[ As he's released he shuffles a little in place, righting his shirt as discreetly as possible, and lifts his chin to meet the Boxer's stare with his own. It's not defiant, not exactly, but it is intense and unblinking. Vigilant. Receptive, maybe unsettlingly so, as if to say "you had something to say, so... say it."
But the thing Boxer says startles a laugh out of him, a short, clipped sound, mostly humorless. ]
Was it that—but, no, I'm, hah. I'm not that optimistic. But I am a little. Surprised. At how quick you took to it, the both of you. Made it your own. I'd say it's become something else now, altogether. Something else entirely.
[ He casts it one more wistful glance. Maybe it's true that in a sense the Transistor goes where the Transistor wants. How disappointing. He'd be lying if he said that didn't sting some. ]
[Yes, it was that obvious. C'mon, Royce. Who do you think you're kidding.
He tells himself, braced and ready to bristle, that he doesn't want to hear it. But despite his established distaste for Royce's droning lectures—his better sense mostly tells him to hear them out. Not out of any real respect for the man, or his work. But there's a needs must sort of element to it. Had been, in their approach in Fairview. To the Cradle, where his recollection fails. Royce had the most experience, with the thing. Before. But seems even he doesn't seem to recognize it, now.
What does that mean? (Does it matter?)
His expression knits, quietly. But he doesn't acknowledge it. Doesn't address it. Not the time. Instead, his shoulders square, as Royce casts another wistful glance back at the Transistor. Heels dug in.]
Didn't exactly leave us much choice.
["Us." Him. And Red. Though he's under no illusions as to which one of them really mattered in that little confrontation. Which starts to get him back to the crux of this one.]
[ The way the Transistor still pulses light, seamlessly aligned with the cadence of the Boxer voice. His reluctance to relinquish it, to suffer Royce laying so much as a covetous eye on it. Quick on the uptake, Royce—and while he's used to being wrong almost as much as he's right, he's generally no fool.
Generally. To be fair, he really should've seen this sooner.
He takes a couple steps back. At first it might seem like caution. ]
You're still there.
[ It's not caution. He's just moving back so he can take in the whole that is the sword and the man, together. ]
[As if he'd be happy to relinquish it given Royce's track record. No matter what his relationship with it happened to be. It's not worth risking what happened to Cloudbank all over again. No matter how slim the chances might be. That he can't relinquish it—without, y'know...resigning himself to the company at hand—is just...some convincing icing on the cake. So to speak.
Still, stubbornly, he doesn't confirm or deny it. Makes a point of appearing to ignore the last few things that came out of Royce's mouth at all. (But there's the smallest shift in his jaw. A tighter thing held in the set of his shoulders, in the crease between his brows. The tension in his knuckles and the set of his eyes. Still, he doesn't say a word about it.) Until—]
Listen. [He matches the step Royce took away from him. Keeping the distance between them even. Expression flinty. He's not here to talk about him.]
[ Now. Now Royce appears defiant. Just a little, and apparently less in response to the prospect of getting is ass handed to him than the forcible separation from the Transistor leaning tantalizingly against the wall. ]
That won't be a problem. Cloudbank is more important than... well, all of us. More than all of us. If our hosts aren't lying, then, why, I—we'll do it. We might actually manage it. We'll bring it back.
[ He half-turns; the Boxer is between him and the door, so it's not as if he's got anywhere to go. But something about his demeanor does seem ever so slightly peevish. ]
But here I would've thought you'd want to figure this out. You. Your body. In there. I'd help you. You know. I'd be more than willing try and help the both of you. No... hard feelings.
[He snorts in a derisive way when Royce has the stones to play friendly. No hard feelings, like this is all one big misunderstanding. His fingers twitch closed into a fist. In and out at his side as Royce speaks. Like he's thinking again about swinging it. He bites down on his temper. Wrangles it back.]
Generous of you. [Sarcastic, and not without bitterness. If he's moved by the offer or shaken by the reminder of where he stands, he doesn't much let it show. (It's not that he isn't interested in the theoretical end result. Just that he doesn't trust Bracket any further than he can throw him. And he's still working his way around to letting himself wonder if this isn't the end for him, after all.)] We'll see about that.
