[ He double knots his laces and tucks their trailing ends under the weave between the eyelets as he listens in on as much of Clarke's conversation with the bot as he can hear. There'd been more voices earlier. Four or five, he thinks, but that doesn't necessarily give him a headcount. ]
Well, I'm glad you're getting along.
[ He's not going anywhere yet. He might not be going anywhere at all. She hasn't asked, and it'd be more than a little overbearing to just show up at the scene of what may or may not be a crime.
He sets his elbows on top of his knees and knits his fingers together, head bowed and eyes half-closed. ]
What does the room look like? Are there servers in there with you, or just a terminal?
The room's clean. No miles of hardware you might expect when it comes to keeping a city this size up and running, it's just a computer. There's a couple files. I'm seeeeeeing...
Yeah, I think those are relatively regular uploads from somewhere every month. ( from elsewhere presumably, which has proved to be aurora's canned response whenever anyone inquires about the whereabouts of echo. ) But I can't figure out where, it's all just — symbols. There was a really, really big one back in what looks like January, but when we got here it was already spring, right? There was all that rain. April showers bring May flowers, or whatever people used to say in the old world.
So was January when Echo picked this planet? And sent Aurora down to start canvassing and laying the groundwork for the infrastructure? How do you think they came up with the name, Etraya? Worlds don't generally have names unless there was a native population around to give it one in the first place.
( she's really just spit-balling for the sake of spit-balling here. with the mild, poorly executed ulterior motive of maybe kinda hoping something she says would trigger a response from the companion bots or computer itself, but thus far they all keep buzzing along. )
[ He builds out a sketch of the room. A set of stairs leading down to an unlocked door, a single computer attended by bots, Clarke seated or standing in front of it. There's only so many places in the hospital that would give access to a space like that, and he doesn't know any of them well enough to narrow it down. ]
It was spring.
[ He rubs his thumb over his knuckles, bouncing his knee as he thinks. The dates on the newspapers have all been strange, jumbled and inconsistent, but the days have passed in regular sequence. The weather has changed steadily, even though that also doesn't make any sense. ]
So we maybe have an idea of when they got the computers up and running. But that doesn't mean it's when they started building. And that's assuming you're looking at something significant. Regular uploads could be anything. Weather reports. Maintenance sweeps. [ He presses his tongue against the backs of his teeth. ] I hate to be this guy, but if you're allowed to be seeing this, there's a reason they're not stopping you.
[ If one of his teammates was pulling this, he'd be telling them to get the fuck out. He doesn't have that luxury with her. He can't even push, or she'll dig in. ]
It could be a name from wherever they come from, I guess.
— yeah, either they think it's not important, or they think I'm an idiot who can't figure it out.
( we're idiots, more likely. all of them, since it wasn't like clarke had jumped through specific hoops or even asked to be granted access to this basement. both of them, considering there's been no interference with this audio call thus far and aurora is undoubtedly watching, like she always is. and maybe there's something to that, this level of encryption is significant and even clicking on the standard, english keyboard is offering her no easy translation key to the symbolic text that most of this information appears in. it'd be frustrating if she were sober; lightly intoxicated as clarke currently is, it's downright infuriating.
for an unseen entity that might as well be acting as their god, for being as omniscient and all known as to specifically tailor the tests to their weaknesses and histories — echo sure does seem to underestimate the traits that probably made them the best candidates for world champions in the first place.
for clarke, that's bull headed stubbornness. give her an inch, and she'll take a mile. )
Weather reports and maintenance sweeps should be a daily occurrence, and something I imagine Aurora could handle internally. All of these look like incoming transmissions, and they're on a — ( monthly pattern. )
...did you notice exactly how long ago the newest group of people arrived here?
[ They'd be the idiots if they thought you were one is also true. He's not going to say it, which is more superstition than justified caution. Clarke hasn't made a secret of her agenda or how she's carrying it out, so it's a little late to try to keep things inconspicuous.
He doesn't think it's a good idea, but that doesn't mean she's stupid. It means she cares more about what she thinks she needs to do than she cares about the potential personal consequences. (So what does it say about him that he hasn't hung up, or even said anything for the sake of the third observer to their conversation - )
Krouse rubs the bridge of his nose as he ducks his head, face screwing up with frustration. ]
About two months ago. [ He doesn't need to check his notes for that. ] So yeah. Maybe it has something to do with that. We know they have information on us.
[ And he keeps following the train of thought, because she'll get there anyway: ] That could be why it's not guarded. They haven't exactly been keen on our privacy.
No they have not, ( clarke agrees easily, but also with the tonal shift of someone who's trying and failing to hold a conversation. all of this would have been information better communicated after the gathering stage, and ideally sober. yet here she is, having dialed krouse up on a whim and subsequently subjecting him to peak anxiety and the occasional long moments of silence while she taps through the touch screen.
but at the same time, information is information. if he'd had to ask about the room, he'd obviously never been down here. and there's a bit of a payout at the end of her studious quiet, having finally revealed — )
Oh, they've got files on every single one of us.
( and it is a long list. scrollable, and in plain english as opposed to coded beyond recognition. there is a cheese grater with a taste for human dignity in clarke's chest, and it chips away at hers when she reaches the C's and double taps on her own name. another long stretch of silence as she skims the page. there's her name, her height, her approximate weight. there's her blood type, engineered as a universal donor like everyone on the ark had been, and in parenthesis, Nightblood. there's the note about her missing kidney, a lack in bone density she'd never really considered but makes sense considering spending the first seventeen years of her life in artificial gravity. there's a brief summary of her as a person, which is insultingly bullet pointed.
Stubborn. Excellent leadership qualities. Impressionable. Kind hearted. Traumatized. Repentant. the list goes on, and while her entire buzz has already been harshed, clarke spares herself reading it to completion and just skips to the next bit, which is Likes & Dislikes. and — )
Damn. "Stale coffee, two packets of sugar, one cannister of cream". If I'd known we could have cheated the drink game by just breaking in a little sooner...
