Log:Resistance: The Brig's New Guest
The Brig's New Guest
OOC Date: December 6, 2019 (Optional)
Location: Rori
Participants: Oran Arcantael, Syrus Volo, Ambrosia Greystorm
The Brig - Rori Command Tower - Beacon Outpost, Rori
From the outside, all that marks this blocky, modular building for what it is are the lack of windows, and the lettering painted on the door reading BRIG. An intercom panel is set beside the doorframe. The door only opens when the magnetic lock is released from inside, where a security officer monitors those coming and going from a reception desk. Someone has tracked down a banner displaying the emblem of the New Republic and hung it on the wall behind the desk. Those approved to visit pass through a second secured door and past the rooms set aside for questioning. At the back of the building in a row of containment cells, each provided with a bunk, and a primitive but functional refresher unit.
[Oran Arcantael]
Oran is on the other side of the cell, this time.
And truth be told, it is a nicer cell here in the Resistance than the First Order offers its guests, but who could find that surprising? They're a nicer group of people. He is of course also in need of the medical equipment to which he's currently attached; Leia's saber mangled some important things he keeps in his torso. So rather than sitting or pacing about, Oran is presently cuffed to a sparse bio-bed and assortment of machines, drifting in and out of wakefulness depending on the amount of drugs currently in his system.
It's a terrible waste of medical resources, saving a murderer, but what can you do?
[Syrus Volo]
Clunking down the hallway are the heavy footfalls of some approaching humanoid. Syrus Volo walks with purpose, but it doesn't seem altogether malevolent. In fact, it's quite the opposite; he's carrying a duraplast tray of food in hand on his way to the cell that Oran occupies.
As he nears it, the Jedi pauses, coming to a halt as he looks down at the tray and to the gate before him. A moment's hesitation, but he presses on, the barrier lowering as Syrus steps through it. He stands the, silent as the grave, looking down at the defeated Knight.
[Oran Arcantael]
Oran is not in good shape. He is in fact in the kind of condition that's not so much healed as just 'tenuously stable', a forward progression that still has the chance to backslide into shock and danger. But it is still better than it was last night... forward progression. Dimly aware that he's not alone anymore, Oran slowly opens his eyes, blinking as he tries to process this person. Who is this person? It takes a moment, a long moment, then he smiles and greets in a croak far less eloquent than usual - but still dryly amused - "Volo."
[Syrus Volo]
"Oran," remarks the wildly larger man, setting the tray down on a small ttheable and pulling a chair near Coruscanti's bed. His hand rests softly on his knee and he continues to eye the man, taking stock of his wounds and general condition. "You've looked better, my friend."
[Oran Arcantael]
Nobody can disagree with that. "Haven't I just?" Oran agrees, a little less creakily, but maybe warming up to the whole speech thing. He is tired and hurt; impossibly posh accent still in place. It's soul deep. Generations deep, generations of narcissistic, moneyed, cruel Arcantaels. Did he ever have a chance of being an actually decent person?
One corner of his mouth turns up. "I look a fair sight better than the Houk though. Too soon?"
[Syrus Volo]
"Your incessant jabs are much more effective when you're not infirm. Now cease them and attempt an actual conversation," Syrus responds, his face easily mistakable for a work of stone.
"Are you capable of feeding yourself, or do you require assistance?" he asks, gesturing to the table of food near his bed.
[Oran Arcantael]
"This /is/ how I actually converse," Oran points out, closing his eyes for a moment before he opens them again to peer at Syrus. "Do you imagine it's any different with people who /don't/ have me locked in a cell? It's not. It's very similar. I'm not an agreeable person. And you don't have to be here, I'm sure the Resistance has other people they could tell to bring me food, so if you don't like it... go somewhere with windows." The tone there is surprisingly genuine, surprisingly non-venomous, but... maybe he's just tired. As for the food, a hesitation lingers. "I don't know. Uncuff me from the bed and we'll find out. I'd rather die then be fed though, flat out."
[Syrus Volo]
A wave of his hand and Oran's restraints are undone. The Knight should know better, after all.
"I do have to be here. The guards would rather have you die of starvation than to feed the man who slayed one of their own," Syrus says, watching the man. "I'd like to avoid your death for as long as I can. It would be the waste of a powerful presence."
[Oran Arcantael]
Oran rolls his eyes. "They'd do what they're told," he guesses. "Throw it on the floor and yell at the fancy man to eat it off the floor, or something of that sort. Anyway, they're prison guards, feeding prisoners is part of it, what did they expect? Stormtroopers never fuss about it, no matter how many of our boys in white you lot cut down. There's a war on, no one ought to be so precious about the pieces of said war that you sometimes bring home with you." While talking, he is trying to sit up, which is a complicated process given that Leia slashed him through the torso. His skin's gone ashy with the effort, the pain's easy to read in the force though he's clearly dedicated to hiding it, and eventually he manages, sort of, to sit and lean against the wall behind him. "No one would ever consider my death a waste. Not Ren and not you."
