Chapter 4

[thenine]

Who: OTA
Where: Quad
When: Week VI, Day VII - Week IX, Day I
Summary: Chapter 4 prompts!
Restrictions/Warnings: Violence, blood, et cetera. For anything surpassing 'R' on a rating scale, please create your own log.
Notes: Please title your subject line in the following format -- Open / Closed | Date. OOC event information can be found here. Calendar information/dates can be found here.

Quick Navigation
The Nine
The Company
Westies
Leith
Resistance
The RAC

The Nine: Ballroom Politics

Delle Seyah Kendry herself has sent a message to all with Qreshi citizenship. She calls them to a gathering of her own inception, a gala for the affluent few to spend a leisurely three days adrift in orbit. The invitation includes the ship's parameters, sure to comfort or entice any member of the nobility with expected and lavish accommodations, as well as a personal note of interest. It's been too long since everyone was together to discuss their pursuits, their thoughts, their projects… Invitations sent to: Crowley, Rhys, Sui Feng, Hanzo, Hanbei, & Royce On the surface, the event is a extravagant social soiree, but the undercurrent is clear. With the Peace Summit concluded, it's time to find an actual solution to the unrest in the streets. What house Kendry seeks is a move that benefits all members of the Nine, something that solidifies their position and ensures more years of prosperity. House Simms agrees, their pandering to the powerful Kendry family only intensifying. While there are some - perhaps land Hyponia - who disagree, their voices are hushed, few willing to lose life or estate for the common man. The cruiser hosting the event has three levels. The highest houses an opulently decorated hall, repurposed throughout the day for banquets, entertainment, and mingling. Only the finest food and hokk will be served, and those attending may also sample delicacies from the reaches of the J as they converse. As days drift into nights the lights will dim, long dining table replaced with smaller stands on which the elite can amuse themselves with the newest tech, including a gambling interface. The middle floor houses personal rooms, each containing a king sized bed with too many pillows, a walk in shower, a full kitchen, a stocked minibar, and a fully equipped entertainment room. Communication between rooms has been installed as full-scale holograms, and a mere voice command activates all tech within. The lower deck, housing the bridge of the ship and all workers’ quarters, is not advertised for visitation. Heirs and family heads alike will be in attendance, mingling through the ambling guests to speak with the most important, or the most concerning, individuals. Such a party would be woefully unenjoyable without proper security, and several warrants requesting RAC agent service have been placed. A high-paying position, any Killjoy who attends will need to dress formally and keep their gaze narrow. Some among the aristocracy may wish to speak with them - to ask for favors - but any conversations will be carried out with utmost secrecy. For the spaces warrants could not fill, Company enforcers have been summoned to bolster the event's protective forces. The higher within the Company, the less surreptitious one needs to be to chat with the Qreshi. However, having a distinguished Company pedigree doesn't guarantee any contact aside from being asked to dispose of something (or someone) for the good of the Nine.

