You have spent the last few days on Thesa Station, taking in the knowledge that your world is no more. Perhaps you've made some friends (or maybe an enemy or two). Either way, you aren't expected to spend all of your time on the Station. El Nysa needs you, after all, and you promised you'd help the planet thrive. Are you ready?
Submit an AC-eligible thread with a new character as a participant for 2 OLYMPIA REP POINTS OR 2 WYVER REP POINTS, respectively, HERE or HERE. THESA STATION
All refugees on the station are called to the hangar where a large-scale teleporter has been set up; everyone will be sent to the planet together. Simply step onto the space between the arrays and wait. Before they depart, all new refugees will be given a starter kit!
 You may have heard about earlier technical difficulties, but don't worry. I promise everything is in perfect working order this time. I'd say I tested it myself, but since that's not exactly possible, you'll just have to trust me! (Please.)
The older refugees will also be there to guide you to ensure no one is left confused... or behind. Make sure you wait for them — I've been detecting something odd so I'll be having them meet you at the landing site. Good luck, refugees! Not that you'll be needing it or anything...
The arrays begin to hum and glow, quickly building into a brilliant wash of light. It creates a column that travels all the way from Thesa Station to the surface of El Nysa. With the night sky as a canvas, the beam can be seen all the way from Olympia and Wyver — a view that has the natives whispering of blessings.
As a sudden but beautiful aurora splays across the sky, the refugees down on the planet receive a message asking them to travel to the landing site — and warning them to prepare for what may come of the strange readings Zasere's gotten from the teleport itself.
Traveling through the light leaves the impression of blinding starlight, a strange sense of weightlessness, and a disorienting moment of total sensory deprivation. The radiance of your teleport hangs bright in the sky above you, a shimmering aurora that reflects off the calm waters below, visible for miles all around.
You've landed on a peninsula to the east of the South Outpost. There's little here — scattered trees on spring-barren plains, with a few overgrown, dilapidated structures poking out of the brush. All is quiet save for the keening of animals and the gentle lapping of waves against the shore. This lonely desolation is hardly the bustling cities and vibrant cultures you were promised back on the station...
BY CAMPFIRE'S GLOW. But waiting for you is a group of your predecessors, and with them, a veritable tent city, with portable stoves, coolers of food and drink, comfortable bedrolls, and cheerful rings of bonfires — all that you need to make merry of the night, courtesy of Overseer Voss, who has, thanks to his interest in blessed meteorological phenomena and refugees, decided to make a holy expedition of the affair.
Settle in, meet new comrades, and enjoy yourself, for you've safely completed your journey. But don't wander too far from the fires — the dark is closing in, and there's a strange, electric feeling in the air, the scent of ozone drifting on the breeze. And what were those odd readings Zasere mentioned?
A SHEPHERD OVER THE FLOCK. The spring sun dawns on a grey morning, already burning away the fog rolling in off the sea. It quickly becomes apparent that Voss and his entourage of acolytes have been up for hours, hard at work. They've set up a brightly-draped stage and a travel pulpit, magically enchanted to amplify his voice, and as the sun breaks over the horizon, Voss is all set to do what he does best: proselytize.
 As our Goddess has sent Her blessing once before to herald the coming of those touched by Her light, so She has done once again! Here you see them, those surrounded by the light of our Goddess, each of them bearing the mark upon their skin of Her holiest of hands! Do you not see? Do none among you bear witness to the righteousness of Her message? Perhaps this is why our people have shamed themselves in front of our Goddess—
[ He continues for another 15 minutes... ]
Nevertheless. See you them before us now! See them as they are, coming to our gates with Her reminder, that these people must be treated with the utmost respect and care. Thesa's divinity is not to be treated with such flagrant disregard! Those who She chooses are not ours to use as mindless fodder, to hurt, to torture — shame upon those who allowed such deeds to shame us under Her watchful gaze!
To those of you who have just arrived here on our doorstep, be not afraid! The Temples of Thesa welcome you to our home with hearts and minds open! Should you ever find yourself in need of solace, seek out the Temples, as there are no greater allies to you than those of us within the Temple walls. You are welcome all to Olympia!
As he steps away from the enchanted podium, he can be heard saying aside to an acolyte, "How was that? Heavy on the shame, but I think it went well!" While he will not leave the area immediately, his acolytes will politely turn away attempts to speak with him and remind anyone interested that they can leave a message at the Temples.
