IC contact for lastvoyages

[littlebattles]

[If I don't have an active post up, feel free to use this post to have your character call, videochat, text, or knock on June's door.]

Comments

text

[omniavincit]

Two minutes later:

What's your room number?

text

[littlebattles]

[She sees the reply about an hour after it comes in, and she stares at it for a while, confused and dazed and just a slight bit perturbed.

She doesn't answer.]

text

[omniavincit]

I'm gonna consult with that warden of yours.

Mine's 811.

text; about a day later

[littlebattles]

You didn't even try to talk to him.

8th floor common room, stern side. I'm not coming to your cabin and I don't want you in mine.

-- > spam

[omniavincit]

You know how I feel about that guy. [ And he'd wanted to scare her. He can't quite bring himself to regret it.

He's there before the agreed-upon time—in the hopes of getting himself situated, prolonging whatever she has in mind past a biting remark and an averted glance. Unless she's early as well, she'll find him seated on the couch, his hat on the coffee table. He's reading a flimsy little book that'll buy her a few extra seconds before he notices her. ]

spam

[littlebattles]

[June would like to be early. She plans on it, even. But she ends up arriving almost fifteen minutes late, owing to the time she'd spent pacing her cabin, psyching herself up and resisting the urge to just not go at all.]

I was a con artist at home.

[She says, when he looks up and notices her hovering in the common room doorway.]

I didn't kill people, or even hurt them physically; I just stole their money. Most of the time, I never even had to see their faces.

[omniavincit]

[ He tucks away the book. Time moves like a skipped stone while he's reading, but he has the sense she's late—that he's lingered too long in the collection of poems. He nods to one of the armchairs: have a seat.

His expression, for the moment, is watchful. His gaze glued to her. ] What'd you do with all that money?

[littlebattles]

What everybody does when they have money. I bought nice clothes; nice accessories. I bought a boat. And then I ran out.

[She leans her shoulder against the doorframe, looking past him, gaze unfocused.]

When are you from? The nineteeth century?

[omniavincit]

[ William rolls his eyes—not extravagantly, but noticeably—at mention of her boat, cast for a moment back to a dinner party. Any dinner party. He looks her over again, something in him hardening toward her, considers her choice of words: con artist.

Not thief. Not a lowly grifter. ]

Twenty-first. [ He says—patient and seemingly unselfconscious. His gaze does not stray to his hat, his boots, the sleeve of his painstakingly accurate nineteenth-century shirt. ] You should sit down.

[littlebattles]

I'm fine.

[She's not exactly expecting an attack, but all the same, she feels more comfortable on her feet and by the exit.]

What's the cosplay about?

[omniavincit]

[ For a long second he looks at her blank-faced, betraying nothing. Cosplay.

His mouth sets. ] It's bespoke. [ He says, plucking absently at his jacket cuff. He thinks of all the blood it's soaked up, of men who clutched at his boots and begged. ] To things I did. Choices.

Are you stalling? [ It's asked gently. ]

[littlebattles]

[It sounds like bullshit, but so does everything that happens on the Barge, and pretending to be a couple hundred years ahead of ones own time would be such a stupid, pointless thing to lie about. She decides to assume he's telling the truth. It's not as if it matters anyway.]

I've just always wondered, that's all.

Do you want to hear all about how bad I feel? The guilt?

[She can't imagine that mattering, either.]