The Company: Training Day

A divide has begun to form within Company ranks, and those at the top are loathe to see such cracks being driven into their foundation. Though the riots are growing more subdued, the lack of a 'unified' approach to street patrol has inspired action. Model Company officials will receive either a promotion or higher clearance for access to equipment. There is no mention of violence or brutality in the messages each receives to alert them of their bonus, the expectations of continued service acting as implicit reinforcement. Company officials who approached the malcontent populace with what have been officially labeled "high risk" methods - plainly stated, with mercy - will be notified of a different sort of reinforcement. Those who require acclimation training will be paired with an officer the Company can trust to exercise appropriately severe punishments, and sent to a volatile area. The location differs by assignment, but each has in common the hostility of its community. Spitting, jeering, and sudden attacks are to be expected by anyone wearing Company issued gear. All patrol, arrest, or recon missions in these areas will prove to be a battle against the Westie citizens who reside there. Not intending to lose members of their workforce, the Company does expect success and will not set any team up for deadly failure, but kindness on the part of any officers in the area will likely be met with suspicion or revulsion by the people, and possibly a report to upper by their partner. In a completely different sphere, officers who caused the Company figures of damage - or just a financial headache - will be assigned to stress training. The process is available to any employee, should they wish to opt in and kiss ass have something nice to put on their resume. A debriefing outlines that those participating in the training will board a vessel with a partner and be launched into orbit. The ship will have several interface and mechanical failures - all carefully monitored by the Company control below, of course - over the course of the simulation. Officers are required to land the ship despite these errors, and will be evaluated on their technique, teamwork, and attitude. Unbeknownst to all participants, the small ship will also contain three spider-type bots that will activate once in orbit and scatter over the framework of the vessel. They will trip alarms, project voices, and interface with the system to cut communication. The last any participant will hear from ground control is, "What's happening up there!?", an urgent final message sent before the true observation begins. Characters granted higher weapons clearance: Giovanni, Jack, Sui Feng, Hijikata, Hanzo, Juvia, Fenris Characters assigned acclimation training: Julius, Nyx, Shiro, Sion, Rhys Characters assigned stress training: Giovanni, Hijikata, Shiro Aside from the Company's inner workings, the world has not stopped spiraling deeper into chaos. Some enforcers may be requested as security at the Qreshi convocation, serving both abroad the actual pleasure ship and patrolling around it. Others may find their battle with the streets of Westerley dragging on as organized crime rises alongside the Resistance cells. Gangs threaten Company officials and average citizens alike, looting bars, sacking shops, and carrying out their own executions. Agree with the Company's blame of the Resistance, or see the gangs for the opportunists they are - either way, one thing is clear: The streets of Westerley are unsafe.

Westies: Karma Police

Cries for justice have distorted, shouts becoming incomprehensible as the dawn breaks on an otherwise calm Westerley morning. The riots that had become almost commonplace have dwindled, crowds thinning as the days drag on. Yet the violence that accompanied such frenzied backlash continues. It's not unusual to see a beaten and broken man lying motionless on the sidewalk as one makes their way throughout their day, bloodstains on the street coloring nearly every path through Old Town. The disenchanted have splintered. Some have returned to work, looking to keep their heads down and their necks safe from trouble. Some have taken a more subversive approach, fading into the shadows as the Resistance receives a new wave of sympathizers and participants. Some bask in the chaos, taking advantage of the upheaval to assert themselves, and their gangs, as a new authority on the street. Company enforcers remain pervasive, their patrols constant and their responses brutal, but they are no longer the only danger. Every abandoned safehouse, every street corner, and every back alley has become someone's territory. Lines drawn in the gravel are frequently contested, skirmishes between rival groups a common but insular backdrop to the violence teeming in the city. Though all gangs have different expectations, different eccentricities, they share a brash hatred for the Company. With growing frequency, establishments that serve Company officials will find themselves ransacked. Windows broken and goods stolen in the night, or the owner run out and beaten on the street, no venue can guarantee its safety without turning away those in Company attire. For some, even that is not enough. Speak too gently of the Company and one may find themselves labeled a sympathizer, subject to jeering or beating with little provocation. The question, How do you feel about the Company, asked by both enforcers and crime rings alike, is impossible to answer without earning at least one enemy.

