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WHO: Rachel Duncan, Mark Vorkosigan.
WHERE: Rachel's place, Nonah.
WHEN: Early October.
WHAT: "Business meeting" obviously.
WARNINGS: Drinking, general clone strangeness, will updated if/when things come up.

Mark won't be welcomed into the place, Rachel wasn't the kind that would wait by the door, instead she have someone else do that for her. But in this case, what seemed to be the best choice was leaving the door unlocked. Whenever Mark arrives, he'll be able to make his way in without Rachel having to waste her time with the formalities.

Rachel's place, is exactly what one would expect from her posh demeanor. All high class, modern decor, although somethings look slightly off. One table leg shorter than the other, drapes that don't fall quite right, small details that could easily be overlooked. Maybe that's what happens when you decide to draw your own furniture instead of buying them, but otherwise, it's impressive, if not a little empty. There wasn't much that looked personal, that brought life to the place, everything looked too organized, if not somewhat dusty. But what added to it's overwhelming ritzy aura must have been the classical music playing faintly from the living room.

Whenever Mark decides to let himself in, he'll find Rachel siting in a wheelchair by the window. She didn't find it necessary to use the wheelchair any longer, but the hospital insisted on her keeping one with her just in case. This night was one of those nights she was glad she let her pride go and complied to their terms. But what might have stood out, in this entire place, was a small picture frame on the window sill. Her fingers idly tracing over the figures in the picture. This was a rare moment, Rachel Duncan, usually serious, taking in every glance and whisper around her, was paying no mind to her surroundings. She was completely lost in thought.

Until that is, Mark makes he's presence obvious.

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Mark is set on edge by the whole situation. Letting himself into the place makes him nervous, because it makes him think there could be a trap. After all, where is Rachel if she wants to talk to him? Is she planning something? Are there others who are planning something? His paranoia spins off into overdrive, and he imagines a hundred different scenarios, with her deciding he could be a test subject, with her deciding to retaliate for his forwardness last time they spoke, with Lucifer coming back and taking her hostage, with Galen showing up and taking her hostage -

But no. No, it's nothing of the sort. Instead, he finds her alone and quiet. Slowly, slowly he relaxes. Slowly his paranoia starts to ease.

And so he clears his throat and raps on the doorframe. His brows are drawn down in concern as he looks at her. Why a wheelchair? Have things gotten worse...?

"Ms. Duncan?" he asks uncertainly, his voice a bit small.

She picked up on the voice, and immediately brings her hand away, placing it on her lap and turning to look at him. Preferably, she would have hidden away the picture, kept it safe, but he's probably already spotted it and taking it away would only bring more attention to it. So instead, she left it be. She easily spotted the look of concern and lets out an incredulous laugh, of course she looked pathetic. But she tried to ignore her physical state as much as she could, fake that sense of pride and confidence, but it wasn't enough. She was a shell of what she used to be, now even more that before.

"Don't worry, I can walk. I'm not helpless," there was a bite, a mix of annoyance and some strange sense of humor. She reached over to grab her crutches and stood up, but it wasn't without a struggle. But once she was up, she turned to face him again, tilting her head in the direction of the black leather couches in the living room. In front of them, there was a small glass table, with ready made martini's, with the olives in a small plate next to them. There were a few empty skewers on the table, someone obviously already started drinking long before Mark made it here.

"Feel free to take a sit. It's far from an office, but it'll make do for now. There's drinks if you're interested," although it didn't sound much like a suggestion as much as an order. Even in this position, the way of speech was hard for her to shake off, she still spoke like she was in control of everyone around her.

"Sure." What are the odds that there's poison in that drink? Relatively low, he thinks after a moment. A martini is a neutral-tasting drink, with an uncomplex fragrance. Clear liquor, too. There are few poisons that are odorless, colorless, and flavorless; if you're going to poison someone, best to do it with a drink that would disguise it better. Wine, or brandy, or whiskey. Coffee, maybe.