Despite going off without hitch, the new refugees' arrival isn't entirely without incident. It seems that the "blessed" beam of light that brought the refugees down to El Nysa brought something else along with it — a sliver of the Storm. At least the beam was short enough that only a small fraction managed to squeeze through.
But it's enough to wreak a little havoc around the landing site and along the road back toward Olympia and Wyver — and even, for a few days, in the cities themselves.
THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE. The Storm is an undeniably destructive force, and that's proven with this small sliver's effect as it ripples across the continent. While there's no visible sign of its presence, strange phenomena soon begin to appear, corresponding with Zasere's odd readings.
They're innocuous little things at first. A sudden silence, animals going quiet, insects stilling. All technology, no matter how advanced, ceases working. You discover when you check with a friend, the clock on your phone is twelve minutes slow even though you'd swear only a minute had passed — time missing. Walking through the woods takes longer than it should when brushing past one bush leads to brushing past that same bush again — and again, and again, the area looping on itself. It keeps you trapped, going in circles for minutes, even hours, before finally releasing you in a random direction.
Or perhaps you'll feel a sense of deja vu, like you've walked down this road, taken this turn, seen that bird fly from this branch before. This is the second time that cat has crossed your path. The person you're meeting, you already know their name; you're certain you've already met.
WE GOT COWS. The Storm sliver also ushers in sudden, localized weather anomalies — heavy storms, blizzards, strong winds, and more. Affected areas range from just a few feet wide to nearly half a mile. One minute, the sky may be sunny and clear, but the next dark storm clouds roll in, unleashing torrential rain. Small tornadoes surge along the road, kicking up winds strong enough to knock people over and carry objects away. Hail hurtles down from the sky, but only in a ten foot radius. Temperatures fluctuate wildly between one extreme and the next, from heat waves to cold snaps. Soupy fog blankets the area, thick enough that you can barely see your hand in front of your face. Good luck finding your way!
FORGETTING IS SO LONG. The visions come on suddenly and with very little warning. One second, you're carrying on as normal — but the next, you blink and find yourself (and anyone near you) somewhere else completely. You may recognize this place as a moment from the past, one that you lived through. It's a memory, your memory, and it now replays around you in exceptional detail, unnervingly lifelike. Or you may not recognize it at all. It might belong to the person next to you, or to someone else entirely — a memory that the Storm has swallowed up.
Either way, the scene plays out just as it once did, and there's nothing you can do to stop it — or escape it. The memory surrounds you to no end: every door you open leads nowhere, every hallway you turn down continues on forever, every horizon you flee toward hangs just out of reach. And linger too long or turn the wrong corner, and you may find yourself abruptly stuck in a completely different memory. It's almost tempting, then, to give up, to let the past sweep you away...
But this isn't the full might of the Storm. Look closely, and you can see that in the walls of this trap, there are minute, hairline cracks, a facade of fractured glass. Imperfections in the memory where the real world is breaking through. It seems the only way to escape these memories is to find those cracks and break through them — by force, by will, or by some other method entirely.
The time is coming to make a choice — perhaps not a permanent choice, but unless you want to spend the rest of your nights out under the stars, you'll need to pick which city you will initially spend your time in. On the horizon, you will see that people have arrived to help you make that decision...
A FORK IN THE ROAD. Refugees and the hyper-religious wishing to hear Voss speak are not the only ones out and about under the light of the aurora. Citizens of both Olympia and Wyver have flocked to a point on the road midway between the cities and where the refugees have appeared, and they all have the same goal in mind: convincing the newcomers who have just descended in the blessed light of Thesa to come to their city and not the other.
They've come with bribes — that is, examples of what their cities have to offer. If you spent much time at the exhibition up on Thesa Station, you might recognize some of what's being shown off, though the offerings here are markedly more tangible, and shown off by hawkers wearing substantially fewer clothes.
A herd of pegasi accompanies the Olympians, while a line of flying serpents is stabled at a tent bearing Wyver colors. Refugees are given the chance to experience solo flights and are told that if they prove their loyalty, they may have the privilege of owning such fine beasts one day themselves. The Olympians have also brought couture clothing, jewelry, and makeup to offer a taste of Olympian splendor, while the Wyver delegation has brought along fine weapons, sense-enhancing jungle plants, and small vials of diluted dragon’s blood (drinking confers a temporary boost in strength) to demonstrate their might. The Olympians speak proudly of the glory of the Temples of Thesa; the Wyverns speak of the Volkkran Pact and inform newcomers that they can make a pilgrimage to the summit of Namarak Mountain at the next full moon.
