milliways_bar | (no subject)

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There is a man with wings sitting at a table in the main area of the bar.

Correction: there is a man with wings sitting ON a table in the main area of the bar.

He's not wearing a shirt or coat -- simply a pair of well broken-in jeans and a tattered pair of black boots. He's got puzzle in his hands -- a Rubik's Cube, to be exact -- roughly half-solved.

(He hasn't been trying to solve it, however. He's trying to make sure that all the different colors are spread out on all sides of the cube. It's much more decorative this way.)

A waitrat occasionally squeaks at him in an effort to get him to take his feet off of the tabletop, but from a distance -- they don't like coming near him. He's too much of a predator for its liking.

[He's botherable and post is open!]

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Hm. Mordin hasn't been here in a while. There've been too many other things to do, too many responsibilities to pursue, too much to get in line in the face of what's coming from outside the galaxy- but the door has a will of its own and there's not much point in arguing with it once you're here.

Besides, there's always something fascinating to check out. Like the winged humanoid. And the puzzle in his (its? one never knows with a previously unfamiliar species even if they appear male) hands.

One six foot tall space newt comin' right up.

Skellig glances up from the puzzle and blinks (rapid, not entirely human), and cocks his head to the side.

And then the other side.

"You are not like them," he says, matter-of-fact and without any sort of rise or fall to his tone that might indicate if this is a good thing or a bad thing.

"Possibly true," says Mordin, huge black eyes blinking in reply. "Depends on your definition of 'them'. Multiple possibilities, really."

"Humans."

He twists the puzzle. Hmm. Too much yellow on this side. He'll have to fix that.

"Not all here are, but most. At home, too. More of them. Not many like me. Or you."

Mordin nods. "Different species. Salarians," he says, indicating himself. "Humans relatively common on my side of the door, yes, but only one species in galaxy of hundreds. Don't believe your race exists in our civilization, though. I'd remember, if I'd read about them."

And the possibility that he wouldn't have read about a sapient species anywhere in Council space, or most regions outside it from which people have returned alive? That possibility is to be laughed at.

"Salarian," he tests the word on his tongue, trying to sense it out. It's not familiar in the slightest, but given the world in which he comes from, that's not all that surprising. Not at all. There are things (dark and light) in his world that most people never even realize exist.

Like him.

Only certain people know about him.

"We don't have hundreds," he says. "Just Earth, too. At least that's what they think."

He knows better. But nobody listens.

Mordin nods. "Different universes, different sides of the Door," he says. "No space travel yet? Or a time of space travel, then a fall of civilization? Heard of both happening."

"Space travel, but not to stars. Just the moon."

He remembers when that happened. People were so excited. There was dancing! He likes dancing.

"Earlier than my time, then," says Mordin. "Humans expand outward quickly no matter what the timeline. Practically defining trait of the species. Human landing on Earth's moon occurred more than two hundred years before my current point in time. Fascinating endeavor, really, well worth watching in historical archives."

"Apologies. Should've introduced myself. Not always good about remembering that. Professor Mordin Solus, at your service."

"Skellig."

Mordin's pattern of speech is fascinating -- and while he doesn't understand half the words coming from the man-newt-alien's mouth, he gets the idea. He's good at that, well adapted.

"It is a pleasure," he adds.

It is only polite.

"The same," says Mordin. "New to Milliways? No, posture and attitude too much at ease, at least assuming human body language applies- used to the place. Must've been coming when I wasn't here. Plenty of opportunity for that. Access from my side occasionally erratic."

"I've been here before. Several times. Even have a room."

It is nothing more than a futon mattress on the floor, and a tower of empty Chinese takeout boxes artfully stacked in one corner. And a window -- a big window -- overlooking the lake and forest. It is enough. More than enough for him.

"And a milk crate."

To sit on.

Skellig smiles, and twists the puzzle again. The yellow is now spread out to his satisfaction, but the blue seems to be troubling him.

That sounds familiar. Mordin technically has a room on board the Normandy. He uses it as an equipment closet. Salarians sleep, at most, one hour out of twenty-four. Mordin, being Mordin, is in the habit of grabbing his sleep in five-minute increments throughout the day. There's too much to do.

"Don't think I've ever taken quarters here," Mordin muses. "Haven't needed them. Except once, to wash before returning to the Normandy. Useful that way."

He nods towards the puzzle in Skellig's hands.

"Might I inquire what this is?"

It might be sculpture, after all, or meditation. The possibility that it's a puzzle is only one of many.

"Bar gave it to me. It is a puzzle. I have seen them in shops before."

He hands it over.

"It was all one color on each side. Boring that way. This way is much more decorative."

