nexus_sages | (no subject)

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James T. Kirk absolutely loves marketplaces.

It's not necessarily because he's looking for anything, per se, although he does often keep an eye out for interesting books to add to his collection, or maybe a bottle of some kind of exotic alcohol, or some kind of pointless alien gizmo with which to annoy Spock with its purposeless existence. No, he just loves the sheer diversity each bazaar brings to the table.

No two markets have ever been alike, in his experience. Sure, it's not quite as exciting and mysterious as exploring deep space, but it's something of a microcosm of the same, all sorts of goods and cultures thrown into close quarters, and one never knows what one might find just down the street.

His shipboard gold uniform may stand out a bit in the crowd as he meanders along, a faint smile on his face as he leans in to examine someone's wares on display, just enjoying being out and about in the fresh air.

[OOC: Retconning Jim eating bacon in this thread. Hadn't fully considered some of the elements in his backstory at the time.]

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He's definitely slowed in his attacks, and now he stops completely, hands shaking slightly from both fatigue and anger at his father. Maybe at himself, too. Had she intended this to be a distraction, rather than a genuine effort to make him reexamine his own beliefs and hangups, it'd be a perfect time to take advantage.

Jim has gone over his father's final moments in as much detail as he's had access to, so many times, looking for another way, another route. He's never found one. And he's never been able to accept that there isn't one, not even after having years to analyze and theorize instead of twelve minutes.

The burning rage is slowly draining away, numbness creeping in to replace it, and Jim looks down at his hands, his knuckles split and bruised. "He killed himself to buy more time."

*Her posture relaxes, her voice lowering; the question falls like a leaf on still water.*

Did he get it?

Jim just sounds tired, his voice quieter as he says, "Yeah, he did."

Then he won.

*There's a note of encouragement in her voice now, inviting him to consider this perspective in place of the previous, painful one.*

The price of victory was his life, but he won as much as anyone could have.

Introspection is always the hardest pill to swallow, and Jim's always been bad at taking his medicine. But he is listening, even if he finds it difficult to accept.

He sighs a little, and flexes his fingers to try to determine if he's broken any bones in his hands again. "You're not secretly a therapist, are you?" he asks, raising his eyes to meet hers. Even if she is, he has to say that this style of working out your issues makes a hell of a lot more sense than most of the psych consults he's been sent to over the years.

*She gives a lopsided smile, straightening up and rolling her shoulders.*

I've been down this hole before, and I know the way out. How do you feel?

He has no idea if she means physically or emotionally, but it hardly matters, because his answer for both is the same. "Pretty sore." Not to mention wrung-out and exhausted, but he figures that goes without saying.

I'd say you've earned that drink. Not alcohol--

*She's very quick to add that qualifier.*

--but I have some suggestions.

And he's quick to raise his eyebrows at her putting the kibosh on the possibility of numbing the pain in his battered hands - and the rest of his body, let's be fair - with liberal internal application of alcohol. "Why not?"

Because you use it as a crutch. Given the chance, you'll drink your pain away, and with it will go anything you learned today, and you won't grow any. I'd hate to think this afternoon was wasted, wouldn't you?

*She turns, starting back toward the more populated parts of the Nexus at a sedate pace that shouldn't tax Jim's aching frame too much.*

God, there she goes, being all reasonable and everything. He has to fight the urge to roll his eyes as he retrieves his gold uniform shirt, slinging it over one shoulder as he turns to follow her. Without the adrenaline deadening the pain, his body is letting him know just how unhappy it is with him right now, but at least it's familiar. Maybe a cracked metacarpal or two, and a lot of bruises. Nothing he can't handle. He didn't even get his nose broken this time.

"So what do you have in mind?"

Something from my Facet: Gavan brandy. No alcohol, but I think you'll like it.

*Her path takes them to the first drinking establishment they pass, dim and deserted at this time of day, save for an imperturbable bartender. The Hunter confers briefly with the man, and he pours out two tumblers of a drink that glows sky-blue in the tavernous gloom.*

Kho'vap.

*Samus takes one of the glasses, raising it to Jim in toast, and sips it with an appreciative sigh. The drink is tangy and a little bit sweet, tasting of otherworldly berries, and tingles subtly on the tongue. It seems Samus has a sweet tooth. Although the drink isn't alcoholic, it is loaded with alpha and beta endorphins, which between them serve as mood elevators and pain dampeners, respectively.*

What the hell is the point of a non-alcoholic brandy, Jim wonders. A brandy that looks an awful lot like Romulan ale, at that. But whether it's alcoholic or not, Jim is always up for trying new things, and after her toast - not one he recognizes, but he assumes that's what it is - he follows her lead and takes a sip.

