fahye | EYAI DRABBLE PARTY

Requests: Secret agent eyai. Also, omg, anything with the assassin who defines themself as a "pacifist."

And I will fulfill any request that comes my way.

I request FRANCE. Doesn't have to be Liz & Aimee, but anything about the fashion stuff we talked about. CATWALK SHOW OF NEW MODELS PERHAPS?

Requests:
* anything about the Gallows ever
* Oliver Wolf's philosophies!
* a conversation between Tee and Will
* Blacksheep team dynamics!

Feel free to hit me with requests... oh lord, I am intimidated.

skhdssdjk damn you. I am putting dibs on Tee & Will. I'll write when I'm not in the middle of a lecture.

I would like to hear more about Lukerya Aksakova! Because psallopianists are always fun. And I have no idea whatsoever about her story so you can do whatever you like.

The eyai-- Wilson-- says, "Good. I'll send you one of our men to flesh out the details."

"Bang on," says Tee, gone tube with ambivalence, and tries to stare through the stiff canvas of her uniform to her ass as she leaves-- without much success. Or disappointment.

He thinks Wilson'll be the type to make him wait, to try and make him sweat (which he assures himself that he wouldn't), but in fact the detail-flesher arrives the very next day.

Tall, dark and visibly abstemious, this eyai has a long, narrow face; lips thin, mouth wide, brows heavy. He's wearing clothes Tee would have worn uncomplainingly once himself, but which he would now hesitate to give to a church.

The eyai says, "Well met." He holds a hand out to Tee, who accepts it, bemused, and notes that either the eyai's tissue has not adapted itself to his habitual labor or he has no habitual labor. "You must be Tee. I'm Nacio."

"Pleased to meetcha." Tee knows better by now than to ask for a surname. Half-expecting Nacio to bow, he asks, "Ah, are we going to do business here in the foyer, or would you like to meet the rest of the team?"

Nacio's smile is instant and surprisingly warm. "Why," he says, "I believe I should like that very much."

Oh, God, thinks Tee. The cog's a relic.

But he shows Nacio around nonetheless; watches him shake hands and nod and smile hair-fine and generous at Blacksheep's members until an unprecedented quantity of personal information answers his few, gentle questions. This is the moment when Tee realizes-- as his team no doubt also does-- that Nacio has the potential to be extremely dangerous.

Immediately following which realization Tee has the second realization that this is a stupid and absurd realization to have about an envoy from the Iron Revolution's higher echelons.

His third realization is that the eyai is old. Older than any eyai Tee has ever seen in one piece; even older than the twins, perhaps. The thought makes his fingers itch; would make him sweat, if the past year's many shocks had not yet come to pass.

Perhaps? No, impossible. Still...

Tee is wondering how often Nacio has needed to replace his organic components when Nacio says, "You'll have to excuse me, Tee, but I haven't got time to take this any further today. Shall I come back to-- no, not tomorrow, sorry, but perhaps the day after?"

Tee starts. "What? Leaving? But we ain't talked business at all yet."

Nacio blinks. "I suppose we haven't. Next time I come I'll try to be more focused. I'm sorry."

"Nah," says Tee. "Don't be. 's OK. The day after tomorrow works for me, too."

Not waiting for Nacio to murmur assent (he's noticed this as well, that Nacio actually fucking murmurs), by way of not asking the biggest question on his mind-- What do you want from me?, Tee asks the second biggest question on his mind. "Hey, Nacio. How old are you?"

"Twenty-five," says Nacio. "Why?"

Tee's breath does not catch in his throat. "No reason," he says. "See you soon. Have a good day."

Which Nacio may or may not-- but Tee does.

REQUESTS:

* LOOK, IT'S ME. I want Nacio and Oliver in my life. I will never not want this.
* DITTO DITTO DITTO Mai Linh and Nahia.
* What are eyai like in Russia? ~~Sares?~~
* This is open to ~~Sares~~ anyone but anything particularly obnoxiously LA would be ace. Like, the plastic surgery variety.
* TEE AND LEO HAVE HANGOUTS. SEE IF I REQUEST IT I CAN MAKE YOU WRITE IT, OTHER PEOPLE.
* Someone, I am not particular who, playing a game of aldress.

