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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Ambrose concedes the point with a faint smile that's painful, unsure of how else to proceed. After a moment, he admits, "I don't like the greenhouse, either."

Since he hasn't got anything left that seems actually useful, he figures he might as well point out he's disliking just about everything that doesn't look right to him.

"Fair enough."

She pauses, and glances up at the trees above them with a thoughtful, faint smile.

"I wonder if I could make a treehouse out here. I mean- a real one, not a child's one."

"I don't see why not." He approves of that, anyway. "I wanted to build something of the sort, once, but it wasn't to be."

She grins at him, and finishes the last of her tea.

"I bet if we use magic we could get it going really fast and get a lot done. Do you want to help?"

...he hesitates, not because of her magic but because of his own wariness at pushing his own strength. It wouldn't have wounded more than his pride if his knees gave out, if he hadn't been able to finish digging the garden, but there's a reason he hasn't so much as tried to do more than listen to trees and flowers. Ambrose can't separate his magic from who he is, and he doesn't want to test how much he can still do and find himself wanting in his weakness.

It's probably more psychological than anything else.

She watches this hesitation, and fusses with her hair (since swimming she hasn't done much with it, so it's curly and long, a little messy) in awkward silence for a few moments.

"Mostly with the blueprints, the architecture...you've got a mind for structure."

No magic involved in that part, at least.

Silently cursing himself for needing the verbal rescue, Ambrose nods, awkwardly. "All right. We'll have to find a decent tree for it, one or two."

He squints at the still-growing house that continues apace even without Sol here pushing at it; it goes faster when he does, but it knows what's meant to happen next without him. "That, I don't know how big it's planning to get. You might want more room than too near."

"I'm thinking about that. I don't really need another place to live, but something like a hideaway..." Leila stands up and looks up at the towering trees, lip caught between her teeth in contemplation.

"Just one tree, then. But you won't want a clear view in the windows, and the second floor there-" he points at the house, "-will be high enough."

"Why only second floor?" She doesn't think she's up to tree-climbing, presently, but she rests her hand on the trunk of one nearby tree. Sometimes Leila wonders what life would be like if she could talk to them the way Solomon and Ambrose do, but her talents lie in other areas, and she's got to just accept that.

"I mean in your windows," he clarifies patiently. "If it's high, then the second floor's the one you'll worry about, isn't it?"

When Ambrose walks through a forest, most of it is usually trying to get his attention; it's possible he takes communing with nature a step too far.

"Yes, that's true." She wanders back over to him.

"You're experienced at this."

He leans back to look up at her, wry. "Who do you think did our building, Leila?"

With help - but even so. 'Father Roy' was always the first to roll up his sleeves.

"Helper elves?" Leila sasses Ambrose merrily in turn, leaning over him. "Verbena have those funny connections, and all..."

...in his best attempt at toffy diction (it falls short, by the way), he primly says: "Don't be vulgar."

Hilarious double meanings that aren't about him dying! Well done.

Edited 2010-02-25 23:51 (UTC)

"Can't make me stop," she says, airily, settling down next to him again, "I'm a lady of the night, my job is to be vulgar."

'Lady of the night'. At least they're trolling on both sides.

Edited 2010-02-26 00:23 (UTC)

"That's still strange to think of," he remarks, which while not being particularly forceful in any direction still manages to be blunter than anything Sol has ever said about her job. "But I wouldn't call you a lady of anything."

The latter has nothing to do with the former, he just doesn't buy the city girl thing.

She turns to him swiftly, eyebrows raised. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Just what it says." Ambrose can do that annoyingly-mild thing, too.

She digs her nails into his knee a little, expression arch. Leila isn't quite offended, but she can't figure out what he's getting at. "Ambrose. Are you calling me a ho?"

He gives her an offended look at that suggestion (and jerks his knee out from under her hand). "No, I'm calling you a woman instead of a lapcat."

"Oh, I see. You don't think much of the aristocracy, and you know I'm not, really, even if I put on airs. I'm good at being a rich girl, though." She tips her head to one side, resting her hands behind her, palms flat, and puts her weight on them.

"Did I hurt you?"

Ambrose makes a derisive sound that probably covers 'aristocracy, rich girls, and whether or not she hurt him' all at once. (She did, actually; the cold water was partially numbing of some of his smaller complaints and he wasn't exactly in a position where he cared, earlier, but he's not exactly without tenderness.)

"Mm, I see. Sorry." She smiles at him, watchful. "I might not be a lapcat, but I have claws."

(She does not say 'you seemed to be pretty invested on having me in your lap earlier, anyway', because that would be wildly inappropriate, but she does think it, somewhat ruefully. Leila wishes she could turn her brain off sometimes.)

(In fairness, she'd have a point.)

"So do feral cats," he says, blandly, his pride only slightly dented.

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