milliways_bar | (no subject)

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The door to Milliways opens, and someone steps in, carefully shutting the door after. At first, all anyone could tell is that this...person is tall, wearing what looks like dark pants and a white shirt, and is covered with a thin rime of frost. Dark brown eyes blink, carefully taking in the surroundings.

One hand scrapes up and over face and hair, then joined by the other, slowly brushing off the ice.

Ambriel steps forward, winding through the tables and chairs to stand in front of the observation window, and places one hand against the glass. The angel stares out at the end of the universe with an indecipherable expression.

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"You can stand there all day watching it, if you like."

The voice is coming from a skinny, dark-haired girl -- at least it's probably a girl, comparatively deep as the voice may be -- wearing jeans, Docs, and a black T-shirt.

"But I've always found people to be more interesting. There are more of those inside than out."

In case this newest visitor to Milliways hadn't noticed.

"Yes," Ambriel says, without really responding, before looking up sharply at Michael. Then, a little more sure: "Yes. I knew Milliways was a waystation at the end of the universe. But I wasn't truly prepared for what my reaction to it would be. How could I be?"

A curious glance at Michael. "I had thought I was the only one tasked to explore it, currently." Allpocalypses at the end of the universe are pretty noticeable, when you're helping to keep said universe running smoothly.

"There's something to be said for surprises, I guess. Most people stick to profanity, but it takes all kinds."

She doesn't smile, just steeples her fingers under her chin and watches the angel.

"And I'm rarely tasked with exploring. This is no exception."

Clare jerks around, inhumanly swift, at the first intrusion of that aura into the bar. She doesn't draw the huge sword across her back, nor even grip the hilt, but her hand half-rises in readiness.

Okay, so the other's aura is as subtly but surely weird as most of the other inhuman beings in Milliways. Which means, based on precedent, that this person (she, Clare thinks, without even noticing her own assumptions) will be confusing, disinclined to monologue or attack, and neither clearly a yoma nor clearly otherwise.

But better safe than sorry is a survival tactic. Clare's not in a hurry to override instincts that keep her -- and surrounding humans -- alive.

What human eyes would see: a young woman, slim and bleached pale, with a face pretty even in its intensity, and eyes of an inhuman silver. Her similarly pale clothing is tight-fitting, designed for ease of movement, with a few bits of armor that seem more aesthetic than practical. The sword at her back is a huge two-handed thing that looks more like something a strong man would bear than something this slip of a woman could.

What Ambriel's eyes will see might, of course, be a different story.

"I usually find other ways to express myself." It's not disapproving at all, just a statement of fact.

Ambriel blinks, finally pulling that telling hand away from the window. "No. Ah, this seems to also be my first experience with the...plurality of multiverses that cross here." Michael is clearly from 'somewhere' (and probably when) else.

Michael snorts, pushing her booted foot against the legs of the chair across from her.

It slides across the floor with an audible screech.

"Will it hurt anything if you sit down?"

Not that the physical body means much, in the grand scheme of things, but there has always been power in symbols.

Hence the existence of magic.

"Peace," Ambriel says, reading that sharp movement as clearly as if it was a printed statement. "I mean you no harm, so long as you mean none."

Which isn't entirely a sure thing, considering both Clare's reaction and her own rather interesting aura.

Ambriel's lips quirk slightly. Of course one of the first beings met here would be someone who can see a wound on an angel, and probably guess why said angel would be sent to Milliways.

"No. Thank you." Ambriel sits. "Forgive me; I do recognize you as family." The word rings with a strange, bell like tone, as Milliways' translation trips over itself and offers something like sisterbrothercousinotherself. "But I do not know your name."

Clare's hand lowers again, slowly. It seems a deliberate gesture, since nothing else in her stance or tension changes.

One point in Ambriel's favor: that's not how yoma talk.

(On the one hand: Ambriel's power levels read to her as a lot closer to Awakened One than standard yoma. On the other hand: Milliways.

And Clare has, at this point in her life, only met one Awakened One. She doesn't have a lot of basis for comparison about how they talk, and whether it's similar.)

Silence is a bad habit of hers. She says nothing; only waits.

