[IC] TEST POST
[ Miles Vorkosigan cuts an unusual figure even under the most extraordinary circumstances: tiny and somewhat hunchbacked, his curved spine obvious even beneath his custom-cut Imperial Security green military uniform. Unless you're bitty like him (and he's met few adults below his height of 4'8"), he likely comes up to your shoulder or a little lower.
There is, however, a manic energy to the man that makes him fill up more than his physical space. Sharp, penetrating gray eyes take in the world around him as great refreshing gulps of information. Depending on the situation, he may be taking in you as well. ]
A - Canon
[ In his case, you suddenly find yourself in an empty and rather old-fashioned looking house. Old-fashioned except for the high tech consoles installed in various areas, anyway, and if one looks out the window a relatively sci-fi-esque view can be seen interspersed with vaguely Russian architecture. Miles looks up, startled by your sudden appearance. ]
I'm sorry, have we met?
[ In other words, how the hell did you just waltz into the Vorkosoigan House without him being alerted by the guards? Visiting his father or mother, maybe? That's the only thing coming to mind. ]
B - Mask or Menace
[ Staring, Miles can deal with. It's depressingly normal and almost comforting, given the circumstances. But having people approach him like some kind of celebrity is damned unsettling. It feels like some awful combination of being both Lord Vorkosigan and Admiral Naismith at the same time ... which is technically true, but he's not enough at ease with himself to cross those wires just yet.
Speaking of which. He fixes a brilliant smile on his face as his confident swagger threatens to knock over anyone within a five meter radius of him. The space operatic Admiral Naismith persona in full force and practically spilling over. After all, when faced with a wall, Miles tends to charge right the hell on through. First obstacle to be defeated: finding out what the hell is going on and why his head is feeling strangely full all of a sudden.
He's about twenty or so, though with a face like his he could be anywhere between early twenties and early thirties. The tell-tale import barcode flickers at his wrist; he hasn't quite realized what that means for himself or anyone else. In a remarkably flat, pseudo-American accent: ]
You know, I think I've gotten myself lost. Any chance you're more familiar with this place?
[ Heropa is where he's come out first, but by now he could be in any of the Porter cities. ]
There is, however, a manic energy to the man that makes him fill up more than his physical space. Sharp, penetrating gray eyes take in the world around him as great refreshing gulps of information. Depending on the situation, he may be taking in you as well. ]
A - Canon
[ In his case, you suddenly find yourself in an empty and rather old-fashioned looking house. Old-fashioned except for the high tech consoles installed in various areas, anyway, and if one looks out the window a relatively sci-fi-esque view can be seen interspersed with vaguely Russian architecture. Miles looks up, startled by your sudden appearance. ]
I'm sorry, have we met?
[ In other words, how the hell did you just waltz into the Vorkosoigan House without him being alerted by the guards? Visiting his father or mother, maybe? That's the only thing coming to mind. ]
B - Mask or Menace
[ Staring, Miles can deal with. It's depressingly normal and almost comforting, given the circumstances. But having people approach him like some kind of celebrity is damned unsettling. It feels like some awful combination of being both Lord Vorkosigan and Admiral Naismith at the same time ... which is technically true, but he's not enough at ease with himself to cross those wires just yet.
Speaking of which. He fixes a brilliant smile on his face as his confident swagger threatens to knock over anyone within a five meter radius of him. The space operatic Admiral Naismith persona in full force and practically spilling over. After all, when faced with a wall, Miles tends to charge right the hell on through. First obstacle to be defeated: finding out what the hell is going on and why his head is feeling strangely full all of a sudden.
He's about twenty or so, though with a face like his he could be anywhere between early twenties and early thirties. The tell-tale import barcode flickers at his wrist; he hasn't quite realized what that means for himself or anyone else. In a remarkably flat, pseudo-American accent: ]
You know, I think I've gotten myself lost. Any chance you're more familiar with this place?
[ Heropa is where he's come out first, but by now he could be in any of the Porter cities. ]
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Never heard it called that before. Honestly, you probably outrank me. Being the son of a god and all.
