nysalogs | epecially people who care about strangers

Admiral Archer's Prized Beagle is a fine horse, black with a white nose and one white foot (hoof? foreleg? Jim's sort of from Iowa, he should know horse parts, but doesn't), and miraculously not dead. She'd fucked off at some point during the crisis with Ysverai, and then had shown back up again waiting for him at the run-down barely-a-house that he and Scotty eventually obtained, like she'd just Known.

Fine horse, creepy horse, whatever. She's behaving today, pleased as punch to be off to Khalo, alongside the rented steed for Kathryn. Animals probably don't have to get baked to get through, or else the fauna would be even weirder, he thinks. "You ever have to imbibe something mind-altering to appease a local custom?" he asks, looking over at his companion for the next few days. "That's basically the deal, getting to this place."

There was a time when Kathryn Janeway was quite the outdoorsy tomboy, climbing trees out in the pasture of her grandfather's farm. She used to not mind the elements, used to welcome them; used to enjoy the novelty of the rural lifestyle that had been much more accessible to her in her youth. Now? She found it needlessly cumbersome, the novelty having long wore off. She had survival skills out the wazoo, but the enjoyment she once found in just being outside and basking in the world around her had since dissipated.

Her grandfather owned horses. She never rode a single one of them, and thus only knows how to ride in theory.

"If taking whatever they have to offer means I get to get off this horse, I'll do it," she declares grumpily, gripping the reigns tighter.

She regrets this already. At least the horse part. Sometimes she's a little too good at sounding absolutely confident in things she knows absolutely nothing about. Like riding. Can't be too hard, she's said. And while it wasn't necessarily difficult, it wasn't exactly the good ol' fun time her grandfather had proclaimed horseback riding to be.

Jim can't help the way he laughs, abrupt with genuine surprise. "I guess I'm too used to motorcycles," he says. "I took to this pretty easy, even though I hadn't ridden a horse since I was a kid." And indeed, perhaps frustratingly, he's been swanning through this with total ease, appearing to nearly ignore his horse most of the time like he's on a predestined amusement park ride.

"Want to ride shotgun for a while?" Slightly shit-eating grin, there. But he really won't mind if she feels like hopping over; her rental beast can trail behind and roll its eyes at the humans.

"Closest I got was nearly getting my hand bitten off when I tried to feed one of my grandfather's monstrosities a carrot when I was nine."

Monstrosity? Kathryn, it's a horse. You've stood alone and unarmed on a Borg Cube with thousands of drones surrounding you and you barely flinched, and a beast of burden is what manages to get under your skin? Honestly.

She's half tempted to reach out and give him a good shove for that grin, but as spiteful as she's capable of being, she's not one to deliberately put someone in harm's way should he topple off the side of his horse. That, and she's afraid of what will happen to her if she lets go of the reigns. Her thighs already hurt from sitting in this saddle and would be of absolutely no use to her when it came to remaining in it if her balance faltered.

Yep, she definitely regrets the horse part of this.

The horse nickers, shaking its head back and forth, doing absolutely nothing to put the captain at ease. If anything, it makes her reconsider her silent rejection of his offer.

"...I may take you up on that."

Edited 2018-11-11 07:47 (UTC)

"Monstrosities," he echoes, trying to get his laughter under control. Real professional, Kirk!! But to be fair, this is absolutely hilarious. "They're just cars you can bribe, Kathryn."

And, alright, how about something - if not chivalrous, at least helpful. Jim directs Beagle closer alongside the other captain and her steed, and reaches out to hook two fingers into the bridle, giving the horses a chance to match pace with each other.

"Just relax. If you tense your legs, the horse'll think you're about to kick to signal 'speed up'. You're hanging on with your butt, a little, but it's mostly gravity. Like on the chair."

The Chair, yes.

"The chair?"

There are looks she gives people while perched in said chair that have even the likes of Tom Paris swiveling back around in his seat to feign running diagnostics on something or other that she's now directing his way. As if she's insulted by his assistance and/or the notion that she's holding on to the horse wrong.

She is, though.

She's gripping the saddle too tightly with her legs, and will most likely be bowlegged when she eventually slides off of it. Relax is something she needs to do, but not necessarily something she remembers how to do well. Kathryn's wound up tight like a coil on the verge of springing forward that's been caught on a hook, unsure of how to ease any of the tension that fueled her near constant headaches.

