legionmissions | Goodwill PR Tour!

They've got a private tour shuttle for the week to take them from one venue to the next. It's not quite luxury, but it is fairly spacious for what it is and stocked with all sorts of amenities. Each Legionnaire has their own personal quarters with a bed, storage, desk, and sonic bathing area, and there's a common area with table and chairs along the edges where you can catch lunch while watching the stars, with a receded square lounging area with cushions in the middle. The kitchen has several prepped meals and additional snacks aside. There is a modest 'faux liquor' cabinet, as well.

[Common areas]
When you spend twenty three hours out of twenty four constantly on the streets moving from call to call, cracking heads and getting shot at, this much downtime is almost torture. Sure, there are vid-screens for entertainment, but Rico can only watch so much Tri-D and do so many pull-ups before he cracks.

So he snoops in the personal business of his fellow colleagues instead. It's a small shuttle, there aren't a lot of places to hide. Maybe you're reading something and he wants to investigate. Or he's hanging around the kitchen during meal times so nobody can avoid him, unless they want to starve. If you've left your door open or even just unlocked, you might see him poking around in there. Another thing he loves doing is plonking himself down right between two people or more, interrupting their conversation. He relishes in any apparent discomfort he can cause. Or if it suits him, he might just sit there in complete silence. But unavoidably present.

"So," he might start. "How're you finding this little trip so far?"

And smiles.

[Kitchen] [i]
If you happen to come into the kitchen in the early hours when people should be sleeping, you'll see Rico sprawled across the kitchen chairs, surrounded by empty faux liquor bottles and snack wrappers piled high. Pretzels, popcorn, mock-choc, potato chips, flavored munce paste... Some snacks are only half eaten, a single bite taken then carelessly discarded onto the floor.

Opening a fresh bag of marshmallows with a crinkle of plastic, he throws one into the air with the other and catches it neatly with his mouth. The next one he throws bounces off his helmet and rolls onto the floor, but he just looks at it, shrugs and leaves it there. Then he digs into the packet, rummaging for one more. Not his budget, not his problem.

[ii]

Much later, when that's lost its appeal, he's quietly humming a gravel deep song instead. Hunched over the table, he rhythmically stabs his boot knife in the spaces between his fingers. It thunks repeatedly into the wood, making it shake with every impact. But as quick as he gets, it never nicks him.

"Oh, I have all my fingers, the knife goes chop chop chop..." he sings with a cadence, tilting his head in time to the rhythm. It's low, rumbling, and surprisingly pleasant. And it's very clear he's not expecting anyone to be there.

Claire is at one of the tables by the viewports, although her attention is diverted to her datapad as she fires back communications with their upcoming hosts. She has made herself available to answer questions, but outside of sending everyone their information packets she's left people to their own devices. They're all adults here; she figures they can handle themselves.

She feels Rico's presence before he speaks, and merely glances up in his direction. She's not worried about him trying to look at her screen because, yes, she's got a privacy filter in place. Can't be too careful.

"It's off to a smooth start."

Rico makes a little hum of agreement in the back of his throat.

"Your organizational skills leave little to be desired, director. It's clear those are where your talents lie." Paper pushers. "Still, you should always be vigilant. You never know how things could go wrong at any minute!" he says, cheerfully.

And speaking of. If Claire thought that would be enough of a deterrent to snooping, she thought wrong. Rico walks around to the back of her chair, leans down a bit and shoves his face uncomfortably close over her head, completely unashamed. He points a finger at the screen helpfully.

"Two thousand creds for a ride to the capitol? You're getting us ripped off."

With a sharp huff of irritation, Claire flips the tablet facedown on the table and slides her arm over it, curling in her chair to look point blank at Rico, and as much as she doesn't like having him this close - she's not about to let that show.

"Which is exactly why I am contacting them, Mr. Dredd. Let me remind you your role here is to present Legion's best face forward to these public audiences, not the organizational practices therein. If you have an issue with the way I run things, I encourage you to take it up with the Legion's offices."

