vivala | A Troubled Soldier 01

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A Troubled Soldier 01

I: Delivery to Elysium
Elysium-the-city was far larger than Natalia had first assumed. Not that this was a problem for her-- a day or two among the rooftops, and she would know this place as well as anyone who lived here.

For now, though, she was momentarily relying on a map she kept carefully tucked away, and an address on a box with a memorized order form (and countersign, and counter-countersign, easily handwaved).

Being a delivery girl was hardly a novel cover, but it was precisely because such things were ubiquitous that it was easy to slip into the role as she came around the service entrance. Add perhaps a touch of bitter expression at the cold-- she didn't even have to try for that one-- and things would, hopefully, work just fine.

II: Blames Her Tools (Vault)
Natalia, after spending the better part of a day hitting targets from as extreme a range as the Vault could afford, was now overhauling her rifle, first cleaning the inside of the barrel with a cloth and a cleaning rod, and then disassembling it, screw by painstaking screw.

The casings were drying on a separate cloth nearby, with the scent of soap and water, waiting for an oven to finish getting up to the proper temperature.

It took up an entire gunsmith's bench, between the disassembly and the casings waiting for annealing and rolling and fitting and loading, but there was something to it. A peace, in an artisan's craft.

She looked at the tool rack above her and clicked her tongue.

She would have to go hunting for that particular tool.

Okay. Smooth hair. Stand properly. Act like you're supposed to be here.

Time to go among the other workbenches. Or workshops, if she had to.

III: Wildcard
Bug Natalia because she looks suspicious or because you need something.

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One of Natalia’s special deliveries is to a bathhouse and beauty salon.

The staff are bustling, grabbing salves and salts and ointments from the shelves with a quick checkmark to indicate the expenditure.

The recipient is one Deedee Yeowoo, a foxkin woman Natalia may recognize from her earliest arrival, who is personally dropping some perfumed essence into a jar of neutral oil when she spots you.

“Oh, hey. Got something for me?” she asks, ears twitching.

She blinks, eyes fluttering, the most surprise her face betrays. She recognizes Deedee, even if she doesn't remember the name. "I can only assume. This is the address, isn't it?"

The package is damn near untouched. Natalia's eyes shift from Deedee to the sounds of ceramics and glass, and the staff moving about. Were they free to speak? "I don't suppose I can take a moment from the cold?"

It wasn't even a lie, really.

“Of course. Let me get you a cup of tea - get to my desk so I can sign for this -“

Deedee gestures the girl in, standing to shield sight of her from any strangers.

"Thank you ma'am, it's bitter today. I think I spot it from here," she said, once she'd slipped in, and set the box down carefully.

She was sure there was both more to the package and the message-- This was, after all, intelligence and counter-intelligence, and physical objects are -- but she didn't have to know. All she had to know was 'wait inside and await instruction'.

Well. More accurately, 'wait inside and look relaxed', but the 'relax' part was... a little bit difficult for Natalia. Instead, she picked a bit of wall and shelving that didn't look like it was in anyone's way, leaned against it, and hid her hands under her arms to get the stiffness out of them.

The scents clashed with each other back here, but not unpleasantly so.

When she returns to the range, Natalia will find that someone else has taken up residence. A short young man with long blonde hair and pointed ears has re-arranged the targets into something of an elaborate obstacle course. Targets have been placed in all sorts of odd places, along with crates stacked upon each other throughout to create variation in height.

His goal, it seems, is to climb up the crates, jump off of them, and then shoot as many targets as possible while mid-air. Which it turns out is a lot of targets - because while mid-air, for a brief moment, he seems to speed up impossibly. In the space of a second, he shoots nine arrows into nine targets.

And then as he lands on the ground, he notices Natalia's return. Pauses. And then gives her a little wave. Hi?

She blinks, and for a little bit, watches him work. The arm strength and endurance alone must be phenomenal, and was this one of those secrets of Ether she'd heard so much about? Her mind already began to race with possibilities.

In as much as she felt anything, she felt the power of that hard work. "Agility training. Interesting. Your hard work is apparent in the results, and I suppose it was a bit much to ask to keep this room dedicated to only one person's practice."

Now, she carefully loaded one cartridge into her rifle, and chambered the round through the bolt. "Live," she said, more out of habit than anything else.

"I doubt I can match you for speed, if only because I cannot chamber rounds faster than you can nock, but if I may?"

"...You were here?" Link hadn't realised that someone else was using the space before he barged in, and started moving things around. But maybe he should have wondered harder about why there were already some targets set up in here...

Then he nods his head, and steps back - out away from any of the targets, out of the way from where she'll be striking.

But he definitely keeps a curious eye on her. How is she going to approach the course?

