Simon Illyan (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
never_forgets) wrote2017-06-28 09:15 pm
never_forgets) wrote2017-06-28 09:15 pm
An Experiment
OOC: Because apparently dramatic irony is a thing I enjoy inflicting on this character, this thread involves the pre-canon Lieutenant Illyan, from a point in the middle of the trip that will change his life.
Lieutenant Simon Illyan of the Barrayaran Imperial Security service, being between wormhole jumps on the way to Illyrica, is taking a break. Since he's never been to this space station before, he doesn't notice the discontinuity between the outside of the door to the bar, and the inside of the bar he walks into.
He's traveling on official business but with orders to keep the trip quiet, which means not only that his ImpSec Horus eyes are packed securely in his luggage with the rest of his credentials, but also that his dress and posture are almost actively unmemorable. To an outside observer, he's a brown-haired young man (probably in his mid-20s) in plain civilian clothes, who might just be off work or might be on vacation. (To a trained observer, he probably looks like someone with military training trying to act like a civilian and mostly succeeding.)
He takes a seat at the bar and attempts to suppress the visible part of his surprise when the drink he was thinking about appears in front of him.
OOC: I won't be able to respond right away, but am open to multiple threads on this post, assuming this location and asynchronous communication works for others.
Lieutenant Simon Illyan of the Barrayaran Imperial Security service, being between wormhole jumps on the way to Illyrica, is taking a break. Since he's never been to this space station before, he doesn't notice the discontinuity between the outside of the door to the bar, and the inside of the bar he walks into.
He's traveling on official business but with orders to keep the trip quiet, which means not only that his ImpSec Horus eyes are packed securely in his luggage with the rest of his credentials, but also that his dress and posture are almost actively unmemorable. To an outside observer, he's a brown-haired young man (probably in his mid-20s) in plain civilian clothes, who might just be off work or might be on vacation. (To a trained observer, he probably looks like someone with military training trying to act like a civilian and mostly succeeding.)
He takes a seat at the bar and attempts to suppress the visible part of his surprise when the drink he was thinking about appears in front of him.
OOC: I won't be able to respond right away, but am open to multiple threads on this post, assuming this location and asynchronous communication works for others.
no subject
Today he's resting from a recovering wound in his side and the way he's sitting, he's favoring one side. In front of him is his datapad and he's in a black leather jacket with no weapons are visible but he also has training that comes through. His greeting is friendly and he presents an open face as that works well here, "Right drink?"
no subject
He takes a cautious sip, then nods decisively.
"I'm new to this part of the Nexus. Do you come here often, or are you just passing through?"
He can't place Cassian as belonging to any of the handful of military-minded planetary governments he knows, but when in doubt he aims for polite, friendly conversation and hopes further details will be forthcoming.
no subject
That phrasing isn't usually how he's heard it referred to, this man is probably from another world. He turns with a slight wince, he puts off taking his pain medicine as he dislikes how it effects him though its a fairly light one.
no subject
He glances over his shoulder toward the entrance and back. "If you're a pilot, and you haven't heard of the wormhole nexus before, then where are we?"
Noticing Cassian's wince, he adds, "And are you all right?" There's a slight frown on his face as he waits for a response (to either question, really, but hopefully both).
no subject
"I don't need them to fly where I'm from. I've heard of wormholes but I fly on hyperspace routes. We're in a place that's on the edge of many places. Its called Milliways at the End of the Universe. Oh yes, just recovering from a small injury."
no subject
"A place that's on the edge of many places sounds a bit like a problem in five-space math - not my strongest subject, unfortunately. I wonder just how different your hyperspace routes are from our wormholes?" There's a brief hesitation around the words "hyperspace routes," as Simon wants to be sure he has the term correct.
"I'd imagine being able to avoid cranial microsurgery simplifies interstellar navigation by quite a bit, but the job may have other complications I'm unable to account for." He trails off, more thinking out loud than looking for a response, his gaze wandering with the thought.
After another sip of his drink, Simon pulls his attention back to ask a more direct question. "Is injury a common occupational hazard for pilots, where you come from?"
no subject
His voice is light as he answers, "Oh no, a little trouble when I was visiting a friend, nothing to do with flying."
no subject
He leans in to study the galaxy map, mouth moving in the shapes of some of the unfamiliar planet names. "These lines" - he points to one of the hyperspace routes - "look somewhat like the way we map wormhole connections, but the rest of this doesn't look like any collection of stars and planets I've ever seen."
"Did your friend make it out of your trouble without injury?"
no subject
Of the people in that apartment, it was best he was hurt instead of anyone else, because he could get out.
no subject
Unable to think of a clever subtlety (or maybe just too tired to expend further effort, he's not sure which), he settles for the direct. "If you don't mind my asking, is it a hobby or something else you do that results in severe injuries?"
no subject
"The galaxy's a dangerous place and I spend a lot of time in the less savory parts of it."
no subject
The place doesn't feel threatening, but Simon knows it's not wise to completely accept surface feelings, especially in unfamiliar surroundings.
no subject
Even bases have their dangers but they're different ones than those that happen when he's working.
no subject
"She can take a bit to get used to," Quatre says. He's shucked his suit jacket (the bar's keeping it), but he's still wearing the rest of his three-piece suit that's only real splash of color against the shades of blue is a butter yellow cravat with matching cuff links. He extends his right hand. "Quatre Winner."
no subject
With the introduction complete, he backtracks slightly. "She?" The question is accompanied by a raised eyebrow and a quick scan of the area behind the bar.