Leith: Changing Winds

The winds of change howl across the Leithian landscape. The actions of the True Leithians have set events into motion that start to propel the usually relatively peaceful moon into the kind of unrest that's more common to its neighbors. As land reallocation continues, the upper classes of Leith start to resist the pull of charity. Where Leithians were content enough to provide aid to Westerley before, it's more difficult for that generosity to continue as their own coffers start to diminish. The relief efforts that the poorest of Westerley had relied on come nearly to a halt, because Leith is drawing away to protect themselves in the chaos. After all, chaos is starting to seep into Leith too. As donations slow, the Westerlen workers start to show their own unrest as their families and friends at home suffer for the slowed aid and the decreasing prospects of their own work. Leith's relationship with its Westie workers has always been tense, but it's never bubbled to the surface so much as this. The Resistance is quiet, but growing louder even on Leith. The market is often surrounded by workers striking, and Leith struggles to contain the protests. While a few unruly workers could be dealt with by a farm alone, hundreds of them forces those same farms to listen. Without their Westerlen labor, there's no one to tend to the farms and harvest the valuable crops that Leith provides to the Quad. The Leithian farmers may have to listen to the protests of their workers, but they wait, cutting off pay for those that refuse to work in a tactic to try and force them back to work. However, where some return to the farms reluctantly, it only makes the anger burn hotter for others. A massive field belonging to one of the biggest producers of Hokk in the Quad is torched, and the fire and smoke can be seen for miles. Ash falls on nearby towns like rain, and while the Qreshi fret over a shortage of their favorite Hokk, the people of Leith and Westerley both know that this is the start of something more dangerous on Leith. Rumor has it that the fires may have been started not by a Westie, but a rival Leithian, and with no one to conclusively blame, everyone bears the suspicion and distrust. Those disappearances that had effected only a select few associated with the True Leithians increase, but Leith itself doesn't complain too loudly. In the streets, Leithians seem oblivious or ignorant to what's coming, but they know. They only hope that so long as they pretend in public that everything is fine, maybe peace will return to their home.

Resistance: Power Vacuum

Hyperion becomes a whisper, a phantom looming in the background noise of discontent conversations and secrets kept. Some say it's a single person, a man of strong pedigree and polished cuticles, while others speak of a woman clothed in midnight black with a piercing stare that strikes through the heart of a man. Others yet suggest that it's not a person but many, a group of shadow puppeteers who offer direction.. but at what price? While rumors swirl and build into the myth of the Hyperion groups, rival factions rise to fill the empty spaces. For some, it's an ideological clash: whoever Hyperion is, they're too well-funded and connected to truly be of the people, too secretive and selective to warrant the trust of those who risk life and limb for sedition. For others--most, really--it's a matter of power hunger, groups forming and striking out to take control of the scattered members of the Resistance while the mysterious Hyperion remains an intangible figure. Unity, they say, in this time of division. They say it in town meetings and raids, in private conversations and public--albeit careful--demonstrations, using the cover of Westerley's rising gangs to cast shadow on their movements. As is often the case with politics, what they say and what they mean are quite different. While these different groups call for togetherness, they seek subordination and compliance to their respective ideas and goals going forward. Some call for violent uprisings, others aim for organized strikes and legislative pressure, and others still seek a peaceful but complete abolition of the current monarchy class. Each spreads their own propaganda in coded pamphlets and messages sent across the Meshwork, and though they agree on little, they are, indeed, unified on at least one common goal: The Nine must fall. In the meantime, though the focus of those outside of Hyperion's reach drifts, Hyperion teams continue to receive missions and intel, each cell working on a singular component for some great machination of change. Hyperion cites its compartmentalization as a means of protection--should one cell fall, the loss can be contained to those secrets and plans alone--but a closer look at each division's missions will offer a slightly more tarnished future than the one Hyperion claims to build. It's a war, even if the people on the streets don't realize they're fighting in it just yet, and in war... there are always acceptable losses. Collateral damage to be tallied and disregarded for the greater good. The Nine will fall, broken bone by broken bone.

