[ february i log ]

[barrayarmods]

Who: Everyone
What: New arrivals, desperate times, whispers down the hall.
When: February 1st - 18th
Where: Barrayaran camp / Cetagandan base
Warnings: TBD


Quick links:
Barrayar: Barrayaran camp / Missions
Cetaganda: Cetagandan base / Missions



welcome to barrayar.
It's the dark of night when you come to in the foothills. Snow on the ground, chill winter wind whistling -- in fact, it's dangerously cold, and all you have is the clothes on your back.. A steep mountain range towers just ahead, its peaks illuminated by the light of two moons. Whatever you last remember, it isn't how you got here, and you feel oddly jetlagged, slightly queasy.

And you're not alone. There are a few other people close by, all looking equally lost and confused. But before any of you have a chance to figure out what's going on, the soldiers arrive.
There's a war on, they say, and you unlucky bastards have just been dropped right smack in the middle of it.

barrayar
The cold snap hits the guerrilla camp hard, especially with a handful of new people to care for. On the 1st, a few people from Riverfall Village come to the camp, Village Speaker Yakiv Gura among them, who seems to have a rapport with Piotr. They bring extra supplies with them, such as clothing, heavy wool blankets and bedrolls, as well as extra firewood to help fend off the cold. The new outsiders are accommodated the best they can -- they're all provided bedrolls and any extra clothing they (probably) need -- but the Barrayarans don't have an extra tent to spare, so that means all twelve outsiders are force to share a tent that ordinarily sleeps ten. On the plus side, it should provide some warmth. The cold is

A young boy comes in tow of the villagers; Speaker Gura tells Piotr that the boy turned up a week ago and insisted on helping them with the supply haul, despite his small size. He's clearly Barrayaran, and looks as though he might have been living on hisown for a while. He doesn't speak mcuh, and when asked his name, will only give it as Negri -- first or last, no one's sure, but the boy doesn't seem easily fazed. Piotr tells the villagers he has no room in his camp for lost children, but somehow the day after the villagers leave, Negri turns up in camp again. He's curious, but quiet and unobtrusive, wherever he is in camp. He's a very good listener…even when you might not want him to be.



On the 3rd, the Barrayarans and outsiders awake to discover that the part of the cave where they've kept the majority of their food supply has collapsed, either blocking their access to the cache or destroying it entirely. It's impossible to tell. The villagers can't spare much more than they already have been -- certainly not enough to feed the hundred and fifty-odd soldiers in the camp -- so while they try to find out a way to recoup their food supply, they have no choice but to slaughter their own horses for food. Food will be heavily rationed, but fairly -- the outsiders receive no less than the rest. The prisoners, on the other hand, get nothing. There probably isn't enough wild game in the area to sustain the camp, but Piotr sends out hunting parties, and when they get wind of a Cetagandan supply drop on its way, they organize a raid on the supply lines.

camp
With temperatures well below freezing, no food, and excruciatingly little in the way of advantage against the Cetagandans after their last infiltration attempt, morale is beginning to drop. Piotr and Olivia remain bastions of perseverance as always, but Sonia is beginning to buckle and wilt as the days go on. The soldiers do their best to entertain themselves and keep morale up, but all they've got are maple mead, and old card and dice games. They could use some new forms of entertainment. Maybe a snowball fight might get the blood moving -- assuming you can stand the wind chill. Thankfully, there's no shortage of warm clothes and wool scarves.

The cave isn't big enough to simply move all of camp inside, but the sickbay and mess tents are moved where it's a little warmer and out of the harsh wind. It's generally crowded with off-duty soldiers despite the food shortage, because no one wants to be out in the cold right now. Things get a little better after the mostly successful raids, but food is still heavily rationed.



missions
The hunting parties are only moderately successful; there isn't much wild game out there right now, and while the soldiers fare alright, the outsiders' hunting party fails miserably. The raiding parties yield a little more in the way of relief, enough now that they don't have to keep eating horse meat, but Pearl was captured by enemy forces in the chaos.