This is as good a time as any to compare your plans with others around you and exchange contact information before going your separate ways with people who are going to the city you are not. When you’re ready to go, don’t worry about safe passage — the natives of each city will gladly escort you there in luxury.
OF WHITE AND GOLD. The people of Olympia are ecstatic that you’ve come to join them... So much so that they’ve prepared a grand tour of the city for the new arrivals. You will be introduced to the major businesses in the city, including businesses that they are proud to point out were founded by refugees.
Refugees who have been here for some time already are encouraged to pair up with newcomers to introduce them to the parts of the city they like best. To facilitate this, they’ve made arrangements with many of the business owners: new refugees who visit their shops (and older refugees who escort them) are given discounts!
Just a few examples of many: the Wyvernest offers free desserts to first time visitors with the purchase of a drink, refugees who visit the Silk Wyrms can have one custom (though not exceedingly expensive) outfit made for them for free, and visitors to Shades Darker are offered a half-hour session with one of the prostitutes at half price… or access to a private room, if they seem to have taken a shine to one of their companions on the tour.
Lastly, tour guides will point out that over the course of the next week, the train to Flona Cove will allow new refugees to board for free so that they can experience the seaside for themselves. With the weather finally starting to warm, this is as good a time as any for a visit to the beach, isn’t it?
OF RED AND BLACK. Life in Wyver is typically a sink-or-swim sort of experience — but in light of the valor recently displayed by their predecessors, the natives are now more willing to assist in getting newcomers settled. The entire journey here they have been talking up the virtues of their city… and now is the time to show everything that's on offer.
The well-known businesses in the city are prepared for the influx of newcomers. Some are giving out discounted samples of their products while others are offering a more hands-on experience: in exchange for working a few hours, they will give training in whatever task is being performed.
At the Forged, newcomers can learn the basics of crafting simple weapons (and take one of their successes home), while visitors to spas near the lagoons are trained in the art of massage. Those who wander to Falmi’s Ring can learn the art of pugilism or how to keep (and fix) books if they're more inclined to the gambling that goes on. Newcomers interested in Wyver's dragons can get hands-on experience at the Fields of the Exalted's nursery. While they walk from place to place, a guide may point out a job posting from Highwind Hires, noting that refugees can make a name for themselves outside official channels.
The last stop on the tour is the Undergrowth. The guides speak of the jungle in reverent tones and caution new refugees not to wander too far in. They warn never to explore alone, but also urge refugees to take time to familiarize themselves with it; after all, the jungle is an important part of life in Wyver, and those who are going to be living here should understand it as well as they do.
You've chosen your path, refugee, but that doesn't necessarily make it a permanent one. Watch out for the strange effects of the Storm, which linger still in the two cities and everywhere in between for the next few days before dissipating just as mysteriously as they came, but otherwise enjoy the welcome and make yourself at home — after all, this is home now.
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No, By, don't—
[But he fails to hold him back.
Two small bodies whip past the door. There's a dilapidated house behind them, overgrown sunflowers and untamed lawn, rotting wood and musty windows. There's a bike leaning against a tree, too large for anyone but a grown man but the boys make a break for it without pause. The taller of the two, redheaded and more handsome even in his fear and even at the age of eleven, tosses a pistol into the basket in the front before clambering onto the seat. The second boy is buck-toothed and pale, skin and bones, his glasses mended with tape at the middle and the lenses so thick that his blue eyes are magnified twofold underneath. In his fright they are veritable planets in the expanse of his small face. He's climbing onto the flat package carrier of the bike's rear and chancing a look behind them.
Peeling around the corner of the house is an absolute absurdity. Bipedal, humanoid in a high school jacket that's splattered with blood and wet slobber. At its right temple the skull shines through the matted hair and blood: a killing shot on anything else but it wears the bullet's work like it might a hat, or a bee sting. Unbothered and livid mad, feet pounding in its mad sprint. There's white lines of powder and strings of mucus running from its nose. In place of a zipper, there's fluffy orange buttons—
(pom poms on a clown)
—and as it dashes closer, the gold-stitched lettering on the jacket's breast becomes clear. "Richie Tozier", threaded in cursive.
