Log:Resistance: Tea Time "Interrogation"
Tea Time "Interrogation"
OOC Date: December 9, 2019
Location: Rori
Participants: Greeson Rais, Oran Arcantael, Ambrosia Greystorm
[Greeson Rais]
What would normally be the clattering of china on tray was stymied, unfortunately, by the contents of the tray. It was not metal, far from it, instead varying levels of plastic and cardboard which of course were all lethal in the hands of a determined Sith Lord but spelled the difference between 'Oh god my arm is missing' and 'Oh god my head is missing'. A bendy plastic tray with two jugs of liquid and some space-styrofoam cups, a couple of little bowls with some unseen things in them because the person carrying the noiselessly-shuddering bits on The Lift was Greeson Rais, who was abnormally tall by any means. Out he walked, carrying the tray in two hands, nodding to the guards, and coming to a stop in front of the energy field. "Good morning, good morning! I brought some tea. May I come in?"
Weirdo.
[Oran Arcantael]
Oran is looking much better! Since the dramatic events of Aryn healing him, he appears to be the picture of health now, skin returned to its warm brown color, demeanor more alert. He has spent most of the day sitting cross-legged on the bunk, posture perfectly straight; the type of position that comes from years of being hit by tutors who don't accept a slouch. His hands are on his knees, he is clothed in the simple attire Dr. Cole brought him, and he appears to be meditating.
Thoughts scatter like frightened birds as he realizes he isn't alone, and Oran opens his eyes to perceive the strange scene of the tall man and his tray. This takes a moment to process, for certain, and a pause lingers, but eventually the Coruscanti Knight replies, "Of course." Not like he can stop them anyway, right?
[Greeson Rais]
"Thank you." It had never occurred to Greeson that, no, Oran couldn't stop him. Not that he would, Gree assumed. Who would prevent the approach of tea? The energy field fizzled as Greeson stepped inside, a helpful chair placed inside by one of the guards because sitting all cozy on the bunk was a bit Aryn-Oran of them, Greeson assumed, and the field fizzled back into place. "I brought you some tea," he said cheerfully, and looked at the space a table would occupy if one were actually in the room. "Oh." And so he stood there awkwardly holding a plastic tray of tea components. "Um, excuse me," he said, half-turning sheepishly (he had boiling water in a room with an enemy combatant after all) to one of the guards and said, "May we have a table, please?"
[Oran Arcantael]
He did. He did bring tea. Again a long pause lingers while Oran just.... processes this, filtering the current set of information arriving through a mind that admittedly wouldn't have guessed at this situation being likely or possible. One hand lifts to run briefly over his facial hair, and then Oran raises a brow. "Far be it from me to appear ungrateful, Private Rais, but are your superiors quite aware that you're doing," a gesture at the chair, the table, the tea, the boiling water, "This? You're banking rather a lot on the assumption that I am a decent person who will not mistake your kindness for weakness, will not use it against you, and I've told everyone within recent earshot that I am not a decent person."
[Greeson Rais]
The energy field fizzled again as a flattened table was slid through. The sound of space-plastic scraping on duracrete made Gree wince. Sproing! Field back up. He carefully placed the tray on the ground so he could pop the legs of the table out, like a good host. "Of course they do. Far be it for me to simply fire off on my own with reckless abandon. Foolishness." Augh his accent was just wrong enough to make his politeness awkward. "There's an awful lot of things in this room, now, with which you could execute me, and perhaps I'm foolish for bringing them in. In fact I'd say I'm quite foolish! Haw haw haw!" There was... really nothing to laugh about there. The table was up, and Greeson was bending to get the tray. "But no one on this base likes tea, they all merely drink to get drunk, you see." And with that, he placed the tray on the table.
[Ambrosia Greystorm]
"Neither am I," (a good person, puppy was being a dick and delayed my posing) and they trust me in the mess hall around all that cutlery. On throw-stale-leftovers-into-pot-and-call-it-soup day, no less. Delicacy, my ass." BG Greystorm has also come to tea, thought whether or not she'd been given an invitation is anyone's guess!
"Private Rais is correct, of course." Ambrosia eyes the tea skeptically as she strides into the room and reaches rudely to pickup and inspect one of the bowl's contents. "Synthetic," she determines with a sniff and curls her lips into a sneer of disgust. "Inumerable ways we'll die for the cause and clogged arteries warrants a place for concern? Please."
