come_sailaway | ( catch all | october ☠ ) windows cracking, heart attacking, cryptic laughing

Clarke hasn't escaped Erin's notice. When she was just a presence in the fight club, observing and taking notes, Erin had noted her and decided to give the youngblood her space. That behavior was...not unfamiliar, to Erin, and the thing about being a fucking heavy is it doesn't necessarily matter if people know how you operate. If having a binder of data helped the girl feel safe, fine and well.

The first time Clarke attended part of Erin's own class only to fade away from the hands-on, Erin noted it and moved on, but now Clarke had, as it were, her Attention. Armed, skittish, showing signs of paranoia. If money meant anything here, Erin would put hers on the idea that this youngblood was already a killer.

Bad combination, for her and for anyone in her blast radius. After the Darcy incident Erin's trying not to pattern-match the kids on the ship with newly-returned Lost but if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck...

The second time Clarke fades away after the lecture-and-stretching portion of the class Erin puts on a fading act of her own, slipping out of the drill amidst the blur of motion and walking, with uncharacteristic quiet, until she's close enough to get Clarke's attention with a soft whistle. Erin tosses the lass a water bottle, nice and easy; a peace offering.

"Enjoying yourself, youngblood?" There's no malice in it, but the undercurrent of deep Patience suggests, in subtle tones, that Clarke's visitor has not come here on accident. "We do keep missing you at the drills."

There comes a point where one has to acknowledge they're not nearly a stealthy as they'd hoped. Or, perhaps a little more on the money, Clarke has to acknowledge that she doesn't give off the right aura of detached and unapproachable as she'd hoped she did. Visible weapons on an old, leather holster strung around her waist and at sharp odds compared to the Tommy Bahama athleisure didn't do much; the thin press of lips mirrored in the deep furrow of skin between her eyebrows, and the constantly poised pen above paper did even less. Acquaintance, stranger, didn't seem to matter.

Still, she shows up, and when the well of notes she can glean simply from the sidelines starts to run dry and repetative, that's when she selectively engages. Not with anything physical, not even with proper conversation unless someone else initiates it. But upon noting a small gaggle of students listening to a dark haired woman speak on self restraint and not stabbing your friends, she drags her feet over to hover at the edge of the tiny group. Drags her feet right back out when instruction gives way to practical application, like dipping your toes in the water and thinking it comfortable at first before realizing it's full of carnivores and too hot to stay in. And without making much of a fuss, Clarke assumes she'll be allowed to fade into the background the second time around, much like she had the first.

But instead — a whistle.

Never fails to grab anyone's attention, and before Clarke can object to being called like a dog, she's juggling — and fumbling — a water bottle being tossed her way. Half catches it in her left hand, almost drops the condensation sweat covered plastic and her pen, but gains dexterous control before it crunches into the paneling at their feet. Her first thought, this is cold to the touch. Her second — that was a pretty accurate touch for someone wearing a blindfold.

"...Enjoyment would be a stretch." An empty space will subsequently stretch, where some sort of excuse for not joining in the practice rounds ought to go, but where Clarke ultimately puts: "But I'm intrigued by your lesson plan."

"Mm, yeah. I got told about the zombie thing pretty early on and thought to myself it might be a good idea to reduce the amount of friendly fire that might be going around. The folks around here seem...a little under the impression that they're atomized from each other. Bad plan when the steel leaps to hand, God fucking forbid when the shooting starts. Seen too many youngbloods cut down by their own on accident, not watching it happen again if I can prevent it."

That empty space didn't escape Erin's notice, but she's gonna hold off on approaching it directly. The youngblood's skittish, and she's also fast. The red flags just keep coming out of the clown car here and that's not good.

Erin takes her own water bottle out of her pocket and opens it up, partially because one must hydrate or die-drate, but mainly so that Clarke can see what her hands are doing at all times. "Lesson does work better if you participate, though. The body remembers what the brain can be forced to forget."

Skittish, fast, paranoid, quick to anger and quicker to action, defensive... Who said these are red flags? That's just what it takes to survive another day on the ground, and some habits have been reinforced by days on days on days on the ship.

Clarke is stiff backed with shoulders rolled forward in a cagey hunch. Her notebook's been closed and pressed to her chest, predominantly secrecy, though perhaps doubling as an unconscious bid for armor in uncertain waters and less certain interactions. And while her eyes flick towards Erin's hands long enough to ascertain what she's doing and that it's not a threat, for the most she keeps steady eye-to-blindfolded-eye contact with the other woman, under the assumption that — not unlike Gal Friday — the brunette's got plenty of ways to see without the whites of her eyes and irises bared.