( what would she have done? not embarrassed the two of them by suggesting a game of charades? they'll never know now, and clarke sighs; unseen, brings a hand to her face and pinches the bridge of her nose at eye level. )
[ The long quiet as Clarke navigates through her new discovery goes unbroken on the other end of the call.
Krouse sits through it with his hand cupped loosely over his mouth, his chin in his palm. He's not anxious, exactly, as he waits to learn if she'll give into an obvious temptation. There's nothing he can do about it if she does. Not even any immediate way to know if she does, unless something in his file is damning and jarring enough to make her react thoughtlessly. She'll do whatever it is she's going to do, and he can't change it, so - he waits.
When she makes her second, far more banal announcement, he lets out a soft rush of stale air followed by a crackling burst of quiet, relieved laughter as he buries his hand in his hair and rests his forehead against the heel of his hand. ]
Sorry. I know what you mean, just - that's one way to put it. [ He shakes his head, crooked smile bleeding into his voice. ] 'Oh, if only we had access to the semi-hidden prisoner information files for the icebreaker game, what a missed opportunity that was.'
[ She checked up on herself first, so she'd find out what her opponents think of her. It's smart, in a reckless, nervewracking way. ]
( she'd checked her own file first, and there are dozens of others that practically beg to be read next. there's the one on f. krouse followed by a series of nonsensical numbers right there, but clarke has already exhausted the line of questioning she'd had about him and his powers. and in the long run, this isn't what she came for. )
Oh well. Next time.
( absolutely what she will return to pursue at a later date, just on the off chance it ever comes in handy, but what she actually wants out of this venture is to force past the lines of code on the computer and find some sort of back-alley way to speak directly to echo. given their shared history of somehow unintentionally manifesting worst case scenarios, that's not an objective she's willing to share out loud, or even via text, so there is another unhelpful, lacking silence as she buckles down and tries to focus.
only clarke is no hacker. and no matter how desperately she'd like to interpret raven reyes in this moment, none of the windings make a lick of sense no matter how hard she stares at them. and no matter what she taps on, it's just more symbols. two minutes, and an exceedingly frustrated sigh later, clarke seems to remember she's on a phone call at all. )
Oh, I don't mean to keep you. This is going to take a while.
[ Krouse falls back against the couch, eyes still closed, and listens to the faint sounds coming through the other end of the line. It's not a long enough quiet to lapse far into reverie before she heaves a sigh he can feel in his bones. ]
Keep me from...what do you think is my busy two am schedule, exactly?
[ He knows it's an expression not meant to indicate anything other than politeness, but he'll capitalize on it anyway. ]
Listening in on this is much more interesting than my previous plans. Believe me. [ He shifts on the couch, arching his back to get more comfortable, and lets out a slight resettling sigh of his own. ] Besides. It'll be easier to organize a search party if I have the exact time of your mysterious disappearance at the hands of a mob of robots down.
[ Much as Clarke reflected on wanting to avoid speaking a worst case scenario into existence, Krouse regrets actually saying it as soon as it's said. He falls silent for a second, curling his fingernails into the couch upholstery. ]
You called me for a reason, right? [ More than curiosity about his power. ] I figure the least I can do is stay on the line.
( she has the return quip of sleeping? locked, loaded, and ready to go — at least before krouse manages to drag them both down into some sort of off shoot of gallows humor.
it can't be entirely a joke, not when she'd absolutely called him up just to have some sort of breadcrumb trail left behind in the eventuality she died for pushing too far. but it feels infinitely more ridiculous when so easily caught on to, then spelled out. any other day and clarke would have felt a flare of embarrassment. but also, any other day she wouldn't have reached out in the first place, so.
she doesn't point out that a search party would be stupid, or that the companion bots could probably draw and quarter her before he even got out the door, if that was their initiative. instead clarke just exhales through her nose, sharply and tinged with good humor before immediately going back to uselessly tapping at the touch screen. )
Well, alright. If you insist.
( tap, tap, tap. then almost as an afterthought — )
If you have any questions for me, this is a great time.
( it's reasonable, it's logical, it keeps them both awake and engaged. )
[ Nevermind that he wasn't until she gave him the endorsement to go ahead, or that he doesn't actually have a leg to stand on when it comes to insisting on anything with her.
It's just cracking one thread of tension in the middle of many to drop his voice back into casual lightness and say something semi-ridiculous. He shouldn't feel any better. Nothing has changed except that he's less worried she's going to hang up on him.
But the less reasonable half of his brain is latched onto the open line like a tether. If they're still talking, she's still fine; as long as he keeps her connected, she'll stay fine. ]
And oh, do I have questions.
[ He settles into the couch more comfortably, mostly through determined intent, which makes his relaxing not quite as relaxing as it could be. ]
( clarke isn't so much teasing as she is answering a little too literally, and rambling for good measure as her focus is too diverted towards tapping away at the screen of the computer and squinting at windings like maybe if she glares hard enough she can scare the figures into rewriting themselves into english. the second it exits her mouth she realizes he probably means — )
Living in space is... It was fine, when I was younger. But it was also the only thing I or my parents ever knew. When talking to people whose Earth's never experienced a nuclear apocalypse, it starts to sound a little grim.
( and that always sucks, because the ark in childhood had been the only place she'd ever managed to feel safe. even if that was a self-centered, privileged, biased lens through which to view it. the ark was childhood, and thus still holds a piece of her heart, along with almost all her memories regarding loved ones lost. but time, distance, and perspective have a special way of turning something joyful into something bittersweet. has she ever really known peace? the promise of a death sentence for any minor infraction had swung above her throat like a pendulum since birth, it'd just been a shadow one grew accustomed to. )
Did you mean what the view was like? The food? Recreation? Do you want to know how it all started?
