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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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."

*She gives a wan smile, letting the weariness show for a just a moment.*

Thank you.

He's not really sure what else he can say, what more he could possibly do. So he just inclines his head a little, thinking back on what else she's said.

There is one thing that stands out, and he hopes it isn't something that'll lead to a similar sensitive spot. "You mentioned a threat index?"

*Oh, thank the stars, the moment has passed. She can talk about the minutia of her Facet for ages.*

I did. The Galactic Federation has a rating system for measuring how dangerous something might be--whether it's an animal, a weapon, a natural disaster, whatever. It starts with null, then runs A through H. Broadly, it measures how much property damage something could do and how many people it could kill.

He can tell from her body language that he's made a good choice of topic to transition into, steering away from uncomfortable personal shit. Even if it is personal shit she voluntarily talked about, he's still the one who asked the questions in the first place, and he's more than content taking it back to relatively neutral territory.

As neutral as you can get when talking about disaster scaling, anyway.

"That's a hell of a scale," he says.

*She could easily have directed the conversation away from the sore parts of her past, but she places a great deal of stock (when she can) in the ethic of reciprocity. Kirk let her pound him like a nail and pry open some of his festering emotional wounds on a first meeting, it was only fair that she share a few of her emotional scars in turn.*

It has its uses. It can help to determine whether something should be restricted or banned by the definitions set out in existing laws, rather than needing to write new laws to account for every new vehicle, weapon, and form of recreation that somebeing dreams up.

Jim nods a little, both in understanding and in agreement. "That makes sense. Wonder why we don't have anything like that; it'd save a hell of a lot of time."

Now that the more awkward moment has passed, he remembers about the game again too, and the fact that it's still his turn. He has to take a moment to remind himself where he left off, turning part of his attention back towards the pool table, even as the bulk of his awareness stays with the conversation at hand.

*Has she been drawing out this conversation to challenge his ability to multitask when recovering from exertion? As a test, or yet another lesson of some kind? Would she do that?*

Perhaps you can take the idea back with you--one of the perks of this place.

*At least she doesn't do the thing where someone coughs or makes a sudden noise just as he's making a shot.*