It lunges.
"Go, Bill!" shrieks the bespectacled boy, wrapping his arms around his friends middle as he races to pedal. The doubled weight makes the going clumsy. Slow. Too slow.
Behind Byerly, Richie begins to titter. His hand covers his mouth, but the frail grin behind it peeks out from behind those spindly fingers. He looks like he might shatter, eyes locked to the gong show before them, laughing high, laughing pitchy.
The scene looks like madness from this end. Like something out of a dream.]
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[ Three shots snapped off in the space between one breath and the next, the gun emitting nothing louder than a soft buzz. All three shots hit, splashing with a bright-light sort of halo against the creature's head. Nothing. One hit should have been enough to fell the average man, two surely enough for a slavering wolf-man who looked like he stepped right out of a Time of Isolation morality play. But this creature isn't real, no more than Nadine was real, no more than Vorrutyer Kreposte was real. No more than these children - good God, that's Richie as a child, isn't it, there's something about the eyes - are real.
Yet even so, he lets off two more shots. And even so, he crowds backward, reaching out his left arm like a barrier to protect the older-Richie from any incursions. Both equally effective. He's shooting at and shielding against illusions. Fool. ]
Shit.
[ Then, once the initial buzz of adrenaline fades, that perfect clear focus that makes his heart beat slower and his hand more steady, once conscious thought comes to the surface again and he tells himself that fucking obviously he can't do anything to save those kids, this is a memory, so those kids will save themselves - ]
What the hell is this?
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No, stop!
[His hands fly to his ears to shield from the bang, but there's nothing of the sort. The blasts are odd and the gun only buzzes like some radio tuner. Of course, Byerly probably lifted it off a dead Vulcan, nutty future child that he was. It doesn't matter. None of the shots penetrate the illusion. Wouldn't that be a scream? Phaser shots pulsing in from the future to slay a beast in 1959, the ultimate dues ex machina.
Baby Bill has the bike going now, but it's still not fast enough. His younger self is shrieking as he ducks the beast's swipes. His grip around Bill's belly is an iron manacle.
And the grown man can't look away. His life, thrown back to him like some VR exhibit, coming at ya in three-dee.]
What does it look like, Chief? [His voice is tight, smile odd and teeth gritted.] It's just the Teenage Werewolf. High School of Horror, brought to life by Michael Landon in his finest goddamn hour! [He laughs again, stepping loose of Byerly's sheltering form with shaky legs to keep a better eye on the kids. (Yourself. Bill. It.)] I caught the flick in theatres, fresh new double feature! Laughed my damn ass off, I did, had a real swell time. Then the next week it's busted loose from the big screen to chase me down Neibolt street! How do you like them apples— [His breath catches.] —Shit!
[There's a choking splutter and a scream from Bill. The werewolf has snatched the back of Richie's jacket, but the grip he has on Bill's middle is as strong as Bill's grip on the handle bars, and so the bike rears up like a horse on the back wheel. Bill pedals on thin air, mindless panic clear on his face as Richie suffocates on the collar biting his throat.]
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And yet he doesn't. Out of some mad bravado, some crazy damned idiocy, By finds himself stalking forward, stiff-legged, towards the scene. His step is quick, drawing him closer and closer to the children and the creature coming for them. His eyes are wide, his pupils flared; his stunner is raised, flipped so that it's held like a club instead of a firearm. He's ready to take a swing. ]
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Byerly can't take it. This alone shatters Richie's stupor. Him and Bill make it out, he knows this, but the sight of this current man, one of two flesh and blood things in this echo chamber, lumbering towards the atrocity that dogged Richie's heels for so long? That's cause enough for real fear.
Richie leaps forward, grasping for Byerly's arms with a desperate wheeze just as the little boy's jacket gives that life-saving rip. The whole thing splits in two to free them. The kids speed forward, the younger Richie gasping Bill's name with not an ounce of air to spare, soundless and witless. The bike is picking up momentum at last but the beast keeps pace.
All the while, Rich Tozier is hollering. He sounds like a man again, abandoning that hysterical precipice to smack some sense into Byerly. For all that it's a memory, Richie doesn't trust the werewolf not to turn on them. It's done worse before. It's come alive in pictures. It took over the statue in the town square.
He can't be sure it won't come to life here and rip them both apart.]
Don't! Don't touch it! You can't do that, not like that! It won't work!
