Well maybe it's someone from the past, then. I don't know. I tried to figure out his feelings on clones and he wasn't biting at all so I assume he doesn't know about you.
Well then he was someone lying about being Lord Vorkosigan then. I don't know. Though he looked like he was related to you tbh. Regardless, he has some connection to the guy you were cloned from or some connection to you so just...Where are you? I ought to go there.
[ Who would even have cause to lie about that? Who could?
... His paranoid brain immediately provides the next thought: Lucifer. Some sort of shapeshifting, surely, or other trick meant to get back at him for his stunt on the sub. And having tested it on Kitty, he's off to try it on someone else. Gregor, maybe ...
He sucks in a breath. ]
No, stay where you are. Did he say where he was going next?
[ Sorry, Kitty, he's set the comm down. Something is wrong. Something is desperately wrong. Rising very quietly from his position on the couch, he unsheathes his grandfather's dagger from its place on his belt. (He hasn't dared to even sleep without it lately; it's been comforting, knowing that he has at least one weapon at his disposal.) A silent alarm goes up over the link to Gregor as well: I think Lucifer's trying to get his revenge after all. Don't come home yet, all right?
As if Gregor is going to keep away after that message. Right. Ultimately that thought is what gets him moving towards the potential danger, to at least see what he's up against before Gregor is involved. Dagger at the ready, Miles moves to the open doorway, just barely poking his head past the threshold. Breathe, dammit. He's already faced down the devil once, hasn't he? What could be worse than that? ]
[There had been a time in his youth, before any formal military training, that he had simply thought that opening a door and charging through it with a yell was just how it was done. It seemed dramatic, full of noise and honor. He had learned quickly and painfully.
These days, knowing he had a spooked enemy, thanks to his chance meeting with Miss Jones, it made more sense to let his opponent come to him. He'd done as much research as he'd dared with what felt like a narrowing time window. The bones, the mention of a pipe based travel power, the unabashed, seemingly impossible to fake hatred towards Lord Vorkosigan, but so many deep ties to the family. There were as many enigmas as insults.
It was all the questions that he couldn't answer that made the goal of this, waiting patiently outside the door, one of submission, capture and questioning. The moment a figure warily.. foolishly.. stuck his head out, Aral only took a fraction of a second to visually confirm he had the right person.
He lashed out, in three blinding strikes of a practiced judo form. The first grabbed a handful of hair, yanking the younger man forward and letting go as quickly. The second hooked a boot under the bracing foot, and the last grabbed an arm, wrenching and locking it behind his opponent.
In a moment, the other was in a powerful joint lock, powers locked with a shove of willpower, (An uncanny sensation, like a knot being tied.) and he turned and forced the other back inside.]
[ Miles manages a brief spike of alarm - Gregor, help - before the link dies entirely, cut off in an instant in much the same way LACKEY had done it. Even if Aral hadn't surprised and pinned Miles so thoroughly, he would be dizzied by the loss. Agonized, really, as those fresh roots he'd just been setting to rights get pulled back out again, raw and bleeding. No small matter is the sudden rush of pain back into his joints too, stolen back from whatever Gregor was bearing. He has to gasp for a startled moment, just recovering ...
And by then he's inside. Hell. Not even enough mobility to turn his head and see his attacker, though he can tell from the hands that he's dealing with someone much larger than him. (An important distinction, if Kitty really had seen "Lord Vorkosigan" show up. He grits his teeth and struggles like a wildcat, determined to make this as difficult as possible despite the disparity in weight and size. With an agonizing twist - and an audible crack of bone - he turns against Aral, levering his smaller body to get just loose enough to turn the hand still clutching his grandfather's dagger. He curses loudly and stabs downward at any body part within reach. ]
[There's a moment where, in the instant after the crack, the large hand holding Miles' locked clenches and then loosens, as if taken with indecision. Whatever it was, it was enough. The dagger bites deeply, through bone to muscle.
It wasn't just pain that ate Vorkosigan's vision now, but a flare of rage, seeing THAT blade in this impooster's hands. The moment of hesitance is gone, and he lets himself drop as his leg buckles, forcing Miles with him in a controlled move, greater weight, the broken limb and leverage on his side. It's none too gentle way to meet the floor. The dagger is ripped from Miles' hand in an efficient twist, and a knee presses firmly, insistently on Miles' back.
The threat is clear. It wouldn't take much more weight.]
You have a chance to surrender, Admiral Naismith.
[The Barrayaran accent is audible, and the raspy baritone terribly familiar.
It wasn't much louder than a whisper, but held command in it.]