[Oran Arcantael]
"They know? And they approve?" It's not easy to surprise Oran, but he seems not to have expected this. Both brows lift and he runs a hand over the lower half of his face again as he necessarily re-maps his entire mental image of the Resistance movement, then he dryly points out, "It's possible to like both," regarding drinking and tea. He is staying perched obediently on his bunk for now, no sudden moves toward the tea table, though it's probable that he could make the puny weapons fly around just fine without getting up.
"You're both being cavalier to a truly scandalizing degree, but I don't have any particular plans to see that you'd have cause to regret it." Yet. "Thank you for the consideration, Private Rais."
[Greeson Rais]
"Be what as it may, Mister Arcantael, but you are a guest of ours. Guests of all sorts aught be treated with proper care," Greeson explained, firmness of jaw and steeliness of gaze to underscore just how important he considered hospitality. "Where I came from, desolate as it is, one learns to cherish moments where no lasers are flying," he added, sitting at the chair opposite the table and setting the styrofoam cups up in positions enough for every occupant of the cell. He was tall enough to fuss about over the tea without standing, and therefore looming. "Only black tea, I'm afraid. It's resilient. Sweetener?"
[Ambrosia Greystorm]
"I've poured enough tea in my lifetime. It's lost its appeal." Ambrosia stares at Greeson with arms folded over chest while he delves into sappy talk 'bout peace and cherished moments. There's a faint pulsing behind her right jaw, echoed up at the temple. High blood pressure much? "I'm told you've been quite the conversationalist, Oran. So glad to hear you're feeling better. Clean, no longer awash with death's palor...I can /almost/ see what appeal you held for my nephew's ex wife. I wonder what it is you did to piss her off? Thin the allowance?"
There's a twinkle in her eye, saying she knows a bit of Domino's nature well enough.
[Oran Arcantael]
"Depends on your confidence in the quality of your tea," Oran replies to Greeson. "If you'll stand behind it, no sweetener. If you feel the quality and character of the brew leaves something to be desired... then sweetener, please, yes." A little smile seems to add, 'I am judging you,' and then he switches his attention to Ambrosia.
One corner of that smile tugs up a bit higher. "I was told I didn't receive bacta or surgical treatment on the orders of the Resistance leadership, is that so?" he wonders conversationally. "Lucky thing Cole has other means at her disposal. As for your nephew's ex wife, she finds all sorts of things meet with her displeasure, all the time. Some of them aren't my fault. Many of them are."
[Greeson Rais]
"Very well," Greeson answered, and without hesitation or confusion or taking the time to decide, he added two lumps of space-sweetener to Oran's tea. Then he topped it up with thankfully-not-blue milk. That would have made it an unseemly pallour. Did he add sweetener to his own? No. Just milk. "Of course, General," he said to Amber, dispensing with any sort of tea for his CO. Then he sipped and winced slightly. No, it was not the best tea. It was also a touch too hot for Greeson at the moment.
[Ambrosia Greystorm]
"Resources are slim on the best of days, as is medical staffing." Ambrosia shrugs her head to one side. "Our doctors have to prioritize as they see fit. Naturally, our own soldiers get 'dibs', as it were. But...I /am/ glad they were freed up when they were to tend you more properly. It'd be a shame to lose a man so talented as yourself."
Greeson's wince gets noticed and with a slight eyeroll, Ambrosia reaches to pluck the cup from his hands and takes a long, deep savor from it. There's an upside to nerve damage. She might not taste anything for a day or two, but that's not a loss. Only after the sip does she thoughtfully blow a soothing breath o'er the contents to cool that rippling surface with motherly magic. "Here," she hands it back to Greeson while keeping eyes on Oran. "I hear you've been questioned about Koressa Ayn. Good to know it's not /all/ been tea and biscuits."
[Oran Arcantael]
The galaxy is full of sick freaks who like pain. They reveal themselves by imbibing hot food and drink without waiting or blowing on it, and Oran turns out to be one of this number as he accepts the tea and just drinks, like a monster. See, clearly a masochist, not just a sadist. Equal opportunity. A very slight loft of one brow, but no comment on its taste; he does remark, "You strike me as someone whose point of origin is very far from the bright center of the galaxy, Private Rais. Unless I miss my mark?"
Back to Amber, and Oran lets one shoulder rise and fall in a shrug. "I've been questioned about very little, which is something of a surprise, but again, I was - unwell, until yesterday. Your man Elrych brought up the Ayn woman briefly, and I told him he ought to get you, to collect the available footage, and that one or both of you ought to inform me what my incentive is to be forthcoming and genuine with my information. Which is it, carrot, or stick?"
