ataraxion | [ TEXT ] in which cambridge makes a polite enquiry about her location

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[ TEXT ] in which cambridge makes a polite enquiry about her location

[ Hello, fellow crewmembers. If your device wasn’t on before IT CERTAINLY IS NOW! Cambridge - still nursing the mental wound of her power being so rudely culled and currently feeling obnoxiously disorientated - technopathically shoves a text transmission your way: ]

if somebody doesn't tell me exactly where the fuck I am then I am airlocking the whole bloody ship so help me god.

[ An idle threat, don’t you worry. If she had been at full strength then she might have attempted to slip her way through the ship’s systems but as it is she can barely switch a light off, let alone override the hundreds of security precautions that would undoubtedly stand between her and an airlock. Still, the impulse behind the threat is very real: uncertainty and fear mingled with a desperation to check that she wasn’t going mad and dreaming this all... ]

unless this is some hideously unfunny prank in which case you can all go to hell. bad form, you bastards.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ ugh what is this ]

this = makes you look like a provincial-minded little beast. do use your words.

[ This is a superpowered gutterpunk from the deserts of Nevada, Cambridge. ]

[ she'll add him to her stamp collection. ]

apparently it really does. you had better not be one of the fellows in charge of this.

[ He's a keeper. ]

Edited 2011-12-08 19:11 (UTC)

[ wow, that was not the answer Cambridge was hoping for; she can't quite decide if he's joking or not. ]

be serious.

[ Instead of answering, he flicks on the video feed instead. The picture Cambridge is rewarded with is that of a teenage boy, small for his age and with unruly platinum blonde hair. If the metal through his noise doesn't sell the picture of a wayward little guttersnipe, then maybe the jacket (http://28.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lokd1l7OU01qdqlmwo1_500.png) he's wearing does.

Definitely not captain material.

When he smiles toothily, his smiley piercing reveals itself, a small metal ball winking just below the bowed stretch of his top lip.

Hi.

[ u g h a child, and a particularly grubby looking one. Cambridge's expression is the LEAST impressed. ]

...Ah.

[ nope. Not captain material in the slightest, on that they can agree. ]

Who the devil are you, then?

[ Mouse's thought processes is as follows: PRETTY LADY IS PRETTY. ...aaaand that's about it. With a finger he points at himself and grins a little more. His voice makes it pretty obvious as to why he's stuck to the text. It's barely audible at times. ]

Hi. Mouse. Hi.

[ Then he taps the camera. ] You?

[ How rude. Cambridge frowns and leans in to the video feed, squinting her eyes in a theatrical attempt to process what the young man has said. ]

Mouse. [ She repeats his name blankly and ignores his question. ] Your name is Mouse? What kind of name is that?

[ When Cambridge leans forward, Mouse mimics the gesture as if leaning to meet her. Though instead of squinting he makes his eyes large as if silently calling out: Halloooooo? He shrugs. ]

Could be worse. [ He nods in earnest and then scrunches up his nose like he's just smelled something gross. ] Could be 'Uncle'. Lame.

[ This young man is obviously simple. There's no doubt of that. ]

No. [ She shakes her head firmly with a grim expression. ] On a scale of 'bad' to 'worse' I think Uncle and Mouse are fairly evenly matched, quite frankly. Do you not have a proper name?

[ What gets Mouse's face to effectively 'shut up' isn't the fact that she's ragging on his name, but the question of whether or not he's got a proper one. No one in the desert ever bothered to ask, no one except Wither and Mouse had given him the finger when he did.

It feels — chastising in the way everything else she's said so far hasn't been. Mouse's head dips low and his shoulders pull up, making him look sulky. He almost sounds defensive when he tells her: ]

'Course I do.

[ Duh. ]

Edited 2011-12-08 22:22 (UTC)

[ ohhhhhhh good grief, has Cambridge upset this beastly little person? She stares rigidly at the video feed, awkward and vexed, and gestures in an encouragingly business-like manner. ]

Well, come on then. What is it? It'll be a damn sight more civilised than Mouse, I'm sure.

[ Yes, the beastly beastie is a little ruffled, but in a sulky, pouty, how-is-he-possibly-sixteen sort of way. He presses his lips together and considers giving the lady the finger but he's afraid she'll just make him feel worse. ]

S'secret. [ Okay, so maybe it's not. But he's not about to announce it over the phones where everyone can hear and start calling him that. ]

[ Ohhh, teenager creature thing, don't be frown! ]

[ Having absolutely no concept of maternal, caring instincts Cambridge continues to be brisk, crossing her arms and raising a sleek eyebrow as she raps out: ]

You understand that if you don't tell me then I shall have no choice but to name you myself?

[ Ugh, that tone of voice. Mouse wonders if this lady is the fuzz but she's far too pretty and kind of talks like somebody fancy from a movie. Instead of answering, he asks defensively: ]

S'your name? [ God, he hopes it's something dumb. ]

Imogen. [ She sounds prim as fuck. ] Imogen Moore. [ Cambridge lifts her chin decisively and announces: ] And I think I shall call you Hugo, seeing as there doesn't seem to be any other name forthcoming.

Lame! [ Mouse declares — it's more a squeak, really — as soon as her name passes her lips. And then, again, as soon as she mentions the god-awful suggestion that is 'Hugo': ] Double lame.

[ Squeak squeak, teenage mouse-like indignation, only still kind of adorable because even Mouse's middle finger is tiny and precious. He pulls a face and then chirps: ] Fuck Hugo! Nyyyaaaa.

[ ugh Hugo you are the worst. ]

But Hugo you shall remain. It's an infinitely grander name than - [ a pause as she summons an appropriately scornful expression ] - Mouse.

[ Pretty lady, you are the absolute worst. Mouse scowls, petulantly, his skinny arms barred across his chest. Eventually he stabs his finger accusingly at the camera and declares: ]

Your mark, lady. Activate. Pew pew.

[ Which is primitive teenage boyspeak for: You fucked with the Network, do it again and make this private. Only with a lot less words and, therefore, totally unclear. ]

[ This is an improvement of sorts, she supposes. Cambridge shakes her head and fixes the feed with an impatient look. ]

No, no, Hugo - [ she scolds him theatrically, raising one finger in remonstrance. ] - we use our words.

[ Because she has no idea what you just said. ]

[ Mouse makes another exaggerated gagging sound when Imogen calls him that name again. It makes him sound lamer than Wither. Wither's name is probably something like Hugo.

That's pretty fucking lame in Mouse's book. He pokes at the screen again. ]

Private-making— [ Which, okay, isn't words, just word, so he tacks on an extra: ] —now.

[ Um. ]

—please?

Ah. Since you asked so politely... [ She doesn't move - not so much as a muscle - and encrypting the feed is the work of a few quick seconds. Cambridge sits back when the work is done and refolds her arms primly. ]

You were saying?

[ Mouse continues to look sulky, like a drowned rat who has just had his tail stomped on, but after a moment he uncrosses his arms and leans forward towards the camera. His voice is so quiet, the word is barely heard over the rustle of his jacket. ]

Gideon, [ he says and then pouts.

Enough with the Hugo, it's lame. ]

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