( the simple, the banal, the stuff she's already been over in the middle of corrine's due to an introductory plaque and many times before that. the history. the safe stuff, the bits that were out of her control and thus in no way her fault. )
[ Fine followed by a little grim from Clarke is suggestive of circumstances that most people would find inhumane, intolerable, or both. He hadn't been imagining her on a Star Trek style space installation, but now he adjusts his approximation downwards a few degrees.
It should mean he shifts the topic to something else less likely to be lined with hidden unpleasant stumbling blocks. But there's also vast, dark, cold, and beautiful, a fragment of description that almost was an inadvertent joke even as it gestures at something Krouse, for all his cynicism, still thinks of with a certain kind of wonder.
He could pin all his curiosity on that, but that's not really the whole story. He hums a single quiet, thoughtful note. ]
Not a specific enough question. That's on me. I mean...let's try this. What do you wish people would ask you so they'd actually understand something about what it was like? What would you want me to get, if you had to pick one thing?
( oh. well, now — there's a question. one that somehow manages to strike clarke right between the ribs, puncturing her lungs. air only escapes through her nostrils, but she's still incapable of stopping it as her fingers pause and mind drifts.
what would she like other people to know? in what way could she properly summarize the ark's everything in a way that other people would completely understand? so many small things fall by the wayside here; ask me about our stock in the medbay. ask me about the time strep throat quarantine shut down an entire wing of the ark. ask me about the laws. ask me about our prison system, the class disparity and how little i thought about it because i was one of the privileged. ask me how boring it must have been sometimes, to the point i doodled enough to advance to decent portraits. ask me about the food. ask what it was like to genuinely believe we were the last of our species, and did everything in the name of hopefully seeing through to a return to the ground. ask me how much i loved earth before i'd even managed to step foot on it.
moonshine pulls her thoughts to wild edges in that last stretch, and scatters any better ideas entirely. but in the end clarke still manages to scrounge up )
They could ask what our education was like. I think you can learn a lot about any given population based on what they decide to teach their youth.
And to that I'd answer: our two main mandatory classes were Earth Skills, and then whatever apprenticeship we adopted when we were young. You could pick, but people tended to keep to their own stations for that a lot; sons of farmers because farmers, daughters of mechanics became mechanics, hydro stayed with hydro, anyone could become a guard. My mother was the Chief of Medical, and I was seven when I decided I wanted to follow her. We were also taught general health and safety, and math, and grammar, and — other things. But it always managed to circle back around to the main two. And we weren't even expected to go back to Earth; it was supposed to be another 100 years before the planet was habitable, we were just supposed to pass it all down to our children.
When he was a kid, he'd never had to think about surviving. The idea that children were the future was a nebulous sentiment, not a practical reality. What he was going to grow up to be was a source of sometimes embarrassing, sometimes flattering speculation, but it wasn't a decision he had to make based on anything but what he might want to do with himself one day.
He tries to imagine what it'd be like to grow up with the weight of passing down a legacy you'd never see through yourself. The kind of things that you'd do if you took it seriously, like Clarke does, with no reason to question the reality pressing in on you from all sides. ]
That sounds like a lot of pressure.
[ He keeps his tone deliberately neutral, his curiosity soft. He doesn't want to sound like he's implying it was too much. If the fate of humanity post-apocalypse really did depend on them, what could be too much?
It just still doesn't sound great, but hearing that from someone raised in a relative lap of luxury probably wouldn't go over well. ]
( clarke's arguably shitfaced, despite being able to hold a conversation. she's also distracted, and frustrated that no matter what she picks at on the screen nothing akin to a chat box pops up, and krouse is also... just krouse. she doesn't mind a lot right now. )
Which one?
( the lost 100 years or children? eh, doesn't matter, she can guess at the bigger conversational hook, and can answer about babies if he )
All our calculations indicated that the Earth was still too toxic to return to. We were going to wait in space for another 100 years, but the oxygen systems on the Ark were failing. My father spotted it first — he was Chief of Engineering, by the way. ( a moment of silence for jake griffin, a moment of silence to figure out how she wants to tell this story. also because clarke's eyes are struggling to focus; for a second the windings had looked like actual words and she'd gotten excited, just to be subsequently let down. ) And they couldn't be fixed. Oxygen was being rationed, the side effects of hypoxia were driving people en masse to the medbay, our systems were not as well maintained as Aurora's seem to be. There was no other choice but to explore the ground as our last salvation.
( there we go, that felt like it summed up the highlights. about as diplomatically as the unity day play. but on second thought, was it a bit too diplomatic? a little too kind? it'd felt like krouse was listening really intently, and actually trying to get a good grasp on what life was like on the ark, and the second best example she could give past education is — )
So the Council elected to pack 100 of the most dispensable people into a dropship and sent us down to test the radiation levels.
[ It turns out that there is a too much, and it hums in the silence that follows Clarke's straightforward explanation of attempted mass murder. Krouse sits up, a faint rustle of fabric easily lost over the connection. ]
I'm sorry.
[ That doesn't begin to cover the cool, hard indignation that calcifies as he puts it together. If the supply of a limited resource dwindles, can't be increased, then one solution is to reduce demand. Dispensable people. The fact Clarke was counted among them isn't the only reason the concept pisses him off, but she makes it specific. ]
That's fucked. [ Closer, but still not enough. He rubs at his face, screwed up in offence. ] They just sent you down there to - what, see if you'd fucking die?
[ He can imagine the kind of people who'd go along with this form of elaborate, semi-deniable execution. It doesn't incline him to be forgiving of the society that would do it. They had to have known what they were doing, whatever gloss they put on it. ]
( the sorry indeed does not scratch the surface. neither does the reassurance that, yeah, it was a fucked up move on the council's part no matter how few other options they had. this is what she means when she thinks about people from other worlds finding her grim though, she can still see the reason behind the decision — because it bought them time. and served proof enough that more than a thousand souls had managed to survive the secondary ascent and at least avoid death by hypoxia. right now some of them were even in the bunker. humanity would live on.
krouse's second hand indignance validates some of her older hurts, like an ice pack pressed to bruise long forgotten. but ultimately clarke just sighs. hard. )
Like rats in a maze. A lot of us did die.