She can say this confidently, knowing they'd be on her side.

Rico straightens his spine and leans back out of Claire's space, slightly disappointed that the source of his fun was taken away. But he doesn't step back, still standing at the back of her chair facing down at her.

"Oh please. Don't call me mister," he drawls. "And what about this isn't the Legion's best face forward?" he says, as he rubs his chin with his thumb.

He's sure he could pore over the financial records and find some kind of insignificant transaction that could've been much reduced, and send a ten page report on it. Hell, he has free time. Too much of it recently. "But that's an excellent idea, Miss Dearing. Might take you up on that. Not to insult the excellent work you've been doing so far, of course."

"Knock yourself out, you're certainly good at picking through the details." She doesn't mean that in a good way, but if he can think she's giving him a compliment she'll take it. Also, go ahead and write a ten page paper. Write twenty. Anything that'll keep him off her back.

Claire smiles at him, the quiet expectation that he will understand this as his dismissal, but she's not about to go back to her duties until after he leaves.

In fact, she's thinking that once he does head off she'll probably take this to her room and lock the door. So much for the space-side office.

Kubo isn't reading anything, when Rico comes investigating. He's writing things. For his scrapbook.

Which is a process complicated by the fact that Kubo never learned how to write. He has to dictate text into his omnicom, watch it be transposed as text that his telepathic earplugs allow him to read, then print it out on the palm-sized printer he brought on the trip, onto adhesive-backed paper that he sticks in his scrapbook.

The book itself is full of these printed summaries of missions, as well as selfie after selfie of Kubo in the corner of whatever he felt was important to take a picture of.

When Rico comes snooping, he's just placed a selfie of himself dressed to the nines in his father's spruced-up haori jacket over the kosode and hakama his mother picked out for him. The text under the picture reads "Mother, I am travelling through the stars again, and thinking of you as I wear your gifts. I hope the people I meet will think they look as nice as I do."

Kubo's expression was a small, absorbed smile as he lovingly curated the scrapbook, but the smile dropped as Rico made himself known. In its place is the skeptically horrified face Kubo made when he realized Rico had decided to join them on this little journey through the stars.

"I found it nicer a minute ago," he said, before he could stop himself.

Isn't that sickeningly sweet. Something inside Rico curdles at reading the little blurb, and maybe that's what prompts him to act with a little more planned malice than usual.

"Oh, is that so?" Rico says, as he tilts his head, smile only growing as Kubo's drops from his face. He pushes right into his space, leans over and puts a finger right on the most recent selfie. "This a present from your mom, huh? That's sweet." He reaches out and flips back through pages carelessly, licking his finger as he does, leaving wet fingerprints. "Gotta lot of pictures of yourself, juve. You a narcissist or something?"

This is all pretty tame for Rico's usual fare. But it's only the lead-up to his real batting. He's done his homework like a good Judge, and he's about to make the most of it.

Edited 2017-09-03 09:43 (UTC)

Kubo snatches the book away.

"It's for my mother and father," he says, glaring at Rico, more for slobbering on his carefully curated record than for the insult. "They'll want to know what I've been doing."

Wash had warned him to let him know if Rico so much as looked at Kubo wrong, but did this count as wrong? It's rude and intrusive and nasty but it isn't violent - yet - but he still thinks he'll message Wash about the encounter anyway. He has no reason to under-record where Rico is concerned.

Especially now that Father is not nearby.

"Maybe you should make one for your family," he suggests. To anyone else, it would be a friendly suggestion, but for Rico, it's more an entreaty to behave at least a little. "They must be interested in what you're up to as well."

Kubo hasn't heard of tropes yet, or of 'Even Bad Men Love Their Mamas,' but it is what he's unconsciously banking on.

Edited 2017-09-04 06:12 (UTC)

Rico lets Kubo snatch the book from under his hands. What a perfect opening. He's given the perfect segue to launch into targeted commentary, but when he opens his mouth, he's pre-empted by Kubo asking about his family.

