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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His design of choice is fairly basic, more of an attachment made to be plugged in to a Starfleet-issue communicator, providing mostly just the necessities to start with. He hasn't done much yet to customize it either, as he hasn't had the time.

Jim finishes off the rest of his drink and steps up to try to get his bearings at the pool table again, taking note of which balls remain, as well as how many. Good thing they aren't playing for money, or he'd probably already be toast.

*It's a reasonable design, and she approves. She's just making certain he can't accidentally attach a portal to the wrong frame of reference and have it not be stationary relative to the ship or planet he's on, gouging out a portal-shaped hole as the object in question moves at thousands of miles per second relative to some cosmic stillpoint. That's exceedingly embarrassing when it isn't done intentionally (and Samus would prefer more people didn't get the idea for a cosmic-stillpoint-PINpoint-supercannon). When she's satisfied that his settings are as safe as a transdimensional aperture lens can ever be, she sets it down on the edge of the table, where Jim can collect it when he's done with his shot.*

Less balls on the table means less obstacles, but it also means less options to choose from, and the cue ball isn't in a great spot for him to take advantage. But there is one move he can make to gum up the works. Carefully lining up his shot, he puts just enough of an angle on the strike that his target solid clips the eight ball and knocks it in front of one of her remaining stripes, so she might risk knocking it into the pocket along with her own. His solid doesn't go in, but it's positioned well enough that he's sure he can fix that on his next turn.

Straightening up, he takes possession of his newest little gadget. "How long have you been doing this, anyway?" He means the Nexus, but she's welcome to interpret that as meaning bounty hunting if she'd like. Or pool.

I've been training as a Warrior since I was eight, I started Hunting when I was seventeen, and I've been in and out of the Nexus for eleven or twelve years--the time travel makes it a little hard to be exact.

*She circles the table, raising a brow at Jim's efforts. She'll admit, she's impressed. He's bought himself at least a round while she gets herself out of this mess. It will be delicate, but she finds an angle and shoots, ricocheting the cue ball around the table to come at her ball from an angle where it shouldn't strike the eight ball. She won't sink anything, but at least she's not stuck behind the eight ball anymore.*

You?

Buying time is one thing that Kirks do best, not that Jim would ever put it in those words, for obvious reasons. He lines up a shot on the solid he didn't sink earlier, and it sails smoothly into the pocket, damn near followed by the cue ball from the amount of force he put into it.

"I had a kind of... gap in real school after I was twelve," he admits, looking over the table to decide on his next move. "I basically roamed around doing odd jobs from fourteen to twenty-two. Did some time as a deckhand on a cargo cruiser, waited tables, did exotic dancing, spent a season helping out on a ranch in Australia. Ended up in jail a couple times, mostly for stupid reasons. Got recruited into Starfleet four years ago, graduated last year." She already knows he's on day one here in the Nexus, so he doesn't bother to tell her again.

You ran away from home?

*She's hazarding a guess, but it fits what he told her.*

It sounds like a varied life.

"Kind of." He hadn't really thought of it as running away so much as seeking opportunity, but it's all semantics. And he was underage at the time. "It was either leave, or stay stuck in bumfuck nowhere for the rest of my life. It's not like my mom cared enough to ask me to come back."

He hits another one of his solids into a pocket, and this time the cue ball does follow it in.

*She can't comment on parental affections, and doesn't. Whether her wince is for the familial strife or his misstep in the game is anyone's guess.*

I believe that's a scratch?

He decides to believe it's the latter, for simplicity's sake. "Sure is. Your turn." He's inadvertently given her a small advantage in the process, but the game is nearly at its end anyway, with only a small handful of balls left in play.

[ooc: I have been attempting to keep track; should be one solid and two stripes plus the eight-ball, if I've followed the game right so far.]

((That's closer track than I've been keeping, sounds good. Do you have a preference for who wins?))

Was it a challenge, catching up in Starfleet, after so long in the school of hard knocks?