[If this is as far as he goes—he'll be okay. No matter how Royce happens to feel about it, there are still plenty of hard feelings to be had. He doesn't just get to decide to write it all off as spilled milk. (And him—he's not worth it. Letting Royce get his hands on the Transistor again.) He backsteps, turns on a heel to pick the Transistor up away from the wall to sling it up onto a shoulder.]
[ He tilts his head a little, assenting. Certainly it's reasonable. ]
If I've learned anything after this long, it's... anything is possible. But, it's true there are a looooot of remarkable people in there. Now, let's not undercut our hosts'... [ he holds onto the consonant a little, a soft hiss, finding the word ] generosity, here, I mean, what cause could they have had to rescue hundreds upon thousands—more than that, probably, these many, many people, this many people? Was it... altruism? Or, or mercy? Shelter from the Storm.
[ The waltz is hitting its denouement; Royce's eyes cut to the open balcony doors, seeking out Thesa low on the horizon. ]
A Storm that, apparently, would've wiped us all out anyhow. Given enough time.
[ Royce huffs out something like a laugh at that, used to bravado but still unprepared for it. It's not as if he's an unattractive man, not by a long shot—he's even a little bit reminiscent of Grant in his younger days, though his eyes are sharper, shrewder. Clever, one supposes, yes, this one's probably clever. Which is not to say Grant was not, but then Grant always was possessed of a certain level of sentimentality to which Royce could not entirely relate but appreciated for its difference nevertheless. ]
Both are the case. To be technical. What happened, and the reason behind it. At least, my best stab at conjecture would say you're probably right. How it happens, why... that's another question entirely.
[ A beat. ]
But to be frank with you I would just as soon resist parting with anything particularly... valuable. Mm. Well. At any rate, you did lose them this way; perhaps they can be manipulated via the same means into, well, coming back.
[ Just the person Royce wanted to see. That is to say nothing about the Transistor, let's be clear about that, he's really quite happy to see that. But there remains the unfortunate reality of the person inside the Transistor, who has proven over time to be... less than gracious in the face of (probably) mutually beneficial propositions.
It's a little of both, to tell the truth. The Boxer has insisted upon putting as much distance between them as possible, more between Red and himself, one imagines, and for his part Royce has felt very little inclination to pursue. Part of it is that they are, despite his admitted... attachment to the Transistor, at most an accessory to what he's trying to do here. Ideally, Cloudbank will be saved with or without their help; certainly he's determined to realize that to whatever extent proves possible. And—part of it is that Royce has decided that knowing that nobody in this entire world understands the Transistor like he does means they may very well find their way back in his orbit eventually, anyhow, should the need arise.
But that has very little to do with the situation at hand; Royce's eyes widen at the refusal and he feels suddenly as if there's some sort of thorn that's stuck in the back of his mind. Quickly, he scans the area for someone else, someone more cooperative, but wouldn't luck have it that the majority of the crowd has filtered onto the dance floor?
Royce schools his expression into something he thinks is unreadable but really kinda isn't, a tense smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. ]
Oh, no, it's... really. No trouble. The least I can offer, in fact, I think you'd agree.
[#it'scomplicated. The bottom line is he is, mostly, more than happy to have Bracket out of their hair, for now. He's realistic enough to know it might benefit him hear Royce out, sometime. But his priorities have rarely centered on himself. So the process (hah) of coming around to anything else is...slow.
The odd, tight look sure strikes him as strange. Can't say he knows the man well enough to read it, yet. But he snorts, like Royce has said something pretty funny.]
Nice to know we're on the same page.
[It's absolutely the least. Which sure doesn't mean he's going to jump to accept an olive branch much faster. He reclines back against the wall just enough to cant his head back at Royce and watch him narrowly. More wry than aggressive, this time around—]
Pitch could use a little work. Here I was thinking maybe we'd get ourselves a drafted apology, sometime. "On behalf of the Camerata, we sincerely apologize for our grossly negligent behavior. Maybe we can settle this over drinks. Our treat."
[Isabela's loyalties lay in neither side, but they'd insisted on her taking a pin. And...luck would have it from living in Wyver for the month she'd been there nabs her the black and red pin, resting at the bottom of the deep opening of her dress. So they wanted her to play a game, did they? So far she's been a part of several drinking contests, and this was no different if not a bit more exciting from being completely different.
