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

"Yeah, okay. I'll take your word for it." Ratchet's vehemence is reassuring, his explanation of going on in line with what York figured was happening but put into proper terminology. It's going to get better. He just needs to hold out until it does, somehow. York leans back against Ratchet, trying to put together an answer to his question. He settles on, "You. Having something real to focus on." Because he knows that's what's making the difference -- and if he's honest he's scared for Ratchet to let go, as strange as it is to be touched. "It hasn't stopped, I'm just.. ignoring it better I guess."

"Oh," Ratchet says, his voice smaller somehow, glad York can't see the expression that flashes over his face. He tightens his grip just a bit when York leans back, his hold secure but not squeezing as he clears his throat a little. "Well."

"I was thinking being in a better-lit room might be helping too, as long as the hallucinations aren't giving you migraines on top of everything else. The breathing exercises, too." He's quiet for a long moment, digesting what York said and contemplating his place in the universe, specifically right here, apparently human, on an utterly unknown planet in an unknown galaxy with unknown, possibly hostile organics, trapped in a science lab-slash-military base with nine strangers and sitting on the cold floor of a bathroom with his arms wrapped around an ex-military science experiment with a malfunctioning neural implant. He lets out a slow, steady breath.

"I'm glad," he finally says, his voice a little rough. "That it helps. And, I'm not going anywhere."

"I've had a headache for a couple of days," York admits, "but I figured it was from not sleeping."

He's relaxing now, breathing smoothing out and eyes open again, trying to adjust to what he's seeing. Trying to adjust to everything, still, really. Delta sits at his shoulder and York turns away from the hallucination, towards Ratchet. It's tempting to just bury his face in the other man's neck and pretend none of this is happening but he can't keep his eyes closed forever. And it might not be appreciated.

"I forgot about the breathing exercises... next time." Because he knows there will be one. Kaidan talked him through a panic attack a few days ago and the breathing exercises helped then, he just needs to get used to using them more. When things start going sideways. "They can't be missing this," he says, sounding tired and stressed. "What do you think they do to people around here that cause problems?"

"The headache might be a little of both. Sleep won't hurt, that's for damn sure. And it might help finding a physical object to focus on, too, something you can pick up and hold and know is really there to use as an anchor if it gets bad." Ratchet makes a low sound in his throat, his eyes narrowing.

"If they decide to kick up a fuss over someone attempting to handle neurological damage without trained psychiatric aid, they'll find out pretty quick what a 'problem' actually looks like. ...in the meantime, I wouldn't worry about it too much. I think you're right, that they at least know something's going on, and they haven't said anything yet. You've got enough to worry about."

York laughs, the sound soft and bitter. "Are you going to sleep with me, too? If I try and keep anything from meals they might think I want a weapon. And nothing else in the room moves." He supposes he could hold on to the legs of his bunk, maybe. Or just his boot. He doubts the Cetagandans would have stuffed animals to hold but that's the best thing he can think of that wouldn't be construed as a weapon.

There's something protective in Ratchet's voice that soothes York's worry -- he's sure Kaidan and probably Wash would object to his being hauled off, too. Maybe even Daryl. He's not sure if the hillbilly gives a shit, but it would be an excuse to fight. "Staying sane's probably enough to worry about, yeah." He sighs, "I haven't been doing such a great job of it."

"Mmmm," Ratchet says, but it's not a 'no.' "There's no sense in borrowing trouble. If they do decide to make an issue about it, we'll deal with it then. I think you've been doing a fine job, taking the circumstances into consideration." Ratchet's still twitchy, still hypersensitive, and he's worried he isn't taking very good care of this body at all but it's not like he can just ask.

York doesn't agree -- he's been trying his best but he knows some of the others are getting fed up with his antics. He stays across the room from Darkstalker at all times, just in case the dragon gets the idea to shut him up by eating him. But he's also not going to argue with Ratchet, who he's sure is just trying to make him feel better. He just nods against the other man's shoulder, trying to find comfort in his words.

"Wash is here, you know -- the friend whose implantation failed. So it does get better. He's different, but functional, so I'll take it."

"I think 'different but functional' is the best anybody can demand after being randomly kidnapped to a unfamiliar galaxy and kept under house arrest in a medical base in the middle of what appears to be the arctic even if they aren't missing part of their brain," Ratchet says, his voice a little dry. He sobers again after a moment, frowning, not that York can see.

"What happened? To Washington, I mean, with his AI implantation? Feel free to not tell me, I know it's not strictly my business, but I don't know a lot about these implants to begin with so I'm curious."

"Heh. I'd deal with all of that if my head wasn't broken." He thinks, at least. Worse has happened to him.

"And I'd tell you, I trust you to keep it quiet, but he wouldn't tell me. I don't know how bad it got for him." He thinks back to Wash's face as he talked, though, how changed everything about him was. "When I say different, though, I mean... he's like another person entirely. It's scary."

He wants to be there for Wash again, but doesn't know if the other man will let him back in.

"I see." Ratchet's quiet for a moment, thinking.

"Do you find yourself much changed? I mean, besides the sudden spatial displacement and the hallucinations and the stress and everything else--I know it can be hard to judge, but I didn't know you before, so I certainly can't tell."

York shakes his head, and seems fairly certain when he speaks. "Not at all. My body's the same, if that's what you mean. I know coming here changed other people. Maybe because they couldn't survive on this planet as they normally were?"