Also, she has no reason to murder you. But he was trained too thoroughly into paranoia; even an entire dimension away from Komarr and Barrayar and Jackson's Whole, he can't shut it off. There's always a running commentary at the back of his head: is she really ill? Does she really have trouble walking? Or is that feigned weakness? Could she take his life? Would she?

Fortunately, he has gotten better at ignoring that voice. His paranoia tells him, Flee, don't eat or drink anything you're offered, kill her before she can get to you, but instead of that, he crosses to the drink table and takes one of the drinks. And he takes a swallow. Businessmen in this world, after all, don't see assassination attempts lurking in every corner. And he is going to be a businessman of this world, damn it. So he swallows, and then picks up the second martini and carries it to the couch for her.

A little belatedly, a little awkwardly, he says, "I don't think you're helpless. By the way."

She watched him silently, studying him the whole time. He was interesting, and it wasn't just his peculiar appearance. It kept her mind off of other things, off her father, her mother, being here. She accepts it from him, raising it slightly in a nonverbal 'cheers', to what, exactly? She had no clue. There was nothing here to be cheerful about, quite the contrary, she was on the edge almost constantly. The gesture was habitual, she's grown up in formal parties and having drinks with your boss.

"Than what do you think of me?" she didn't ask it out of a need of approval but interest. Whatever he thought could easily change what she could and couldn't get from him, it was all a game to her. Considering how terrible they're last encounter was, she wouldn't be surprised if he had an entirely wrong impression of her. Entirely wrong in her mind, because she saw herself as logical, and most importantly, didn't see herself as being weighed down by emotions. Even if that was exactly what she was.

What do I think of her? Well. Shit, that's...a question that feels like a trap. Again. What's the answer supposed to be? He half wishes that there were some way he could raise his hands and wave a white flag to beg for mercy. He's barely even competent in making small talk. How can he handle a conversation that's starting out like this?

Well. He handles it the way he handles most conversations: bluntly. He doesn't have much of a choice.

"I guess, uh...That you've been screwed over from every direction. But you're still doing okay." He offers her a shrug, then takes another sip.

She doesn't reply, not verbally at least. She made herself comfortable in the couch, taking a quiet sip of the not quite right martini. Still doing okay. There's a wry smile on her lips now. She doesn't know what could be worse than this, being thrown aside by Neolution in this sad excuse for a parallel universe, or being barely able to walk on her own, or constantly thinking about how any breath could be her last... All of this, and she had no control or say over. Like all those years of learning how to control a board meeting meant nothing, like making all those hard decisions meant nothing, nothing meant anything anymore.

Screwed over from every direction. He might just be right. It made her sick. But she shrugged it off with another sip. This wasn't the purpose of their meeting.

"I think we need to discuss your investment, seeing as how the clones don't want to cooperate," her voice was calm, cold, her usual.

"They...don't?" This new topic, this change in direction, takes his feet out from under him again. He thought he'd done okay, but now he can't tell. Is she mad? Displeased? Reassured? Hell, he doesn't know...He fights the urge to start rocking to soothe himself. People get creeped out by him when he does that. He needs to make sure he doesn't creep her out. That'd be really bad. He needs her for...

For what? For profit, he tells himself. But even he knows: for the purpose of knowing that he's sheltering at least one clone. That he's keeping her from destruction. He needs that.

"Uh." He swallows, clears his throat. "Okay. How do you want to proceed, then?" And then - "And I could talk to them. Maybe."

If only he could keep her from destruction. If only. What she doesn't ruin in herself, she makes up with ruining the lives of people around her. Mark only got away with her not meddling in his life because there's business involved, she can't poke and prod as she usually does. Doesn't mean she's not interested in unveiling him, dissecting every bruise, every scar, to learn what makes him hurt. But she never had a hands on approach, getting her hands dirty was never something did if she had the choice. So far she's learned about his "brother", and it's obvious that's something she can use as leverage. She found some form of a cure for him, after all, that's bound to be useful in the future.