The RAC: Level Grinding

As always, agents will have their hands full as the juggling jesters of the Quad's court, tasked with keeping the various factions served and satisfied with their contracted work. Between acting as guards for the Qreshi envoy, cleaning the streets of the detritus corpses left in the wake of the riots, and the monthly warrants, there's no shortage of work for the killjoy who's looking. And there's more killjoys than ever, at that. Following the lower level evaluations, a new score of Level 4 agents arrives on the scene, eligible--and potentially willing--to form new teams. With this advancement in rank comes new opportunities that span beyond the potential for awesome buddy-cop movies: higher level warrants that pay better and offer increased access to otherwise off-the-books missions. Will you band with your graduating class to knit powerful units and make your mark on the J star cluster? Or do you prefer to remain the lone wolf figure in this otherwise disparate organization? Maybe you have you sights set higher than that. Maybe you want to go for the top tier of the RAC and make yourself a Level 5. While it's generally thought that only those agents who have proven themselves as Level 4s are afforded the opportunity to advance, it's not strictly a requirement. Whether that fourth notch in your killing belt is fresh or well-worn, the Level 5 evaluations are open season, but not unfettered. Indeed, while any Level 4 is elgible to try their hand at the highest ranks, those who hold the most tenure will have a far easier curve to ascend than their less experienced counterparts. Competition will be fierce and the opportunity for advancement strictly regulated based on not mere skill, but psychological stability and past performances. Any mark left in the records of an agent can and will become leverage against them when they enter Level 5 evaluations. The evaluations, at least, are similar in construction to the lower-level missions, albeit with far greater danger. The evaluating agent must carry out a Level 5 warrant--with his or her team, if applicable--but rather than having the guidance of a senior agent to shape their path, they'll be monitored and observed with real time telemetry from RAC HQ. The results will thereafter be analyzed by the RAC's top brass and released for viewing in Chapter 5. With competition fierce and the test itself a life or death scenario, agents will need to utilize any advantage they can in order to come out ahead. Cultivating their contacts and gathering the necessary resources isn't just a strong recommendation for these killjoys but an implicit requirement for a successful promotion. That's not the only unspoken requirement. Whispers begin to circulate throughout HQ that certain palms have opened for greasing and can facilitate a smoother evaluation for the right price. Open discussion of the rumors is strictly prohibited and strongly punished, but for the cunning and sly.. ...any attempt to bribe those palms will be met with an automatic failure and subsequent investigation into the killjoy's past endeavors. Those individuals rumored to offer grace in exchange for joy are among the RAC's most loyal and stalwart class of senior agents, purposefully placing themselves within the public eye in order to draw out the rats of the organization. The warrant is all.

Comments

hawke | killjoy

[kirkwalled]

[ Hawke figures if she's going to take one meaty paycheck this month, she might as well do security for the snobs. Low risk, high reward, just a few hours of misery -- that's good enough for Hawke. What does make her scowl though, is the fact she has to... dress up -- which for Hawke generally includes actually taking care of any current injuries she's sporting and making sure she doesn't smell vaguely of dog. She succeeds, barely, and so she goes.

Over the course of the party, she'll be found off to the side and trying to keep her head down. This would probably be best if she for once in her life stopped with the blood streak over her nose gambit, but she opts not to. So that, combined with the practical dress and boots, means she doesn't look much different from normal. Just, clean. And slightly more feminine that she's used to. Maker, help her.

Anyone's free to run into her while she's either:

1) making faces at the tiny sandwiches
2) on patrol and getting easily distracted by the windows (space is still, very cool)
3) nervously checking her PDD while standing guard because hello, promotions are about to be announced. Oh boy.
4) Or a variety of other stuff that equates to keeping her head low and trying not to cause an incident because stuff does always tend to catch on fire around Hawke.

Like, literally. Something might catch on fire too. ]

[ofobedience]

[Giovanni doesn't even have the promise of a meaty paycheck to see him through the tedium of his event-- he's just a weapon, something owned, has no right to decline or complain and can expect neither joy nor praise for his work here tonight, there's no choice in the matter, not for him. But when one's very life has been defined by the absence of choice, there's nothing else to compare it with. One can't miss what one has never had.

So he thinks.

