[OPEN] patience is a virtue

[unclassifiable]

WHO: Simon Illyan and anyone
WHERE: any city!
WHEN: early August
WHAT: Simon is testing out his hypnosis powers! He won't do anything worse than ask some invasive questions. If your character has some sort of power that would counteract his power and lead to crazyness I am totally open to that, bring it.
WARNINGS: mind control! Possible action violence.

[It took approximately an hour for Simon to swap his military undress greens for some bland, unremarkable Earth-style civilian clothes, procure maps of all the Porter cities, burn his file, and dump the last six months of three separate newspapers on to his memory chip to sort through later.

But now he was standing on a carefully scouted street, out of the way of anything but light foot traffic. An entirely plain looking man of about thirty, brown hair, brown eyes, non-threateningly short and slim. He has a map spread out between his hands, and he looks up when he hears someone approach, smiling wryly.]

Excuse me, I'm a little lost. Could you lend me some assistance?

[He has a light accent, Russian-sounding. You may feel strongly compelled to agree, a sense of calm sweeping over you. Something telling you that listening to this man is a good idea.]

Comments

sometime after the vor related disaster; the lucky cat

[ghemnotgem]

( tej has heard nothing from the vor quarter of for weeks; and as there's been no plume of smoke has arisen in the direction of their country home, assumes there's been no news. not that she expects them to fill her in on family matters. this was better, tej had decided months back. there was a part of her that was thankful that ivan, for all his temporary husband status, felt the same.

which is why she has no idea that the man in front of her is simon illyan, the man with the cyborg brain. )

Welcome to The Lucky Cat Cafe. ( her voice is rich, noticeably accented to a system that didn't include any of the three planets of the barrayaran empire, and the name tag on her chest reads tej vorpatril very clearly. ) What can I get started for you?

[unclassifiable]

[Simon, on the other hand, both pegs the Jacksonian accent immediately and recognizes her from the network posts he'd skimmed. Simon doesn't introduce himself immediatley, half-curious if she pegs his accent.]

Just black coffee please.

[ghemnotgem]

( she does, and brightens a little -- switching easily into barrayaran russian. a barrayaran isn't going to be hired by any house wanting her dead, as far as she can tell. her speech is a bit stilted; the gregor and her have been working on it for a while, and while languages come easily to tej it's difficult to teach and learn without any books readily available. but her hesitancy and word choice are the only indication that it's not her native language. there's no hint of an accent and her grammar is impeccable. )

Of course. There's a special on -- lemon pastries?

[unclassifiable]

No thank you, Lady Vorpatril. [He offers her a friendly smile.] Captain Simon Illyan, it's a pleasure.

[ghemnotgem]

( if he was looking for a reaction, he's certainly got it. tej's face freezes, panic rising up instantly as the hunted look returns to her eyes. it doesn't have to be him-- but he's speaking to her in barrayaran russian, and called her lady vorpatril, so he has to know-- she's surprised that she drops out of russian, bluntness returns full force when she speaks again. )

The Simon Illyan? The one with the computer brain?

( oh no. )

[unclassifiable]

[Simon just raises an eyebrow very precisely. What an interesting reaction.]

That is a somewhat exaggerated way of putting it.

[tactical_lalafel]

Certainly! [Malms says cheerily, before pausing, blinking, as the wave of calm washes over him. He looks up at the man, the voice in the back of his head saying this wasn't normal ignored for now.]

How can I help you?

[unclassifiable]

[Another clearly alien species. Cordelia was probably constantly thrilled, but it was starting to give Simon a constant tic in his jaw.]

First, by telling me your name, species, and abilities.

[tactical_lalafel]

[As alien species go, Malms isn't anything that exciting - just a very small person with pointy ears, really.]

My name is Malms Vovokosi. I'm a Lalafel, and a combat-trained black mage.

[He blinks a little, surprised that he said that - in Eorzea, practicing the ancient arts of the black mage is technically illegal, and he's been cagey about mentioning that here, until now.]

Heropa

[wizzardly]

What sort, exactly?

[better question - what was it about the skinny redhead in the pointy hat that made you think you'd struck upon a fount of useful information, Illyan?

The Luggage, which had expected its owner to either ignore Illyan or run away (its master's favorite responses to strange requests from strange men) knocks into the back of the wizard's skinny legs in wooden, silent surprise at the abrupt halt. Luckily, Rincewind catches his balance after a brief spiral of arms and robe sleeves, shooting the chest a scolding look.

Admittedly, it is odd that he currently feels so inclined to help; being helpful isn't really his thing. But the ever-present suspicion soaked into every fiber of Rincewind's life (and the paranoia a Russian accent tends to trigger these days) feels muffled and far away just now, like a distant echo too soft to hear.

