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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"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."

It does.

*She stalks around the table, regarding the arrangement thoughtfully for a moment before leaning down to strike. She is swift, precise, and straightens up languidly as a ball clatters into a pocket.*

Thank you. I carried... enormous amounts of anger. For a lot of people. For the whole human race, even.

*She circles again, before stooping to take another shot. She doesn't sink one, but she's set up obstacles along two of what would have been Jim's better options.*

Not an exaggeration. I held humans in contempt for some time, counted myself lucky not to be one anymore.

Jim considers the layout on the table, trying to gauge if he can do a trickshot and hop the cue ball over one of the stripes blocking the way. Probably not, given the state of his hand, and he reluctantly nixes the idea, searching for an alternate move to make.

"What made you change your mind?" he asks, eyeing the angles needed for a long, bouncing shot. He doesn't ask what she means by anymore, either - if she finds it important, he's sure she'll say so. There's all sorts of legitimate reasons why someone might disown their heritage.

The Nexus.

*She takes up her drink, stepping back out of the light to watch him consider his options. Which possibilities does he seem to see, and on what must he weigh them to make the choices he does? She's reading into his every move.*

Humans and human-descended sentients make up about eight percent of the galactic population where I'm from, and for one species that's high. There, I could avoid them, tell myself whatever I wanted about them. Here, it seems like more than half the inhabitants either come from Earth or have at least been there and like it. I couldn't lie to myself forever, not in the face of facts, and it... helped, I think, being able to connect with people here and know they wouldn't be dead the next time I turned around.

He certainly doesn't mind long odds, the increased possibility of miscalculation as he sets the cue ball zooming across the table, bouncing off the soft green felt walls several times before clacking against one of her stripes, knocking it into one of his solids, bringing it close to the edge of one of the pockets without sinking it. It'll be difficult to put any other balls in that particular pocket without taking that one with it.

Jim listens to her, some of the ideas she's expressing sounding almost uncomfortably familiar. "Was there ever any justice for what happened to your family?"

*So that's the game--deny each other pockets by making it impossible to use them without sinking the opponent's ball. She's in, and studies the table thoughtfully.*

Of a sort. I mentioned I'm a bounty hunter; the organization that hit our colony is my target of choice.

*She leans in, sending the cue ball ricocheting across the table, leaving one stripe hanging on the lip of a pocket and dropping another elsewhere.*

They've... started to learn regret.

His move had been meant to actually get the ball in the pocket, but her use of a similar tactic looks too deliberate to be accidental, and his eyes narrow ever so slightly. Of course, someone who fights like she does would play pool with a similar mindset. Why wouldn't she?

Revenge is not one of the Federation's ideals, nor Starfleet. But Jim would be lying if he said he didn't understand the desire for it. "Sounds like you've got your work cut out for you."

*Welcome, Jim, to the daily struggle that is knowing Samus. She's like this just about all the time.*

Safe to say. They need to be stopped, and the Federation isn't up to the job.

*Everyone assumes it's about revenge. They're not wholly wrong, there's certainly an element of revenge in there, but that isn't the whole story.*

Jim takes up his drink again for a moment, sipping at it. "Bureaucracy's the same no matter where you go, huh? Or just hard to make the people who can do something about it give a shit."

He's probably too young to be this cynical about government, even his own, but he's run afoul of the Federation's tendency to sweep things under a convenient rug for years now.

*She lines up another shot, not sinking it this time, but trapping another pocket.*

It's difficult to fight a diffuse criminal organization with conventional strategy. The pirates favor guerilla tactics, lightning raids, and will do anything to get an edge. Up against that, the Federation needs to keep peace in about a third of the galaxy, without terrifying its neighbors or its own citizens with the level of force it brings to bear.

*She sniffs, then takes a sip of her own drink.*

If only the problem were some indifferent bureaucrats somewhere.

Yeah, he's gotta give her that, and he nods a little along with her. "Public relations. Yeah, sometimes that's even worse. Especially when you've got a couple hundred different cultural mindsets to juggle."

Jim leans against the table slightly, considering his next move. She's got two pockets pretty well monopolized, and one of her stripes is in the way of a straight shot he'd have to sink one of his solids. He's not afraid to go for it anyway, but wouldn't be his first choice, so he continues to examine the angles.

Whereas I have the luxury of being a free agent. It's not a diplomatic incident if I cross borders.

*She sips her drink and makes a dry admission.*

Still a panic, it just isn't any government's fault.

"Lucky you." He lines up his next shot, using one of her stripes to push one of his solids towards an open pocket on the other side of the table, narrowly missing taking the eight ball with it. The solid teeters on the edge for a moment before tipping in, thunking solidly into the hole.

Jim throws her a questioning look, one that says he suspects he already knows the answer. "Exactly how legal is your job, anyway?" He won't exactly judge her if it's not. He's many things, but he tries not to be hypocrite.

*She watches the dance of the billiards, hanging for a moment as Jim's ball teeters, before tsking quietly when it falls and raising her glass to him in silent acknowledgment.*

I'm fully registered and licensed in the Galactic Federation, as well as eleven other major principalities. I pull most of my jobs from the high end of the judicial and military rolls. But the legality of the job isn't why I cause a panic when I go somewhere.

*She pauses, tilting her head a little to one side and looking off into the distance as she considers how best to frame it. After a moment, her focus returns to Jim.*

What would you say is the most powerful, dangerous, destructive weapon you've ever heard of, and if used at its optimum, what is the most harm it could do?

That's an awfully easy question to answer, and one that brings only seriousness to his face as he turns towards her, his thoughts nowhere near the game at hand. "The weapon that destroyed Vulcan. It only took a single drop of red matter to create the black hole that consumed the planet. Destroying the whole shebang damn near ripped a permanent hole in the fabric of space-time."

*She nods thoughtfully.*

Sounds like it would be a G or an H on the Federation's Threat Index.

*She pauses; she can see how seriously he takes the idea, and her own expression is similarly sober.*

Imagine how your government would react if that weapon were a person, and had just entered your space on errand unknown.

He leans slightly on his cue stick as he listens, frowning. He's seen some crazy shit since he's been here already, and though he's already gotten the obvious impression that she's a walking weapon, he hadn't thought that he'd been sparring with a sentient tactical nuke. "Yeah, I guess I can see how that'd scare the pants off people."

Oh, it isn't like I can just wave my hand and redecorate a solar system, but even my missions that don't end with the galaxy a planet poorer tend to have high rates of collateral damage and no other survivors.

*Her tone is light, almost glib, but there's an undercurrent of shadow, there. She's gone into more than one mission with allies at her side and come out alone, and she hides how deeply that hurts her.*

Jim may not be able to pick up on all the subtleties, but he knows enough to tell that it isn't the sort of life she wanted. Not the way it's played out, anyway. He's familiar enough with the feeling, though probably not to the same magnitude. "I'm sorry."