[Up ahead Bill gives a shout, and several things happen at once.
"Hi-yo Silver! Hi-yo Silver, AWAYYY!"
The younger Richie looks back. The wolf raises its wickedly curved claws. It cracks him clean across the forehead (Richie flinches from several yards and twenty seven years away, it's like he can feel the blow again) and his head snaps to the side like he'd been judo chopped in the spine. It lolls there, jolting bonelessly with the bike's wheeling rhythm. A line of blood creeps down from his hairline to flood his right eye, which droops lazily along with the left while his jaw goes slack and dumb. The small boy curls around Bill like a dizzied pill bug, seeing no more and knowing nothing else but the need to hang on tight.
As it happens, the wolf is quite suddenly not a wolf at all. One blink and it's a pale figure. All dressed in silver, ruffles at its collar and hems, orange pom poms down the front to match the orange tufted hair. Its eyes are reflective silver and wide with ecstasy. Anticipation. Face greasepaint white with a plastic red nose, and the limitless, shark-toothed smile underneath is outlined in garish red paint that looks more like flesh blood than makeup. The snarls have been exchanged for manic cackles, absolute ravenous delight.
The crater in its skull remains though, as does the letterman jacket, slipped on over the circus garb as if to protect against a stiff autumn breeze.
Richie hisses at the transformation and yanks Byerly back with all his might. Bill swore up and down it had been the clown all along. Richie couldn't see it until now, privy to more points of view than his own.
The chase moves on at a breakneck pace beyond them, the baseball card in the bike's spokes drumming like a motorcycle engine as Bill finally hits his stride.]
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But it doesn't see them, doesn't turn to them. And the children are safe and away. So By finally relaxes, his muscles trembling as the tension leaves them. His mouth is dry. ]
What -
[ He swallows, tries again. His voice is strained. ]
What the fuck is that.
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He relinquishes the hold on Byerly, but the adrenaline fails to pass. He's all nerves and pounding heart, locked jaw and searching eyes.]
The mad butcher. [Byerly's words. Not his. He looks the man over and swims in clashing emotions. He's furious and frightened. Ashamed. Concerned. Suspicious. Other things he can't quite identify as they batter through his innards.
None of this should have happened. But now that it has?
It came to life in Georgie's photo album, it could come back here any second now, any minute...]
You saw it as I did, right? First the werewolf, then the clown?
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[ The word is drawn-out. Shaky. Breathless. He gets a hold of himself and tries again. ]
I - yes. I presume so, at least. [ A hand drawn through his hair. ] Clowns don't look like that on Barrayar.
[ Both in the sense of not looking so ridiculous and not having - you know - double-rows of teeth and gaping head wounds. Hell. ]
Nor werewolves, for that matter.
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Good...that's good. Then it's just a memory.
[Byerly doesn't look well. Not one bit. Anyone would be rattled. It's a monster that defies rationality. Adulthood.
Hesitant, he grips the other man's shoulder.]
Even so, we need to get out of here lickety split. You gonna be okay?
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Yes.
[ It was horrifying. But he's ImpSec; this was a memory, not reality; he's seen worse, here and at home. Nothing less likely or more improbable than this, no, but it's just a monster. Nothing compared to what humans cheerfully do to one another. ]
Let's go, then.
[ And he turns for the door. ]
Are we doing another memory or shunting them back to reality?
Richie's mouth is a thin line. He casts one last look around. Hard to feel homesick when you're at the shit end of Derry.
He follows Byerly through the door.]
why is that even a question
"So this was all about family loyalty, then?" the woman is saying.
"Imperial loyalty, Lady Alys, sire," By answers. The answer doesn't have much of his normal smarm; he's visibly unnerved by these two. Or, more accurately, by the man; his eyes keep darting over nervously towards the hook-nosed man. "You know well that the Council is better off for not having Richars in it."
By their faces, they don't disagree. But nor do they agree. Instead, the Emperor says, his voice controlled and level, "As a civilian, you were not bound by the oaths that would have constrained a more...traditional member of ImpSec. But We remind you that discipline is expect of all who serve Us. Take care that your personal ambitions do not exceed your will to serve."
"Hardly ambitions," Byerly protests at once, sounding uncharacteristically sincere.
A beat as the Emperor surveys his subject. "Your hatred, then," he says, which shuts the Byerly of memory right up.