[Syrus Volo]
"Humility doesn't suit you, Oran," remarks the Kiffar, leaning forward to pass the tray to him. "Eat. It will aid your convalescence," Syrus assures, leaning back in his seat and once again resting his hand on his leg.
[Oran Arcantael]
"You only think that's humility because you don't know Ren," Oran replies, dryly. "I agree, it doesn't suit me. I'm not being maudlin, I simply... understand my place in things." He is currently sitting up, if just barely, and it looks like doing so was an effort. He accepts the tray with a brief and no doubt unsettling wobble that threatens to spill its contents, but he manages, and then looks down at the food as though consuming it is going to be a project. One that he has yet to begin. Is it the quality of the food? Like what, not enough foie gras? Or something else? Hard to say.
[Syrus Volo]
"I'm sure I don't know about Ren, but I know myself well enough," Syrus retorts, reaching up to scratch softly at his beard. "You've been taught to understand incorrectly. What do you think the Force would have of you, Oran?"
[Ambrosia Greystorm]
One dead, two injured...not a heavy loss, all things considered. Literally heavy probably - she never asked the Houk his/her weight - but when you consider all possible outcomes, this capture and transport went smooth as silk.
Or at least a moderately priced satin.
Greystorm Sr has finished processing what she can of the 'paperwork', till more reports and first-hand accounts roll her way AND she's even found time to (briefly) check on the status of her son. Now it's time to meet their acquired prize. And so she descends under the surface of this shitty swamp, into the brig.
"General on deck!" An obligatory bark of warning comes from the officer who admits her through to the second doorway, into the heart of this timeout zone. The unhurried clomp-clomp-clomp of boots prowls the corridor until she arrives at the guest suite currently housing (albeit with a few more accessories than she'd arranged for it to have -- g'dammit, medical) Mr. Arcantael. Also Syrus. And lunch!
"What a delightful tea party," she muses from the hatch window.
[Oran Arcantael]
Syrus's next question is a good chance to further avoid the project of eating, because now Oran has a chance to look at him with disdain. Mild, currently enfeebled disdain. "What would the Force have of me?" Oran echoes in something that sounds slightly like disbelief. "Volo, do you want the answer I know is 'correct' from your point of view, or do you want the answer that I actually believe and which you already know I'd give? You can't have both."
Amber's arrival is another good distraction, and Oran greets her as though she's come into his home (which a few others DID... not that kind of greeting here and now though). "You're welcome to join, of course."
[Ambrosia Greystorm]
"Oh, may I?" The corners of her lips pull back to shape a close-lipped smile that her eyes don't exactly lend credence to. "That's very kind of you to invite me in, Mr Arcantael. Much obliged." A singular wag of her brows (half wag really cuz one doesn't move much) sees Ambrosia joining the party. After leaving her twin-holstered sidearms on the free people side of the cell, of course. Her pointier friend comes with, though, snapped neatly into the same, cracked leather sheath it's been occupying for decades.
"No need to get up," Amber rests a hand on the seated Jedi's shoulder and stands alongside the occupied chair. Her wandering gaze roams the network of wires and tubes, bleeps and boops, and what's visible of the man himself, from the shine of his fashionably bedheaded hair to the tips of his toesie woesies. "I confess, you're taller than I expected. Seems Corporal Black was a good boy, after all."
[Oran Arcantael]
"What the force would 'have of me' is not how I see things, Volo," Oran points to his one-armed counterpart, poking at the food a bit with one of the utensils, but not eating yet. "It isn't a sentience, it doesn't command me. It is a web of threads which connect everyone, everything, and how I manipulate them creates the desired effect. Power lies in how many of these threads I can see, how many patterns I can understand, and in my willingness to utilize all of them to full potential. FULL potential," he repeats, as though to make clear the point that he thinks the Jedi philosophy is too limited in what patterns, what manipulations, it accepts. "So what would it have of me? Nothing. It doesn't care. It's like air, what would oxygen have of me? Nothing, but I can shape it to say whatever I want."
Back to Amber, and one corner of his mouth crooks upwards in a smile. "Black's a complete imbecile, but do you know in a way I'm a bit fond of him? Not fond enough to take him back into the Order, mind. He is yours. No returns."
[Syrus Volo]
"An interesting point of views," Syrus returns, his eye squinting a bit, "Though, I'm afraid somewhat limited, but the manipulations of your teacher likely intended that," he explains. He turns his head toward Amber and asks, "How is your son? Is he recovering?"
