forbarrayar | [ january i log: cetaganda ]

Entry tags:

[ january i log: cetaganda ]

Who: Everyone
What: Arrival on Barrayar and what follows
When: January 2nd - January 17th
Where: Cetagandan base
Warnings: None (at the moment)

welcome to barrayar.
It's the dark of night when you come to beyond the foothills. Snow on the ground, chill winter wind whistling. A steep mountain range towers overhead, its peaks illuminated by the light of two moons, and the foothills behind you ascend quickly into rocky mountain faces. 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 nine 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.

They're fitted with what look like futuristic tactical vests and armed with some kind of energy weapons that look deadlier than not. They surround you at gunpoint, dealing orders in intelligible English, but with some obscure, unplaceable accent, and their faces are colored with vivid paint. It quickly becomes apparent, however, that you are not the people they at first assumed -- something about Barrayarans, the barbarians in the mountains. The one who seems to be in charge steps away to murmur into what looks like a wristwatch-like communicator. After a minute or two of inaudible conversation, the officer steps back in. He orders his men to escort you all back to their base. As long as you cooperate, that's all that will happen.

the base
You are taken back to a military base of considerable scale and some serious fortification. There are two rounds of guard checks to go through, both taking what must be a lot longer than usual, and it's cold out. You are ushered past the guard checks into what looks like a barracks building, but relegated to a bunk on one end. They seem to have cleared the immediate area, with guards posted at the door, but there's audible activity beyond the short hallway in front of the door. They make it clear you are not under arrest, that you are merely being detained until they have ascertained the situation -- the word quarantine is used, but it doesn't seem to be of a medical sort. Either way, the only people who come to the bunk are those cleared by the guards, and they all seem much more interested than hostile.

They answer your questions with the very basic facts: the people who hold custody of you are the military service of the Cetagandan Empire, and the planet you are on is their Ninth Satrapy, and they're currently at odds with some of the native population. They won't say it outright, but it's clear they have no clue how you came to be here or why, but it's clearly of great interest to them. For the most part, the Cetagandan soldiers are civil, if at times distant and aloof, but if you look a little less -- or more -- than human, they'll eye you with visible curiosity, perhaps even some kind of appreciation.

At daylight, a few women in lab coats and the same face-paint as the soldiers come to the room to escort you across the base to the nearby medbay, two or three at a time. The medbay is an intimidatingly sterile and state-of-the-art facility, all gleaming chrome and polished glass and crisp holo displays. You are taken in one at a time for a physical examination -- they have to make sure you haven't brought any foreign contagions into their base, after all -- but the military physician isn't the only base personnel in the exam room. You hear the word exotic tossed around a few times until they realized they're talking about you. They call you the exotics.

the exotics room
For a military bunk, it's in surprisingly tasteful design. The room sleeps a dozen soldiers, so you even have a little bit of room to yourself, and while the furnishings are relatively spartan, they're hardly uncomfortable. If you're in need of clothing, the soldiers will bring you base fatigues – no rank insignia, of course, but the make of the textile is surprisingly fine.

You're served food at mealtimes, a combination of shelf-stable meal rations and what seems to be fresh food, all prepared with unusual artistry for a military base. There's a sophistication to the preparation that seems more like it belongs in a four-star restaurant than a military base. If you have any special medical needs, they'll do their best to attend to them -- and their medicine seems impressively advanced.

Soldiers and scientists alike come to the room every so often to ask you questions, more like interviews than interrogations, but behind the civility there's a burning intellectual curiosity. They seem intent on knowing as much as you'll tell them, and then some.

The nearest bathroom is at the end of the hall, and while they seem to have cleared the area of all other personnel, showers and baths are scheduled, and any trips to the restroom are chaperoned. The guards, while not hostile, are certainly not interested in letting you escape. You could try sneaking past them, but you probably won't get far.