(Or maybe that was just the caffeine withdrawal. Likely both.)

"Why did I let you talk me into this?"

The horse. Not the trip, not coming out here with him, but getting on the horse. Her ire's all about the horse.

That look is like a pleasant balm to Jim's instigator soul, and he just beams back at her. The commanding officer look doesn't work on him - not even just because they're peers, but because it doesn't work on him, much to the exasperation of every commanding officer he's ever had. And, perhaps tragically, Kathryn is now his friend, which means those death glares just automatically translate to This Is Great And I Like You, Jim!

"The alternative is walking," he reminds her, "and this is supposed to be a relaxing, therapeutic activity. C'mon - it's a living creature, how'd you like it if somebody sat on you like that? Loosen up. Be one with nature."

Shut up, Kirk.

It doesn't work and it pisses her off. Janeway's grown a little too used to being an intimidating presence, and to not be able to throw her weight around so easily is infuriating. It ought to be a relief, and perhaps on some level it is, but it's yet another (unhealthy) facet of a uniquely solitary command post like hers has been that she's come to rely on.

"If I wanted to be one with nature, I wouldn't have signed up to work in space."

"Space is natural, and so is every planet you visit out there," he says serenely. How do Vulcans stand this guy? He's so annoying. "We're exploring, Kathryn."

In a way, her being pissed off is good. Being able to express anything besides solid control in front of her crew is good. Jim tugs on the bridle of her horse, slowing Beagle at the same time, until both come to a stop.

"We're deep enough in, anyway, we can opt for some slightly sore feet." He nods up ahead - as they've been plugging along, the flora has been shifting into strange, more distinctly alienlike terrain, with overlarge and surreal, colorful plants beginning to appear.

How do Vulcans put up with either of them? Tuvok has the patience of a saint.

"I'm an astrophysicist, not a xenobiologist," she remarks sourly, and she does so for the sole sake of doing so. Kathryn Janeway is a brat, she's just good at masking her brattiness with command bravado and an authoritative air.

The changing landscape hasn't escaped her notice. Were she not set on holding as tightly to her indignation as she is those reigns, she may have even commented on it.

The look on Jim's face says that for a moment, he almost lost it laughing, but he's reeled it in. Having to explain why that's funny to him would take too long.

"Alright, astrophysicist, there's a serious library back in these woods, so pony up." A beat. "Down, actually." Jim dismounts, and moves over to spot Kathryn in case she's already stiff-legged. "Hands on the saddle, not the reins." Don't yank the horse's head off and end up zooming off into the jungle, please. He offers her his hand if she needs something else stable to hold onto.

Although she mimics his motions and heeds his instructions, dismounting is easier said than done. Mostly because her legs feel like jelly thanks to the stiffness that's settled into them, and she has to grab hold of both that offered hand and his shoulder to prevent herself from wilting straight to the ground.

"Sorry," she apologizes. "My legs enjoyed that experience about as much as the rest of me did."

It's a position like slow dancing. Why hello.

"Welcome back to terra firma," he teases. "If I ever remember this, or if I can send the version of me that's not displaced some kind of psychic message, I'll see if I can suggest putting horseback riding in the survival courses." Not nearly as fun as motorcycles, but c'mon, they're still just fine.

"You'll be relaxed in a minute. We have to get stoned to get in."

Except it's a lot less graceful that slow dancing, with her legs refusing to cooperate. She tries to force them to, stubbornly planting her feet in the dirt in a futile attempt to make herself stand without assistance. It only makes her wobble and clutch at his shirt all the more.

"How generous of you to offer, Captain. Not sure how useful that would be on worlds without domesticated mammalian hoofed quadrupeds. Unless your suggested ordinance would also entail suggesting a horse or two be part of the standard crew compliment."

Alright, now it's harlequin romance novel cover, with Janeway swooning. (Where's Q's horrible commentary when you need it?) Luckily, Kirk's a solid guy, and doesn't sway much while keeping her upright.

"If you can ride a horse, you can ride just about everything else out there," he says. "And you'll appreciate them a hundredfold when your only transport up a vertical wall is a spine covered elephant sized centipede that smells like three year old olives."

That's so specific, Jim. Next to them, Beagle makes a meaningless horse noise that manages to sound exasperated.

Q would absolutely have something to say about this — something highly inappropriate that would likely be accompanied by him whining about how insulting he found it that she kept picking pesky mortals over him. And she most certainly would have punched him for it, especially while out of uniform.