Instead there's only the dubious pleasure of a job done well keeping him from sliding sideways into mind-numbing boredom, the fact that he takes pride in having been brought here by his owner, evidence that she thinks him capable enough to get this right. Because it's a far cry from anything he knows, anything he ordinarily does, all the hard-packed violence in him kept in check, out of sight. Instead of the severe lines of his Cerberus Unit uniform he's dressed in style tonight, has been told he needs to blend in, and despite that it's different from anything he believes he's ever known, he seems right at home in his expensive new attire. Body languid and loose as he moves to slip past Hawke, shadowing Sui-Feng from the edges of the room.

He should move on without a word. He should. But he sees her checking her PDD and can smell the thrumming anxiety on her, and the opportunity to needle a killjoy is just too tempting not to take. When his voice comes as he draws level with her, its a sly, sardonic slide.]

Look sharp, now, will you? And here I thought you were meant to be on duty.

I'M HERE i'm ready and i am so sorry jfc

[kirkwalled]

[ It isn't as if Hawke is unaware of the amount of Enforcers lingering about the room. She made a note when she arrived to take stock of every single one out of a long worn out habit. In the back of her mind, she's aware of just how many are in the room and just what vantage point they're keeping guard of. She hates it almost, how her instincts yell at her to do this each time -- but she's become very good at appearing as if it's nothing she'd ever give thought. If she presents herself as semi-incompetent, no one will ever believe otherwise. That's how Hawke likes it, less pressure on her shoulders, less blood on her hands.

So, in a way she's not surprised when someone calls her out for being anxious about the other problems in her life. She blinks, looking up from the PDD and to the smirking face in front of her. A name, a name. Something with a G. Something stupid too, she remembers thinking. Ugh, she should've memorized the list. ]

I'd say I'm looking perfectly sharp as it is. [ Haha, get it. Because she's hot? The ego on this woman. ] But if you disagree, you're welcome to state your case. I'm desperate for a good laugh.

[ She will put the PDD away though, no use in mindless refreshing and a moment later, she has her hands loosely clasped behind her back and a smile on her face as she rocks on her feet and drags her eyes over Giovanni, sizing him up or checking him out -- hard to tell. ]

I was only checking my messages. Nothing terribly sinister, I assure you. Still an eye on the crowd and who is snatching a finger sandwich too many. Promise.

<3!!!

[ofobedience]

[Plenty of Enforcers yes, though in truth he isn't one of them. Something else entirely, and if his name has been listed tonight rather than his make and number - Unit 68, because why use a humanising moniker for something that's barely human to begin with - it's only because the Qreshi nobility can get so...jumpy...on learning they have a potentially volatile weapon in their midst. But the markers of his inhumanity are more easily concealed beneath the smooth lines of his suit, the metal collar that punches down through flesh and muscle into bone hidden beneath the neatly-pressed clothes. Still. If she regards him closely enough there are still little tell-tale signs that he's not quite right-- the dark red gleam of his eyes, the too-sharp teeth, the uncanny fluidity of his movements.

Things she'll possibly discern as her eyes sweep over him, though if he has any concern for the way she looks at him it certainly doesn't show. There's only the subtle lift of his chin beneath her assessing gaze, a slight flash of those razorblade teeth as he bares them in a smile.

He doesn't get the joke. His mind just doesn't work that way.

He's standing just a little too close.]

Only checking your messages. Hahah. That's what they pay you for, is it?

[And he glances away for just a moment, out towards the milling bodies on the dance floor.]

Some of these people have more money than sense.

[kirkwalled]

[ The more she looks, the more she's actually kind of glad she put away her PDD for a second. There's something off about this guy and Hawke's never been one to back down from anything like that. She blinks once, twice, before a smile slides across her face and now she has to know -- what's his deal? This is the instinct that usually gets Hawke in trouble, sure, but she's gotta know.

She's not pure idiot though, and her eyebrows crinkle slightly as she notices the lack of distance between them and the way her joke shoots right over his head. No, there's something off here and it's less socially awkward and more threat. Huh. Idly, she wonders what it'd be like to fight him. ]

That among other things. Violence, mostly.

