( 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?
( shit, krouse wheezes out around the sharp edges of glass shattered within its transportation crate, and clarke acknowledges with a simple, honest — ) That was a little bit scary.
( but she feels a fraction too giddy in the aftermath, tone light and airy as tension melts from her body preemptively. she reaches the top of the stairs uninterrupted, and takes it as a sign she's found the right button to push. and escaping unscathed? that's just a bonus. she will be back.
you headed back? to where? )
To the bar? Gods no. ( natsuno probably isn't there anymore. he'd seemed inclined to ring up rita when clarke had taken her leave, and she'd been happy for him but has absolutely no designs to continue drinking alone. no. no, she'd spit-balled the plan this far and will continue doing so now. thinking aloud: )
I'm going to walk to the diner, have a cup of coffee, and just sit there until my legs stop shaking.
( out of the basement, and it's only a few turns down a sterile hallway until she's pushing through the hospital doors and stepping out into the relative calm of late night in etraya. the air is crisp and bright, the stars shine brightly; if she squints she can spot the slightly over-illuminated patch on a distant planet that they've come to know as other subjects. )
[ There's a slight difference between the hush of the hospital and the muted murmurs of the outdoors that tells Krouse which doors she's finally through. She's no safer out there than she is anywhere else in this rat maze, but it's one more sign she's been allowed to get away with this for now.
He doesn't count on that luck holding. Luck never does. But they'll deal with that when it happens. ]
Probably not the time to drink up any more plans, no.
[ For now, he'll take the reprieve, voice lilting giddily at confirmation of some lingering suspicions. It's funny in the way everything is funny after a near miss. ]
A cup of coffee sounds good, though. [ He sits back up, flexing his hands to work out his own shakes. ] I don't think either of us are getting much sleep.
( no, they're probably not getting much sleep tonight, are they? not if both were already unreasonably awake at 2 — now 3am. and not in the wake of the massive adrenaline dump that helps the outdoors solidify into crisp focus and nearly evaporates the alcohol in her system; turns it to straight fumes, providing a solid and gait with which to beeline for the diner. )
[ Krouse stands up into a stretch, loosening the muscles drawn taut between his shoulders. ]
If you're asking...
[ As if that wasn't exactly what he was hoping she'd say to spare him having to ask. He crosses over to the window to retrieve his cigarettes and lighter, remembers how her nose wrinkled the last time he lit up in front of her, and puts them back. He's pretty sure he has half a pack of gum in his jacket, which he confirms when he tugs it on. ]
Try not to dismantle the waiter before I show up. [ He provokes, one last time, as the door to his apartment shuts behind him. ] Be there soon.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
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. )
no subject
[ 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?
no subject
( 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. )
no subject
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?
no subject
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.
no subject
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'?
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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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( but she feels a fraction too giddy in the aftermath, tone light and airy as tension melts from her body preemptively. she reaches the top of the stairs uninterrupted, and takes it as a sign she's found the right button to push. and escaping unscathed? that's just a bonus. she will be back.
you headed back? to where? )
To the bar? Gods no. ( natsuno probably isn't there anymore. he'd seemed inclined to ring up rita when clarke had taken her leave, and she'd been happy for him but has absolutely no designs to continue drinking alone. no. no, she'd spit-balled the plan this far and will continue doing so now. thinking aloud: )
I'm going to walk to the diner, have a cup of coffee, and just sit there until my legs stop shaking.
( out of the basement, and it's only a few turns down a sterile hallway until she's pushing through the hospital doors and stepping out into the relative calm of late night in etraya. the air is crisp and bright, the stars shine brightly; if she squints she can spot the slightly over-illuminated patch on a distant planet that they've come to know as other subjects. )
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He doesn't count on that luck holding. Luck never does. But they'll deal with that when it happens. ]
Probably not the time to drink up any more plans, no.
[ For now, he'll take the reprieve, voice lilting giddily at confirmation of some lingering suspicions. It's funny in the way everything is funny after a near miss. ]
A cup of coffee sounds good, though. [ He sits back up, flexing his hands to work out his own shakes. ] I don't think either of us are getting much sleep.
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Do you want to come join me?
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If you're asking...
[ As if that wasn't exactly what he was hoping she'd say to spare him having to ask. He crosses over to the window to retrieve his cigarettes and lighter, remembers how her nose wrinkled the last time he lit up in front of her, and puts them back. He's pretty sure he has half a pack of gum in his jacket, which he confirms when he tugs it on. ]
Try not to dismantle the waiter before I show up. [ He provokes, one last time, as the door to his apartment shuts behind him. ] Be there soon.