[a video feed from a non-disclosed location brings up to show two roombas ready to fight to the death.]

( CUT FOR BIG TEXT )

[backdated to shortly after the jump]

[The feed starts as an audio post, with the occasional clicking of the keys, with long drawn out pauses between them, and the occasional 'hmm' and other such utterances, sometimes of irritation. After a few minutes, there's another pause.] No- that's not right, where are the words?

[The voice is low and hoarse. A smoker's voice, if you will. But it's female. There are a few more noises as Eponine clicks around on her device. Then, her face comes into frame, close-up on her eyes and forehead, her dark eyes narrowed as she looks at the screen, her brow creased.]

No, no, it's supposed to be the words. [She doesn't even realize it's on video yet. It's only when she takes sight of her own eyes that she gasps and pulls the device away from her, so that the audience can better see her face. Pursing her lips, she reaches a hand up and brushes her hair back behind her ear. Then, she smiles at the "reflection".] A strange sort of mirror... [She mutters again, before the screen goes blank.]

In India, there are villages where the people wear masks on the the backs of their heads, because tigers won't attack someone who is facing them. It's functional, and it's real, but you can take it as a metaphor. You face something that will eat you, and you do it by not turning away. By showing them your eyes.

Wolves are different. Wolves will attack something facing them, but not the way you think. It's a hunting tactic, you know. Wolves attack faces - that's just how to get an elk down, to bring it down by the nose. How do you even deal with something like that? You face it down and it aims for your nose. There's not even logic in that!

Frankly-

[There's a sigh]

Frankly, this place is getting to me. Tigers and wolves be damned. I didn't think anything was worse than a fifteen hour international flight into Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport but apparently what's worst is a pleasure cruise to God knows where through the far reaches of space.

Man.

Fuck anything that attacks you by biting you on the nose.

By the way, who's taking care of all the farm animals in the O2 Gardens, and are you willing to trade for them?

[ after spending a lengthy amount of time sorting herself out and making sure every possible trace of blue... stuff from her hair, eleanor eventually opts for the voice option on the communication devices, despite being reasonably satisfied with her now clean appearance. mostly because the bed in her room is actually half decent - all things considered - and she can't be bothered not to be horizontal, and that wouldn't make for a good camera angle.

she sighs, mildly and a little flatly. ]

Such a shame that the future of space travel and such has sacrificed good taste completely in the name of practicality. My kingdom for even a well-stocked Primark, to be perfectly honest. [ a pause. ] No use crying over spilt milk and all that, or whatever the appropriate turn of phrase might be, I'm not in much of a position to think about it too deeply right now. Still getting used to that space bit.

[ she smiles to herself, without much amusement. ]

The tattoo's rather on the nose, isn't it? I suppose post-it notes have also gone out of fashion and use around here. [ in her own company, she lifts her arm to look at it once again. ] I'd have much rather a typed memo than a permanent stain, but that really can't be helped. What's done is very much done.

[ pause. ]

I'm Eleanor, by the by.

[ she's usually quite good at conducting herself in these sorts of situations, introducing herself to a pack of strangers, but- well, the more time she has to herself here, the more it's sinking in that she's not at all where she's supposed to be. it's throwing her off her game. ]