[ Man, even the laugh seems off too. This is -- well, both creepy and delightfully interesting. ]

... Then, the better it's doing in my pocket, isn't it? I tend to use it more productively than on distracted Killjoys and whatever you are.

[ofobedience]

Whatever I am.

[He says it in a slow quiet drawl that has something wry around its edges, a slight sharpening of the smile that suggests she's onto something there, that the choice of words are apt enough. Perhaps it's not quite how she meant it, perhaps the implication had leaned only towards his occupation rather than something altogether more intrinsic to his nature, but they've been said, and his mirroring of them now is - of course - entirely intentional.

Whilst his eyes linger on the elegantly dancing gentry, he maintains that discomforting proximity, keeps her in the corners of his vision.]

Violence, mostly. Although it doesn't look as though we're likely to see any of that, tonight. A pity.

[And his eyes sweep back towards her, then, his own gaze quietly assessing. He can't know that she's thinking of what it would be like to fight him, or that he in turn briefly mulls over the very same thing. But it's a common enough line of thought for him, all roads leading to the same destination, ultimately. Hard for them not to, when it's what he's been made for. His conditioning, it runs bone-deep.]

Perhaps you'll be good enough to tell me what you think could be a more productive use of Joy than keeping one's betters adequately protected, regardless of how low risk this situation might be.

[kirkwalled]

[ She wants to swear when he repeats her words, wants to let out a very sharp Maker and put some distance between them. What is this? She's met some... stranger Enforcers in her day, sure, but this guy truly takes the cake.

Instead though, she smiles and keeps herself at ease. She doesn't put distance between them. She lets this -- whatever this is -- continue. Curiosity killed the cat, she knows but. The second part. Satisfaction brought it back. Hawke's certain she has a few lives of her own left, if not nine, she can poke this beast. ]

Oh, night's still young. You know what they say, it isn't a true party of the Nine if there isn't an assassination, hm?

[ The assessment will show that she's definitely got muscle underneath the dress. She's lean but strong, hands calloused and bits of scar poking up under her collar and the skin of her legs. She's got the red across her nose too -- a bit of a mystery if it's blood or make up, but it definitely gives the look of the former. Faded scars on her knuckles are enough to show her primary weapon is her hands. Less of a weapon, more of a wall. ]

One's... betters? Ah. Well, there are plenty of uses I can think of when it comes to one's betters, but fortunately enough for me, I see none of said betters in this room right now. A true shame. When it comes to myself though, I use my Joy on drink. On... pleasure, in whatever kinds I prefer at the time. That's always a preference.

[ A pause and -- ]

Though, I suppose one could argue that these people too are using their Joy to purchase pleasure as well. It all comes around in the end.

[ofobedience]

[Muscle beneath the dress, lean strong limbs, the hint of scars that have something moving in him, a dark secret music that rattles through his Spine and for the briefest moment he almost hears it (doitdoitriptearmaimcomeonyoknowyouwanttostandupandfight), a pant and a scrabble like something living, right there in the back of his head. He ignores it though, pushes it down, and there's only the smallest spike in heart rate to indicate the waiting violence that - for now, in this place - he holds in check.

Interest pulses in him, small and sharp.

But this isn't the time or the place and he's under strict orders to behave. To only bare his teeth should something significant arise or at his owner's bidding. Instead he'll laugh, and the sound is hard and bright and abrasive.]

Drink and pleasure-- as you say, it makes you no different from the rest of them. I'm fairly sure that's all these people really have in mind. You're all the same, down at the core of yourselves. I wonder what that's like.

[He has no interest in such things-- immunity to poisons and pathogens make the consumption of alcohol a pointless activity, though if it could affect him no doubt it would be prohibited.]

Why you'd want to blur and dull your senses will forever remain a mystery to me, I suppose. If I were given any Joy, I don't know what I'd do with it.

[Just another small indication of his difference, and he flashes another serrated smile.]

As for true parties of the Nine requiring an assassination-- well. I live in hope. It'd certainly liven things up around here. Between you and I, I'm terribly bored.