Maine helps Piotr with a very successful final interrogation of ghem-Miko, the Cetagandan scientist taken prisoner last month. He reveals that the Cetagandans have been studying the locations where exotics appeared, as it seems to be linked to wormhole technology, and that the Cetagandans are planning on building a device to control it. They have the technology, they're almost sure, but it's a puzzle they haven't solved yet. Ghem-Miko doesn't live long past his interrogation -- public execution by decapitation is his sentence, and when it's done, a few soldiers carry off his body and severed head.

Piotr's interrogation of Duv Galeni goes about as well but, blessedly, less fatally. It becomes known that Duv is from Komarr, the planet that sold Barrayar out to the Cetagandans, and that Duv Galeni is really David Galen, a relative of a few Counselors in the head of Komarran government. However, he's able to successfully convince Piotr that he isn't allied with the Cetagandans, and after a few days of agony, Duv is granted parole at Piotr's discretion.

On the evening of the 15th, Maine, Beth and Byerly inadvertently catch Vorhalas in the act of trying to sabotage what little of their food supply they've been able to recoup. He tries both fight and flight, but the three outsiders are able to take him down and drag him to Piotr's doorstep. It quickly becomes apparent that Vorhalas was responsible for the cave-in earlier in the month. Piotr is both furious and victorious; he now has a lead on the traitor conspiracy among his men, and his esteem of Beth, Maine and Byerly has gone up considerably for their part. Vorhalas is up next in the interrogation chair, and this one won't be pretty.

The unabridged event writeup is here.

cetaganda
The recent supply drop not only provides resources for the base and for distribution to their other outposts, but also brings fresh species for transplant into the gardens at the Grow Labs. The arrival of a handful of new exotics gives rise to a fresh wave of buzzing curiosity around the base. All of the new exotics are given thorough physicals, just as the first wave were, and provided with fatigues and anything else they might need. They make an even dozen now, their bunk at capacity. The Cetagandans are beginning to become accustomed to having the exotics on base, some of them even forward enough with their curiosity to be friendly. Darkstalker now has a small following of ghem lady scientists who regularly feature him as a subject in their art.

New arrivals will be processed as the first were -- once everyone has been whisked out of the extreme cold, everyone is subject to a thorough physical, including a number of scans that may or may not seem totally arcane to you. Other than a blood sample, nothing they're doing is at all invasive. Lady Diya d'Zefyst, while not a physician, is present at all physicals. She is easily notable not only for her striking, almost ethereal beauty as is typical of the haut, but, as the only haut on base, she is easily distinguishable by her lack of facepaint.

While the exotics still have freedom of movement around the base, the recent extreme temperatures have their hosts diplomatically suggesting they travel as much as possible, they are provided cold weather wear, as the mess hall and medbay are in separate buildings from the barracks. Weather warning aside, they encourage the exotics to take advantage of the non-restricted recreational facilities -- exercise rooms, art rooms, the lush gardens in the Grow Labs -- and will satisfy any reasonable curiosities.

base
In an effort to make the exotics feel more at home, the Cetagandans decide to put on the sort of function they might for visiting diplomats, full of art of all sorts, to show that they're just as willing to share their culture with the exotics as they're asking the exotics to share with them. The function is hosted on the evening of the 7th in an annex to the Grow Labs apparently meant for this express purpose, as it shows off the most beautiful and elegant of the Grow Labs' specimens, and acts as a live arboretum in and of itself, and quite vibrantly beautiful.



If there's one thing the Cetagandans are good at (besides art, and language, and genetics) it's throwing a good party. Functions like this are always an opportunity for Cetagandans to try and socially one-up one another; everyone is in their most fashionable dress in the latest fashions they manage to keep off-planet, or at least a dress uniform, wearing fanciful scents and vibrant facepaint they might not otherwise on the job. For the artistically inclined ghem (read: a lot of them), this is the chance to show off their artistic endeavors as well -- large sculptures of unusual and improbable materials, walkable installations meant to engage every sense, and of course the living art engineered by the ghem ladies, ranging from relatively simple and tame pieces such as koi fish patterned with clan insignia or black roses and blue orchids, to complex combinations of non-human DNA to create some genetic sculpture. There is, of course, food and drink -- in the usual flagrant Cetagandan style, although the hors d'oeuvres and drinks are even more ecletic than the usual mess hall fare. It seems as though the Cetagandan passion for genetic art extends even into the culinary realm.