[Greeson Rais]
Ah, Greeson never knew what it was like to have a mother, seeing as Niordi were all cast out into the death world alone due to sheer attrition. How terrible. He took the cup and said, "Thank you, General." Then he sipped. MUCH much better. "I feel that 'very' is a particularly underwhelming term to use, Mister Arcantael." Confirmation and exaggeration. Sip. "Carrot versus stick is always an interesting distinction as one can get more information with a carrot and a kind word than just a kind word. I've of course heard the reverse. You are here of your own volition, an exceedingly interesting fact." It's as though he got the words from a thoroughly researched dictionary because the formality just didn't sit right with the slightly rustic accent. It wasn't right at all. "That fact has value and may well influence the decision, pending the answer to the question of why."
[Ambrosia Greystorm]
Greystorm saw the way he dove into that tea. It takes one to know one. "What if the carrot and the stick are one and the same? I was never a vegetable lover, myself. Are you?" She points to the energy field behind her. "Just curious what your all-powerful supreme leader might stand to gain from murdering some old bird. Not even the war-mongering sort of old bird," like herself, "Surely he wasn't afraid of a pacifist?" She smirks. "Or...maybe this little one caught in the act wasn't following instructions. Maybe he had his own motivations. Are all your brethren so content to serve that /boy/? Or would some prefer to be on top?" A pregnant pause as she considers a speck of swamp mud under nail.
"Which circles back to the 'why'. You don' strike me as a bottom man, Arcantael. And yet here you are. Taking tea with rebel scum."
[Oran Arcantael]
Oran eyes Greeson again, thoughtfully. "Outer rim, Wild space, or uninhabited mid-rim," he guesses, before he smiles again. "What makes you think I've come here of my own volition?" He's not saying he /didn't/, of course --- just asking. Back to Ambrosia. "I don't actually know much about this particular assassination or its target," he replies, "Which inclines me to certain suspicions of my own regarding Ren's involvement or lack thereof, but in order to confirm them, I need to see images of the assassin. Or failing that, images surrounding the proper time frame and area. Give me that, let me see what you're talking about, and I will be able to piece together enough to confirm or deny what I think may have happened."
She says 'you don't strike me as a bottom man,' and he doesn't grin, exactly, but he's got a smile that knows how to imply wickedness. "I'm flexible."
[Greeson Rais]
"Mmmmh, further," Greeson said, wobbling his hand. Past Wild Space? What was out there? The Periphery? No, there's no inner sphere here to worry about. Just, really far. "Because you said something very interesting to me yesterday, something," Greeson paused, trying to find the words to best explain how it was interesting. "Pertinent." Pertinent? "Amidst all of the various accusations debated and discussed, conflicts and debates, et al," did he really just say 'et al', "you said 'given that I arranged it'. Far more interesting than a political assassination, I'll say, haw haw haw!" Now was... now was not the time to laugh, you big palooka. Sip. "Why would a Dark Jedi want to be captured?"
[Ambrosia Greystorm]
Ahaaaaa...flexible. "I can work with that," Greystorm meets Oran with a similar smile, then turns a frownier one on Greeson. No more sweetener for YOU, pal! Says the look. "Well. I've an analyst to see about some vidfeed." She suddenly blooms about an inch in height, posturing erecting to such that would make any etiquette teacher proud. Complete with a slight bow to imply gratitude without being too over the top. Head tipped just so, eyes averted just right, limbs positioned and repositioned with institutionalized grace. "Enjoy your tea party, gentlemen."
And she's away. Boots all but soundlessly treading over the floor - a stark contrast to their usual, foreboding *TROMP*CLOMP*STOMP*
[Oran Arcantael]
Oran watches Amber go for a long several moments. It isn't a leer, exactly; if anything it seems more like an absorption of information. Filing her actions and demeanor away in some tidy drawer in his mind before closing it again, and returning his attention to Greeson. "I am exactly where I mean to be, Private Rais," the Coruscanti Knight remarks, simply. "And here I will remain, until I mean to be elsewhere. Getting nearly vivisected... Didn't enjoy that in the slightest, no, but it's all part of it, really. I've been cut up by sabers before, just not the fetching blues and greens you lot have around here."