[kirkwalled]

[ There is the strongest urge in her to wince when he laughs. It doesn't make much sense, she knows, but the burst of it is just as wrong as everything else about this guy and she can't shake it. Eyes flick over, slightly wide, slightly disturbed but she doesn't say anything. Instead, she keeps her smile. Instead, she reminds herself to relax. ]

What, pleasure? [ . . . ] I don't even know your name and here I am, wondering if you've experienced pleasure before. I feel as if we've skipped a step.

[ But the conversation continues and Hawke's hands continue to stay clasped behind her back, fingers idly tapping against her own skin. She's filled with the urge to cross them over her chest but that's defensive, indicates how much she's been thrown. She hasn't. She still stands quite firm. ]

-- You're not given Joy? What do you do then, you -- Well, you make yourself sound terribly other.

[ Curiosity burns at her and she wonders if she should be making movements to leave the conversation. There's an out here -- he mentions being bored and she could say anything, could even say she has to go the bathroom and disappear into the crowd just like that. She imagines he'd figure it out soon enough but still, he might know well enough to just let her be if she so obviously ditches him. Instead, she pauses and offers -- ]

Well, we could dance, if you'd be willing.

[ Damn her. Damn her to all kinds of hell, honestly. ]

[ofobedience]

[It's part of the fun of course, his attempts to get under her skin, unsettle her, leave her feeling vaguely disturbed. One has to get one's kicks from somewhere, particularly at an event such as this, where the ever-present inactivity stretches out before him for the duration of the cruise, little opportunity for the kind of pleasure he knows best unless things go terribly wrong. He can't help but hope for it.

And speaking of pleasure-- any innuendo implied in her words once again bypasses him, his own thoughts straying in a different direction, towards something dark red with a hot-penny tang, to the feel of bones giving way beneath the pressure of his hands the sound that flesh makes when it's torn open, yes, and as such his words are quiet and sly with something ominous when he utters them--]

Oh, I know how to have a good time.

[Just a soft interjection, and while he has things he could say to her other points too, could further imply his difference, try to prickle at her senses until she's sure she's in the presence of something unnatural and strange, her offer comes, and for a moment it throws him off completely.

There's the slight canine tilt of his head, something like subtle surprise showing in the angles of his expression, and when he answers this time his voice has lost some of its sardonic edge. Coloured, instead, with vague confusion.]

...You're asking me to dance.

[A statement rather than a question, and then--]

I'm afraid I wouldn't know where to begin.

[kirkwalled]

[ Maker, she really doesn't know what to do with this. She shifts her weight from one foot to another, finally bringing a hand around to drag over her mouth, as if her mind is distracted. It's a way to cover a grimace, to get a handle on her expression again because even if she knows in other contexts, how to reply to banter like that -- he doesn't mean it.

So, she sighs, changes tack. She can be a bit more on surefooting here -- it isn't as if she's entirely stupid, she's interacted with people who aren't vulgar and rude and function mostly on jokes. It's been a while, sure, but she's definitely done it. ]

I'm quite sure you do, serah.

[ But that is sarcastic, very doubtful in turn and she can't help the roll of her eyes. She does watch his reaction to her asking him to dance, an eyebrow raising as he looks -- well, genuinely befuddled. That's a pretty interesting response. ]

Then you'd follow my lead. You can mimic, can't you? Watch the way others are moving on the dancefloor and try not to step on my toes.

[ Hawke offers a hand then, genuinely curious if he'll take it. She wants to see -- what this man or whatever he is, is likely to do in response to such an innocent act. It's just a dance, and Hawke isn't doubtful of her own ability to lead them so. It's curious, really. ]

[ofobedience]

Well, I suppose I could...

[But should he, is the question. He's not here to dance and partake in the frivolities rolled out for his masters-- they'd prefer him to remain a slinking silent thing on the outskirts of the festivities, there for protection yes and safe in the knowledge that he's ready with sheathed fangs to tear apart their enemies should such enemies reveal themselves. How they'd feel about him interacting in such a human way, chatting and dancing as though he has any right to engage in such acts, well. That's a different matter entirely.