( it just wasn't the atmosphere that did them in.
... )
But the ground itself was survivable. Turns out four generations of exposure to solar radiation made the ambient levels on Earth tolerable for us. We were better adapted to inhabit Earth than some of the people who'd lived down there the entire time we were in space.
[ He could get up, head back to the window, where his cigarettes are sitting on a side table. The impulse comes and goes. It's not a craving as much as it's a displacement.
He wants to be listening to her, not distracting himself from whatever he happens to be feeling about it. If he can't give her anything better, he can at least give her his undivided attention. ]
But they didn't know that.
[ Tempered brittleness, his defensiveness on her behalf reined in and toned down. There's a line to walk when people tell you things like this, and he's never entirely sure he's gotten the hang of the balancing act. ]
Are you okay to talk about this? I'm okay to listen, if you are. I just - I don't want to push.
I know how it is. [ Quiet, a rise and fall of a careful breath. ] Probably more than you'd think I do.
( it's true, no sitting member on the council had known. they'd had no way of knowing the radiation levels would be survivable, or that others had managed down on earth that entire time, or that the social landscape they were about to invade had been heavily political and equally bloody. ask jasper jordan if the ground was ever truly survivable.
but all of this is just history. clarke had successfully buried most of her feelings about the matter, there was nothing that could be done to change anything. it'd been easy to dredge up in the moment, like a corked bottle that got a little air in and floated to the surface of rapids. but krouse asks if she's okay to keep talking about this, and it's a solid reminder that — you know, in the middle of trying to crack open a new pandora's box, she maybe shouldn't revisit the oldest one. )
Maybe we can talk more about it another time. Write down any other questions you've got, I'll give you an essay in return.
( again, a polite companion bot drifts over to also ask if she's okay and finding everything she needs. with a hint of irritation this time, clarke waves it off. )
But I can tell that you get it. I know you know. ( kittens in trees, kids in dropships. distractedly, as she scrolls through more windings with an uncalled for but increased amount of urgency — ) Aside from everything else, that's probably why I called you while I'm down here.
( also because natsuno woulda been barging down the staircase from the very first message, and octavia would have dispatched a bot or two already. )
[ Imagining writing down his questions hits like an odd-angled strike to his elbow, wringing out a jolt of dark, unhappy humour.
He'd rather have her here. Not just for that someday conversation, but now. He wants to be able to read her expression, settle her down on the couch, get her a glass of water. Do something with the twist of helpless care that wells up at her off-handed recognition. ]
On top of my charming personality and sparkling wit?
[ His eyes slide off the cigarettes and survey his sparse apartment. It's a functional space, his clutter maintained within reasonable limits. When he superimposes her over it, he doesn't picture her disapproving, but he doesn't know if she'd be put at ease, either -
He clears his throat and sits up, running his fingers through his hair and leaving it a rumpled, unobserved mess. ]
Definitely not for my sense of tact. I - [ a flutter of hesitation ] - it's a shitty fucking club to have membership in, huh? The people who get it.
Maybe. But, better than being surrounded by idiots in denial.
( she doesn't mean the ark here, the line of vitriol that leaks into her tone is a direct result of spending two interim years between earth and etraya on the eterna. where there'd been enough of them discontent with the idea of a punishing, grueling existence as a djinn's personal suffering battery that there'd been uproar — but it'd always tended to be drowned out by the voices claiming they should be content and sympathetic. two years, the eterna on the brink of destruction, and still they'd waffled.
she'd acted, though. in the end. a small number of them in concert to trap the captain, only to learn there were worse fates than death dangling above their necks. then, zwoop — she'd left. where the erda'd deigned to deposit her on the ship in the first place, echo had decided they needed another pawn in a grander scheme; dragged along most of her people she cared for, in what either was a validation of her feelings that they were worth it all, or a pacifying move. and how many had she left in her wake this time? that's two worlds abandoned as they burned to ashes, how many lives ruined was it?
— that's a dangerously depressing road to venture down. and emotionally limber under the effects of moonshine, clarke simply decides she doesn't want to think about it right now. locks back in to the computer for all of twenty seconds before she is approached by another companion bot and this time nearly snaps at it — )
I said I'm fine, just looking.
( then on her left, with the rudest jumpscare possible, a holographic projection of aurora manifests in the brief moment she'd taken to address the bot. there is an audible jump; a sharp inhale through teeth that hits the back of her throat a little too hard, dredging out a barely perceptible squeak. and clarke goes as still as the statue of the woman pouring from a jug in the labyrinth.
loud enough for krouse to hear on his end of things, aurora says something to the effect of: "you seem like you could benefit from a nap, clarke." with no malice, no anger, no sense of caught you; just as simply shallow and pleasantly robotic as ever. that somehow makes it all the more intimidating. )
[ It's a tone he knows as well as he knows how it is, another manifestation of the same kind of scar tissue. The frustration of dealing with all the people in the world who prefers denial over reality, whatever it costs them to close their eyes and cover their ears for the sake of not rocking the boat.
What's uncomfortable isn't that, or the brittle snap of her rebuffing another companion bot. It's the twist in his gut at knowing he's closer to being on the wrong side of that line between the people who act and the people who don't than he ever expected he would be.
Aurora's interruption comes just as he's turning that over, her calm, empty voice ricocheting off those raw nerves. He starts forward, tensed on the edge of the couch, as incapable of doing anything now as he has been throughout the conversation. Hedging his bets, playing it safe, not crossing the ever-present fucking lines - and that he couldn't do anything if he was there doesn't matter. His absence still feels like an abandonment, in the moment. ]
Or you could translate your fucking files.