Well, at least you've got each other for company: the exotics on the Ninth Satrapy.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ Wash is sitting on the edge of the bunk he'd been assigned, looking around warily at the people he's apparently sharing quarters with. Other exotics, if he's understood the situation properly, other people they'd just picked up in the snow with no real memory of where they came from. He should be talking to them, trying to find out more, but he's still a little on edge especially after that brief visit to the medbay, and he ends up just -- watching them, instead.

There's a girl who's entirely blue ( paint like these Cetagandan soldiers have on, maybe, but something tells him that's not the case ), people who are clearly soldiers, others who -- clearly aren't, and then there's someone looking his way, someone walking towards him.

Wash notices the scar, first, the blind eye, and then it actually still takes him a second or two to place that face, his heart seizing hard in his chest, lungs twisting into knots. It's been years. It's been years, and he hadn't had the time to bury him, hadn't had the time to do anything other than send the report to command, to take Delta and move on, and it's probably a good thing he isn't armed because the way his hand moves when he leaps up to his feet, he's very clearly reaching for one. He takes a step back when his hand finds nothing, only to find himself just bumping against the bunk, staring wide-eyed at York as if he's seen a ghost, and. Well. ]

This -- [ His eyes flick briefly to the door. There aren't any of those soldiers here, now, but if this is some kind of trick, some kind of a fucking joke, but there he is, standing in front of him in the flesh, looking completely real and very much alive. He shakes his head slightly, turns back to look at him. ] -- York?

[ York stops walking and raises his hands innocently when Wash startles backwards, only a few feet from his old friend. He takes in the differences, the scars and lines on Wash's face, the way he reached for a weapon when York approached. Not like the guy he knew, but it's been years and of course they've both changed. He's just glad to see his old friend alive and relatively well.

When Wash says his name he nods and drops his hands, a hint of a smile lighting his expression. ]

Hey Wash. It's been a long time.

[ He has a million questions he wants to ask but he'll give the other man time to adjust to his presence. Wash looks like he's seen a ghost but of course it's a shock, he thinks, considering their situation. What are the odds they'd both wind up here? ]

[ York is far too calm about this.

The last time he'd seen York he was face-down against the concrete with bullet wounds in his side, already dead for hours, and the last time he'd seen York before that was -- at Freelancer. At Freelancer, during the attack, when they'd locked him in because of his fucking condition and how unstable he was when the entire project itself was the problem, the entire thing was unstable, when Tex was tearing the place apart, and York, he remembers --

If this had been a few years ago, Wash probably wouldn't be handling this all that well, would've attacked him by now, would be letting all those whispers ( this is wrong wrong wrong are you slipping again, Wash, are you slipping ) get the better of him. He's different, better with those things now, and outwardly at least he stays calm enough, though obviously in some kind of shock, and something in that almost-smile makes him ache. Freelancer was too long ago. He and Carolina are the only ones left. ]

You look -- [ A pause. ] -- Better, than I remember.

[ It's meant to be friendly, meant to be a joke, meant to bring a smile -- but also the last time he saw you, you were fucking dead. ]

[ York doesn't get it, doesn't smile -- he's certainly worse off right now than he was the last time he hung out with Wash, before his failed implantation. But he answers in kind anyway. ]

So do you. Last I saw you was when you woke up from the surgery -- do you remember anything from then?

[ He'd been there, waiting for Wash to wake up, startled with all the others when he'd done so screaming and they'd been hustled out. And then. Well. A huge part of York wants to apologize right now, but Wash doesn't seem ready to hear it. So he waits, gestures to the bunk silently asking if Wash wants to sit down to talk. The other man looks a bit unsteady on his feet, which York understands. He does wonder why Wash hasn't put on the fatigues yet -- even inside it's cold and his own undersuit was sadly lacking for warmth. ]

What've you been doing all this time?

I remember everything.

[ Everything. Everything. Too much, too clearly, always, all the time, the surgeons standing over him with their assurances of everything will be fine before his world started to go black, their voices murmuring above him, the light, the flashes, the pain, memories that aren't his forcing their way into his mind and digging in until it hurts until it hurts and Allison, Allison, don't --

He shouldn't have said that. He knows better than that, now, but seeing an old friend back to the dead has a way of messing with you. What has he been doing all this time, so much, too much, he's fucked up in a hundred different ways, and part of him just wants to tell him and take comfort in the presence of an old friend, of someone he's missed dearly, but this can't be what it seems. Not to mention they're hardly somewhere private.

