taxonomites | 003. (visual) a list of the qualities a good girl lacks

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003. (visual) a list of the qualities a good girl lacks

"Hello, Taxon."

Leila greets anyone paying attention out there with a small smile, seated as she is on a grassy section in the forest, several paces away from the greenhouse Sol (and now Ambrose) has occupied, though it's not quite in view, thus making her location more difficult to distinguish. She's sleeveless, today, which means much of her white ink clockwork tattoo is exposed; she's proud of it, so she sees no reason not to show it off.

"So," she begins, "I've been wondering a few things: why do you think so many people here come from the same world? It's overwhelmingly dominated by people from Earth, and it seems to primarily be modern-day Earth, at that.

"Many of us seem to speak the same common language- our captors' idea of convenience, possibly? English isn't my first language, but I'm fluent enough in it. The relatively low level of apparent ethnic diversity can be rationalized, but if we're really all abducted by aliens, they certainly seem to have their preferences when it comes to targets, don't they? I don't have any answers here, but I'm certain I'm not the only one still asking questions. Maybe between us some sort of conclusion can be reached, eventually, and with data we can make progress- I'm aware by now I'm not the only scientist present, but if anyone else I have yet to meet happens to fall into the same profession, please introduce yourselves. I'm listening."

She's not going to admit she's the youngest researcher in her group at home and probably here, too, and thus knows the expertise of others is necessary, but she is aware, at least. This is followed by a careful, considering pause; Leila's been very detachedly amiable up to this point, and avoided being too technical, by her own standards, but now her tone changes to something cooler and more controlled, which in her is generally a tough-skinned cover for guardedness.

"Oh. One more thing. These glitches that people experience. How long do they usually last?"

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She doesn't quite jump, but there is a stillness where that impulse might have occurred in anyone else. Leila stops outwardly transmitting with the push of a button on her tablet, and turns to look at Ambrose.

"Not quite why I was asking--well, not all of it. How long were you listening?"

"A while." He sits down a few feet away, cross-legged and similarly still. His expression is hard to read, but maybe that's just some kind of exhaustion; it's hard to hold yourself in when all you're really doing is waiting for the knife to come down. "You're very organized, Leila. Do you have any skill with numbers?"

...just wondering.

"I'm good with them, yes. They're necessary for my field--I double-majored in physics and biological engineering."

She hesitates for a second before adding, by way of explanation, "Numbers and science--they're so much simpler than people. But that's because they're only a small part of them."

He forces himself, belatedly, away from the comparison. It's unfair. (What's unfair is to keep it to himself, he thinks, wryly.)

"Maybe so. Why else were you asking after it, then? For your numbers? And your science?" In his defense, the slightly disdainful way he says 'science' isn't personal or even intentional.

"Among other things, yes." Apparently she is determined to be vague about this. Leila tucks her tablet away and stands up, smoothing down her skirt--she postures at being so fussy about the outdoors, but if you catch her not paying attention to her playing at 'city girl', she's fine with it. Almost natural.

"Have you explored much of the forest yet? There are waterfalls a ways back."

...his expression is somewhat easier to read at this point ('unruly schoolboy suddenly looks shifty'); she can try and decipher precisely what that means at her leisure, but it kicks in about when she mentions the waterfalls.

"Past the lake, aye?" Innocently. As if he had just noted them. In passing.

Leila leans over him, eyebrows raised, and she struggles not to laugh a little at the look on his face.

"Ambrose."

"I've seen them," he says, mildly.

"Yeah, I guessed that by how you suddenly looked like you were hoarding leprechaun gold back there. What's up with that?" The discrepancy between her behavior on-tablet and her behavior when they're alone (even when he is not himself, or himself-that-was) is never more highlighted than when she very delicately steps onto a nearby log, in her high heels, and balances on it. Successfully, even.