"An outsider, such as yourself, wouldn't get very far with them. They know of your ties to me, they wouldn't trust you," a pause, "they're sad excuse of a leader, Sarah Manning, is immune to our illness. I suppose that's why she has the privilege of holding back, all because she can't trust me," there's a small scoff. She knows that isn't the case, she feels like there are secrets they aren't sharing with her. In the past, Sarah would have done anything for a cure, not for herself, but for Cosima. She cares about her "sisters", and Rachel is well aware of that. But why not use this to paint her in a terrible image? It's just a white lie. A white lie mixed with layers of deception, that is.

"It won't be long before I get sick, so why not use that investment in something more... worthwhile?"

His reaction is too swift, too firm. He looks heavyset, but he's still a very small man, and the potency of the drink is already getting to him and getting to his head; it lowers some of his inhibitions, makes him less cautious. So at once, shoulders hunched, he shakes his head, and responds - "This is what's worthwhile." Saving her life. Saving the lives of these clones. He fortunately stops himself before he goes on and gets even more sentimental, but he means it: this isn't about profit. This is about taking people who've been treated like garbage, who've been raised to be nothing more than test subjects or livestock, and making it so they...don't die. That's what matters. Always that. He'd throw away all the profit of the past months if it meant that.

Of course, it doesn't do just to say that. To lay that all out. And so he clamps his jaw shut right afterwards, shakes his head. Right. Right.

"I believe in seeing projects through to the end."

She notices the change in demeanor, and it spiked an interest in her. But she recalls the last time he sounded so passionate, she wouldn't let him get inside her head like last time, it's simply unacceptable. She relaxes into the couch, a hint of a smile forming on her lips. He's already attached to the project, it was promising, it meant she could steer him in anyway she saw fit. But of course, she didn't say anything about her ulterior motives. Better leave him seeing her as the helpless and dying clone. It wasn't a complete lie, after all.

"But projects must adapt to changes, don't you agree?" Her voice is calm, collected, almost worryingly so.

"Sure." He gives a small shrug, looking over at the opposite wall. He takes another little drink out of awkwardness. Get it together, Mark.

He takes a moment, and tries again a little more firmly. "As long as the goals of the project stay intact. You don't change pilots mid-Jump, as they say." Though - they probably don't say that here, do they? There's probably some colorful Old Earth version of that saying. Oh, well.

"Don't jump ship?" she raised a brow at that, but let it go after a moment. "There's no point to this particular project. Cutting edge gene therapy, stem cells, and the world's most renowned scientists couldn't crack the code. In a world such as this one, where the science is so pathetically basic compared to what we have managed back there... I doubt I'll find a cure. It's a waste of time." As always, the 'we' is always in a corporate sense, while 'I' is the only personal part of speech. She stays silent for a moment, looking down at her glass, swishing the liquid, entirely lost in thought.

"The only option left is the "super powers" people have here. Mine has proven to have side effects when used to cure, so it's not an option. What powers have you heard of?"

She's not going to mention she tried experimenting on his brother, not yet at least.

"There's, uh - "

He rubs the back of his neck thoughtfully. After a moment, he starts again. "There's Pinkman. Jesse Pinkman. I'm...helping him start up a sort of...He's billing it as a health spa, but it just consists of him using his blood for healing purposes." He looks down at his drink a moment, then back up at her. And he asks, "If that works for you, would the others be willing to try using him, too?"

Because he doesn't just want to help Rachel. He wants to help all of them. He was the one clone who got out, and the others were left behind, and now they're dead. If he can't save his own creche-mates, at least he can save hers...More than helping her, he needs to help them. All of them together.

"Jesse? Is there anyone else?" She's met him, and they haven't had the best first meeting. "The others... I don't think they'll be needing any assistance," she's not completely sure, but it doesn't matter much to her, one more dead clone wouldn't affect her. She's seen them die time after time, the project was never about them.

"I need you to focus," on whatever it was she decided suited her current position, she wasn't sure what that was. But keeping up the controlled and calm image was a necessity. She needed to feel stable. "If you're not up for it, then don't waste my time."

"Sorry," he mumbles, looking down, and then curses himself internally. Sorry? The problem is that under all his hard, wealthy-capitalist sheen, Mark is still a skittish, nervous kid. Someone still only a few months out from taking orders and facing crushing consequences if he didn't obey them. He's better about standing his ground, now, but with the martini lowering his defenses - and with Rachel so forceful - He slipped up.