It's easy enough to get the hang of even with the pleasant buzz she's got going, and there's much back and forth of close calls and near misses. She just grins when her ball goes into yet another cup, enjoying her victory. She can't help a chuckle at his resignation as she catches it when it's tossed back to her.]
I thought you were enjoying the free drinks. [A smirk dances on her lips.] You've still got a chance to turn things around. At least, I'm sure you won't let me just take that pin of yours quite so easy.
[ Royce would like to think he's done a pretty admirable job focusing given his opponent's... obvious talents. It's been a while since he last met Isabela and she certainly was a sight for sore eyes. ]
Free? But. They're all free. That's the kind of thing—
[ A soft grunt of effort as he sinks a ball cleanly into a cup near the edge of the table—a difficult shot, in terms of angles and... whatnot. The alcohol might have something to do with it. ]
Well yes, but what's the harm in drinking as much of it as you can? I certainly enjoy not having to spend all my coin at a bar for once, anyway.
[That's the best part of a party after all, wasn't it? She just gives an appreciating whistle when he gets the ball in one shot, and smiles as she takes it out to drink from the cup.]
You've got a good eye. Didn't think you'd get that one.
Like navigating with a sextant or reading a compass then? And here I've been just tossing them in a direction and hoping for the best. [So far, so good at least?] Well give it your best shot then.
[She can't help but be amused for someone who's dragging behind by several cups. She watches him take aim, notices how seriously he takes it and prepares to say something related to it when he throws...and misses. She raises a brow as it bounces off her chest, laughs once it lands on the ground.]
Seems like your trajectory was off...or maybe distracted? [As if she hadn't noticed your reaction to her dress Royce.]
Hmm, I look at it that way that makes trying to aim for this a little bit easier then. A shame there are no mirrors around for a better idea of an angled shot. It's a much smaller scale but if I can navigate a ship I can land my target with a ball too right?
[It's cute to see him so excited over something as simple as navigation tools, but maybe he's got the right idea. The easier it is, the more she can make him lose and get her prize, but she doesn't mind seeing Royce get comfortable and more entertaining along the way. She gives it a shot, looking at her ball if she could foresee it's path and tosses it, bouncing off of two cups before landing in one dead center of his arrangement of them. She just grins feeling proud of herself while nodding down at his side of the table.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
11/2017 | BOXER (el nysa tdm)
( continued from here. )
[ As he's released he shuffles a little in place, righting his shirt as discreetly as possible, and lifts his chin to meet the Boxer's stare with his own. It's not defiant, not exactly, but it is intense and unblinking. Vigilant. Receptive, maybe unsettlingly so, as if to say "you had something to say, so... say it."
But the thing Boxer says startles a laugh out of him, a short, clipped sound, mostly humorless. ]
Was it that—but, no, I'm, hah. I'm not that optimistic. But I am a little. Surprised. At how quick you took to it, the both of you. Made it your own. I'd say it's become something else now, altogether. Something else entirely.
[ He casts it one more wistful glance. Maybe it's true that in a sense the Transistor goes where the Transistor wants. How disappointing. He'd be lying if he said that didn't sting some. ]
no subject
He tells himself, braced and ready to bristle, that he doesn't want to hear it. But despite his established distaste for Royce's droning lectures—his better sense mostly tells him to hear them out. Not out of any real respect for the man, or his work. But there's a needs must sort of element to it. Had been, in their approach in Fairview. To the Cradle, where his recollection fails. Royce had the most experience, with the thing. Before. But seems even he doesn't seem to recognize it, now.
What does that mean? (Does it matter?)
His expression knits, quietly. But he doesn't acknowledge it. Doesn't address it. Not the time. Instead, his shoulders square, as Royce casts another wistful glance back at the Transistor. Heels dug in.]
Didn't exactly leave us much choice.
["Us." Him. And Red. Though he's under no illusions as to which one of them really mattered in that little confrontation. Which starts to get him back to the crux of this one.]
no subject
Generally. To be fair, he really should've seen this sooner.
He takes a couple steps back. At first it might seem like caution. ]
You're still there.