[ An inane retort to spit into the open channel, but he has to assume Aurora hears it. He has to assume that it's noted somewhere in that sprawling database, his behavioural parameters adjusted for this burst of futile resentment.
But there's no clench of anticipatory regret. Only a clean, bright spark of satisfaction, however temporary and meaningless it is. ]
( this time around it isn't the moonshine that distracts clarke so completely that for a long moment she manages to forget she's on a call. it's fear. plain and simple, that spike of adrenaline that rockets down her spine like lighting, paralyzing in its wake. panic that manifests in the form of a fist, sinking into her stomach and driving all the air out of her lungs. dread that diverts all the blood in her body to her extremities until her legs lock up in preparation to bolt and her fingers tingle where they're poised over the computer screen. and she flinches preemptively, ready for some harsher lashing to follow the deceptively gentle suggestion.
but two things happen. aurora doesn't move a single projected digital square, doesn't summon the companion bots that have been humming around the room to converge and abandon their polite shuffling. and krouse chimes directly into the shell of her ear with topical vitriol.
and clarke laughs.
or rather, snorts. unseen to him, curls her lips in between her teeth and licks at the cracks starting to carve themselves out with recent dehydration. she rebels against the idea of a nap, but would definitely like some water and to get the hell out of here now she's been actively caught. lightly, casually — )
Maybe you're right. Sorry.
( not at all sorry, but cue a measured retreat back to the base of the stairs, audible in the slap of her shoe soles against absolutely spotless tile. )
[ That tiny snort followed by the soft, shuffling absence of calamity is one of the best things he's ever heard. His heartbeat unstitches from the roof of his mouth and drops back into his chest as Clarke walks away.
He waits until he hears stairs to breathe out, conspicuously steady and slow. It doubles him over his knees, folding into a half-crumpled buckle of relief. That's when he laughs, as shaky as glasses rattling in a poorly packed crate. ]
Shit.
[ Krouse laces his fingers loosely over his mouth, caging his half-smile. ]
Looks like we found a tolerance limit. [ A silver lining, sort of. ] You headed back?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Well, I'm glad you're getting along.
[ He's not going anywhere yet. He might not be going anywhere at all. She hasn't asked, and it'd be more than a little overbearing to just show up at the scene of what may or may not be a crime.
He sets his elbows on top of his knees and knits his fingers together, head bowed and eyes half-closed. ]
What does the room look like? Are there servers in there with you, or just a terminal?
no subject
Yeah, I think those are relatively regular uploads from somewhere every month. ( from elsewhere presumably, which has proved to be aurora's canned response whenever anyone inquires about the whereabouts of echo. ) But I can't figure out where, it's all just — symbols. There was a really, really big one back in what looks like January, but when we got here it was already spring, right? There was all that rain. April showers bring May flowers, or whatever people used to say in the old world.
So was January when Echo picked this planet? And sent Aurora down to start canvassing and laying the groundwork for the infrastructure? How do you think they came up with the name, Etraya? Worlds don't generally have names unless there was a native population around to give it one in the first place.
( she's really just spit-balling for the sake of spit-balling here. with the mild, poorly executed ulterior motive of maybe kinda hoping something she says would trigger a response from the companion bots or computer itself, but thus far they all keep buzzing along. )
no subject
It was spring.
[ He rubs his thumb over his knuckles, bouncing his knee as he thinks. The dates on the newspapers have all been strange, jumbled and inconsistent, but the days have passed in regular sequence. The weather has changed steadily, even though that also doesn't make any sense. ]
So we maybe have an idea of when they got the computers up and running. But that doesn't mean it's when they started building. And that's assuming you're looking at something significant. Regular uploads could be anything. Weather reports. Maintenance sweeps. [ He presses his tongue against the backs of his teeth. ] I hate to be this guy, but if you're allowed to be seeing this, there's a reason they're not stopping you.
[ If one of his teammates was pulling this, he'd be telling them to get the fuck out. He doesn't have that luxury with her. He can't even push, or she'll dig in. ]
It could be a name from wherever they come from, I guess.
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— yeah, either they think it's not important, or they think I'm an idiot who can't figure it out.
( we're idiots, more likely. all of them, since it wasn't like clarke had jumped through specific hoops or even asked to be granted access to this basement. both of them, considering there's been no interference with this audio call thus far and aurora is undoubtedly watching, like she always is. and maybe there's something to that, this level of encryption is significant and even clicking on the standard, english keyboard is offering her no easy translation key to the symbolic text that most of this information appears in. it'd be frustrating if she were sober; lightly intoxicated as clarke currently is, it's downright infuriating.
for an unseen entity that might as well be acting as their god, for being as omniscient and all known as to specifically tailor the tests to their weaknesses and histories — echo sure does seem to underestimate the traits that probably made them the best candidates for world champions in the first place.
for clarke, that's bull headed stubbornness. give her an inch, and she'll take a mile. )
Weather reports and maintenance sweeps should be a daily occurrence, and something I imagine Aurora could handle internally. All of these look like incoming transmissions, and they're on a — ( monthly pattern. )
...did you notice exactly how long ago the newest group of people arrived here?
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[ They'd be the idiots if they thought you were one is also true. He's not going to say it, which is more superstition than justified caution. Clarke hasn't made a secret of her agenda or how she's carrying it out, so it's a little late to try to keep things inconspicuous.
He doesn't think it's a good idea, but that doesn't mean she's stupid. It means she cares more about what she thinks she needs to do than she cares about the potential personal consequences. (So what does it say about him that he hasn't hung up, or even said anything for the sake of the third observer to their conversation - )
Krouse rubs the bridge of his nose as he ducks his head, face screwing up with frustration. ]
About two months ago. [ He doesn't need to check his notes for that. ] So yeah. Maybe it has something to do with that. We know they have information on us.