Much easier to listen to this pleasant stranger instead, who does look pathetically lost.]

Sorry. Is it you're trying to find someplace? Only, I see you've already got a map. I'm not sure how much better I can be to you than that.

[unclassifiable]

[Any information is good information when your brain can automatically sort and store it, but right now Simon's main goal is practice. He's getting better at spotting the slackness that indicates the hypnosis took. It's not always obvious on people who are lackluster to start with. He tucks the map away to get his hands free, breaking from his normal series of questions to indicate the luggage.]

What is that? Is it dangerous?

[Honestly, one of Simon's favorite things about this power was that he could utterly dispense with small talk.]

[wizzardly]

Oh, horrifically so. [confirmed with a nod which could nearly be thought cheerful, if it weren't coming from Rincewind.] It's my Luggage. Made of sapient pearwood, so very magical and very difficult to destroy. Sort of a bottomless travel accessory and bodyguard, infused with bloody-mindedness and the ability to instantly do your washing for you.

[information relayed easily, like he's chatting up an old friend. That's a rare enough sensation on its own for the wizard, never mind the lovely, loose feeling in his usually tense muscles. What a lovely person he's run into.]

Did you not need to know where things are then?

[the Luggage edges sideways around Rincewind, staying close to the hem of his tattered robe as it maneuvers its bulk between the two men. While without the proper organs, it nevertheless manages to project a narrow-eyed look up at Simon.]

[unclassifiable]

[That's Simon, nice guy and lovely person extraordinaire. He is earnestly getting sick of the word magic. Not because he doesn't believe in it—That's a non-issue. He takes precautions against things he doesn't believe in all the time, like assassins around every corner. The problem is he doesn't know what precautions to take against magic.

So... This might be a fruitful conversation after all if... Simon glances down at the Luggage. Does he believe it's sapient? Again, it doesn't matter. It's acting sapient and sapient things tend to develop a sense for aggression. Simon keeps his body language loose and easy, not going for a gun.]

It's not important. I'd rather hear more about magic, if your Luggage will permit it.

[wizzardly]

[The way Rincewind perks up has nothing to do with Simon's ability; he genuinely enjoys discussing magic with the unfamiliar - it lets him feel like a proper wizard.

Absolutely. There's a bar around the corner I like, if you're in for a drink as well. They've an entire potato bar on Sundays, you know. But the Luggage shouldn't bother you as long as you don't try to hurt me. Or unless it's trying to terrorize food out of you. ...Or you seem fun to menace in general, I suppose. Or it doesn't like you. But anyway -

[there's a moment's surprise when he notices the guarded position his suitcase has taken between them, before Rincewind shoos it to the side with a half-hearted kick. The Luggage snaps at him, affronted, but reluctantly complies and steps aside.]

I'm Rincewind, by the way. I don't think I mentioned.

[resoundingpledge]

[ It's honestly not like she needs the extra incentive to pause; judging by the open helpful expression the way her attention shifts to him, head tilting a little, the words alone would have been enough.

Her sundress and sandals fit in with the Heropa summer, but little else blends in. Red eyes, unruly pink hair filled with barettes (naturally pink, even, judging by her eyebrows and eyelashes), and the shimmer of a nanite tattoo on her wrist.

She adjusts the strap of her messenger bag, and metal shifts softly against metal. ]

Sure! What kind of help do you need?

[unclassifiable]

[Good God, American youth fashions. Far too Betan for Simon's taste. Why did 'freedom' have to be so colorful?]

Your name and a thorough accounting of your abilities, please.

[resoundingpledge]

Kururu Sumeragi.

[ Her head tilts a little, looking at him. That's a strange question, isn't it? And he's

not Russian, there's something familiar in the edge to his words, that curt demeanour, but it's not something bad and the lassitude cradling her thoughts only helps that feeling spread.

He's an imPort, isn't he? ImPorts are fine. The only community they really have here. ]

I'm a mechanic. A mechanical engineer? It's a little hard to explain.

[ But she could try, couldn't she? ]

At home, in the world I'm from—an Earth divergent from this one, it's about ten years earlier for us but the tech here is different, and the war, too—I'm . . . I've been a link tuner. Kind of a living component, a balance system between a King-level stormrider and the regalia they use. You don't know anything about A-T though, do you? Air trek. No one here does.

A-T were designed as a technological bridge to human advancement; augmenting natural and genetically engineered abilities past the scope of what would be achievable through the organics of a human-based body type alone. 'Regalia' were the original models or replicas that still embody those concepts. Other models are highly customizable, but to most people they're just motorized inline skates with really capable shock absorption and landing systems.

I gave that up though. Kind of. It's complicated.