Immediately following which realization Tee has the second realization that this is a stupid and absurd realization to have about an envoy from the Iron Revolution's higher echelons.

I want to frame this sentence.

I also REALLY want to know what Nacio is thinking.

One of my greatest and most favorite thing is when Nacio is inexplicably, continually badass.

I feel like for this scene and for this scene only he was played by Edward James Olmos.

If England loves its neo-Victoriana, France is an explosion of neo-Elizabethiana fashion, high collars that expand over women's heads like a parhelion of tulle and lace, tiny waists and flat chests on both women and men, necklines that dip just this side of propriety.

Elizabeth manages a wry smile, and Aimee cannot help staring, the server eyai on the train uses his fourth arm to take her cloak and his third to pull out Elizabeth's chair.

"You're amazed," Elizabeth says, when they have their menus. They always go to the dining car on trains. No one notices if they do not actually consume food, and the illusion of ordering and paying makes them pass easier. It was a lesson hard learned in Ireland.

"It's so geometrical," Aimee says, picking her entree at random.

Nearby, a sexless eyai wears only a belted coat, sleeves puffed as its gears turn beneath translucent skin. Its keyhole is a prominent lock in the center of its chest. Aimee does not understand its purpose, does not understand the point of an illusion of clockwork.

She sees others glancing at it, and tries to define the emotion in their eyes.

"Disgust?" she guesses. Elizabeth was not built for it, but she was built for children who are the master class in raw emotion.

"Envy," Liz answers, cracking open her quail meal.

*****

"I'm pointless," Aimee says, looking out the window. On the street, she can see the street cleaner - a millipede looking piece of tech that, like every other French eyai, seems to celebrate the difference between flesh and tech.

"No you aren't," Elizabeth says. "You're purposeless at the moment. Unmotivated."

Liz fixes the ruff around her neck, and adjusts the vertugale around her waist. Aimee stands, the white silk undershift in her hands, lifts it over Elizabeth's head and then reaches for the deep green dress, fashionable slits tangling in her fingers, as she makes sure that the white silk is visible.

Checking the chronometer on the wall, she frowns.

"You know, they might expect their English nanny to look English? Help me get out of this. D-" her programming garbles the curse, replaces it with a tone. "- it."

Startled, Aimee giggles, wraps her hands around Elizabeth's until Liz joins in.

"Shit," Aimee says, an old game between them. "Damn. Snipe it."

"Yes, yes, dear." Liz cups her cheek, kisses her nose. "You've gone nearly tube. Help me into something English."

"Look, Nacio," said Wolf, bursting into his own office. "I got you a birthday present!"

Nacio looked puzzled. "But it isn't my birthday. And anyway, Oliver, I thought we talked about the exclusionary effects of birth-related language -- "

Wolf waved the exclusionary effects of birth-related language away. "Right, you caught me, it jes' came in the post today. An' I want you to have it! Asap!"

Pleased, Nacio accepted the parcel. "Did you wrap this yourself?"

"Yes," lied Wolf. "I mean-- no. Does it matter?"

"No," said Nacio, blinking. "It's just that it looks so sloppy, I thought you might have done it."

"Flatterer."

" ... "

"Yea?"

"Oliver," asked Nacio, "what is this?"

In an impressive display of expressiveness, Wolf looked even more pleased with himself than he usually did. "It's a shirt."

"So it is," said Nacio. "Ah. It has a picture of ... you ... on it?"

"Yea! It came all the way from California."

Savouring the word California, Wolf said, staring dreamily at the state portrait of himself that hung over his desk, "Y'know, I've often thought I would've been fully awesome in movies."

Nacio raised an eyebrow. "Your life now isn't 'fully awesome'?" He turned the shirt over. "Oliver ... where are the sleeves?"

"Those are the sleeves," Wolf explained. "It's called a 'T-shirt,' see. 'Cos the shape is like the letter T."

Gingerly, Nacio lifted one T-sleeve and let it fall again. "Oliver, I'm not convinced it's decent."

Wolf leered. "That's the point, love."

"Well," said Nacio. "All right. But just once, and then it goes in the state archive."

"Fine with me," said Wolf. "For now. But jes' wait till you see what's in the next shipment!"