"I already do my best to avoid knife fights." Star pupil right here, though deserving of a few detentions. "I'd be no good in one anyway."

"Wise. No one's any good in a knife fight; the first mistake is having one at all. And yet from the feel of you, you're expecting one." Erin gestures with her water bottle, eyebrow peeking up from under the blindfold. "Why lurk for the lectures, youngblood? This is two weeks in a row now. Once would have fit your pattern, but twice? That's an interesting exception."

Keep it on business. Let the youngblood make the first move that makes this personal. Nice and easy, nice and slow.

...Christ was this what they had to do with Erin when she came out of the Thorns? A silent prayer of thanks is said to the people who didn't kick her ass in the distant past.

At mention of her knife, Clarke admittedly glances down at her right hip. The bent edge of a space-grade steel shank is looped around the leather band of her Grounder-made holster, sitting opposite the glock on her left. Over time on board the Ark and time on the ground, the yellow hazard stripes have chipped and faded, but are still a resolutely bright color. There are dings on the metal where John Murphy had banged and bent it into shape, and — seemingly no matter how many times she'd washed it — there's some faint red-black tinge stained in some of the grooves. Wells' blood. Pratt's blood. Her own...

But Clarke resists the urge to drop her hand and idly run fingertips over the curved handle that very easily doubled as brass knuckles. Just looks back at Erin and offers for means of (a personal) explanation:

"This? It's just sentimental. One of my friends from home made it."

Then onto the bigger question she'd been posed:

"It's not like it's a closed lecture, is it? Darcy puts this fight club on, on behalf of Stede Bonnet's pirate crew. I'm a part of that crew —" Barely, now adays. But she'd signed a contract in blood and yet to rip it up. Clarke's tone throughout all this careful recitation remains soft, consistent, and unflappable. "— and a firm believer that every meeting needs its minutes taken."

Erin tilts her head, bird-like, all interest. When it becomes clear that Clarke's explanation is ended her eyebrow emerges from its hiding place under the blindfold: "I'm glad to provide my services to Captain Bonnet's crew, then, considering how new I am here and my lack of connections to the ship. Still, odd that his command needed a random stranger to come in to teach his soldiers how to fight together instead of simply near each other. I was under the impression that pirates were professionals, with standards."

It's not an outright snort, but there's a bit of an accent on the exhale Clarke lets out from her nose. Eyebrows unintentionally mirror eyebrows, and hers arch an inch up across her forehead. For want of much else to do with her hands, Clarke finally nestles the water bottle in the crook of one arm and cracks plastic sealant of the cap with the same hand holding her pen.

"Sure. Some of them are."

Erin can't help herself; she laughs a pretty laugh, tinkling like bells. "God, youngblood, don't destroy my old heart showing such loyalty for the outfit you're serving with. The beauty of the world might just obliterate me. Not meeting your standards, are they? You wouldn't be the first child soldier I've met here, not that it gets any less depressing every god damn time."

As a general rule, child soldiers detest being called child even more than soldier.

"They leave a little to be desired, sure. But, really, I'm just a way too curious note taker. Sorry if I've distracted you from your lesson just to disappoint."

Erin offers up a philosophical shrug. "It's my time to spend. I'm not disappointed yet, and thankfully as your notes might have in there I picked up other teachers too. I'm sure Dimitri and Watson have things well in hand right now."

Translation: the Passive Escape door is locked, youngblood.

"I'm not here to give you the hard sell, youngblood. Come or don't come; drill or don't drill. It doesn't escape me that anyone can see this class getting taught, which means my students might get called on the next time there's an emergency. The expectation to volunteer might not formally exist but it sure as fuck is gonna be present and I'm not gonna lay that on anyone who doesn't pick it up themselves. I didn't come here to acquire you. Came here to meet you."

Locked, maybe. But, how well? Because most doors can be broken down with bodyweight and a well placed kick, and when it doubt there's always a window. But, that would require her actively looking for that window, or examining how forcing a lock would no longer be considered 'passive', when right now all of Clarke's hard-eyed evaluation energy is being used scanning Erin head to toe.

On first blush, she doesn't know what to make of this woman. And like so many people faced with the initial unknown, she doesn't care for the mystery.

