lid on the skillet, sending out a fresh waft of heat that would definitely make Len’s eyes briefly sting from where he’s standing. Purely for show, judging by the half-smug, plenty-pleased look on his face as he inspects the results.]
Yeah. [he says, airily. ] I think it's done soon. Anyway, is that some kind of..... question, perhaps?
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Yeah, it's a question.
[ He doesn't wait to translate, because it doesn't really matter. Rico looks mighty pleased with himself for having done something borderline altruistic, content with Len's recognition and clearly looking for brownie points. He lets the dish cook. He doesn't let Rico get away without answering a different question. ]
Where the hell did you find árbol chiles?
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[He leans an elbow against the counter, the lid dangling carelessly from his hand. Two hundred and ten pounds of solid muscle, a jaw cut with the rakish shadow of stubble and a hint of danger, and in a voice just as hot and smoky as the scent in the air;]
- c’mon, beautiful. It came all this way. I'm really gonna have to go without a taste of this hot stuff?
[A smile cracks against the straight face as his eyes glitter. Laughing, he bends down to grab a mismatched, motley set of chipped plates and bowls. It was a hilariously bad line, but it didn’t need to be good.]
Can you believe it? The men must be ugly in Junktown, because it worked. Haha. Easier than stomping on a mantis.
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But he also sees the act for what it is: an oddly kind gesture and a meaningful gift that Rico is dancing around to save face. He did this specifically to appease Len, and Len would begrudgingly admit that it's working. Nostalgia is a hard button to find in this world, but Rico is pressing it. ]
That is...so cute.
[ Len muses, a wry smile winnowing onto his face as he closes the distance between them. A couple of fingers worm into the ties of the apron, an old fire stoked to greater warmth as Len considers Rico's face in the close proximity for a long moment. Then he very abruptly smacks Rico's ass. ]
Order up, chef.
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That is, until an entire-handed slap against his right asscheek drags a startled laugh out of him, one of the more undignified ones that sounds more like a backfiring engine being dragged over rocks than anything. Message received, loud and clear: Get your ass going.]
I thought you were supposed to kiss the cook, not smack his ass. [Far too amused despite himself as he disentangles from him - ] Just for that, you're getting the ugly plate tonight.
[He spins the plate in question on a finger, lets it leap in the air before catching it easily. Because of course he does.]
Go sit down. Your waiter will be with you shortly.
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I'll kiss him later.
[ Len smirks lazily, pulling away and sidling over to the only dining table in the room. It's half-cluttered with dismantled firearms, one of his modified scopes broken down for cleaning before he abandoned it to sleep off some of this sickness. Projects he'll complete when he has the motivation to do anything other than sprawl around on two-hundred year old furniture.
He still watches Rico work from this post, eyes lidded, quietly warmed by the gesture. Contemplating whether he might pass out if they try to get into anything really physical later. ]
Is the cook gonna share his recipe if I like his meal?
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Sure. I'll teach you if we ever get the time. After everything's over, and we put a fork in it.
[If. They never seem to have too much of it in the looming shadow of Caesar's Legion. True to his word, he did give Len the ugly plate. But it's loaded with a thick stew of nightstalker and potato chunks, simmered and slathered in red-hot arbol chile sauce with a side of cornmeal flatbread, so all can probably be forgiven.]
Nightstalker tail, potatoes, and some other stuff that traveled maybe a couple hundred miles, [he explains as he pokes a disobedient potato back into aesthetic place with a fork.] Plus a little magic from yours truly. And this...?
[A half-shrug as he gestures at the bowls. He doesn't seem to have as much to say about the soup. It's a lot more humble compared to the other dish. Beans, dried cactus fruit, wild onion, hominy, a splash of tequila. Half-opaque in a yellowish broth, little lumps poking out from the surface.] It's just an old recipe. But I think you'll like it.
[It's just a scattering of whatever’s on hand. Dried ingredients that are lightweight to pack and carry, with things you could harvest from the desert as you traveled, if you got lucky. Simple enough to toss into a single pot and cook in a campfire at the end of the day, and then dole out. He hasn't shared this particular meal with others in a long time, so in a voice slightly rougher than usual;]
Enjoy.
you know... ;)
Time to get their nasty on 🔥
Might not have had the smoothest parting. But he knows it has to be related to his plans for the Mojave, the violent upheaval on the horizon. So he lets him go. And he’s here now. Half-asleep, Rico hears the elevator doors opening with a creak from the bedroom, the thump of his pack hitting the floor. Watches Len walk into the room with exhaustion in every line of his body. He crawls into bed without a word smelling like road dust and sweat, and a faint metallic tang that makes Rico know he had reason to use his hunting knife at some point in the last few days. And he knows what he needs from him, even before he settles in.