[ It's not caution. He's just moving back so he can take in the whole that is the sword and the man, together. ]
Inside it.
[ How? ]
no subject
Still, stubbornly, he doesn't confirm or deny it. Makes a point of appearing to ignore the last few things that came out of Royce's mouth at all. (But there's the smallest shift in his jaw. A tighter thing held in the set of his shoulders, in the crease between his brows. The tension in his knuckles and the set of his eyes. Still, he doesn't say a word about it.) Until—]
Listen. [He matches the step Royce took away from him. Keeping the distance between them even. Expression flinty. He's not here to talk about him.]
Red. You stay the hell away from her. From us.
[First things (finally) first.]
no subject
That won't be a problem. Cloudbank is more important than... well, all of us. More than all of us. If our hosts aren't lying, then, why, I—we'll do it. We might actually manage it. We'll bring it back.
[ He half-turns; the Boxer is between him and the door, so it's not as if he's got anywhere to go. But something about his demeanor does seem ever so slightly peevish. ]
But here I would've thought you'd want to figure this out. You. Your body. In there. I'd help you. You know. I'd be more than willing try and help the both of you. No... hard feelings.
no subject
Generous of you. [Sarcastic, and not without bitterness. If he's moved by the offer or shaken by the reminder of where he stands, he doesn't much let it show. (It's not that he isn't interested in the theoretical end result. Just that he doesn't trust Bracket any further than he can throw him. And he's still working his way around to letting himself wonder if this isn't the end for him, after all.)] We'll see about that.
[If this is as far as he goes—he'll be okay. No matter how Royce happens to feel about it, there are still plenty of hard feelings to be had. He doesn't just get to decide to write it all off as spilled milk. (And him—he's not worth it. Letting Royce get his hands on the Transistor again.) He backsteps, turns on a heel to pick the Transistor up away from the wall to sling it up onto a shoulder.]
Goodbye, Royce.
[Good luck with all that.]
12/2017 | ROSALIND (olympia-wyver holiday ball)
( continued from here. )
That's possible, too.
[ He tilts his head a little, assenting. Certainly it's reasonable. ]
If I've learned anything after this long, it's... anything is possible. But, it's true there are a looooot of remarkable people in there. Now, let's not undercut our hosts'... [ he holds onto the consonant a little, a soft hiss, finding the word ] generosity, here, I mean, what cause could they have had to rescue hundreds upon thousands—more than that, probably, these many, many people, this many people? Was it... altruism? Or, or mercy? Shelter from the Storm.
[ The waltz is hitting its denouement; Royce's eyes cut to the open balcony doors, seeking out Thesa low on the horizon. ]
A Storm that, apparently, would've wiped us all out anyhow. Given enough time.
no subject
[She slows as he glances out, turning to look in the same direction. It doesn't jar their waltz, though they're a beat behind everyone else now.]
Why us? Why these specific people? Is it a social experiment, or do they pick and choose to their benefit?
12/2017 | VARIOUS (olympia-wyver holiday ball)
OCELOT
( continued from here. )
[ Royce huffs out something like a laugh at that, used to bravado but still unprepared for it. It's not as if he's an unattractive man, not by a long shot—he's even a little bit reminiscent of Grant in his younger days, though his eyes are sharper, shrewder. Clever, one supposes, yes, this one's probably clever. Which is not to say Grant was not, but then Grant always was possessed of a certain level of sentimentality to which Royce could not entirely relate but appreciated for its difference nevertheless. ]
Both are the case. To be technical. What happened, and the reason behind it. At least, my best stab at conjecture would say you're probably right. How it happens, why... that's another question entirely.
[ A beat. ]
But to be frank with you I would just as soon resist parting with anything particularly... valuable. Mm. Well. At any rate, you did lose them this way; perhaps they can be manipulated via the same means into, well, coming back.
no subject
It wasn't too much of a loss for me. They weren't worth all that much in the long run.
[ if he really wanted them back, he'd have found a way by now. ]
I'm going to take a wild guess and say that you're not familiar with psychic manipulation like this where you come from, are you?
