He had been watching her the whole night.
JP sat at a floor side table facing the bar, a blonde in a tube dress sitting across from him, talking. It was one of those situations where the date had just started, and already Julian could tell that they were from two totally different places, and he didn’t see enough in her to bridge the gap. She was superficial, at least, so he gathered as she went into the story of her twenty third boyfriend (Ok, an exaggeration, but sadly not far from the truth). She was looking at herself in her compact, fixing her makeup, as she had been doing for the last hour or so, and so Julian wasn’t even bothering to attempt to hide the fact that his attentions have wondered. Why would it really bother him anyways, this was a first date, and there wouldn’t be another.
So he watched her, and though his eyes did slide from her to others every once in a while, they never lingered long beyond her. The crowd between was thick, the noise of the club deafening, and Julian was not surprised that she wasn’t able to sense his eyes, not with all the distractions to occupy the mind. What he would not have given in the moment for a reason to get up and go to the bar, but his drink was still full, and his date’s… well, the ice had melted in it a long time ago. He had tried to figure out her story. By the way she held herself, standing in a cluster of friends who seemed to disappear from her one at a time, she was hesitant to be here, not a party goer? He wondered what he would say, if he could manage, somehow, to part the space between them. First, however, that would mean parting himself away from Avery… Amy… Alice?
‘and then there was Jeremy…’ the droning continued, as Julian’s attention turned back to his date for a moment, to be sure the conversation hadn’t shifted away from the woman and her, apparently, widely varied past. He picked up his drink, his eyes slipping down to it as he touched the glass to his lips, drawing in a mouthful of the bitter liquid, while again, searching the area of the bar that had busied his attention for these last few hours. A bit of panic touched him when he found her spot occupied by another, panic which quickly receded as he found her again amongst the mass on the dancefloor. He found himself wincing at her stiffness, smiling to himself in an almost fond way as he watched her dance, as awkward and reluctant in motion as she had been sitting at the bar. It was obvious to him that she didn’t want to be here. That made two of them.
What bothered him most was why he was so concerned about this woman. He never met her, never even spoke to her. She as a nameless face in a crowd of people, and yet, there was something in her situation that appealed to him. In her situation man, or in her dress? Perhaps it was some of that. Perhaps more than he’d care to let himself admit. She was rather beautiful, but she reminded him of a painting he’d seen the other day in the art building: this portrait of a rose, all vibrant and red, laid against the harsh gray scale background of a cemetery. The world was all dull and gray, and yet this rose was starkly different, a vibrant red, as though the only color of in the world was contained within it’s petals. In this place of plastic bodies and tube dresses, she alone was different, vibrant and red.
He let slip the glass in his hands, hearing his date’s shriek as the whiskey and sour mix spilled across the small table, and dribbled cold and wet into her lap. She leapt up quickly, rubbing at her dress as he moved to scoop up the glass and the ice. “I’m sorry about that,” he exclaimed immediately, handing her his bar napkin, knowing that it would do little with against the amount of drink that ended up in her lap. As he had expected, she was furious, and after a moment she had announced her trip to the bathroom to rub the stains out, as she stalked off talking to herself.
“Save me, and I will owe you one,” he spoke as he stepped up to Amanda on her way out of the club a few moments later. His date properly disposed of, he wanted an escape before she managed to get free of the bathroom. If he had his way, she’d come back to find the table empty, and him either deeply in another’s arms, or simply gone. He smiled down at Amanda, not knowing her name, not really understanding why it was he was smiling, but as he looked down into her eyes, he felt like smiling. “She’s fake and superficial, and gray,” He spoke at first in jest, but the longer he looked in her eyes, the lower, more intense the words felt. “Save me?”
JP sat at a floor side table facing the bar, a blonde in a tube dress sitting across from him, talking. It was one of those situations where the date had just started, and already Julian could tell that they were from two totally different places, and he didn’t see enough in her to bridge the gap. She was superficial, at least, so he gathered as she went into the story of her twenty third boyfriend (Ok, an exaggeration, but sadly not far from the truth). She was looking at herself in her compact, fixing her makeup, as she had been doing for the last hour or so, and so Julian wasn’t even bothering to attempt to hide the fact that his attentions have wondered. Why would it really bother him anyways, this was a first date, and there wouldn’t be another.
So he watched her, and though his eyes did slide from her to others every once in a while, they never lingered long beyond her. The crowd between was thick, the noise of the club deafening, and Julian was not surprised that she wasn’t able to sense his eyes, not with all the distractions to occupy the mind. What he would not have given in the moment for a reason to get up and go to the bar, but his drink was still full, and his date’s… well, the ice had melted in it a long time ago. He had tried to figure out her story. By the way she held herself, standing in a cluster of friends who seemed to disappear from her one at a time, she was hesitant to be here, not a party goer? He wondered what he would say, if he could manage, somehow, to part the space between them. First, however, that would mean parting himself away from Avery… Amy… Alice?