Then he’s finally in his hands, where he belongs. On his back, naked and pressed into the bed under Rico's weight, stripped down to his suntanned skin and scars on display, old bruises pressed into the bones of his wrists where Rico’s hands settle so habitually. He feels the sweat-damp heat of his body under his palm, Len looking up at him with those half-lidded eyes and lips bitten to hell. A thing of the desert like him doesn't really belong in the ghost of the old world, laying on top of these sheets. Rico drags a blunted fingernail up Len's thigh, playful with vicious possessiveness as his breathing runs ragged with excitement. It’s a knife that doesn’t split his skin apart, but a kind of knife all the same as he harrows that red welt into him. Clear as a line drawn on a map, territory taken and marked - what's his and whose it isn't, for all it matters in the end. Len should know by now it’s affectionate. In his own way.
Neither of them would've been what they are now, two hundred years ago. Funny to be glad for the bombs, but there’s one reason he wouldn’t have it any other way. His trailing hand settles under his knee, hitches his leg higher so he can lean in closer.]
If you want me to fuck you, why don't you ask for it?
[So maybe he’s still feeling jilted, who knew? Still playing, his other hand flexes harder around his throat, cutting off anything he could say while he teases him by sliding his cock against him, already slick with spit and lube both.]
🔥🔥🔥
He isn't left alone long to ruminate on it all. Sometimes the only way back to normalcy is a language they both speak, a prologue opened by the the sensation of Rico's palm sliding over his hip beneath the sheets, unfastening his belt.
Sex like this always feels like a fever dream, the air between them hot and damp, the kisses sharp and dragging. The unadulterated want with which Rico approaches him is always a little overwhelming, a ragged sort of fury in it that reeks of desperation and a desire to scrawl his name onto something just to prevent others from having it. He's settled comfortably between Len's thighs and Len feels another wave of heat roll over him as a thumbnail scrapes up his skin, his own fingers squeezing the wrist just above his throat. He's hard. They're both hard. Opening his mouth just to say something petty, brattish, the words are bluntly torn from him as the hand pinning him to the mattress tightens and Len gives him a dirty look. The implication is clear: motherfucker.
Without a whole lot of leverage to his name Len's heels hook around the backs of Rico's thighs, determinedly tugging him closer in a bid to tempt him to forego patience, forego the game. The head of his cock slips artlessly against him and Len manages a small groan of frustration, one hand fumbling up Rico's chest to wrap around the back of his neck, curling thick and tight into his dark hair. The man knows what he wants, he just delights in being an insufferable prick about it and without the ability to speak the best Len can do is pull, hard. ]
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He presses his thumb against the divot of his jaw under his ear, forcing the other man’s head to the side so he can admire the secret proof of his claim, the long-healed cut ripped open to get to the core of him. His grip tightens in warning with a little spark in his eye - playful, always dragging that line of playful, and pulls Len into a temptation of his own, placing both tongue and teeth, nestled where he’s vulnerable. He can feel his pulse ticking underneath his calloused palm and mouth, thumping erratically, ratcheting up as he keeps him pinned to the bed and breathless, teasing him with shallow thrusts that frustrate both of them. Choking off the ability to make even that small, frustrated sound, the barely-there gasp, pressing in to fill the space of everything he takes from him until the entire world narrows down to Rico’s presence and the places they touch. It’s that same sound when Rico fucks him open with his fingers. Had fucked him, actually.
He isn’t sure how long he does this. The seconds he can count, until Len’s eyes roll back, but not the minutes like this, falling into each other. He could do this forever, and also not. His self-control is always a tenuous thing that just as always snaps violently.]
Didn’t sound like please to me. [he says eventually, in a voice as raspy as his stubble against his skin.] Should we try again?
[Let’s try again.]
😘
The tension and teeth pry him open as his supply of oxygen runs short, a pleasant sort of haziness swimming around him while his eyes lid. That disquiet is only punctuated by the clicking of Rico's canines, the intermittent pain dulled by toying with asphyxiation. There's a head high there, where the edges of his vision grow dark and his blood thunders in his skull. Every attempt at an inhale feels like being buried in sand and his fingers loosen from Rico's hair just as he's given the space to breathe, sucking in air while his chest inflates.
The exhale is just as raspy coming out again, half-registering Rico's commentary. Another shallow thrust makes him shiver and Len's eyes crack open. He tongues at his lower lip and takes a beat, feeling the damp heat of Rico's breath on his skin, the edges of his mouth pulling in a wry smile.]
Fuck you.
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