"Jesse's good for it," he says, fidgeting slightly in his chair, still staring at his knees. "I'm his primary investor, so I can get the service for cheap. Don't discount him."

"We'll have to see if he'll be on board with helping me," her voice is quiet, and she brings the drink to her lips, only to let out a laugh before taking a drink. Just when she was beginning to accept her days as a corporate leader was over, beginning to accept that her end was inescapable, she came here and found some hope. But who was she kidding? Trying to climb to power here is foolish, it's reckless, tactless, and she knew it. But she was so desperate to feel like herself again. But everything here was stacked against her, no one was here for her to use, no one readily at her service.

"Can you give me your word?" She's not looking at him, her eyes are trained on the window, staring at nothing in particular. Her question isn't much of a question as much as it is an order, the kind of veiled demands you'd hear in board meetings. She's not expecting a denial.

"I...can only give my word that I'll do everything I can to ensure he does help you," he admits, fidgeting slightly, self-consciously. He does wish she'd look at him. It makes him feel vaguely uncomfortable, having her look away. He half-feels as though it's a prelude to something worse...But, no; that's just his paranoia speaking.

"Pinkman himself is unpredictable and dishonest. Impulsive. But he does depend on my funding, so I have a hold over him. Regardless. So I think he'd see to you." A hesitation, then a small shrug. "It's worth trying, right?"

"So be it. But I need one other thing, if it doesn't work, and I fall ill..." She finally turned to look at him, but it isn't a comforting stare. It's void of any emotion, sharp and cold as a blade. His paranoia was in it's right place, for now at least. Her next words are said flatly, almost like she's stating the weather.

"Kill me. That is, if I don't kill myself first." She'd rather go out on her own terms, but if she didn't have the ability to do so, she'd rather die than have anyone humiliate her further. The statement didn't come out of the blue, it was there for sometime now, replaying itself in the back of her mind, and the alcohol was the perfect thing to coax it out. But for her to ask this of Mark, well, that had little to do with the alcohol, more to do with some strange understanding they've found she can't deny internally.

"What?" Maybe there's something a little comical, or a little pathetic, in the way that the color drains from his face. Mark, the assassin, raised for no purpose other than to kill, who still goes pale at the thought of taking a life. It's not that he doesn't understand the request. There are circumstances when it's better to die, and if it's between that or a slow painful wasting-away, the choice makes sense. And it's not that he doesn't understand why she's asking him - she's quite alone, abandoned by her clone-sisters; he's the only one here who really understands her. But -

It's just...It shakes him. The thought of it shakes him. To kill a clone - A clone-consumer, yes, someone wearing the body of a clone, he'd kill. Happily. But a clone...It's not like Rachel is one of the kids he grew up with; she's lived in the world, and done evil things, and isn't blameless, he's sure. She's not even a product of House Bharaputra; the corporation that created her is a dimension away from Jackson's Whole. Killing her would be like killing any other person. But even so...

He struggles to swallow. Finally, though, he looks down and shakily nods his head. "Yeah." Then - "But only if we've...exhausted all of our other options. Only then."

"As long as the options aren't demeaning. Only then." Her voice is flat, almost as if she isn't speaking about her own death. As if this was just another conversation you could easily have over a cup of coffee. She finally broke her graze away from Mark. The silence was unsettling, so, it was about time she brought this next topic up.

"I met Miles," she says, flatly, but she briefly looks back at him to gauge his response. What she'll decide to tell him is based entirely on how he reacts.

And his reaction is small, but noticeable. Just a ripple of tension, stealing through his face. But a moment later he shrugs, looking for all intents and purposes casual. Miles, clearly, is important - is a vulnerability - but Mark wants to hide that. And does so fairly well, even.

"He's gregarious," Mark answers. "It was only a matter of time. What did you talk about?"

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..... r a c h e l

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tw: suicidal ideation

rachel ;;

so sorry flksdhfsd college..

<333 that's always okay