“You’re doing an awfully good job of making me wish my mother had the sense to get me riding lessons instead of sticking me in ballet as a child.” Which only makes the dancing-esque position all the more amusing, and even she can’t help but chuckle at that, her ire finally dissipating as laughter bubbles up in response to how absurd this all was.

“Perhaps learning would do me some good.”

This mortal has way better abs, though.

"Yeah, whatever, big talker once you're finally back on the ground," Jim teases. "C'mon." He helps her right herself properly, holds on to make sure she's steady. "Not gonna puke on me, are you?"

It's about time they started in on ye olde ritual fairy weed, and he's still got some; money remains something he thinks is real stupid, but he made sure to buy some anyway. How's it doing since the situation with the dragon? Hopefully not terrible. They were out of the blast radius, at least.

...please don't get into an abs contest with an obnoxious, omnipotent being.

She'd shove him for the jesting jab if she were certain doing so wouldn't send her careening back into the horse or flat onto her ass. "I've been on some rough rides, and as unpleasant as that was, it's nothing close to the sort of turbulence that has me wishing we kept one of those red, elementary school vomit buckets underneath one of the consoles on the bridge. ...actually, come to think of it, I was at the helm during the last far too bumpy ride we took. My unease continues to be my own doing."

Piloting Voyager through a pair of binary pulsars may not have been the smartest decision she ever made, and even Tuvok called her reckless for doing so, but it got the point across and brought an end to the never-ending migraine those alien scientists had forced upon her.

"What do I need to do to transcend into this mind-altering state of being?"

He'd win tho.

Jim laughs. Of course she was at the helm, that seems perfectly fitting. "We've all been there." Well, Jim's blessed with a command crew just as bonkers as he is, so more often than not, it's a group effort into rough rides and wild decisions, but still.

To answer her question, he holds up what's been shuffled out of his pocket: a joint. Which is, at least, more iridescent and bluey-purple than marijuana.

"You know, I skipped this stage of teenage rebellion," he muses. "It was all alcohol for me."

Q would cheat. He would alter his default appearance or sabotage Kirk's. Never underestimate a denizen of the cosmos scorned.

Who says her senior staff isn't just as boisterous as she is? You can't fit into the expected neat and tidy Starfleet box when you have ex-Maquis filling some of those slots, with a Talaxian, a hologram, and a Borg drone thrown in to the mix.

"I was an athlete," she says. "I didn't have time for either. Not until the Academy."

Welp, here they are, standing in the hangar with the atmosphere re-pressurized after Deathscythe's been parked (yes), observing the mystery suit that Jim's removed the docking clamps from. No alarms go off or warning buzzers ping; this is, apparently, wholly kosher for purposes of maintenance or general fiddling.

"This can't be unheard of," he muses. "People end up with weird gifts all the time. I think most of my surprise is due to the manifestations of the Natha being absent."

Duo hadn't even waited to use the civilized way to descend from his mobile suit once everything was parked and handled. He was in his suit, anyways, so breathable air wasn't going to be a problem for a few hours, and he'd just hopped down in a way that was far too organized for it to be something he only did occasionally.

Once he's shucked the (also black) helmet from his head Duo takes a moment to stare at the Natha origin suit for a moment, mentally dissecting the joints and moveable parts for anything that might not be up to his snuff so far as protection for a battle, etc. Just because it was given to him doesn't mean Duo would hold back at all about telling Jim where it might be best to double-fortify, after all.

"Yeah, but most of those gifts come from home. Like Deathscythe." The braided pilot is much more serious than usual as he takes a pace of what he can see, though it doesn't take long before he's getting a grip on some sort of metal ridge to climb a little higher and inspect. "Wonder what they're made of, too. Don't think it's Gundanium but if the Natha can pull shit out of no where who knows what kind of material this thing may be."

Though, now that he thinks about it - "You sat in it yet?"

"I assume it's made of whatever superplasteel the other ones are made of," he says. "This one's unique, but it's cut from the same cloth as far as I can tell. I'll get Scotty up here soon, he'll be able to know what it all is down to the molecules."

Jim rocks back on his heels, gives Duo a faintly incredulous look. "Of course I have." He's gotten his grubby little mitts all over this thing already, are you kidding him. To demonstrate, he hops up to find the manual cockpit hatch release, showing the Gundam pilot where it is. "There's an auto one, I just like knowing where the base mechanisms of everything are."

