2023-03-02: A Garden And A Flower
- Log: A Garden And A Flower
- Cast: Eight York, Angelo Sauper
- Where: The Ra Mari II, Gardens
- OOC - IC Date: 0097 March 02
- Summary: Eight York and Angelo Sauper meet in the gardens on the RMII. Despite a lot of good reasons not to, they have a conversation.
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<Pose Tracker> Eight York has posed.
The Ra Mari II operates fine in space and in atmosphere; today, it's in atmosphere, close to Orb where it had been sending out relief efforts to certain OCU troubles. Not now, though. Now, the Earth is tilting towards night... not that you'd know it in most of the ship, anyway. Especially not here in the gardens, deep in the internals where artificial light is best used.
Eight York happens to be standing by a plot of flowers at the moment, looking out into the rest; there are many plants here, done up all the way up the huge Zentradi-scale walls. Some are crops; some are more ornamental. All are set not only in the floor but on platforms and planters up the walls, which can rotate for better access to light or space or water, and often do.
There is enough greenery here that one can almost forget it's a ship, until one sees the hard floors or the (still-organic but clearly unalive) walls.
Eight herself is in uniform for the moment, looking up through the flowers, a tablet in her hand which she starts to look back to.
Next to her, on a picnic table, is a cup of something indeterminate.
<Pose Tracker> Angelo Sauper has posed.
The Ra Mari II is too big.
It's a conclusion Angelo Sauper came to when he first disembarked on the ship, and it has been dispelled since; if anything, more time aboard the immense Zentradi-scale warship has just further exacerbated that dwarfing feeling. There's many reasons for Angelo to dislike such a thing, and if we're being honest, he doesn't need much to begin with. But if one were to boil it down to a central premise...
Angelo, for many very good reasons, does not like being aboard something so large he can't possibly account for everything that's going on inside of it.
Ordinarily, this would set the young Sleeves lieutenant in a fouler mood than he's usually in; thankfully (?) he's been kept very busy, of late, with an even more frustrating task that Full Frontal set before him while they were on this mammoth of a ship, and so that has been consuming the bulk of the Guard Commander's time and irritation. Hu...rray?
What spare free time he -has- had has been taken up exploring every inch of this this ship that he's allowed access to,
as if the white-haired spacenoid couldn't sit comfortably without at LEAST knowing the nooks and crannies of a thing he
couldn't realistically know the inner workings of within a year or two, let alone the weeks he has. There's one place,
though, that he inevitably comes back to...
"... Oh."
His voice comes from behind Eight as she tends to that plot in the garden; dressed in his uniform, whatever relaxation
he might have been feeling converts seamlessly towards the practiced rigidity of neutral professionalism when his violet
gaze falls upon the Ra Mari II's captain.
"It's you."
The Sleeves pilot is a closed book in every sense -- like someone who values not being seen, whether consciously or not.
Still -- he knows protocol. He knows he's a guest here. And for one so easily full of bile, his head dips in mild,
professional deference as he takes a single step back. He seems to consider, for a moment. And then, with that same
dispassion:
"Apologies, Captain. I can come back another time."
<Pose Tracker> Eight York has posed.
It's a very big ship. ...Eight appreciates the very same quality Angelo dislikes. It can do more than she can keep track of; if she has a crew she can rely on, she can go much farther than she could go alone.
But that's not the reason she went for such a big ship. She wanted it to be 'home'... which means in a very real sense, the Sleeves are staying at her house. Not that it wouldn't be personal enough if it were merely her ship. It is that, too, after all.
Eight doesn't seem to hear him coming. She doesn't turn, anyway--not until he speaks up. And then, she does; she turns his way, a single foot opening her stance to the side as her head moves. "So it is," she reflects. She looks him over; uniform, rigid posture. Nearly entirely unreadable. She's not unusued to people she can't 'sense', at least, so she doesn't show any particular reaction at first other than to nod back. She doesn't smile like she might to someone else, though. ...No, that's not the kind of relationship she has with Full Frontal and his lieutenant.