[Greeson Rais]
Greeson Rais sipped his tea once more in thought. "To doubt that is foolish," he said, thoughtfully, then put the styro cup down on the table. Was he about to go bad-cop? "To be perfectly honest I've been getting a whole, sort of," it was the 'it's aliens' hands from Greeson right now, as he looked at the ceiling as though the words were written up there to be downloaded into his noggin, "weirdness, from this whole thing. A strange sort of uncertainty, not just from everyone here, but from you as well. Like, yes, I believe fully that you intend to be here and that you will leave when you're good and ready and that we, as good members of the Resistance, must be ready for that. But you haven't." Greeson returned his far-too-blue eyes to Oran's gaze. "Which means there is something you wish to achieve, or obtain, during your stay here." This... this isn't a vacation, Gree. It's incarceration.
[Oran Arcantael]
Oran smiles and sips the tea; it's a more normal temperature by now but apparently that's still alright too. He is, after all, flexible. Greeson is allowed to speak without interruption, about the uncertainty of the situation, its unusualness, what's clear and what's obscure. Oran nods here and there in an 'I'm listening' kind of way, and then at the conclusion - the assertion that he wishes to achieve or obtain something, the captive smiles again. "Correct," he replies, followed by - nothing. Just that. Confirmation, but no elaboration.
[Greeson Rais]
Correct. That was... that was something. Greeson picked up his leisurely-temperatured tea and once again, sipped. It was well past half-way now, and not just from the slugging that BGEN Greystorm had given it. "You may, or may not, be quite surprised and the level of clarity one word brings," Greeson explained, perhaps to Oran, probably to himself. "This is, once again, particularly interesting, because now I know we have something that you want. I can, perhaps, narrow this further." If there was one person who was pretty damn good at scoping in the Resistance, it was Greeson Rais. All to do with mindset and experience doing exactly that. But with a slightly different definition. "If you wished harm upon us, say, the eradication of this location and all of us terrible smelly partisans within, it would take a mere phonecall to Lord Ren himself. But here we sit, alive, thank our stars! Haw haw haw!" It really wasn't funny. "So therefore, whatever you want here must be either reasonably intact, should it be an object, or provided to you in the case of information, then." He looked at his tea, then back at Oran once more, then genuinely, sincerely asked, "Am I doing alright, so far?"
[Oran Arcantael]
This time the confirmation is less concrete, and Oran looks upwards as though just the right way to phrase this is written over his head and slightly to the left. Back to Greeson, and he replies, "In a sense, I suppose," before he smiles again. "Perhaps you underestimate the power of your in-system super weapon regarding the capabilities called in by a 'mere call.' I was at the acquisition of the Acolyte Cannon, I know what it is, and I'm well aware of what it did to our in-system fleet when the Warhammer arrived here. I'm also aware that it can't leave. Why are you outranked by a man so incompetent I was obliged to ship him back to Naboo in a box, Private Rais?"
[Greeson Rais]
Gree didn't answer straight away. There was actually a low chuckle of amusement from the man. As though the dismemberment of a certain CPL was funny in a really dark sort of way. That being said, with his dark sense of humour established, it wasn't much of a surprise. "I must admit, it was slightly amusing seeing him falling victim to his hubris. Terrible, of course, but to rise, one must first fall." Oddly philosophic. "He has improved thanks to your teachings, which I must say is remarkably ironic considering your relationship." He had that weird amused eyes-slightly-wide smile on his face, the one that made him look even less human. A sign he found this supremely funny. "Perhaps I do underestimate our arsenals, after all, I've never been able to see a picture bigger than a small skirmish. But the question remains, you have the tools and ability to kill us all, and seeing as you can tap into something beyond mortal ken," wtf, "you're now in a prime position to do so. And yet, here we sit."
[Oran Arcantael]
"If that in particular failed to make an impression, he'd be quite beyond my skill to reach," Oran states, dryly. "/All/ I ever wanted for little Merek, when he numbered among the Order's Vanguard and following his dismissal from the same, was /better behavior/, and even a modicum of thinking before acting." He sighs, and sets down his weapon-unsuitable hot-beverage plastifoam cup. "It is working. It's not working /enough/, he's still appalling and tedious, but it's better than it was."
Again, Greeson points out things Oran doesn't seem to disagree with, but also doesn't seem inclined to elaborate on. "Just so," he agrees. "Here we sit. I've demonstrably failed to murder you with a tea table. Strange, isn't it?"
[Greeson Rais]
"/Very/," confirmed Greeson, folding his fingers together and placing his elbows on the table. The tea cup sat in front of him, ignored (for now, all addictions run their course eventually). He was looking at a point on the table between the pair, chin on fingers, eyes zoned out in thought, before they snapped up to focus on Oran. There was something that he'd said that caused the big Niordi to hold the man's interest for a few seconds, but if he was going to elaborate on it, he wasn't telling. "Does that bother you?" Weird question. "About Corporal Black, I mean. Does it bother you that he's turning himself around?"