The real Byerly stands there, looking similarly subdued and similarly stressed. His eyes dart between the trio and Richie, trying to discern how much of this conversation he's understanding, trying to figure out how much damage control he's going to need to do here. ]
I JUST WANTED TO BE POLITE....
Richie halts near the door for a moment, eyeballing the digs (he's still trying to quell his jumping pulse, frankly) and sizing up the new double of his good pal By. The people behind the desk aren't ones he recognizes from that passel of pods he'd seen (he could be wrong — the lot of them looked so alike that losing one iteration of that face hardly seemed impossible) but the man's resemblance makes it clear that he's from the same stock. Better off and higher up than the stiff-backed man in the seat in front.
Slowly, Richie moves forward. He moves to a better vantage point for the conversation. Eyes flicking between the speakers, then back to the real Byerly once a familiar name crops up.]
Richars again?
[His frown turns lopsided but he holds his tongue for the time being.
Impsec. Civilian versus a more traditional member, something about a council that needs no finger-snapping psychotics (what council does?). Worry about personal vendettas. Bare-chinned Byerly is close to sweating bullets, and his moustachioed self is close behind.
Richie folds his arms. Curious, but thinking. Cautious too, even if matters are getting a shade too obvious to not say anything. The steady way he held his gun and took immediate charge. His knack for prodding, his intellect, the prime position at the brothel. His emancipation from his home that turned to homelessness on the street. Wouldn't that be an easy recruit?
He gnaws the inside of his lip. Jesus.]
...Are these the ones that taught you how to shoot straight, then?
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Fuck.
He considers spinning a yarn. What could he say, though? What the hell, this is insane, this isn't my memory, but Richie's not going to buy that. No one with half a brain would buy that. What are you talking about, I can't shoot, what insane thing are you remembering - pretending that the Byerly back there was an illusion - convince Richie that he's crazy...But, hell. If the past weeks have taught him anything, it's that home is dead and lies are meaningless and he has no damn idea what he's doing anyway. So what's the point of pretending? And, well -
Well, he knows that Richie helped Prior. And that he has his own brand of honor. So maybe he owes the man something more than evasiveness and cruelty.
So he runs a hand through his hair, and sighs, and lets go of some of it. Some small measure of his careful control that manifests as oily condescension. Speaks in a voice that's a few shades less arch, less sneering. ]
That's the Emperor of Barrayar. And that's Alys Vorpatril, his social secretary. [ That title is given with enough emphasis that it's clear that that is no empty title. ] Neither of them are wasting their time on giving marksmanship lessons.
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Well in that case I should hope so, running an empire can't leave you with a ton of time to fuck around. [Richie shakes his head.] So what? You were running with the secret service? Reporting direct to the goddamn golden ruler?
[His cagey nature makes so much more sense. And, Richie thinks abruptly, though he wisely bites back the verbalization, why he wouldn't get back in touch with his sister. Family was a real liability in this line of work.]
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Only when I had well and truly fucked up.
[ Though after he says that, he turns and eyes the three figures - By standing, saluting, retreating through the open door into the Emperor's outer chamber, where two uniformed ImpSec agents grab him by the arms and place him into handcuffs. A little dryly, he performs a bit of commentary upon this turn of events: ]
You see, one could not be effective if one appeared too respectable. Waltzing in and out of the Imperial Residence would be rather ruinous for my cover.
[ Then, rather meditatively: ]
Though I must note that while this particular event was messier than I'd have liked, I don't count it as a true fuck-up.
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Yet another puzzle piece locks into place. Yes, it's a good cover. Playing the braying ass, distracting people from your capabilities with a shield of repugnance, debauchery. (Poor phrasing even for an internal monologue, for now he has an unbidden flash of the pair of them naked and entwined and his lips turn so skinny his face might look like a clear wash of peach. He doesn't remember the whole night but there's not enough spots in his memory to forget what they did. Richie huffs to regain composure, looking suddenly to his feet and turning red at the ears.)]
But not messy enough that your cousin could still weasel his way into power. That's...well that's good. I'm assuming. [He looks back to Byerly.] They said you're a civilian member. So what does that mean? You've got a limit on you, but you've still got to put your ass on the line, clearly. What do they expect of you?
[He'd implied that he'd been involved with murder. "I'm Vor, Ricchio." To what degree?]