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[And seems fairly pleased with the idea by the looks.]
I'd probably forget anyway.
... Right. The name's Percy Jackson.
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Nice to meet you, Percy. [ Now what? He suddenly feels unbalanced now that they're no longer weighted down by secrecy. ] If you're stuck here, I should show you to a room you can stay in. Tell the guards you're one of my mother's cousins from Beta Colony. That kind of thing.
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So... can I ask a really weird question?
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[ He slides into it for a moment himself - flat and pseudo-American, that's all it is. Back to the more gutteral Barrayaran: ]
Why not?
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[JUST IN CASE, it's worth figuring out how literal the cousins might be. There's no particularly non-crazy way to ask this one, so he does it the way Percy is best at: Straightforward.]
Would you say you take after your mom? Like, grey eyes, strategy, leadery-stuff that sort of thing?
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Yes? She was the captain of the Betan Astronomical Survey before marrying my da.
[ Normally Aral Vorkosigan is more well known as the strategist in the family, but from what he knows of his mother, she was no slouch either ... ]
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Okay, that's hardly definitive but... If Athena's in your bloodline somewhere, that would explain why you could see the monster for what it was. And maybe why I'm here.
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Are you insinuating - no, that's definitely what you've just insinuated.
[ The thought makes him dizzy. Obviously his mother is flesh and blood, but - no, if being in a uterine replicator had any impact on demigodhood surely he wouldn't look like this - he can't believe he's even considering this idea. Deep breaths, Miles. He decides to ask a more reasonable question. ]
Normal people can't see monsters? ... What would my guards have seen?
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[Actually that's. A really good thing to figure out.]
Can you ask?
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[ He makes an "after you" gesture. ]
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Over his shoulder as he starts back towards the manor,] If you want me to ask the possibly dumb sounding question, I've been told confused is my most convincing face.
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[ But this situation requires a little more cleverness. He approaches the first guard - the one who also twitched at Percy's Greek - and asks for quick summary of the total damage caused by the intruder. The guard happily fills in the details: an enormous dog somehow burst through the force screens on the window, got hit with the fire extinguisher and Percy's sword, and then fled through the front door.
The second guard Miles questions repeats much the same thing. By the time he's finished interviewing all of them, he's gone deathly pale. ]
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After the last, Percy doesn't say anything. Just gives a shrug as if to say "This is my life."]
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And then, abruptly, he turns back towards the wine cellar. ]
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A moment passes.
Then another.
It's really quiet in this house.
....
He follows after.]
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Percy finds Miles back in the wine cellar, sitting on the floor this time, with his back up against one of the larger casks. He looks especially small like that, in a rare moment of being completely overwhelmed. Greek gods and monsters and actual magic and - it's too much to take in sober. The bottle he started earlier is now down to the quarter mark. ]
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He knew that feeling. He remembered it like it was yesterday, staring at the camp infirmary's ceiling, digesting the insanity that had just taken him out of his everyday, boring life and threw him into a world he knew none of the rules of... missing his mom, his best friend was a half goat and all he had to show for it was a broken monster horn.
Maybe if he'd been 30, he'd have done the same thing.
He hated platitudes and the person who helped HIM ... well. That wasn't pleasant history, or anything he could use here.
Mildly, quietly, he starts after a few moments of mutual silence.]
I'd get out of your hair if I could, but I'm probably going to need your help.
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After he finishes up here. The last of the bottle goes down all at once, and he settles it back on the floor with a faint clink. ]
No. You're right. Being quite selfish here. [ He knocks his head back against the cask. How the hell does he ask his mother if she's secretly a Greek goddess? It's one identity crisis too many in addition to the two he has knocking around in his head. ] Five selfish minutes and I'll be up.
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Take your time. I'll be around.
[He pauses, considering.] With one of the guards.
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In any case, he waves it off and slowly gets to his feet. ]
No. I'm all right. If I don't get up now, I'll spend a very long time on that cold floor.
[ Literally and metaphorically. ]
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I think I get that.
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You too, huh?
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Yeah. More times than I really ever want to think about.
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Comes with demigod life, does it ...
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