The telltale mark of good design is silence, and so the shell opens easily and without a creak, the only sound being the weight of the hatch itself. The inside is as expected - it'd be cramped for two people, but not impossible, though clearly meant for a solo pilot in a seated position.

"Superplasteel just doesn't sound as bad ass.." Duo mutters it even though it isn't a real or qualified kind of critique of the suit itself. He's still carefully crawling and dodging along the metal suit, eventually making a little noise that may be impressed and nodding to himself as he comes back down to watch the hatch open.

"Doesn't look too different from mine, really." Duo's.. well. He had a bit more mess in there than Jim did, anyways, but he's practically lived in that damn gundam for the past few years. Duo goes to move but then stops, points, indicating the cock pit..

... It's only fair he ask, right? "You alright if I hop in?"

"Knock yourself out," he laughs. "I know it powers on fine, seems to have perfectly functional nav systems and says it's space ready. I just haven't taken it out yet."

He might not, right now. Something to run by the little AI helpers first, he thinks, and fish for more information. (The desire to hack into one of those fuckers is a struggle to suppress.)

"Not a whole lot in the way of weaponry, as far as I can tell. Maybe just the next-gen versions of what the loaner models have. I'm not sure what, specifically, it might be meant for."

"Well, let's see what this thing's got, then. I'm still in a space suit and all." All he'd have to do was pop a helmet on and he was free and clear for a nice little space flight. For the moment though he'll take settling in to the suit's seat, fiddling with control here or there and firing it up. It doesn't take long for Duo's fingers to be moving over the controls with a sort of deft confidence that comes from many years of training in many different kinds of mobile suits, squinting intently at the screens in front of him. He may be a bit of an idiot savant with these things, trial and error was kind of a great way to just figure things out so far as he can tell.

"Wonder if you might be able to, you know, integrate your own." Duo speaks but his eyes don't leave the screen, tongue sticking out a little from between his lips as he tries to work through the controls. "Could always sort of build your own from parts around.. Or at least I'm pretty sure you could."

A little 'huh' noise follows, and soon Duo's tugging at a joy stick and watching as an arm follows to test reaction. "It's got pretty good movement to reaction."

"I don't see why not," he says, his voice echoing just slightly in the open chasm of the hangar - wisely staying back, he decides to poke around at the floor controls so that a mobile catwalk moves over. "Though it's probably wise to get used to this before I start making after-market modifications." Or let Scotty loose on it, which is probably what he'll do.

"I would hope so."

Isn't that what these things are supposed to have.

"Honestly, the overall design seems more intuitive to construction than combat."

"I mean if you make the mods right away you only have to get used to it in one step." And Duo is just one of those mad tinkerers who likes to just roll with it. Yes, it's more than a little crazy, and yes, he's done mods on things on his mobile suit after only one or two test runs as they were. This is the kid who habitually crawled in to small spaces to make small tweaks, which had impressed his trainer as much as it horrified him how small he could be when he wanted, though, so.. maybe not best to take his advise, either, Jim.

"Essentially all upright frames for mobile suits are about the same from what I can tell. It's just the outer materials and what they're equipped for." The ones from his world were essentially the same at the base of it all - just some were built with Gundaium, others with softer metals, and some meant for under water use. It's kind of insane what they managed to accomplish even outside of Gundams, but it's best to let him digress.

"And a builder ain't gonna help more than a fighter, at any rate." Duo lets go of the controls to tap away at the controls again, humming as the screen shows up a skeleton schematic. "Doesn't look like it'll be too hard to convert its options, anyways. If you wanted that in the end."

Jim, having done his time moonlighting as an engineering major, likes to know how things are supposed to work before he goes modifying them - in the spirit of repairing classic motorcycles and the like. There's just something very satisfying in a design working to the best of its simple ability. But he's absolutely in favor of cranking shit up to eleven as soon as he understands the inner workings.

"I'm fine with it working as its supposed to work," he says, hiking up the maintenance stairs. "It's just an interesting design evolution that my world didn't take. My ship is like - akin to an aircraft carrier. The average crew count is around 400."

These small, one-person units seem to have branched out from fighter jets, and it's simply not something his culture went with. It's interesting.