[ Another crack - smaller this time, from somewhere deep in his ribcage - and then Miles is down, fighting to get in a full breath. His face will be bruised quickly enough as well; he can feel where the only freshly healed scar across his face has split again from the force of hitting the floor. The result is agony, enough to knock him breathless even without this man's weight pinning him to the ground.
The threat, too, is quite clear. Shift a little to one side and Miles' delicate ribcage will be little more than fragments. For the moment, he decides not to struggle further. He just needs Gregor or Kitty to show up, and surely his emperor can't be far away ... He winces at the thought of steering Gregor directly into this trap as well, as desperate as he is for rescue.
Surely that's what this is, right? A trap - a trick. The man's voice must be playing tricks on his ears. So achingly similar to his father's, rasp and all, except he never heard his father quite so badly scarred ... His own voice comes out in a wheeze, having barely enough room to take in a full breath, much less talk. ]
[Vorkosigan snarls down at the imposter but doesn't shift. There's no retaliation, in fact, he lets go of the lame arm to keep himself steady. Instead, all of his focus is on the blade in his hands, marred by his own blood.
He pulls the cap of the pommel and curses at what he finds there.]
I'm hardly the one mocking the Vorkosigan name.
[The dagger comes down, driven in front of Miles.]
[ The blade is all Miles can focus on for a moment. Bloodied as it is by whoever it is he's just struck. Do angels bleed? He bitterly regrets not having grilled Kitty about Lucifer when he had the chance - he just doesn't know what he's capable of. Some kind of shapeshifting? Seems likely enough. But that voice ... Could Lucifer copy someone who would only be in Miles' memories? How? Why?
Something isn't right here. He can feel it. If he could just give his brain a moment to properly put the pieces together ...
He grimaces for now, the voice still grating on his ears. ]
[The Betan accent was flawless, affect and humor he'd seen on the network utterly convincing. But that blade... it seemed utterly incomprehensible that anyone could wrest it from his father.
The details like mentioning Bothari, the mountain range of their ancestral lands... He couldn't tell if it was a mockery designed to strike at the Vorkosigans or something else.
Confusion lifted his voice from the more deadly tones of rage.]
[ God, this man really sounds like his father when he says that, on such memorable occasions when Miles had led Ivan into something dreadfully stupid and had been forced to explain himself. But if he'd had a memory stolen, surely that would account for it? The tone and the voice and the knowledge of exactly what that dagger is ....
Plots within plots . MIles winds himself up twice over trying to get it to resolve. I wish I could just cut straight through this knot, he thinks. It's too confusing, it makes no sense, and his powers are nullified anyway so why persist -
That last thought make his heart stop. My powers are off, he realizes dizzily. If Lucifer had that capability, he'd surely have used it on the sub. Or been toying with Miles - but then there'd be no need for this elaborate revenge. What if his assumption is wrong. What if, instead of an impostor, this man is really ...
He strains again, more carefully than before, trying to get a better look up at him. ]
You - you have the truth already. I was given it. By my grandfather.
[ Gregor, of course, comes in with the full story, working at an advantage to everyone else as usual. Also as usual, he's been given this advantage by someone else, who'd done all the legwork and passed off the information to him. It's been over a month since he's had to walk in and divert a crisis by his mere presence alone, but Gregor finds he hasn't lost the knack.
He does have to stop just outside the door he can hear voices in, take a deep breath with his eyes closed, and descend the whole Imperial mantle over his shoulders. Just like with Metzov, he doesn't think it'll make a difference to Aral what clothes he's in when he holds himself that way, calm and upright and eyes flinty with the knowledge of how much power he holds. This one moment is all he can spare to calm his racing heart, jolted into a breakneck pace by the disappearance of Miles's link, pain of dangling wires where he'd been ripped out wrestled down.
But he thinks he understands now. Aral must have some power like Kitty's, able to shut others' off. It's all he has to go on. Anyway-- it's a secondary thing to solve. Priority is clearing up this mess. Gregor doesn't know what he's walking into, but when he sees Miles on the floor, who knows how many other things broken when he's not even healed in the first place, the dagger stuck in the floorboards between them, Aral standing over him--
He goes cold. Cold with anger. This is a situation Gregor can and will resolve with the force of his voice alone. ]
Lord Vorkosigan. You will release him at once. Miles, introduce me.
[ Because Emperors do not introduce themselves. Not and be taken seriously. ]
[The man Miles had been craning to get a look up at looked... far younger than any clear memory he had of his father. Missing the deep lines of stress, worry and laughter as much as the grey from his hair. Those steel grey eyes were fixed down on Miles, focus in rapid study-
When a new presence enters the room, filling it immediately with a certain pressure. He'd seen the man, by name of Greg Vorthys, but this incarnation of him was nothing like his brief research had allowed.