"Meetings usually start with introductions." Again, an open space where said introduction should have followed; like hell Clarke's going first.

It's not much of a win but Erin will take those where she can find them. The bow Clarke gets is a little (a lot) theatrical but oddly genuine for all that. "My apologies. Erin Peters, please call me Erin. I may have assumed you already knew my name from the note-taking and were deliberately withholding yours. My apologies, that was rude of me."

(You think?)

Erin offers her hand out to shake now that she's been reminded that manners do in fact still exist even during tense first contact with mysterious youngbloods, with a small and guilty grin on her face.

Introductions and sneaky note taking are different. And maybe Clarke just wanted to see what the woman would say and how she'd react, but a bow wasn't on the list of expectations. It's not wildly off-putting either, she's weathered her fair share of odd thoughts and customs since arriving here, but the proffered hand is a lot more her speed. Yes, a few items in hand need to be shuffled around to keep notebook, pen, and water bottle all upright, but when Erin offers that open palm, Clarke takes it.

Don't mind the gun grip callouses.

"Clarke Griffin. Nice to meet you, Erin."

She will be the first to disengage from this shake, however. By force if need be. And reshuffle the items in her hands, including the notebook where Erin's name is absolutely already written down, soon to be amended with a few question marks beneath it. Temperament: mild. Overly social. Uncomfortably keen.

Erin's shake is professional enough; she's got a strong grip but she's not squeezing, makes no move to keep Clarke holding her hand. The odd part, aside from the everything (do note her gunpowder giving off little fireworks explosions as if to celebrate something) is that her own hand has no callouses whatsoever, lacks even the blisters that should definitely be present if she's been training without callouses to protect her.

"The pleasure's mutual," Erin replies back. She tugs her armor a bit down (you can make chain from impossible materials but you can't make a chain shirt any comfier than a chain shirt is; fate is a fucking clown) so it rests properly again and flashes a little smile. "...I should probably ask before I make an ass of myself as I did with Darcy, d'ya prefer to be referred to in any particular way? Manners from back home would usually dictate a 'Ms. Griffin' as a courtesy but I've stepped on that rake a few times here and I do learn eventually."

That gives her pause for a moment, and Clarke has to wonder when the last time was that anyone had asked what she wanted to go by. Most defaulted, like Erin implies she would. Miss Clarke a habit that had to be broken out of a few new friends on board, Ms. Griffin sounding like something Friday would say. Just Griffin as a viable option too, and back home people had called her —

"Just Clarke's fine. I see no reason to stand on the precedent of formal manners, this isn't actually a social club."

What would it take to just go back to being no one? Some days she wonders...

"You close friends with Darcy? I saw your sparring match at the first meeting." Though how many people would call it a match is a hard number to pin down.

Not a social club. Darcy had said the same thing, before the ill-fated match. Erin makes a Face when it's brought up, but luckily the water bottle is there to hide behind by taking a drink.

The clear water bottle full of clear water that does nothing to hide her faintly humiliated blush.

That water bottle.

"I..." Erin sighs. "Don't know. That might be something better asked of Darcy. I'm a little out of practice being friends with people. But we talk."

One second.

Two.

"...The first fight was a mistake on my part. Saw the youngbloods of my kind in her, coming back from hell and thinking that aggression alone would keep them alive. That deep in the survival hole, you gotta get scared pretty bad before you'll let someone teach you better. It's not an excuse but we've made our peace."

Peace with Darcy, huh? Maybe there's more than knife skills this woman could teach.

But that would require Clarke to stop licking her wounds from their last meeting and actually put in some effort. And for now she's content to give the other girl space, plenty of space, a segment of which is currently occupied by zeroing in on Erin's semantics and terminology. Namely —

"What is your kind?"

That's a box in descriptions under the headers in her notebook, and not always something she gets to so plainly ask.

"The people of my world called us..."

Erin lets it hang in the air.

"...Women."

She corpses at her own joke immediately, waving the water bottle in a vain attempt to say 'gimmie a minute'. Deep breath.

"I'm sorry Clarke but I was never going to get a setup that good again. Lemme. Actually answer one second." Erin finishes her water and tucks the empty bottle into her pocket without thinking too hard about it. "I'm human, just not... conventionally. We call ourselves the Lost. We're born human, all the important human stuff is installed - well, most of it," comes the prim correction. "Maybe more relevant is...we lived under siege, at home. For the same reasons we're not conventional."