[Oran Arcantael]
"No," Oran replies, without hesitation. "It doesn't bother me. I mislike having to take my time to address the idiocy of people who definitely ought to know better, but Black," he shrugs. "He is what he is. If I encounter him in a situation where he is," delicate pause, "An obstacle to be removed, I will remove him. My hand won't be hastened or stayed by any actions on his part in particular, but if he learns enough sense not to put himself in my path, not to /be/ an obstacle, then so much the better for him. I get the impression that he thinks about me much more often than I do him, and the impression that he wants to impress or flummox me. Don't have much time for it though, really. I'm busy. He's a low concern."
[Greeson Rais]
Greeson Rais responded to that with a... it wasn't a smug smile. It was ALMOST smug, but not quite. Still a smile, still a knowing one. "Very well." He conceded the point, filing that knowledge away. Unfolding his fingers and lifting his head, he picked up the source of his addiction and sipped the warm-but-cooling liquid. It had lost its oomph, now, and was a little disappointing, but it would be a crime to not finish it. "Would what you are looking for here be of more interest to you, then?"
[Oran Arcantael]
Oran tsks. "Private Rais," he responds, and for the first time sounds a little inclined to scold. Not a Merek level scolding, but there's a bit in that tone. "Think about what you just asked me, please. Would what I am looking for here be or more interest to me than -- I assume you mean him, the Corporal?" Disappointed, level stare. "If I'm telling you the truth regarding my intentionality and not just slapping a brave face on it to look better after a defeat, then whatever I'm here for was worth divulging /all/ of my private and personal access information, fighting nine people -- including four force users including Leia Organa -- in my apartment, sitting about on death's door for a few days, and then enjoying the hours of meditative retreat that is Resistance prison. Do you imagine whatever I did that for, is of more interest to me? You can answer the question yourself."
[Greeson Rais]
Aha, here he was. Greeson had been waiting for that, and the surprise on his face was because it had taken so long. "Hello, Mister Oran Arcantael. Welcome to the Resistance. I've been waiting to meet you." It was exactly the sort of patronizing sentence that was so surprising because of how unpatronizingly it was said. A genuine greeting from a mere Private in the Resistance Armed Forces. What in the actual frack was Greeson Rais playing at? He was smiling, now. Smiling like a lothcat that had just seen a lothmouse poke its head out of a lothburrow. "Thank you kindly, you've been a very gracious host." He took a moment to finish his tea, slurping the last of the cup because one does not leave tea unfinished, no matter how terrible it is, and placed the cup on the table. Then he stood, and there it was. The loom. At six-foot-five, it wasn't even conscious. He just did it. "I'm afraid it's getting late," who knew what time it was? "and I must be off. Thank you, very much, for an enlightening conversation." He nodded at one of the guards, an indicator that it was time to leave.
[Oran Arcantael]
"You /have/ met me," Oran points out to Greeson, who is preparing to leave his little cell. "As I told... I don't know, a lot of people by now, I am not a good man, but I am an honest one. Talk to me long enough, and some of it is going to line up with your previous expectations, perhaps other bits less so. There is a me that kills your friends. There is a me who gets injured by your friends. There is a me who is thus far fairly impressed with the way your mind processes things... and a me who requires more of you, and will let you know that." He smiles. "Thank you for the tea of course, Private Rais, and if it was enlightening, so much the better. Just don't forget." The smile nudges up. "I'm flexible."
[Greeson Rais]
"Oh really? I have /now/." Genuine interest, maybe not at the flexibility or in flirting because the gangly looming Niordi was about as enticing as a door, but definitely at the whole 'hey look I managed to impress and not get killed by a Sith' thing. It's true, Greeson's an odd waterfowl. He had his own smile, half as smug as the last one, because he had realised that the more Oran talked the more he, well, talked. It was like looking down a scope. "Well, I am glad to have been an interesting conversational partner, certainly better than some of the bores around here, haw haw haw!" There was that dark humour again. Gree nodded at the guard once again and the energy field went down long enough to clear the small table that held tea and bits of all the... tea and bits. Gree himself carried the table out, snapping the legs closed. Foom, up went the shield again. "I bid you goodbye, we shall of course speak later." And like that, the Niordi was off to write a very, very long report.
