driftfleet | Kayanni System Mingle

[He glances over at her greeting, returning it with a nod a moment later. His normal address--Miss Romanoff--is left unsaid; somehow, Rip thinks it better to leave identities unspoken in the environment they're in.

Which gives her question an interesting twist; most people probably wouldn't want to spill exactly which illegal contraband they're after, either. But the gun Natasha sets aside puts him in her company. Rip slips his hands into his pockets; habit, rather than a motion done with intent.]

Likely the same as you, from the looks of things. A revolver if I can find it. [That style of weapon holds a particular appeal; they're the closest he's seen to the weapon he'd grown to know so well back home.] And you?

Oh, I'm just browsing. [She sets aside a small semi-automatic, her lips twitching a little.] You never know what you're going to find in a new system. I've got some of my favorite knives this way.

[Some of my favorite knives, and for a moment, the corner of Rip's mouth quirks upward. With calibrations not so far behind them it stands to reason he'd be thinking about the past a great deal, and Natasha has reminded him of Sara in many ways from their first meeting. Now so again, and for a moment Rip thinks the question of how many knives Natasha has might be just as prudent as it had been when he asked the other woman.

It feels like ages ago; certainly, it's already been years somehow.]

And have you had much luck thus far? [Even browsing comes with a certain amount of potential success. More to the point, however, Rip is curious; his own ventures haven't been fruitful, though less due to supply and more to the demanded price of the sellers.]

Seen some nice things, but nothing kismet. [There are very few women who would use the word kismet to describe finding an exceptional gun as kismet, but Natasha is passed pretending to be normal. At this point, it would only read false.]

I guess I'll have to keep looking.

Chin up; you might still have a bit of luck yet.

[Perhaps it's only odd when one has a certain definition of normal. Rip's rather aware that for most people, his isn't.

Just as he understands the same might be said of Natasha. For a moment, Rip occupies himself by looking over the weapons on display, but in the truth he's considering the location. It's an operation that ultimately relies on the ability of people to be careful with their secrets—and perhaps the closest they might come to privacy. Certainly it's more than what's to be found on the ships.]

We haven't had much chance to talk since that whole affair on the Marsiva. [Calibrations; he can't even think of the word without frowning. He knows Natasha had been in his mind and his thoughts, and expects she remembers at least that much of his unwanted journey into hers. The question is what else she can recall, in either instance.

What she knows about him, and knows he knows about her.]

We haven't. That's at least half on me; I wasn't feeling particularly social for a while there.

[She glances at him, her head still slightly bowed over the merchandise. It's not a particularly enlightening answer. The kind of thing that leaves him open to disavowing anything he might have remembered or an inclination on his side to avoid her as well.

She doesn't mean it to sidestep this conversation entirely, but she also isn't interested in over-committing to it, especially in public.

Though she respects his willingness to broach the topic here.]

I did stop by Starstruck once, but looks like I missed you.

Only half, I'd wager. And truth be told, there's been a great deal more socializing than I would have expected in the aftermath.

[People taking to the network to talk about their gift baskets or their boredom or whatever else happened to be on their minds. For his part, Rip would have kept completely to himself had Gideon not been there, and had he not felt some minimal sense of responsibility to those aboard the Starstruck.

But that doesn't mean he'd gone seeking out company for that first while. Case in point.]

There's no harm in it. We've run into each other now. [So she doesn't need to explain or apologize, or give him some freedom of excuse. And for better or worse, Rip simply can't ignore what's happened anyway. Not after what he knows she might have seen—not to mention how at least one person has already reacted to it.]

Besides, if things hadn't changed, you wouldn't have found me there anyway. For a couple of days while it all happened, I was fired from the crew of the Starstruck.

Peggy fired you? [Natasha's brows rise faintly at that, and she does look up. It's hard to say if she's surprised by that exactly. She believes that Peggy would, both based on the content of Rip's memories and the nature of Peggy's character. Still, it seems extreme.]

I have to wonder exactly how she saw that working. But then, I guess it really didn't.

[A slight twitch of he lip, not quite a smile, but almost sympathetic.]

Do you remember what she saw?

Temporarily, yes. [And though he speaks of it lightly now, at the time Rip had felt rather angered by the action. Deserved or otherwise—and he would argue that at the very least, it had been understandable--it renewed that sense of uncertainty within him, and equally, a loss of any manner of purpose.]

She wanted me to transfer off. [And Rip would have, though to where he couldn't say even now. It likely doesn't matter; as Natasha points out, it obviously had turned out differently.