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[ Well. With the exception of pulling down a rather decent wage. And having several commendations - purely on paper, of course. He wouldn't have taken the medals even if they'd offered them. They'd pose nothing more than a security risk he wouldn't even be able to wear, being as they would telegraph to all his friends, look, I've been selling you out to our liege lord all this time. Remember Vorsoisson? Here's the commendation for breaking up the little smuggling ring he was lackey to, and here's the one for breaking Dimitrios down until he gave the address of his rebel cousin...
Can devils deliver miracles? He's not quite up on his theology. He supposes they must be able to, right? ]
I'm a surveillance operative. Was a surveillance operative. When you're Vorrutyer, even disgraced Vorrutyer, you have access to certain...rarified circles. And when you're Vorrutyer-and-specifically-disgraced-Vorrutyer, you have access to circles that are simultaneously rarified and dissolute. Circles that the Emperor requires eyes and ears in. There's not much more dangerous than a man with a massive gambling debt and a standing invitation to the Imperial Winterfair Ball, after all.
[ By turns his gaze on Richie, notices that redness. In light of that flush, he thinks he understands the question - what do they expect of you? The corner of his mouth quirks up, and he says - with surprisingly little mockery - ]
And seduction is part of the job, yes. And I'm very good.
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Something tells me you'd pencil it into the job description even if wasn't asked for. [Less a jab, more a squirmy wriggle out of a tight spot. Richie turns a sound squint to the seated Emperor.]
Honestly, it makes such a ridiculous amount of sense. I would have missed it if you hadn't needled so hard about the murders. You're too sharp for your own good. And the pods... [He shakes his head. It might still be a sore spot, so he'll pull the finger off and press at other matters.]
It's a raw deal, though. Taking the brunt of the society disdain and dealing dirty for the powers that be. But it's...it is noble. Necessary, I guess. I can't begin to imagine a life lived like that.
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[ That's - unexpected. Highly unexpected. By had anticipated mistrust at worst, interest at best, and a lack of understanding all the way through. He had not anticipated empathy. And it is empathy, in truth; that's not pitying, just understanding. Understanding on a rather deep level. The sort of understanding he wouldn't even get from many Vor.
It throws him for a loop. If he were a bit more together, he'd summon up a bit of irony, a quip. But he's thrown to the point that the best that he can offer is a somewhat unsteady - ]
For the greater good of the Imperium.
[ A little blink, and then he works up something closer to a quip: ] And His Majesty was correct. I was out for revenge.
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But more importantly:]
But it was still through the job. And there was real reason to be concerned, especially if your emperor was doing the asking. Would you have hunted him down off the clock? Just out of spite?
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It wasn't through the job. [ A slight hesitation - ] My cousin Dono was up against Richars for the Vorrutyer countship. Dono was entitled to it by right of birth and by dint of his superior experience and competence. But he had to be confirmed by the Council of Counts, a squabble in which the Emperor - and ImpSec - was officially neutral. The Council was going to vote for Richars rather than Dono, so I decided to put my hand in on my own private time, which I think I had every right to do, being as I was a very interested party. And, yes, I did draw on some of my ImpSec resources to do so, but it's not as though I was pilfering the petty cash. But I still got in trouble for it, because things are so dreadfully unfair.
[ A theatrical pout. His foppish persona is still there, if perhaps a bit subdued compared to his usual clownishness. Non-murderous-non-magical-charming-and-witty-clownishness. ]
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[Richie tilts his head, puzzled. The letter jumble of foreign names makes it easy to lose threads, but he tries to keep up as best as he can. It's not as bad of a mouthful as some stuff he's heard (and shamefully, he has to admit he struggled more with Earth-based monikers like "Kitagawa" or "Kurusu" than he did with Richars and Dono. But then Byerly's lineage came from that same vague latin circle. Europe never stopped conquering, old habits dying hard.)
Even so, he's finding it difficult to believe that Byerly was truly in the wrong. Imagining a nut like Henry Bowers coming into a position of power makes sympathizing all too easy.]
And what would Richars have done if he got in?
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[ A shrug. ]
To be quite honest, I don't actually know. I can't really keep track of Countly power. What are they permitted to do? What aren't they? It's quite dreadfully convoluted. But one thing's for sure - he'd have kept being a complete son-of-a-bitch. And this time, he'd have been a son-of-a-bitch swelled with the validation of a room full of old men telling him you matter, we voted for you. One shudders to imagine the lows his popping ego would have led him to.
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