‘and then there was Jeremy…’ the droning continued, as Julian’s attention turned back to his date for a moment, to be sure the conversation hadn’t shifted away from the woman and her, apparently, widely varied past. He picked up his drink, his eyes slipping down to it as he touched the glass to his lips, drawing in a mouthful of the bitter liquid, while again, searching the area of the bar that had busied his attention for these last few hours. A bit of panic touched him when he found her spot occupied by another, panic which quickly receded as he found her again amongst the mass on the dancefloor. He found himself wincing at her stiffness, smiling to himself in an almost fond way as he watched her dance, as awkward and reluctant in motion as she had been sitting at the bar. It was obvious to him that she didn’t want to be here. That made two of them.
What bothered him most was why he was so concerned about this woman. He never met her, never even spoke to her. She as a nameless face in a crowd of people, and yet, there was something in her situation that appealed to him. In her situation man, or in her dress? Perhaps it was some of that. Perhaps more than he’d care to let himself admit. She was rather beautiful, but she reminded him of a painting he’d seen the other day in the art building: this portrait of a rose, all vibrant and red, laid against the harsh gray scale background of a cemetery. The world was all dull and gray, and yet this rose was starkly different, a vibrant red, as though the only color of in the world was contained within it’s petals. In this place of plastic bodies and tube dresses, she alone was different, vibrant and red.
He let slip the glass in his hands, hearing his date’s shriek as the whiskey and sour mix spilled across the small table, and dribbled cold and wet into her lap. She leapt up quickly, rubbing at her dress as he moved to scoop up the glass and the ice. “I’m sorry about that,” he exclaimed immediately, handing her his bar napkin, knowing that it would do little with against the amount of drink that ended up in her lap. As he had expected, she was furious, and after a moment she had announced her trip to the bathroom to rub the stains out, as she stalked off talking to herself.
“Save me, and I will owe you one,” he spoke as he stepped up to Amanda on her way out of the club a few moments later. His date properly disposed of, he wanted an escape before she managed to get free of the bathroom. If he had his way, she’d come back to find the table empty, and him either deeply in another’s arms, or simply gone. He smiled down at Amanda, not knowing her name, not really understanding why it was he was smiling, but as he looked down into her eyes, he felt like smiling. “She’s fake and superficial, and gray,” He spoke at first in jest, but the longer he looked in her eyes, the lower, more intense the words felt. “Save me?”
“How do you feel?”
The sentence punctuated the darkness, accompanied by a blinding light streaming from the corridor beyond quarter doors. Outside the room, the running lights were brilliant, bright and ready, waiting. There had been no knock to announce the intrusion, only a sudden flush of light into this domain of darkness, a rush of fresh air, pulling the stench of alcohol and sweat from the room. The only answer to the question was a groan, that which often accompanies the earliest moments of a day started prematurely. David’s eyes blinked against the bright light, his momentary flash of anger quelled by the sound of the voice that spoke, not the words, but that familiar and telling tenor. He sat up, slowly, methodically, and reached with his right hand to touch upon the illumination controls on the stand beside his couch. The lights in the room began to glow to a half light, dim setting, as a bottle rolled off him to clank against the metallic flooring of his quarters.
“And isn’t that the question,” David spoke, scrubbing at his eyes with his fingertips, searching in the dim light to find his uniform pants. Failing to find them before him, he lifted up to lean over the back, finding that they had been discarded behind the softa in haste last night. The position of his pants brought forward question, unvoiced questions, as he reached for them. “Today being the big day and all,” he continued, rightening himself, and setting to lacing his legs through. He fastened them, leaning forward and studying Michael’s face for a moment before wincing, noticing that his particular bend of ill manners were not going over well this morning, he shook away the retort, and rubbed again at his head, this time more his forehead than around his eyes. “A sore morning, but I’ll manage just fine,” He answered truthfully, standing up and for the first time really seeing Michael standing there, dressed in a Ice Storm forces tunic, black top with silver worked down the left breast, stars decorating the collar. “Am I late?”
“No,” Michael spoke and at once appeared to relax, stepping into the room and letting the door slide shut behind him. “You’ve a few hours yet, but I anticipated your condition and thought an earlier wake up call would do you some good,” Michael spoke, picking up a black coat top from a chair, one that matched Michael’s in shade of black and silver embroidery. He looked at the garment in his hands, his eyes inspecting the uniform for any sign of wrinkle or stain that would render it insufficient to towards services. “You really should bathe uncle.”
