circle7 | a very special spaceship holiday

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a very special spaceship holiday

Partaaay on the First!

Nowadays, it's mostly humans that celebrate the winter holidays this...festively, but luckily for all of you, the leader of Circle 7, the System's most notorious crime mega-conglomerate, is human. He insisted on the celebration on the First, too, said something about morale and good cheer and a shit ton of (most likely laced) alcohol. Something about holiday pranks, too, but that might've just been my imagination.

There's mistletoe hanging everywhere, the suspicious smell of Astorean Norther Fir in the air, jingling bells tied to every doorway, and is it just me, or does that big Santa have a glass eye?

It's gonna be a grand ol' time.

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Bentley reached up, her hand small in his own, becoming even more nervous as he stood.

"You... want me to actually teach you?"

She began to pull her hand back.

"Are you wimping out?" Viana accused.

His hand followed. "No, I'm just... surprised."

She gave a huff of impatience and proceeded to drag him through the throng of people onto the floor, where the ground beneath them was overlaid with a flat, polished, hardwood surface for dancing. Viana turned to him expectantly, the roaming colored lights making her hair appear almost neon in coloration. She was mindless of the few stares she got, but then again, Viana had never really been all that concerned about public opinion (unlike Bentley, who might have been a little too concerned with what people thought of him).

"Who's leading?" she asked.

Because that was a question she actually had to ask with Bentley.

"Ah. I will," he said. "Since I'm teaching."

Bentley put Viana's free hand on his shoulder, and his own on her waist. There was about a foot of space between them, a comfortable amount he thought, to give Viana room to watch his feet. Whatever opinions there were about her in the general First Circle population, it was common knowledge that she was swift on her feet. Bentley was confident that she'd do well.

"I'll go slowly at first," he said. "The basic pattern goes like this."

At that, Bentley placed one foot back, then his other followed, veering to the side. He waited for her to follow, taking smaller steps to compensate for their difference in height.

Standing toe to toe, Viana's...vertical brand of challenge brought her to just under shoulder-height on Bentley, but even then, the slow waltz the doctor was teaching wasn't particularly difficult to follow. The steps were easy and it repeated. It was slow and simple, despite the more rapid beat of the music that they were clearly all but ignoring.

"Is that it?" she said, moving along as he led her. Viana didn't even have to look down; it seemed as though she were in complete control of all limbs and coordination, which wasn't surprising, all things considered. "This is how you danced where you come from?"

He smiled when his suspicions were confirmed that she was a natural at this, and brought his gaze back up too. Looked like he didn't even need to monitor steps at all. When she seemed familiar with the pattern, he lead the pace closer to the speed of the music.

"Well, when it came to... fancier events my parents held," he said. "And stuffy parties I was dragged to."

Viana adjusted to the pickup in speed as well as she had to the rest of the lesson; she didn't even stumble as they turned it up.

She raised her brows at him, acknowledging what he was saying with a look that clearly said she was slowly stitching together her own conclusions about his background. "You would have liked this better than the type of dances they did at parties my family used to go to," she offered.

"What kind of dancing was that?" he asked, starting to bring their step around in slow circles, rather than the invisible box he had left it in.

"Faster," answered Viana, glancing occasionally at their feet now that the waltz had notched up in difficulty. "Dancing in groups, or line dancing. My mother knew how to do salsa and sambas. She used to make hermano do a few with her when we were still at the house, because he was tall."

Bentley chuckled. "That's kind of cute."

She smirked. "He wasn't very good at it," said Viana. "He was better trying to play the music."

"How young did he start playing, exactly?" He knew some vague things about Evan's past - and vicariously some of Viana's, that way - but Bentley didn't push for details often. He wasn't sure how comfortable Evan was with disclosing some things, still. Maybe he'd ask more from here on.

"Young," Viana said, eyes narrowing as she tried to recall. Evan did have a good six years on her. "As far as I can remember, he played. Not always well."

"Understandable," he said. "No one starts out good. Was it all self-taught?"

"We had a few uncles that knew how to play instruments. They'd play together at gatherings. One of them taught him," Viana answered, looking up at Bentley with a scrutinizing eye. "He didn't tell you any of this?"

"Not in detail," Bentley answered, his brow becoming creased. "I... can't help but wonder if it's not a sore topic for him, considering..."