Briefly, he glances over his shoulder, eyes searching out Sui-Feng and Julius, trying to ascertain whether they're watching, what their reactions might be should they notice him doing something like this. Neither one is observing him in this moment, although the lines of tension and uncertainty show in the way he holds himself, the threat in him briefly dampened, the things that make him seem so other temporarily erased by his own mild display of something like nerves.

He turns back to find her hand outstretched towards him, and quicksharp the usual feelings rise up, the desire to grip her by the wrist to twist it to feel the bright crack of bone beneath his nimble feelings to hear the pretty sound of her started cry, but--

--but. He controls himself perfectly, though there is a long drawn-out moment where he just stands there staring at her hand as though he barely knows what it is. Cold and still. Somehow uncertain. Then finally he reaches to take it, his fingers slim and pale but warm to the touch and despite the fineness of his bones there's the hint of hidden strength there. Carefully contained.

He looks into her face, and for one infinitesimal moment he looks, again, almost nervous. Somehow on edge.]

[kirkwalled]

[ If Hawke knew of his conflicted state, she'd argue that isn't it more terrifying to be a weapon acting so human? A rustle to their sensibilities, make them even more on guard than before. Hawke works on the shock and outrage factor for most of her life, thrilling in reaction and the more extreme ones she can get. Granted, she does come from a place where medieval social politics rule all and even here where her memories have been altered, she still feels the urge.

For now, she watches Giovanni and with his nerves, it's almost like the roles have been reversed for a moment. She watches the changing of his expression with blatant curiosity, amusement just at the edges of her expression. Yes, this is much better for her than whatever had set her so on edge before.

She keeps her hand offered, watches, waits. She almost feels the urge to snatch it back when he looks at her in such a way but then he gives in and a smile bursts across her face. Hawke knew she could change this around. She keeps her grip loose and pleasant, a friendly squeeze in response. When he looks at her, there is only an easy confidence and pleasant smile on her face.

Then she steps back with the goal of leading him to the dance floor. ]

Don't worry, my friend. I'm an excellent dancer and you're sure to have a good time if you stick with me. I'm Hawke, for the record, if you want to know who to blame later for the fun night you're about to have.

[ And when they get to the floor, she will keep to her word and place her hands on him in the lead position, ready to guide Giovanni through the steps as needed. ]

[ofobedience]

[Backgrounds too wildly different to ever align, clearly-- he doesn't want to unsettle his superiors, doesn't want to cause shock or outrage or make them think for one moment that he believes himself to be above the position assigned to him by his creation. Unsettling Killjoys or plain old civilians is one thing, but the Qreshi nobility here, the Company Enforcers-- his conditioning is so pervasive that, for them, he only wants to please. To serve, as he's intended to do.

But all of that goes unsaid and unknown between them, and instead there's only the gentle closing of her hand around his, the slight tug and pull as she means to lead him out onto the dance floor, and with a continuation of those uncertain feelings, another glance back at his Handlers to ensure they're not watching or signaling for him to come away, he goes along with her.]

Fun. Hahah.

[But even the words come out less slick and smooth than they'd been before, laced with subtle unease. Although he attempts to rally himself as he continues, to keep the cool impassive mask in place, unaware that she's already discerned its slippage.]

And I'm generally referred to as Unit 68. But if you're the type to prefer names...it's Giovanni.

[Most don't bother to use it, after all. 68, dog, mutt, hey you, he responds to just about anything, even if - quietly, silently - his name is preferred.

He'll place his hands with uncertain lightness wherever she directs him to put them, but once out there, once moving, she'll at least find he responds to her guidance with relatively fluid ease. kinesthetic intelligence is something he has plenty of, and the act of dancing, well, it's not so very different from the elegant movements he'd execute during a fight.]