"I was. I'd decided to clean weapon and hand-load cartridges before returning, so I shouldn't be surprised."

The course... was built for Link's particular technique, to be sure, but she considered the crates, and where the targets were, and began to formulate a plan.

She loaded the rest of the clip-- Clips! they still used damned clips for mass-produced rifles!-- and felt the ninth bullet barely restrained in the chamber. She slammed the bolt home.

She began from a standing position, rifle down. Closed her eyes. Let out a breath that steamed in the air. Opened her eyes. "Beginning operation."

She snap-raised the rifle, took the sight of the first high target that would be obscured by the crates. one.

While Natalia chambered the next round, she also enhanced her leg-- a brief exertion. Skidded to a halt behind the first crate, rifle already swung into position for prone fire. Sight. Aim. One of the low targets. Fire. Two

Chamber the next round while rising from prone to kneeling. She used the top of that crate to steady her shot. Fire. Three.

From kneeling to standing, now she used the stack of two crates for concealment and steady. Four. She bunched up and used a touch of enhancement to make the jump to the top of the stack of three crates, hitting the target she passed on the way in. Five.

Chamber, climb. Low angle, low-range shot, but she didn't need to adjust for it, she simply lowered it a little, opened fire, didn't stop. Six.

Highest point. Standing, seven. Kneeling, but more crouching for a jump than steadying her aim, which remained as steady as ever, eight.

The ninth, she knew, was directly behind her. She leapt, turned in the air in a somersault so she could turn around, and chambered as she did.

It was, to her, a beautiful, almost perfect moment as, as she'd calculated, the sights lined up at just the right time to confirm her final shot.

She landed on her feet and ejected her last casing. The gunsmoke wafted like icy mist. "Operation complete."

Natalia took a deep breath, and finally checked her accuracy. "As I said, not nearly so fast as you. ... Or quite as accurate."

True to her word, while she did hit all the targets, the hits were not quite as tight to the center as Link's. "That ninth, especially, was a bit wild."

Not as fast, nor as accurate, no. But Link had an advantage she didn't; for him, in those moments where the entire world seemed to slow down, he could afford to take his time and line up his shots.

And she does as well - if not better - than Link might if he wasn't using that particular ability. He'd watched her close, taking note of her form and how she move with a soldier's eye.

"You're good," he says. "Like a Rito."

Give her the ability the fly, and she might give Tulin a run for his money.

Natalia blinked for a second, then felt a slight pain as she realized that praise was genuine. The words come out in a bit of a rush. "I-- merely show the results of my own hard work."

Her voice and pace calmed. "I have never met a Rito, though if they value sharpshooting, I suppose--"

She paused, reviewing the races she knew to be native to Esthere, and tsked. "On second thought... perhaps it is better if I never meet one, here."

Not a fate she'd wish on many.

"...No," Link says softly. "Rito are from home."

And right now, Link is - as far as he knows - the only one here from Hyrule. He wouldn't want anyone else to be here too. And certainly not one of the Rito.

He falls silent, for a moment. It's clear that Link's not one for talking much. But he does at least offer some explanation for what a Rito is.

"They're like...beastkin?" He says, naming the local people that's most similar. If a Rito was here, they'd most likely be mistaken for Beastkin. Like how Link gets mistaken for elf. "But birds."

She nods. That's what she expected. Natalia starts to collect the various casings from where she ejected them as she continues to listen.

"Beastkin, but a bird...?" There were a few things she could think of that looked like that, actually. She turned her head this way and that, trying to figure out which image best suited Link's description. "Perhaps-- Or... No, I'm sure the image in my head does not match your memory."

"Nn..." She reached for one that got lodged somewhere presumably safe, but, even one of the little bastards getting away would mean an unintentional bad day for someone else later. "Did you learn that technique from them?"

During the winter the turtlekin tended to favor a workbench closer to the heat of the forges. Things are usually relatively warmer in the armory but he still seemed to be able to tell the subtle differences between spaces, or perhaps it was some inherent thing, tugging at the back of his mind trying to coax him to bed for a long nap.

But he can't nap! Not when there's so much to be done! He has so much firing to do so things work out better this way.

His bench is kept nice and neat, pieces he's letting sit or that he's finished set well aside, the tools he's been using resting there, ready for the next task while others are stowed on a rack or in the tool box beside it. Donnie himself is busy stoking the flames in the furnace, trying to get the heat to the most optimal levels for his next piece.

Sitting nearby in a crouched position is a Feder armor, parts clearly missing, or rather removed as some rest in a small pile not far from it.

It's the Armor that draws her attention, first. She's seen them before-- only once before, but she saw them, on parade. Then, she considered them rather clunky things for a parade. She'd also wondered why they had to be shaped like a human. Tanks, in general, seemed to be more the thing.

Now, in pieces before her, she was starting to see how they came together, though half of these pieces she didn't know how to identify in the slightest.

Regardless of how intriguing it was, however, perhaps it was better to get this one's attention gently. "Pardon me-- if I take over the bellows, do you have a moment?"

Link - long-practiced in the ways of picking up things scattered around on the ground - moves to help her collect the casings. Once they have them all collected, he brings them over. Presumably she wants to keep them?

But on the topic of where he learned that technique, Link shakes his head. No, he didn't learn it from the. Rito. He's...not sure he learned it from anyone, actually.

Or if he did, he doesn't remember it.

"Huh?"

Donnie blinks, only slightly startled at finding someone addressing him. He shoves up his goggles to look at her, a new face so far as he's concerned, maybe not all that much older than himself. Not that he considers himself an expert in ages, and humans seem to have a strange range.

It takes him a moment to mentally rewind her inquiry.

"Oh yeah, um. Sure? I'm assuming you know how to use them?" he says, though he's already moving to allow her space to switch off with him.

"Did you need something?"

The casings were still hot to the touch-- gunpowder does that-- but Natalia's hands are a little cold as Link hands them over.

"Thank you," she said, putting them in a leather pouch. "Those can roll underfoot to nasty result, so I try to be painstaking with them when I can."

This had the added benefit-- if you could afford to focus on it-- of keeping people from following the trail of your casings later. But that wasn't the concern here. "If you wouldn't mind, then, may I observe and we can take turns? I have a few clips left, and I want to make sure of my scope."

She tapped a spyglass-like object atop her rifle to indicate it.

If nothing else, another chance to observe that technique might reveal some insight, and talking with this one more might help her understand the Corsairs better.

Deedee hands Natalia a ceramic cup of hot, strong green tea.

“Sit tight for a minute, let me know if it needs honey. This should also warm your hands.

Deedee opens the box, which has a written note and otherwise… seems to be full of salves, creams and powders.

She takes careful inventory of it with a pencil and paper, frowning without scowling, before nodding and writing her own list.

“Okay. I thought as much, but… okay. How’s the tea?”

"I do." She squats down nearly on to her heels, and takes to pumping, in an even, strong flow, like she's sat working such things for hours and hours.

"Originally, I was going to ask if you had graphite dust-- Not sure I trust oil with the internal magazine of that rifle on the gunsmith bench-- but now I'm sort of interested in your friend here." She gestured her head at the Feder armor.

The tea is plenty warm, and she lets it fill her nose for a moment. It brought back memories. Not all of them were pleasant, but they were memories. Just that. A deep breath, and the present returns.

She sipped at the tea. It was, perhaps, slightly stronger than she was used to from green tea, but hardly bad. "No need for the honey. It is quite drinkable, all on its own. It's... Nostalgic, actually."

“One day I might ask for what,” she says. “Alright. I’ve got a list here of things the apothecary requested; Can you read the local language? Help me find some of them?”

Deedee holds the paper by thumb and finger, on a hand over her heart.

He more or less had figured she'd know what she was doing or she wouldn't have offered in the first place, let alone be here. After she sets into the rhythm of things, Donnie nods approvingly.

"Graphite... Ah! I'd have to agree, dry would probably be a lot better. I should have some..." he trails off, eyes flicking about his work area as he simultaneously does some mental inventory. His attention immediately shifts to the armor in question and he grins brightly.

"Scavenged it off a crashed Imperial ship a couple of months ago. Titanium frame, but I need to fix the flight module and some of the plating. And get weapons I guess- it wasn't equipped when we found it."

"I know it's a form of Old English, with some drift. I got a lot of it from manuals," stolen, "Ledgers, manifests," plundered, "maps, and street signs. Everything else I piece together from context, German, Polish, and Norwegian.

"I'm... Not overly confident in my translation, but I'll make the attempt if asked."

"An--" She pauses. Shit. She knows the word in English, and Russian, and even German, but understandably she doesn't exactly know the proper word for it on Esthere. "[Airframe], Flugverke, Windwerke?" she guesses.

Curse linguistic drift!

Even though other-worlders have the strangest accents, Donnie can't help but envy that they know more than one language, even if they hadn't been given much choice but to learn a new one being stuck here. He supposed that did make things less great. Here he was still having such trouble just trying to get a handle on reading the only language he knows!

"More or less," he nods. "Commander-class, I'm guessing. It'd take a lot of work to outfit something in that much titanium otherwise." He smiles as he looks back at the thing. "This one's a Feder, so it's built for speed. I can't wait to see how fast it can fly," he says excitedly.

Get cow-napped by a flying bovine that travels at magical near-lightspeed once and now he's an adrenaline junkie. ...yeah, don't ask.

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A Troubled Soldier 01

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