Characters involved are: Brin (RED), Citan (ORANGE),
Logged by Brin

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Bart's Hideout, Dining Hall
The Dining Hall of the hideout is the most lively room at all hours. The metallic look is reserved to but the floor, with the ceiling and walls made up of the rock found throught most of the base. Counters stand to the left and right, providing the residents with food and equipement they may require, and a starway leads up to the seating area, made up of a counter lining the wall, and two shorter counters in the middle, and well over 50 stools. An automatic metal <door> leads out.
Contents:
Citan
A young wolf
Anna

The Dining hall appears as an apparition of cleanliness, at least, of cleanliness were any word to describe any part of this base. Among the scattered stools an tables, Brin sits, relishing a glass of clear water, pursuing one of his favourite pastimes. Watching and listening. He seems perfectly at ease, and nods occasionally to passersby.
Unsteady upon his feet, Citan requires all the trappings of an invalid as he progresses through the desert base he has so long abandoned. Yet there are signs of improvement; he needs but one metal crutch to support himself at times, and the sound of it rings from the grated walkways. The Dining hall represents itself as a source of solace for the weary, and so Citan touches the panel to open its door gratefully before entering slowly, head bowed and hair tumbling into his face from its lack of being properly tied back.
Brin quietly looks up toward the door as it hisses open, wondering which of the regulars it is this time. The apparition the doorway reveals causes a slight raising of one eyebrow, as the newcomer enters the dining hall. o 0 ( ...My. Someone's been...unlucky... ). He looks the man over as he passes the doorway, and continues to regard him as he ehters the hall.
With a mottling of scraping and tapping noises, Citan finally finds a seat to sink down upon with the gratitude of the weary. He does not need to drag his IVs around with him, at least--that is a blessing, and awkward. Let him rest, now, after the work it had taken to travel to and through the desert base. Leaning his crutch against the table, Citan slides the glasses from his face for an absent and routine cleaning of the lenses... stray dust was so common here in the desert. Astounding. Citan looks up while rubbing a corner of his sleeve across the glass, and... now, this is interesting. Squinting, the Guardian fixes his glasses back upon his face, and looks to Brin. "Hello there..." Does he recognize Brin somehow? No... but there is the hint of recognition. How...?
Brin watches the man's progress across the room. While the man seems to be badly injured, or only recovering, there is that hint of great ability, strength almost emanating from him. o 0 ( ...Battle injuries? Perhaps being out of commission is why I haven't seen him around... ). As the man takes a seat, Brin nods slightly, and replies as the man speaks. "Good evening. How does this day find you?...". Probably hurting a bit, Brin thinks. He regards the man's intent look, and remains silent for now.
"This day finds me awake, sir..." Amusement? Certainly Citan does not turn his words snide or wry, past the lightness of tone which notes such a state as irregular of late. Citan adjusts his glasses with the tip of a finger before letting his hands rest lax upon the table's surface, tumbled together with the habits of one who had forgotten they even exist. "And how are you today... Mister Brin?" The name--and title--are said with a cocking of Citan's head, as if the man listens to another phrase provided to him for identity. And, just as carefully, "No, no, that is not it. Brin... Gac... I apologize. Brin." Let that moment of awareness pass for now, and Citan turn those sleepy eyes back to the shape his fingers make upon the table.
Brin begins to nod gently in response to the man's greeting, until... "Pardon...?" he blurts out without thinking. Studying the man across the table, his face betrays no trace of recognition. "I'm sorry. I wasn't aware we had met, Mr...". He falls into thought. So many people. Perhaps he would recognise the fit and healthy version of this acheing soul sitting just across the table. He doesn't think so. "I'm sorry. How rude of me. We must have met before...". Brin's memory tells a different story. "Oh my...".
"You have not met me," Citan replies gently, planting his thumbs in his temples and massaging gently against the headache which threatens. More liquids. He must remember to drink liquids. Breath takes itself in and out again slowly as Citan resigns himself to more movement, pushing up against the table for support and finding his crutch so that he may rummage for strong broth and bread. "I am called Citan Uzuki," he continues mildly, almost absently... what does he remember of names these days, or at least in how much to trust in them? "It is not rude of you at all. I have known only good things about you, never fear." Kittens and deserts, and kindnesses to children. All is well.
Brin leans back in his seat, and looks Citan up and down. So he was right. Obviously this man knows someone I've met, maybe in Dazil. "Oh, I see. I wasn't aware that I had a reputation to precede me..." he grins slightly, and nods gently. "It's a good feeling to have...". o 0 ( ...Blast. I said the quiet part loud again... ). "I haven't seen you around here, or Dazil. Are you new?" he inquires, seeming not to be too concerned as to the source of Citan's impression of him.
Rustling sounds give testament to Citan's lack of familiarity with the way that Maison stores his instant soup mix. "I am not quite new, but I have been away for some time of late," is the response, muffled somewhat behind the Cup O' Soba shelf. "Are you a new member of the crew?" Certainly Citan must have noted the Ethosian outfit... or perhaps he truly is too tired. Perhaps he simply does not worry over the subject. "One can be surprised, at times, how far kindnesses extend. Almost as far as our own villaini--" The ramble is broken as a cardboard box of powdered broth slides from his fumbling hands and nicely bounces off his head. "Ah.. pardon."
Brin jumps to his feet, and hastily goes to Citan's aid, scooping up packets, and replacing them in a cardboard box, as he speaks. "Ah, I see." ... he replaces the box on a nearby shelf, which he guesses is where it was originally. "As for myself, well, I'm not exactly a member of the crew. If anything..." he turns, and upturns his hands, palms upward. "...if anything, this would be my...parish. That is, I was assigned here...".
Anna wakes up.
"Thank you, thank you..." Citan brushes the dishevel of his hair from his eyes, and finds one of the packets from within the newly restored box. Leaning against the counter, he next appropriates a bowl from its relatives. Easier to move about the world when one only had to focus on one or two parts of the body at once... Citan cannot simply forget that his legs exist and expect -this- world to behave in accordance. "We will be pleased to have you," he replies with but a considering look back to the man. For all that sleep lives permanently behind his eyes these days, the occasional flash of acuity does make its presence known. At times. At times. Now is one of them. "Have you spoken with Mother Marguerite yet? I understand that she is occasionally about."
Brin begins to nod at the mention of Mother Marguerite. "Yes, I have met Marguerite briefly, I believe. I need to at some stage meet her properly, to discuss any issues that might arise...". he looks toward the floor, and resumes his seat when he sees Citan coping. "I would hate to think my presence was causing...friction...". he looks up at Citan. "However, the opportunty to meet her hasn't presented itself yet. She seems not to frequent these parts as often..."
Hmm... hot water goes next. That, at least, he can easily handle. One simply envis--no, one does -not-. Wake up the rest of the way, Citan. Do not return to sleep because it would be easier in the short term. "It would be wise, perhaps, if you spoke with her officially, as the emissary that you currently represent. I... myself have come from the Ethos," And what does -that- have to do with anything? "and I understand that, while they seem to have become more open, not all here in the base may see past their own views of the Ethos. It is a shame." Finding the pipes--mostly by sliding along the counter to the sink--Citan fills his cup with water and shakes the contents of the packets in. Bread next. The simple things in life, for a man remembering to eat and drink again. "I, myself, am pleased you are here. You have not had a poor experience yet, I hope?"
Brin thinks, and shakes his head. "Yes, perhaps that would be a good idea, next time I hear of her being about...". He watches Citan's unwieldy gait as he prepares his food. o 0 ( ...almost as if...he's learning to walk again? He must have been out for quite a while... ). He thinks back to his experiences so far, at the distance shown to him by some of the crew, how once he wondered why, and his relisation of their fear. Fleeting untrusintg glances were all he had suffered so far. Perhaps the crew were happy to have one more on 'their side', as it were. "Well, no. I seem to be fitting in, by and large...". he grins lightly. "...Even seem to be on non-hostile terms with the local gebler commander... ". He realises what he has said, and starts. "That is, I, er...". He seems flustered. "It...remains an effort to maintain impartiality..." he admits. "I try to keep an open mind. You understand?".