Far easier, then to address what she asks next.]

Yes and no. I remember the events from when they happened. [Down to every last detail, from the chill of the air to the twisted delight he felt upon pulling the trigger and watching Sara fall. He takes a slow breath, his eyes dropping to the merchandise still in front of them. Photon rounds, the ammunition of choice.]

But I only know what she saw because she told me. I can't remember her "visit" for myself. [Either of the two times, but he'll leave that detail unsaid.] Same way I don't actually know what you might have seen. Just that you were there.

Sounds stressful. [Natasha could imagine it all too easily. What had happened had been bad enough, even remembering it clearly, knowing what the people in her calibration room had seen and what they knew. The idea of leaving it a mystery makes her skin crawl.] Is it that way for the people you visited too? Or you remember those.

[He'll have to forgive her if her interest in that is entirely selfish.]

Perhaps a touch so, yes. [It tears at him. In truth Rip should have likely approached those whom he knew had seen things within his calibrations long before now, but it's hardly been an easy time for any of them.

And while it may not seem like it in the moment, the distance has probably helped.]

Oh, no. Those I do remember. [Only his own were left as empty spots of unawareness. It might be something to be thankful for, except Rip doubts there's much gratitude owed for anything in this situation.

Just as, in turn, he doesn't think Natasha's selfishness so severe as to warrant forgiving. There's no offense taken in her motivations.]

As you can likely guess, I'm hoping you'll be willing to tell me just what you saw when you were in my, ah, "room" as it were.

[Which means they're on the same page in that regard. That's probably better than the alternative, but Natasha doesn't have to like it. There's not a version of events here that she's going to like, though, and she can't give herself permission to sulk about it.

She's spent enough time hiding.]

I suppose that would be fair of me.

[She glances around them, then back at Rip and lifts her chin slightly.]

Maybe somewhere more private? Or less—[She swipes her hand in an abbreviated gesture.] We could sit down. Get a sandwich, if they have those here.

[To be fair, Rip is of the mindset that nothing related to calibrations should be liked. All they can do, any of them, is try and stitch back together what's been torn during the process. For him, that begins with learning just what others have seen in his mind, learned of his life and his losses, and the choices he made throughout time.]

I certainly hope so. Bread is on the list of things I'm meant to be shopping for. [And it's not too far a leap from bread to sandwich, he thinks. Ideally ones that don't quite share the same quality of "mystery meat" as the ones on the way stations.

Ultimately, less here than where they currently are would require heading up; Rip beckons onward then, towards a path that leads out of the underground and higher still, back towards the city stretching impossibly high from the planet's surface.]

[Natasha follows him back toward the more licit portions of the city, letting him take the lead as she considers what she saw and what she'll tell him about it. It's not hard for her to imagine why he's concerned. Both considering Peggy's reaction and what she saw herself, she figures that most people would react with suspicion. It was good to know where those seeds were sown.

And there was also the matter of tracking the flow of information.

But she also figures he has to know she's not in a position where she can make broad assumptions based on a few memories out of context. Even some of Natasha's more shinning moments might look bad without the proper information to understand them.]

If we can't find a deli, I suppose we could always settle for a bar.

I suspect a bar might be better anyway. [Given that the only other talk he's had in length about the matter at hand had featured two bottles of some rather odd tasting whiskey, courtesy of the Atroma. Fortunately, there's one relatively close by, perched just on the edge to the seedier part of the city, that line between day and night, as it were.]

Not exactly high-end, but I suspect it'll do. [He shrugs, then holds the door open for Natasha to enter first.]

Don't know that I'm a high end kind of girl, anyway. [She slips inside, trusting Rip behind her and scoping out the bar in a quick glance. It's as much for his benefit as anything. Hard to say how much that trust means when Natasha is confident in her ability to handle him even if he did try something. And there wasn't much reason to expect him to make a move.

But it's a language Natasha feels comfortable speaking. More so than words, sometimes.] And I could a drink.

I've a feeling that we'll both have had a few drinks by the time our little chat is over.

[He opts for an emptier corner. One that hopefully meets Natasha's approval, given that she's already given the place a once-over. He wonders if it's because of what she'd seen in his calibrations that she's a bit more open about it, or what he'd seen in hers.

Or some combination of both.

Regardless, he's got no ill-intentions. He merely wants to talk—and yes, drink, and once they're seated and have the bartender's attention, he asks for a glass of something that's colored amber and hopefully doesn't taste of lime.]