Wash doesn't particularly want to sit down to talk. Something isn't right. A lot of things aren't right, but. ]

What've you been doing all this time? [ Because apparently if you're here, you can't really have died. Did York manage to fake his own death, somehow, get Delta to go with the plan? But no, why would York ever have willingly left Delta behind, knowing the protocol at the time was for AI to be destroyed? ]

[ He remembers. And now part of York wants to ask for Wash's help, his advice, ask him what's going to happen to him without Delta and just how bad things are going to get. He's already seeing things, already has two people promising to watch out for him. Already feels like he's going to need that. But Wash is eyeing him warily, and with his echoing the question rather than answering... no. He doesn't ask, not yet. He needs to apologize. ]

Laying low, trying to keep tabs on everyone mostly. Just trying to survive and stay off the radar. [ That's what everyone he's heard about has been doing, except Maine. He takes a slow breath. ] I'm sorry I didn't come back for you. I had to run. I couldn't let anyone get D.

[ He rubs the back of his neck, fingers brushing over the base of the implant, and sighs. ] Guess that doesn't matter right now. Not here.

[ How much did York know? Wash never found out, never knew. Most of them were in the dark, clueless, but when the break-in happened Wash figured it had to do with some things getting out, with Tex figuring it out, at least, what had happened at Freelancer, the true nature of what she was. But did any of the rest of them find out? Did they figure it out? Did York? Did any of them know what the Alpha their AI kept asking after really was, did any of them know what really happened when they'd put Epsilon into him --

Breathe, Wash, breathe. He really doesn't want to talk about Delta or AI or anything Freelancer related within earshot of anyone else, realizes that just babbling about shit like that to people who have no business knowing it in a situation like this would be a hell lot more trouble than it's worth, but there's something that York says, something about the way he says it.

That doesn't matter now. Not here. They'd taken their armor, they could probably take their AI, but York couldn't fucking possibly have Delta with him because even if he'd faked his death even if he'd stayed alive, Wash had taken Delta from his fucking corpse. Couldn't let anyone get D. That doesn't -- ]

When was the last time you had him?

[ York shakes his head, having already gone over this with several other people. It's hard to keep shit under wraps when you show up screaming about it. He takes a seat on Wash bed, then, the hand on his neck coming up to scrub and muss at his hair. He's not coping well with this part of things. With the feeling of wrongness that comes with the silence in his head. The flashes, the echoes of Delta calling his name. ]

I should still have him. [ He looks up at Wash, who's closer now, and reaches out for him. Come on, sit down. They can talk with softer voices if they're closer, anyway. ] However I wound up here, I don't think he came along for the ride. Or he's trapped in the implant, deactivated.

[ Maybe you forget about dying, once you're dead.

That doesn't exactly help explain how York is talking to him right now, but the idea of telling York that he's dead isn't exactly appealing and especially not right now. Seeing him in person . . . God, he is glad to see him again but there's just so much that comes with it, so much weight, so much that twists around in his chest. York was just another victim of the shit they did at Freelancer. Another person that he could've maybe saved, if he'd done everything right, if he'd figured it out sooner. Another person that he could have avenged, and the Director is dead but that's not really justice for everything, is it, and there's so much more he could've done, so much he never managed to do, and so much he did that was wrong.

Focus. Breathe. He's still not going to sit down, sorry, York, and he just stares at him for a moment, in silence.

-- Carolina. He realizes that with a start. They'd all thought she was dead, and now -- does York know? How could he ever have known? Should he say something? He probably should, even if she isn't here. Wash keeps staring at him, and when he finally says something, it's just. ]

How're you holding up? [ Delta. He means about Delta. ]

[ York, oblivious to the struggle going on in Wash's mind, leans back on his hands and looks up at him, waiting patiently for the silence to pass. There's so much that's changed about his friend, he can see that. It'll take awhile for them to get used to each other again, if they're stuck here. And if they're not, he'll find Wash back home. It's the first thing he'll do after beating Wyoming. He promises himself this as they watch each other, as he scans Wash's face for any signs of emotion.