Mordin considers the puzzle, testing it a little bit- one direction, then back, then another axis, then back again. After a moment he says, "Suggest you keep it. Would be tempted to take it apart, reassemble in different configurations. Old habit."

"I think that would be cheating," he says -- but the way he says it also suggests that this may not be a bad thing. He takes the puzzle back from Mordin. "But Bar might give you one. She gives good presents. As long as you are nice."

"Wasn't aware of stricture on acceptable means of solving the puzzle," Mordin says. "I'd probably take it apart anyway. Solve later, understand now."

Nonetheless he goes over to the Bar to try his luck. Bar, knowing her audience, gives him a different puzzle.

"Hm. Promising."

"That does look promising."

Also, it's a star. Skellig likes looking at the stars. The Window weirds him out a little bit, though, he won't lie.

"Also difficult."

Mordin chuckles. "Everything worth having usually is," he says, and sets to work scrambling the bejabers out of the thing. He's not going to go to the effort of memorizing his moves for undoing purposes, either. That would take half the fun out of it.

The scramble is much faster than Skellig would have done it -- but then again, most things about Mordin seem to be faster than Skellig would do them -- but he doesn't have any problem watching his hands as they mess up the cube-thing.

"Your species...is faster than them."

"Faster than most," Mordin agrees. "Salarian lifespan is considerably shorter than most Galactic races. Metabolism considerably faster, probably significant portion of cause, might be side effect- haven't spent much time speculating on that specific aspect of evolutionary biology. The important part is, we make the most of our time. Get things done quickly and efficiently. Not sure how humans stand being so slow, frankly. No offense."

Since Skellig does resemble a human, bar the wings.

"I don't take any."

He's been insulted, spat upon, and kicked while he was down so many times that someone calling him slow isn't even close to offensive. He doesn't care what anyone thinks, anyway.

"They are lazy." He nods. "And often stupid. Little ones are smarter. Sometimes."

"The species has promise. Individuals, also," says Mordin, still absently working at the device. "Younger ones often better about not settling into calcified patterns of thinking, though. Seems to be common across multiple species. Even my own."

"They rarely learn from their mistakes," Skellig points out. "Older ones. They say they do, but often remake them. Sometimes different."

If people would just listen his job would be so much easier.

"Young species. Still think they know everything," says Mordin. "Probably going to think so again once they're older. Still, they'll get better about it eventually. If they live that long."

"That is good to know."

It gives him hope. Or at least, something to look forward to.

"All sentient life is extremely stupid when young," says Mordin. "Individually, as a species, doesn't matter. Takes time and experience to grow out of it."

He eyes the now-completely-mixed dodecahedron.

"Usually, anyway."

"Will you try to solve it?"

The puzzle, he means. Not the problem with human stupidity.

"Maybe. Was thinking of disassembling and reassembling first. Wanted to experience its function before seeing exactly how it worked," says Mordin. "Could probably solve it, though, given a little time. Only so many possible combinations, after all."

"It does seem to be mechanical in nature. And if you broke it, could always get another one."

"Wouldn't break it," Mordin says. "My primary expertise is biological and chemical, but still. Have nothing but respect for well-made devices. Losing pieces might be another story. Will have to be careful."

"Something tells me you usually are."

The attention to detail, one.

Mordin smiles, a bright, lipless gesture. "Part of the job," he says. "Wouldn't be much of a scientist otherwise- wouldn't be much of a doctor, either. Patients might be impatient, but they prefer good results to quick, botched endings."

"You heal people?"

Skellig has had a fascination with healers and doctors -- especially scientific ones. Their belief system is interesting.

"When I can. Some things beyond my ability, obviously."

Because he's a salarian, and not a god or something.

Through the front door, a sorcerer arrives, chased by a late fall smattering of rain and fallen leaves.

Never mind he looks like a particularly archaic hobo. He's convinced the look is classy, and will get grumpy if told otherwise.

Archaic hobo? Not in Skellig's book.

The winged man-bird-beast smiles at the scent of rain and wet fallen leaves. It's familiar and he likes that.

"Nice hat," he says, once the door has fallen shut behind him.

(There is another scent there on the wind as well. Something also familiar.)

There's a faint green glimmer from the one ring he wears out of many which is actually functional, and the rainwater stops dripping onto the floor, his coat now perfectly dry.

"Thank you." At least some people have taste, here.

He likes the coat, too. Especially dry. Wet coats are no fun -- he has experience with those.

"At least it wasn't snow," he adds.

He makes a fluid gesture, part 'as the Lord wills', part 'and now that you've said it, I should go get snow boots'. He usually manages to vacate New York long before the snow flies, but...

Well. We'll see.

"No, there is plenty of that here, unfortunately."

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