At the center of the party is a particular kind of art installation called a discernment garden. Housed in a beautiful, improbably architectural tent, the discernment garden consists of a series of rooms, each meant to test the refinement of the senses -- not unlike a varietal wine tasting. Each room is dedicated to a single sense, inviting participants to judge a collection of samples and suss out the differences, or match tastes and smells and textures to labels; the end of the garden presents its visitors with a final art piece incorporating all five senses, as a final test of one's refinement. Some of the ghem might (a bit wryly) confess that this is actually more of an education tool used for Cetagandan children, but this is meant as a gesture of good will toward the exotics.



missions
On the evenings of the 6th and the 8th, some of the exotics do a little sneaking around, and not for the first time. York lends Kaidan his access badge to the R&D Lab on the 6th and Kaidan, along with Sans and Symmetra, stumble onto a whole lot of wormhole data and schematics to construct a device capable of controlling the phenomena of the exotics' appearance. On the 8th, Deanna and Natasha sneak around to the tactical buildings and overhear some marital discord between Zahal and Diya, and a troubling glimpse at their diverging plans.

On the evening of the 13th, Jasper, York and Daryl are all in the medbay when a biocontainment breach sends it into automatic lockdown, trapping them inside. They overhear Diya arguing with one of her subordinates over unauthorized use of ba genetic material, whatever that is.

The unabridged event writeup is here.

Comments

CETAGANDA: York | OTA

[infailtration]

I. Party

York is always up for a party, even here. And when the opportunity to be dressed in Cetagandan fashion arises he agrees readily, curious as to what they might do to him. He winds up dressed by the same ghem ladies who dressed Wash, put into narrow swaying robes of a matching charcoal gray, covered in layers of tea-brown and paler shades of forest green with a sash of charcoal brocade and matching soft shoes. He has no objections to the robes, but his ego takes a hit with the facepaint. They adorn him with a wide swathe of metallic silver painted diagonally to cover up the scarring on his left side, an intricate geometric pattern in earth tones helping to draw attention away from his bad eye. He smiles politely when he sees it, compliments their work, but is quiet as he enters the party itself.

Maybe that's why -- among all the other reasons -- he takes the first drink he's offered, and the next, before he samples any food at all. He aims to figure out how strong they are so he can relax but not lose himself, just. Maybe get a break from pretending everything is alright while thinking about all the ways it isn't, all the time. From pretending that he's fine. Maybe he could just be fine, just for the night.

He can be found wandering the discernment garden or nursing a drink while looking at the art on display.

II. Post-Op

It wasn't an easy decision, to have the surgery... York didn't want to be indebted to the Cetagandans but he has to acknowledge that his blind side is a huge problem in this environment, especially considering what they're planning to do. What they're about to do. So he went through with it, after lots of questions to the CMO. They went over it all again before putting him out, and he wakes up in the medbay with his left eye bandaged. There's no pain, but when he opens his good eye and looks around he can feel the other (not the bad eye, not anymore, just.... the new one) shifting with a strange sensation of pressure. It's attached, then. He just hopes the nerve is intact as they promised.

A tech comes to check him over when they notice he's awake, and says that as he's likely still feeling the effects of the sedatives someone will walk him back to the barracks. That he should rest, try and keep the good eye closed too so he doesn't move the new one around too much. He agrees, and when a guard comes by to escort him he goes willingly, feeling wobbly from the medication but eager to get out of the medbay. He wants to get the bandage off. He wants to see.

He's led to the barracks and then straight to his bed, encouraged to lie down again. Anyone can come up and talk to him, be it to wonder why he's bandaged or not.

Post-op!

[protocol]

York had floated the idea of allowing the Cetagandans to replace his eye by him, and Wash had been -- wary, to say the least. The Cetagandans have been more than hospitable, have treated them more like guests than anything else, but he's still more than suspicious of their motives, about what really happens in that lab. The idea of any of their technology going into any of them has Wash on edge just instinctively. Something could go wrong, and even if something doesn't go wrong, he just doesn't trust them.

