multiversallogs | and that was the turning point, that was one lonely night.

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and that was the turning point, that was one lonely night.

Who: Gaius Baltar and You
What: A day, or several, in the life of Dr. Baltar.
Where: Around and about, specifically: Serpolet (Tinker's Lot), Echomire (Madrasati), Chnum. Will add more as they happen.
When: Vaguely the last week and onwards.
Notes: Post text is general narrative, I have some specific starters below. Hit me up if you would like to tag somewhere and would like me to set up a thread, or just go ahead.
Warnings: Scifi swearing!

"Here's to the Colonies."

This was said after Gaius had lit the last of his fumarella leaf cigarettes -- he'd allowed them to stretch this long, already substituting cravings in between with more local smokes. By now, the last cigarette is very dry, but not stale or badly tasting. He burns his lungs on the first inhale but swallows against a cough, huffing out smoke through his nose in a cartoonish whuff of breath, before leaning right back to enjoy it. His apartment is a small thing, but he keeps it compulsively neat, save for a work bench that is messy with computer parts and tools.

A brief commission with the City's government had seen a little relief, wherein he'd purchased for himself a new soldering iron and a few months worth of rent at a workshop in Tinker's Lot. And food, obviously, but he's never actually lost the hungry edge that most of those New Caprica refugees had taken on after the first few months, and those that know him now are accustomed to the sharp edges he's made of, bony beneath his suits and expressions.

The clock chimes in reminder that if he wants to make it to Madrasati in anything resembling on time, he ought to move now. He lists about the small apartment to collect his things -- tools one would not expect to be brought into a doctor's clinic, for instance, but he's a special sort of doctor.

Cigarette stub is dropped into a teacup he's been using as an ashtray out of sheer laziness from a month ago, and he leaves, slinging a tie around his throat, the last taste of home tasting like ash at the back of his throat.

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It's first thing in the morning at the clinics at Madrasati. What few xenians have arrived to make use of healthcare are already being seen to, and none of them have any robot attachments at all. Blood in place of gasoline and hydraulic fluid, grey matter instead of a motherboard. This doesn't prevent Dr. Gaius Baltar from being on time, anyway, conservative in slacks and shirt beneath a white coat that's probably as ill-fitting as everything else, with exception to polished shoes -- he never seems to fill out his own clothing.

Also, he is talking to himself, at a mumble that is not quite quiet enough to be inaudible. This is probably not uncommon enough for it to be alarming. "I am, but what would you have me do, branch out into the illustrious field of swabbing private parts."

There's a beat, and--

"Oh, ha ha ha."

Whatever comeback he thought to himself, allegedly, it only gets sarcasm, a flick of a glance passed his shoulder before he is looking back out the window, over the top of his glasses. You also shouldn't be smoking in a laboratory, but Gaius is, because he's alone. A surgical tray has ash smeared and tapped upon it, and at the very least, he's taken to opening a window and leaning next to it, watching the grey autumnal sky. "I don't want to. With people. I'm fine at the moment. You're the one that said this was any sort of good idea."

Edited 2012-10-30 00:26 (UTC)

Living in this neighbourhood, in the shape of a human, is not necessarily easy, and yet there is something about the dividing expanse of hillside that secludes Chnum from the rest of Baedal that appeals to Gaius' inherent talent for denial. And also something about the chilly distrust of its residents that suits him too -- a sense of attempted community and friendship itches, on his off-days.

These thoughts and more as he awaits her on the overhanging balcony of a local cafe, dressed in a nice suit and foregoing tie. It's bleak and overcast but a view of a lake is a nice thing to stare blankly at, a ribbon of smoke tendriling up from half-finished cigarette, and a similarly half-finished glass of white wine with greasy fingermarks on its sides sits next to his elbow. There is a certain sort of tension in the sit of his shoulders and his expression is as pensive as a Baltar can get it to seem, and every now and then, he shifts a look at an empty adjacent chair.

Doesn't talk to it, at least.

He'd invited her out and yet does not seem to be the best of company. His waiting is patient, though, content to sit and daydream and simmer.

The truck-- or, to be less generous, truck-like vehicle, rumbles to a stop, its brakes whining, and Gaius pitches finished cigarette over the side of the bed. Light, spitting rain is coming down, but cloth and plastic both sheet the immense object he's guarding that he isn't concerned for any damage between it's journey from here to the shed of corrugated iron. He is not an unusual sight, out here -- there are more human-presenting entities than their are obvious xenians, although his driver, muttering in a dialect he doesn't understand, is a scaled man of obvious other heritage. He never thought to inquire what it is.