And then, out of nowhere, Wash asks how he's doing. ]

Not well. [ He admits it grudgingly and quietly, so no one can overhear. ] I'll be fine, though.

[ He has no idea how bad it's going to get for him. ]

I mean. You made it through, right?

Epsilon was different from this, York.

[ Epsilon didn't fuck him up because he was removed. Epsilon fucked him up because he was implanted in the first place. Because of what it was, because of everything it knew, everything it had to know, all of the shed off memories of an intelligence trying desperately to stay whole. Maybe years ago to even mention that name would've been too difficult, but he's -- better, now, for the most part, more distanced. There's a practiced quality to his expression. It's not natural, probably never will be, but he seems calm enough. ]

We don't know exactly what they did. Just removal wouldn't be enough to be traumatic, but if it's already affecting you. [ Just looking at him. York seems well enough at the moment, at least. ] During your physical, what did they -- ?

[ He remembers, briefly, being asked about whether or not his implant was giving him trouble. Maybe they'd had York as a reference point. ]

No? They always said removal would be traumatic. I just don't know how they meant. [ His jaw works; he's already experiencing some weird shit, and isn't coping well with the emptiness inside his head, the lack of his constant companion. But he can deal with it, he thinks, he can hack it through whatever happens because he has to. He can't afford to be out of control here where they don't know what's coming their way. ]

The doctors here wouldn't let me see their equipment but they said they ran every test they could think of on it. Lady Diya said they're going to get me a report. [ He doesn't sound convinced that'll happen. ] I just need to know if he's still in there, I don't think any of their tests will be able to tell me that but something should show if it's still active or not.

There's a doctor with us that might be able to help if we could get him the right tools. I'd trust him more.

[ He lowers his voice, then. ] Why do you think they saved us from the storm in the first place?

[ Removal itself, no -- but violent, involuntary removal was a different situation altogether, and they have no real idea how it happened here for York. Not to mention, being without Delta would just be like being without York's right arm at some point, with how closely they worked together, with how much time they spent together. At the very least it's disorienting, and well, Wash knows York would miss his friend.

What he says next catches his attention more, though, sorry York, about not being allowed to see the equipment but apparently the doctors still running every test they could on him and his implant. His blood runs cold for a moment, just instinctively, reactively. A different doctor? That catches his attention, too, he remembers meeting a man who'd called himself such at the medbay. ]

They either brought here for a reason that they aren't telling, or they have no idea how we got here and they're trying to figure it out. [ He does lower his voice in turn, but not that much -- he's already been fairly open with some of the others about his suspicion of the Cetagandans. ] Either way we're of some use to them, or we wouldn't be here.

[ Then he does lower his voice more, leaning closer to make sure York can hear him. ]

The tests, York. Do they know what they're looking for?

[ York doesn't like the sound of that -- that they could be of use. It seems like a research facility as much as it's a medical one, and he's had enough of being experimented on for a lifetime. ]

No. And I didn't tell them anything specific, don't worry.

I agree, though. They basically told me they saved us out of some kind of goodwill. Looked offended when I said it would have been easier for them to just kill us for being in their territory.

[ Being of use is the only thing that makes sense to Wash. It's a bit much to think they've taken them in out of charity and hospitality when they have such limited freedoms. Maybe he's being paranoid, who knows, but he'd rather be overly careful than not careful enough, that's how he's always been, since.

He nods a little, relaxing noticeably when York assures him he hasn't said anything specific. Good. He'd rather them not be getting ideas about AI implantation when they have two soldiers walking around in here who have the implants for it, and he'd just rather not anyone here know too much about where they're from, in general. Again, always, better safe than sorry. His mind is still wracking through the possibilities, thinking about what the woman from the medbay told him, wormholes, maybe, there's just a chance, but he probably shouldn't dwell too much on that until he has more proof, and.