But well, he knows that York's more than aware of the risks, too, and it's up to him in the end -- Wash had made sure to emphasize that most of all, that it was his decision, that he was behind him no matter what he chose to do. He's been restless ever since York went in for the surgery, just tried to focus on their plans, on everything else they had to think on, and he's in the barracks when York shows up at the door, escorted by a Cetagandan guard, still wobbly on his feet but looking well enough with bandages carefully wrapped around his eye.

He immediately follows loosely behind them, waiting patiently enough as the guard encourages York to lie down, and once they leave he's moving forward to York's bedside, hesitant. Maybe he should leave him to rest, but.

"Hey." A gentle nudge against York's arm. "Looks like you made it out."

Haha the Cetagandans didn't kill you on the operating table. Ha.

Re: Post-op!

[infailtration]

"Yup, I woke back up. They wound up not taking that kidney in trade, either." A smile, then, genuine if kind of drowsy. "I'm fine, man. You really were worried, huh?" So was he, he just didn't want to let it show around anyone once he made the decision. No use in making them worry more.

And then he's propping himself up on an elbow, searching his head for where the bandage starts. To take it off. Yup. Maybe he's still loopy from the anesthesia, to think that's a good idea?

"Give me a hand with this?"

[protocol]

Of course he was worried, of course York would say not to be. Wash mirrors York's smile, reaching out for some chair to pull to York's bedside so he can sit down next to him -- and immediately moving to grip his shoulder as Wash starts to reach up and feel over his bandages.

"They probably put those on you for a reason, you know?" Giving his shoulder a gentle but firm squeeze, trying to urge him to lie back down. "I"m sure you'll be just as good-looking as before."

[infailtration]

"Relatively speaking. They couldn't do anything about the scar." Not that he would have asked for it, anyway... he's accepted the old wound. More surgery to fix something aesthetic just seems unnecessary, as much as the Cetagandan's obvious distaste for the mark bothers him. Nobody's perfect, alright Cetaganda? Nobody.

His searching fingers find the edge of the bandage and he tugs at it gently, ignoring Wash's urging him to rest. "Just for a second. I need to know if it worked."

[protocol]

No, York, bad. This time Wash reaches up to grab at his arm, fingers curving firmly around his forearm and giving him a slight squeeze -- not forcibly tugging his arm away, but definitely making a point. He'll strap you down if he has to, but surely you know better than that, York.

"If everything was already ready to go, they wouldn't have bandaged it, York." He's using a tone of voice that York -- probably hasn't heard from him before. Strict, authoritative, giving orders. "Give it some time."

II.

[asafepairofhands]

Ratchet's waiting for York to be poured back into his bunk, and he hangs back only until the Cetagandan guard leaves before he's next to York's bed, touching his shoulder with light fingertips.

"Hey," he says, his voice low and a little wry. "How drugged are you right now?"

Re: II.

[infailtration]

"My guess is very," York answers, grinning up at Ratchet as he assesses himself. He's certainly feeling no pain, but he doesn't feel foggy from whatever drugs they gave him either. Just loose and relaxed. A little sleepy, still, but he won't be resting until he finds out if the surgery took. His expression turns serious, then, and he reaches up to grip the other man's hand where it rests on his shoulder. "Would you take a look?"

[asafepairofhands]

Ratchet laughs and scuffs a hand through York's hair affectionately, mindful of his bandages.

"Of course I will, when the bandages are supposed to come off. How long did they say it would take?"

[infailtration]

York blinks his good eye at the ruffle, then looks almost comically disappointed. All his reactions are exaggerated right now. "They'll check in two days." He's still impatient, wants to know if it worked and looks like it's going to take. "Come on, you're a doctor. It'll take five seconds."

[asafepairofhands]

"Yeah, and as a doctor, I'm telling you there's probably a reason they're waiting two days to check. You can't pull the bandages off a cut every ten minutes to see if it's healing--I think the same rule applies to eyeball replacements."

Ratchet narrows his eyes thoughtfully, then folds his arms, using his best no-nonsense medic face.

"What were the instructions they gave you, exactly?"

