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Chapter 01: bears
Chapter 02: hedgehogs

I choose when to talk and when not to, Gray grumbles to himself. I am the Hound of House Vandham. I am in control.

In reality, it's a poor choice of litany, for Cap'n Triton, the pirate patriarch of Colony 15, has a poor concept of any sense of control. He's far and away too happy, for Gray.

But Gray can be grated at, worn down and smoothed, until he's happy to see Triton, too.

Moebius. What warm and welcoming feeling should he have for Moebius? Their kind are at best tripe, at worst scum.

So Triton's a bit of wet-wash tripe, covered in coral antlers from the bottom of the sea because he had to go and haul up a catch by the hooks of his fists.

It's got something to do with aging, for sure, and how Gray hasn't felt this antsy since he was a young buck in his own right. It's anathema, to him, to just go bouncing around tilting at any windmill you like for the sheer size of it, instead of sticking tight to your mission.

Trite as it is, it helps remind him of how whimsical a spark of life there can be if one commits to spontaneity. In a way, the only one actually living outside the bounds of the war is Triton, and really, should he be persecuted for it?

As if ethical dilemmas aren't most of the reason Gray decided to make himself a lancer who doesn't call the big shots into question. Ouroboros are in, now, which means it's he who's just along for the wild ride.

Might as well bum around the high seas with Triton, or whatever it is. Might as well take a while staring into those beady red eyes that bloom wide with anticipation under bushy gray brows.

Too easily caught himself, he is. Triton's not one to comment on coincidences or make jabs about what you said versus what you did (plenty enough of that to be had with the youngsters, anyway, sassy twerps), but Gray's sure he must be thinking it. Must be where a generous share of his ready amusement comes from. Or does he just find Gray that pleasant to be around?

Surely not. Surely no one ever has.

He doesn't even make Gray feel a specific need to be pleasant, per se. It just happens. For cripes' sake, he's even got the hound sitting down to eat at the canteen, 'stead of just running recon and standing off to the side.

He's been roused from his routine, Gray has, and he can't even complain. Triton's the type of company he probably needs, until he goes crazy for stir.

"Sure hope you know where you're going," he says, inflection flat as ever because some things still won't change. Triton's response, either gladdened or drunken (automatic, regardless), is a wink and a nudge and a conspiratorial shout that "Anywhere's good goin', if the goin's with ye, Gray!"

Aye. That's fine. It's true.

Oh, poor dear, Triton. He's rather clueless, isn't he? Rather hopelessly fallen by the wayside and unwise.

Unless you take a seaman's wisdom to be the prevailing opinion of the people, and consider that you know all, that way. Then, in that case, you might act as the pride of an epoch.

But Triton doesn't, unfortunately. Really, he does no more than hold his own.

Despite the exacting nature of Rozana's work as both a technologist and a spy, she finds herself decidedly neutral on the hapless captain. He's certainly not a ne'er-do-well, but that's about all he is, anyway.

He's so old - really, talk about wrinkly! But she likes him, she does, and this Rozana can have whatever and whoever she wants. It's just her way!

Rozana's routine, nowadays, with the hardliners mission and insurrection at least nominally behind them all, is much emptier. She's been doing a little bit of Levnis investigation with the help of the Agnus Castle transplants from Colony 0 (and isn't that more than a bit grim, refugees relocated to a prison camp? but she's not the boss), from the joint angles of black ops and improved Ferron-pilot integration. It's all sort of idle speculation, innovations made for the sake of biding time rather than to serve a set purpose or goal.

And now, doesn't that sound familiar?

But Rozana, being famously a non-combatant, can't exactly convalesce through a dull period such as this one directly alongside Triton. The only ways he knows how to while away involve ventures outside of the City checking on places he once thought constituted the basis for a memory. Lots of getting drenched and thereafter sandy - no thanks.

Put another way, she can make him her errand runner. Ask him for anything, dote so sweetly, and see it appear, though it might not be quite what Rozana'd originally requested.

"You're awful demanding, aren't ye, Rozana?" Triton asks, sidelong, crow proudly stamped deep beside his eye.

"Got to keep you occupied, haven't I, dear?" Rozana returns with an amiably amicable hum. "These Auxilia Cylinders won't refit themselves, you know."

They've enough chipped ether crystals and power cores about to build an entire third faction that combines all the best power of Keves and Agnus together. In a sense, of course, that's what the City is, but it's also a wonderful home for misfits who might fight with the Kevesi style and pacing but actually don't connect back to their Queen at all, et cetera.

She stops Triton where he stands and shoos him off to beat his own tracks, before he starts in suggesting that they hollow out some Marrin Bones for use in hydraulic propulsion. He's a giant, practically a dinosaur, so Rozana wouldn't put it past him to suggest some prehistoric methods to pass the time.

They might be at a standstill, but they're not that hard up for work. And there's plenty of leisure opportunity to be had, no matter what. Both look forward to that.