*****

Aimee listens, hands clasped neatly in her lap, and waits until M. Frey has finished speaking. After the pause, indicating, she has learned, the end of his words, she turns to Mme. Nolan and says, "It is regrettable that your find this clause offensive, however, we were merely protecting our African interests. There was no malicious intent and perhaps a rephrasing will allow all parties to be satisfied. Although we did not intend to inappropriately claim the property, we must insist that the African farms remain in the trust's name and ownership."

Mme. Nolan, her eyes narrow, stands abruptly. "Tell him, we do not accept. We cannot do business until the farms are on the bargaining table."

The pen in front of her notepad is knocked askew by the motion, and Aimee takes a moment to position it at a right angle again, before repeating the message to M. Frey. He stands, more slowly, and with a subtle hand motion, his security-eyai step forward, their eyes opening.

It is a French affectation, because she knows they have been watching though infra-red, possibly even ultraviolet sensors. However, their eyes open, obsidian and Mme. Nolan tosses her hair, her own eyai looks petite next to the hulk of security. Their coats, cut to reveal blades along the forearms, guns along the thighs, are more accent than clothing.

Aimee does not stand, merely watches. Turning, Mme. Nolan takes her top hat from her eyai, and walks out, chin raised.

After a moment, M. Frey turns to her, a half-smile twisting his mouth. Aimee knows fear, but does not feel it, even as the security marches to the door, one outside, one in, its dark eyes watching her. M. Frey is not a threat to himself. She is the only unknown in the room.

"This is why I prefer human translators," he says, after a pause. "Had I chosen eyai instead of you, there may have been difficulties. The emotion, the phrasing is so important in negotiations."

Dipping her head, she takes a moment to admire how symmetrical the table is, how odd it is that his eyai have not outed her, have not exposed her. She glances at them, is surprised that she recognizes the lack of expression. They are serving a purpose.

She is not a threat, and unlike humans, eyai see no point in telling stories to tell them. Until the information becomes pertinent, it is merely stored with every other detail of the encounter.

"I will let you know when your services are necessary again," he says.

The words are a dismissal and she stands, nods at him and steps out the door, between the eyai and down the hall.

*****

The show itself is gorgeous, well lit and well attended, all beautiful people showing off their newest toys.

Aimee tries not to express her distaste at the crowd.

"Oh, don't," Liz says, her brilliant hair netted with pearls. "If you're going to be like that, I swear I'll learn to do something annoying just so you can see how it feels."

Fighting a smile, Aimee says, "I already know what annoyance feels like."

"I'm sure," Liz says, dry. The soprano enters the room, her elongated neck stretching above everyone else, silver bands wrapped from shoulders to chin, for a moment, Aimee wonders if they've made her skin out of metal to better refract the sound.

The math of it takes her away for a moment, and she enjoys the thought as Liz turns to discuss the performance with the man next to them.

*****

Edited 2009-06-15 01:16 (UTC)

He's like a secret weapon of pleasantness.

I LOVE THEM SO MUCH AND THE FASHION IS ALSO REALLY INTRIGUING. AND THIS LINE IS FULL OF TRUTH:

children ... are the master class in raw emotion

All of my drabbles currently existing in potentia are developing inferiority complexes in the face of this one.

I AM JUST SAYING.

Sares would be a happy camper if gifted with:

1) ANYTHING WITH DIETER IN.
2) Zeke Emanuel in eyaiverse L.A. EMMA YOU KNOW WHAT I'M FUCKING TALKING ABOUT.
3) Eyai and Hollywood, Hollywood and eyai. Make it happen, ~~Emma~~ people!
4) I am just going to second the request for TEE AND LEO MAKING BEAUTIFUL MUSIC TOGETHER.
~~5) Julian and Dom's ridiculous sexcapades.~~

I will happily attempt any requests that fall under my areas of (questionable expertise), i.e. terrible banter, flash bastards, gangster ultraviolence, anything disgustingly American, etc.

Aimee wonders if they've made her skin out of metal to better refract the sound.

Brilliant brilliant! j'adore!

Just put Nacio and his unregardably sexy elbows in all of them! That will fix them!

ohmyfuckinggodithinkijustdiedofhappiness.