The briefly speculative look that he gives her is crushed fairly quickly underneath a kind of impassiveness that Sol couldn't hope to match. (He didn't hone it under torture.) Just because he shared something with Sanchari once doesn't make it a good idea to forget that he's not the only one here who only sees someone else in the wrong skin. And so: "I don't need another scolding for wandering too far out from under your eye," he lies, amiably, as if he is not at all conspiring to ... wander out from under her eye again.

He feels the scolding was implied last time, at the very least.

"Well, we can go out there if you want," she offers, blithely, arms extended as she walks the length of the log, half-watching Ambrose from underneath her eyelashes.

"That way, no scolding. Unless you provoke me on purpose."

Damn it.

"I'm not by nature a provocative man." Apparently he's not finished lying through his teeth, then.

...she's still laughing at him when she slips off her newfound perch to wander in the direction of the waterfalls. Apparently she feels it requires no actual verbalization, just an incredulous scoff and knowing laughter.

As he follows her - audibly, if archaically, cursing - he considers philosophically that some things have plainly failed to change. Bedamned moon-touched woman.

"My, my. What would you do if I said I was scandalized at your language, Ambrose?" She carries her books and tablet with her, tucked to her chest like a schoolgirl--absent-mindedly gamine. If she knew, she'd probably stop.

To call the suggestion Ambrose makes at this point 'improper' does his creativity a shameful disservice. He may be several shades closer to the savage than his later incarnation, but goodness if he isn't eloquent when he wants to be.

He pauses, blows his hair out of his face, and considers that he actually feels slightly better. Just for now, shaking his head ruefully at her.

"Now that sounds like a challenge to me," she says, feigning great thoughtfulness as they reach the water's edge.

"Pretty, isn't it?"

"Yes," he agrees, looking away to the water belatedly. She probably won't have time to call him on that; there was only one reason, after all, that Ambrose has been wanting to slip away here. It might not be the best idea he's ever had (the weather is still chilly, he's far from in the best of health), but he doesn't want to go back without this. Not when it's within his reach.

That thought in mind, he purposefully begins to undress. He's not walking back to the house in cold, wet clothes.

"--wait, what are you--"

It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure it out, even though she technically qualifies as one.

"Ambrose, the water must be freezing." An exaggeration, but she does think it serves as a mild health risk. She knows that look on his face, though, so even as she lodges her objections she's resigning herself to the fact that he's going to actually do this.

"Now or never," he trades back mercilessly (self-flagellation isn't a strictly Catholic concept, and now of all times he really wouldn't appreciate the comparison), dropping his pants with his shirt on the grass by her feet. "You can scold me for it later."

"Well."

She gives him a defiant little look and sets her books and tablet down on the ground, kicking off her heels and following suit, since she is also disinclined to wander the woods in waterlogged clothing. This is, apparently, all the description her plan of action needs--the visual aide kind.

He wonders - not for the first time, note that - if it's some kind of particular knack of hers he's never managed to divine a cause for, this ability to defy him even when he hasn't actually told her what he doesn't want her to do.

...he does have one question, though.

"Were those his idea?" he asks, before he slides into the water, with a gesture at her tattoos.

"No," she says, mildly puzzled, "I've had most of these for a long time."

Leila supposes they look pretty strange to him, though, and stands on the side of the water for a moment longer, fussing with her hair. "What do you make of them?"

"They reminded me of something else is all," he settles on, committing the designs (that he can see) to memory and turning his gaze onto the waterfall they're nearest. The puzzlement is obvious (and interesting), but instead of explaining himself he pretends not to have a proper explanation at all. "They suit you."

"Well, thank you."

The tables, they have turned, and even Leila is wryly aware of it; he's the one pulling away from her, and she keeps pushing closer for all sorts of reasons. In fairness, most of them have nothing to do with her own emotional vulnerability, but it's certainly a taste of her own medicine.

She eyes the water, sighs, and says, "I hope this is not as cold as it looks."

In she goes.

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