What.

He's so off the drokking mark that instead of reacting with defensive tension in his shoulders as he's inclined to when anybody so much as mentions his family - no, he barely has a brother anymore - he snorts instead. "Who says I have one?" Rico says, flatly. "The Academy discourages the emotional connections that might come with that. But enough about me. What about you?"

He's not here to talk about himself, after all. What an insult. Normally he would've taken it for a targeted remark, but he has his doubts about how calculated this juve's research would be, or whether he'd have the capacity for it. He slams the book shut, palm flat on top of it. "It's a waste of time, resources, and effort. Nobody you're making that for will ever so much as see this."

His fingers drum on the cover.

"So what's the point?"

The last thing Kubo expects to feel for Rico by this point is sympathy, and yet, here he is, feeling that.

"I'm sorry. That sounds awful."

It goes a long way towards explaining how horrible Rico is. If no one had ever shown him kindness or love, if all he'd ever had was the Judge Training in a world of horror like America had described, then it made sense for Rico to be as aggressive and cynical as he could be.

"Mother and Father have both been here," Kubo points out, firmly. They could come back. No other thought cheered him up like that could. "People sometimes come back even after they go. It's not a waste to do things for people you love. Or to do things that make you think of them."

Pointing out that Rico only didn't understand that because he didn't grow up with anybody to love would only be cruelty, not an explanation.

Still, it is such an empty existence to imagine, and Kubo can't stop feeling unexpectedly sorry for the man.

"I hope you have someone to make a book like this for someday," he says, a firm little frown still stuck on his face. Sympathy doesn't mean Kubo wants Rico's hands on his book at all. "In the meantime, please take your hand off mine."

Edited (those dang tenses) 2017-09-11 02:33 (UTC)

There's a moment of silence, as Rico just stands there. It might even seem like Kubo's words have finally gotten through to him, the polite hope that he would become a better person in time, and have somebody of his own to care for.

"Sorry?" Rico repeats, flatly. He stares at Kubo behind his visor, like he can't even believe what he's just heard. "Sorry?"

His grip tightens on the scrapbook, the binding creaking under his gloves. And just when it looks like it'll be crushed in his grip, he suddenly relaxes, leaning back and snatching the book with him.

"You're better off keeping it for yourself. A half-blind, scrawny orphan who kills everyone he cares about feels sorry. For me."

Rico starts laughing. Not a wild laugh, but a small chuckle that speaks of real amusement. In fact, it seems like he can't stop laughing. "You can keep your whatever with people you love if that's what you get from it." He grins as he starts flipping through the book haphazardly, keeping it just out of reach of Kubo's hands, turning it this way and that. "A bunch of empty pictures and nothing."

Not quite Luxury is still pretty dang swank in York's opinion- lots of space, lots of opportunity to kick back and chill with Emu curled up either on his shoulder, on his chest if he's lounging, or perched on his head. Keeping around and keeping up in his not quite official second command position of cat herding (why did he volunteer oh right she's pretty and intense and he is still on occasion stupid over those things) is a challenge because Claire is...smart and intense and very much in her element which isn't really one he's wandered around in.

But he tries, poking his head in to check on the others, occasionally trying to catch her to double check that he hasn't fucked anything up (yet) or reassure her that everything's going swimmingly.

Ish.

Look nothing's on fire that's good enough, right? right.

The way you can tell Shepard didn't arrange the shuttle? No gym. She hasn't let that slow her down--you can do push-ups anywhere, and you can make a cardio workout of it if you're determined and physically strong enough. She's both.

When York sticks his head in to say hi, she doesn't stop or even slow down, banging out the reps like she's 18 and in boot again. Of course, when she was 18 and in boot, she didn't have extensive cybernetics, but she figures she's earned the power boost by now.

"Hey, York. What's up?" They can chat. She'd have to be going a lot harder to be too winded to talk.

Despite himself and his very happy lovelife (Sombra, Locus, YoSoLo all the way even when they aren't-) Old habits and old knee jerk reactions are a thing and he loses just a little time watching. Because-

Um.

Dayumn.

he shakes himself out of it and smiles, offering a wave. "Not much. Trying my hand at this whole 'assistant manager' business so Boss Lady doesn't have to stress about everything. Just. Most things."

A beat.

"I'm supposed to be the people person, I think."

While everyone's busy enjoying the luxuries that the shuttles does have to offer, Claire is busy doing last minute checks and confirmations about their first stop. After having a conversation with Rico, she's taken her correspondences to her room where she can close and lock the door.

But she will open it for her second in command.

"Come on in, Taylor. I'm just finishing up one last response." She's still very put together and poised, but there's definitely a weariness in her voices. She's already planning on a gin and tonic after this. She sits back down at her desk and taps away at her keyboard. "Everything going alright out there?"

"Everyone's settled in, some are actually reviewing the talking points and cultural sensitivity packets we whipped up; so I'd count it a win." Some being like- Delta and maybe him but Claire doesn't need to know that just yet right? Right.

"We should be set for the first run since that's more or less a cakewalk, right? Questions, a few photo ops, a nice gala thing. I even remembered to pack a nice suit. Or. Delta remembered to have me do it, same difference." A beat. "How you holding up? Need me to handle some of the gruntwork?"

"If you could find a way to handle Dredd, that would be great." She leans back in her seat and reaches up to massage her temples. "Other than that, I think we're doing pretty good."

Still, after a quiet moment of reflection she's able to find a handful of small chores to give to York that'll move things along a little better when they arrive. It really is gruntwork, but she smiles at him - an actual genuine smile, and not one of her business pleasantries.

"Thank you, Taylor."

She appreciates competent people, even if some of that came from a weird little computer brain person.

"I can see if I can't keep him out of trouble. He's an asshole but I'm well versed in asshole wrangling." Not handling as that would dip into innuendo and- uh. No. This is not that kinda broship. "Keeping him in line during the Q&A is gonna be the tricky bit but I'll do what I can."

Is it inappropriate to salute? Doesn't matter, he does it anyway.

"You're welcome, Boss. It's just another kinda battlefield. With words and images and stuff instead of bullets."

Somehow during the small boarding she hadn't noticed. Maybe it's because she's making sure all the luggage is in place - or because she's messaging Wash, telling him she'll be fine, and telling Tucker if she comes back to a trashed water park he's cleaning it himself.

But it isn't until York pops his head out to check on them. She waits until she's sure he's seen her and then she can't help but blurt out, surprised, "Taylor."

It's hard to see him - the last time she'd seen him was when she'd kicked him down an elevator shaft, confused and feeling betrayed by her best friend. And by the time she'd stopped being wrapped up in her revenge quest... he was dead.

It's not as hard as she thought it'd be, looking at him. She knew he was here.

Also: they're on a shuttle. He can't squirrel his way out of this one.

Edited 2017-09-19 05:51 (UTC)

"Yeah, boss?" It's so innate and instinctual that he doesn't think twice about drawling back a decade old response to a ghost long since laid to rest. Carolina isn't dead (thank god) but whoever she is, however she is? Isn't apparently the woman he'd followed into hell and fucked over with his own stupid assumptions and inability to communicate like a goddamn grownup.

But you hit a nerve right and a muscle will jerk- the tone's off. The word's right, the shape of the sound sits where it should at the back of his neck, warm and curling like Delta's chip when he's smugly pleased by cracking a code- but she's...incredulous.

Afraid?

Surprised- The fact he can't pick out the nuances of her emotions from one word as well as he used to implies a lack of familiarity with the language of Carolina's emotional state. He used to be fluent. That, as much as turning and seeing her standing there, jolts him into stillness. "...uh-"

A month ago he'd written a letter he'd never deliver as part of an exercise. Carolina's had been an apology. A year and change ago he'd been toying with pickuplines before he laid her soul to rest and dragged himself onward with his life. Five years ago he'd grovel. Six and they'd never had that gulf of six feet (six miles) between them on a moving platform, red alert blaring. For once?

He has no words.

Hello, Agent Carolina. Delta, however, does, flaring to life at York's left shoulder, green glow highlighting the diminished scarring on his face, shadowing the new lines and creases by his eyes, mirroring the dull glow of his bionic iris. Himself but older. Leaner. Delta, by contrast, opted for the old mjolnir armor projection. Some grounds of familiarity to...balance an emotionally intense interaction.

He doesn't look the same.

She expects that, logically. Even before his untimely passing it had been years since she saw him last. He wasn't frozen in time in reality the way he was in her mind and yet - she spends a good amount of time just looking.

The eye is new but not - she never quite got used to his scars. The scowl lines, laugh lines are deeper and he finally lost some of what she called his baby cheeks. It's a mirror of her changes - she's leaner, more thin scars crossing over her skin.

Delta makes her blink, finally, breaking the gaze and looking at his projection. There's a momentary ache for Epsilon she swallows down, but the sadness of loss is clearer on her face at that moment.

"Good morning, Delta." It's a familiar greeting and her tone is still fond, but her gaze is dragged back to York. What does she say? She knows what she shouldn't say (We need to talk, its a quick way to lose York).

She doesn't remember doing it but the weight of the lighter is in her hand, instinctively touched in her jacket pocket. She pulls it out, holding it loosely in front of her but - she doesn't have words yet.

She's older- he knew she would be, she'd have to be since she didn't die. Since he didn't, in fact, get her killed. Every winding and errant thought he'd had, every fragile shard of hope he'd packed up and tucked away while they were home and stayed that way even when he was here? Spills out in his chest like a fresh wound.

It's uncomfortable and awkward and he's glad for the diversion of Delta being a polite little AI to try and school his face into something that's less-

Not longing, she's not his to want. They were friends. They might have been something more if they'd ever gotten a fair chance, he's moved on, she's had to move on because he's been dead but...A part of him will always be hers. There's a dull ache that dims the usual humor in his eyes that throbs in time with his pulse. Older, leaner, new scars, but she's been doing better, they'd said.

She'd found her humor.

She'd learned to let things go.

She had Wash and the Sim Troopers and a purpose and that's- that's good, right?

It is good to see you again. Delta falls into parade rest, helmet swinging to peer at York, still frozen in the doorway with wide eyes and a million, billion possible iterations of this conversation winding through the back of his head, how to disengage, how to go from zero to shouting in point five seconds, will she pull a gun, will he have to hide-

And then there's the lighter and a wrecked, almost bitter laugh twists right out of him. "Oh man- I lost that when Reggie shot me."

Because he can talk about it now without his shoulder aching. Because she knows, she's known, and ignoring shit is how he ended up getting his ass kicked in the first place.

They had been maybes, might-have-beens. A fling and a friendship that involved a strange level of comfort until the project drove a hard wedge between them. Being alone - really alone - had been harder than she likes to admit.

She has a chip on her shoulder that fits her mother and father. She always will, even if she's learned to bandage it.

They had said Legion was good for him. Friends, structure, therapy. And she believes it, seeing him.

He sees the lighter and the bitter laugh, the comment - well, he knows. Her fingers grip the lighter tighter before she speaks.

"Well, I found it when I went looking for you. And your... journals." All that was left of him - Wash was thorough, but Carolina knew York, and had Epsilon to help.

She also almost tossed it away. Wash stopped her. She fiddles with the cap, then finally takes a step forward, offering the lighter out.

Its just an object, but there's an unsaid meaning there too. Its no longer hers to keep.

The Shuttle

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and carolina makes three redheads

So many so little time so intimidate

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