[Ambrosia Greystorm]
The Force knew what it was doing when it skipped a generation in the Aderanne (her) line. Because Oran's explanation of how views/utilizes this mythical 'force' makes perfect sense to Ambrosia. Anything shy of full potential is a waste, no? "Oh, I don't know...his perspective on his 'gift' paints a rather limitless picture of potential. My understanding is of course...limited. But I can imagine. I know what /I/ would do." A look goes to Syrus with raised brows.
"I presume you mean the /live/ one, yes. Naught but a scratch." Inhaling deeply the stale scent of Oran's sustenance-on-a-plate, she slides her hand free of Syru's shoulder and half steps aside to loosely clasp hands together at the low of her spine. Oran gets a crack of a smile. It's dangerously close to genuine. Just look at those crinkling crows feet!! "I'm not here to debate the competency of my men, but I /will/ commend you, sir. On your...creativity." Her head bobbles with the slightest of nods, chin tucking to examine a non existant something on the toe of her left boot. The hinted smile cracks wider still into an exhaled chuff of a 'heh' and headshake to follow. Is this acknowledgement a guilty admission of appreciation? Maybe.
[Oran Arcantael]
Oran crooks a smile up at Syrus and offers, "You're most welcome to expand my horizons, Volo." The words are innocuous, the tone is quite polite, something about it invites wickedness anyway. It's all very Coruscanti, like little darts exchanged just-so at a gala instead of a cell, but that's Oran for you.
Another poke at the food, just a bit, and then he carefully sets the tray aside on the bio-bed next to him. A look is exchanged there with Amber, something amused. Grins and big displays of emotion are off-brand for him outside of a pitched battle, but the impression remains. "Might have been my finest work," he agrees. "I've no confidence whatsoever that it left any impression on him or inspired meaningful change, but one can hope?"
[Ambrosia Greystorm]
"One can hope," the aging soldier echoes softly, lifting her stare away from boot. "But there's no need. We've an understanding between us now, he and I. Another rough slip in judgement again and he'll find that my handiwork makes yours look amateurish. Not to insult your craft, f'course," she soothes the air with a gentle pat. "I've just had a few more decades to perfect the art."
Amber checks the time on her wrist chrono. "Those /were/ the good, old days....dark ops." A wistful crook of her lips as she unfolds her hands to rub at the back of her neck. "Leave diplomacy to the diplomats, I say. But not to worry. I've been asked to keep things civil, and so I shall. New era, new tactics, mm? No instruments of intrigue, no pain tables. No such constructs here. Quite frankly, if it were up to me we wouldn't even be having this conversation because I don't think you're going to spit a lick of anything useful or true, but....here we are." Both hands flap upward from her sides with a hapless 'what can u do?' gesture. "I did have /one/ question for you though at this time -- how does your mother like her tea? Or do you remember?"
[Oran Arcantael]
"Really, how preemptively rash of you," Oran chides. "I have no intention of being anything but cooperative, and if you choose to respond to that with," A delicate, amused pause, "Incivility, then it is both unnecessary and enlightening regarding you, them, and this. I am not a good man, General, and I never will be. But I am an honest one, and you can make of that what you will. Useful," he shrugs. "I know what I know, and perhaps less than you imagine. But making use of it will, again, require your interpretation and agency, not mine." The question about his mother makes him smile. "My mother likes her tea early, and imagines that no one's noticed how much liquor she pours into it for the last 25 years. She doesn't take the risk that she's going to feel anything after the morning tea-time without her particular brand of armor, but I suppose we're all coping how best we find able. If you want to make her life unhappy, do it before she's faded for the day for maximum impact."
[Syrus Volo]
"I'm sure I am welcome to it," Syrus finally responds to Oran, shaking his head. "But I'm afraid you'd chase after me more than you already do." Hey, Syrus wasn't always a Jedi ok. His hand picks a piece of lint from his trousers and tosses it aside. "Though, I can't say I'd hate the opportunity to have a conversation with you outside of one another's mercy. It might just be the fuel our little relationship needs."
[Ambrosia Greystorm]
"I quite like her already," murmurs the BG, listening with folded arms over her chest and a lean on hip. She purses her lips, thinking for a moment about her next item on the list of mental notes and jabs and quips, but a tentative buzz on the door interrupts this. Also, on her hip. Comlink.
"Sir, your package has arrived, Madame. Sir." The person announcing such sounds a bit distracted.
Greystorm's face brightens unaturally so and she flashes a set of pearly whites too pearly and too in-tact to be the set she was born with. Either that's a grin or a grimace. Too lopsided to be sure when bits of the right side of her face fails to keep up with the left. "Out/standing/." She turns her back on the force-fightin folk and makes a motion to pass it in to her. The exchange goes down at the door. Well, almost an exchange. Rather than take the item in full into her arms, Greystorm lets her minion hold the garment box awkwardly as they do while she inspects the contents. Satiny champagne folds are visible over the frill of crinkly paper. You can practically /see/ how it feels, silky sheen cool to the touch. It begs to be felt. To be admired. Something any girl (or boy!) might feel like royalty in and, strangely, grumpy Greystorm is no exception. It's a far cry from her favored pair of faded sparring shorts, but Ambrosia's fingers graze once over the fabric with a queer little smile that's hesitant to take shape but cracks her flinty visage nonetheless. A twinkle of nostalgia softens her soldier-eyed stare and she offers a single nod of admiration to its bearer.
"This will do, thank you. Bring it to the barracks. I'll be there shortly."
[Oran Arcantael]
Oran is giving up on the whole food thing, as evidenced by the manner in which he's trying to return his untouched tray to Syrus. "Maybe that's why I'm here, Volo. Maybe I missed you, and wanted to see you again. Do you ever think of that? No, you Jedi only think of yourselves."
He does look up and raise a brow as Amber likes his mom, and momma Arcantael's boy replies, "That makes one of us." The garment exchange returns no comment. Oran would never throw his barbs at fabric. Only people wearing fabric, and the obvious wrongs they're doing to the cloth.
[Syrus Volo]
"I think of you quite often, Oran. Whether it's in a negative or positive light depends entirely on my mood at the time," Syrus admits, taking the tray and setting it back down on the small table. "Despite our fundamental differences and obviously rocky history, I can't help but be interested," he says, moving to stand.
[Ambrosia Greystorm]
"Isn't that the old addage, though?" Ambrosia queries, returning to her former post. "The attractive tug of one's opposing nature?" Rocking once on heels, she eyes Oran with a sly little something in her smile.
Honestly, Ambrosia hasn't smiled so much in the past month as she has in this room!!
"I'll leave you two alone. Just wanted to check in. Welcome our guest. And..." another glance to her chronometer. "I've prepared a special gift on his behalf, should be arriving shortly. Not in corporeal form, really, but more of ehm.." one finger diddles around in the air. "Airwaves and whatnot. You see, in this time of war, we don't often have the luxury of getting to /know/ our opponents in battle before rendering them lifeless, so I thought it'd be nice if you'd the chance to familiarize yourself, posthumonously, with the Houk you met last night. Zonk, I believe, was his name. I've heard he was a poet. Quite accomplished. So, uh," she sniffs and glances behind her to the door. "That inspired /me/. You see, I've enlisted Threepio to assist me with a little project for your enjoyment. So far, I'm told he's composed 8 hours of the many dozens' attainable verses and narratives of Houk lore, political history, and....poetry. Some of the content is quite amorous, in reptilian terms. It's all, of course, narrated in Houkese. Which, if you've ever heard spoken, you'd know is /quite/ the treat for one's ears."
Greystorm offers Syrus a polite little half nod of her head, then turns about-face on heel with a snappingly precise step, and strolls on out. "Enjoy, my friend. May it occupy your waking hours...and serenade your sleepless ones."
[Oran Arcantael]
"I have that effect on people," Oran promises Syrus with a smile that does edge a little closer to a grin than they normally do for him. "There's no one else like me. Rather good news for the galaxy, isn't it?"
That seems to serve as his farewell, and both brows lift at Amber next. "Oh General, you're over-eager," he replies. "You ought to have saved it for when I can stay conscious for longer, but there is a replay feature, I suppose. Even so - do you imagine I can do what I can do, that I can control my mind to the degree required to flummox your team for as long as I did, and not make myself capable of meditating through the noise of a useless alien? Do you know how they train us to be what we are? What they do to us?" He laughs, which is sort of a painful wheeze. "Your guards will have the worst of it. This is nothing. Come back and see me when you want to talk to someone who understands why sometimes, a man's got to put a Merek in a box. I'll be here."
[Syrus Volo]
"A boon for all that inhabit it," Syrus says, straightening out his tunic before he turns and nods to the General. "I'll walk you out," he informs her, waiting for her to take the first step.
[Ambrosia Greystorm]
"I'll expect nothing less!" farewells Ambrosia to their bedbound buddy. "I didn't get to witness the spectacle of yestereve first hand, so you'll forgive me for putting you through these menial paces while I test a /fraction/ of what stuff you're made of, Arcantael. I'm a curious woman."
The guards are already looking less than content about what's to come, but at least they can control WHICH intercom outlet it plays through.
- UNK* GRU-HUNK NRUH-URK-ERK-AHK...RRRRRUHK-GHUK* Etc.