BOXER
( continued from here. )
[ Just the person Royce wanted to see. That is to say nothing about the Transistor, let's be clear about that, he's really quite happy to see that. But there remains the unfortunate reality of the person inside the Transistor, who has proven over time to be... less than gracious in the face of (probably) mutually beneficial propositions.
It's a little of both, to tell the truth. The Boxer has insisted upon putting as much distance between them as possible, more between Red and himself, one imagines, and for his part Royce has felt very little inclination to pursue. Part of it is that they are, despite his admitted... attachment to the Transistor, at most an accessory to what he's trying to do here. Ideally, Cloudbank will be saved with or without their help; certainly he's determined to realize that to whatever extent proves possible. And—part of it is that Royce has decided that knowing that nobody in this entire world understands the Transistor like he does means they may very well find their way back in his orbit eventually, anyhow, should the need arise.
But that has very little to do with the situation at hand; Royce's eyes widen at the refusal and he feels suddenly as if there's some sort of thorn that's stuck in the back of his mind. Quickly, he scans the area for someone else, someone more cooperative, but wouldn't luck have it that the majority of the crowd has filtered onto the dance floor?
Royce schools his expression into something he thinks is unreadable but really kinda isn't, a tense smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. ]
Oh, no, it's... really. No trouble. The least I can offer, in fact, I think you'd agree.
no subject
The odd, tight look sure strikes him as strange. Can't say he knows the man well enough to read it, yet. But he snorts, like Royce has said something pretty funny.]
Nice to know we're on the same page.
[It's absolutely the least. Which sure doesn't mean he's going to jump to accept an olive branch much faster. He reclines back against the wall just enough to cant his head back at Royce and watch him narrowly. More wry than aggressive, this time around—]
Pitch could use a little work. Here I was thinking maybe we'd get ourselves a drafted apology, sometime. "On behalf of the Camerata, we sincerely apologize for our grossly negligent behavior. Maybe we can settle this over drinks. Our treat."
[Y'know. Something like that.]
team rep!
It's easy enough to get the hang of even with the pleasant buzz she's got going, and there's much back and forth of close calls and near misses. She just grins when her ball goes into yet another cup, enjoying her victory. She can't help a chuckle at his resignation as she catches it when it's tossed back to her.]
I thought you were enjoying the free drinks. [A smirk dances on her lips.] You've still got a chance to turn things around. At least, I'm sure you won't let me just take that pin of yours quite so easy.
no subject
Free? But. They're all free. That's the kind of thing—
[ A soft grunt of effort as he sinks a ball cleanly into a cup near the edge of the table—a difficult shot, in terms of angles and... whatnot. The alcohol might have something to do with it. ]
That's the kind of thing we're in for here.
no subject
[That's the best part of a party after all, wasn't it? She just gives an appreciating whistle when he gets the ball in one shot, and smiles as she takes it out to drink from the cup.]
You've got a good eye. Didn't think you'd get that one.
no subject
It's geometry... really. When you think about it. No big deal. Still my turn, isn't it?
[ Not to gloat or anything. He lowers himself slightly, squinting, readying the shot. ]
Simply... visualize... the trajectory. Annnnd...
[ That sumbitch toks right off the edge of his target and into Isabela's, erm, ample expanse of skin. At least it's pretty lightweight? ]
no subject
[She can't help but be amused for someone who's dragging behind by several cups. She watches him take aim, notices how seriously he takes it and prepares to say something related to it when he throws...and misses. She raises a brow as it bounces off her chest, laughs once it lands on the ground.]
Seems like your trajectory was off...or maybe distracted? [As if she hadn't noticed your reaction to her dress Royce.]
no subject
[ Math gets him excited, okay. Math plus liquor? That's party Royce. ]
You're up. Let's see what you've got.
[ Not that it's difficult to miss, but hey, he's been a perfect gentleman. ]
no subject
[It's cute to see him so excited over something as simple as navigation tools, but maybe he's got the right idea. The easier it is, the more she can make him lose and get her prize, but she doesn't mind seeing Royce get comfortable and more entertaining along the way. She gives it a shot, looking at her ball if she could foresee it's path and tosses it, bouncing off of two cups before landing in one dead center of his arrangement of them. She just grins feeling proud of herself while nodding down at his side of the table.]
Your turn to drink, wise scholar.