Party

[symmetricks]

She knows, vaguely, that he's also serving as an assistant to the technicians in the lab. Not necessarily on the same schedule she is, but it's familiarity in passing, enough to recognize him even in the drastically different garb and face-paint he's sporting.

Still, it's encouraging to see other people beginning to embrace what their rescuers have to offer, and the look is quite fetching on him. From an aesthetic standpoint. And aren't they here at the party to appreciate the aesthetic of things?

Symmetra herself is looking quite comfortable in her own party attire, but she hasn't gotten quite close enough to initiate a conversation just yet. Consider yourself part of the art installation for now, York.

[infailtration]

York feels someone's gaze on him, a sensation he's become accustomed to over the past month. The Cetagandans look at him a lot, be it just to watch that he's doing what he's supposed to or to comment amongst themselves on his scarring. He hasn't quite gotten used to it but it's no longer enough to set him on edge -- he looks around to see if he can find the offender in the crowd, and his eye settles on Symmetra.

Turquoise and gold. What are the odds?

She's quite beautiful, her hair coiled and jeweled, and in robes flowing around what looks to be a very fit figure. He can't help his eye from wandering a bit before it returns to her face, and he gives an apologetic smile. Blame it on the Cetagandan alcohol, perhaps.

[symmetricks]

Or the fact that he still has a working eye, perhaps.

There is no leer to follow, however. In fact, he almost seems contrite. That buys him some measure of goodwill, before she determines that yes, this is a party, and she should try speaking to someone in something other than confrontational tones. Try something new, for a change.

"An admirer of art?"

And she nods just past him to the displays the Cetagandans have arranged for their viewing. It would be a nice change of pace to find someone more interested in enjoying what their hosts have provided them, as well.

[infailtration]

He's almost surprised she comes over after that little slip, that she's being friendly and conversational instead of just turning away disapprovingly. York takes a sip of his drink and glances back to the statue he'd been examining, an abstract thing made of some kind of crystal.

"I'm interested, at least. Can't say that I 'get it' but everything here's awfully pretty."

Including her. All of the exotics have been turned into works of art themselves, even if he doesn't think of himself that way.

"Do you have a favorite piece yet?"

[symmetricks]

It's difficult to say if she caught the double-meaning, the slight-of-hand flirtation, as she doesn't so much as blink at it before joining him to observe one of the displays.

"They say art is supposed to make you feel something. It should speak to you. These are very pretty. But...perhaps something is missing in translation," she admits, after a moment.

"I simply may not have found what I'm looking for as of yet."

for ratchet;

[infailtration]

York can't sleep. What else is new. Tonight is a bit different, though. Tonight the problem isn't so much his brain but that his mind just won't stop, keeps running through everything he's learned the past few days. Everything that's happened and is going to happen and... wondering if he can handle it.

He shifts again, the bunk creaking as he rolls to lie there staring at the ceiling with two good eyes. Maybe he should give up on sleep... yeah. For now, at least. He needs to be doing something, and the training room should be open. Empty. Doing his best to keep quiet, he sits up and puts his shoes on, heading out of the barracks.

[asafepairofhands]

Ratchet stirs as York pushes up from the bunk, his eyes flickering open. He debates for a moment--York has been strange and withdrawn the past few days but hasn't said why, which... Ratchet isn't exactly offended, but with everything else York has seemed perfectly comfortable sharing with him, it comes as a bit of a surprise. Still, he's not going to get a better opportunity to talk to York in private, so he pushes up and pads out of the exotics' room after him, rubbing at the deep circles under his eyes and trying to jog his brain fully awake.

He hesitates at the threshold of the training room then steps in, keying the door shut again after him and leaning back against the near wall, folding his arms and just watching York for a long moment, his brow furrowed and his mouth tight at the corners.

"Hey," he says, his voice rough with sleep. "What's wrong?"

[infailtration]

York is in the far corner of the room on the mats, wrapping his hands to go a couple rounds with the punching bag, when Ratchet enters. Shit. He knows he's been acting strangely, and he's not willing to lie. But. He's not sure he'd even be able to talk about this. About Carolina, or North, or him. He doesn't even know where he'd start.

"...I'll be okay." That's vague enough, and probably true. Probably. "Just go back to sleep, you need it."