Erin's ears twitch gently, all curiosity. She knows she's being probed. What she wants to know is how long it takes Clarke to know she knows.

Well. It's not like she went around the probing gently. There's a time for subtlty and a time for brashness, and when someone else approaches you in an attempt to call out and calls it an introduction, it feels only fitting to interrogate and call it data collecting.

Still, Clarke almost balks at the joke. It doesn't land right, and for a split second she worries she's offended without really meaning to. But Erin cuts up in laughter a split second later, which is a whole new thing she has to make sense of.

"So, human but traumatized."

Lost has such a better ring to it, but taking what she gets from Erin and drawing her own conclusion... and it ends up looking a lot like a mirror. Plenty of people would deflate the defenses a little, when faced with someone they think they can relate to on a deep, intrinsic level. But like sees like, and detests it just as often.

"Or traumatized, but calling it conditioned for survival?"

Faintly she wonders what color Erin's blood is.

Erin cocks her head. Is the youngblood being deliberately insensitive? Mentally she puts her chips on 'yes', which has her interest. She chews her lip for a moment, very clearly thinking.

"It can be both," she admits, at last. "I'm not gonna try and say I came out fine. I didn't come out fine. I'm still not fine and I've had three decades to work on myself. I'll probably die not fine. The things we go through are legitimately difficult to describe. Some of them require laws of physics that just do not work on Earth. But..."

That twitch again, but this time her ears flatten against her head, like a cat's. "...Our enemies could, literally, be behind any door. They could open a frozen pond like it was on hinges and crawl out to poison the world of beauty with their evil. Through any arch of trees might they slither, and from any window could they pull themselves to devour the innocent. They hunted us, always and forever, and they knew no mercy. Those are the terms on which Lost have to try and make ourselves into something other than what we were turned into. The terms on which we had to live our lives. There could be no peace, no ceasefire, no truce. I picked up my first blade at fifteen because anyone healthy enough to hold one had to, and...that was a tragedy, but I can't blame my fellows for it. There was no choice. When you fight gods it's go hard or go under. The thing is, though, I'm not there any more. My enemies are far away and can trouble me no more. Now...now I might have peace."

"...This is my garden now."

Clarke considers it an under utilized, under appreciated tactic here on the ship to sometimes just let people talk, and has been refining her skillset at it for some months. By now she's heard stories of other worlds ending, humanity reduced to cults and cannibalism, magic being used for good and magic being used for evil, vampiric romances that only end in tragedy, gods toppling civilizations and civilizations toppling gods. Listened to stories of life, and death, and everything in between. And each time she expects for things not to surprise anymore, the carpet gets pulled out from under her.

This lady, Erin Peters, paints a very vivid story that encapsulates the very visceral sensation of pursuit and the persecution of a hunted peoples. It's not an apples to apples comparison of Clarke's own life, but live through any sort of enemies around every corner, destruction of your kind lurking in all the long shadows situation, and it's easy to empathize. She listens politely, and briefly the unflappable mask of guarded aloofness even slips sideways a little. Clarke blinks away a few of the lines around her mouth soften; one or two between her brows even disappears completely. And by the end of the retelling, her shoulders have dropped about an inch. Not relaxed, never relaxed. But at least a scant amount more comfortable thinking now she at least knows what sort of person she's standing across from.

She wants to say: be careful, there's snakes in it.

But what she ultimately says is: "...I hope you're right, and that you will. Have at least some peace. Just... don't delude yourself into thinking it'll last. It won't, this —" A limited but sweeping gesture at the sports deck around them, at fight club, at people playing at knife fights where the goal is to not draw blood. "— won't last. It's not a place built to sustain peace."

That gets a sad shrug. "What place is? People sustain peace. Nature's only law is the wasp."

Erin's ear twitches, and she actually turns her whole head away, listening intently to something.

Damn if she gives any sign what. There's been no unusual sound.

Finally: "I appreciate you playing along, Clarke. I can get back to teaching now, if you like. My class has a place for you if you want it, and my metaphorical door is open, if you're inclined. I don't get to make wild-ass claims like 'this is my home now' and then try to tell people to leave me alone."

There you are, youngblood. Exit door unlocked.

But do you take it?

( catch all | october ☠ ) windows cracking, heart attacking, cryptic laughing

Wildcard || Don't Ask Me How I'm Doin' If You Don't Wanna Know || Ficht Club (Small-Unit Tactics)

rubs my hands together like a greedy raccoon

Stabbing 101: Don't

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject