Scene #8521: How Are You Settling In?

Owner	Pose
Dysnomia	The coordinates that Father Bersilav is given are absurd on the face of it. It takes him past Mars, past Jupiter, past Neptune, past even Pluto, beyond the heliopause and to the very edge of the Oort Cloud, to a place where the line between the solar system and interstellar space is unclear. There, at the very edge of sol's grasp, with an orbit of 11,408 years to circle the sun, was Dysnomia's home. What most Earths call 90377 Sedna is a lonely rock, far, far from anything, and anyone. The light of Sol is so distant to the little red world that its shine is diminished to one light among many stars, though it burns the brightest and truest of them all. This iteration of the dwarf planet has been turned into a junkyard. Abandoned spacecraft litter the world, fighters and frigates laying strewn across the world, ships from forgotten multiversal wars dot dot the landscape, out of and within its gravity well. The remains of an interstellar luxury liner hangs in stable orbit above the world, debris spilling out behind it, creating a ring of debris around Sedna. Civilian, military and commercial craft alike sleep in this eerie graveyard of steel. Once, it might have housed a small city of travelers and employees...But in the present the the ship is a monument to fallen glory, the fine, clean lines of beautiful artistry pockmarked by microasteroid impacts, and one of its thrusters was simply gone, leaving a hole torn in the ship's aft like the side of a sphere, ringed with blackened metal. But, in spite of initial appearances, the ship was largely whole, and its orbit was stable. Dominated so largely by shadow, pinprinks of warm orange light shining from a scant few windows like beacons in the void, close to the ship's underside. There, a docking bay gently pinged oncoming vessels. A long string of red flashing guide lights, directed Bersilav, should he accept it, guiding him through path in the field of debris. Letters are inscribed in black, across the liner's silvery hull, visible in the faint light of gleaming stars. They say... Lindorm The docking bay the lights guided Bersilav too wasn't particularly grand. Not the sort of gleaming, glorious introduction that the passengers of the liner no doubt once found. It was bare bones, with plane steel and girders for walls, with several automated tractor beams in place, not to trap, but to hold guide and adhere incoming vessels to the floor, lined with grav-plates to keep boots on the ground. A repurposed cargo entrance...? Dysnomia herself was there, too. Her suit's helmet had closed around her head, concealing her face, her arms crossed as she waited, her foot tap-tap-tapping against the ground. "You're here, then." Her voice rang out in Bersilav's mind. "Airlock's this way. Come on."
Father Berislav	A silver hulk in the vague shape of a human travels through space. Its gleaming hull reflects a field of stars, warped across a hard, lethal, angular profile. The distant shapes of celestial bodies stretching across the mech's body are broken twice; once by a 'ribcage' of sorts, black and seamless, and once by a red canvas cloak, which billows very slightly, very faintly, as particulate matter accumulates and pushes ever so gently against it. Far from the light of Sol, the mech makes a little of its own light, by means of the white thrusters it occasionally employs for course correction. This close to the derelict luxury liner, that's all it really needs--course correction, here and there, until it reaches those tractor beams. A cyclopic red optic sensor, set within an inhuman, hammer-shaped head, sweeps down as the mech approaches. No such vessel likely ever docked with this liner--as gravity sets in and three-pronged feet heavily meet unadorned metal, it couldn't be more clear that this thing, in shape and size and function, is a weapon of war. The mantle falls slack, and its name is briefly revealed, etched upon the hem in gold--ISAIAH 3:14. Isaiah's black ribs spread open, its optic sensor winks out, and Berislav exits, in a sleek spacesuit of his own. It's got little in common with her Holo--looks like it was taken from some mercenary company or other. Unassuming gray with no-nonsense hardsuit portions. He leaps from the cockpit with practiced grace, clearing the distance between himself and Mia in a few seconds of hangtime, landing with an almost mechanical poise. "Hello, Mia," smiles the priest from behind the protective, transparent screen of his helmet. "Lead the way!" He follows behind her, hands clasped.
Dysnomia	Dysnomia studied ISAIAH 3:14. for a moment, the only outward sign of her gaze the slow angling up and down of her head. "Scary stuff." Dysnomia acknowledged, though from her tone, it was other people she expected to find that fear in. "Mechs might not be my specialty, but I know dangerous work when I see it." She turned, her feet making sharp metallic sounds on the gravpads with every step, until they enetered a small alcove, in front of a large, heavy-duty door. "Best we talk out of vacuum." She explained, tapping at a pad on the side, another identical door closed shut behind them, sealing them in. They were surrounded by a hissing sound, as the pressure in the airlock equalized, and breathable air was filtered inside. The pad flashed green three times, and Dysnomia's helment retracted back into her her suit, her hair spilling suddenly down her back. "You make a habit of visiting everyone new, Berislav?" She punched made a last touch on the pad, and the door hissed one last time, rotated. Split into four parts, each retracting in tandem, into wall, floor and ceiling, revealing an entryway, with places to hang spacesuits, replenish O2, and past it... ...A lounge? It was hard to say what it used to be, but Dysnomia had clearly repurposed it. Signs in alien languages had been hung against the wall, filling the space. 'DANGER,' 'HIGH VOLTAGE,' 'MIND THE GAP,' 'TIP YOUR SERVER.' There were even some papers, from various earths, hung against the wall, behind glass. It lended the space an eclectic air; like Dysnomia had tried to grab a little piece of everywhere and take it home. Several couches had been set up about the room, and Dysnomia let herself fall into one, her suit 'retracting' from her hands and arms, until it left the impression her suit was sleeveless. She gestured to a chair opposite her. "What do you make of what you see?" Her expression was halfway to, but not quite, a scowl.
Father Berislav	A courteous nod is given to Mia, when she speaks about the mech. Roughly the same sort of polite pleasantness one might offer in response to a compliment about an outfit, maybe. Best we talk out of vacuum. "Of course," says the priest with another gentle, cordial nod. When the airlock shuts behind them, and breathable air is pumped in, Berislav twists his helmet and lifs it off his head. "I do, yes," says the priest, holding the helmet under one arm. "There isn't always a convenient opportunity to do it right away, what with service and our work as Elites, but I do my best to make visits like this a habit." Stepping into the lounge, his silver eyes widen with appreciation, taking in the repurposed room. "Oh, my," he says, hanging his helmet up on one of the racks in the entryway, while unzipping his spacesuit. It isn't the cassock from before that's beneath, but a blue floral print dress shirt, matched with white slacks. A black leather choker rests around his neck, and his silver hair falls about his shoulders. A warm smile meets her halfway-scowl, undaunted and genuine. "I love it," he says, after another look-over. "You've managed to take something that was once a monument to excess and render it instead into a place of refuge. Artificiality, into life." He takes a seat into the indicated chair, crossing one leg over the other. "What are those papers, if I may ask?" he says, motioning with a nod of his head to the wall decorations.
Dysnomia	"I love it...You've managed to take something that was once a monument to excess and render it instead into a place of refuge. Artificiality, into life." "I didn't think of it like that," she frowned, but didn't dispute his claim. ""But it's a good project. I don't know if it'll ever really fly again, but I don't need it to. If I can manage to get the main power running at 35%, I'll be able to start retrofitting even more of this old piece of junk." A fond tone contradicted her choice of words. "What are those papers, if I may ask?" "Same place I got the Lindorm, really..." She turned to follow his gaze, to all her little artifacts. "You go out far enough, you start to find ships that were left over. Things without pasts, from worlds that never were...Or just forgotten, left to drift forever in the void." "It's all salvage. From different wrecks, all of them from different worlds. I try to take something from every wreck I go through out there. A little piece of history."
Father Berislav	"A little piece of history," Berislav repeats, fondly. "I like that," he says, after a moment's thought. "In a way, you might also say it's gravity. You're drawn to these forgotten stories, and they follow you, swept up in your orbit and forgotten no more. Given new life, just like the Lindorm." The priest folds his hands in his lap, fingers steepled. "How have you been adjusting to life as part of the watch, Mia?" he asks.
Dysnomia	"In a way, you might also say it's gravity." "Gravity." Mia repeated, her scowl had faded to a melancholy frown, and her eyes had turned away from Berislav. "Don't know if I like that. I think we could use less gravity. Not more. It's too easy to get lost in it, get too close, until it just tears us into a debris field." "How have you been adjusting to life as part of the watch, Mia?" "I don't know." She said, blandly. "You've all got all these familiar landmarks, don't you? 'Earth.' 'London.' 'Australia.' I've only read about those in my history books, and even mine aren't much like most of yours are." "I guess it's been nice, to have some people to ask. To help keep in touch, that's not just the general multiversal radio. Even if they can be nosy sometimes...And cagy. But I don't hate them, either."
Father Berislav	"Or, perhaps," says Berislav, "Weighed down." He nods understandingly, and doesn't push further down that conversational road. He does laugh, softly, when Mia says she doesn't hate the Watch. "What glowing praise," he says with a little smile, "Especially considering the circumstances." Berislav uncrosses his legs, and lets his eyes scan over the assorted salvaged signs. "The Watch is a coalition, not a committee with oversight and not a private initiative with a bottom line. It's certainly nice to get along, but ideological unity is... mm, actually at cross-purposes to our goals and methodology, if you can believe that. Sometimes that does mean things like rapport and camraderie fall to the wayside, in moments of stress." He frowns slightly. "Do you mind if I ask your reasons for joining? It's purely a matter of curiosity, of course."
Dysnomia	"Sometimes that does mean things like rapport and camraderie fall to the wayside, in moments of stress." "You say that like Concord and the Paladins get along nice with their people." She quipped, darkly. "I've been listening to the radio." "Do you mind if I ask your reasons for joining? It's purely a matter of curiosity, of course." Dysnomia drummed her finger on the arm of the couch for a long moment, frowning. "What's the harm, I guess..." She sighed, leaning forward. "So, you've got the Paladins. Everyone keep in line, toes in a row, follow your orders. Tie yourself to a leash, and let someone pull it..." Her fingers clenched. "...Stifling. I've had my fill of orders. Of saluting and smiling and playing along, like I'll get a treat." "And the Concord, well, isn't that just perfect?" Her voice dripped sarcasm. "People get to pick their own way...Long as they're strong. Influential. But, that means you've got to listen to people stronger than you too, doesn't it?" "They say it's freedom, but there's always someone stronger there to hold the chain." Dysnomia growled. "There always will be." A sigh, and Mia fell back, looking away. "The Watch at least, they want people to get to pick they're own lives. They don't tell you what to do. And I don't mind breaking a few chains and spiting some greedy masters, when I get the chance."
Father Berislav	You say that like Concord and the Paladins get along nice with their people. Berislav smiles, his silver eyes twinkling. "If only that were a sign of something grander, no?" He sighs, softly, not totally disappointed, but more resolute, as one might when faced with unflattering, tedious work. It's a sound that says 'we'll simply have to do it ourselves.' "Control seems to be a pain point for you," says the priest. "Not that I blame you at all. With control comes the ability to leverage harm, in all its many forms. The hand that holds the leash can pull it taut," he ruminates, eyes landing on the 'MIND THE GAP' sign. "And of course, it can strike. But it can also withhold." Berislav's frown returns. "That's the aspect of control that's rarely mentioned, in such discussions." "Have you thought about what kind of life you'll choose, then, as part of the Watch?"
Dysnomia	"Control seems to be a pain point for you...Not that I blame you at all. With control comes the ability to leverage harm, in all its many forms. The hand that holds the leash can pull it taut...And of course, it can strike. But it can also withhold. That's the aspect of control that's rarely mentioned, in such discussions." Dysnomia nodded, softly, thoughtfully. "Guess so." Her eyes scanned Father Berislav. "They tell us what we can be, what we should do, what we should want. They give us promises. Let us build our lives around them. And..." She sighed. "Of course it's a pain point. It's everywhere. In everything." "Have you thought about what kind of life you'll choose, then, as part of the Watch?" "Does it matter?" She fired back, still dodging the question. "As long as it's finally mine?"
Father Berislav	"It matters, yes, precisely because it's yours," says Berislav. "In the same way that all of your decorations, all of the personal touches you've made here," continues the priest, gesturing with a gently swept hand to indicate the lounge, "Recontextualize what the Lindorm is. An implement of culture following its whims says more about the culture than the individual." He pauses, thoughtfully. "There's a fable, in the scripture of my religion, about a man who survives a flood, and ensures biodiversity, because he built an ark to withstand it, and gathered two of every animal he could find." "What's the difference, then," Berislav continues, "Between him, and a fish? A fish would merely survive the flood, because of what it is. But that man overcame it, and prospered after, because of effortful work. You'll find that there are many people out there who confuse overcoming something difficult and merely surviving it in a passive sense. That's why it matters, what you do. Because fighting for your freedom only to drift and let the current take you where it will isn't much freedom at all."
Dysnomia	"There's a fable, in the scripture of my religion, about a man who survives a flood, and ensures biodiversity, because he built an ark to withstand it, and gathered two of every animal he could find." "And why was it valuable?" She challenged. "Because he had a duty to serve? A duty to who, and why? What did he have to give up to make it happen? Was there room for everything he loved, everyone? Or did he throw away everything he treasured for the 'greater good?!'" "I don't want to be just another satellite, Berislav." She found herself breathing hard, bringing her voice back down to its normal volume. "I want to be a rogue planet, free in the dark. Free of all the other orbits that might pull me in and USE me." "You'll find that there are many people out there who confuse overcoming something difficult and merely surviving it in a passive sense. That's why it matters, what you do. Because fighting for your freedom only to drift and let the current take you where it will isn't much freedom at all." That one touches a nerve. "Well I'm SORRY if if I don't know what I'm doing, Father!" Her mouth was halfway to sneer. "I'm sorry I haven't come up with a good enough reason to LIVE for you!"
Father Berislav	Berislav is just as placid as ever, even as Mia has to reign herself in. "Why would you be sorry for that?" asks Berislav calmly. "Do you have any idea how many people don't know that they don't know what they're doing?" The priest smiles warmly at her. "I've found that many people can't be honest with themselves about what it is they want. Even being able to admit that puts you considerably ahead of the average person." He folds his hands in his lap. "You don't need to satisfy me, or anyone else, but yourself." "As for Noah, he did it because he wanted to," shrugs the priest. "He was warned, in advance, told what he needed to make a prosperous life elsewhere, by someone who happened to have that knowledge, and he chose to act on it."
Dysnomia	"Why would you be sorry for that?...Do you have any idea how many people don't know that they don't know what they're doing?" It takes a few moments for the hostility to finally bleed from Dysnomia's eyes. Liar. Dysnomia reminded herself as she found herself turned away, still scowling. "Don't know that story." She said, to deflect. "Earth religion, I guess?"
Father Berislav	"That's correct, yes," says the priest. "One of the oldest." "There are many denominations, formed by any number of ideological splits, all tracing back to a fairly large and contentious one, in the age when kings were more than just cultural icons and figureheads." He sighs, one thumb tracing across the back of the other hand. "In the modern era, of many Earths, in fact, its age and reach haven't provided much insulation against willful, malicious misinterpretation, no matter the denomination."
Dysnomia	"I wouldn't know." Her fingers drummed on the arm of the couch, her eyes set still determinedly to the side. "We...HAD an earth, once. It had a lot in common, with many of the others I've seen, for a while." "When the ITA took sovereignty over the planet, they outlawed all unsanctioned spirituality. At least, that's what they say..." "Maybe yours was one of them?"
Father Berislav	"It's certainly both possible and familiar," Berislav says. "The scripture is broken into two parts; the Hebrew scripture, which primarly concerns the dealings of God and the people he chose to embody His word, and the Greek scripture, which details the arrival, life, teachings and death of Jesus Christ, His divinely conceived son. In the time of Jesus, much of the places described in the Bible were under the yoke of an expansionist, militaristic empire." "Christ and his disciples were often held in contempt, both by that empire and by adherents of the faith from which Christianity sprung, for different reasons. In the case of the empire," he says, "No empire particularly likes to hear sermons about how force is usually applied from the top down, how national identity is a fictional construct, or how people may accomplish more and prosper from the help of their neighbors than from earthly kings." The priest shrugs his shoulders lightly. "What an empire can't assimilate, it attempts to crush now, and relitigate later."
Dysnomia	Dysnomia snorted. "The Admiralty WOULD hate that. 'To turn away from Admiralty is to turn away from society. To turn away from society is to betray humanity.'" Her voice took on a note of rote mockery. "All we had was their Integration Church..." Her eyes wandered up, toward the lights on the ceiling. They were classic deep space staples, designed to give anyone nearby a light dose of artifical sunlight for their health. But curiously, instead of the yellow of the sun, these shone inexplicably orange. "...And, I guess, mother Ran."
Father Berislav	Berislav nods, smiling wanly at Mia, as if to say 'yeah, you get it.' He then follows her gaaze, up to the archetypical deep space imitation sun-lights, before tilting his head and looking back her way. "The patron deity of the Integration Church, perhaps? Or a spiritual authority of some sort?"
Dysnomia	Mia snorted. "No. If she was, they wouldn't be so upset by her..." "'Ran' is just the name of our star, really. Just like you have sol. It's unstanctioned, but it's everywhere...?" She hmmed softly to herself, looking for the words to describe it. "She promises warmth, a way out. A way to be free. A new way to live." Affection crept into her voice. "Even if unsanctioned spirituality wasn't banned, they'd HATE her anyway."
Father Berislav	Berislav nods. "Yes," he says, with a little frown. "I think I'm beginning to see the picture, now. It's a bit absurd, isn't it? That freedom and love and warmth could be considered radical ideas." His brows knit together during a brief pause. "That they could have sanctions placed against them for fear of what they might erode." "But," he says, with a slight smile, "They're powerful things. Powerful enough that, from time to time, authoritarian regimes do their best to rob the people of the very words for expressing those ideas." Berislav sighs, as a saddening thought comes to mind, and he gestures with an index. "Sometimes they do unfortunately succeed. Sometimes language is humiliated to serve the interests of naked power." Still, he manages a smile for her. "Despite everything you've told me about where you've come from, I'm glad to see the language to describe your own emancipation hasn't been stolen from you."
Dysnomia	Mia's immediate answer comes out as an inaudible grumble, as she tries to grapple with what Berislav is saying. She ends it with a shrug. "I'm not one of Ran's, anyway." She turns her eyes from the oddly-colored lights above them, to look at Berislav. "Everyone's talking about how I should want to go back. Fix it." She said, eventually. "Like I have a...Duty. A responsibility, to them. For making me. For raising me. Because it's where I came from." Her hand clenched, unclenched. Clenched, unclenched. "Even here. In the Watch." "They sound like them." Her teeth grated, a violet fog flickering out from between her teeth. "'We gave you life, we gave you the chance to live, you owe us. You should be grateful you're alive, and do your part.'" "When do I get to pick my own way, huh? Why does it take freedom too far, to say 'I'm not ever going back?'"
Father Berislav	"Frankly, it doesn't," says Berislav simply, returning his hands to his lap. "In the first case, because you have no control over whether you're even born, much less to whom or where. The idea that you have a responsibility to your home because they did the bare minimum for you is ridiculous." The priest pauses, fingers interlacing as he searches for his words with a thoughtful frown. "As for the Watch... it's neither monolithic nor perfect. You're not required to help any individual member with anything, much less agree with them on how power and force ought to be used. The other side of that coin is that showing a willingness to do so, or at the very least, building solidarity with likeminded people, means it's more likely that you'll get help from them in the future."
Dysnomia	The agreement mollified Mia, slightly, but not enough to stop a last ultimatum. "I'll do what I want to do." Dysnomia huffed, turning up her nose. "I'll help who I want to help. But I won't be lectured on what I owe that world." "I'll help them with their own little problems, but I'm sick of the Nine Moons." She tugged at her collar in demonstration, bearing a sigil depicting of a half-shaded orbitted by nine circles. "I didn't come all this way just to go back." "You're the first who heard that didn't try to tell me I owed them. It's nice to see." In that world, or the worlds beyond. She smiled at him, for proving an exception. So far, anyway.
Father Berislav	"I think that engaging with the world purely based on an idea of debt is an ugly way to live," says Berislav. "It doesn't account for things like love and solidarity, and holds as the highest possible pursuit a grand evening-out of every scale. If 'zero' is the highest one can aspire to, that paints a fairly bleak picture of life, doesn't it?" He smiles back at her, since they're so often contagious. His next thought does put a mild damper on his expression--"Especially when many of the would-be creditors out there have a vested interest in never allowing their debtors to reach 'zero' in the first place." "In general," says the priest, standing from his seat, smoothing his dress pants and striding over to an adorned wall to peer more intently at Dysnomia's decorations, "I think life ought to be less transactional. That's one of my driving desires--one of the things that determines who I'll help and when." Looking over his shoulder at her, "If someone else managed to escape the Nine Moons--if they wanted to find their own freedom, and they happened to come to you for advice, what would you tell them?"
Dysnomia	"If someone else managed to escape the Nine Moons--if they wanted to find their own freedom, and they happened to come to you for advice, what would you tell them?" It shouldn't have confused her so much to hear that. It wasn't even the first time that someone had suggested it to her in the multiverse. But nonetheless, it caught her flat-footed, as though the question of someone escaping...No, of someone asking her had simply never occured to her. "I..." A figure with four arms and two legs tumbling over a railing, with a large squiggly X drawn through it in warning. Next to it, another, a slender figure in a wetsuit, leaning against a hoverboard by a salt sea, under an alien sun, index finger and thumb pinched together in the somehow universal gesture for 'okay.' He didn't need to read the balloned, cartoonish text to recognize an advertisement. And more and more. Shop signs, shimmery holograms of what seemed like newspaper clippings. Some in human languages, some not. A study of worlds or echoes of world. Some, perhaps, ripped from the hulls of ships lost in the old multiversal wars. A collage of different worlds, different ways of being, different existences. Carefully placed and hung all around Dysnomia. As long as they weren't hers. "I don't know." She said, lamely, a little lost. "What do they want?"
Father Berislav	"What, indeed?" asks Berislav, his eyes briefly flicking between the figure falling over, and the hoversurfer. Between someone stumbling, and someone searching for joy. "I'm sure the advice changes, depending on what they'd want to do -with- their freedom." "But..." His eyes fix on a shimmering news excerpt. Something from the old Multiversal conflicts. A piece focusing on a harbor town increasingly adversely impacted by its proximity to the Industrial Behemoth (before it was called such) until it became a ghost town. The piece is defined by a portrait of the empty town, its main street cracked and in ruins following a skirmish. "Most people want to live, rather than just be alive. They want to feel safe, and empowered, and... to use a very broad term, loved, however they may individually define love. -Expressing- those wants can be quite difficult." "So," he says, turning back around, placing his hands in his pockets. "To render the question more simple, let's say that this person, coming to you, whether they realize it or not... wants to -live,- as opposed to just being alive. They've no idea how to do that. Apart from having escaped the Nine Moons, they're more or less lost--marvelling at what you've built for yourself. You know that, at most, they'll be able to internalize one piece of advice you give them. So, what would it be? How would you help them put the first brick down?"
Dysnomia	Dysnomia doesn't answer right away. She pushes to her feet and began to pace. "Your questions suck," she complained, when no immediate answer came to her, struggling with her words. She confessed, for the second time. "I don't know. I don't know, alright?" "I don't know what it looks like! I don't know what the difference is! I don't know what's missing!" "I just know what living DOESN'T look like! I know what it CAN'T be!"
Father Berislav	Berislav hms softly. "Do they?" He smiles faintly. "Maybe I didn't ask them expecting a particular answer," he says somewhat cryptically. "The one you gave is better than you think it is. Sometimes, knowing what something -isn't- still helps. I think that's especially true for this particular subject. Maybe one person can't feel like they're truly living if they're not connected to others; another might need to get away, every now and again." "Someone else might need to work with their hands every so often, to create and put things into the world to feel like they're connected to it." The priest heads over to the spot where he'd hung up his spacesuit, and retrieves it, stepping back into it. "I've got to head out, now, but it's been a pleasure meeting and speaking with you." The helmet is held under one arm, as he hovers by the door, the knuckle of his now-gloved index propped under his chin as he searches for words. "Think about it, would you, please? About what it would take for you, personally to feel that way. It doesn't have to be all at once. It isn't a race. No one is coming to 'score' you on it. But having an idea of it, even one piece at a time, helps." The helmet is placed back on, sealing itself around the collar of his suit with a crisp hiss-click. "Have a wonderful rest of your day--and don't hesitate to ask me if you need help in any capacity, or even just polite company."