"Family is a relative term, some might say."

Here Michael does smile, just the merest uptick of one corner of her mouth.

"But there are a few of us here, for what that may be worth."

Her smile falls away.

"I'm Michael."

Edited 2012-04-26 03:51 (UTC)

...of course.

"Captain. You will forgive me, I hope, if I do not make the proper salute." It would involve being in a form that the inside of Milliways might not be sturdy enough for.

"May I ask, why are you here?"

That's fine. If there's one thing being out in space with no company but young stars in a nebula gives you, it's patience. In spades.

Ambriel is content to look back, all dark, intense eyes.

"No forgiveness is necessary," Michael says, flicking her fingers in a swift, dismissive gesture.

"Not here."

She leans back in her chair a little, making herself comfortable.

"As for me, I'm a messenger. And there are more than a few here who require said message to be delivered with a sledgehammer. Multiple times."

Here her mouth quirks again.

"Fortunately I have persistence on my side."

Or sheer bloody-minded stubbornness (and righteousness). Or at least that's what her brother would say, were he here right now.

As he is not --

Well. What Michael thinks in the privacy of her head is nothing for public consumption, now, is it?

Ambriel would sincerely like to ask if this is Michael's mission, or if she is just...having fun. Perhaps Milliways is her version of taking a vacation.

Some things, indeed, are better kept in the privacy of your own head.

"And patience," Ambriel says with a smile. "If there are so many here who need your assistance." So many people here! Ambriel can barely keep from picking several at random to follow around and pepper with questions. There will be time.

There's someone else staring at the end of the universe too.

He's barefoot, with glittering makeup still artfully applied in the latest Capitol style, with his shirt untucked and half-buttoned, a bottle of something he's failed to identify in one hand.

He's trying to decide if the splintered rainbows he keeps catching out of the corner of his eyes are real, or the after-effects of whatever they gave him.

A yoma would probably be cackling and declaiming its intention to feast on her intestines by now. They're not very good at staring contests.

An Awakened One... who knows.

However, at length, Clare unbends enough to reply. Levelly: "It's not part of my purpose to fight those who mean no harm to humans."

Her tension remains, but Clare's not very good at relaxing around people at the best of times.

"I do not believe we have a quarrel," Ambriel allows.

Though it can certainly be an angel's purpose to fight someone or something that doesn't care a whit about humans.

(It has been a long time since Ambriel had any contact with humans.)

Ambriel glances at him, then pulls away from the window, clearly making a decision not to watch it any longer.

"Hello." Now, he has an angel watching him instead.

Not that Michael will ever admit it, but by now Milliways is definitely a little of both. Most of the time.

"I've been told I do 'stick up the ass' better than I do 'patience'."

Her voice is very dry.

"But I'm very good at keeping busy. Idle hands."

After a moment, Clare nods slightly.

For now is as much truce as she'll come to, but she'll do that.

If she were in her own world, of course, 'this town isn't paying my organization for me to kill you' would be a factor too. Or at least it would be expected to be a factor. But Clare had some formative influences in the matter of doing as she pleases when not ordered otherwise.

"May I know your name?"

We're all friends here, Clare!

He's developed a sense of when he's being watched, over the years. Of course, with the Capitol being the Capitol, he's almost always being watched in some form or the other, but there's watching and there's watching.

So he turns (and the rainbows splinter at the edge of his vision, and yes, someone slipped him something, again. He was afraid of that) and stares right on back.

If a bit unsteadily.

"Hello yourself."

"Yes." Ambriel's hands spread on the table, fingers running carefully over the smooth wood.

That is why the angel is here, after all. Keeping busy.

"Is there much work, here?" Their specific brand of work?

This garners a brief blank look.

That's the third request for her name in a (subjective) month. Clare is not used to this much social interaction! IT'S WEIRD.

"My name doesn't really matter," she says.

"But it's Clare."

What Ambriel is doing at this point definitely qualifies as watching. "Do you find that psychotropic drugs enhance your experience, while looking through the window?"

Ambriel would have thought that it was already unpleasant enough. Then again, angels are not widely known for their drug binges.

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