I, er, may or may not be planning an entire romcom spinoff fic about 5)

*shifty eyes*

Request: Something with Nahia?

!!!!! ALL MY HOPES AND DREAMS!!

I REQUEST RUSSIAN MAFIA + EYAI.

Alternate request: Leo + jacuzzi.

~~When I combine these two requests YOU WILL BE SORRY.~~

JI YOU GIVE THE BEST PROMPTS.

IF YOU COMBINE THEM I WILL WRITE YOU A DRABBLE AS WELL. WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE. DIETER AND SOMETHING? HOW ABOUT YOU JUST COME UP WITH A LIST OF CRAZY SHIT AND I SEE HOW MUCH OF IT I CAN CRAM IN.

Ok, re: aldress, let me know if I've quoted this one at you yet:

Aldress is not a game of chance, but it is not exactly a game of strategy. The fine webs of crystallized light that hold the senior board above the junior create a certain amount of chaos in the plays, a carp as likely to destabilize the senior board as a dauphin.

Kelly Manuel in his definitive book on aldress said, "If the leaders of today paid more attention to the game of aldress than their pocket books, there would never be any need for revolution."

The Doctor moved the palm across the axe and grinned. "I call destabilization."

Across from him, the girl smiled. She looked no more than 16, with dark hair and wide, wide eyes. "No," she said.

Casually, she moved her oxen in tandem with the carp and the senior board dropped.

"I call collapse," she said.

He moved in, claiming the board. Holding up her dauphin, he offered it back to her. "I win."

Shrugging, she offered over her hand, "Good game."

"Good game," the Doctor agreed. "Another?"

She shook her head. Gesturing out the window, she said, "We're almost in London."

"Ah," he paused. "Yes."

The empty train car swayed just slightly as it rounded a corner. Replacing the pieces in her traveling case, she faltered as the train door opened behind her, turning to see who had come in.

For a second, the Doctor knew he saw fear on her face, the same expression he'd seen when he first entered the car, when he'd seen her playing both sides of an aldress board.

"Liz," she said. When she stood, she scattered pieces all across the floor, and the other woman took two steps across the car before bending to pick up a fallen oxen.

"Who's this?" Liz asked, glancing to him. Her expression was blank, the hint of a smile making it seem as though she was alive, but he saw underneath that to the gears turning, the binary flowing.

"You're a machine," he said, pulling out his sonic screwdriver, setting it until it for a program scan.

As with most of the larger complications in his life, he missed the girl picking up the aldress board until he felt it slam down on his hand, knocking the sonic screwdriver down.

The expression on her face was deeply afraid and he said, "Wait."

She didn't, instead slamming it across his cheek, going for another blow when Liz reached her.

"Aimee," Liz said, hand against Aimee's neck.

The Doctor sat frozen on the ground, fumbling for the sonic screwdriver. He could feel blood on his face and thought that he needed to say something to make the situation less dangerous, but there was a horrible sort of terror in her face. She looked at him like he was the Destroyer of Worlds and she didn't even know him.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said. His voice faltered. The last girl who had trusted him was probably sitting in her house, going about her life, not remembering a single thing about him.

"We're about to arrive," Liz said. She knelt down and picked up the screwdriver from under the table, tucked it into her dress in the invisible way he'd noticed that beautiful women could hide terrible things. Then, pulling a handkerchief from the edge of her glove, she dabbed at his cheek, making a soft 'shush' sound as though he was a child.

"Liz," Aimee said, quietly behind her, and he noticed that the aldress pieces had been collected. "We have to knock him out."

"No we don't," Liz argued, quietly. There was a familiarity in her disagreement, as though it was an old argument. "He's not going to say anything."

Gently, she pressed the white cotton square into his palm and ran her fingers through his hair. She made a slight humming noise and shook her head, standing and straightening her skirts. He would have loved to see her programming in that moment, the grace of mechanics meeting the organic flow of reality.

Wibbly-wobbly time-space flexing and shifting to accommodate something so beautiful.

The train stopped and he stood as the conductor came through, announcing that it was the end of the line, due to the revolution.

"Revolution?" the Doctor exclaimed.

EYAI DRABBLE PARTY

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