"No," she says. "I welcome the opportunity to speak with you, Lieutenant."
"Were you here for the garden yourself? I find it settles me." Well, her stomach anyway. Maybe her mind, too.
<Pose Tracker> Angelo Sauper has posed.
'I welcome the opportunity to speak with you, Lieutenant.'
Angelo can't really help the reflexive way he frowns skeptically at that statement.
"... Very well," he says all the same, and his posture fails to relax a single centimeter.
The Sleeves lieutenant's hands find their way towards clasping at the small of his back, like a subconscious gesture of enforced professionalism to keep him at a remove as Eight asks that question. His brows furrow as she confides.
There is a period there where he lingers in silence, as if he might just not answer at all. Instead, his internal landscape is a complicated field of suspicion as he tries to gauge what her angle might be in telling him something that, really, in the grand scheme of things, is ultimately off-handed.
"Hmp," is all he manages at first; it could very well come off as dismissive, and it's not a fact he especially tries to
disprove. Still -- it also doesn't stop him from continuing: "It's usually quieter here." ... Which might also not help.
"... I kept a garden myself. Nothing so extravagant as all this. It..."
'Calms me,' he begins to say, before he catches himself with a quiet "tt".
"... it doesn't matter. There hasn't been time for excesses anymore."
<Pose Tracker> Eight York has posed.
Frankly, Eight expects worse than dismissive from this man after the way he's spoken to everyone else. So it doesn't bother her. Neither does his steel posture. No, the way he indicated to everyone else that he would be the means through which they might address his commander settled to her that he is not a soft man.
Eight doesn't bother to tell him to be at ease.
But she does have an angle.
"True," Eight says. "Sometimes people bring their lunches to the gardens, but this is a quiet spot. Which I'm ruining, of course." She doesn't wait for a laugh.
"The idea," she says, "Is that the garden provides nourishment for the body and for the mind. The crops are obvious. But flowers calm people. And calm people can go about their duties more effectively."
"Some would call it 'soft'," she admits. He might be one of them, the space might indicate. Or it might just be her pausing, as she turns the rest of the way to face him.
"Regardless, that's the idea." A beat, "Did you know? I'm from Zeon myself, originally. I was born to a young woman who thought her noble lover's family wouldn't accept her. From there, I found my way into a laboratory. I made a good weapon, I'm told."
"But that was a long time ago. I have to approach Zeon's theoretical indepdence through a different lens, these days. Still, I can't say I expected to be in active negotiations with your Commander, even as recently as a year ago."
"It's funny, what time will do. ...But I can imagine there hasn't been 'time' for excesses for you all for a while, yes."
<Pose Tracker> Angelo Sauper has posed.
Were this anyone but the commander of the enemy ship in a situation of tense peace, Angelo would not hesitate to bare venomous fangs at the earliest opportunity. But despite appearances...
... if nothing else, Angelo's life has taught him the unbelievable importance of context.
So, the Sleeves lieutenant exercises restraint. Up to a point, at least. Eight doesn't wait for a laugh; Angelo obligingly doesn't provide one, only lofting a single brow as if to nonverbally confirm, 'yes.'
Yet while she talks about the calming nature of gardens - and specifically flowers - Angelo continues on in silence. It
might be more of the same silent treatment... but he also doesn't reject her idea out of hand like he would gladly do
for anything he might find absurd.
"..." Instead, he just frowns in the spacious silence for three seconds, before he says, simply:
"Yes. Some would."
She turns to face him. Violet eyes turn to coolly regard her as she opens up about her past. His jaw sets. His lips
thin.
"... Time is a luxury. People who don't have power aren't allowed that luxury. Their time doesn't belong to them anymore
than their lives do." He says this matter-of-factly, like someone might describe the color of the sky; and yet, his
hands clench a bit more tightly against each other behind his back.