The strength of the command, the sudden, almost tangible force of the Imperium was enough to make Vorkosigan pause, a shudder crawling down his back. He moved, before he even had thought behind it, pressure off of Miles' back.
It's no relaxed stance, prepared to move, strike if necessary, a fiery gaze settled on Gregor, taking his measure in full.]
[ Gregor doesn't so much as bat an eyelash under this scrutiny. He'd been expecting it. ]
From, I would estimate, about twenty years in your future. The man you are subduing is your own son.
[ There's not one iota of emotion in his voice, but he calculates this revelation for devastating effect. Gregor doesn't even need to remind himself of priorities; he's too well-trained. Miles's injuries take second place to ensuring he doesn't acquire more. It burns him to make that concession, but Gregor will not be distracted by sympathy or sentiment. ]
[It felt like his mind was pouring down a wormhole jump in speed, but still too damn slow. That information made some of it make perfect sense, crystallizing and snapping into place with final clicks.
And some parts floated even further, or were simply dislodged from where they'd settled, tentatively.
Of all of it, there were two parts that stood out, far more true that the muddy sluice of truth and lies...
... The eyes staring up at him were startlingly like Cordelias...
... The set of Gregor's face matched a near-mute child he remembered guiding a small hand to a pyre...
If it was true... God. He remembers hearing the crack, feeling the give under his fingers, intentional or not... he marshals himself carefully.
Aral Vorkosigan stood up, almost entirely on the power of his good leg, locking the knee of the other to stay upright. The pain edging around his eyes and the blood staining the undress greens in a widening plume were otherwise the only hints of how bad it was.]
You'll forgive me if this seems to have gone from suspect to incomplete.
[ Miles, meanwhile, is getting his first good look at his father. His mind refuses to match the man in front of him with his father at first, at least until Gregor mentions twenty years and then it all clicks. The voice, freshly scarred - the title, not yet grown to Count with Piotr still alive - all the evidence Miles had been casting for being the result of a poor fakery are now undeniable pieces of evidence. Not even the most elaborate copy could fake that nuance of expression in his father's face.
Nuanced with pain, oh hell. Miles' gaze drifts down to the rapidly spreading bloodstain on Aral's leg. He did that. For once in his life, he's desperately glad not to be any taller - otherwise he might have stabbed Aral in the gut. There's a thought for nightmares right there. The entire encounter becomes horrifying in retrospect too. Aral had been terrifyingly fast. Could have killed Miles in an instant, if he'd chosen to.
Why hadn't his father recognized him? Was it just the age difference? A chill goes through him as he considers that his father might not even have a son yet. Either way he can hardly present a good picture, this fragile, shattered vision of the future. He tastes blood in his mouth, feels a painful hitch in his lungs from yet another cracked rib. And his poor maligned wrist is never going to heal straight at this point. ]
Why ... [ Fire in his lungs, fire in his brain from staring at Aral to long. ] Why didn't you ask?
[ It's not really an accusing tone. Just regretful, god. He stabbed his father with his grandfather's seal dagger ... ]
[ Good. Step one: remove potential for further violence, done. Step two is deescalate the emotions of the scene until facts can be cleared up. Step three was meant to be addressing physical injury, but Gregor abruptly does not care one single wit about step two and interrupts them both. ]
Lord Vorkosigan -- both of you -- are going to sit down and not attack each other until this is cleared up. Whatever you're doing to suppress his powers, [ and here his voice tightens to command, ] stop it.
[ Humanity is returning to Gregor from behind the Imperial mask, and he steps forward until he's at Miles's side, where he kneels down and puts his hands out, hovering.
Softly, ] Tell me how to help you up so that I don't hurt you further. [ Aral can take care of himself; indeed, Gregor knows that in about twenty minutes he would not thank him for fussing over him with Miles in such a bad state. One bloody knife wound is not going to stop Aral Vorkosigan. ]
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[ Who would even have cause to lie about that? Who could?
... His paranoid brain immediately provides the next thought: Lucifer. Some sort of shapeshifting, surely, or other trick meant to get back at him for his stunt on the sub. And having tested it on Kitty, he's off to try it on someone else. Gregor, maybe ...
He sucks in a breath. ]
No, stay where you are. Did he say where he was going next?