"The fingers?" Viana asked bluntly, coming to a stop as the song itself wound down and began to fade into another techno-like beat. The floor wasn't crowded by any means, which meant there was no rush to leave it, so she didn't. Instead, she crossed her arms and looked up at Bentley, mildly considering. "He probably would tell you if you asked him, which is a better idea than wimping out and getting the information through me."

"It's not like I meant to," he sighed, his arms dropping down to his sides. Bentley's hand had returned to the wrist of his metal prosthetic. "It's just... I don't know the circumstances, and... well. I don't like talking about my own... 'loss', so I kind of assume no one does unless they have to."

That didn't seem to stop Viana any.

She reached out and rapped the knuckles of one hand against Bentley's mechanical forearm. "What happened here, anyway?"

Wow. Really? Right out asking after he said that?

But, Bentley was surprised to find he wasn't bothered so much by her asking. It was simply the memories associated. He looked around, obviously looking discomforted by the fact that they were still in the middle of a dance floor, surrounded by people and loud music.

"I'm not sure this is... a good place to discuss that."

Well, they were on the topic anyway, and there probably wouldn't ever be a better segue than this. People never did well with secrets - Viana knew that from being in the field - and even the most tight-lipped of them never remained without the weight of a secret weighing heavily on them. People, by nature, liked to share, sometimes even a little too much.

"Fine," she said shortly, dragging the doctor off the floor as easily as she had dragged him onto it, returning them to the bench they had started out at.

Even the bench felt rather public, but in a way, it was probably one of the more private places on the Station. There was surveillance everywhere else, after all, but this was in a dim corner, and the loudness of the atmosphere would cover up anything they talked about.

It took a moment for him to find a place to begin, but he found it, speaking quieter but sitting closer to Viana than before to compensate.

"I was forced to work for Gladsheim," he started. "I mean, you already know that, I think, but... I wasn't the only one. There were other doctors, too. Good ones, recruited in. Not that 'no' was an answer they would've taken." Bentley's brow tightened, and his arm layered over the metal one. There was a heavy feeling in his chest as he spoke, and for a moment, he wasn't sure if he could continue; but he swallowed and moved on. "We were working on advanced prostheses for military use. I was trying to find a way out of there, tried to get the others to, but..."

He ran his right hand over his face. It made him feel sick. Bentley knew he bragged about his creations at times, but on those bad days - those lonely days - his arm disgusted him, and reminded him just how untrustworthy people could be. It had taken him this long to realize he had friends for a reason.

"I was punished for it. Of course they didn't want it on their hands. They had threatened the others into taking it away." As Bentley explained, a very unfamiliar emotion crossed his face. He almost looked angry. "And I still had to work. It forced me to make it for myself, and then they would've taken that too. So I did, and I used it to get away."

Bentley's shoulders sagged slowly as he exhaled, staring at the ground. He had been the whole time. As he finished talking, his expression eased, and he realized what a situation he was in right now. Cheery, upbeat Christmas music was playing, people were chatting happy and dancing, possibly drunk, and here he was ranting about something so serious. The irony hit him, and he chuckled somberly.

"That's what happened there."

Fingers settled lightly on Bentley's forearm, light enough that even if it had been made of skin instead of metal, he might not have registered it. Because it was metal, however, devoid of the infinitely intricate nerve system of the human composition, the only reason Bentley noticed it was because he was looking down at all.

Viana was still standing, but she had bent a little as to run her hand down the metal arm, quieter than she usually was, but thoughtful just the same. The story didn't surprise her because Gladsheim's reputation of cruelty and single-minded efficiency was infamous throughout the System, and because they all had their stories to tell, some more difficult than others. People with spotless records didn't just end up in the Circle like that, and even if they did, people who remained never got out spotless either.

"That's all right," she said softly, eyes running down the indented grooves of every plate of metal, every seamless solder-seam and screw. She withdrew and straightened, flicking Bentley on the forehead on her way up. Louder, she continued, "You're here now, so it's fine."

Edited 2012-12-03 05:00 (UTC)

"Ow," he mumbled, raising a hand to his forehead, and his gaze up to Viana with it. There was the subtlest of smiles on his face, though, and an even subtler warmth to it. Part of him had still hurt, thinking about that event, his heart racing when he relived it, the panic swelling in his chest.

But now part of him felt better, too. That was new.

"Here's... a good place to be."

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s-shut up viana he's just naturally submissive-

SO HE'S A SUB-

like that's surprising c'mon

yeah you're right it's not...

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