And doesn't now. He wipes grime off on his trousers for all that he knows both his hands and his clothing will be even more grease and dirt-streaked by the end of this. He stands from his perch in truck bed and uneasily navigates his way off of it -- the bulk that occupies it makes this difficult, and Gaius doesn't particularly wish to climb over his acquisition, so he just hops over the side in an ungainly flail of limbs, landing off-balanced.

The driver snorts.

There are others meeting them -- waiting labourers who cluster lazily around the truck and start installing pulleys and other complicated looking machinations that Gaius doesn't touch, skittering out of the way whenever someone looks at him askance. "Careful," he protests, when everything seems like it's going to tilt, and clears his throat. "But also, good job, you're all doing really well."

But they'll talk to him when they want their money.

The bulk is huge, really, and it's only thanks to the make of the vehicle that it doesn't collapse. Passersby as well as people occupying neighbouring lots think to take a look at what's happening, although Gaius largely ignores them, anxiously watching the ten or so workers swarm around the vaguely arrow-shaped hulking structure, hidden against rain and spying.

Edited 2012-10-30 23:45 (UTC)

“At what?”

...the answer to that question is 'none of your business, Enfys', but she's counting on genuine interest and great legs to convince somebody around here today to be willing to engage with her for a little bit, at least. She's still learning this city, and she's not entirely sure exactly what she's doing in Tinker's Lot, except that Jason put ideas in her head and a little poking around about non-standard transportation led her down here, eventually.

Nothing's probably going to come of it, but fuck it, why not? It's somewhere to start, and she needs to get the lay of the land. Especially- considering.

(She remembers the blood, and the aftershocks, and all of the questions that she didn't let herself ask, that she wasn't used to needing to know.)

"Sorry?"

Mutual confusion, then, Gaius asking before he actually twists around at the waist to look to see that anyone's actually talking to him, if they are at all. His expression is currently set to 'worried', but it suits the shape of his face, really, eyebrows all elegant sweeps that knot just so towards the centre. Probably more for what's going on and not for Enfys personally, although there's a faint sort of recognition sparking behind his eyes, there.

She was on the network not so long ago, wasn't she. "At, er. Lifting," he explains, with the sort of accent that probably sounds like a certain clan of pedantic Englishmen Enfys might be familiar with. Not quite dressed as them, in that his clothing is dust-streaked, his sleeves rolled back to his elbows, his boots adequate for tromping around a junkyard.

Gaius sort of turns back to what he was watching, and then back to Enfys, because she is about ten times more attractive than anyone he's hired to lift heavy things. "It's a bit involved."

Having effectively caught someone's attention and mildly interested in the contrast of his manner and his surroundings - something like that usually either means 'more interesting than he looks' or 'about to do something hilariously stupid', either of which have the potential to qualify for an afternoon's diversion - Enfys lets herself warm to the subject, taking the few steps left required to officially designate that she has actually joined him, as opposed to just accosting the world around her with questions.

Her own accent is not the sort that typically gets anglophiles hard, as a rule.

“Lifting what, then? If you don't mind my asking.” The disclaimer is sort of lazily tacked on, with the air of someone who has heard of manners and finds them quaintly entertaining but probably doesn't get all that het up about whether or not someone minds the things coming out of her mouth at any given moment. “I heard you get all sorts of things 'round this way.”

Those employed to do the lifting don't seem to mind that Gaius is no longer supervising them. Or even notice. In fact, they'd probably appreciate the absence of it if they did -- things like careful and good job are about as consequential and useful as the biting insects that harangue the locals in the damper, dimmer hours. Not that Gaius has anything in common, there.

"Just something I found," Gaius says, inching back a step enough to meet her part way, casual-like. "By chance. A Viper, Colonial Viper. Framework makes me think it's of the newer models, but of course it's a bit gutted so I can only say it's at least a Mark V. By which I mean it's half a spacecraft."

A thin smile, tilting a look back towards where it's slowly easing towards the mouth of the workshed.

“I am obviously in the right fucking place,” she observes, after a slight pause during which 'fucking spaceship' is processed and considered. She's had time enough in other places to get more or less accustomed to the idea of that sort of travel and technology, but it's not exactly the kind of thing her own interests lead her towards, as a general rule. “Here was me thinking the half metal death horse thing sounded like a party.”