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[ He stops. Did he just hear something at the door? Gregor, he has to warn Gregor too-- ]
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Miles what's your address, I'm coming over
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[ And he's going to go investigate. ]
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As if Gregor is going to keep away after that message. Right. Ultimately that thought is what gets him moving towards the potential danger, to at least see what he's up against before Gregor is involved. Dagger at the ready, Miles moves to the open doorway, just barely poking his head past the threshold. Breathe, dammit. He's already faced down the devil once, hasn't he? What could be worse than that? ]
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These days, knowing he had a spooked enemy, thanks to his chance meeting with Miss Jones, it made more sense to let his opponent come to him. He'd done as much research as he'd dared with what felt like a narrowing time window. The bones, the mention of a pipe based travel power, the unabashed, seemingly impossible to fake hatred towards Lord Vorkosigan, but so many deep ties to the family. There were as many enigmas as insults.
It was all the questions that he couldn't answer that made the goal of this, waiting patiently outside the door, one of submission, capture and questioning. The moment a figure warily.. foolishly.. stuck his head out, Aral only took a fraction of a second to visually confirm he had the right person.
He lashed out, in three blinding strikes of a practiced judo form. The first grabbed a handful of hair, yanking the younger man forward and letting go as quickly. The second hooked a boot under the bracing foot, and the last grabbed an arm, wrenching and locking it behind his opponent.
In a moment, the other was in a powerful joint lock, powers locked with a shove of willpower, (An uncanny sensation, like a knot being tied.) and he turned and forced the other back inside.]
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And by then he's inside. Hell. Not even enough mobility to turn his head and see his attacker, though he can tell from the hands that he's dealing with someone much larger than him. (An important distinction, if Kitty really had seen "Lord Vorkosigan" show up. He grits his teeth and struggles like a wildcat, determined to make this as difficult as possible despite the disparity in weight and size. With an agonizing twist - and an audible crack of bone - he turns against Aral, levering his smaller body to get just loose enough to turn the hand still clutching his grandfather's dagger. He curses loudly and stabs downward at any body part within reach. ]
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It wasn't just pain that ate Vorkosigan's vision now, but a flare of rage, seeing THAT blade in this impooster's hands. The moment of hesitance is gone, and he lets himself drop as his leg buckles, forcing Miles with him in a controlled move, greater weight, the broken limb and leverage on his side. It's none too gentle way to meet the floor. The dagger is ripped from Miles' hand in an efficient twist, and a knee presses firmly, insistently on Miles' back.
The threat is clear. It wouldn't take much more weight.]
You have a chance to surrender, Admiral Naismith.
[The Barrayaran accent is audible, and the raspy baritone terribly familiar.
It wasn't much louder than a whisper, but held command in it.]
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The threat, too, is quite clear. Shift a little to one side and Miles' delicate ribcage will be little more than fragments. For the moment, he decides not to struggle further. He just needs Gregor or Kitty to show up, and surely his emperor can't be far away ... He winces at the thought of steering Gregor directly into this trap as well, as desperate as he is for rescue.
Surely that's what this is, right? A trap - a trick. The man's voice must be playing tricks on his ears. So achingly similar to his father's, rasp and all, except he never heard his father quite so badly scarred ... His own voice comes out in a wheeze, having barely enough room to take in a full breath, much less talk. ]
To w-whom? "Lord Vorkosigan"? A poor mockery.
Last should have been muscle to bone. Braaaainn
He pulls the cap of the pommel and curses at what he finds there.]
I'm hardly the one mocking the Vorkosigan name.
[The dagger comes down, driven in front of Miles.]
Where did you get this?
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Something isn't right here. He can feel it. If he could just give his brain a moment to properly put the pieces together ...
He grimaces for now, the voice still grating on his ears. ]
It's mine. I was given it.
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[The Betan accent was flawless, affect and humor he'd seen on the network utterly convincing. But that blade... it seemed utterly incomprehensible that anyone could wrest it from his father.
The details like mentioning Bothari, the mountain range of their ancestral lands... He couldn't tell if it was a mockery designed to strike at the Vorkosigans or something else.
Confusion lifted his voice from the more deadly tones of rage.]
I'm going to ask again.
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Plots within plots . MIles winds himself up twice over trying to get it to resolve. I wish I could just cut straight through this knot, he thinks. It's too confusing, it makes no sense, and his powers are nullified anyway so why persist -
That last thought make his heart stop. My powers are off, he realizes dizzily. If Lucifer had that capability, he'd surely have used it on the sub. Or been toying with Miles - but then there'd be no need for this elaborate revenge. What if his assumption is wrong. What if, instead of an impostor, this man is really ...