[ And he keeps following the train of thought, because she'll get there anyway: ] That could be why it's not guarded. They haven't exactly been keen on our privacy.
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but at the same time, information is information. if he'd had to ask about the room, he'd obviously never been down here. and there's a bit of a payout at the end of her studious quiet, having finally revealed — )
Oh, they've got files on every single one of us.
( and it is a long list. scrollable, and in plain english as opposed to coded beyond recognition. there is a cheese grater with a taste for human dignity in clarke's chest, and it chips away at hers when she reaches the C's and double taps on her own name. another long stretch of silence as she skims the page. there's her name, her height, her approximate weight. there's her blood type, engineered as a universal donor like everyone on the ark had been, and in parenthesis, Nightblood. there's the note about her missing kidney, a lack in bone density she'd never really considered but makes sense considering spending the first seventeen years of her life in artificial gravity. there's a brief summary of her as a person, which is insultingly bullet pointed.
Stubborn. Excellent leadership qualities. Impressionable. Kind hearted. Traumatized. Repentant. the list goes on, and while her entire buzz has already been harshed, clarke spares herself reading it to completion and just skips to the next bit, which is Likes & Dislikes. and — )
Damn. "Stale coffee, two packets of sugar, one cannister of cream". If I'd known we could have cheated the drink game by just breaking in a little sooner...
( what would she have done? not embarrassed the two of them by suggesting a game of charades? they'll never know now, and clarke sighs; unseen, brings a hand to her face and pinches the bridge of her nose at eye level. )
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Krouse sits through it with his hand cupped loosely over his mouth, his chin in his palm. He's not anxious, exactly, as he waits to learn if she'll give into an obvious temptation. There's nothing he can do about it if she does. Not even any immediate way to know if she does, unless something in his file is damning and jarring enough to make her react thoughtlessly. She'll do whatever it is she's going to do, and he can't change it, so - he waits.
When she makes her second, far more banal announcement, he lets out a soft rush of stale air followed by a crackling burst of quiet, relieved laughter as he buries his hand in his hair and rests his forehead against the heel of his hand. ]
Sorry. I know what you mean, just - that's one way to put it. [ He shakes his head, crooked smile bleeding into his voice. ] 'Oh, if only we had access to the semi-hidden prisoner information files for the icebreaker game, what a missed opportunity that was.'
[ She checked up on herself first, so she'd find out what her opponents think of her. It's smart, in a reckless, nervewracking way. ]
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Oh well. Next time.
( absolutely what she will return to pursue at a later date, just on the off chance it ever comes in handy, but what she actually wants out of this venture is to force past the lines of code on the computer and find some sort of back-alley way to speak directly to echo. given their shared history of somehow unintentionally manifesting worst case scenarios, that's not an objective she's willing to share out loud, or even via text, so there is another unhelpful, lacking silence as she buckles down and tries to focus.
only clarke is no hacker. and no matter how desperately she'd like to interpret raven reyes in this moment, none of the windings make a lick of sense no matter how hard she stares at them. and no matter what she taps on, it's just more symbols. two minutes, and an exceedingly frustrated sigh later, clarke seems to remember she's on a phone call at all. )
Oh, I don't mean to keep you. This is going to take a while.
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Keep me from...what do you think is my busy two am schedule, exactly?
[ He knows it's an expression not meant to indicate anything other than politeness, but he'll capitalize on it anyway. ]
Listening in on this is much more interesting than my previous plans. Believe me. [ He shifts on the couch, arching his back to get more comfortable, and lets out a slight resettling sigh of his own. ] Besides. It'll be easier to organize a search party if I have the exact time of your mysterious disappearance at the hands of a mob of robots down.
[ Much as Clarke reflected on wanting to avoid speaking a worst case scenario into existence, Krouse regrets actually saying it as soon as it's said. He falls silent for a second, curling his fingernails into the couch upholstery. ]
You called me for a reason, right? [ More than curiosity about his power. ] I figure the least I can do is stay on the line.
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it can't be entirely a joke, not when she'd absolutely called him up just to have some sort of breadcrumb trail left behind in the eventuality she died for pushing too far. but it feels infinitely more ridiculous when so easily caught on to, then spelled out. any other day and clarke would have felt a flare of embarrassment. but also, any other day she wouldn't have reached out in the first place, so.
she doesn't point out that a search party would be stupid, or that the companion bots could probably draw and quarter her before he even got out the door, if that was their initiative. instead clarke just exhales through her nose, sharply and tinged with good humor before immediately going back to uselessly tapping at the touch screen. )
Well, alright. If you insist.
( tap, tap, tap. then almost as an afterthought — )
If you have any questions for me, this is a great time.
( it's reasonable, it's logical, it keeps them both awake and engaged. )
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[ Nevermind that he wasn't until she gave him the endorsement to go ahead, or that he doesn't actually have a leg to stand on when it comes to insisting on anything with her.
It's just cracking one thread of tension in the middle of many to drop his voice back into casual lightness and say something semi-ridiculous. He shouldn't feel any better. Nothing has changed except that he's less worried she's going to hang up on him.
But the less reasonable half of his brain is latched onto the open line like a tether. If they're still talking, she's still fine; as long as he keeps her connected, she'll stay fine. ]
And oh, do I have questions.
[ He settles into the couch more comfortably, mostly through determined intent, which makes his relaxing not quite as relaxing as it could be. ]
What's space like?
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( clarke isn't so much teasing as she is answering a little too literally, and rambling for good measure as her focus is too diverted towards tapping away at the screen of the computer and squinting at windings like maybe if she glares hard enough she can scare the figures into rewriting themselves into english. the second it exits her mouth she realizes he probably means — )
Living in space is... It was fine, when I was younger. But it was also the only thing I or my parents ever knew. When talking to people whose Earth's never experienced a nuclear apocalypse, it starts to sound a little grim.
