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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"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.

"So either way you spin it, I'm kind of feline? That's funny, considering my relatives."

She pauses, realizing after a moment that yes, she actually said that out loud. Leila laughs, quietly, at herself. "It's strange being open it about it."

Ambrose considers her, vaguely amused, and then he tugs his shirt loose enough to come down one shoulder, turning to show her low on his ribs where there's a scar, one that was already there. If she squints, it looks a little like a decently-sized set of cat's claws.

"She shoved me out of the bed," he explains, "when I was making witticisms about certain relations of hers, and I landed on the part of the floor I'd been meaning to fix. Looks more like cat's claws to me."

Her eyes go wide, and instinctively, she reaches out to brush fingers over the mark on his skin. (Sorry, Ambrose; she's just like this.)

"Oh, my--that looks like it was nasty." Something in her sympathetic tone, marginally over-the-top as it is, is probably reminiscent of Sanchari's on the evening when this actually occurred.

Coughing back vivid memories of being hit again about a week later when Sanchari realized he was shamelessly milking her sympathy and guilt for attention, Ambrose shrugs his shirt back into place. "I stopped forgetting to fix the floor after."

Edited 2010-02-26 01:48 (UTC)

"But not to refrain from teasing her about her relatives," she guesses, amused.

"They weren't very impressed by me," he shrugs. "I found it prudent to avoid being too impressed by them, either."

That is not the dictionary definition of 'prudent'.

"Well, they hate it when their breeding stock gets stolen out from under him." She's clearly still teasing, but there is palpable bitterness in that; she may not always be totally fair about how strongly she feels there.

It serves equally as a reminder of Ambrose's own children, and his tenuous grip on the good mood of the moment slips, abruptly.

"Maybe if they weren't such bastards about it, it wouldn't be a problem."

...because he'd rather go there than talk about how much he wants to hold a pair of children long since dead, really.

"Striders aren't as bad as Silver Fangs," she admits, after a moment, "Shadow Lords--they're the worst, always. But they don't care about anything but their own glory."

"I don't know many. We traveled, we kept to ourselves. We lived in quiet places. We saw few but the odd Chorister-" he spits, the same way he spat at mention of God, "-and some others, but mostly my own kin." Verbena; he has no blood living.

And he's a little freer with his prejudice than Sol.

"Your Tradition members, right--not your family?" She's briefly puzzled by this--Sol has so many family members and he's involved in their lives, it's strange to think otherwise. But of course, circumstances are different, and furthermore it was rarer to make it to adulthood, in Ambrose's time.

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

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