Wash does this. He's too much in his own head, worries so much about every possibility, every danger, has been trained into it by every fucking awful thing that's ever gone on in his life, but lately he's been better at learning to take a step back, and finally he does that here, just moving away from the jumble of thoughts in his head to properly look at York in front of him.

He smiles. ]

It's good to see you, York.

[ It's been years. ]

[ He's been trying to run probabilities without Delta and has come up short -- there's just not enough information on how they got here, on the people holding him, on the world in general for him to make any guesses about what's going to happen. For now he's just glad they're still alive and being cared for as well as they are. Everything else is wait and see.

Wash's smile is unexpected, but York returns it warmly, pulled from more serious thoughts. ]

It's good to see you, too.

[ He stands, bringing them closer, and only hesitates for a moment before pulling his old friend into a hug. ]

[ Oh.

Wash hesitates visibly when York stands and moves forward, and he honestly doesn't realize what York is doing until his arms are already around him and he's being pulled into a hug. He doesn't try to resist it or push him away, but he's stiff and tense, obviously unsure of what to do for a good few seconds before he eventually lifts his arms to hug him back, gripping him tightly.

Just for a moment, and then he's letting go, gently but firmly getting some space between them. Nothing personal, York, this is just -- it's a lot. ]

I'll have to catch you up sometime. [ Lightly, though the very slight emphasis he places on sometime is clear enough. Not now. Maybe not for a while. There is -- one thing that York should probably know, though. ] It's been -- five, six years?

[ That maybe they've not just been transported across a ridiculous distance, but somehow time, as well, or -- something like that, he doesn't know. ]

[ He'll take what he can get. Wash seems so different now York wasn't sure he'd accept the hug at all, but the arms coming up around him are enough. They're still friends, no matter what else has changed. And they're not in this alone, wherever they've wound up.

They'll have to catch up, definitely, even if he isn't proud of his activities since they last saw each other. It's been -- Wait. Five, six years? York's smile fades to confusion. ]

No, it hasn't been that long. [ Did they tell Wash something different when he came out of it? He takes a better look at his friend -- it does look like he's aged, but. ] Are you sure?

[ He nods, his expression a little grim. ]

It's been at least that long, for me.

[ Maybe a ludicrous suggestion, but after all he's heard from people, after talking to York, it seems like it might be -- the only thing that makes sense. Somehow bringing York back from the dead seems just as unlikely as somehow transporting him alive across time itself, somehow, and when he's seen tech that transports people around into a goddamn little pocket dimension, who knows what's possible for an entirely different spacefaring civilization. ]

Whatever's going on here, it's -- stranger than I first thought.

It's only been about a year and a half for me.

[ That shouldn't be possible, but they've traveled farther than should be possible as well, so who knows. Time and space are slippery things, hard to get a grasp on even by people who study those things, who create the teleporters and nexuses, which neither of them are. York wants to be caught up right now, in that case, but the way Wash said 'sometime'... he doesn't ask, though it's burning on the tip of his tongue. ]

Stranger is a word. They mentioned wormholes. I think we might need to find an expert.

[ A year and a half.

A year and a half since what happened at Freelancer. He remembers when he was sent to retrieve Delta, remembers standing over York's body, the feeling seizing in his chest -- maybe he could've saved him, he could've stopped all this, but it's fine it's fine he has a plan, and there'll be justice. He remembers standing there, trying to imagine what York would think of him now after the shit he's done, with what he plans to do -- trying to imagine what York would've thought if he'd ever found out what he was really like, past the awkward naivete. Four years ago. Wash could probably count the days, if he had a mind to. More than a year after the break-in, less than two.

What would happen, if York went -- back?

Wash shakes his head. He can't linger on that, not now, needs to keep a clear head. ]

I've tried asking for access to R&D. Don't have the -- clearance, for it. [ Wash's tone makes it very apparent how he feels about being in a military base with a classified research branch. ] We'd have to find another way.

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[ january i log: cetaganda ]

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