Anything with 'viper' in the name is obviously worth finding more out about, in her expert opinion.

“You planning on fixing it up, or something like? Or just nicking the bits.”

A good question; the driver had asked him something similar, but with a little more unkindness in his tone of voice, or so Gaius imagines. "Nicking, I think," Gaius admits, a head shake flicking hair back as he folds his arms around himself. "Unlikely I'll get the corresponding tech to put it together and I'm not well-versed in astronautical engineering, but I know what all the bits do.

"Nice idea, though, wouldn't it be." Flying, he means. He's certainly thought about it, what lies beyond the Baedal sky. "In a terrifying sort of way. This is your first time out here, then?"

Whether or not anything lies beyond the Baedal sky is a question Enfys is interested in - she remembers the underground city with its false sun. How she'd had it in mind to get the Brucolac to take her up high enough to touch the roof with her own hands, although she'd never got to doing it. And there'd been other concerns, first. And also there's the fact she's got no idea how to fly anything, herself.

“Yeah,” she says, instead of that brief train of thought. “To both! Except the terrifying part. Anyway, this bloke told me this place doesn't have the kind of fuel to run my bike, which I don't have with me anyway, but he also said I could get me a 'fucked up part machine death horse'. Which sounds almost as good. So I've been poking about. Got to get me a job, first, I reckon.”

Which will probably only lead to more peering around the place. As an afterthought, since she mentioned work, she offers him her business card. ('Enfys Llewelyn', it says. 'Occult Research, Artifact Retrieval, Problems Solved'. She's taken the time with a pen to scribble out the cellphone number that had been at the bottom and replace it with her CiD.)

"Fuel's an issue, isn't it. I've not heard of any great wealth of tylium as far as Baedal exports go, and that's about all these things will run on."

That Gaius is not a pilot himself isn't a thing he comments on, letting it go unsaid. Even if he was, he'd sooner strap a monkey in and wish it well than have a go himself. "But as for part-machine anything, you're headed roughly in the right direction, though I dunno if-- oh, cheers," Gaius says, upon noticing offered card and taking it. Over yonder, someone yells for a strap to be tightened. Activity is stopped while it is. Gaius only glances.

"Dr. Gaius Baltar," he says, instead. He's been here a wee while, and any instinct of tagging 'President' at the start of his name has all but depleted. It never really fitted him properly in the first place. "I do actually have a card too, just not on me."

“I've got to get new ones done up for here, with the right bloody number,” she reflects, because scribbling all over the damn things is not going to work forever. Besides, she was only carrying so many of them in her purse in the first place. She'll run out, sooner or later. Presumably she'll get a paying gig before that happens, at least. “Dunno if what, though?”

Probably 'if you can actually get one of those', she theorizes, but it's a pretty successful conversation piece even if she can't. Some people apparently appreciate it when you at least pretend to have a reason for accosting them in the street that isn't 'because I'm new in town and I can'. Anyway, she might find something else interesting around here, given the preponderance of unfamiliar machinery. Worth looking into.

She will probably not get a paying gig from Gaius, but he just absently turns the little rectangle around in his hands in lieu of giving it back.

"If you'll get something specifically horse-like," is a bit more optimistic. This is nice, it's like he's capable of carrying on banter and conversation like a normal functioning human being -- he vaguely remembers doing that sometimes. "It's shockingly not outside the realms of possibility, though. I was amazed to run into something normal."

Because fighter space jets that run on science fiction fuel is his normal, and has been for a long time even before they all became galactic refugees in a military fleet.

“Normal is as does, innit.” She looks vaguely entertained by the idea of that as being anyone's normal, albeit not surprised or too confused - enough of a reaction to peg it as 'not hers', but not so much of one as to indicate she didn't see something like that coming. She might be new in town, but apparently she's got experience to call on. “Well, if wishes were Ducatis I'd have one of them instead, but probably I'd better get used to doing a lot of walking.”

She looks sufficiently athletic to not be deeply bothered by that, at least. She probably did a fair amount of walking to get here in the first place - and it's a good thing to do, in a new place. You never know when you might need to be able to know which way to run without having to think about it too hard.

('Frequently', if you're Enfys.)

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and that was the turning point, that was one lonely night.

early morning, madrasati. closed to bruce banner.

day, chnum. closed to gina inviere.

day, tinker's lot. open!

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