"Huh," Ratchet says, sounding dubious, though--maybe. He certainly hasn't seen any energon here, and dropping dead from being underfueled would be a humiliating end to an otherwise marginally successful five-million-year career. He shifts his grip on York slightly and relaxes back against the wall, overconscious of any tension running through him with York's back against his chest.

"I meant more in personality, like you mentioned with Washington. I suspect the physical changes were done more as a disabling mechanism than anything else." He does not sound thrilled about this fact.

"Oh. I don't... think so? It's hard to tell, I'm usually more laid back, but." The hand that isn't holding Ratchet's wrist comes up and waves at his head. "I'm not dealing well, and I'm definitely not acting like myself, but I don't think my actual personality's changed. I haven't turned into an asshole or anything." He lets his hand drop back to his side tiredly.

"A disabling mechanism?" He's curious about what that could mean. "You think the dragon used to be bigger or something?"

Ratchet nods, though York can't see him.

"Okay. Good to know. And, yeah--not just him, too. The blue person--Lapis Lazuli, I think--doesn't appear to be laboring under the impression that she's human, which is going to be a huge disappointment for her when she finally passes out because she hasn't eaten anything in a week. She kept going on about 'water powers,' which isn't ominous at all. And, well." He nudges at York companionably.

"Pardon me for saying so, but I'm getting the idea that you aren't exactly operating at peak capacity since your AI was disabled. I don't think all that's a coincidence." He carefully does not mention anything about his own changes--the less he has to lie to York, the better, as far as he's concerned.

Edited 2017-01-11 19:47 (UTC)

He can feel the nod, and certainly the nudge. He laughs low in his throat, the sound humorless. "You're probably right. I couldn't get her to put winter clothes on, either."

York considers the group, the abilities they might have had that were taken away. He glances up at Ratchet, what he can see of the other man. "Do you feel any different?"

Ratchet is quiet for a long time, knowing he should keep quiet, that Cybertronians aren't well-liked even if anybody here has heard of them, even if he could get anyone to actually believe him instead of writing him off as crazy. His jaw tightens and he lets out a shaky sigh.

"Yeah. Yeah, I do. I don't know if I can really explain, but this place messed with me too. You're in good company."

"Well I knew I was in good company." He doesn't have any idea how Ratchet might have been changed, but he's not pushing to know either. "I'm sorry they messed with you."

"Me too," Ratchet says, his voice flat. Not half because if they hadn't, he wouldn't have to worry nearly as much about being shot and he could step on anybody who annoyed him too thoroughly. Opportunities lost. He huffs a soft breath. "I'm all right, though. My most severe symptom seems to be irritation, so I'll take it. How are you feeling--hallucinations easing up at all?"

"I'm better." It's not a lie, exactly -- he's dealing better if not feeling better. Slowly, he lets go of Ratchet's arm and moves to sit up on his own. "Won't disrupt the room if we go back, anyway. You think I could crash with you?" They could push their bunks together if they don't fit on one. He just doesn't want to let go, to feel like he's alone again.

"Uh-huh." Ratchet does not sound like he entirely believes York being 'better' but he eases his grip as York shifts away, one hand resting briefly on his shoulder to squeeze there before he lets go. "And, sure, if you want. Got more than enough room." It's not like he's been sleeping in longer than ten- or fifteen-minute snatches, anyway. He rubs a hand over his face and braces his shoulders harder against the wall, looking over at York with suddenly sharp eyes.

"Promise me something, though?"

York turns so he can see Ratchet, his good eye much more focused than it was before. He shudders a little, suddenly cold without the other man at his back. And tired, with his fit over. "What is it? I can try."

Ratchet just looks at him for a moment, his expression shifting helplessly. He's exhausted, even if he doesn't know it, the harsh florescent light in the bathroom pressing dark smudges under his eyes as he watches York, a flicker of real, stripped vulnerability in his face for the first time. It's faint but it's there, dragged out from behind the comfortable armor of his profession and the iron control he's had to exert since he woke up in this mess to keep from breaking down completely. The corners of his mouth tighten.

"Don't ask me to kill you again," he says quietly, but he doesn't look away. "I don't know if you remember, but--don't. Please."

Did he say that? He did. He hit a limit of what he could take, at least on his own. It's a struggle to hold Ratchet's gaze, to not glance away ashamed. But he owes Ratchet that much. "Okay," he agrees, just as quietly. "I won't, I promise." And he means it as much as he can, will try not to as long as he's coherent enough to remember. He doesn't actually want to die, after all, just wants it all to stop. He needs to be stronger.

"Come on. You need some rest, too." York climbs to his feet, takes a moment to steady himself and then offers Ratchet a hand up.

"Hmmm," Ratchet says, noncommittal, but he lets York pull him up before he hesitates and then settles a hand briefly on York's shoulder.

"I'm not upset or anything," he says, his voice low, that weird, helpless uncertainty still flickering in his eyes. "You just... aren't the first person to ask, and it never gets any easier to hear." His expression steadies and one corner of his mouth tugs up, just slightly. "I told the last guy who made that particular request to go to hell too, for the record, lest you think I'm singling you out."

Edited 2017-02-03 04:56 (UTC)

"I didn't think that, but it's good to know I'm not special. Means you're a good doctor." He squeezes Ratchet's hand before letting go, a hint of a smile warming his expression. "You don't always get the feeling that med staff care -- more like they're just doing a job."

[ january i log: cetaganda ]

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