"I do indeed understand. You are admirable for that, Brin." Speak to the Guardian about impartiality? Speak to the one who can easily label himself as a traitor on all sides with a smile. Citan nods to Brin's statements, not seeming anything more than in perfect agreement with the idea of seeking things out where they happen to lie. "It is good that you are making that effort," he replies mildly. And finds a spoon. "I believe I have seen the Holy Mother recently in Nisan," is the addition to that, as the Guardian dips the eating implement into the bowl. He remains leaning against the counter to eat--yes, why -not- stroll right back to the table while balancing a bowl of steaming liquid in one's hand? "What is the local Gebler commander... he is that man named Joseph, is he not? May I ask how he is like? I am afraid that events in the area have not been directly efficient in allowing me to stay atop them."
Brin nods. "Well, I have to admit that I've not been to Nisan at all. I hear it's a beautiful part of the world.". He notes Citan's reluctance to leave his current location, and asides "Need a hand with that?..." and begins to stand. He continues as he does so. "Yes, Joseph. He seems to be increasing security on Dazil, checking ID's, and generally being paranoid. He seems...barely competent at times. I've met him maybe four times, half the time he was drunk. He's quite ruthless, though, and not to be underestimated...".
"I may be fine... but thank you. It is simple broth, which is easier." Citan attempts a sip at his bowl, gingerly at first, but with true hunger backing his motions. It is too easy to get into the habit of forgetting to eat once certain points had been reached. "I have not had the pleasure of encountering Joseph yet, but I shall keep your words in mind. Thank you for being willing to interact with him in such a manner." Politeness that may be cool, true, but is rather... smooth, with the habitual tonings-down of one who agrees and nods and smiles to nearly all that another would say. Then again, Citan truly -does- support interaction with all. It is part of his preferred occupation, after all. "Do you feel that he poses a threat to the health of the refugees at this base?"
Citan has disconnected.



Brin scratches his chin, and ponders over this. "It is difficult to tell. He is quite ruthless, and appears to have an egotistical streak, that can make him quite dangerous, I believe. I _have_ seen him being sympathetic to some rebels I know, though..." he thinks about this for a second. "Although, 'rebel' would be a loose term to use for...". he looks up, and leaves it at that, trying to keep the quiet parts quiet this time. "He definitely would order the deaths of everyone in this base without hesitation. That I do know.". He stares at the tabletop, and thinks about this for a second.
"Do you think there is a likely chance of this occuring?" Certainly Citan does know of the connections of the Ethos with Solaris--he has helped engineer a few, long ago, after all--and this man bears Ethos garb. But do not forget, Citan, do not forget that you yourself play quite happily at Lambdom. Yet this base is certainly enlightened in terms of knowledge... in a way. So which one, here, is editing his words so that they do not betray knowledge to one who should not become aware? Amusement tossed aside, the logistics of Brin's words are more important to focus upon. "Do you believe that he is attempting to infiltrate this base through befriending certain individuals?"
Brin looks up at Citan. For all Citan's obvious affiliation with the rebels, he still seems like him, in a way. A watcher, perhaps not a neutral one, but one nonetheless. He bows his head. "Perhaps. I don't know. I heard it mentioned. Joseph was...drunk at the time, but it was undoubtedly implied that there were spies about. As for specifics, as I'm uncertain, I won't besmirch the name of any one person. He lifts his head again, and wonders why he is saying this. "Of course, I did not just say that.".
Citan drinks from his bowl carefully, supporting the rim of the vessel in the wide circle of his thumb to his forefinger. He then dips a piece of bread within the dark broth, letting it soak up some of the liquid before trying to eat it. The first bite is delicious in the way that manna would be to the starving. "Of course. I understand." As calmly as any traitor or loyalist might be, both placing their faith firmly in whichever side they throw their efforts towards. This impression is certainly not helped by the way that Citan's brown eyes slide towards Brin briefly over the edge of the bread before the doctor turns his work towards another bite. "You do not need to worry about giving out information you should not, nor dragging another into an accusation. It is good for us all to simply keep precautions in mind." He is a sleepy recoveree! Nothing more. Truly.
Brin smiles gently "Indeed. One...tends to favour keeping up with current affairs...". He smiles, and sees the look of Citan over his food, and knows he is safe. He nods. "Indeed...", he quietens slightly. "And of course, if Dakota wishes to maintain close contact with the local Gebler general, then who am I to tell why he has not yet apprehended her?". He peers over the top of his mug, his eyes meeting Citan's. "Oh my. Did I just say that out loud? How...untactful of me...". He drains his mug, stands, and walks over to the teapot beside Citan, refilling his mug.
One piece of bread? Excellent. Let us try a second. Citan does naught more than retain his faint smile as he attempts this feat of mastery, shifting his grip to better balance the bowl as Brin takes his tea. "It is always good for proper communications to be maintained, even between sides which may see the world in different ways." Let his dark eyes match the bowl's contents, and all be pleasant within this room. For Citan merely murmers, simply relaxes, and does not condemn nor jump to a self-righteous decision to ferret out all those disloyal. It is not his nature in the slightest. "I only wish we could understand more of what the local Gebler are doing... unnecessary conflict assists no one, and neither Dazil nor the base deserve a war brought back down upon it."
Citan drops a Cute Blue Kitten Doll.
Brin looks sideways at Citan, and nods. "True. Whatever about wishing to remain unaffiliated in this conflict, if I can serve to avoid it, my efforts will not be in vain...", he refils his mug, and reamins standing at the counter. "There comes a point where impartiality becomes..." he tries to find a proper word to come next, and gives up.


Its a cute little plushie kitty! Right? Well, it looks like one, at least. Its a precious little plushie doll, with large, cute ears and huge, precious eyes. Its eyes are shiny, blue.. Like stones of turquoise set upon the thing.. The doll itself is pale and fluffy, but in a manner, seems.. Unnatural. As if somehow it were in two places at once, as if somehow it were a thing more of Ether than of material.. And yet, for all the wondering of it, it seems to be just a simple, mundane little kitty plush doll.


Citan does not need to alter his smile to affirm his sympathies with Brin's words, faint and yet lingering as it is. He sets the half portion of his bread down upon the counter, using that now-freed hand to search for something within the folds of his long, green sleeves. What...? Something stuffed and blue? Citan, apparently, has held a plush kitten in his possession. Perhaps its slight weight has dragged at the balance of his sleeve, for how he takes it out now and places it next to him with unnecessary gentleness. Resuming his part of the conversation--and the meal--the doctor replies, "It feels that one must take a part in a side, for neutrality itself seems like an allying force?" Does he speak with the warmth of knowledge? Perhaps it is just the soup. "Sometimes, I must agree, we all feel as though we are forced into choices, for the alternatives are disagreeable."
Brin nods vigorously. "Yes. In my time here, I've learned that. In most conflicts, there can be three sides...". He trails off as something clicks. In his entire life, only one other person had ever called him "Mister Brin". And now, kittens. He looks down at the object Citan has produced. "Oh my. That's quite the ...unusual...kitten you have there...". He looks at the kitten. And back at Citan, and begins to continue, as if testing the water, to see if his theory proves true. "...and I think I know where it may come from...and my good reputation...". He smiles broadly, and looks down at the toy. "...I....think..." He looks back up at Citan inquisitively.
Citan does not change his expression at Brin's smile, although he does not lose the calm demeanor. Why should connection with Khiea be a surprise, or something to fear recognition of? If such is even what the man has discovered--he seems pleased, and Citan needs not hide how precisely he knows Brin's name. "It is interesting how there is always another choice... we may simply balk from recognition of it due to our own natures and sense of identity." Another piece of bread. Nonchalantly, the doctor takes a long sip of his cooling broth before he adds, "Do you like the kitten?"
Brin answers quickly, with an enthusiasm that is somehow unlike him. "Oh, I love animals. All of them. Even stuffed ones...". He grins and touches the head of the stuffed kitten toy. "Sorry, it just reminded me of someone, I got distracted...". He looks up. "You don't happen to know a Princess Khiea? It reminds me of her. And 'Mister Brin'. I was wondering where I heard that before..." He smiles again...and remembers his manners. "Sorry, how rude of me, yes, it is particularly easy for me to choose that paht, since I've never been here before my assignment, and am, by nature, impartial to most conflicts. ALthough I admit some small bias, if I were to be completely honest..." He stares down at the kitten. "I belong to nowhere, so I belong everywhere...At least, I thought I did..." he drifts off, and seems deep in thought for a few seconds.
Citan glances down past his elbow to the blue kitten again. "Yes. You could say that I know the Princess Khiea." Or occasionally have her look out from behind his eyes, listen to his conversations. And search for something sweet to consume. But Sigurd has no frosted cookies within the base's Dining Hall, Citan must remember. Those are always devoured by the midnight work crew, with only empty boxes left scattered behind for markers of former presences. "Would you like to see the kitten?" he offers next, breaking off a small chunk of bread to dip into his bowl. "And do not fear manners. Certainly not honesty..."
Brin chuckles, and gingerly picks up the small fluffy toy. "Heh, I thought it was too much to be a coincidence. This is hers?" He looks up. "I fear my good reputation stems from finding her own kitten. Of the real variety. She seemed so happy, like a child. How is she these days?". Even if the kitten _is_ stuffed, he cannot resist stroking it gently.
Citan half-closes his eyes. For a second--admit it, Citan, for two, for three and five and twenty--he almost falls back into that welcoming, pastel world which occupies more of his mind than he himself does. It is unworried by ID checks there, it is easy to move around, there are sweets. But he has done so only to think, and to check... "Khiea is doing well at the moment," he replies, with the assurance of steel, "and I am grateful to you for assisting her in her search for her kitten. That cat is indeed hers." Gentleness to animals... it wins points on at least one scale which the world is happily judged by of late. The doctor lets his eyes drift back open again. "She is walking about at this hour..." Try for coherancy, Citan. "But you have heard of the Nisan occupation?"
Brin looks up, and replaces the toy where he found it. "Walking about?...". His interests switch when Citan mentions Nisan. "Occupation? By whom? I fear my sources of news consist of people returning from the places where things happen..." he grins at this. "Please, tell me about it."
Citan sops up the last of the broth with a fingerful of bread, allowing the conversation to progress at its own varying pace. "Have you heard of Fort Jasper? It is to where the Young One has taken most of the crew, as well as the Yggdrasil itself." Ah, so that is where the large submarine had wandered. It is difficult to casually misplace such a vehicle... or so it could be hoped. "The Gebler have occupied the Fort, which is quite close to the City of Peace. Since the City has no defenses on its own, and the Holy Mother has been the target of Gebler before, I understand that the Young One is suitibly distressed." Bad Citan, rattling off these things as if they were events over dinner. But all things can be delivered in the same, matter-of-fact gentleness. "In theory there will be no conflict which reaches the city itself. But there is still the high chance of turmoil finding itself in that location. Ironic, for the center of Peace..."
Brin scratches his chiin thoughtfully. "Hm. Perhaps I should have gone. Perhaps..." he stares at the far corner of the room, thinking. "Still, I always have the desert city, and its colourful occupents, to keep me busy, for now. Once Gebler don't discover who I am, I can pretty well wander about with impunity. Which is sometimes useful..." he grins slightly. "Still. To see the renowned city of Peace threatened by violence, of all things. That would be a shame, indeed. How are they coping out there?"
Citan decides on another moment of calm and lowered eyes as he ponders the concept of Nisan's current status. "I believe it is quiet... for now. I should visit there soon to speak with Mother Marguerite." And to return to Khiea's side? It is not a question of the physical proximity to be required anymore, but one could not help to find interesting pebbles when a desert away... literally. "I would have thought that the robes of the Ethos itself would still be respected among the Gebler?" Unpleasant if not. Then again, the Ethos -was- becoming... neutral, almost, if only in its growing self-sufficiencies. "Certainly those who have studied their doctrines are usually allowed to travel, even if there has been discontent in the past. However, I must admit that a respect for religion these days seems to be in regression..." Ironic, that. These which might be the Last Days...
Brin nods. "Perhaps under anyone else, I might be allowed to pass freely, and afforded some modicum of respect. But, I have already described Joseph...", he grins wryly. "I've not had much contact with actual Gebler forces, apart from Joseph. There is Kale, but he was...not exactly a volounteer for Gebler duty, shall we say...". his grin disappears. "I doubt anything short of swearing my allegiance personally to Joseph's service would convince him that I'm not a rebel, if he were to even discover that I had been here..."
Citan considers this as he turns himself while still leaning, using the counter for support and edging towards the sink. "I remember Kale," the man remarks over the rush of rinsing water. "Do you happen to know who Joseph's commanding officer is? It is... unusal for Solaris to allow a structure such as that without a check or another head nearby." And certainly for a location as valuable as Dazil. "However, if Joseph is paranoid of everyone, it can be to a person's advantage. Especially if he is considered so by his own fellow officers. The extremes, after all... they fall easily towards assumptions on all sides."