He strains again, more carefully than before, trying to get a better look up at him. ]
You - you have the truth already. I was given it. By my grandfather.
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He does have to stop just outside the door he can hear voices in, take a deep breath with his eyes closed, and descend the whole Imperial mantle over his shoulders. Just like with Metzov, he doesn't think it'll make a difference to Aral what clothes he's in when he holds himself that way, calm and upright and eyes flinty with the knowledge of how much power he holds. This one moment is all he can spare to calm his racing heart, jolted into a breakneck pace by the disappearance of Miles's link, pain of dangling wires where he'd been ripped out wrestled down.
But he thinks he understands now. Aral must have some power like Kitty's, able to shut others' off. It's all he has to go on. Anyway-- it's a secondary thing to solve. Priority is clearing up this mess. Gregor doesn't know what he's walking into, but when he sees Miles on the floor, who knows how many other things broken when he's not even healed in the first place, the dagger stuck in the floorboards between them, Aral standing over him--
He goes cold. Cold with anger. This is a situation Gregor can and will resolve with the force of his voice alone. ]
Lord Vorkosigan. You will release him at once. Miles, introduce me.
[ Because Emperors do not introduce themselves. Not and be taken seriously. ]
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When a new presence enters the room, filling it immediately with a certain pressure. He'd seen the man, by name of Greg Vorthys, but this incarnation of him was nothing like his brief research had allowed.
The strength of the command, the sudden, almost tangible force of the Imperium was enough to make Vorkosigan pause, a shudder crawling down his back. He moved, before he even had thought behind it, pressure off of Miles' back.
It's no relaxed stance, prepared to move, strike if necessary, a fiery gaze settled on Gregor, taking his measure in full.]
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This - this is Emperor Gregor Vorbarra. Of Barrayar.
[ And now, very slowly, he's turning to get his first look at his father ... ]
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From, I would estimate, about twenty years in your future. The man you are subduing is your own son.
[ There's not one iota of emotion in his voice, but he calculates this revelation for devastating effect. Gregor doesn't even need to remind himself of priorities; he's too well-trained. Miles's injuries take second place to ensuring he doesn't acquire more. It burns him to make that concession, but Gregor will not be distracted by sympathy or sentiment. ]
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And some parts floated even further, or were simply dislodged from where they'd settled, tentatively.
Of all of it, there were two parts that stood out, far more true that the muddy sluice of truth and lies...
... The eyes staring up at him were startlingly like Cordelias...
... The set of Gregor's face matched a near-mute child he remembered guiding a small hand to a pyre...
If it was true... God. He remembers hearing the crack, feeling the give under his fingers, intentional or not... he marshals himself carefully.
Aral Vorkosigan stood up, almost entirely on the power of his good leg, locking the knee of the other to stay upright. The pain edging around his eyes and the blood staining the undress greens in a widening plume were otherwise the only hints of how bad it was.]
You'll forgive me if this seems to have gone from suspect to incomplete.
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Nuanced with pain, oh hell. Miles' gaze drifts down to the rapidly spreading bloodstain on Aral's leg. He did that. For once in his life, he's desperately glad not to be any taller - otherwise he might have stabbed Aral in the gut. There's a thought for nightmares right there. The entire encounter becomes horrifying in retrospect too. Aral had been terrifyingly fast. Could have killed Miles in an instant, if he'd chosen to.
Why hadn't his father recognized him? Was it just the age difference? A chill goes through him as he considers that his father might not even have a son yet. Either way he can hardly present a good picture, this fragile, shattered vision of the future. He tastes blood in his mouth, feels a painful hitch in his lungs from yet another cracked rib. And his poor maligned wrist is never going to heal straight at this point. ]
Why ... [ Fire in his lungs, fire in his brain from staring at Aral to long. ] Why didn't you ask?
[ It's not really an accusing tone. Just regretful, god. He stabbed his father with his grandfather's seal dagger ... ]
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Lord Vorkosigan -- both of you -- are going to sit down and not attack each other until this is cleared up. Whatever you're doing to suppress his powers, [ and here his voice tightens to command, ] stop it.
[ Humanity is returning to Gregor from behind the Imperial mask, and he steps forward until he's at Miles's side, where he kneels down and puts his hands out, hovering.
Softly, ] Tell me how to help you up so that I don't hurt you further. [ Aral can take care of himself; indeed, Gregor knows that in about twenty minutes he would not thank him for fussing over him with Miles in such a bad state. One bloody knife wound is not going to stop Aral Vorkosigan. ]
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Let me know if this is too soon
how about Gregor-Lucy for a few tags with Miles-Aral in a separate thread and then melding?
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