I can design, engineer, modify and repair regalia systems and regular A-T. I guess that includes manufacturing . . . I'm versed in CAD modelling, CNC machining, additive and subtractive 3D printing, and most basic techniques—casting, welding, stamping, tempering, applying coatings for rust protection and dampening. I can identify and tell you the tensile strength, melting and fracture points for most metals and alloys used in the A-T and aerospace industries, but most of that you could just look up on the internet too. Knowing how they interact and interconnect, and which is good for what application is more important.

A lot of that knowledge is transitive, so I guess . . . I'm pretty good with a lot of machines. It's not just tech knowledge though, a lot of that is . . . I'm a tuner, right? And that part . . . that's kind of where the part that's just being a mechanic ends.

[ She shrugs—she's not done, but there's at least a moment's pause. ]

[unclassifiable]

[Simon holds up a stalling hand. Fascinated despite himself; but this is definitely not his area.]

That sounds astonishing. [He says this sincerely.] To what end was this 'human advancement' bent towards? Combat?

[resoundingpledge]

No.

[ And there's a warmth to her voice in the next words, hints of a deep passion that not even the effect of his powers can subdue. ]

There's been combat related applications, but the Gravity Children project was about developing full movement in zero-G, low pressure environments. And everything after . . .

A-T were created to let people fly.

maurtia falls

[khaleesipls]

[ Maurtia Falls isn’t the best territory to be wandering around in with a map in hand, but the daylight hours are more forgiving. ]

What are you trying to find?

[ Jorah is tall and broad in the shoulders, hair coarse, grey faded in through the sun-bleached ginger of his beard. The sword at his hip bumps nearly to his heel, and the leather rigged in under his tunic was designed with a mind for supporting armor.

He also has an accent. English, maybe. Something older. Rough around the edges.

He doesn’t blend in nearly as well.

Right out of the gate, he’s looking a little too closely at Simon. Almost like he’s trying to decipher something familiar about him. ]

[unclassifiable]

[Jorah blends in so badly it makes the back of Simon's neck prickle just standing near him.

He's done this enough times that he can tell that the man is eyeing him with far too much focus. He breaks eye contact by fussing with the map.]

The Porter. I wandered farther from it than I intended, I'm afraid.

[khaleesipls]

[ Eyes are cutting all the way from across the street to glance askance at Jorah the Andal in his skirt. He’s even noisy: the studs on his belt rattle beneath his scabbard when he leans in to better see Simon’s map, following the smaller man’s look down. ]

Too far south, [ he agrees, helpfully, and shifts his weight back to point northeast. Ish. Up the block. ]

It’s not far from the middle of the city. Head north and follow the sound of the canal.

[ Hard to say if his suspicion has dispelled. From the angle of his shoulders it looks like he may have other places to be. ]

[unclassifiable]

Ah.

[He sounds enlightened, giving the map one last glance before folding it up.]

Thank you for your help; that sounds fairly fool-proof. [It looks like he doesn't like he wants to stay and chat. Good. Simon can make a clean getaway, maybe circle back around and tail him a little... If he was immune to Simon's power, Simon wanted the details. Maybe the man would lead him to some less-immune associates who could tell him the details.]

If you'll excuse me. I don't want to keep you.

[khaleesipls]

[ Jorah just nods, good luck and you’re welcome in one. ]

Keep your nose out of your map, [ he says -- a parting word of advice for this regular everyday normal guy. ] If you look lost out here, you’re a target.

[ He’s not hard to tail. Follow far enough, and he enters The Iron Throne -- a gentlemen’s club for which his wardrobe is well-suited. Scantily clad servers take drinks to tables and topless dancers work the poles. The furnishings are modern, but the theme is medieval.

Even at this hour the bar is busy.

Jorah proceeds to the back, through a door and out of sight, casual as anything, with little in the way of conversation on the way. No one questions him.

The girls here know him as Ser Jorah. He’s been around for a couple of months, now -- works for the owner, Ambassador Baelish, as a bodyguard. He flirts from time to time but doesn’t tangle with the girls -- at least not here. They’ve heard he doesn’t stay down in a scrap -- that he heals, and that he fights with a real sword.

Nobody knows anything about any kind of immunity. ]

[justmakeroom]

[ Andrea was assigned a home in Nonah, but she often spends time in De Chima, near Daryl and Carl. She'd rather be close to her people as much as possible. But she's also not as wary of others as they are. Maybe she should be, after what happened with the Governor, but this place is different, it's not like their world. She doesn't trust that everything is perfect here, not at all, but many of the people she's met so far have been kind and helpful.

So as she explores De Chima a little before heading home, she can't help but want to assist someone. Pay it forward and all that. ]

Sure. How can I help?