I'm not quite sure what passes for the equivalent of vodka in this system, however. [He glances back towards Natasha; might as well leap into the muck.] Unless that's a touch too stereotypical.

[Russians and vodka: so often considered a hand-in-hand pair.]

I have plenty of things that pass for vodka back on the ship. But I don't believe in limiting myself.

[She orders the same thing he's having, leaning on the counter top and tapping her fingers once or twice.]

You're probably not wrong about needing more than one either. It was a rough few weeks there. [Her gaze drifts down to the wood grain, thoughtful.] More than that, but a particular kind of bad on the Marsiva.

[The kind of bad Natasha, at least, is less well prepared for.]

So... where should we start?

[They have their drinks in short order; the bar isn't overly busy, and Rip lifts his glass, eyeing the contents briefly before taking an experimental sip.

It won't pass for scotch, unfortunately--but it's certainly far more drinkable than what had been on the waystations.

A second drink sees a bit more of his glass emptied, and grants Rip pause to consider the tricky matter of where to begin. Perhaps Natasha might find it easier to speak of his memories first--or perhaps that's a charitable way of considering his own selfishness.

Her question is, in the end, less difficult to answer than one might expect.]

There's still the matter of me not knowing exactly what you saw. [And even if he did, Rip expects a certain amount of context would be called for. He sets his glass on the counter, cupping it in his hands.] Seems as apt a place as any.

That's where we left off, I think. [And in some ways, it's an easier topic to address than Natasha's own past. She's not sure she's comfortable leaving the memories Rip saw entirely uncommented on, but she wouldn't mind it being an afterthought.

That still leaves the question of where she wants to start answering his question. She could give him a report, just a straight recounting of facts. there were things to recommend that strategy. It was the least personal, the most efficient, it might minimize the impact.

On the other hand, that impersonal approach could backfire, and it might easily emphasize her own experiences.

So after a brief deliberation, spending more time looking at her liquor than drinking it, she says:]

I saw you kill your friend.

[Might as well get that part out of the way, let him know what the worst she saw.]

[Well. Get the hardest things out of the way first, he supposes, and it's not by coincidence that he downs nearly half of what's left in his glass at that comment. She means it as a singular event—and one might likely assume it would be—but as he looks down at the bar Rip knows the question he has to ask next, and how much it would reveal about who he had been, once.

(Not by his own choice, perhaps, but that feels like little more than a meager excuse.)]

Which one?

Sara. [If the fact there might be more than one surprises her, Natasha doesn't give any sign of it. She clarifies the statement neutrally, like a doctor might clarify the details of a disease.] She was a friend, right?

[Sara; so perhaps then, the same scene Peggy had played out for her, or the second time Rip laid hands on her that night. He doesn't ask for further clarification, suspecting he'll be able to pick out the scenario based on what other details Natasha offers up.

And also because for as much as he wants to know, there still remain incidents he'd prefer not to call.]

She still is, in fact. [By way of more than one miracle.] The technology we had access to back in my universe is quite extraordinary. Far more advanced than what we're provided here, in many cases. Because of that, and the relentless determination of the other members of the crew, her life was saved.

That's some trick. I'm glad to hear it. [Natasha sips her drink, rolling the liquid over her tongue before swallowing. She could give him more information, but there's the matter of what information he wants versus what information he actually needs.

Which might both be different from her own wants and needs on the subject.

Or maybe she's just bad at opening up and admitting things. Too much truth too quickly is awkward. She deflects and redirects so much more naturally. The glass returns to the counter with a soft click.] You know I'm not going to ask why you did it?

It's a bit more than a trick. [It's just one of the many bits of machinery and capability Rip misses on more than a daily basis. He's spent time in nearly every era of history, some far less advanced than what the fleet offers--yet being in what amounts to a pale shade of the time he knows somehow wears at him more.

Then again, he'd chosen to go to all those different times. Being here hasn't been his choice at all.

She sets her drink down, causing Rip to glance over; it'll give Natasha a rather clear view of the surprise that comes into his expression when she doesn't push.] I'd assumed just the opposite, in fact.

[But Natasha isn't Peggy. Natasha had been hauled off into the unforgiving Russian wilderness with so many other girls, and told she could only survive by killing them all. Now it's Rip's turn to rest his glass on the bartop, though his fingers don't leave it's surface. Rather, he traces a line idly along the side.]

Which, I suppose, is my mistake: assuming. [He takes a breath, contemplative for a moment.] Why aren't you going to ask?

Kayanni System Mingle

Re: 3. Underground

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