*She's surveying the table thoughtfully--orbital insertions, FTL vectors, even close-quarters firefights, all have taught her to hone her aim. They're coming down to the last shots in this exchange, and she needs to make hers count.*

"Oh yeah." He leans lightly on his cue stick as he watches her consider her options. "Starfleet Academy's pretty tough to start with. I did a bunch of independent study when I was roaming around, and it was only the stuff I was interested in, but that was enough to let me test out of a few things and focus on the stuff I'd missed. I didn't have a social life for almost the entire first year because I was so busy."

[ooc: Not really! Jim hates to lose but he wouldn't be surprised if she kicked his ass here too. ;) ]

((Sorry I didn't reply sooner, I don't think I got a notification. They must be borked again. With your permission, then, I'll have Samus wrap it up. She and Jim are both pretty good at considering the angles, and it's been a nice, close game.))

*Not that Samus would know, but Jim Kirk without a social life? His later years at the academy must have been a social marathon to make up for the lost time, right?*

Mm. What did you study independently?

*Angle chosen, she leans down and launches the cue ball on its course, sinking one stripe, two stripes, and the eight ball, with the cue rolling to a stop with a quiet click against Jim's remaining solid.*

Jim groans, but applauds a little, conceding to her skill. He's disappointed, but a little impressed regardless. And much as he hates to lose, he has to admit that there's no shame in being fairly beaten. Especially with the possibility of a future rematch.

"It was kind of a variety pack," he says, as he puts away his cue stick. He reaches out to the table and pushes the cue ball and his last solid in by hand, so everything's put away for the next person. "Warp theory and design, mechanical engineering, some xenolinguistics, basic astrophysics and navigation. Plus the combat and survival stuff. Basic field medicine. I had to get some of it out of technical journals and periodicals, but some of it was kind of... on the job training."

[ooc: No worries! I've missed a few too over the past couple days. Had one delayed over five hours while subsequent comments got through just fine. Weird stuff.]

Edited 2017-06-08 00:25 (UTC)

I'm guessing combat, survival, and field medicine were on-the-job?

*Her tone, like her smirk, is a little wry at that.*

Jim nods a little. "And the xenolinguistics, actually."

Helpful for picking out the subtle nuance between "I surrender" and "I will eat your organs," hmm?

"Sure," he agrees with a small grin. "Or the difference between 'sorry, let me buy you another drink' and 'your mother has a smooth forehead.'"

A difference worth knowing.

*She sighs wistfully.*

I cleared quite a few bars when I was younger. I didn't even drink, I was just after my prey.

Speaking of, his glass is empty, so he steps over to the bar to order another round for the both of them. She got the last two, after all. "I'd say that's really cliche but I don't have any room to talk either."

*That's nice of him. It earns him a nod, and a raised glass.*

So what's your preferred mode of engagement for fighting in a bar? Not that I suggest we demonstrate.

He leans against the bar, sipping at his own drink. And quite honestly, he's considering whether to see if he can get some to take back home, because it's pretty good stuff. "You mean strategy, or picking the fight in the first place?"

Yes.

*Perhaps he should. Apparently drinks that glow aren't that unusual where he's from.*

The mathematician's answer, always a favorite. That draws a lightly amused look out of him. "I think about two-thirds of the fights I was in started because I flirted with the wrong person. I always found it more fun to try to get somebody to hit me first. I was a bit of an asshole." Not to say he isn't still one, in some ways, but at least he's self-aware about it now, and making a conscious effort not to be as big of a douche. "Then it was usually just good old-fashioned fisticuffs. And occasionally throwing chairs or tables."

Edited 2017-06-08 02:09 (UTC)

*She tilts her head slightly to one side as she listens, considering, and nods once when he's done.*

Getting them to strike first isn't a bad idea. Puts the greater share of blame on them, in most jurisdictions I've known, gives you the Advantage of the Second Mover, not a bad general strategy.

"Exactly," he agrees, and laughs a little, because this is still kind of unbelievable to him four years later. "Usually all it got me was a stay in the drunk tank overnight, but the last time actually got me recruited into Starfleet. Right place, right time."