It's certainly not what he expected. But that's not a bad thing. He takes another, deeper sip and savors the flavor, trying to figure out if it reminds him of anything, but besides being able to tell that it's distinctly fruity, it's definitely new to him. "This is pretty good."

*People are usually more taken aback by the glow, but Jim's quick acceptance of the drink gets a nod of approval. That nod turns into a glance aside, to the pool table.*

Glad you like it. Are you up for a round, or do you need to sit?

It'd take more than a glowing beverage to make Jim Kirk think twice about trying it, though he assumes if it was radioactive, she would've said something. It only seems polite. And for someone who easily could've beat the shit out of him a few minutes ago, it would seem dumb to poison him now.

He hasn't noticed the painkiller part of the drink quite yet, assuming the fading aches are more the part where he's not being pummeled anymore. "Sure, just gimme a minute." It's been a while since he's played pool, but he's pretty sure he remembers how. Unless the rules she knows are different, naturally.

*No, the radioactive glowing blue stuff in her life is a whole different tunnel of bugs, and she'd warn him the hell away from that stuff preemptively. Possibly from orbit.*

Of course.

*She sets her drink on the edge of the table, circling it to rack the balls and examine the cues for one that meets her expectations. When she's satisfied with her choice, she turns back to Jim with an expectant smile. He's had a couple of minutes, now, surely that's enough for the intrepid captain to bounce back from a light sparring session?*

Jim uses that time to finish off his drink, so by the time she turns back to him, he's feeling better and is ready to join in. He's a lot less choosy about his cue, though, pretty much just picking the first one he sees. "Any special rules, or just classic eight-ball?" he asks, chalking the tip of the cue.

*She rolls her shoulder in an eloquent shrug.*

If you want some special rules, now's the time.

"Nah, I'm good." His smile is small and a little tired, but sincere. "Wanted to make sure we were on the same page first."

Jim nods towards the racked balls. "You can break, if you want."

Fair enough. And thank you.

*She leans down, taking just a moment to line up a shot before breaking the group with considerable force. By now, Jim has some idea of how hard she can hit, so the sharp crack might be less of a surprise. She doesn't sink any, and steps back to let Jim consider the table, signaling the bartender for another round.*

Jim leans on his cue a little while he watches the balls ricochet around the table, flung all over the damn place by the force of her strike, just as swift and decisive as her hand-to-hand, it seems. He'd figured as much. And though his hand isn't hurting so much anymore, he could've sworn it was more than just bruised, so even if he can't feel it, he figures it makes sense to take it at least a little bit easy, letting her do this little amount of legwork.

"I hope this isn't a rude question, but you aren't a telepath, are you?" he asks as he considers his shot. This early in the game, he certainly has a lot of options to choose from, so he lines up on one of the solids.

Not a telepath.

*She receives her drink from the bartender, and sets Jim's on the edge of the table where it should be in reach but out of the way.*

Your next question is how did I know what to say to get under your skin, right?

*With the way she tilts her head a little to one side, it's hard to tell if that's a smile or a smirk, and it doesn't exactly support her not-a-telepath claim if she's right.*

It's also a fairly logical deduction, in Jim's opinion. Still doesn't necessarily mean she's not just saying that, of course. He nods slightly in acknowledgment of the drink, and in thanks for getting it for him, before he sinks his target ball. "Kinda. I was thinking more along the lines of 'how did you know there was more to it,' but same thing in the end."

As I said, I've been down that hole before, and I know the way out.

*She takes a long sip of her drink before she elaborates--grudging admission that she might need some steadying, herself.*

When I was four, I watched my entire colony die. My parents were killed in front of me, and I was the only survivor. I know what I went through, and I could see similar signs in you.

Jim doesn't sink another ball on his next shot, instead scattering a small cluster that had come to rest close together. He takes a step back from the edge of the table and picks up his drink in his free hand.

He's never really known what to say to something like that. None of the things people have ever said to him on the subject have come off as unhelpful at best, and at worst, patronizing. What's worse, he can't commiserate on the level he really wants to, still bound by the classified parts of his personal history that involve any mention of his presence at the Tarsus IV massacre. So instead he just gives her an honest, somber, and sympathetic, "That sucks."