( and that always sucks, because the ark in childhood had been the only place she'd ever managed to feel safe. even if that was a self-centered, privileged, biased lens through which to view it. the ark was childhood, and thus still holds a piece of her heart, along with almost all her memories regarding loved ones lost. but time, distance, and perspective have a special way of turning something joyful into something bittersweet. has she ever really known peace? the promise of a death sentence for any minor infraction had swung above her throat like a pendulum since birth, it'd just been a shadow one grew accustomed to. )
Did you mean what the view was like? The food? Recreation? Do you want to know how it all started?
( the simple, the banal, the stuff she's already been over in the middle of corrine's due to an introductory plaque and many times before that. the history. the safe stuff, the bits that were out of her control and thus in no way her fault. )
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It should mean he shifts the topic to something else less likely to be lined with hidden unpleasant stumbling blocks. But there's also vast, dark, cold, and beautiful, a fragment of description that almost was an inadvertent joke even as it gestures at something Krouse, for all his cynicism, still thinks of with a certain kind of wonder.
He could pin all his curiosity on that, but that's not really the whole story. He hums a single quiet, thoughtful note. ]
Not a specific enough question. That's on me. I mean...let's try this. What do you wish people would ask you so they'd actually understand something about what it was like? What would you want me to get, if you had to pick one thing?
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what would she like other people to know? in what way could she properly summarize the ark's everything in a way that other people would completely understand? so many small things fall by the wayside here; ask me about our stock in the medbay. ask me about the time strep throat quarantine shut down an entire wing of the ark. ask me about the laws. ask me about our prison system, the class disparity and how little i thought about it because i was one of the privileged. ask me how boring it must have been sometimes, to the point i doodled enough to advance to decent portraits. ask me about the food. ask what it was like to genuinely believe we were the last of our species, and did everything in the name of hopefully seeing through to a return to the ground. ask me how much i loved earth before i'd even managed to step foot on it.
moonshine pulls her thoughts to wild edges in that last stretch, and scatters any better ideas entirely. but in the end clarke still manages to scrounge up )
They could ask what our education was like. I think you can learn a lot about any given population based on what they decide to teach their youth.
And to that I'd answer: our two main mandatory classes were Earth Skills, and then whatever apprenticeship we adopted when we were young. You could pick, but people tended to keep to their own stations for that a lot; sons of farmers because farmers, daughters of mechanics became mechanics, hydro stayed with hydro, anyone could become a guard. My mother was the Chief of Medical, and I was seven when I decided I wanted to follow her. We were also taught general health and safety, and math, and grammar, and — other things. But it always managed to circle back around to the main two. And we weren't even expected to go back to Earth; it was supposed to be another 100 years before the planet was habitable, we were just supposed to pass it all down to our children.
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When he was a kid, he'd never had to think about surviving. The idea that children were the future was a nebulous sentiment, not a practical reality. What he was going to grow up to be was a source of sometimes embarrassing, sometimes flattering speculation, but it wasn't a decision he had to make based on anything but what he might want to do with himself one day.
He tries to imagine what it'd be like to grow up with the weight of passing down a legacy you'd never see through yourself. The kind of things that you'd do if you took it seriously, like Clarke does, with no reason to question the reality pressing in on you from all sides. ]
That sounds like a lot of pressure.
[ He keeps his tone deliberately neutral, his curiosity soft. He doesn't want to sound like he's implying it was too much. If the fate of humanity post-apocalypse really did depend on them, what could be too much?
It just still doesn't sound great, but hearing that from someone raised in a relative lap of luxury probably wouldn't go over well. ]
Do you mind if I ask about the 'supposed to'?
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Which one?
( the lost 100 years or children? eh, doesn't matter, she can guess at the bigger conversational hook, and can answer about babies if he )
All our calculations indicated that the Earth was still too toxic to return to. We were going to wait in space for another 100 years, but the oxygen systems on the Ark were failing. My father spotted it first — he was Chief of Engineering, by the way. ( a moment of silence for jake griffin, a moment of silence to figure out how she wants to tell this story. also because clarke's eyes are struggling to focus; for a second the windings had looked like actual words and she'd gotten excited, just to be subsequently let down. ) And they couldn't be fixed. Oxygen was being rationed, the side effects of hypoxia were driving people en masse to the medbay, our systems were not as well maintained as Aurora's seem to be. There was no other choice but to explore the ground as our last salvation.
( there we go, that felt like it summed up the highlights. about as diplomatically as the unity day play. but on second thought, was it a bit too diplomatic? a little too kind? it'd felt like krouse was listening really intently, and actually trying to get a good grasp on what life was like on the ark, and the second best example she could give past education is — )
So the Council elected to pack 100 of the most dispensable people into a dropship and sent us down to test the radiation levels.
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I'm sorry.
[ That doesn't begin to cover the cool, hard indignation that calcifies as he puts it together. If the supply of a limited resource dwindles, can't be increased, then one solution is to reduce demand. Dispensable people. The fact Clarke was counted among them isn't the only reason the concept pisses him off, but she makes it specific. ]
That's fucked. [ Closer, but still not enough. He rubs at his face, screwed up in offence. ] They just sent you down there to - what, see if you'd fucking die?
[ He can imagine the kind of people who'd go along with this form of elaborate, semi-deniable execution. It doesn't incline him to be forgiving of the society that would do it. They had to have known what they were doing, whatever gloss they put on it. ]
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krouse's second hand indignance validates some of her older hurts, like an ice pack pressed to bruise long forgotten. but ultimately clarke just sighs. hard. )
Like rats in a maze. A lot of us did die.
( it just wasn't the atmosphere that did them in.
... )
But the ground itself was survivable. Turns out four generations of exposure to solar radiation made the ambient levels on Earth tolerable for us. We were better adapted to inhabit Earth than some of the people who'd lived down there the entire time we were in space.