Brin nods. "I think I understand...". he thiks for a second, and continues. "I remember Kale talking about Joseph's CO. Mentioned something about grotesque appearance, withered, black wings, I'm not sure apart from that. I did see him talking to a strangely-dressed girl in Dazil one time, who he seemed to be reporting to. Tolone, was it? Strange. Apart from that, he appears to act with complete impunity...". Brin drains his cup, and turns to refill it. "Still, I'm quite happy to let him continue not knowing exactly who I am, and I have a feeling he is too, for all his paranoia...". He finishes refilling, and regards his full mug. "Better not overdo it. Supplies are low, as you might have guessed..."
Citan recognizes the name of the Wind Element easily, no more than a blink going by as this new information fits itself into calculations. The rational mind lazily stretches and falls into further obedience--figures, numbers, estimations. Tolone? In some ways, a fortunate choice, and in others... not so. Her logic, however, he can respect and respond to. "Yes." To which part is that an affirmation? Citan turns off the water without letting it idly wash over his hands past the rinsing of the bowl, and begins to painstakingly dry it on one of the towels provided. "Due to the identity checks, I understand? Do you have an opinion on those?"
Brin shrugs. "Joseph's paranoia again, I suspect. I seem to be able to pass without any trouble, as I do have ID, but it makes it very hard for the base to obtain supplies. And I thik that is the intention. They've also stepped up guard details on supply ships, Sigurd tells me. All in all, not a nice siutation to be in. I try to bring back what small luxuries I can for people here. Some fresh fruit, small items. Anything larger would arouse suspicion. So basically, the ID checks are Gebler's attempt to make life difficult for the rebels..."
Citan can find room upon the drying rack for his small bowl. The towel goes back on its hook, and the bread to be wrapped again and placed away... although, with the state of the base, it would certainly be gone before it could go stale. "It has gone remarkably well for that." And given a great many people cause to worry, and wonder. Luxuries never are truly noticed until they are in lack. For one birthed in Solaris's Third Class, food falls under that catagory. "Do you have any ideas upon this subject?" A subtle variation upon the question already proffered, not choosing sides one way or the other upon if the resulting starvation of refugees were proper or not. It is all simply rhetoric. "Thank you for your efforts as well," he offers suddenly, continuing to lean against the counter and letting one hand drape upon the metal handle of his crutch.
Brin frowns, and can offer nothing. "It is...unfortunate..." he muses... "But as far as access to the towns and cities go, Gebler has control over all access. Cargo ships are getting riskier to raid. An alternative would be to obtian supplies elsewhere, Nisan, Nortune...I'm not familiar with the geography sufficiently to see if it would be viable to investigate these places as possible supply centers..." he thinks for a while, hands on hips. "Security checks may relax with time. But time is not one of the rebels' most plentiful assets...". He stares into space, considering alternatives, finding...not many.
Citan twitches that smile in sudden, alibt still murky, humor, glancing towards Brin in a flicker of awareness amidst the drifting dream. "It could be considered that the base is between a rock and a hard place, could it not? Although this may be more of a test of the stretching of imaginations than practicality itself. Surely the Gebler can realize that already." Whatever tactics have formed themselves within Citan's head in precise, little maps that click together at neat edges... would Tolone have already figured them out as well? But this is not a game, nor a challange to be taken up strictly for the thrill of attempting to outwit the Wind Element. "It is Sigurd's decision, I am afraid. However, with Nisan in sway as it is," he adds, "the Young One's attention is in that direction, and Nisan can certainly supply provisions to the crew that are there."
Brin agrees. "Hopefully we can come up with some solutions. I'm hoping it won't come to people starving..." He resumes his seat, and sits over his mug, studying the patterns of the table, pondering.
Citan shifts the crutch to underneath his arm, finally taking his weight off the counter and into fully standing at last. The kitten goes carefully back into its pocket. Citan nods to Brin, the motion as much of a bow as one half-asleep on his feet can make it. "People starving will cause fanaticism. Fanaticism... well, you can see how these things can domino, I am certain." Other events across the world call for him to pay attention to--and, unless he wishes to topple over in the Dining Hall from lack of remembering his body, Citan should take up traveling once more. "It was pleasant to meet you, Brin. Thank you for your time and conversation."
Brin nods. "The same. Hope to meet again soon."