“Uncle is it?” David spoke, a raised eye brow, “I never know with you anymore. Are you nephew, boss, or Admiral? Sometimes I don’t know which paradigm to employ.” David spoke firmly, pulling the uniform top from Michael in a quick motion, letting a little agitation show. He laid the uniform top down on his bed before moving into a smaller room. His quarters were larger than most of those found onboard, a large sitting area, complete with a sofa, a chair, and a coffee table sat in the middle of the room. An oak desk, a rarity onboard, stood along the wall just alongside the doorway, a single tablet computer sitting atop it’s station, ready for review of the morning reports. The sitting area of his quarters were, for a large part, very utilitarian. Little in the way of personal additions could be seen within. A flash of bourbon sat upon a small table against the wall, a silver tray, a handful of whiskey classes, and an ice bucket filled with water.
“Are you ready for today?” Michael asked, and David stepped back into the room form the other, a face full of lather and an old fashioned razor in his hand. The straight edge was wet, glistening in the dim light, as David’s azure eyes met with Michael’s earthen ones.
“I’m not excited, if that is what you are looking for,” David spoke, gesturing with the razor, before turning back to the small room, and the mirror within. He spoke carefully as he drew the blade across the skin of his face, a barbaric method for removal of the hair on one’s face… but a method that David had time and again defended with such words as natural, healthy, honorable. Yes, he could simply use a sonic blade, simply pass the blade once over the skin, and the hair would release and never come back again… but there was something to be said of the old ways… something about the practice of shaving made David feel in control. Today, he found that feeling to be something he desperately needed. “Quite the opposite really. It’s that feeling you get when you know you’re about to come upon an accident if you step out your door, but you know you can’t avoid going out. So you grit your teeth, pull your strength about you…”
“Come now uncle, do you think it will be so bad?” Michael protested, earning a raised eye from David, who brandished the blade again with his retort.
“Bad enough for you to start calling me uncle again, sir.”
“But the trip will be one of history,” Michael countered.
“It will be a disaster,” David spoke, putting the razor down, picking up a towel, rubbing at the remaining cream on his face. “The whole sector is in a frenzy of excitement. The good doctor has done his job stirring them all up, but I’m afraid that it’ll be all for not. What he proposes to do, it is irrational. Being pulled across the expanse like what? A zipper tied to that behemoth of a starship… I don’t expect to return from this trip,” He spoke calmly, as though he were talking of the weather. He saw Michael’s frown, the subtle shake of his head, either in his own personal objection, or the resolution with which David was facing what he believed to be impending doom.
“You know you’ll be surrounded…”
“By fools,” David cut in, “fools who expect to span the river with a paper bridge. I know.” David exhales, pulling his boots on, then sitting on the cushion of the sofa, his eyes becoming lost in the space between the tip of his nose and the wall before him. “Did you bring him along?”
“Yeah,” Michael spoke, coming to sit down beside David, his face becoming solemn, serious for a moment. “I wasn’t sure I was going to till this morning. I was up all night with the decision. I mean, it’s a risk. If he’s discovered, with that damn broadcasting collar she wears, I could tried for treason…”
“So it isn’t just my life riding on this,” David spoke, leaning back averting his eyes up to the ceiling, anywhere but on Michael. “It’s unethical, and I don’t see the advantage to it. Even if it is successful, I don’t think you can ever come clean about it, and even if it isn’t discovered until your dead… this is the kind of thing that rewrites legacies.”
“I know… believe me, I’ve thought about it. But it’s already done. His stuff is already in cargo hold six, under guard, and he’s already settled in on Mayflower. I trust you’ll see it done?”
“I’ll see it done,” David spoke, and for only the second time during the visit, the old warhorse lowered his eyes down to rest in Michael’s gaze. “Gods of Throan help me, but I’ll see it done.”
~ ~ ~ ~
Hours later, David stood on the loading dock, as the ceremony for the launching of Mayflower was concluding. He had never been a big proponent of pomp and circumstance, but these civilian types seemed to thrive on it. The speeches were concluded, and he and the other ship Commanders were standing in a line of clean pressed black and silver uniforms, aside from that of Captain Marcus, who worse the uniform selected for the crew of the Mayflower. The mission was doomed in his mind, too many flaws in the foundation. The crews were separated, the civilian fleets with separated and divided loyalities. Mayflower was going to make history, to explore, to expand and give hope to the peoples of the Confederacy, while IceStorm was assigned to accompany for security and protection. David didn’t care for exploration, only cared about the wellbeing of the Mayflower and her crew. His mission was to return them safely. It was a mission that he could not see concluding successfully. People clapped, cheered, laughed and smiled all around him, and the old warhorse could only think about how foolish they all were. They were cheering their own deaths, their own failures… For him, this was nothing more than an exercise in futility, fueled by blind optimism.
“Commander Marcus,” David spoke, as the Mayflower’s commander came into earshot, accompanied by the damned woman with the collar around her neck. He spared a glance for her, almost involuntarily, and halted himself from telling her to get lost, knowing that her presence was there strictly for documentation of this little ‘experiment’. “We are scheduled to depart in 90 minutes. I would appreciate a full status report on all systems within the hour. Coordinates for the first leg of the journey will be relayed to your flight officer in 30 minutes. Until then,” He nodded his head, a curt and very crisp dismissal of the Mattu’s chosen commander. He let his eye slinger on Sara for a moment, before nodding slightly, “Mrs. Coalman.”
He stepped off without another word, his voice rising in command as he bellowed to his officers, ordering them out of the mulling crowds and back onboard the starship Sekigahara. Let this craziness get underway, he thought to himself, let us meet fate head on in the expanse…
The sentence punctuated the darkness, accompanied by a blinding light streaming from the corridor beyond quarter doors. Outside the room, the running lights were brilliant, bright and ready, waiting. There had been no knock to announce the intrusion, only a sudden flush of light into this domain of darkness, a rush of fresh air, pulling the stench of alcohol and sweat from the room. The only answer to the question was a groan, that which often accompanies the earliest moments of a day started prematurely. David’s eyes blinked against the bright light, his momentary flash of anger quelled by the sound of the voice that spoke, not the words, but that familiar and telling tenor. He sat up, slowly, methodically, and reached with his right hand to touch upon the illumination controls on the stand beside his couch. The lights in the room began to glow to a half light, dim setting, as a bottle rolled off him to clank against the metallic flooring of his quarters.
“And isn’t that the question,” David spoke, scrubbing at his eyes with his fingertips, searching in the dim light to find his uniform pants. Failing to find them before him, he lifted up to lean over the back, finding that they had been discarded behind the softa in haste last night. The position of his pants brought forward question, unvoiced questions, as he reached for them. “Today being the big day and all,” he continued, rightening himself, and setting to lacing his legs through. He fastened them, leaning forward and studying Michael’s face for a moment before wincing, noticing that his particular bend of ill manners were not going over well this morning, he shook away the retort, and rubbed again at his head, this time more his forehead than around his eyes. “A sore morning, but I’ll manage just fine,” He answered truthfully, standing up and for the first time really seeing Michael standing there, dressed in a Ice Storm forces tunic, black top with silver worked down the left breast, stars decorating the collar. “Am I late?”
“No,” Michael spoke and at once appeared to relax, stepping into the room and letting the door slide shut behind him. “You’ve a few hours yet, but I anticipated your condition and thought an earlier wake up call would do you some good,” Michael spoke, picking up a black coat top from a chair, one that matched Michael’s in shade of black and silver embroidery. He looked at the garment in his hands, his eyes inspecting the uniform for any sign of wrinkle or stain that would render it insufficient to towards services. “You really should bathe uncle.”
“Uncle is it?” David spoke, a raised eye brow, “I never know with you anymore. Are you nephew, boss, or Admiral? Sometimes I don’t know which paradigm to employ.” David spoke firmly, pulling the uniform top from Michael in a quick motion, letting a little agitation show. He laid the uniform top down on his bed before moving into a smaller room. His quarters were larger than most of those found onboard, a large sitting area, complete with a sofa, a chair, and a coffee table sat in the middle of the room. An oak desk, a rarity onboard, stood along the wall just alongside the doorway, a single tablet computer sitting atop it’s station, ready for review of the morning reports. The sitting area of his quarters were, for a large part, very utilitarian. Little in the way of personal additions could be seen within. A flash of bourbon sat upon a small table against the wall, a silver tray, a handful of whiskey classes, and an ice bucket filled with water.
“Are you ready for today?” Michael asked, and David stepped back into the room form the other, a face full of lather and an old fashioned razor in his hand. The straight edge was wet, glistening in the dim light, as David’s azure eyes met with Michael’s earthen ones.