"Ah c'mon..." Duo presses, of course he does, wanting to at least see if Jim will relent even a little bit with some pressing. Let's be honest, he wants to tinker on this thing as much as the next guy.. he's had his chance to sit in a few and it's just not very satisfying if they have no weapons no nothing, that kind of deal. But the suit is Jim's, in the end, and Duo can't tell him how to work it or what to do with it. He can only give him a little press and see if he'll give in.

"Not even small two person craft? That's weird." He's piloted enough little craft with Heero asleep beside him that it just seems bizarre that they wouldn't exist in a place like Jim came from. But then again, who knew. Maybe it was a way of keeping the amount of ships out in space down. "Anyway .. these things might not move as quick as you're thinkin' out in space."

[ Whether or not Thomas thinks it's a date, it's absolutely a date, and Jim shows up looking casual-but-tidy; a shift from his two default modes (one of which is utilitarian-uniform, and the other being sweat-and-leather). As usual he's all smiles and familiar body language, all the way to the restaurant Nightingale's picked out for him. ]

Nice digs, [ he says once they're seated. ] You're right, it does smell pretty Italian.

[ Impressive for a culture that's developed entirely without Earth's influence. ]

[ nightingale's default mode is a suit and he is wearing one now. it emphasises his trim waist and broad shoulders, but that's simply because it is well-tailored and not because nightingale thinks of this as a date. (he doesn't not think of it as a date, either. he's - agnostic to the question of it being a date. probably.)

whether it's a date or not, being with jim is easy - he's all smiles and familiar body language and doesn't take offence at the occasional stiffness (not a metaphor), the occasional far-away look. it's pleasant, nightingale has found and is finding again, to be in jim's presence. ]

It tastes quite similar as well. [ a beat. ] Red wine?

I'd love some, [ he says. ] So long as you make the selection - I have no idea what qualifies as a good wine. Are you a fan?

[ Probably, this is not a surprise. Any time Jim's ordered a drink in front of him, it'll have been Whatever Beer or Whatever Whiskey. You can take the boy out of rural Iowa, and etc. ]

I'll just as soon have a beer or some scotch, but that's not to say I don't like a good wine.

[ so yes, he'll choose something and it'll be excellent because thomas nightingale might not be posh by nature, but he very much is by nurture and one does not live the life he'd led without learning a thing or two about good wine. ]

My mom used to say she liked wine, [ Jim tells him, ] but really she just liked looking fancy with a couple of bottles of it set out. And, of course, when I hit the right age, I cracked them all open and chugged them, just to be annoying.

[ The 'right age' meaning, like, twelve. ]

Fortunately they were low quality replicas and not genuine artifacts.

It sounds like you were a handful.

[ one might expect those words to carry a note of disapproval, coming from someone as put-together, controlled and proper as thomas nightingale. instead, there's something warmly approving in his tone. amusement, even, perhaps. ]

[ Jim smiles, a particular smug goofiness in it that's an obvious precursor to something real dumb-- ]

That's what you've got two hands for, right?

[ I can't believe I've managed to work the meme in his profile into a tag, Tona. I CAN'T BELIEVE IT. Anyway Jim clearly thinks this is a work of TOTAL GENIUS wow Thomas aren't you thrilled to be involved with this SUAVE CHARMER. ]

[ thomas' expression doesn't change much in the face of jim's smug goofiness and that suave and charming line (GOOD JOB ON THE MEME), but there's a little more warmth in his hint-of-a-smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling just a little. ]

Quite.

[ okay. this is a date, then. and so, under the table, thomas' leg very briefly brushes against jim's. ]

[ That's a quick reversal on the subject of this being a date, and Jim would be very proud of his diplomatic date negotiation skills if he knew.

Oho. Jim nudges his foot against Thomas's. Cheeky. ]

Have you been busy lately with all the rebuilding going on? [ Olympia clearly got away with less damage than Wyver, but it's still a mess, he can see. ]

[ jim has a way of being obviously fond of him and interested in him without any sort of pressure that makes considering this a date both likely and —a pleasant thought. it's jim's demeanour, he thinks.

(it's his eyes, too.) ]

I've been doing some of the heavier lifting. [ there's no pretense or arrogance in the statement. ]

Edited 2018-12-01 22:36 (UTC)

epecially people who care about strangers

captain janeway

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those icons prove she looks nice in gold b t w

one day he'll talk her into one of his uniforms. one day.

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duo!

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detective nightingale

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