"... And then some of us, when we're finally allowed the luxury, waste it. Like they never even -cared- what a gift they
had."
His gaze turns from Eight there, staring straight forward towards the gardens. A second of silence lapses, before he
continues.
"They turned you into a weapon. And then you turned against them and joined the enemy. And then you turned against the
enemy as well." Time is her luxury, now.
"So what sort of theoretical lens do you see us in -now-, Captain York?"
<Pose Tracker> Eight York has posed.
There. There it is. A response. 'Yes. Some would.' Eight had a feeling that that might be the case. The ghost of a smile appears on her face, just for an instant, before she elaborates on a past that once would have been terribly secret, that has always been difficult to face... that can be used, now, to shield others, or to open up doors.
It is an advantage she cannot afford to shun, the ability to discuss such things.
She notices a small amount of the tension there, as he speaks. Her own red eyes settle on his face. Time... and lives. Neither belong to people without power. Yes, that's what he says, at least.
"Hmmm." They waste it.
"That's right," she says. "From enemy, to enemy, to enemy. Now that I've been given the gift of 'choice' I've made my own, more than once. Now that I have 'time', you might say I'm wasting it, standing here talking to you."
"You see," she says, and likewise turns to face the flowers, "I don't like your methods. Your Commander's methods. Making use of people like their lives shouldn't belong to them. Making use of 'tools' like the woman you know as Puru Two."
"...On the other hand, I think your cause is worth fighting for. Spacenoid independence may be the only way to break the grip of old prejudices on the Earth Sphere."
"So I don't think I'm wasting my time, talking to you. I want to know what it is that makes you think the way you do. I want to understand your perspective."
"Only then will I know what 'lens' through which I want to view it."
<Pose Tracker> Angelo Sauper has posed.
For as hot-tempered as Angelo can be, and as easy as one might assume it for someone of his temper to misconstrue Eight's initial comments about how talking to him might be seen as a waste of time, he doesn't seem to mind the implication. No. He takes it in remarkable stride, right up until
I don't like your methods. Your Commander's methods.
whereupon his expression instantly sours as he lances a dagger-sharp stare Eight's way.
The curdling of his lips and the narrowing of his gaze more cleanly express the contempt that had always been lingering there, just with the uttering of that single disapproval. It all reeks of a single sentiment that pushes past Angelo's tightly-sealed emotional landscape:
'How dare you?'
He'd have something very -sharp- to say about that, but she continues, and Angelo's expression contorts into something
closer to skeptical scrutiny as if he had nothing but doubt in the words she offers after.
And yet...
I want to know what it is that makes you think the way you do. I want to understand your perspective.
"..."
Angelo considers, for a moment. The outreach is alien to him; he doesn't trust it, not for a second. But he can
recontextualize it a different way. A more palatable way.
"... Fine. I'll tell you. I'll talk with you. But I'd like something in exchange."
A transactional way.
Angelo's gaze turns from Eight then, towards the gardens beyond, as he continues: "... I would like a rose from these
gardens. Once a week, for as long as we are stationed on your ship. And a vase. I can take care of cutting them myself;
if necessary, I can help tend to the plot."
It's such a simple request; one anyone else might have just asked for out of hand. For Angelo, however -- this is
perhaps the only way he could trust it.
"If you can give me that, we can talk frankly, Captain York."
To him, they're things of equal importance.
<Pose Tracker> Eight York has posed.
Eight regards that stare calmly, when Angelo directs it at her. She does not allow it to stop her. The severity of his reaction is interesting, but she was going somewhere with that, after all. But she 'feels' as much as sees that sentiment writ on his face, and she will remember it.
The Captain's face is not so stony; little bits of emotion show through here and there, because she does not particularly try to hide them. She is calm, and the little signs--a raised eyebrow, a look of interest, a contemplative moment--these are clear. But what she actually thinks in depth is harder to parse.
But he considers. And she tilts her head slightly to the side, to indicate that she is willing to hear his request.
Transactions, then.
A rose... Eight considers that. A rose, in particular. Is there some greater meaning to it? Or is it simply something important to him? Still, while for him it is significant...
For her she considers it, specifically because it seems so small. One of the few, precious flowers grown on this ship, here no matter where in space or on Earth they are. Something that matters to him. Anyone else could have asked, and yet...
After a few moments, Eight inclines her head. "Consider it done. I will requisition the vase, and any more of them you requre. You are welcome to cut them yourself. I have someone tending them already; it's not necessary for you to take over. If you wish to, you may."
"When this is done, it will be sufficient price?"
He did just say as much. But while she's interested now... Perhaps better to keep it this way. To show that she will follow through before expecting any rewards.
<Pose Tracker> Angelo Sauper has posed.
A rose.
Sentimentality is usually not something Angelo can find within himself. Like most of the simple joys of life, it's an excess that's been stripped from him slowly over years of being caught and helpless in the relentless churn of the world.
But memories of that headache-inducing day Banagher came to see the Captain fill his thoughts. Memories of that table, empty. Devoid of the sole piece of life that had diligently decorated Full Frontal's quarters.
Fingers tense against each other. And then...
Consider it done.
... gradually they relax, as Angelo's hands finally fall to his sides from that stiff position behind his back. He doesn't smile.
But there's the barest flicker of warmth.
It lasts only briefly, before being replaced by bemusement. He was expecting her to push her end of the bargain first; he wouldn't really be in a position to deny it, after all. But the way she words it that final question --
Neutrality is shattered for a brief moment as those violet eyes flicker in a blink. He looks back at Eight, brows lifting minutely before he manages to save face and reassert that curt expression, a second too late.
"... Hmp."
A frown settles over his lips.
"That'll do."
He could offer gratitude; he doesn't. He simply dips his head in acknowledgment. It's the motions of a polite deference, mostly done by rote.
"Once it's been done, we'll talk. Very frankly."
He takes a single step backward, before pausing. The violet-eyed Sleeves pilot seems to linger there for a moment,
stalled between leaving or staying -- before he asks a final question, one steeped in an incredulity that simply can't
help but be caustic by nature:
"... Is -that- why you agreed to the Captain's terms?"
To know them?
<Pose Tracker> Eight York has posed.
So, that was what it took. Eight regards Angelo, noticing the way his hands fall to his sides. That almost warmth, that little flicker. Yes, clearly this matters more than she could easily see the reasons for. Sometimes, it's not a matter of understanding, but trusting. ...Not that she trusts him, but she trusts in this much.
Then he blinks. She manages to school her expression to avoid a grin of victory; instead she is calm, and only lets on with a lifted eyebrow as if he was going to say something. There's that expression again.
He frowns, but it will do.
"Good," Eight answers, about the matter of their future conversation. "Expect the vase to be delivered tonight."
It will be of good quality, but basic; no need for great spectacle when the rose is to be the focus.
But he lingers, and there, a final question--a caustic one, to be sure. But a fair one.
Here, she does smile. "No," she says. "But while you're here, I'd be remiss not to try. I can't go around saying that understanding means anything and fail to pursue it, now can I?"
<Pose Tracker> Angelo Sauper has posed.
Sometimes you can trust in a context more than a person. Oftentimes, perhaps.
There's little about Eight that Angelo trusts. And the reverse is doubtless true, too; he'd think even less of her if it wasn't the case. But this moment...
'No,' Eight answers, and the normally contemptuous and dour Angelo Sauper smiles too. It's not a pleasant one. Not by
half; it never is, for him. But it -is- a smile.
"Good. Maybe you're not a complete fool, then," is his response as he turns around, waving a hand through the air as he
goes makes his way out. If it sounds insulting, well, that's just the way Angelo is. By his standards, it's a
compliment.
"You'll have your understanding soon enough, Captain York."
This, after all, is a context Angelo can trust.
"Maybe when you do you'll use it to make the right choice with your time."