“I’m not excited, if that is what you are looking for,” David spoke, gesturing with the razor, before turning back to the small room, and the mirror within. He spoke carefully as he drew the blade across the skin of his face, a barbaric method for removal of the hair on one’s face… but a method that David had time and again defended with such words as natural, healthy, honorable. Yes, he could simply use a sonic blade, simply pass the blade once over the skin, and the hair would release and never come back again… but there was something to be said of the old ways… something about the practice of shaving made David feel in control. Today, he found that feeling to be something he desperately needed. “Quite the opposite really. It’s that feeling you get when you know you’re about to come upon an accident if you step out your door, but you know you can’t avoid going out. So you grit your teeth, pull your strength about you…”
“Come now uncle, do you think it will be so bad?” Michael protested, earning a raised eye from David, who brandished the blade again with his retort.
“Bad enough for you to start calling me uncle again, sir.”
“But the trip will be one of history,” Michael countered.
“It will be a disaster,” David spoke, putting the razor down, picking up a towel, rubbing at the remaining cream on his face. “The whole sector is in a frenzy of excitement. The good doctor has done his job stirring them all up, but I’m afraid that it’ll be all for not. What he proposes to do, it is irrational. Being pulled across the expanse like what? A zipper tied to that behemoth of a starship… I don’t expect to return from this trip,” He spoke calmly, as though he were talking of the weather. He saw Michael’s frown, the subtle shake of his head, either in his own personal objection, or the resolution with which David was facing what he believed to be impending doom.
“You know you’ll be surrounded…”
“By fools,” David cut in, “fools who expect to span the river with a paper bridge. I know.” David exhales, pulling his boots on, then sitting on the cushion of the sofa, his eyes becoming lost in the space between the tip of his nose and the wall before him. “Did you bring him along?”
“Yeah,” Michael spoke, coming to sit down beside David, his face becoming solemn, serious for a moment. “I wasn’t sure I was going to till this morning. I was up all night with the decision. I mean, it’s a risk. If he’s discovered, with that damn broadcasting collar she wears, I could tried for treason…”
“So it isn’t just my life riding on this,” David spoke, leaning back averting his eyes up to the ceiling, anywhere but on Michael. “It’s unethical, and I don’t see the advantage to it. Even if it is successful, I don’t think you can ever come clean about it, and even if it isn’t discovered until your dead… this is the kind of thing that rewrites legacies.”
“I know… believe me, I’ve thought about it. But it’s already done. His stuff is already in cargo hold six, under guard, and he’s already settled in on Mayflower. I trust you’ll see it done?”
“I’ll see it done,” David spoke, and for only the second time during the visit, the old warhorse lowered his eyes down to rest in Michael’s gaze. “Gods of Throan help me, but I’ll see it done.”
~ ~ ~ ~
Hours later, David stood on the loading dock, as the ceremony for the launching of Mayflower was concluding. He had never been a big proponent of pomp and circumstance, but these civilian types seemed to thrive on it. The speeches were concluded, and he and the other ship Commanders were standing in a line of clean pressed black and silver uniforms, aside from that of Captain Marcus, who worse the uniform selected for the crew of the Mayflower. The mission was doomed in his mind, too many flaws in the foundation. The crews were separated, the civilian fleets with separated and divided loyalities. Mayflower was going to make history, to explore, to expand and give hope to the peoples of the Confederacy, while IceStorm was assigned to accompany for security and protection. David didn’t care for exploration, only cared about the wellbeing of the Mayflower and her crew. His mission was to return them safely. It was a mission that he could not see concluding successfully. People clapped, cheered, laughed and smiled all around him, and the old warhorse could only think about how foolish they all were. They were cheering their own deaths, their own failures… For him, this was nothing more than an exercise in futility, fueled by blind optimism.
“Commander Marcus,” David spoke, as the Mayflower’s commander came into earshot, accompanied by the damned woman with the collar around her neck. He spared a glance for her, almost involuntarily, and halted himself from telling her to get lost, knowing that her presence was there strictly for documentation of this little ‘experiment’. “We are scheduled to depart in 90 minutes. I would appreciate a full status report on all systems within the hour. Coordinates for the first leg of the journey will be relayed to your flight officer in 30 minutes. Until then,” He nodded his head, a curt and very crisp dismissal of the Mattu’s chosen commander. He let his eye slinger on Sara for a moment, before nodding slightly, “Mrs. Coalman.”
He stepped off without another word, his voice rising in command as he bellowed to his officers, ordering them out of the mulling crowds and back onboard the starship Sekigahara. Let this craziness get underway, he thought to himself, let us meet fate head on in the expanse…
Hello there,
Name's Vorian, but you can call me Vor. Above are a couple of posting samples, just to show ability, a sample of my writing style, to determine if you believe we'd complement each other well. I'm looking for a partner to concoct a roleplay with. If you are interested, please PM me. We can discuss interests, personalities, hang ups, expectations and all that jazz as we get to know one another.