[asafepairofhands]

He catches the look on York's face when he turns around, a strange knot in his stomach as he presses his spine flat against the wall and slides down it to sit, leaning his head back with a soft thunk and letting his eyes close.

"Too quiet in there," he says. "This whole place is too quiet. I can't--hmm." He cuts himself off and sighs, one eye slitting open to look over at York again.

"You don't have to talk about it," he says. "But do you mind if I just... sit?"

[infailtration]

York just breathes for a moment, then shakes his head and continues wrapping his hands. "I don't mind. I'm just gonna beat the shit out of this for awhile."

A huge part of him wants to go to Ratchet, but that restless anxiety still has him coiled like a snake. Better he gets it out of his system first. He rolls his wrists and starts punching the bag, each strike hitting with a dull thud that echoes through the room. It's not much noise but it's something, each strike accented by the shuffle of his feet and sharp breathing.

party dancing!

[natalia_vdova]

Natasha is a bit unnerved by her outfit herself, though it's hard to tell unless you're particularly perceptive. She's dressed in layers upon layers of thin silk robes, from scarlet red at the inside to a rose pattern printed in black on black at the outside. Even the scents they adorned her with are touched with roses and for her, black roses have meaning. Black roses and ribbons. But there's no way that they could know that, or so she keeps reminding herself.

She knows she shouldn't be drinking, because she has never in her life been able to get drunk, so she can only imagine how it will effect her. But, there's a glass in her hand regardless, even if thus-far she's done little more than pretend to sip at it. On the whole, though, she seems happier, like she's willing to pick up the idea of a party and run with it. The truth is something a little more cagey; something about playing to expectations and smiling because people are watching.

Either way, she checks in with the people she knows, which eventually means she wanders over to York. "Someone cleans up nice. Though I think you're more handsome without the facepaint," she admits. But, well, Natasha's always liked scars. A lesson they'd taught her as a child in the Red Room: cherish your scars because they meant that you lived.

[infailtration]

York smiles at Natasha when she approaches, thinking she looks lovely even if the robes don't quite suit her somehow. Most of the exotics look just slightly uncomfortable, slightly out of place, and while she seems to be at ease he can tell she's not. It's in the way she holds her shoulders up too-straight, the way she tips her glass but doesn't really drink it. When she steps into range he reaches out and touches her elbow lightly in greeting.

And then he looks surprised, when she calls him handsome. He's self-conscious about the facial scar, more than he's willing to admit, especially since getting here and having the Cetagandans judge him as inferior for it. "...thanks. That means a lot, actually."

Another sip of his drink -- he's two in and starting to feel decidedly loose -- and he glances towards the bustle of the party. "Not what I would have expected, in a war zone."

[natalia_vdova]

It's the black roses. They remind her of things that she sometimes she thinks she would rather forget, things taken from her that she can never get back, when she was young, too young and never afraid of the dark. It puts those thoughts uncomfortably close to the front, things she usually manages not to think about. Then he touches her elbow, and it's a little surprising, she is not the most physially affectionate person in the world, but she smiles up at him.

She eyes him carefully when he thanks her, and her expression turns a little playful. Of course you're handsome, York. But she understands the self-consciousness, too, how other people see them as imperfections. Her healing factor meant she healed fast and usually cleanly, but she had her own scars. That self-deprecation joke about bikinis she'd used against Steve as a way to disarm the situation.

"They do like their theatrics, don't they," she offers quietly with a sideways look. She's seen parties in the midst of wars before, but it always depended. When the buildings around you were bombed-out shells, there This was a show of means, whether for their soldiers or for the Exotics, she was still deciding. The fact that dressing the Exotics up seemed to be something of a competition also wasn't lost on her, either.

"You enjoying the show?"

[infailtration]

"I'm not.... not enjoying it? It's a little formal for my taste." Formality means there's a proper way to act, and he doesn't know the customs well enough to feel at ease. "I'm not big on art, either, even if it's all very pretty. The gardens are nice? And I'd dance if it wasn't so..." He gestures vaguely with his glass. She should be able to tell what he means. Formal, again, the sort of dancing with steps and a proper way to hold one another. He never learned.