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He wants to be listening to her, not distracting himself from whatever he happens to be feeling about it. If he can't give her anything better, he can at least give her his undivided attention. ]
But they didn't know that.
[ Tempered brittleness, his defensiveness on her behalf reined in and toned down. There's a line to walk when people tell you things like this, and he's never entirely sure he's gotten the hang of the balancing act. ]
Are you okay to talk about this? I'm okay to listen, if you are. I just - I don't want to push.
I know how it is. [ Quiet, a rise and fall of a careful breath. ] Probably more than you'd think I do.
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but all of this is just history. clarke had successfully buried most of her feelings about the matter, there was nothing that could be done to change anything. it'd been easy to dredge up in the moment, like a corked bottle that got a little air in and floated to the surface of rapids. but krouse asks if she's okay to keep talking about this, and it's a solid reminder that — you know, in the middle of trying to crack open a new pandora's box, she maybe shouldn't revisit the oldest one. )
Maybe we can talk more about it another time. Write down any other questions you've got, I'll give you an essay in return.
( again, a polite companion bot drifts over to also ask if she's okay and finding everything she needs. with a hint of irritation this time, clarke waves it off. )
But I can tell that you get it. I know you know. ( kittens in trees, kids in dropships. distractedly, as she scrolls through more windings with an uncalled for but increased amount of urgency — ) Aside from everything else, that's probably why I called you while I'm down here.
( also because natsuno woulda been barging down the staircase from the very first message, and octavia would have dispatched a bot or two already. )
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He'd rather have her here. Not just for that someday conversation, but now. He wants to be able to read her expression, settle her down on the couch, get her a glass of water. Do something with the twist of helpless care that wells up at her off-handed recognition. ]
On top of my charming personality and sparkling wit?
[ His eyes slide off the cigarettes and survey his sparse apartment. It's a functional space, his clutter maintained within reasonable limits. When he superimposes her over it, he doesn't picture her disapproving, but he doesn't know if she'd be put at ease, either -
He clears his throat and sits up, running his fingers through his hair and leaving it a rumpled, unobserved mess. ]
Definitely not for my sense of tact. I - [ a flutter of hesitation ] - it's a shitty fucking club to have membership in, huh? The people who get it.
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( she doesn't mean the ark here, the line of vitriol that leaks into her tone is a direct result of spending two interim years between earth and etraya on the eterna. where there'd been enough of them discontent with the idea of a punishing, grueling existence as a djinn's personal suffering battery that there'd been uproar — but it'd always tended to be drowned out by the voices claiming they should be content and sympathetic. two years, the eterna on the brink of destruction, and still they'd waffled.
she'd acted, though. in the end. a small number of them in concert to trap the captain, only to learn there were worse fates than death dangling above their necks. then, zwoop — she'd left. where the erda'd deigned to deposit her on the ship in the first place, echo had decided they needed another pawn in a grander scheme; dragged along most of her people she cared for, in what either was a validation of her feelings that they were worth it all, or a pacifying move. and how many had she left in her wake this time? that's two worlds abandoned as they burned to ashes, how many lives ruined was it?
— that's a dangerously depressing road to venture down. and emotionally limber under the effects of moonshine, clarke simply decides she doesn't want to think about it right now. locks back in to the computer for all of twenty seconds before she is approached by another companion bot and this time nearly snaps at it — )
I said I'm fine, just looking.
( then on her left, with the rudest jumpscare possible, a holographic projection of aurora manifests in the brief moment she'd taken to address the bot. there is an audible jump; a sharp inhale through teeth that hits the back of her throat a little too hard, dredging out a barely perceptible squeak. and clarke goes as still as the statue of the woman pouring from a jug in the labyrinth.
loud enough for krouse to hear on his end of things, aurora says something to the effect of: "you seem like you could benefit from a nap, clarke." with no malice, no anger, no sense of caught you; just as simply shallow and pleasantly robotic as ever. that somehow makes it all the more intimidating. )
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What's uncomfortable isn't that, or the brittle snap of her rebuffing another companion bot. It's the twist in his gut at knowing he's closer to being on the wrong side of that line between the people who act and the people who don't than he ever expected he would be.
Aurora's interruption comes just as he's turning that over, her calm, empty voice ricocheting off those raw nerves. He starts forward, tensed on the edge of the couch, as incapable of doing anything now as he has been throughout the conversation. Hedging his bets, playing it safe, not crossing the ever-present fucking lines - and that he couldn't do anything if he was there doesn't matter. His absence still feels like an abandonment, in the moment. ]
Or you could translate your fucking files.
[ An inane retort to spit into the open channel, but he has to assume Aurora hears it. He has to assume that it's noted somewhere in that sprawling database, his behavioural parameters adjusted for this burst of futile resentment.
But there's no clench of anticipatory regret. Only a clean, bright spark of satisfaction, however temporary and meaningless it is. ]
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but two things happen. aurora doesn't move a single projected digital square, doesn't summon the companion bots that have been humming around the room to converge and abandon their polite shuffling. and krouse chimes directly into the shell of her ear with topical vitriol.
and clarke laughs.
or rather, snorts. unseen to him, curls her lips in between her teeth and licks at the cracks starting to carve themselves out with recent dehydration. she rebels against the idea of a nap, but would definitely like some water and to get the hell out of here now she's been actively caught. lightly, casually — )
Maybe you're right. Sorry.
( not at all sorry, but cue a measured retreat back to the base of the stairs, audible in the slap of her shoe soles against absolutely spotless tile. )
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He waits until he hears stairs to breathe out, conspicuously steady and slow. It doubles him over his knees, folding into a half-crumpled buckle of relief. That's when he laughs, as shaky as glasses rattling in a poorly packed crate. ]
Shit.
[ Krouse laces his fingers loosely over his mouth, caging his half-smile. ]
Looks like we found a tolerance limit. [ A silver lining, sort of. ] You headed back?
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